#like it can be fucking annoying but even through that annoyance there’s an undercurrent of understanding that i feel towards them

[spamlets-blog]

this is so interesting to me bc imo i kind of love when people take their favorite characters and make them essentially into renamed ocs, like sometimes im like “they would NOT fucking say that!!!” in my head but even then i think its kinda sweet when people love a character so much they impart their entire selves in them. to be loved is to be changed and all that

​in general the vibes hit different when you take a character you love and change them compared to when you make a character from scratch, or at least to me when i make ocs they don’t hit the same as canon characters, so i completely understand why someone would rather take a canon character and flip them on their heads rather than make a whole new oc

some of you would be better off splitting your far removed from canon interpretations into entirely new characters

.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @mystifiedgal donated $10, and requested Sam developing mind-reading and learning what Dean wants. Thank you for donating!

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(read on AO3)

It starts as dreams, the night after they lose Ava. They drove straight from Lafayette to Peoria and after Peoria they move one town over so as not to be newcomers in a town that just had a homicide, and they work all through that day, in Bloomington, calling contacts and putting out feelers, trying to see what might've happened to a short sweet dark-haired girl, a secretary, who'd never done a thing to deserve this. Sam couldn't stop thinking that, no matter how stupid it was. How Ava, how all the rest, hadn't done a single thing to merit this kind of punishment.

He falls asleep though he didn't think he would. Dean's reading at the table with the lamp turning the backs of his ears, his neck, pure white, and Sam's looking at him and thinking about Ava's face shocked-white in the neon from the motel, and then he's asleep, and he's dreaming but it doesn't feel like dreaming. It doesn't feel like a vision, either, how that vicious sharp reality climbs down his throat. In the dream he knows he's dreaming, and he isn't really there, and not even the vague protagonist-body that's usually in his dreams, when he dreams he forgot to study for an exam, or is standing in a rotting house with an empty gun and ghosts slipping through the walls, or smiling at a clever girl with her blouse unbuttoned just right. Instead this dream is—feeling. A wash of dark, and water lapping at the edges of a boat he can't seem to see beyond. Dean, sitting in the stern, his head in his hands, and because Sam isn't really here he can't yell or act or splash the dark water into Dean's face, but—as soon as Sam thinks that, about splashing the water, the surge of fear is so overwhelming that the world turns black. Dean's fingers curl against the side of his head, his ring flashing, and his lips are parted and wet and something unknown flashes through Sam's gut and when he wakes up, dragging in air like he's been running a mile, the room is dark and Dean's a curled lump on the other bed and Sam carries that strange, fearful feeling with him all through the next day, like a fresh-broken bone, throbbing.

Dean frowns at him when he's snappish at lunch, but doesn't call him on it. Dean's being careful with him, which Sam—hates, is grateful for. So Sam maybe didn't have the best reaction to finding out their dad's last words, and maybe the thing with Gordon was—a lot. Gordon was a lot. Ava, poor Scott Carey, Andy and Ansem, Max. It's all been a lot. Dean maybe has been struggling with the secret he was carrying but Sam's struggling with how his mouth tastes like metal all the time, thinking of yellow eyes looming up out of the dark, and so he'll take some concessions, maybe even a little pity, if it makes Dean focus on what they really need to focus on. Dean's letting him direct, not looking for other hunts, staying right here in Illinois and keeping his nose to the ground for Ava or for any hint of another 1983 kid with unexplained powers, and Sam doesn't need anything else, beyond that, not right now. They'll work out the rest later.

Trouble is: Sam's focus is split. He spends the day casing details of Ava's life, job and fiancé and family history and any single second where her life might have brushed against the dark, and at night his dreams are a flood. Black water, rising. Dean, terrified, and his skin that kind of white that comes from a flare of too much exposure, and his eyes dark hollows, and the bones standing out in his hands, clutching at his head. On the fourth night of everything the same choking claustrophobia Dean turns his face and Sam sees that he's bleeding, from the ears and from the corner of his mouth, and the blood is so dark it looks black, too, and Dean covers his mouth with one hand and then though the surrounding water is the same endless expanse the boat becomes that cabin where Azazel rode their dad's body, the shift seamless and unexplained in the way of dreams, and Dean's got a hole in his stomach, the blood flooding out onto the dry wood of the boat/cabin floor, and he puts lax fingers against it that don't stop the bleeding at all, and Sam wakes up that time and has to scramble for the bathroom, retching, although when he clutches the sides of the sink nothing comes up and his mouth just tastes like—saltwater.

That day Dean brings him coffee in the morning and tries to be circumspect. He's bad at it. "Starting to smell like a dorm room in here, man," Dean says, mouth quirked. "Laundry stank and BO and, uh, making like the Lone Ranger?" He makes a vague gesture around his lap, but his heart's not in it. "Gotta air it out, dude. See some sunlight for twenty minutes."

"I'm working," Sam says, but to be honest he's not. He's sitting there with Ellen's half-remembered list of demon sightings in the last six months and instead of working the map he's been staring at the closed curtains for the whole time Dean's been gone. He drags his good hand over his face and lets his heavy casted arm thump down over the notebook. Dean raises his eyebrows, letting a glance over the empty map make his point for him, and Sam sighs. "Making like the Lone Ranger?" he says.

Dean's smile gets more real. "Unless you've got a pretty little Tonto around here, somewhere—" he starts, and Sam rolls his eyes and flicks a crumpled ball of wasted notes at Dean's face, and while he's sputtering Sam says, suddenly desperate for it, "Yeah, okay, we could use some air. Laundromat around here?"

"Hey," Dean says, sitting up, "I don't think I heard myself volunteer for laundry duty—" and then, twenty minutes later, they're installed at a laundromat, empty at nine on a Tuesday morning, Dean bitching still about whose turn it is to fold the whites but looking decently happy, stretched out in one of the shitty plastic chairs with coffee resting on his belly and a morning talkshow on the crackling TV mounted in one corner of the ceiling, and Sam feels it.

Sam feels it. There's a chair between him and Dean, piled with a box of donuts and the police folder Dean went out and stole yesterday, and Sam grips the armrest on the side Dean can't see and squeezes so hard the metal edges hurt his hand, and it's welling up in him. A grey clouded day with a shaft of sunlight slipping through and warming a patch of cold dirt—that's what it feels like, Dean's happiness. Sam licks his lips and breathes shallowly, controlled. When he glances over Dean's watching the show—some sponsored segment about a special vacuum for pet hair, in which he seems completed absorbed—and he's relaxed, in that way that Sam's only ever seen Dean relaxed when they're alone. Completely in his body, unselfconscious of how he's taking up space, boots kicked out on the grimy floor, his eyes clear. A fleck of pink donut frosting on his top lip. There are shadows under his eyes because he doesn't sleep enough and there's a bruise at his temple where Gordon hit him, but he's okay, for this moment. Sam can feel it, in a completely distinct way to how he feels his own body, his own aches and tiredness and worry, and he sits there in ringing panic until the washer buzzes. Dean blinks, the spell of the daytime anchors suspended, and frowns at him, and says, "Hey, earth to egghead, I am here in a strictly supervisory capacity," and Sam has to roll his eyes again and stand up and deal with the laundry, and there's Dean, again, the happiness muted and rolled under—a dragging pull at the chest, an ache long-held and familiar. Worry, concern. Annoyance, too, and then as Sam's dumping their load of jeans and jackets into one of the rolling baskets that twinge of annoyance slips away into guilt, and he has to brace his hands on the sides of the basket and breathe again, slowly, trying not to crawl out of his skin with the violation of it.

"What?" Dean says, while Sam's silent over the wet clothes. "Did I leave gum in my pocket or something?"

He knows Dean. He has known Dean, from when he was little and running around after him thinking his big brother was the coolest smartest person in the world to when he was a sad kid thinking his brother didn't actually like him that much to when he was an angry teenager wishing his brother would take his side in anything, ever, for fucking once. Dean was always a known quantity, no matter what. No surprises. Sam knew when he was cheerful and angry and hurt and he knew how to deal with every version. This is—more than that.

No signs, still, of Ava. They move outward. Day trips, stretching out into different towns, different precincts. They split up, Sam renting a car, and on the state highways with the radio silent Sam tries to think, with Dean not around with his thoughts filling up the air between them.

He catches hints, with other people. A sheriff who's not sure why some U.S. Marshal is asking questions, and he's clearly annoyed but there's an undercurrent Sam catches, a sapping weariness and sorrow that Sam blinks over before he excuses himself, wondering. A search: a wife, recently dead at forty. Sam chews the inside of his cheek raw on the drive back to Bloomington, and Dean texts and says dinner? back in thirty and Sam replies I'll pick up pizza and he waits in the lobby of the pizza place with his knee jogging and a waitress smiles at him, professional, and Sam takes a deep breath and looks at her, taking in her sneakers worn around the edges and her muscular legs and the greys pulled back into her ponytail and she says, "Can I get you a Coke or anything while you wait, hon?" and a swirl of heat curls into Sam's stomach, slants down queerly low, and he sits up straight and watches her eyes flick over him, his chest and lower, and he blurts out, "No," and then, too late, "thank you," and she frowns and the heat fizzles out into disappointment and he thinks, fuck. Fuck. What now?

With Dean the feelings bloom raw and real and present. Sam doesn't have to look. A day of frustration and no leads but Dean doesn't actually feel the frustration, not really, because he's humoring Sam's obsession over finding this girl Dean never even met—and there's a little satisfaction there, too, something that makes Sam set his beer down a little too hard on the table when he recognizes it, because they're spinning their wheels here, Dean thinks, and that means that Sam's being kept here, safe, away from demons and whatever plans there might be, so he's getting what he wanted, after all. The second Apes movie is on the motel TV and Dean's watching that, scratching his belly idly after too much pizza, and Sam goes into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet and presses his fingers into his ears so hard he can't hear anything but the beating rush of his own heart, and even through a closed door and quiet and dark behind Sam's eyes he can feel it: his brother, content to be here with Sam, on a night where nothing's yet gone wrong. Little does he know.

Is this some new shift, in Sam's visions? Not only to see the future but to see—what? He doesn't know how to define this. He's seen in movies when people read minds, like that terrible Mel Gibson thing that Dean loved even if he pretended it was shitty—it's always narrated dialogue, someone's thoughts piped directly into the psychic's head. What Sam's getting isn't as useful as that. Emotion, shifting sensation, the ebb and flood and draining drag of how people move through the difficult world. Guilt, misery. Contentment. Fury, brief and shocking, enough to make Sam snap the pencil he's holding, and he looks up to find Dean leafing through Dad's journal, his face a calm mask, and Sam thinks, jesus, he has to tell Dean. He has to, and yet: what can he possibly say?

The dreams are still bad. Sam comes awake like out of a sucking bog and he breathes slow, eyes on the ceiling. Dean's small snores in the next bed. The fear's a pool, lapping against Sam's skin, and he turns his head and says, very quietly, "Dean." There's no answer because of course Dean's deep asleep, of course he's dreaming, and Sam rolls over, watches the slow rise of Dean's chest, concentrates. The dark rises thick, miserable, but Sam already knows that part.

He gets up, keeping quiet, and takes the step between their beds. The room isn't all that dark, the parking lot lights seeping bright behind the curtains, so it's easy to see the gilded line of Dean's cheekbone, his lips parted in sleep, his eyes closed and still. His face tipped toward Sam's bed. Sam wants to touch it so abruptly that his fingers are already reaching out but he stops himself. He leans over, instead, bracing a hand on the headboard, and tries to focus, tries to pin down the amorphous shifting haze of Dean's thrumming head. When he closes his eyes he doesn't see the black lake, the creaking boat, but the fear slips, slides, lapping against him. Against them both. Sam can't grasp it. He's not Andy, to push thoughts into someone else, and he doesn't see how he could get control of this—to ease the fear, or tell Dean somehow that it's going to be okay even if, really, Sam's not sure that's true. He stands up and turns away, goes to the window to look out at the silent parking lot and breathe, waiting it out. The dream swells and subsides, around him, and maybe that's Dean slipping down into a different REM cycle or something but it's a relief. Sam presses his forehead against the cool glass. Visions, and now this. His pointless, stupid powers, that don't let him do anything except see shit he can barely hope to change. Whatever powers the yellow-eyed demon was after them for, Sam hopes he won't be disappointed that Sam's in particular are completely impotent.

By the time two weeks have gone by Sam's—used to it is maybe not the phrase, but he can deal. Still in Bloomington, still searching. Waiting around, now, mostly, for Ellen's contacts to get back to them, for Ash to come up with anything on a scrape of, as far as Dean could relate, the entire internet. If Sam's honest with himself he thinks they're never going to find Ava, and if they do certainly not alive, but they're looking anyway. Dean doesn't suggest they move on, doesn't argue for anything else. He keeps them fed and caffeinated, finds new badly bowdlerized action movies to watch on the room's TV, follows Sam's leads when Sam suggests a new avenue of searching. His dreams are a little calmer, maybe just from the fact that they're stalled in place—a vacation, of a sort, like Dean asked for even if they're doing nothing remotely fun—and during the day Sam sits surrounded by his thoughts and it's… comforting. Sort of.

Happy isn't the word, Sam realizes, for that thin sunlight feeling. Contentment, maybe. Dean has it when they're quiet together, when they're doing stupid chores like laundry or taking a break in research to make some salt rounds, when they're arguing over Stallone versus Van Damme for the tenth time. When they're working Sam's gut tightens without his say-so in random spikes of anxiety, of worry. His heart clenches and he actually puts a hand over it, and he's just reading the police blotter in the paper, so when he looks up and Dean's got his half open to the obits, Sam frowns and says, "What?"

Dean jerks, like he was caught at something. "I didn't say anything," he says, and his face is calm but his hand's spread over some thin column, some family's sadness, and when he gets up to piss Sam pulls the paper around and sees it's an obituary for someone's father, dead a little too early, and Sam sits back and puts his knuckles into his eyes and breathes out, trying to shake the lingering ache of it.

Coming out of the shower that night, Sam wraps a towel around his waist and steps out into the bedroom. "What's for dinner?" he says, thinking he'll argue for Chinese whatever Dean says, and thinking that he might try searching up more information about Ansem's family, in particular, to see if there were any patterns there they could use, and he's in his own head enough that it takes him a minute to feel how the room has shifted around him. He pauses, leaning over his duffle bag, trying to pinpoint.

"There's that cheesesteak place over on 15th," Dean says, easy, but he's not at ease. Sam's feeling that same unexpected swoop in his gut, that low achy pull, and this time it's not from a woman but from a guy and so it's a tightness in his nuts, his blood heating. Sam grips his t-shirt in both hands, tight enough that his broken wrist aches. His cheeks have flooded hot and he stands up, shrugs his shoulders and feels the cold air on the water still on his skin, and the—the lust, because that's what it is, this thick wanting that's pulsing up through his stomach—it swoops low, shifts, and the flooding rise of guilt and fear that follows is so fast that Sam coughs, shocked.

"Yo, Marlee Matlin," Dean says. "Cheesesteak?"

"Yeah," Sam says, not turning around. He doesn't want to see what face goes with this feeling. "No onions on mine."

Dean snorts. "Heathen," he says, and there's a rattle of the keys being dragged off the table and Dean swinging into his leather coat, and he says, "Have clothes on by the time I get back, you exhibitionist," and the tangled mix of wanting and terror and shame is so thick that Sam can still feel it when the door's slammed behind him, when the car's rumbling on, fading only when the sound of the engine does, and Sam turns around then finally and looks at the empty room and thinks—nothing. His brain doesn't know what to do with this.

The cheesesteaks are decent. They watch the local news for any blood-and-guts, and then Frasier reruns. Dean's content has been blasted away by what happened earlier but he's acting fine and Sam's wondering, now, how often he's been fine when something raw and bizarre was rearing up in him. How long it's been in him. "You okay?" Dean asks, at some point, light but careful, really asking, and Sam dredges up a half-smile from somewhere and shrugs, says, "Just thinking," and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Oh, god help us all," and Sam throws a balled napkin at him, and Dean grins and swings into the bathroom and Sam hears the sink go on but when he closes his eyes his head is full of Dean's head, and he can almost see it: Dean braced over the sink, his head hung between his shoulders, his cheeks hot and his hands clenched and him saying to himself something like stop.

Sam blinks, back in the room. He did hear that. Stop, Dean says, inside his own head, loud and deliberate, but his thoughts swirl somewhere else and he's imagining—there's Sam's back, broad and damp and golden in the light, and the low line of the towel around his waist, and the wet curl of his hair around his ear, and how Dean wanted to put his mouth there, so badly he could almost taste the water—and then the harsh wave of recrimination floods the image out and Dean looks up into the mirror and thinks to himself, in clear words that he doesn't say out loud, you pathetic fucking freak, and Sam has to get up off the bed and slam out of the room and stand in the parking lot with freezing air on his bare arms and he holds his hand over his mouth so he doesn't curse out loud and he thinks jesus, bad enough that one of them is thinking it—the self-hatred that's tightening up his chest is hardly easing, from getting some distance, and soon he'll have to go back into the room because Dean will wonder what the hell he's doing, standing outside in his socks like a weirdo, and Sam has to say—he has to—this isn't fair, to either of them—but how can he say it without Dean knowing exactly what Sam must have overheard—overfelt—and Sam knows his brother, always has, and he knows what'll follow. A freakout, to say the least. Recrimination, reflected blame, anger and then fear—always the fear—that Sam's slipping further away, or worse that Dean will have pushed him further away—and Sam can't do this, he can't live like this, without Dean. He can't handle this stupid, terrible year, not without his brother on his side.

He takes a deep breath, cold in his lungs. Jesus, is that what he's going to do? Just live with it, because—

"Dude, what the hell?" comes Dean's voice, behind him. Sam turns and finds Dean, yes, standing in the open doorway, his hair a little damp at the edges like he splashed his face, his eyebrows high because here's his little brother being a weirdo like always. Except that he's more worried than his face lets on, and there's a rising tide of is something happening, is this something about the demon, the tang of fear that fills every night.

"Thought I heard something," Sam says, trying to interrupt it before it gets too bad. "By the car. I think it was just a dog or something."

He's a better liar than Dean gives him credit for; already it's working, the fear sliding into warm exasperation. That thin, frail beam of sunlight. "Freaking out Fido, now?" Dean says, while Sam walks wincing back across the parking lot, scattered gravel poking through his socks. "New low, bro."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, brushing past where Dean's holding the door open, and there's a thrill—in his chest, in Dean's—that he clamps down on, ignores, but he can't ignore the misery around it. That's a problem.

Sam stays awake that night, waiting for Dean to sleep. The black lake, the blood. Sam turns on his side and watches Dean's face and closes his eyes slowly, thinking of that moment just before the guilt, the shame—the clear, unadulterated want—and when he dreams they're in the cabin, again, and Dean's bleeding with his unconcerned hand holding nothing inside, and the water surges hard against the sides of the boat, floods the floorboards, and Sam opens his eyes and slides off his bed onto the floor and lays his hand onto Dean's stomach where in the dream he's dying, and he presses his forehead against the mattress and shudders, aching with how much it hurts, and the dream—shifts.

He breathes in, still halfway in sleep himself. Dean's hand covered in blood and his shoulders hunched up, but his face turns up and he sees Sam, standing there in the doorway watching him. He says something but Sam, the real Sam, can't hear it; the Sam-of-the-dream comes closer, looms. He looks a foot taller than Dean, broader. Monstrous almost. Sam catches his breath and the dream-Sam puts his hand over Dean's hand, holds it tighter against the wound, and Dean tips his head back and murmurs something and the Sam of the dream presses their hands tighter, hard enough that it should hurt except in the way of dreams there's no real pain but only the knowledge of being torn open—and then the Sam of the dream leans in and presses his mouth to Dean's, a chaste strange kiss, like kissing marble—and their hands sink into Dean's stomach, tearing—and when the kiss ends Sam lifts up and Dean opens his eyes and Sam's eyes are yellow, from edge to edge, and Sam shoves away from the bed, scrambling so fast he slams his shoulder into the frame of his own, and by some fucking miracle Dean doesn't wake up so Sam's left panting, alone on the carpet in the dark, a remembered warmth against his lips and his hand feeling an echoed-ghost slickness of black, dripping blood.

He puts on his sneakers, a hoodie, sticks his phone in his pocket but turns it off. He goes for a run. Three a.m. is silent around here and he needs that, needs no people. He runs hard enough and long enough that it's hard to think beyond the burning in his thighs, his lungs. His hurting shoulder where he's going to have a bruise.

When he gets back Dean comes awake at the door opening. "Where were you?" he says, bleary, and Sam says, "Out for a run, go back to sleep," and Dean's tired enough that he blinks at Sam heavily and mumbles, "Okay, freak," and subsides, turning over and hugging the pillow close. Sam stands with his back to the door, his hands fisted around the knob, watching as Dean slips back down into sleep, and it's deep, dreamless, a relief.

Sam showers and takes his time about it. He's not getting back to bed today. He washes his hair and his face, not bothering to be careful about keeping his cast dry anymore—it's almost time for it to come off, anyway—and his brain won't empty, won't let him forget. He can't get the image of his own eyes out of his head. Glinting gold. The version of him in the dream wasn't cruel, because it wasn't human. Peeling Dean open and giving him what he wanted and killing him, all at once. It's not hard to interpret.

He washes the rest, streaking soap. Takes his limp dick in hand, running his thumb under the foreskin, and then holds himself, his cast braced against the tile wall. He hasn't jerked off in—he can't even remember, the last time. It could clear his head. He squeezes, sliding wet up to the head, but what he imagines is—Dean's mouth, in the dark, barely parted. His own shoulders, gleaming inside Dean's head. He lets go of his dick and wipes his hand over his lips, trying to get the sensation out, and shuts off the water. It can't go on like this. Not like this.

He dries off in a half-assed way and tugs on boxers and nothing else. Out in the room Dean's still asleep and dawn's not yet rising. Sam shuts off the bathroom light and in the mostly-dark goes over to Dean's bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, and puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck. A blurring shift, coming on like a slow dimmer switch, as he rises up out of whatever dreamless space he was in. "Dean," Sam says, very quietly, and Dean's eye slits open, gleaming. He turns his head, rolls back a little, and Sam's hand drags along to his shoulder, fitting there on the smooth warm round of it. Dean blinks and is still almost entirely offline, the fog of his thoughts nothing but grey sleep, and Sam leans down and kisses him, then, catches his mouth a little off-center with his lips dry, his breath sour, his body warm and loose and unable to stop him.

No reaction for a few seconds, either in his body or his head. Sam opens his mouth and presses Dean's lips wider and gets the morning-taste of him, thick and strange, soft. He touches Dean's chin, the damp edge of his cast dragging against his skin, and it's that which seems to wake Dean up—his body going stiff, his mind flooding with—god, Sam can't untangle it all. "What," Dean says, against Sam's mouth, pulling back, but Sam grips his shoulder and presses him flat against the bed, leaning over him, keeping him here. Flicker of his eyelashes in the dark and his mouth's shining now, too, from Sam's mouth. Sam's stomach turns over to see it.

Sam doesn't say anything. Dean's breathing hard, looking up at him. Fear, pooling around the bed, flooding the room like the bed's the boat and the room's the lake, and Sam maybe doesn't get it entirely—he thinks of his eyes, yellow in Dean's mind, and his hand clenches hard enough on Dean's shoulder that Dean cringes away, grips Sam's wrist. "Sam," Dean says, uncertain—wondering if he's still dreaming—and Sam leans down and kisses him again, ignores Dean's stiff scared lips and licks inside, knocking him open, his cast heavy on Dean's chest, his wet hair dripping cold. He feels it, of course, when it starts to wake in Dean—the sensation of his body, his mouth, the warmth rising south, the shock of getting this—the confusion—and he pulls away, enough that he can look into Dean's eyes, says, "Feel this," and breaks Dean's grip on his wrist and slides his hand down under the blanket and past Dean's flinching belly to his dick, heavy in his underwear, swelling. Dean takes a shuddering shocked breath and the rise of want is so thick that it chokes out the fear, the guilt, his mind going full and focused at getting his dick held by someone he wants as badly as he wants Sam. God. To know that.

The want is so intense that Sam knows it won't matter that he's never done this before. A dick is a dick, though, he figures, and he slips his fingers inside the waistband, finds the pole of it—thick, the skin unexpectedly soft—and Dean's body arches under his, his breath hot and fast already. Sam doesn't want this, not in the same way, but it hardly matters when Dean's desire roars high between them. "Touch me," Sam says, and Dean goes for Sam's chest, his shoulders, grasping in fumbled shock, while Sam gets a better grip, pumps, finding a rhythm. Awkward with his left hand but clearly doing the job, from how Dean's already shaking, his thighs spreading for it under the blanket, his fingers tight in Sam's skin. Sam leans down, finds Dean's mouth again, and Dean opens for him easy, letting Sam inside, his hands finding Sam's jaw. His fingers careful, uncertain—sliding up into Sam's damp hair, holding—and his hips jerk—and Sam licks into Dean's mouth and pumps him faster, his shoulder sore and aching, his fingers getting slick—jesus, Sam runs his thumb over the head and feels the wet leaking—and Dean jerks under him like touching a live wire and comes just like that, hips shoving up into Sam's grip, wet heat that spills over Sam's hand and against his wrist. Sam gentles his grip and Dean jerks into his palm, getting the last of it out. His chest is heaving, under Sam's cast. Sam kisses him, again, and Dean's teeth drag against his lip, and Sam slides his hand up out of Dean's shorts and presses his palm firm against his bare belly, heedless of the mess.

When he lifts up Dean's staring at him, fixed. The room's inundated with his thoughts, a whitewater crush. Sam's mouth tastes like metal. Dean's fingers reach up, white, and touch his cheek, and Sam drags in air and lets himself be touched, and Dean doesn't know what to do with this. He wants to tackle Sam back to the bed and he wants to crawl under something and he wants to be not who he is because who he is has ruined—

"Stop," Sam says, pressing his palm harder against Dean's belly. "Stop thinking."

Dean licks his lips, looks back and forth between Sam's eyes. Distracted from the misery but just as bewildered, and worse. "What are you thinking?" he says, after a few seconds. Scrape of voice, thick and unsure.

"I'm thinking I want you," Sam says, and Dean blinks and this terrible curl of hope goes through him, another kind of light like a brush of rose-fingered dawn at the edge of a dark landscape, and Sam hasn't felt that, hasn't come close to that, this whole awful time. Sam bites his lips and hopes Dean doesn't hear the next part as qualification: "I want you here. With me. Not—freaking out. Not worried about—whatever it is you're always worrying about."

Dean swallows. His face turns away a little. "Me, worry," he says, breath of a scoff, and there's that rawness again, the shame pulling at his gut. Afraid of this and afraid of Sam in equal measure.

Sam can't stand it. He won't have it. "Don't," he says, and Dean's eyes flick at him sidelong, his mouth turning to some unhappy shape, and Sam pushes in and spreads out over the top of him and kisses him again, his wet gross hand sliding up Dean's side, his mouth crushed hard against Dean's mouth. Dean kisses back this time, for real, and he's—softer, tenderer, than Sam would have ever imagined Dean would kiss, if he had ever imagined it.

It's Sam who breaks the kiss—every part of Dean, body and mind, is full of the feeling that he would never, ever stop unless the room was on fire, and maybe not even then—and when they're breathing against each other Dean's hand worms up out of the blanket and finds Sam's side, over his ribs. Squeezes there, very lightly, his heart thrilling terrified at the presumption. "Sammy," he says, one word a complicated snarl of a question, and Sam shakes his head, can't answer. He moves his right arm, bracing the cast instead by Dean's head, and Dean's chest rises under the release of the weight. A release, all over, and that dawn keeps rising, though the lake's still black and its depths are impossible to see.

Sam tucks his head down, his face in Dean's throat, like they're hugging, like something familiar at least, and Dean's arm goes around his back, holding him. "Sam," he whispers, against Sam's hair. Sam closes his eyes and feels the surge of it: tender, violent, aching. A glut that presses against the back of his teeth with all he wants to say and won't.

He doesn't know if that feeling is his, or Dean's. Behind his eyes it's black and dawn's still not here. On a lake, in the dark, there's a boat creaking, the water surging high but not yet spilling over the side.

[ikefool]

Music Room

Summary: Mozart isn’t paying enough attention to you, you plan to remedy that immediately.

Rating: Explicit, mature. EXTREMELY spicy.  DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT 18 OR OLDER

Pairing: IkeVamp Mozart x Reader

Word Count: 2500 

A/N: This is a result of this ask from thirst night, and my imagination running away with it, screaming.

You’re bored. 

You’d think that watching the one and only Mozart compose would be a wonderful experience. But really it's just him scribbling onto his music sheet in silence, occasionally he plays a note or two on the piano, then goes back to scribbling. You sigh for what feels like the thousandth time, contorting on the cushioned bench until your head hangs upside down over the side of it.

“What” he says, without looking up from his work. From your new point of view, you see his face twitch momentarily into an annoyed expression. You squint your eyes until your vision blurs, then you poke the spot of color where his head is. You sigh again. 

“I’m bored, Mozart. You’ve been in here all day.” Your arms dangle dramatically next to your head.

The sound of pen on paper stops with a flourish that rings with finality, you didn’t know someone could turn a page passive-aggressively, of course your lover would manage to do so. “Well-” he starts “I told you, you can go do whatever you wish. You were the one insisting on staying here.” You pout at him, but he doesn’t even turn to look your way.

“Wolf…” Aside from a barely there pause, the nickname seems to have no effect over him, damn. “It’s my day off, I’m sure your piece is perfect already, and I’d bet anything you can already play it with your eyes closed.”

“You mustn't be so reckless with your possessions, mein liebe.” The corner of his lips twitches upwards into a smirk and you roll your eyes, ignoring his teasing.

“I was hoping we could do something together” you squint again, then pretend to pinch his head with your index and thumb. 

“We are already. I’m writing music and you’re being annoying, there.” He smiles at you sweetly and you groan, dropping your hand again.

“Wooolff” Nothing, he’s ignoring you. After a moment of silence, you straighten yourself until you’re lying sideways on the bench. A lone, sweet note rings from the piano, lingers for a moment in the air, and then disappears.

You lean onto your hand, supporting the weight of your head with your elbow on the bench. He really is beautiful like this. You watch him, his face looks passive in practiced concentration, his hair glows like polished silver by the light streaming in through the window. Despite Mozart’s constant cleaning and dusting, a few dust motes still dance in the beam of light. He looks like a vision, something conjured up from your own imagination. The pale, cool colors of the room, bright with warm sunlight, seem to become part of him, like he’s right where he belongs. His bright violet eyes hint at the music that burns inside of him. Is his mind as melodic as his creations? Your lover looks like a creature of pure, beautiful music. And he’s all yours.

You bite your lip.

Slowly, so as to not give away your intentions, you unfold yourself delicately from the bench and stand up. He doesn’t look your way. You don’t bother putting your shoes back on, they stay beside the bench where you had taken them off. You walk barefoot, as carefully and silently as you can, toward the white grand piano that dominates the room. Finally, when you stand before him and brush a finger along the polished edge of the instrument, those intense violet eyes focus on you.

“Play it for me?” Mozart still doesn’t say a thing, he scans your face for any sign of mischief and you school your expression carefully. Mischief is exactly what you have in mind. At last, with a subtle nod, he places his long fingers on the keys and starts to play.

You close your eyes, lashes fluttering softly as the music seems to surround you and carry you away to someplace magic. It flows seamlessly, rising and falling as though the music itself was a living, breathing thing. You memorize the color of it, the way it wraps around your heart and mixes with the air in your lungs. The vast, open room acts as a hollow chamber in which the notes echo and dance, swaying side to side along with you. The last note lingers for a moment before silence reigns again, you open your eyes when the spell breaks. 

“Beautiful, as always Wolf” He smiles shyly as though he hasn’t just transported you into another realm. “Is it finished?” He bites his lip absentmindedly as his eyes scan the music sheet sitting in front of him, your eyes are drawn to the action. You subtly adjust your stance. Patience, you tell yourself, not yet. You pad over to stand behind him, hands resting over his shoulders and rubbing softly.

“Nearly” he replies, voice quiet with contemplation “Just needs a few adjustments in tempo and volume, I think it also needs a different ending, the one I have is temporary. It sounds too… trailing, I think.” He rubs the side of his hand on his chin in thought. To you it sounds perfect, but then again, you wouldn’t really know. 

You decide to try once more, even though you know ‘good enough’ is not a concept that Mozart’s familiar with. With him, it was perfect or nothing. “Well, it sounds good enough to me. Do you think we could go out together now?” His burning glare is answer enough. You laugh softly. “Alright, just checking.” He huffs and goes back to his music. You stay right where you are, peeking over his shoulders as he adds quick dots and lines to the music sheet in front of him with a pen, he nibbles on the tip while he thinks, a habit he detests. You can kind of pick out a few of the notes with your basic knowledge of music, but you can’t even begin to imagine how they translate into sound. 

You lean your cheek on his shoulder, inhaling deeply, he smells clean and fresh, and faintly of something like incense. You trail your hand, palm open and fingers splayed wide, along his chest. Mozart sighs, but otherwise continues to ignore you. No matter. With the tip of your finger you brush back the hair at the nape of his neck and plant a soft kiss on the sensitive flesh.

“Liebling...” he warns, voice low.

“Fine” You straighten, trailing your hands upward along his chest. You glance at the music sheets, several indistinguishable scribbles have been added to the margins. “Play it for me again?”

He turns his head to look at you, moving like it takes him a great effort, he looks comically annoyed “I just did, liebe.” 

You hum in assent, moving from behind him to stand next to the piano (you don’t lean on it though, he’d kill you). You tilt your head placidly, moving to sit on the floor, legs tucked under you. “I know, but it’s different now, I just saw you change it. And I love it when you play for me, Wolf.” He looks down at you suspiciously, you tuck your hands beneath your knees and try to look as innocent as you possibly can. You consider fluttering your lashes, but that would probably be too much. You can tell the second he gives in, his shoulders drop and he heaves a deep sigh, running a hand over his face in a way that clearly says ‘fucking fine, you’re impossible’.

You smile brightly and, as soon as he shifts in his seat, placing his hands carefully over the piano’s keys, you duck under the instrument and scoot until your face to -well- crotch with your lover. You can sense his pause, the muscles of his thighs tense under his elegant trousers.

“Just what in the world are you doing?” You can sense an undercurrent of nervousness under his feigned annoyance. You stomp down on the smirk that threatens to show on your face and look up at him with the biggest, most innocent eyes you can muster. 

“I thought you were ignoring me. Just play for me, yes?” You trail your hands along his thighs and reach up to unfasten his trousers.

“Verdammt deine Augen” he curses “That won’t work, you deviant, I’ll just not pay attention to you.”

This time you can’t help the wide, mischievous smile that stretches your lips. “Good” As much as he seems to be adamant about acting like you’re the one who’s bothering him, like he’s beneath this, he still shifts his hips so you can pull down his clothes. You wrap your hands around his still soft cock, you can feel his gaze on you, but you don't look at him. He’s steadily growing firmer in your hands, hardening under your soft ministrations. 

It may be odd to think so, but his dick is… pretty. Silky and pink, slender. He’s not scary big, and it looks almost elegant. You run a hand along the light dusting of downy, fair hairs that lead to him, using your other hand to pull him into your mouth. You hum, coaxing him to full hardness with your tongue. A sharp intake of breath makes you turn your gaze upward. He’s staring at you, mesmerized, eyes of violet fire fixed on your lips.

“Well?” You murmur “weren’t you going to play for me?” Mozart growls above you, something that sounds awfully close to a curse leaves his lips. Still, he does what he’s told, placing his hands once again over the keys and starting to play the beautiful melody once again.

As soon as he begins, you swallow him as far back into your throat as you can take him, working your tongue around him, running the muscle along the sensitive vein on the underside of his member. Mozart chokes above you, a loud note ringing out in the room, sharp and dissonant. 

“Start again” You’ve abandoned all pretence of innocence, your voice now calm but stern. You lean back, removing all your touch. Your lover looks down at you incredulously, you only raise an eyebrow in response. He heaves a great, shaking sigh and starts again.

As soon as the music starts once more, you get back to your task. You close your eyes, bobbing your head up and down deeply, using your hands to cover what your mouth cannot. From above you hear a grunt, but the music doesn’t stop or falter. “Good boy” you hum, hands twisting up and down along his straining length, tongue lapping at his head. A hand reaches down carefully to palm at his balls and Mozart jerks like he’s just been shocked. The next note sounds different, not ugly, but wrong. You halt immediately, ceasing all of your ministrations. “Start again” your voice is husky but still firm.

Once more, you start at the same time he does. Lapping and sucking at him, going back every time he makes the smallest mistake. He’s whimpering now, hips jerking in small thrusts while he does his best to focus on his music. You feel a bit drunk with power, you have never known Mozart to make even a single mistake, yet here he is, sweating and panting through what must be his fifth do-over. You pull back almost all the way, keeping your lips wrapped tightly around the head, sucking firmly. Your thumb presses against the underside of his cock on each upwards stroke. 

“Ah!” He yells, one hand flying to grip the back of the piano bench, the other one digging into your hair. “Oh! P- please! I can’t!” You jerk away from his grip and swat a quick, sharp slap to his thigh, he thrusts forward blindly with a choked- off moan.

“Did I say you could stop?” he swallows with a loud click. “Well? Did I?” He shakes his head quickly, eyes shut tight. “Did I say you could touch me?” Another shake of the head, he whimpers desperately and you stroke a soothing hand over his thigh to alleviate the sting. “Start. Again.” 

Mozart groans like he’s wounded, blinking rapidly as if to ground himself. Then, obediently, he starts once more. 

As soon as he notices that you will not punish him for making noise (you decide it would be too cruel, the hand with which he gripped your hair was shaking), the sweet music of his quiet moaning and whimpering mixes sinfully with the beautiful sonata he’s playing. His face speaks of blissful torture, blush glowing high on his cheeks and mouth parting at the deep suction of your plush lips. Sometimes he glances up at the music sheets in a panic, as if the pleasure has caused the notes, once so clear in his mind, to become scrambled and nonsensical. He manages to find his place in the nick of time, and you always stroke a loving caress up his leg in reward. 

Soon, as the last few measures of his piece grow near, so does his impending release. He’s trembling, muscles tightening with restraint under your touch, his silky length seems to pulse on your tongue. Your lover groans as you take him in deep, panting out a curse and hurrying through the last few notes. You decide to let that go, looking up through your lashes and saying in your wrecked voice “come for me” before taking him into your warm mouth once more.

He cries out roughly, hips thrusting wildly as he cums in your mouth. Pulse after pulse as you keep him in place with firm hands, sucking gently as you swallow everything down. He’s salty and familiar and yours. Above you, the keys of his precious piano clang loudly as he slams his hands onto them for support, a cacophony of sound that barely drowns out his own groans. As he comes, each pulse draws a whimper out from deep inside him. Your toes curl with excitement as you glance at his face, slack with pleasure.

Finally, when the aftershocks subside and he’s shivering softly under your touch, you give him one last lingering lick before drawing upwards, almost slithering along his body until you’re face to face with him. “How’s that for a different ending, hm?” You smile impishly at him.

Mozart laughs, spent and half-delirious. “Oh, you’re the devil, you know that?” He grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls to him, crashing his lips onto yours with lingering heat. He bites at your lower lip harshly and then soothes his tongue over the bite. Slowly, and with a low, amused moan, you climb onto his lap and grip at his shoulders. 

You’re excited and flustered from pleasuring him, and you can’t help but grind against his thigh when he pulls you closer by the waist. You part to breathe, and Mozart immediately trails kisses from your lips to the shell of your ear, tracing the line of your jaw. “Alright, I changed my mind. We can go do something else. Get up, we’re going to my room.” You giggle softly at his husky tone. “I won’t stop until you sing for me, little minx.”

Oh, you can’t wait.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Tagging: @juminly​ and @sweetlittlemouse​ because they’re partially responsible

[bitch-butter]

Little bit of a rivers prequel exploration. I've mentioned this scene a few times in the series, but it's not really my intention to do anything that takes place before part one, so this was just going to like slowly asphyxiate in my drafts unless I released it lol

She's going to live on Tumblr unless I somehow decide I want to do more of Whatever This Is in the future, but since it takes place before the series you don't need to have read the other parts which is sexy.

Read More for like 3k of Gay Shit~

* * *

Hay wasn’t the smell that Joe would have gravitated to normally. The mulchy wetness in combination with the dry and yeasty texture always made him think of bugs, and this feeling was not a welcome one when forced to be bedded down on a big pile of the stuff. Each breath full of the smell was nearly enough to make him gag.

Still, beat sleeping outside. And the smell was strong enough to cancel out his own smell, which, he knows from experience, isn’t a walk in the park right now either. 

He had settled into a comfortable enough doze by the time his mind caught onto the frankly annoying fucking snoring emanating from the corner of the barn. Cracking his eyes open, he glared into the corner where a Hoobler shape slump is curled up against the wall, snoring away into the dark with an unfamiliar body sprawled on the ground a few feet away, seeming unperturbed.

One fucking night is all he’s asking for. Fuck.

Pulling in an aggravated breath, Joe sat up from his hay-bed, contemplating whether or not to try and ignore the sound or move out completely to a quieter spot. He glanced towards the door of the barn, where clear moonlight cut across the ground to illuminate the dry, if a hint cold, night beyond. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to sleep out tonight if he had to, he supposed. 

He’s taking in the details of the scene outside when he spots what looks to be the toe of a boot popping out from beside the doorway. For a moment his heart picks up, hand moving to grasp onto his rifle, but the boot doesn’t move, just remains planted solidly in the dirt. The longer he looks, though, the more he makes out a calf, leading to a body sitting against the wall outside.

It’s curiosity more than anything that brings him to his feet. What kind of guy doesn’t fucking drop the second he gets an opportunity? 

Of course it’s Webster.

He doesn’t know why the realization brings a smile to his face. Why the sight of the other man leaning up against the barn, legs bent and beaten up notebook in his lap, makes him feel oddly alive. He doesn’t even know Webster that well, only spoken to him one-on-one maybe a handful of times at most, and definitely doesn’t know him as well as he knows some of the other guys. 

But still, he feels light. Light enough to step outside and look down in amusement at Webster, who in turn looks up at Joe in bewilderment. “Trouble sleeping in the dirt, Web?”

Bewilderment turns critical as Web frowns, eyes falling back down to his book as he continues writing. “Not tired.”

Snickering, Joe stepped around Web to let his own back hit the barn, sliding down to slouch beside the other man. “Always knew there was something wrong with you.”

He’s digging for his smokes in his pocket when he realizes that Web’s hand has stilled, and that the other man is looking aside at him with an inscrutable expression, eyes glancing over Joe’s face in the near-dark. “What?” he asked, an edge of anxiety in his voice. 

Web’s face clears in an instant. “Nothing,” he sighed, turning back to his book. Even in the shadows Joe can see the tips of his ears are red. 

“Right,” Joe nods disbelievingly, holding out his pack in an attempt to dispel the strange air surrounding them. Web takes one gratefully, mumbling a thanks as Joe placed one between his lips, holding his lighter up between them. They bend in towards each other, close enough that Joe can smell Web; a dirty, grass-like smell with an undercurrent of that same sweat all the guys have now. 

Better than hay, he thinks as Web draws back with his cigarette lit, before snapping the lighter closed and smoking in silence for a few moments. He finds his eyes drawn ceaselessly to Web’s pale hand as it moves across the page, turns to the next, and continues on. Web has good hands, he thinks to himself, before blinking the thought away. 

Doesn’t mean he stops looking, though.

“What are you writing about?” he asks softly, voice creaking a bit.

Web looks at him, face more open as he sighs out a stream of smoke. “Eindhoven.”

“Got a dame you want to remember, huh?”

Web huffs a small laugh. “No,” he takes another pull on his smoke, breathing deep and exhaling steadily. “I just don’t want to forget what it was like. How it felt.” 

Joe smiled quizzically. “Writing a book or something?”

“I don’t know,” Web replies, and it’s such an obvious lie Joe can’t help but laugh. This earns him a withering glare. “Even if I was, why do you care, Liebgott?”

“I don’t,” Joe bites, and it’s such an obvious lie of his own that Web laughs at him. “Guess I’m having trouble imagining anybody wanting to read about you.”

Web scowled at him. “Well, it wouldn’t be just about me, that’s not the point.”

“So you are writing a book?” Joe grinned, bringing his dying cigarette back to his lips. 

Mouth opening and then closing just to open again, Web looks at Joe in bare-faced annoyance. “You...” he trailed, seemingly having trouble finding the exact right word to express how irritated he was.

“You’re going to catch flies, buddy,” Joe smirked, grinding the butt of his smoke in the dirt and almost snickering as Web’s lips clamped shut. “Anyway, don’t count your chickens, Webster. War ain’t over yet and I doubt anything you replacements have to say would be worth a damn.”

This snaps Web out of whatever annoyance induced fugue state he was entering. “I’m not a fucking replacement, Liebgott,” he snapped, eyes glinting at Joe’s in the moonlight. “I was in Normandy, same as you. And even if I hadn’t been, what gives you the right to treat me or any of the other guys like that?”

Scoffing, Joe found himself toeing the line between being amused at Web’s reaction and finding himself somehow actually getting hot. “Way I see it I get to talk to you or any of the other guys however I want,” he said, meeting Web’s eyes with no small degree of challenge. “Seeing as I was here from the beginning and all of you are just showing up to chew on the bones.”

Web stares at him for a moment, his pale face unguarded and awash with surprised pain. “So, what then? Babe isn’t Easy to you? I’m not Easy to you?”

“Babe proved himself.”

A sharp “Ha!” stung in Joe’s face as Web’s head tilted back momentarily, before the other man levelled him with a skeptical look. “You’re so full of shit that you don’t even realize you are, Liebgott.”

Joe shook his head, unsure of why the back of his neck was heating so rapidly. “Keep telling yourself that, Webster. Fact is, what you do out there’s going to matter more than whatever bullshit you’re scribbling in your diary.”

Web nodded mockingly. “Alright, Joe, so I just need to earn the approval of who? You?”

It’s said so sneeringly that Joe can’t help but be nasty back. “Eh, we’ll see if you make it back.”

The hum Web emits might be mistaken for a tease, but Joe can see the lines drawn on the other man’s face as he shoots his eyes down to the ground. “Right,” he nods, swiftly standing and grabbing his pack from the ground beside him, crushing his smoke under his boot. “I’ll take it into consideration,” he says, shooting Joe a dark look over his shoulder. “‘Night.”

Joe blinks and Web is striding away, almost in the space of a breath. “Sleeping outside is for suckers!” he calls.

“Fuck you!” Web called back, casual and unaffected as anything, blue eyes glancing over his shoulder and back at Joe. They shot fire at him, and Joe all of a sudden feels as though he’s been struck by lightning, heat zig-zagging from his head all the way down through his bones. 

Inexplicably, he wants more of it.

As fast as Web was disappearing into the dark and the trees of the orchard beyond Joe is scrambling up, nearly running just to catch up with him. He settles at Web’s side as though they had not just devolved into verbal fisticuffs a few moments prior, and gleans some pleasure from the clearly agitated face the other man gives him as they continue moving along side by side.

“Yes?” Web prompts impatiently.

“What?” 

He holds back a smile at the roll of Web’s eyes. “What do you want, Joe?”

Joe has to scoff, shaking his head in the splintering shadows the darkened trees cast over them. “Like I’d want a goddamn thing from you, Web.”

The chuckle that greets him catches him slightly off guard, and he finds himself glancing back at the other man’s dark profile, the smile turning up the edges of Web’s full lips -

He shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you actually know what you want,” Web said teasingly, voice low in the quiet of the night, eyes darting over to catch onto Joe’s like hooks. “If you did you wouldn’t be following me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joe challenged, eyes still caught up in the knowing gleam of Web’s even as he tried in vain to gather the strength to break the connection. 

“You don’t know?” Web asked obliquely, an air of casual imperiousness settling over his words like a heavy fog.

All of a sudden they’re stopped in the dark, trees sprouted up all around them in a pattern that, were it light out, might have been effortlessly beautiful, but in the dark gave the distinct impression of a cage surrounding them, stars glimmering beyond the branches above like shattered glass. But he can see Web in uncomfortable clarity, stood before him with his eyes looking down on Joe like he knows something, like he has a secret that he stole away in the fucking dark of the night, and damn it Joe wants it back. 

“I know a hell of a lot more than you think I do,” he utters in what he intended to resemble a growl, but comes out sounding much more like a rasp. 

“Oh, really?” 

He steps into Web’s space, expecting Web to do what any other guy would have done and take a step back, and is met instead with Web’s unflinching conceit. With this added proximity he finds himself swallowing down some unnamable wave that rushes up through his body and threatens to spill out of him and straight onto Web, and in the dark he can feel his neck flushing.

If he can see Web in the dark then no doubt Web can see him right back.

He does, because his eyes move effortlessly from amusement, to annoyance, to resignation. “You don’t know,” he says definitively, and Joe can almost feel the words moving through the air between them.

Web says this as though it’s supposed to end the matter, break the connection, and yet if anything Joe can feel him moving in even closer, and it’s pure stubbornness that keeps him rooted to his spot. “What are you doing?” he murmurs, eyes moving down along the planes of Web’s pale face, drawn like a magnet to the sight of the other man’s lips, which are pink, and parted, and -

“What am I doing?” Web whispered back, sounding almost as though he was talking to himself, but their faces hovered close to each other in the dark for too long for him to not know what he’s doing, and the way his eyes aren’t on Joe’s eyes but lower, lower -

“I…” Web trails away in the second before suddenly their lips are meeting. And Joe knows he didn’t move, and he didn’t feel Web move, but they’re together, they’re connected, their mouths are moving against each other as soft as fucking clouds and their noses nudge and Joe’s neck is hot and it feels perfect, it feels like heaven to kiss Web, he’s kissing Webster - 

Reality shoots back into him like the sear of a bullet to the head, and as fast as their lips meet he’s shoving Web away. His hands meet Web’s shoulders roughly, pushing him with strength that he almost didn’t know he had in him, and where the fuck was this side of him back in Toccoa?

But he only gets to relish the gasp of air back into his body for a moment, as his forceful push sends Web careening back, feet tripping backwards over the knobby roots of the trees surrounding them, and he hits the ground hard. 

“Oh, shit,” he spits, immediately moving to narrow the space between them yet again, dropping to his knees beside Web’s downed form. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, are you alright?”

For his part, Web looks a little dazed by the quick pivots of Joe’s mood in just the last few seconds, and blinks rapidly in the shadows before coughing. “You’re like a fucking child, Christ.”

“Hey,” Joe mutters, flush deepening with embarrassment, with confusion. 

Web’s eyes are on him again, and he only just keeps himself from shrinking back because where he had anticipated the usual swell of annoyance or of, please, anger, Web appears almost hesitant and...what? Fearful? His gaze moves over Joe’s face quickly, as though measuring every line, every angle, searching for something.

“What?” Joe croaks. “You scared?”

Swallowing heavily, the other man quirks a disbelieving eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

“No, I -” he starts, before abruptly halting. It’s a lie, he is afraid. But not of Web, who’s still looking at Joe like he half believes Joe’s going to clobber him, but of himself. He’s never done anything like that before, never even allowed himself to linger on the thought of it for longer than the space of one thought between another. Certainly he hadn’t ever drawn Web into those fleeting moments. Well, not in a traditional way at least.

If he palmed his cock and saw Web’s hands, or the curve of his jaw, then that’s nobody’s business. He thinks about a lot of things.

“No,” he settles.

Web doesn’t look like he quite believes him, if the distressed curve of his lips is anything to go by, and Joe reaches out to settle a hand on his neck just to see the way his eyes widen. He swallows, feeling a shiver pass through him at this simple, voluntary touch, and before he knows it he’s smiling, and at the sight of his smile Web is smiling back. And if he’s been paying special attention to parts of Web lately his smile hasn’t been one.

It is now.

“Alright,” Joe whispers through half of a chuckle, shaking his head. “Can I kiss you again?”

Smile melting from relief to happiness, Web looks as though he’d do just about anything Joe asked him to, but he manages to huff a tiny laugh first. “Are you going to push me again?”

Rolling his eyes, Joe tugged at his light hold on Web’s neck, blood heating at the way the other man’s eyes fluttered. “No.”

Shifting up from where he’d been braced back on his arms, Web reached out to take gentle hold of either side of Joe’s face, one hand combing back through his dirty hair. “Then yes,” he nodded. “Yes, please.”

This time they pull each other into the kiss, their lips meeting again just as softly as before, slotting together with an ease that felt almost unnatural with disuse. His hand rubbed clumsily at the skin of Web’s neck, easing himself back into the rhythm of kissing. It wasn’t enough that he hadn’t kissed anyone since Georgia, but now he’s kissing a man on top of that, and the combination of sensations has him shuddering and hardening in his pants even before he feels Web’s tongue gently asking permission into his mouth. 

His mouth falls open with the slightest pull to his hair, and he welcomes the other man’s tongue with a grace he honestly feels he should be lauded for. He’s been with some forthcoming dames, to be sure, but none of them have felt this strong or as sure in his arms, letting Joe take and taking Joe right back. It’s something he could easily get addicted to, he thinks, as his tongue presses in to play over Web’s and he firmly wraps his other arm around the other man’s waist.

Web’s arms wrapping around his neck are overwhelming at first, before he feels their bodies, pressed together, easing back to rest on the dark, mossy, ground. They settle side by side, facing each other, legs fumbling and maneuvering around until Web has one leg thrown easily over Joe’s hip and Joe has one knee pressed steadily between the spread of Web’s thighs.

They split apart at the first accidental nudge of their crotches against one another, Web gasping and Joe hissing, before Web begins gently kissing down along his jaw.

“You taste like olives, a bit,” Joe said hoarsely, catching his breath as though he just ran up Currahee.

“Oh, sorry,” Web apologized, glancing back up at Joe’s face with a furrowed brow.

Joe shook his head, pressing a kiss just off Web’s lips. “I like olives,” he rebuffed, pulling their mouths back together in a smacking kiss. “Fuck,” he gasped softly, pressing in to kiss along Web’s neck beside his ear. “You done this before?”

Web breathed out a little tremble, smoothing his hand up Joe’s back. “Kissed a man?”

“Yeah,” Joe rasped, swallowing heavily as his hips rolled against Web’s own, lazy but with intention.

The nod of the other man’s head draws him out of his fascination with Web’s neck, and he finds himself pressing an exhilarated kiss against Web’s cheek as he speaks. “Yes,” he admits in a whisper. “Not- ah, not many, but yes, I -”

He’s laying another, harder kiss against Web’s lips at the self-conscious wobble of the words, his tongue sweeping through Web’s mouth as though to gather them and take them back into himself. Groaning as the leg Web had thrown over him tightened, bringing them almost fully flush, he brought one hand down to grasp tightly at the meaty flesh of the other man’s thigh, pulling it gently upwards and had to smile at the pleased hum that rattled around Web’s body.

“Have you?” Web asked gently.

Joe shook his head. “No.”

“Oh,” Web murmured, pulling in a deep breath at the steady roll of Joe’s hips against his own, head falling back against the darkened soil and baring his neck for Joe, who immediately resumed kissing along its length. “Lieb...Lieb…” he breathed, almost absentmindedly as Joe realized exactly how much he enjoyed when Web said his name. “Joe...we should- we should pump the breaks a bit.”

Pulling his face from the hot expanse of Web’s neck, Joe frowned down at him. “What?”

“No, I -” Web swallowed, giving his head a clearing shake and blinking back towards Joe with a little more clarity. “I like it, I like it a lot, I’d just rather do this on the other side of tomorrow, if you know what I mean.”

The heat still pulsing through his veins screamed its discontent, but Joe reluctantly acknowledged that wherever this interaction was heading was now paused for the time being.

Figures, Web looks the part of a fucking tease, after all.

“Alright,” he muttered, releasing Web’s thigh with no small degree of bitterness, letting Web ease himself back just enough for Joe to feel distinctly burned. He sat up with a gently heating face, mindful to keep himself angled away enough that Web wouldn’t be able to see it, and looked around the orchard surrounding them, searching out anything to anchor his eyes to so that he didn’t have to think about Web’s lip, his legs, his eyes in the dark -

Eyes that meet his own once more, his chin caught gently in the other man’s warm palm as Web turned his face back. Web, at the very least, seems just as put out at stopping as he does, and for a moment he wants to be an asshole, wants to fight, but can’t bring his mouth to do anything but fall open, breathe.

“Can I?” Web asked quietly.

Joe could only nod.

The kiss is as light as a feather, whispering across his lips like dust settling, and he hums into the feeling and, suddenly, feels at peace. He runs one hand through Web’s hair, smoothing it, and gathers up the heat from the other man’s neck in the palm of his hand, bringing it back to himself like he had stolen his secret back from where Web had hidden it.

He pulls back softly, face still angled into Web’s sphere. “See you on the other side, huh?”

Web sighed, nose brushing Joe’s own, and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them to look teasingly back at him. 

“Arschloch,” he drawled, pushing Joe back with a soft touch to the base of his neck before standing, brushing dirt from his pants, and taking off into the darkness of the orchard without a glance back at Joe.

Joe watches him go, seeing for the first time the length of his limbs, the curve of his ass, and allows himself to want. He, as fast as lightning, very badly wants to find a patch of darkness to crowd him into tomorrow night.

If Web makes it back. If they both do.

Without a second thought, he’s up and following Web into the dark, ignorant and uncaring of their destination. 

[kitten-anarchy]

frenemies (TUA Fanfic)

TUA | BAD THINGS HAPPEN BINGO

PROMPT: ENEMY TURNED CARETAKER

(ao3 link)

TWS: emetophobia (vomiting), the handler is kind of creepy (not sexually!! PSA: if i see anyone tag this as ship, i’m gonna break your kneecaps :D) = Five wakes to a pounding, ear-splitting headache.

His vision is blurry, black spots dancing in his vision, and he can barely keep himself from throwing up. Instinctively, his hands go to wipe his nose, expecting the usual trail of blood that comes with overusing his powers.  His hands come back dry - not even a fleck of dried blood on them.

Did I get kidnapped?

He bites back a groan of annoyance. Of course. Five is not unfamiliar with the infamous Hargreeves family luck. It's his own fault for letting his guard down; after getting stranded for forty-five years and stopping two apocalypses, he really should know better then to expect one day off.

Rubbing his aching head, Five takes stock of the room. It's a simple thing, four smooth stone walls with only a single door across from where he's sitting. Annoyingly enough, he's attached to a monitor and an IV. Normally, Five wouldn't think twice about removing the wires and jumping out, but just the thought of it makes his head spin.

He'll have to suck it up. You're fifty-eight years old, Five. You can handle a little pain. Get over yourself.

Five swings his legs off the bed, shivering slightly as his bare feet touch the cold concrete flooring. The freezing air easily penetrates the thin white hospital gown. He slowly makes his way towards the wooden door. It's annoying, feeling this weak and vulnerable. It doesn't help that he doesn't have access to his powers. At the very least, he can take comfort in the fact that his siblings aren't-

His siblings.

Fuck, where are his siblings? Are they in here with him? Shit. Shit.

Don't panic, Five, Dolores would say. Take a deep breath. I'm sure they're fine.

Right, right. They're thirty years old, and they can hold their own in a fight. They'll be fine.

(They're thirty years old, and they can hold their own in a fight, but that didn't help them against the end of the world.)

He starts making his way quicker to the door, ignoring the way the burning taste of bile that fills his mouth. He tries the door - it's locked. Of course it is.

He doesn't have time for this.

Five dislikes blinking into unknown areas - anyone or anything could be there, and while Five is confidant he can still put up a damn good fight if need be, he doesn't want to risk it. The wood is thin, though, and Five can't hear or see anything passing by. Concentrating, he blinks into a mostly empty hallway.

He throws up on the spot.

Sinking to his knees, Five chokes, phlegm and blood littering the bile splattering the cold cement flooring. The flickering fluorescent light bulb makes his nausea worse, and his eyes squeeze shut as another heave wracks his shaky, weak body.

His head spins.

Everything spins.

It all blurs together, and Five can't tell the walls from the floor from the ceiling from the door from the floor.

Between heaves, he can faintly make out the faint sound of footsteps. His powers don't work. His throw-up cools around his fingers, sticky and gross. His powers don't work. The footsteps grow louder. His powers don't work. Cool fingers card their way through his sweaty hair.

"Oh, Five," a voice tuts. The air suddenly smells sweet, crusty and sickeningly so, a faint undercurrent of smoke reminding Five of burnt caramel. He dry-heaves again. "Look at the mess you've made. Good little boys don't throw up on the floor."

Don't fucking patronize me, he wants to hiss but the words dry up in his throat as he looks up. The Handler smiles down at him, easily picking him up bridal style. "You should go back to bed," she says. "You're not well."

He struggles in her grip, clawing at her throat as her sharp nails dig deeper into his legs and shoulders. His limbs are weak, bones shaky like jelly. "Don't fucking touch me." Five snarls, clawing and scratching but she won't put him down. How the hell is she even alive? What the fuck does he have to do to make sure she dies and stays dead?

"Relax, dear," They aren't going back to the room, instead walking down the hallway. They pass by more doors, all the same - 009, 010, 011...  it just keeps going. Where the hell is she taking him? Where the hell is she taking him? "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're covered in vomit. You need a change of clothes, mister!"

"Where am I?" He tries to sound intimidating, or at least vaguely unaffected, and fails horribly. Five's voice fails him, hoarse and barely above a whisper. The Handler is enjoying this - he can tell. There's a slight curve to her mouth whenever she glances down at Five's small and pitiful form. She's in control here, and they both know it.

The Handler stumbles suddenly, jerking Five, and he buries his face into her stomach at the sharp burst of nausea. He can practically feel her smirk. "I don't know if I should tell you, Five," she sings as they continue down the hall. "What's the magic word?"

"Fuck you," he snaps. He hates this - weak, shaky, and feverish, stuck in the arms of a monster. "Fuck you." They enter the bathroom, grey and sterile, and she sets Five down on the toilet.

"That's not very nice," The Handler hums, running the bath water. "Say that you're sorry, Five." He's not, but she's walking towards him, and his powers don't work, and she's trapping him against the cold porcelain, and his powers don't work, and her sharp nails are digging their way down his neck, and his powers don't work-

"I'm sorry." He chokes out.

"I forgive you," she says, easily. "Now, let's get you into the tub."

"What the hell are you doing?" He snaps as her fingers reach to tug at the strings of his hospital gown. Five has no idea what she's planning, but he does know that the thin, flimsy fabric is the only barrier between him and her, and he intends to keep it that way.

The Handler chuckles. "You can't take a bath with clothes on, silly!'

"I'm not taking a bath while you're in here."

"Oh, but it's for your own good! I mean, just look at you!" she says slyly. Five bats away the hand reaching to stroke his cheek. "So weak and helpless... you're covered in your own sick. You need help. I'm a mother at heart, you know." Yeah, sure. She knows as much about parenting as his own father did. "You're so stubborn, Five. Fine, fine. I'll leave to get you some new clothes. If you slip and crack your head open, it's not my fault."

True to her word, she leaves, finally leaving him alone. There's no windows in here either, unfortunately, and the only vent he sees is far too small for even this stupid prepubescent form to fit into. The door is locked from the outside, and Five really doesn't want a repeat of last time.

Sighing, he unties the gown and steps into the lukewarm water. His limbs are still shaky and weak, and for a second Five really is convinced he'll crack his head open. Though it hurts to curl his fingers, he keeps a tight grip on the sides of the tub as he lowers himself down.

Some food would help him regain his strength - if his former employer is so obsessed with her little power play over him, maybe he can play to it and get something actually substantial out of it. If he bides his time, acting weak and nauseous, she'll get overconfident.

Maybe she'll even tell him where he is, to try and break his spirit.

For now, all Five can do is get clean. He tries not to focus on it too much - waste, waste, waste - and just goes through the motions as fast as he can. The only good thing is that the sharp pain in his head has dulled down to an ache. As he's wrapping himself up in a towel and stepping out, the door opens, and Five scrambles back, keeping the towel close to his body. "What the hell? Get out!"

She has the decency to keep her eyes closed, though that doesn't stop Five from fantasizing shoving her heels down her throat. "I'm just bringing you your clothes, Five! I even went through the trouble of getting something that wasn't a flimsy old hospital gown."

"I'm not changing in front of you-"

"I would never ask you to do that, Five," she huffs, eyes still closed, placing his clothes down onto the toilet. "I'm a mother, not a pedophile."

"Could've fooled me, seeing as you wanted to give me a bath."

"What can I say? You're only a little bit bigger than Lila when she was eight, and heaven knows she didn't know how to shampoo properly until she was ten."

"Well, I'm fifty-eight, and I do know how to take a bath by myself. Now, get out."

The Handler smiles indulgently. "Of course. I'll be right outside." Great. She leaves, the door locking with a click behind her. Thank god.

His fingers tremble violently as he buttons the red flannel shirt closed. It reminds him of something Vanya would wear, which brings him a little comfort. Vanya... does she think he left again? He has no idea how long he's been stuck in here. If they think he left, they won't look for him.

They won't look for him.

So what? It's only logical - you left once. Are they supposed to magically know you've been kidnapped? Get a grip, Five.

Sucking in a breath, he continues getting changed. The Handler had left him a pair of shorts that looked incredibly similar to his academy ones, and if it weren't for the fact that he had nothing else to wear, he would've gone out there and choked her out with them. Combined with some threadbare animal socks and black flats, Five is convinced she probably grabbed these at random out of Lila's closet just to piss him off. "I'm done," he calls out, not bothering to hide the bite in his voice.

She opens the door, giving him a wide smile. "Oh Five! You look absolutely lovely," she says, her hands fingers brushing the wet strands of hair out of his face. "Smell nice too."

"Fuck off."

"You really ought to be more polite," She hums, keeping a tight grip on shoulder and leading him down the cement halls. "You do want to eat, don't you?" They're approaching the same hallway from earlier, and though Five hasn't seen a single person, the vomit from earlier has been cleaned up, leaving the floors slick and shiny. The Handler opens the door to his room, pushing him inside. He doesn't bother fighting it - until he has enough energy, trying to run out would be suicide.

Still, he won't give her any satisfaction. "I'm not," His traitorous stomach takes that moment to rumble, and his ears burn at her smug smile. "Don't."

"Teenagers," she sighs. "Always so stubborn."

"You-" The door slams shut in his face, locking with a click.

-

When he wakes up again, he can smell spices and chicken. For a moment, he can pretend he's in his room, Grace bringing up a dish of soup on a cold winter's day when they've all inevitably gotten sick. The undertones of perfume ruin it.  "What do you want." Five feels marginally better after getting some rest, but the sight of the Handler's face threatens to make him sick all over again.

"Lunch, Five." She holds up a bowl of chicken soup, waving it around almost playfully. "I'm not going to let you go hungry."

"Why are you really doing this? What do you gain from playing house?" He can't take this anymore. He's tired, and all he wants is to stay with his fucking family. Is that so much to ask?

She's silent for once, expression unusually weary. For someone who's usually so arrogant, so confident in her plans, it's... unsettling. "How about this?" She finally says. "If you let me feed you, I'll answer your questions."

"...Fine." He needs answers more than he needs his dignity. Smiling, the Handler spoons some broth and holds it up to his lips. Ears burning, Five opens his mouth. It's not laced with anything, surprisingly enough, and it actually tastes good, though he would rather die than admit that to her face. They sit in relative silence, her feeding him one spoonful at a time until the last drops are scraped from the bowl and down his throat. "I want-"

"Answers, yes, I know," she sighs, setting the bowl down. "Always straight to the point. How are your hands?" He's about to snap at her for changing the subject but... they do burn, despite looking unblemished. Now that he's regained his strength, it's worrying - he uses his hands as a conduit for his powers. His powers that still aren't working, he realizes, the little tear he's used to feeling in his chest clumsily stapled shut. With no way to release them, the familiar hum of his powers burning feels almost unbearable under his skin. "Not good, I presume?"

"Why do you care?" He snaps.

"I care, Five, because you're, unfortunately, the only hope of escaping this place." She snaps back, and the fact that she's told him anything remotely honest is chilling enough, but her next words leaves a cold pit in his stomach. "Welcome to the basement level of Hotel Oblivion, Five.”

...She's not lying.

"...Shit."

[girlinthepictureframe]

The Briefest Kiss Part 5

Part 5

“Miles,” said Alex with an uncharacteristic level of annoyance in his voice, “I told you, we’ll be in France all week. Bloody stay at my place, will you? You’ve got the key, there’s food in the fridge and you’ll have plenty of space and time to sign all those CDs and prepare for the release.”

“Alright,” Miles gave in. “I’ll stay there. Thanks, Al. I just want to make sure I’m not getting in the way of things.”

“In the way of what things? Since when do you ask these kinds of questions?” It wasn’t the first time that Miles had made remarks in complete seriousness that, two years ago, he’d have found ridiculously silly and laughable. When had they ever worried about being in each other’s ways?  

“Forget it,” grumbled Miles. “I just need a new place. Soon.”  

Alex understood that Miles was trying to change the topic, and because he didn’t want this conversation to end in a fight, he let him. It was rare enough to get him on the phone these days and he didn’t want this to become a discussion about something that he found stupid to begin with. “Do that, get a new place! How can you even get sleep with those awfully loud neighbours?”

“I’m in no position to complain,” countered Miles. “The last neighbours moved out because I always play guitar at night!”

Alex chuckled. “You’re supposed to sleep at night.”

“Oh yeah? Is that what you’re doing at night?”

“It doesn’t matter what I do at night. I don’t have any immediate neighbours who could take offense,” pointed Alex out, adding, “you should consider getting a house, Mi. That way you’d finally have room for all those shoes and guitars!”

Alex smiled when he heard Miles laughing on the other end. “I’ll consider it,” said his friend. After a moment of silence, Miles spoke again. “Hey, about the other night, sorry I didn’t go out with you. I wasn’t feeling it. But we definitely need to meet up again. It’s been ages since we had a proper night out.”

“Definitely,” agreed Alex and nodded, even though he knew Miles couldn’t see. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re pissed at me for some reason. It’s been over two months since we last saw each other.” It might not seem like a lot of time, but for them it was. “And when you were here, you barely even spent an hour. I know you’re busy, Miles. But when did you become too busy for me?” He was only half-joking. Sometimes it felt as though their friendship had taken a hit along the road, but no matter how often he checked, he could never spot the damage, only knew that it was there, hiding beneath the surface. If he had to describe it to a mechanic, all he’d be able to say is that it feels different.  

“I’m not too busy,” objected Miles, his voice heavy with regret. “I don’t know what’s going on. I feel like I’m in bit of a funk at the moment.”

Alex wished he was with him just then. He didn’t like conversations via telephone. He preferred looking people in the eyes while speaking to them. It made it easier to read emotions. And he desperately wanted to read Miles’ emotions. He sounded as lost and as confused as he himself felt too often these days. “You have to tell me if I did something wrong. You know me, Mi. I don’t always get it when I say something stupid.”

“It’s not you,” said Miles reassuringly.  

But Alex knew his friend, he could tell when Miles was being deliberately ambiguous, and, clearly, there was something that Miles was not saying. They needed to meet. It was the only way he could press him for answers. “Come to France. The weather is nice, we can hang out and I’ll leave you plenty of space to prepare all your shit for the tour, I promise. I’m sure Taylor would love to see you as well!”

“No, she wouldn’t.”

Alex sighed at Miles’ matter-of-fact statement. “It’s been months. How long do you want to drag this out?” And, also, what, precisely, were they dragging out? It was the one thing that Taylor and Miles deliberately kept from him. Sometime last year, the two of them had a big argument. He’d only overheard the tail end of it and knew it was about Miles’ break-up with Hannah. When he went and asked, first Miles, then Taylor, for details, they had both kept quiet about it. It annoyed him greatly that he didn’t know the whole story. He’d like to fix it but how could he fix it if he didn’t know where to begin!

“She’s your girlfriend, not mine. No need to make things right.” Miles went quiet and Alex waited patiently. “Al...I gotta go. I’ll call soon.” Then he hung up.

Alex couldn’t believe it; he stared at the phone in shock. This might very possibly be the first time that Miles hung up on him. “Bloody hell!?”

“You’re okay?”  

Turning around, he found Taylor leaning behind him against the kitchen counter. Alex shook his head. “No. Just talked to Miles. Something is going on with him, I just know.”

She shrugged and turned around. “Who cares?”

“I do!” said Alex quickly and resolutely. “I’m worried about my friend. I’m worried about my friendship with Miles! I’d like to think you care a little about that.”  

She spun back around and found him staring at her with a mixture of expectation and accusation. “Here’s what I would like,” said Taylor bitterly. “I’d like to think you worry about our relationship.”

Alex sat down, his eyes darted away from her and his demeanour took on a far darker shade. “I wasn’t aware I needed to worry about us.”  

“If you paid a little less attention to Miles and a little more attention to me, you’d be aware,” she all but snapped, clearly trying to contain her anger.  

Alex could tell, because he was trying to do the same. Both were doing that a lot, lately. Every dialogue between them was never more than one or two poorly chosen words away from erupting into a fight. It was a never-ending walk across a high wire. “How about a change for once,” he suggested, fed up with this perpetual undercurrent of unresolved tension, “let’s actually talk about this. Tell me why you’re so fucking mad at Miles that you can’t stand the thought of him and I being friends! It never bothered you before.”

“You’ve never kissed before.”

And there it was. His entire body tensed up. They were back to that, apparently. Alex groaned as he drove his fingers through his hair. “I thought we were over that.”  

That. The stupid, bloody kiss. The one that kept haunting his dreams more often than it should. The one that was the reason why he now locked the door to his recording studio, lyrics and notes inside. “We discussed this, Taylor. It was one silly kiss, two years ago. I meant nothing. We were drunk. That’s all.”

“I would appreciate it if you stopped calling that fucking kiss ‘silly’.” Taylor crossed her arms, staring at him angrily, reminding him, “you wrote a fucking song about that kiss!”  

What a big mistake that had been, thought Alex resentfully. But, as always, he hadn’t been able to help himself. That damned kiss occupied so much bloody space in his head that he had needed to literally write it out of there.  

‘And in response to what you whispered in my ear, I must admit sometimes I fantasise about you, too��

In its original form, the song had included a bit about a kiss. Last year, as he had been sitting at the piano, trying to find the right arrangement, she’d sat down next to him, had leaned in, and had asked, “what did I whisper?”

And he, dumb idiot that he was at times, had been so lost in his thoughts that he had promptly replied, “not you. Him.” After that, his life, complicated though it was already, had become considerably less comfortable. For the rest of the day, she had continued asking question after question, relentlessly pushing for explanations that he couldn’t give. He had only been able to take so much and after four long hours of artfully avoiding giving any sort of actual answer, he had snapped and blurted out, “Miles kissed me and, yes, I fucking liked it!”  

He guessed he should be grateful she was still with him. After all, Hannah had broken up with Miles over the whole thing. Sure, he’d told Taylor that wasn’t the reason. But who was he kidding? They all knew it was the very reason. Maybe not the only one. But it was the deciding one.  

Taylor took a step towards him, kissed his head and tilted his chin up with one finger. “Alex, I love you. And I know you love me. But maybe you need some distance from Miles? He’s busy right now, anyways. And you’re about to go on tour as well. Let’s take a vacation together. Let’s see a bit of the world. You’ve always wanted to go to India. We could do that before you’re off with the band?”

Oh, he wanted to go to India, alright. He had read much about that country. About the culture. About everything, really. And he couldn’t wait to see it with his own eyes. But it wasn’t Taylor he wanted standing next to him when he got there. Not that he could tell her that. “Babe, the timing isn’t right. Not now.”

“But you agree about needing some distance from Miles?”

“No. I barely see him as it is and once touring starts, we’ll see even less of each other. He is a very big, very important part of my life.”

“Yes,” she muttered in resignation. “And we’ve got the lyrics to prove that, don’t we?”

“I hate when you do that!”

“You do?”

She was pissing him off and he was beginning to think she was doing it on purpose. Which, in return, riled him up more and more. “You told me you made out with some girl backstage while Miles and I were playing in New York. I really don’t think you should be sitting on such a fucking high horse right now!”

“We were fucking joking around, it didn’t mean anything,” she all but yelled. “I didn’t write a fucking love song about her!”

“It’s not a love song!” As she glowered at him, he began pacing the kitchen angrily. “A love song is what I wrote for you, Tennessee, remember?”

Taylor slumped back against a wall, deflated and tired. “You want to know the difference between my song and his song? My song is everything a good love song should be. It’s passionate, it’s sexy, it’s got the rights words to it. It’s perfect. And it’s perfect because you’re Alex Fucking Turner and when you decided to write me a love song, naturally, you wrote the perfect song with the perfect words and the perfect arrangement and you wrote it so that everyone knows how fucking good of a songwriter you are!”

“Is that a compliment or a bloody insult?” He asked indignantly.

“Mine is the romantic tale that you want the world to know. His is the deepest truth that you desperately try to keep a secret.” A bitter laugh broke free from her lips. “Tell me, Mr. Songwriter Extraordinaire, which song would you like to have written about you?”  

Alex didn’t answer. He wasn’t entirely sure she wanted an answer. He wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to make up his answer. And, also, he wasn’t entirely sure that, at this point, an answer would make any kind of difference.  

“Out of words. Imagine that,” said Taylor and left the kitchen.  

[zayneternal]

《 Kiss Me Over Coffee 》

summary ↠ Your coworkers are ruthless, and the worst part? After years of teasing you for never having a New Year’s kiss, they still think it’s a joke. Stuck, yet again working your least favorite shift on your least favorite day, it’s all you can do not snap some necks when your least favorite person can’t miss her chance to take a dig at your singleness. At least they scheduled the new barista with those dimples to work with you...

genre ↠ a cupcake of angst with fluff frosting | barista!tae member ↠ kim taehyung warnings ↠ rude thot word count ↠ 4.0k

moodboard by  @jiminspjm || Happy New Year to all of my homies. Here’s this random blurb inspired by Tae’s recent attempts to wreck my bias and the infamous kiss that all the lone peeps at the party stand awkwardly for. Let’s go.

~

It isn’t the crowd that has your shoulders in knots. 

It’s not the roar of the multiple mounted flat screens hung around the room, one of which insists on emitting the most subtly annoying fuzz that you can’t seem to tune out from the undercurrent of the excitedly conversing space. It’s not the spillage of overzealous and over-caffeinated strangers that hasn’t failed to catch the corner of your eye every minute or so, each drop of rich, caramel-colored liquid that sloshes haphazardly over the edge of the cup agony to witness drop out of sight towards the wood varnished floor. You know you’ll be the one scrubbing up the stains a few hours from now. 

No, it’s not even the fact that this idiotic rush of inconsiderate customers has left you with the abhorrent mountain of dishes in which you’re currently buried up to the elbows, complete with ravines of suds and pools of murky water, your lower back already starting to feel the dull ache that lingers after a shift bent over the awkwardly low sink hidden behind the coffee bar. However, despite your compromising posture and ever-growing frustration with how hot it seems to be amidst all of this unwanted body heat swimming in the air, what truly has your muscles pulled taught and throbbing with the weight of an annoyance purer and more cutting than diamonds is that caterwaul of high pitched squalling that someone had the audacity to label laughter careening into the air again. 

You would gladly bar your tongue from ever complaining about the rest of your problems for the rest of forever if it meant you could go five minutes without being subjected to that tortuous sound. As if on cue, the guffawing screech tumbles out and slices right through the rest of the chaos abounding around you, cutting straight to your ears that are starting to heat red as you feel your fraying edges begin to snap.

The milk steaming pitcher that you had been vigorously scrubbing is suddenly being slammed to the metal of the sink counter by tense hands, every nerve ending you own hauling all-hands-on-deck to reel your frustration back in, uncaring to the geyser of lukewarm water that bubbles over the edge of the sink and onto your worn converse. “I swear, I will rip those fucking vocal chords right out of her throat.” 

“Whoaaa, getting a teensy bit aggressive for such a happy occasion, aren’t we?” a familiarly teasing voice suddenly sounds from over your shoulder, breaking you momentarily from your ravenous reverie. 

Taehyung. One of the newer baristas hired on a few months before the holiday’s had started, though not the newest, so none of you had much cause to pick on him anymore--not that that’s stopped you. Overbearingly confident and annoyingly sarcastic, he’s the perfect mixture of everything that makes someone just insufferable enough to find endearing, though you would never let on to that notion, rolling your eyes to his face while finding it hard not to smile to yourself the moment he’s sauntered away. You still swear it’s the dimples that got him hired, customers can’t resist a good set of dimples.

Tonight, however, you’re not so easily swayed from your rut of barely contained rage, the milk pitcher slipping back into the water as you huff the floating strays of your hair from your face, shoulders aching as you force them to roll back. “‘Happy occasion’ according to the young and drunk,” you scoff, your eyes flitting sideways to see Taehyung setting down the stacked boxes of various decafs, flavors, and blends that had been running low along the coffee wall. 

“You’re young,” Taehyung offers, revealing that half-smile of his as he straightens up, dark locks pushed off his forehead.

“I’d rather be drunk,” you mutter, teeth gritting with the re-tensing of your shoulders as that laugh soars into the air once more, so potent and pure, you’re convinced she’s targeting you. 

Taehyung’s low and breathy chuckle pulls you away from the noise and commotion on the other side of the coffee bar again, your gaze traveling back to where he’s now leaning his long frame against the counter beside you, his arms crossed casually over his chest. “Hmm, I don’t know. You seem like you’d be a dangerous drunk.” He attempts to appear thoughtful, scrunching his eyebrows in joking concern, a tantalizing tease still twinkling in the irises that flit towards the source of your frustrations.

“Lethal,” you assure, meeting his deep, chocolate, doe eyes with your daggers for only a moment before that half-smile is reappearing so slowly you find yourself mirroring it, allowing the stretch of your lips to refresh you momentarily before you catch yourself. “Stop that, I’m annoyed.”

“Stop what?” Taehyung questions even though his growing, boyish grin reveals that he knows exactly what.

You roll your eyes, a different kind of frustration bubbling in your stomach. “Just go finish the coffee wall, you idiot,” you reply instead, jabbing a finger back towards the boxes of beans he’d deposited. “If we’re late getting out of here, I’m blaming you for distracting me.” 

Instead of replying right away, you feel Taehyung move a step in your direction, drawing your gaze for the third time as your wide eyes catch his hand raising towards you. Choking on your words, you watch his face as the back of his jointed knuckle brushes across the apple of your cheek, his lips slightly parted as his eyes train on the spot. It’s over, and he’s pulling away as quickly as he approached, smiling softly to himself in thought. “Soap on your face,” he clarifies simply before turning and ambling off back to his closing duties.

You blink back your confusion as you watch him go, having to shake away the last of the small exchange before returning to your own task, memory already being filed away along with the plethora of other strange interactions between you and Taehyung since he started here. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s left you dazed and speechless, and you’re sure it’s probably not the last. 

With some sheer stroke of dumb luck, you’re able to get through the rest of the dishes without any more interruptions, your hands almost pruning with how much water they’ve sifted through and lower back screaming for the relief you lavish upon it when you’re done, bending and stretching and cracking until you’ve restored some semblance of normalcy. Sighing into the first peaceful moment of the night, it feels, you begin glancing around the coffee bar, looking for the next job to speed up the closing process when you see a sight that makes your insides curl in the most vile way.

Approaching the register at the other end of the bar is none other than the keeper of The Laugh™, the sight of her emerging from the masses and into your line of sight forcing your hands in clenched balls at your sides. Suddenly, the past 20 minutes of freedom from that siren seem all the more precious, and you wish you could slink back into them until this hellish evening finally comes to a close. You grit your teeth, eyes frantically looking to Taehyung only to find him intermingled in the crowd along the far wall, somewhat struggling to refill the numerous jars of beans in the shelves with a stray hip or elbow bumping into him every other minute. 

With no one else on shift at the moment to save you from your doom, you close your eyes, taking in a ragged and shallow breath that’s pretending to be under control and begin to make your way to the register where Ms. Giggles is emanating a lesser version of her product towards the boy she’s hooked around. He seems almost oblivious to the sound--bless his heart--whispering something down to her with a sly grin that sends her reeling just before you make it to the register, biting the inside of your cheek in an attempt to not let your face give away any reaction.

“Y/N!” the girl greets animatedly the moment her attention is shifting at the sound of you clearing your throat. 

“Hi, Rose,” you respond with a half-hearted sigh. “Need something?”

“Just a chocolate donut and double shot English Toffee latte, thanks!” 

You quickly key in the order, adding the employee discount, and wait a moment while she looks to her arm candy with expectant eyes, beaming when he begins fishing his wallet from his pocket. “Having fun on your night off?” you carefully question as you take the cash being handed over.

“Oh, it’s been the best,” Rose grins, completely unaware to your sour mood. “I was soooooo relieved when Tiff let me off for New Year’s again. Oh my god, it’s such a disaster.” She laughs like a gossiping housewife from the south, unnecessary use of hand gestures included, before continuing. “I mean, I remember a few years ago when I did have this shift, and I barely had time to break at midnight for the New Year’s kiss!”

“No,” you gasp, raising your eyebrows in mock surprise to which she remains completely dense.

“It was so stressful,” she sighs, shaking her head. “If you aren’t starting your year off with someone you care about, then what’s the point?” She’s back to giggling in that high pitched manner, grinning in what you’re sure is supposed to be an endearing way, but for the life you, you just can’t seem to smile along.

Handing the change back to the man, you hold your breath, waiting for them to walk away in hopes your exchange will just end here, but as if Rose takes blithe delight in so innocently adding insult to injury, the next question that comes sends your taught shoulders slumping. “What about you, Y/N? Did you bring anyone this year to celebrate with?” 

It’s the same glorious inquiry you get every year without fail, always from whatever coworker and company shows up that year, and always succeeding in solidifying the shitty-feeling half of your emotional spectrum with a reminder that never gets easier to be reminded of. “No, Rose, I didn’t.”

She ceases the almost laughable way she’s scanning around the faces in the room, trying to seem optimistic as always that you’ll prove her wrong while really just waiting to hear the confirmation straight from your own lips. 

“Hmm,” she hums sadly, gazing at you in a sympathetic way that only makes you want to lunge across the counter. “Maybe next year, then! I’m sure of it.” 

You don’t even manage your usually well-rehearsed fake smile before she’s hopping away, boy in tow, to await the calling of the drinks you now have half a mind to spit in. 

“I...ah...I didn’t know you were a donut assassin.”

Your head whips around to find Taehyung nestled into the small space between the pastry counter and yourself, one elbow resting on the level surface while his free hand points down causing you to scrunch your brows at him. Your eyes trail along with his finger to find that your own are holding Rose’s chocolate donut in a vice grip, what was once circular goodness now just brown mush in your hand. 

Huffing in annoyance, you turn and throw the remains of the pastry into the garbage, shuffling over to the sink to rinse the sticky chocolate from your fingers and trying to ignore the way Taehyung’s presence seems insistent on following you. You scrub at your hands so hard that your skin is beginning to feel raw, but you can’t find it within yourself to stop, throwing all of your focus into the task already completed as your jaw tenses and un-tenses in tightly wound rhythm.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung’s voice creeps in ever so gently from beside you, the soft question, meant to soothe, only rubbing at your raw edges. 

“Would you just go do your job?” you snap, untamed eyes silently pleading behind the cold glare you’re shooting at him. He seems slightly taken aback by your outburst, usually cocked smile and confident gaze now almost lost looking, lips parted in a stuttered response that he decides is better left unsaid as he turns and silently leaves you to your brooding.

The rest of the night becomes no easier. 

You do what you normally do and shove all of the strangled emotions and bubbling thoughts to the backyard of your brain, throwing on a fake smile that just can’t seem to fit itself comfortably to your lips and bulldozing through the closing list like its completion is your ticket from hell. It’s not too far off.

Taehyung makes himself scarce the remainder of the shift, for which you’re not sure if you’re actually grateful for or not--a thought you kick out the backdoor with the rest of your troubles. The list is almost complete before the end of the night with you and Taehyung working around each other silently, but you begin to question what a good idea it was to throw yourself into your work so heavily by the time the hour of the main event arrives.

People had stopped ordering drinks a while ago, all raptured for the last 30 minutes around the TV’s all playing the New Year’s Eve countdown, awaiting the moment the ball finally drops. This, however, paired with your caught up list, means that you have nothing to distract you from having to watch it yourself. 

Your eyes feel heavy in their sockets as you slowly witness the ball begin to descend, your feet rooted at the back of the bar, lacking any form of energy as almost every person in the coffee shop grips onto the body next to them. Smiles and laughter and cheering raise in a chorus that reaches deaf ears, and pair after pair of lips meet in sweet and loving connections. You feel your fingers flex gently against your leg, a chill creeping into your hands as you fold them together in front of you, feeling your smothered emotions tapping at the backdoor as if they’ve gotten cold too. You even spot Rose, of all people, grinning against her date as he dips her down in a kiss that sends your blood curdling. You look away.

To anyone else, the moment would’ve seemed over just as quickly as it had begun, people still chattering happily as they gather their things and begin to move out of the cafe, back into the chilled night air, and on to their homes or possibly a bar with a different type of beverage service for a continued celebration. To you, however, the moment feels lodged in your mind like it is every year, that deep-seeded frustration pinching at your nerves more and more, anxious for the last of the customers to go so you can finally put this holiday behind you. 

“Maybe next year. I’m sure of it.” Rose’s broken-record voice has been squeezing at your patience since she gave her spiel, more-so than in years past for some reason, and even as the final customer bids a goodnight and you’re shutting the door behind him, you can’t shake the reminder that you’ve spent yet another year alone.  

The thought eats at you, slowly and maddeningly as you find yourself filling in your time card for the night, locking up the cash drawer, and shrugging your coat out of the closet in preparation to finally leave this now quiet hell-hole. Knowing Taehyung will lock up when he leaves soon after finishing taking the rags to washer, you push your way outside, welcoming the cold air that fans over your face in a brief respite before the thoughts start gnawing away at you once again. You turn and begin to forge your way up the dim sidewalk of downtown, the heavy music and loud conversations spilling out of some bar a block over doing little to distract you from the annoyingly incessant voice in your head. By the time you’ve crossed the street at the stoplight near where you’re parked, your eyes are practically burning with restrained frustration at how poorly this night has gone. Your irises are blurred with water as you sift around in your bag for your keys, fingers fumbling to grip them as they clang metallically to the pavement. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you begin to bend down to retrieve them when a set of long and graceful fingers that don’t belong to you are wrapping around the object instead, its brother resting on your lower back as you stand upright, chilled hands wiping at your bleary eyes before you turn to face Taehyung. He’s standing cautiously close to you, his hand having moved from your back to your forearm as you turned, gentle fingers half-aware of their position on your person. He’s looking down at you with that same concerned expression from before, eyebrows folded in thought, eyes soft and solicitous, and lips pink and parted as you take him in. 

“Y/N,” he breathes slowly, his voice jarring you out of your stun as you shake your head, gingerly pulling your arm from his hand as you step back.

“What?”

He sighs, his hand dropping back to his side after it hovers for a small moment, his eyes still searching your face in a way that makes your own gaze trail the ground, your converse kicking at a stray stone. “Are you okay?” He repeats his question from earlier, but this time with a deeper tone, more sincere. 

“Fine,” you reply, still not looking at him. 

There’s a long pause before you hear him exhale again. “Was it something she said to you?”

You’re staring at him now with wide and questioning eyes.

“I may have overheard,” he shrugs softly, shoving his hands in the front pocket of his pants. 

You blink back your surprise for the second time. He seems to have a knack for catching you off guard. “N-no...it’s nothing,” you try to cover, but you know the tone of your voice gives you away with every word more that you speak.

“Y/N,” Taehyung calls again, tugging your gaze with the way he says your name, so simply. “You can talk to me about it. I won’t tell anyone. Just you and me.” 

You gaze over him a moment longer, the way he’s half-smiling again, but in a different manner--not so confident, but more genuine--and the way his dark eyes seem to shine against the colorful glow of the large tree covered in Christmas lights from brach to root standing nearby, and the way he’s here, wanting to listen...it all sends you over the edge.

“I hate New Year’s,” you state, your shoulders pulling back as you breathe deeper, letting your backyard back in. 

Taehyung chuckles endearingly, his eyes squinting somewhat against his boxy grin. “I could’ve guessed that part.”

“I hate New Year’s,” you repeat. “But I don’t hate it because everyone downtown is drunk out of their minds, or because classes start back in a week, or even because it means Christmas is a whole ‘nother year away.” Your words become more brazen, more heated, bubbling up and refreshing themselves with all of the crappy moments of the evening playing like a movie in your head. “I hate it because every year, every stupid, insufferable year, there’s this one night where I’m never reminded more blatantly and belligerently of just how alone I am.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows flinch in reaction almost imperceptibly, scrunching as if he wasn’t exactly expecting that direct of a confession.

“I’m 22 years old, and I’m aware I can spare you the sob story, because I know plenty of other people have it much worse, but I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never even been on a date. But that stuff doesn’t matter! It shouldn’t matter, at least, not as much as it does, and it wouldn’t matter if---no, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t...God, I don’t even know why I care so much!” 

You’re practically speaking in hysterics now, your voice raised three pitches in tone and volume, and you would be conscious of how crazy you looked if there was anyone else on the street corner besides you and Taehyung. 

“No, don’t do that,” Taehyung speaks for the first time since you started emoting, drawing the snap of your eyes to where he’s still standing calm and attentive, his eyes steady as he shakes his head. “Don’t cut yourself off. It wouldn’t matter if what?” 

“If all of them didn’t shove it in my face every year!” you finish, your voice cracking as your hands fly up. Taehyung gives you a gently curious look that let’s you know he desires an explanation.

“Them?”

“The other coworkers,” you reveal, feeling the pain in the back of your throat intensify as you struggle to keep your jaw still. “Every year it’s the same shit. One of them shows up with their date and gets their jolly’s from parading the fact that they’re in a happily committed relationship while I’m still riding solo. It’s like they don’t realize their tradition actually fucking sucks. Who likes being reminded that they’re undesired?!”

“Y/N...” Taehyung breathes, unbelief and sympathy whispering under his utterance. 

“Honestly...” you continue on, huffing ironically with laughter that heaves from desperate lungs after you’ve regained a facet of your composure. “It really doesn’t matter to me. Really. New Year’s is overrated...It’s lousy. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up just like I do 364 others, and get over myself...” You breathe heavy as you fight the subtle ache in your body telling you to bring the emotional upheaval down a notch. “...but goddamn it, for once it would be nice to just get a lousy, overrated New Year’s ki--”

And so you do.

Taehyung’s lips are warm and tender and unexpected against yours. The hands the were shoved in his pockets are suddenly cupping your cheeks, soft thumbs dancing over your blushed skin, red from the nip of the air and the singing tingles warming up and down your spine. Your eyelids flutter closed in moments, just after you register the blurred close of Taehyung’s eyes only centimeters from you. There’s something needy about the kiss, as if a collection of passing moments and secret thoughts are attempting to be conveyed in this one connection. 

You have no idea what you’re doing, to say the least, but Taehyung more than makes up for your lack of experience with the way he’s leading your lips so effortlessly, molded securely against one another. His hands aid in tilting your head in subtle variations of the same angle, somehow deepening the innocent kiss into something rawer. Your hands blindly find the hem of shirt, fingers fisting the material on either side of his waist as he steps closer to you, his height forcing him to curl over your stature as he continues to sponge syrupy kisses against your mouth. 

And suddenly you know what everyone’s been talking about. The buttery sparks igniting in bursts of rapturous flavor all over your body are enough to cultivate a desire to stay here like this forever, forgetting any and all other responsibilities and people until it’s just Taehyung and his kisses and his stupid sarcasm and floppy hair and little dimples that sell coffee like nobody’s business.

All too soon, though, he’s pulling away, leaving you to chase after his lips in a moment of sedated fog, still lost in the spontaneity and warmth of it all. It’s his low chuckle that has your eyes fluttering open again until they are as wide as you can manage, sputtering for words between the hold he still maintains around your jaw, still thumbing over your skin. 

“...What was--??”

“I may have had...a little crush on you since I started here,” he admits shyly, his eyes darting away before resettling on your face. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to do that.”

You try to respond, but nothing of coherency seems to be forming tonight.

“It’s not midnight anymore...” he starts again, his swollen pink lips, devilishly enticing as they pucker around his words. “But can it still count?”

Your own parted, frozen lips are suddenly spreading into an uncontainable grin, teeth and all, as your hands brave the journey around his narrow waist, latching together behind him. “I’ll let it slide.”

He’s grinning back at you now, eyes twinkling with that boyish life and excitement as he slowly leans forward to leave a sweet peck against your forehead. “I’ll be on time next year. Promise.”

~

hahahahahahahaha i’m not ok 

[emmerrr]

I didn’t mean to love you so much for andreil??

this one was so hard because whilst i’m firmly in the ‘andrew and neil absolutely say they love each other eventually’ camp, i couldn’t quite imagine either of them quite saying this exact prompt to each other, so again i’ve had to tweak it to make it work for me. it might not be exactly what you had in mind, but here you go! [read on ao3 if you prefer!]

Neil sits alone in the dark in the lounge at the Foxhole Court.

A couple of hours earlier he had captained the Foxes in their first game – and first win – of the season. His nerves had been thrumming with the usual post-match adrenaline and triumph, but it’s dulled somewhat now. He’s happy that they’ve won, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness there. It’s the last first game of the season he’ll ever play for the Foxes. 

It’s also the first game he’s had to play without Andrew.

He’d given Robin his car keys so she could drive some of the team back to Fox Tower, because he has his own car now. It’s not flashy like the Maserati, but it’s functional. A VW Golf, ideal for driving across country when he goes to visit Andrew.

And it’s Andrew he’s thinking of now.

As if on cue his phone starts to ring, a picture of Andrew flipping off the camera with a cigarette between his lips flashing across the screen.

It was Nicky who had set contact pictures for all of the Foxes on Neil’s phone, before he left for Germany. He’s sure he could have figured it out for himself, but he can’t say he minds that Nicky took it upon himself to do it. 

Neil answers the phone. 

“Hey.” His voice is soft, partly because it’s quiet and dark in the stadium and it just feels right, and partly because it’s Andrew, who he misses with everything he has.

“Hey,” comes the reply, followed by the distinctive sound of Andrew exhaling smoke. If Neil closes his eyes, he can almost picture it; him and Andrew, alone on the roof, sharing cigarettes and truths and kisses.

Once upon a time, Neil’s imagination only offered him horrible things, but not anymore. The good’s been piling up over the last few years.

“Your new backliners are shit,” Andrew says, his own way of letting Neil know that he was watching the match, as if Neil ever doubted he would.

Andrew can fool a lot of people, but he can’t fool Neil.

“They’re freshmen, they played for one quarter, and it was their very first NCAA game,” Neil says. “But I’ll pass along your assessment.”

Andrew huffs, mildly amused. “No you won’t.” 

“No,” Neil agrees. “I won’t.”

There’s a pause, and then Andrew says, “It sounds quiet. No victory party tonight?”

“There is one. I’m just not there.”

“Yet,” Andrew says.

Neil shrugs, a redundant action as Andrew can’t see him, but then again Andrew’s always been good at reading Neil’s silences.

“Weren’t you always the one going on about team bonding?” Andrew’s tone is dry, but he never says anything without a purpose.

Neil sighs. “Are you telling me to go and be sociable? Because I could say the same to you.”

“I’ve gone to everything I’m expected to show up for,” Andrew says, which, to be fair, is true. “You’re deflecting.”

“What are you, my shrink now?” Neil snaps.

“No,” Andrew says calmly, and Neil’s immediately annoyed that he’s the only one who seems to be struggling. But the annoyance is swiftly followed by guilt, because of course he doesn’t want Andrew to be struggling. He always, always, wants Andrew to be okay. Better than okay.

The problem is that all of Neil’s usual post-game routines have involved Andrew for the better part of the last four years, and now he feels adrift and alone.

He knows that he’s not, but it’s just how he feels. And he doesn’t want to talk to Betsy about it. He just wants Andrew.

“Neil,” Andrew prompts when he goes too long without replying.

“This sucks,” Neil says, because even though saying it out loud doesn’t help, it doesn’t particularly hurt either. It’s good to throw the words out there. There’s a voice to the feeling now; it’s no longer weighing him down.

“It does,” Andrew replies simply, and even though his tone hasn’t really changed, Neil can sense the difference, because with Andrew, he always knows.

Neil takes a breath. “Okay,” he says. “I should go then, I guess.”

“Go be captain,” Andrew says quietly, and it makes Neil smile just a little. “Call me tomorrow.”

“You know I will.”

“Just checking.” The phone clicks dead, and Andrew is gone.

Neil breathes out and drops his head back against the sofa, and he yearns for Andrew. He wonders if it would be truly pathetic of him to go back to Fox Tower, call Andrew back and just stay on the phone until he falls asleep.

Down the hall, he hears brisk footsteps approaching, and figures he’s about to get kicked out by the cleaning staff. Instead, Wymack walks past, glancing into the room, and then he hesitates and doubles back. He squints into the darkness, right at Neil.

He puts a hand over his heart, looks skyward, and flips the light-switch on. “Jesus Christ, Josten, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry, Coach.”

“The fuck are you still doing here? We won, in case you didn’t notice? You’re supposed to be off celebrating in a safe and appropriate manner with your teammates. Not skulking around in the dark.”

Neil scowls. “I’m not skulking.”

Wymack remains in the doorway for a moment, head tilted to the side as he considers Neil. He frowns, then he comes closer and perches on the arm of the sofa opposite where Neil is sitting.

“Everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Neil says with a shrug. “Like you said, we won.”

“We did. Which is why I’m wondering why you look so fucking mopey.” His eyes drop to the phone still clenched in Neil’s hands. “Andrew?”

Neil smiles wryly. “How did you guess?”

“Well, it couldn’t have been Kevin, because I only just managed to get him off the phone.”

Neil lifts his head up at that. “He was watching?”

“Oh yeah,” Wymack says, then chuckles fondly. “He has some, uh, suggestions. You can probably expect his call tomorrow.”

He drops his head back down again and gives Wymack a thumbs up. “Can’t wait.”

“What I’m wondering is why a phonecall with your boyfriend has you so down.”

Neil wrinkles his nose at the ‘b’ word but lets it slide, considering it’s a convenient term for what he and Andrew are to each other.

“It’s just weird,” Neil says, then glances across at Wymack. “Him not being here. Any of them not being here, but Andrew in particular.”

“I get it,” Wymack says, and he sighs. “It never gets any easier when you little shits graduate.”

“I should have been prepared for this though,” Neil says. “It’s not like I didn’t know it was coming. I’ve been through it before with the girls, and then Matt and Kevin. And now Nicky’s in Germany and Aaron’s at medical school, and Andrew’s…” He trails off.

Wymack lets the silence hang for a little while before answering. “It was always going to feel worse when Andrew left. It’s not weird. You miss him.” After a brief pause, Wymack carefully adds, “You love him.”

Neil’s heart clenches with the truth of it.

“I never meant to love him so much,” he admits. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Coach, none of this was ever part of the plan.”

“No offence, Neil, but your original plan was to die, so I’m pretty sure this is an upgrade,” Wymack points out in his typical gruff manner. “And plans are overrated anyway.”

Neil flashes Wymack a glimmer of a smile at that, but it swiftly fades. “It hurts though,” he says. “Missing people that you love.”

“Oh, kid,” Wymack says, and he sounds so tired all of a sudden, wearied from sharing the weight of his Foxes’ issues so they’re easier for them to carry. Neil has no idea what he’s going to do without Wymack after he graduates. “I know it does.” He leans forward and pins Neil with that shrewd stare, the one that’s become increasingly difficult to lie to over the years. “But don’t you think it’s worth it?”

A message chimes through on Neil’s phone and he checks it automatically. It’s from Andrew, and all it says is: only 3 more weeks

Neil smiles, because that’s how long it is until Andrew’s coming down to visit for the weekend. There’s 2 games to play between now and then. There’s practices and there’s classes and there’s homework. It’ll fly by.

He looks up and glances at Wymack, who’s watching him with a knowing glint in his eye and a half smile on his face.

“Yeah, Coach,” he says. “I think it’s worth it.”

He types back: can’t wait and then gets to his feet.

“Can you drop me off, Coach? I’ve got a party to get to.”

[lapeaudelamemoire]

mmmmmmmrh... can't sleep until i get this thought out. i really - really - don't get people who, when you say 'you're a fucking idiot, i love you' concentrate on the 'you're an idiot' part and not the 'i love you' part. like... it's like losing your toddler or something, but being more concerned and angry about the fact that they spilled ice cream on the floor before you lost them. i, for one, much prefer the truth and knowing what people think even if it's unpleasant than some british polite-face of manners. like, thank you for sharing your honest thoughts and feelings with me. also, if you don't share your frustration with people, you can't fix the frustration's cause. imo, if you can't say 'right you're a proper dumb nut' to someone then you just haven't gone through enough with that person. i am appreciative of being called out and also saying things like they are. i feel like the main question when you encounter someone calling you a name is partly asking yourself 'hm have i been an idiot', and also 'if so, yeah they're right'. also, the whole point is actions > words, right, so if i'm saying 'you're a dumbass' but sticking around, big picture?? clearly i think you're still worth my time/the annoyance is far outweighed by positive feelings towards you & this is a relatively small/momentary frustration also, idk just look at the undercurrent, right. god, idk, maybe i like you for your dumbness sometimes or that's part of it and i find it cute like you talk about your cat or something 'yeah she's dumb as all fuck she tries to eat plastic but hell i love her' i know i think about this a lot and have said similar before but it's just - it just seems so petty like no it's completely unrealistic that you're not going to annoy other people or fight with them and there are most definitely times that you also think i am a massive tool and i would in all honesty prefer you call me out when i'm being a cunt than just be quiet about it bc then i might realise this also and stop it like pls be the voice of reason pls bc clearly i am not rn it's just petty and somehow blind?? to ignore that yeah you're dumb and screwed up like a normal human being and then just dismiss everything else nice that that person has shown you also, you can only be upset by something if you think it's true so if you're convinced i do think you're an idiot it's only because you agree with me no cunt who thinks they're the shit is going to take an insult seriously they know they're fine and the other person is wrong my favourite response to 'you're an idiot' is 'yeah but i'm your idiot' or t's ever-fresh 'yeah but you love me' like yes thank you for getting to the point you see the point it's true i do love you and that is more important than your current dumbness.