#love all the tuning pegs scattered around

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

I'm soooo sorry you're under the weather and dealing with crappy stuff! I hope things get better for you, physically and mentally 🙏 Get lots of rest if you can, and drink all the fluids!

Headcanon requests, is it? How about the OPLA men (Shanks & Mihawk, but also take your pick, etc) with a multi-tasking reader who delights in various hobbies to keep busy, and occasionally drags them into getting involved? Whether it be container gardening, knitting, baking, sewing, artwork, etc.

Bonus if they're also contending with where exactly reader stores all of her crap when it's not in use, not at all guilty of this myself 🙈🤣

Thank you so, so, so much. It’s been a really bad day and this has honestly helped a lot.

Like I feel this hard. There’s guitar picks and tuning peg winders and little notebooks full of story notes and recipes and origami scattered all over my house.

Just gonna do Shanks and Mihawk this time, because they very much are my main comfort characters right now.

The fact that one of my comfort characters is so murdery probably does not say good things for my mental health but whatever

Hobbies

OPLA! Shanks and Mihawk x Reader

Cloyingly fluffy, here is a spoon with which to gag yourself, just in case c>===

Shanks

He is absolutely so game for all of this.

Such a child about it, if you’re trying to do anything new he’s just so excited about it and needs to know everything.

Completely in your business, asking ten thousand questions, along with the inevitable starry-eyed, “Can I help?”

And you’d have to be heartless to turn down those puppy-dog eyes.

It might not turn out to be his thing, and he might get in the way more than he actually helps, but he’s going to enjoy the experience with you regardless, and his enthusiasm is just so precious that it makes it more fun for you as well.

The exception here is knitting. Knitting can get fucked. He tried, holding one needle in his hand and the other between his teeth, and somehow ended up nearly giving himself a tracheotomy.

But if you knit, sew, or crochet something for him, he’s going to unironically wear it everywhere and brag about it to anyone who will listen.

Baking, though, turns out he has something of a knack for it. And now his go-to solution if you’re sad or upset about something is to bake you cookies, because “How can anyone be sad when there are cookies?” And, well, he’s not entirely wrong.

The captain’s cabin is just completely cluttered with arts and crafts supplies, with so many signs and knickknacks of your many and varied hobbies, and he sincerely loves it because there’s just so much of you everywhere he looks. He’s always felt at home on the sea, but this just makes it feel even more like home.

Mihawk

Not quite as perceptive to participating. He might if you ask him, but some things might take convincing.

He’s an utter perfectionist about everything, so if you do convince him to try anything, he’s probably going to fixate on it until he’s a certified expert and compete with you over who’s better at it.

More refined and traditional artistic endeavors definitely appeal to him more—you could probably convince him to try painting or drawing pretty easily, but things like sewing or crocheting are going to be a little more of a stretch.

Gardening in general is honestly fine as well, container or otherwise.  The more you can grow on the island or around the castle, the less he has to concern himself with leaving to deal with other people. And it is fairly convenient to have fresh herbs growing right in the kitchen.

Fairly adept at cooking already—he’s spent most of his life in solitude, so cooking for himself was something of a necessity. Baking isn’t exactly his forte, but he will partake if you ask him to.

He acts like the clutter of your supplies irritates him, but really only so he can give you a room or two of the castle dedicated solely to your hobbies. No point looking a gift horse in the mouth, and you know he’s just being surly to protect his pride.

You know because even if he isn’t interested in it himself, he does enjoy watching you work, sitting off to the side with a book and a glass of wine, glancing up every so often to see your progress.

[hawkinself]

A New Melody

Eddie Van Halen x Valerie Bertinelli

Chapter Three: A New Melody

The house was quiet, save for the soft rustle of cards being shuffled and dealt on the dining room table. Your brothers had been at it for hours, playing hand after hand of gin rummy, the kind of mindless activity that filled the void of waiting. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, and you tried not to glance at it for the hundredth time. The waiting was unbearable, and the hope clinging to each passing second felt like a weight pressing on your chest.

And then it happened. The phone rang.

Patrick and David exchanged knowing looks as you scrambled to answer. “Hello?” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, casual.

“Val?” The voice on the other end was unmistakable—warm, with a hint of shyness. “It’s Ed.”

A rush of relief and excitement hit you all at once. “Ed! Hi!” Your voice lifted, betraying your attempt at cool.

“Sorry it took me so long to call,” he said, a bit sheepishly. “We’ve been on the move nonstop. I’m in Beaumont, Texas, right now.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, not wanting to sound like you’d been counting the days. “How’s the tour?”

“It’s been good, busy as hell. But, uh, we’re heading to Norman, Oklahoma, in two days for a festival,” he said, his tone shifting. “Do you want to come?”

A smile spread across your face before you even answered. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

“Great,” he said, and you could hear the relief in his voice. “I’ll have a limo pick you up from the airport. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” you said softly.

You hung up and turned to find your brothers grinning at you. “Well?” Patrick asked, leaning back in his chair.

Trying to play it cool, you couldn’t hide the excitement bubbling inside. “I’m going to Oklahoma.”

Two days later, you stepped off the plane in Norman, Oklahoma, greeted by a sleek black limousine waiting just outside the terminal. The driver opened the door for you, and you slid into the cool leather interior, feeling a mix of nerves and exhilaration.

The drive to the University of Oklahoma was surreal. The scenery blurred by as your mind raced. When you arrived, the band’s road manager met you at the backstage entrance, draping an all-access pass around your neck.

“Welcome back,” he said with a grin. “Ed’s been talking about you nonstop.”

Your cheeks flushed as he led you through the maze of corridors to where the band was getting ready. The roar of the crowd filtered in from outside, a steady hum of excitement. And then you saw him—Eddie, leaning against a wall, his guitar strapped over his shoulder, adjusting the tuning pegs. His face lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, as if it were just the two of you in the room.

“Hey,” you replied, your heart fluttering.

He stepped closer, his hand grazing yours briefly before pulling you into a quick hug. “You made it.”

“Of course,” you said, smiling up at him. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Before you could say more, the road manager signaled it was time. Ed gave you a quick wink as he adjusted his guitar strap and followed the band toward the stage. You found your spot on the side, where you could see everything.

The show was electric. Van Halen owned the stage, and Eddie was in his element. His fingers danced over the fretboard, pulling out notes that seemed to defy logic. Yet, every time he switched guitars or had a moment to glance your way, he did. There was a new kind of energy in his performance, something raw and vulnerable that made your chest tighten.

Back at the hotel, you sat on the balcony overlooking the quiet streets. The night was warm, the stars scattered across the sky like diamonds. Eddie opened up in a way he hadn’t before, sharing stories about his childhood, his family, and his journey with music.

“My dad was everything,” he said, his voice tinged with reverence. “He taught me to love music, to feel it, you know? He’d sit with me for hours, just playing. I owe everything to him.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his. “He must be so proud of you.”

Eddie smiled, though it was bittersweet. “He is. But my mom… she still thinks this whole rock-and-roll thing is a phase. She’s waiting for me to get a real job.”

You laughed softly. “She’ll come around. How could she not? You’re a rock god, Eddie.”

He shook his head, his grin modest. “I’m just a guy who loves playing guitar.”

The two of you talked until the early hours, your words flowing as easily as the night breeze. Eddie was a mix of contradictions—an undeniable genius on stage, yet shy and introspective in private. It was a combination that drew you in deeper with every passing moment.

As the sky began to lighten, he walked you to your room. “Thanks for coming out here,” he said, his voice low.

“Thanks for inviting me,” you replied, lingering in the doorway.

For a moment, you just stood there, the silence stretching between you, heavy with unspoken feelings. Then he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Goodnight, Val.”

“Goodnight, Ed.”

You closed the door, your heart racing, knowing that whatever this was, it was only just beginning.

[bakurik]

The breakup, aka, BonBon messed up bad. 

Rockstar Bonnie could handle a lot. Children running around the pizzeria? Fine. An annoyed teen throwing their lackluster breadsticks at him cause they didn’t want to stuck at their little sister birthday party? Easy. A few small pranks, annoying but what can you do? But when he had started a relationship with the broken bear that was salvaged from the back alley he never expected to have to put up for so much and only get so little in return. He had promised his funny bear that he would make sure his little hand puppet pal was fixed, and to his credit and help of the other assembles they had done so, but finally he had enough. The little thing was dangerous. Jealous. And it wasn’t worth it anymore.   “I am so sick and tired of getting pushed around like this. I am so SICK of having to fear death every day of my life, because of you.” There was a snap of plastic, well another snap. If the instrument wasn’t broke before, it sure was now. This wasn’t meant to happen like this. “You know, sure, maybe I tried getting along with you because of Freddy, and maybe I thought you were annoying at a few points in time. But I tried, I genuinely tried.” 

BonBon hadn’t meant to actually break the stupid thing. Sure, snap a few strings to annoy, make the larger bun have to spend the day rummaging through the back of the Pizzeria’s supply closet with helpy before the night was over so the owner wouldn’t catch them when ordering things. He didn’t think that a little prank would end like this, none of the rest ever did. No. No this was the rockstar’s fault. “..And what do I get? A swinging bucket of water to the head. Make my circuits lock up and then have me land right on my beauty.”

The little rabbit didn’t know what to say back. He just stood on his spindly legs, tiny hands clasped together as he felt a weird sensation wash over him. Bonnie was mad. Steaming. This wasn’t the jokey anger he was used to and it wasn’t the complete insanity laced rage he learned to cool with Freddy. Did he try to distract the bun? Tell him to go to sleep? That worked on the bear.. He didn’t know how to even begin to fix this situation. 

“I admit it might be my fault that Freddy doesn’t hang out with you a lot anymore. But it was his decision. And it’s not my fault you can’t even respect that.” The rockstar had started to pace, the broken neck of his instrument in one hand while the base rested on the floor. That was going to forever to try and fix with how splintered the plastic on the neck had gotten. “I’m going to have to have Helpy order another one, that’s going to take a week or more to get here. I’ll be out of order until then..” 

BonBon finally opened his mouth, “There should be another guitar in the back-”

“Really? ‘Cause I remember you ripping off the tuning pegs and flushing them while I was taking Freddy outback to see the stars a few days ago.”

The little bun didn’t think they would go down, or at least that is what he told himself. He figured it would clog up the thing, it would have been funny to see the date end with the big bun trying to fish out the things before the owner got around to unclogging them via the computer. The things seemed so much larger in his paw. Watching the rockstar he could see the utter exhaust seeping in. His normal droopy eyelids Were the pranks really taking that much out of him? Surely not. It was just harmless fun to break his best friend and the guy apart. All he wanted was more time with Freddy, he loved the bear. He was comfort for the bear. They had been apart so long, he didn’t want to be replaced by-

 "You don't want me in your life? Fine. You win. Keep the bear, keep your little weird relationship, i'm done." ….What? “I can do a lot better than that pile of scrap. And without you sticking your button nose into my affairs. You want to play partner, then go ahead.  Now if you’ll excuse me,” He reached down and placed the lower half of the guitar under his arm as he did so. “I have to go find some flex tape for my guitar since it’s now utterly broken.” Stepping closer he pressed his free hand to the puppet’s face, pushing aside the bun and not caring as the thin metal legs scrambled to keep stable but ultimately failing as he landed on his back. Sure it hurt but the pain wasn’t crossing his mind, there was a new emotion that was washing over him. He didn’t know what it was but it wasn’t something he had felt before. Did he really cause this big of an issue? Just a few pranks didn’t… Okay sure, he didn’t do this to anyone else but he didn’t have to. Chica was hardly around at night. She wandered, cleaned, things that kept her busy. That rocker Freddy only seemed to care about collecting coins the kids left scattered after hours with the fox. And Lefty….well nobody fully knew what to make of the dark bear. She was always so quiet so most never bothered her and in turn she didn’t bother anyone else. She liked the vents and Freddy used to say she and him used to be buddies but the little bun never had to worry. BonBon didn’t see her as a threat-

Wait...what?

Threat? Why would anyone be a threat to...no. No that wasn’t right. BonBon knew that Freddy cared about him more than anyone. They were once attached at the wrist, always together. Always having such fun with the children that came to the paties. They knew all the best knock-knock jokes, could sing in harmony, if someone was mean to the bear BonBon was the key to keeping him calm and stable. Though the best times and the worst times. He made sure Freddy was okay even when the laughs turned to screams. They needed each other. Freddy needed him. They were made for each other, they were family! Even when the scooper tore them apart and everyone was forced to rebuild into one. BonBon could remember the voices going dark first, the bun had done all he could to stay awake but he just became so tired…

Looking at the ceiling of the pizzeria, the bun had gone quiet but felt his ears twitch as a new voice started coming down the hall, “-eard tha bear in the back, poor thing.” He knew that voice. With the accent it must have been the fox.. “I feel bad for the lad-” The pirate must have been talking about Freddy. How long had he been laying on the floor? “Bonnie seemed upset too, but ya know how his temper be. Cool and calm but inside it’s all a mess in his circuits. Dat wee lil’ one wasn’t much help. Da bear was helpin’ tho. ‘Least I believed so.”  

Was Freddy okay? BonBon knew one thing, and that was that big emotions weren’t easily processed by his friend. Most of the funtimes were very advanced but Freddy was simple in mind. When things got too much he’d snap, that’s why the human had made himself. BonBon was the safety switch. And now...now Freddy was now without the safety switch. 

[writeroutoftime]

lost in love and time - chapter three

@readermia, @mgk-rooklover1997, @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons, @dabooks23, @loser-alert, @themeanestlittlewitch, @peaches-roses-sins, @tiffanynguyen03 @t33n-tw4t @tinymalscoffee @diana-24-world, @ducky1901​

CATCH UP - CHAPTER TWO

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: haunted mansion au - as the night wears on, things start to become even stranger, and where are Sam and Natasha?

warnings: none

words: 2162

a/n: hello everyone! sorry for my little absence from this series, but I am back and ready to write! please let me know if you think the jumps between scenes in this chapter are confusing because it’s something I want to continue doing for the rest of the series. anyway, please enjoy and have a fabulous day! 

(this chapter does contain some dialogue from the movie, which I am not taking credit for)

There was only silence between the two as Pierce escorted Sam down the lonely halls of the mansion and towards the library. Despite the loneliness, the library was just as impressive as the dining hall, though slightly dusty and overflowed with hefty volumes of outdated volumes. By the time Sam processed all this, however, Pierce had disappeared before Sam could ask about Mr. Barnes’ whereabouts. Content to wait, Sam made himself comfortable in a cushioned chair behind the desk, which was scattered with books and old papers and ink stains here and there.

Next to the desk was an odd marble bust with a healthy coating of dust. Carefully, Sam inspected the bust and when he brushed the dust off top of the statue, its head fell backwards, though more like the hinge on a door. Worried that Sam had just destroyed some price heirloom, he rushed to push the head back into place, and found it did so with ease. Confused, he hesitantly pushed the head back again and saw that it hadn’t actually broken off. It was in that moment that Sam heard the whoosh of a door sliding and glanced over his shoulder.

Where there had once been a simple bookshelf, then transformed into a secret passage that opened to reveal a dark, damp, stone hallway that perhaps had been a servant’s entrance at one point. Against his better judgement, Sam walked towards the passageway and stepped inside to see if anyone or anything was there. As soon as Sam stepped through the passage, however, the door immediately closed behind him with a resounding thud, and Sam was thrown into pitch black darkness.

“Hey, let me out!” he shouted and turned to pound on the stone wall to no avail. Quickly, he fished his phone out his pocket, because while there was no way on earth his phone would pick up any service, the flashlight still worked just fine. The now illuminated hallway showed a seemingly endless hallway littered with cobwebs. “y/n, Nat. This is not funny.” Sam said, his voice hardening to conceal the fear he felt. “Mr. Barnes? I didn’t mean to go snooping through your things, you can let me out now.”

Again, met with silence, Sam decided that the only way he would find a way out would be to walk down the hallway and see where he ended up. While almost every nerve in his body screamed that this was a bad idea, Sam trudged on, praying that he would soon find an exit and that morning would come so the three of you could finally put this place behind you.

oOoOo

Thanking Steve for showing you to the room you would occupy for the night, he offered a small bow before he hurried back into the expansive corridors of the mansion. Alone in your room, you took the time to examine how the room had been furnished to be consistent with the rest of the design in the mansion. While the dated decorations and bedspread would have turned most people away, there was something appealing and, perhaps, familiar as you ghosted your hand over the mantle above the fireplace. 

It wasn’t long before you found yourself unable to sleep, so you slid on your shoes and wandered into the hall, hoping that Sam and Natasha were close by. Because had Steve showed you to your rooms while Pierce had taken Natasha and Sam in the opposite direction, you weren’t sure how to get around. While the mansion was beautiful, it was massive and very easy to get lost in. Each time you turned down another hallway, you feared that you were simply making a circle and not actually headed anywhere.

You watched the bottoms of the doors, looking for light to illustrate if the room was occupied, but all of them were dark. The strange thing was, however, you swore you could here something moving behind some of the doors, but when you went to open them, you found them locked. At one point, you found yourself back in the front entrance you had first stepped in a few hours ago, and you sighed in defeat as you walked the semi-familiar path back towards the dining room.

Pushing the ornate doors open, you walked inside and saw that most of the dishes had been cleared and the large fire was dying down as the rain still pounded outside. However, those noises drowned out as the familiar, melodic tune found its way back to you once more, and it was only when you heard the clatter of plates behind you did you realize that you were not alone.

“Oh, Peggy.” you greeted with a smile as you waved at the woman you met at dinner. “Let me help you.” you said and began to help her pick up the fallen dishes.  

“Really, it’s fine, Miss. y/l/n.” she said, though her eyes flittered nervously around the room. “What are you doing out of bed?

You shook your head with a slight chuckle. “Please don’t worry about all that ‘Miss” nonsense, just call me y/n. And, I couldn’t sleep, so I tried to find Sam and Nat, but ended up getting lost.” you admitted sheepishly.

Peggy tried to return your smile, but it come across forced as she stood up once more and attempted to collect her bearings.

“Are you alright?” you asked her and reached out to try and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Before you could, she stepped out of your reach and lowered her voice to a sharp whisper. “I’m alright, Miss- y/n.” she began. “But you and your friends must leave in the morning, right away.”

“Did we do something wrong?” you asked, a frown now on your face.

“No, but I fear that-“  

“What is it you fear, Mrs. Rogers?” Pierce’s cold voice cut across the room and you watched Peggy stiffen with fear as Pierce crossed to stand next to her.

“Nothing, sir.” Peggy breathed shakily, glancing down at the floor.

Pierce shifted his gaze between the two of you for a few, tense moments before he nodded his head. “Then I suggest you return to the kitchen and tell that buffoon of a husband that I need to speak to him.”

Peggy nodded submissively, though you could see a fury burning under her skin, ready for the moment she could tell Pierce off, and you didn’t blame her. If Tony treated you a fraction of the way Pierce treated Peggy and Steve, you would quit without hesitation, but not before knocking him down a few pegs.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce, but have you seen Sam or Natasha? I need to talk to them.” you finally spoke up, directing the butler’s full attention to you.

“Is that what you need Miss. y/l/n? Because I need the staff and guests of this manor to remember their place, or does that seem too difficult for you, you impertinent girl?” he growled, and your eyes widened in shock and fear. Just as suddenly as the outburst had come about, though, Pierce quickly returned to his cool, uninterested demeanor. “My apologizes, Miss. It has been a rather stressful evening.”

“O-of course.” you told him and subtly took a step back, unable to ignore the sinister feeling you got when he was around. “I’ll just return to my room then.”

Pierce looked surprised but let the matter drop. “Splendid.” he told you and stalked off to brood in another corner of the mansion.

oOoOo

As Sam walked along the stone passage, his flashlight illuminated a series of doors that he could not open from that side. It wasn’t until he felt as though he had been walking forever, that, finally, a door opened, freeing Sam from the secret passage. Closing the door behind him, Sam noticed the only option was to walk up a set of rickety, old stairs that led to another door. With a deep breath, he ascended the stairs and opened the door at the top, wincing at the loud creek that followed.

The next room Sam stepped into seemed to be the attic of the manor, filled with dozens of trunks that were stacked one on top of another and old portraits and other antiques that were covered in cobwebs and dust. “What is going on here?” Sam wondered out loud. With each new discovery, this mansion became stranger and stranger.

Suddenly, Sam heard the creak of floorboards and froze in his spot. He wasn’t sure who else would be up here, but he figured they wouldn’t appreciate that he was up there. In his attempt to make it back to the door unnoticed, Sam felt himself bump into a solid mass and let out a shout of surprise, that seemingly echoed throughout the attic.

“Sam? What are you doing here?” Natasha asked through grit teeth once she realized she wasn’t in any immediate danger.

“I’m was trying to get back to the room. What are you doing here?” he hissed back.

Natasha’s annoyed expression switched to one of genuine concern. “You were gone for so long that I thought something happened to you. I tried to find the library, but somehow ended up here.”

“Great! Now we’re both lost and stuck in the creepy-“ Sam began to rant before his voice trailed off as his eyes glanced around the room before they landed on an old portrait, partially hidden behind some boxes.

Natasha followed Sam’s line of sight in confusion as he walked to the portrait and carefully dragged it out so that they could get a better look. Both he and Natasha let out a gasp of surprise as they studied the subject of the painting and realized that she looked incredibly familiar – she looked like you.

“Neither of you should be here.” a voice spoke from behind Natasha and Sam causing the two of them to let out another shout of surprise.

Turning to look at who was now in the attic, Nat watched as Steve and Peggy walked closer to both her and Sam. “Okay, what the hell is going on, and why does that portrait look exactly like y/n?”

oOoOo

Once you were completely sure Pierce had walked away and wouldn’t catch you off guard again, you headed in a new direction, determined to find your friends. Eventually you stumbled into the library and called out. “Sam? Nat? Are you guys here?”

What you hadn’t expected was for Bucky to be sitting in one of the chairs, standing with a pile of books in his hands when you entered the room. “Oh, Mr. Barnes, I’m sorry I didn’t know you were in here. I was just looking for my associates.” you said, trying to hold onto any sense of professionalism.

“I thought I already told you to call me Bucky.” he reminded you with a wink. “Though, I am sorry, I have not seen your friends. I was just trying to tidy up before Pierce has a chance to yell at me for keeping a messy study.”

A smile crossed your face at Bucky’s action, though it was hard to keep the resentment out of your voice when you spoke of the butler. “He does seem the type of person to keep everyon-everything in its place.”  

“Yes, he does come across that way.” Bucky admitted, glancing down at the books he held. “But he has been there for me my whole life, almost like a father to me.”

There was a moment of silence as Bucky glanced up and stared at you in adoration until your curiosity couldn’t hold off any longer. “Bucky, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” he whispered and set the books to the side to step closer to you.

“This house is beautiful and as you’ve mentioned it’s been in your family for generations. It must be like a home to you. Why do you wish to sell it?”

It took a moment for Bucky to respond as he chose his word carefully. “These walls are filled with so many memories. Some of them very painful.” he told you and you could see the sorrow in his eyes. “Why don’t I show you?” he offered and held out his arm for you to take.

There was a moment of hesitation, but even though you had only known Bucky for a short time, you already felt safe around him. Accepting his invitation, you linked your arm with his, and when your arms touched, you let out a quiet gasp at the sudden and intense feeling of safety and familiarity. For the briefest second, there was a flash of Bucky and a woman you seemed to know – almost like a memory. Then, just as quickly as it had come to you, the flashback and the sensation died down.  

“It’s alright. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Bucky reassured you with a smile that you returned before he began to lead you off.

oOoOo

tag list:  @readermia, @mgk-rooklover1997, @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons, @dabooks23, @loser-alert, @themeanestlittlewitch, @peaches-roses-sins, @tiffanynguyen03 @t33n-tw4t @tinymalscoffee @diana-24-world, @ducky1901​  

[mirkysconcubinefiction]

Quietly Jaded

Pairing: Omega!Peter/Alpha!Kingpin -- Omega!Peter\Avengers.

Summary: Peter Parker is an Omega masquerading as a Beta. A story of student loans, Avengers wanting Spiderman, Avengers wanting Peter Parker for his Omega status, and Peter just done with them. He doesn't need them - he already has an Alpha. Not the best Alpha but... Well... Fuck.

Tags: Major AU, ABO world, Heats/Ruts, Drug Abuse, Dark Personalities, College Peter, Dubious Consent, more added later.

Part 1

Peter hadn't always been the silent type. It grew on him with time. Losing friends, losing family, it was just easier to not talk than to talk - besides school there wasn't much to talk about.

Not like he could discuss being Spiderman?

With college dreams came college debt and even with grants and scholarships, student loans kept a roof over his head and food in his stomach.

Legally no one had to know his gender. He didn't act like most Omegas or Alphas so many people presumed he was a beta which wasn't a bother.

Betas were a safe median.

If Peter Parker was a Beta then so was Spiderman. 

Hero's or vigilante's of justice weren't titles Omegas carried. Not that they were incapable but mostly the world was a shitty place and he was safer as a Beta than Omega.

No worries of being snatched.

No worries of his degree somehow being mishandled.

No worries of being treated like a damsel in need of a minder. Modern America, as progressive as any first world country, was still archaic in nature to a Omegas ability to cope outside of a Pack or Alphas knot.

.

It started as a curiosity or so that's how Peter saw it as. The Avengers paying attention to him was... Unneeded but the geek in him was intrigued.

First was Tony Stark aka Iron Man who appeared from nowhere one cool Autumn evening. It was a quiet night, the witching hour, a time where nothing really happened in the never quiet city. Sitting on a swing made from his webs he was eating a sandwich from his favorite bodega. The grandmother of seven never took no for an answer after he had saved her life and that of her children several times over the years and had even knitted him a scarf once.

Peter still had that scarf.

Mask pulled up to sit along the ridge of his nose he had sat staring out into the world with a gargoyle above him for company. 

"You're softer than I pegged you for."

His senses didn't tingle and that alone kept him there, hanging like a booger from an impossibly high building, and taking a much deserved bite from his sandwich. A cuban torta with extra adobo. 

"So. Kid. Got a name?"

Silence.

Peter chewed and ignored the floating man whose stare went from curious to frustrated.

"It's rude to not speak when spoken to."

Shoving the last of his food into his mouth Peter wiped the crumbs from his chin, pulled down his mask, and with a thumbs up, ripped an end of his webbed swing.

Plummeting like a bowling ball down... Down... And with a well-aimed (practiced) web swung himself away from sight. Iron Man wouldn't find him, not when Peter knew of a well hidden niche that he could slip into and not be seen or leave a heat signature.

Something that Iron Man was trying to do and Peter was grateful for his sensitive ears. 

.

Next was Captain America. Decked out in his uniform and shield. It was a pretty wicked shield and one that Peter had caught before it could hit the cyborg that was destroying a nameless street of the city. 

Spiderman ignored the shouts of 'traitor' and the arrows that followed him but Peter was more than a flexible arachnid. He was quite familiar with this street. It was the street that housed a shit ton of kids.

Kids that had loved it when he opened the fire hydrants or handed out frozen pops because Peter loved kids.

Not because he was an Omega.

Hell no.

He just loved kids. Kids loved him and thought he was cool.

Using the shield to block the occasional laser blast - because of course lasers - Peter lead the cyborg away. His webs helped to drag the thing and keep it from swinging wildly but Peter was more than bendy, more than, web's, he was strength and endurance. 

While the others had stopped trying to kill him - yes those were kill shots - Peter managed to drag the hefty piece of machinery away. Feet digging into the concrete, one hand fisting a bundle of his webs as the other held close to a shield that left his hand tingly. 

From the sewers a mass of crab like machines took the Avengers attention and as he finally reached an open area of an eight lane street Peter didn't panic when the cyborg finally broke free. The webbing shredding and as he fell from the slack Peter turned and tucked himself behind the shield in time for a powerful beam to hit the Vibranium and drag him backwards from the force.

Even in the face of death he thought it was cool. So cool. 

This wasn't his first time facing a cyborg. A giant imitation of a man decked out in weaponry with a human brain attached in its center. Cyborgs bled green and their eyes were yellow pinpoints of awareness. 

Cool but creepy. 

Very creepy. 

With one hand he sent out a web, latched onto a bus and swung it towards the cyborg that put all its attention to the massive vehicle, using each arm to fire laser beams - still so cool - missing Captain America's shield that hit where the brain sat.

Right side, 8 inches from the center, shield at a 70° angle.

A stream of green blood - plasm - and brain matter coated the streets. The shield hit the ground at a roll and lodged into the side of a brick building. A hair's breadth away from the man who had aimed arrows at his head.

Peter was sad that he missed. Not that he couldn't have killed the man but Spiderman had an image to keep up and he was sure kids were peaking through blinds. 

If Hawkeye stared at the shield with wide-eyed 'what the fuck', Peter accepted that as payment.

Asshole.

Had Peter been... Well... Nicer... He would have thrown himself back into the fray helping the Avengers finish iff the crab robots except Peter wasn't that nice and he wasn't that forgiving.

Padding to the twitching machinery Peter took a moment to web himself a mat on the ground and take apart the cyborg. He was quick, knowing exactly what he wanted and where to find it, bundling it in his own web Peter pulled up the edges and folded the edges together and without a backwards glance he left. 

Fuck the Avengers.

.

As Spiderman Peter had the nasty habit in bumping into random heros with hero size complexes and it got to the point where he just waved at the several who tried to stalk him. 

They weren't as stealthy as they thought they were.

As Peter Parker there was no Avengers just debt and homework. The two worlds very rarely collided. Peter Parker was a nobody... Well... He was on the Deans List and top 12% of the university when it cam to grades even if his attendance was far from stellar. 

Thankfully he had made a friend with a doctor who wrote really nice perfectly excusable doctor notes. 

He had done the math. It would be a 2.8% chance he would catch the eyes of anyone Hero related. Nothing he did as a regular schmoe would catch anyone's attention. 

Really.

Honestly.

Of course he never fraction in his own Parker Luck. 

Fuck his Parker Luck and Fuck his inability to think properly after a near 27 hours of no sleep and a lab all to himself. At 1am he had the building to himself and the key card to prove it! 

At 1 am and still wide-eyed with a brain that wouldn't shut off, Peter shouldn't have been allowed near anything that contained chemicals besides H2O. Instead he had 2 walls dedicated to his scribbles with a rainbow of color - thank you crayola - a pyramid of Styrofoam microwaveable ramen and a teetering tower of hot pocket boxes, and a keurig. 

He had an unlimited - well half a box left - of hot chocolate to tide him over and a bag of mini marshmallows to keep the shakes away as he worked on his thesis. Technically his thesis was typed, edited, and awaiting a last read through BUT he was stuck. 

He was so close to creating the perfect drug that he was vibrating with a desperate energy as his friends - the machines scattered around the room - worked to show him if his calculations were correct or he had to start again. 

Staring at the board Peter needed to distract himself from the whirring and beeping. Headphones in place he jump started his bluetooth and filled the silence with his google playlist set to play his thumbs up.

As it was so late and he was alone in the building Peter didn't think singing along to his playlist would be a big deal. Being an Omega he had few quirks that were... Questionable. 

Omega's were notorious for their allurement beyond their scent. Many were artists, creators of music, rhythm, designers, they were architects, chefs, Omegas were once considered Sirens and Muses of the God's... While Peter could sketch and recite the periodic table backwards and forwards he could sing.

There was something about his voice that could draw attention or put someone to sleep if he so wished. A lullaby sung softly and with his will alone he could hush a colicky baby in minutes much to the relief of the parents he had babysit for. 

Peter blamed Toni Braxton. 

Peter blamed the open windows to the lab.

Peter blamed the chaos that happened less than a mile away from the University and the Hulk that somehow broke away from the group and all but bulldozed himself to the lonely building off set from the rest of the school. 

Peter blamed... Well... He blamed Tony Stark for being a nosy douche of a man and tuning into the voice singing a very heartfelt rendition of un-break my heart. 

Outside the lab Tony watches as the Hulk shifts back to being just Bruce and the man is swaying, "Omega." 

Tony's gaze swivel down to where Bruce is laid out on the ground, dazed. "What?" Had he heard the man right.

"Hulk..." It was difficult to speak so soon after a change but Bruce managed one more word, "Omega." And it didn't take much to put two and two together and Tony moved until he was hovering by the only window lit out of the building.

Hair a mess, clothes askew, ass perched on the a desk, sat a young man staring at a dry erase board and hands moved with each dip and rise. The boy was moving, a dry eraser in one hand and a purple marker in another as he wrote a different scribble. 

Tony was smart, brilliant even, but even if he squinted he couldn't make out what was written. There was numbers with familiar sequences but even JARVIS who had scanned the room was at a lost and suggested the scribbles were a code.

Quiet filled the room and he took that moment to shush his team and soon another song had the younger man humming, head nodding to a beat.

"Send away for a priceless gift One not subtle, one not on the list Send away for a perfect world One not simply, so absurd In these times of doing what you're told

Keep these feelings, no one knows

What ever happened to the young man's heart? Swallowed by pain, as he slowly fell apart..."

Maybe he was just tired but Peter didn't feel the eyes watching him. There was no warning from his spider senses just a quiet madness as he darted through the room. The keurig churning out hot chocolates and fueling the madness of no sleep and rainbow scribbles.

.

A.M. comes with bright lights and failure.

It was tempting to swipe the board clean but Peter was passed out under the only desk that would block out the sun with his lumpy backpack as a pillow.

It's an awkward way to sleep but Peter isn't picky. He's slept in worse conditions, even upside down once, and he had a 48 hour hold on that particular lab. 

The click of the door unlocking doesn't wake him. The tap of heeled leather Oxford shoes doesn't wake him as said shoes stroll through the room until they pause right where he was sleeping. 

Eye's hidden by sunglasses worth more than all the textbooks he was sleeping on, Peter didn't notice the frown on the man's face or the flurry of texts the man was sending before he crouched and woke Peter with a gentle nudge.

What did wake Peter was his alarm on his phone. A far too loud alarm that startled him enough he jerked awake, banging an elbow and his head on the desk. Swearing a storm, mind addled by sleep, Peter fumbled for his phone and dropped it.

Blinking at the pair of dress shoes, Peter held his breadth as he looked up... And up... Into familiar brown eyes. "Who the fuck are you?"

An eyebrow arched, "Everyone knows who I am."

No. Spiderman knew Tony Stark. Peter Parker could care less. "Are you lost?" 

"Nope." The man rocked on his heels, eyes gazing around. "Came to see you. Interesting finding someone like you here of all places."

Peter frowned, "I'm not squatting. I wouldn't be the first person catching a nap trying create something big."

"Big hu?" His hands slipped into his slack pockets, "the hot pockets are shit for your metabolism by the way."

"They're cheap and I'm broke. I'm guessing you wouldn't understand the concept of broke." Peter tried to lay back down and cover his eyes with his arm, legs folded. 

"Yet with no full-time job you somehow have managed to chip away at your student loans. I'm impressed."

A warning buzz settles over him and Peter keeps himself as nonchalant as he can unwilling to give the Alpha the show of panic that he felt. "This is a school of side hustles. Take your pick and leave."

A moment passes in quiet but Tony doesn't leave. Why would he? "Quite rude." The man murmurs, "Is that anyway to..."

"Leave before I call security." Peter interrupts, "You're a strange old man alone in a room with a sleeping student, only perverts stay where they're not wanted."

"Pervert? Pervert!"

"Yes. Pervert." Arm dropping away Peter made a point to glare into the yellowish hue of the glasses. "I've asked you to leave and you refuse. You are not my professor or the janitor. This is my lab and either you picked the lock or bribed someone and I'll be sure to tell the Dean that a creepy old man was allowed into his building to harass a student."

"Actually this is my lab. I own this building." Tony expected some form of recognition instead he got snark. 

"Did you piss on the wall or write your name on it like a petulant child?"

It's not often that Tony finds himself without words but his lips part in surprise before. He lets out a whoosh of air shakes his head. "For an Omega you're a mouthy little thing."

The quiet is met with Peter blinking and Tony waiting. If Peter was smart he would have immediately denied any accusation or stood in righteous anger... Instead the younger man laughed. "That..." Peter folded his hands on his stomach and grinned, "is quite a compliment thank you." Tony frowned and Peter batted his eyelashes. "I'm pretty enough to pass for an Omega has to be the nicest thing anyone has said to me this semester."

"Just this semester?" Tony couldn't help but ask.

"Yep." 

The quiet stretched far longer than was comfortable and Tony sighed, "I have a proposition for you."

"No."

His carefully constructed speech and patience flew out the window as he was interrupted, "No?"

"No." Peter repeated, slowly. "N. O." He spelled out just in case.

"No? You can't tell me no."

"I can, I did, and I don't care." Peter frowned before he unfolded himself and crawled out from under the desk and brushed the dust off his wrinkled two-day old clothes, "Alphas who can't accept a no and argue over the word are a danger to society." Tony wasn't sure how someone that wasn't eye level could make him feel small.

"Do you know who I am?" The kid arched a brow, took a step back, and eyes him from the tips of his shoes to his perfectly coiffed hair. 

"Yes." Tony preened, "You're a misogynistic ass hole who thinks you can walk into my lab unannounced and get away with harassing a student and bringing up genders as if the position of my scent glands justifies your casual dismissal of my constitutional rights. You can't belittle or coerce me into agreeing to anything you have to say based on your purse strings or that you imply ownership on a building that was built from multiple donations. If I was an Omega I have every right to kick you in the nuts and get away with scratching your eyes out."

Tony's lips pressed into a firm irritated line.

"Seeing as I'm not I'll just settle for telling you to get the fuck out of my lab or I will scream murder. I'm a beta on beta kinda guy, so keep your paws off my no-no spots."

It was unexpected, Tony twitched as Peter's hands touched him - shoved him really - right out the door. Tony would never admit to sputtering or tripping over his own feet as he was pushed out the lab and the door firmly locked behind him. 

Confused and slightly embarrassed he adjusted his blazer and nonchalantly walked away. I'm a beta on beta kinda guy... the words are like oil and water, his skin tingles where the younger man's hand roamed, the heat that made that primal part of his brain rear up and whisper Omega.

Spiderman was an escape. 

There was times when he could swing away his worries with dizzying feats of near deaths, the adrenaline rush doing more for him than any drug on the market. 

There was times, like that morning, when he would climb to the highest point, tuck himself into a corner, and hide. He was a millennial with a safe space and it was the safest space to exist in N.Y. 

Just him and the pigeons. 

Times like this he wondered how far he could fall without instinct there to make him survive and carry on another day? 

Curling in on himself he hugged his knees tight to himself and let the tears fall. It wasn't often that he cried but when he did it was usually quiet and when he was alone. No one could see him weak, no one could see him break, no one could... A trumpet broke his depressive silence. An unexpected noise at an impossible height except it was a drone. 

The four propellers were whisper quiet and a white flag waved in the wind.

"Fuck." Summed it up.

A 3d hologram appeared and it was the image of Princes Leia kept him sitting, curious, vs jumping off the ledge. "Hello itsy bittsy spider."

Peter narrowed his eye's and flicked out a web, the drone was quick to swerve.

"You're cordially invited to attend a gathering..." Diving off the building was a better option than listening to Tony Stark invite him to a Tea Party as if they were friends. You don't forgive people who tried to kill you.

Especially if they didn't apologise.

Especially if they stalked you.

.

Since being bitten by a radioactive spider like some weird comic book character, Peter had gone through physical and mental changes. Presenting as an Omega had come later, in fact his first spike of heat happened during a particular difficult battle with none other than Kingpin himself.

It had been a gory fight with Peter having to plow through layers of underlings from normal everyday thugs to enhanced goons that were blood thirsty to get the bounty Kingpin had put on his head.

It was a hefty bounty too.

Just enough where Peter contemplated killing himself off for profit. Kingpin had been his usual boastful self and holding a weapon that was more sci-fi than the usual glock.

They had stood in a penthouse that had made him hyper aware he was dripping blood on the cream-colored carpet and the beautiful statues were judging him. 

Kingpin had a spiel like all super villains and Peter had listened as his mind raked over how he would survive this encounter when the A.C. kicked on. Cool filtered air pushed from the vents, Peter had shivered as it passed over his heated flesh that peaked from the patches of bare skin, it had taken moments for that devilish curl of the Kingpin's lips to unfurl and something else come forth.

Kingpin was a force of human nature. Built by weights and sheer spite. He was aggression, darkness, he was the devil amongst demons, he was a pendulum that swung between the dark side of the underworld and the light side of a family man. 

Most importantly. 

Kingpin was an Alpha. 

An Alpha tied to a Beta and a son.

Dark blue eyes shifted, bleeding red before the massive bulk of a man lifted the gun and fired a single shot. The sizzle of the blast prickled the side of his face as the beam shot over his shoulder and the thump of a body falling told him that his spider senses were off. 

Peter had studied many things but Omegean Biology wasn't one of them. He knew the fundamentals like many but the liquid fire that pooled at the base of his spine and slithered its way up left him standing rigid and an ache between his legs had him hissing.

Peter didn't remember closing his eyes, he didn't hear Kingpin move, his senses were so out-of-order he flinched when a large hand settled atop his head. "Shhh." Peter felt himself tugged into Kingpins girth, it had made him tremble and a whine had escaped him.

Later. Much later. Peter would learn that the man who was intent on killing him had cuddled him on an impossibly massive bed, the Alpha crooning, hands that could bend steel caressed him like a lover would, and for three days helped him through his first heat.

"Call me Wilson. Wilson Fisk."

Awareness had come in doses. The feel of soft cotton against his bare skin, the slick between his thighs, the ache somewhere deep and personal, classical music played in the background drowning the hitch in his chest, relief had been a burst of gratitude as shaky fingers touched the familiar texture of his torn mask.

The stretchy fabric cover his nose an encircled his cheeks and curved along his brow, seemingly glued to his skin. Hair, ears, lips, and chin were as exposed as the rest of him.

Before Peter could sit up a hand came from no where and settled on his chest, thumb and finger digging into his collarbone as he was pushed back into the mattress.

Pliant.

Weak.

A mess. 

Kingpin was a solid presence he hadn't noticed until that moment. Hard naked lines with impossibly wide shoulders and solid smooth skin with not a hint of hair except for two perfectly sculpted eyebrows that furrowed in contemplation. "Where do we go from here Spiderman?" 

It had been when that hand slipped and encircled his throat did Peter feel his body involuntarily move. Legs splaying openly and back arching as a familiar haze of arousal overwhelmed the need to run.

Wilson was an exceptional lover. His first Alpha, his first Knot, Peter never expected to be the Mistress of his arche nemesis, he didn't expect to have heats that were bursts of short frequent intervals, he didn't expect the open invitation to spend it with the Alpha, and he didn't expect the absolute possessiveness of Wilson or just how much control an Alpha like Wilson had over an Omega like Peter. 

"Save the world but you will not interfere with my organization and you will be my most prized possession."

It was a story twisted by biology, twisted by the illogical logic of an emotion one could say was love if you squint, and the reason Spiderman dressed as a different character jumped from the side lines and into traffic, using his strength to flip a car that was chasing the Kingpin. 

It rankled something deep that the urge to protect made him feel like a villain and the mocking laughter of Kingpin getting away hit him hard. 

Fighting The Avengers to keep the Alpha alive had never been part of the plan, watching the chase from a random store front window, hearing the helicopters, it was a spur of the moment decision to steal a face bandana with a skull smile and a pair of polarized wide swimming goggles.

Running fast and hard he didn't use his webs and instead focused on his natural talent and that primal urge to protect the knot-head responsible to keep him blissed out for his next upcoming heat.

Toe to toe with Captain America and the Winter Soldier was... Thrilling. As Spiderman there was an awareness of maintaining his cool but as a stranger with a cheap mask and flannel shirt Peter could catch the Winter shoulders Vibranium arm and force the man to the ground before kicking Captain America's shield and tossing the pompous soldier away like a rag doll.

Peter's body moves on auto pilot as he flips backwards and moves with grace and fluidity as a mess of weaponry aim for him. Between Iron Man's blasts, Hawkeyes arrows, Black Widows bullets, Peter feels like he's dancing on the edge of death and it leaves him feeling hot and aroused. 

Slipping beneath an abandoned truck he sticks his hand on the underside and with hard pushes against the asphalt he uses the truck to plow through what traffic is left and holding his breadth Peter pushed up with his leg and the truck flipped, the roof smashing on the ground and catching sparks.

Letting out a whoop, his flannel shirt wafting in the air he grinned behind the mask as he surfed for a stretch of time before coming to a halt and with Iron Man trailing him Peter ran.

Hard.

Fast.

Through the city.

Forcing the Avengers to chase him and not Kingpin.

More later...

*Part 2*

[authorbarbie]

Dancing With Our Hands Tied (1/?)

Summary: When you first joined The Resistance, you came into contact with several things: brand new equipment to mess around with, your very own work station, and even General Organa herself. But somehow, a charismatic pilot turns out to be the best of them all.

“THERE he is!”

A round of raucous cheers and applause erupted around the cantina, the sound bouncing off the surrounding walls, as Poe Dameron, freshly promoted to the role of Commander, entered the room. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, holding out his hands bashfully as a sign for his friends to stop, though the grin on his face remained.

“Have a busy night, Commander?” Temmin “Snap” Wexley joked as Poe joined the small group at their table.

“Yeah, we saw you leave with that cute technician last night,” Jessika Pava took a sip of her Batuu Brew with a quirk of her brow. “You guys have your own little celebration?”

Yolo Ziff snorted into his glass, Snap teasingly knocking his shoulder into Poe’s.

“You’re all hilarious, really,” said Poe, unaffected.

“C’mon, Poe,” Jessika continued. “We’re all on the edge of our seats here.”

“Nothing happened,” Poe shrugged, eyes rolling at how the group’s excitement visibly faded.

“Oh,” Karé Kun pouted. “Well, that was disappointing.”

“Why are you all so interested anyway?” Poe swiped Snap’s drink from his hand, ignoring the pilot’s disgruntled ‘hey!’ and took a sip himself. He grimaced as the liquid burned down his throat. “She wasn’t exactly sober so I helped her to her quarters and left. Plus, she wasn’t really my type.”

“What? Hot and single isn’t your type?”

“Hm, let’s see,” Ziff began. “You also said that about that guy back on Tiisheraan, that handsy Twi’lek on Bespin, the—”

“We’re rooting for you, that’s all,” Karé told him, effectively shutting down Ziff’s tangent. “Even a hotshot Commander deserves a little love every now and then.”

“I don’t have time for romance, guys,” argued Poe, jaw set. He was no stranger to flirting — enjoyed it more than the average person, actually — but with the growing threat of the First Order on the horizon, he found no point in going further and growing attached to someone. “I’ve gotta focus on my work, on helping the galaxy. We all do.”

“We’re not saying you have to marry someone, Poe,” said Jessika. “But going out on a date wouldn’t hurt, right? Plus, I don’t remember you ever being so adverse to one-night stands.”

Poe continued to down his drink instead of answering, resulting in a disapproving gaze from every member that sat around the small table.

“I’m telling you, Dameron,” Snap added, matter-of-factly. “One day, you’re gonna meet someone that sweeps you off those damn stubborn feet of yours and you won’t know what hit you.”

“Uh-huh,” Poe agreed, a feeble attempt to end the conversation rather than genuine agreement. “That’ll be the day.”

“Well,” Jessika began to stand from the table with her drink in hand, eyes set on the figure of Kaydel Ko Connix sitting at the bar. “Just because you’ve sworn off cute girls, doesn’t mean I have.”

Watching Jess walk away, Snap wolf-whistled loudly in support, earning a swift kick to the leg from Karé that made the table howl with laughter. More drinks were later shared and the conversation quickly shifted, much to Poe’s relief.

●  ●  ●

It’s safe to say that you were pretty damn nervous.

Your heart was racing, your palms were sweaty and you felt like you might lose the breakfast you had eaten that morning at any given second. Kriff, you prayed you wouldn't. Throwing up all over your first patient’s shoes probably wasn’t the best way to make an impression.

“Hey, calm down,” said the figure next to you, a comforting hand resting on your arm as if she could sense the anxiety rolling off of you in waves. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

“I know,” you nodded, adjusting your dark tunic for the fifth time since you’d put it on. The white medical services armband stood out against the brown material of your uniform. “Just first day jitters, I guess.”

“Because graduating top of our class wasn’t enough to fill you with confidence?” the same girl, Zella, asked jokingly. The two of you had been close since the Academy; you had lived in the same quarters and studied for every class together. You were more than thrilled when she agreed to join the Resistance with you. Having someone you were already close to nearby helped put you at ease.

“Yeah, pretty much,” you nodded, teeth chewing on the skin of your bottom lip; a nervous habit.

Zella’s retort didn’t get the chance to leave her lips, the words dying on her tongue as two figures entered the room— Hermit Farwell AKA the head of the medical station AKA your new boss.

And General Leia Organa… AKA your boss’s boss and overall galactic legend.

The General's hair was wrapped up in a neat crown braid and under the dim lights, the younger girl could see the shines of grey showing through her usual brown colour, a sign of how long she had been fighting for freedom in the galaxy. She wore a brown vest over her light green coveralls that were tucked into a pair of brown boots, and her face was attentive as she took in the new faces in the room. Despite being the leader of the entire organisation, you noticed that while others had their own badge indicating their commanding roles in the whole affair, her rank wasn't shown anywhere.

"Good morning," the woman smiled and though it was directed at everyone, you felt strangely as though she was speaking directly to you. "I thought I'd stop by to wish our new recruits good luck— not that you'll need it. You're in the perfectly capable hands of Colonel Farwell and you wouldn't be here if you didn't have the ability to handle yourselves. If anyone has any trouble or worries, feel free to find me later. But for now… Enjoy your first shift. The Resistance is very lucky to have you.”

She took her leave shortly after and Colonel Farwell clapped his hands together to gain the attention of the room which had started to buzz with excited chatter.

“You heard the General,” he said. “Grab yourself a datapad and let’s get to work.”

The station jumped into action immediately, pressing their keycards to the screens of their datapads and waiting for their patient files to load. You searched through your own itinerary for the day and steeled yourself with a slow breath.

Your first day as a nurse was about to begin.

●  ●  ●

Poe’s head was pounding.

A couple of days had passed since his little visit to the base’s cantina but he swore he was still feeling the effects of downing one more ice-twist than he likely should have; something that he was currently cursing Snap for coaxing him into. After complaining to BB-8 about the pain yet again, the droid had argued with him back and forth until he finally agreed to visit the med station for some form of relief. The smug astromech currently sat at his feet as he waited to be called in, as if to make sure the pilot followed through on his promise.

Others sat scattered around the waiting area (which was essentially just a few rows of chairs pushed together), each finding their own ways to pass the time. A technician was speaking on his holopad, supposedly unable to stop working even when awaiting medical attention, while a strategist sat with her hand on her stomach, clearly in an uncomfortable amount of pain. Poe himself found his fingers drumming against his knee, voice humming a tune under his breath that he couldn't remember the name of.

"Dameron, Poe?"

Poe continued his melody, about to go into the second verse when BB-8 knocked into his leg to catch his attention and an unfamiliar voice rang out.

"Dameron, Poe!" the voice called again, frustration beginning to seep through.

Poe lifted his head and searched for the source, a charming grin lighting up his face at the sight of you, your eyes squinting as you searched the room for the man who must have been deaf not to hear you. He had been right about you being unfamiliar, he noted as he all but swaggered over to you, lifting a hand into a wave. You said nothing in return, gesturing for him to follow you into your private work area. Poe's eyes scanned your form quickly from top to bottom.

“Take a seat, Commander,” you said, ensuring you used the proper title you had gotten from his patient files. ‘Commander Poe Dameron, top pilot of the Resistance, peak physical condition’ were just a few phrases you remembered.

“Nurse,” Poe grinned, confidence and charm practically exuding from his every pore.

You fought back the urge to roll your eyes, having spent the whole morning dealing with quite a few patients just like him. While some had been kind and quiet, even nervous, others had piled on the compliments until you were ready to push them back out the door. That, coupled with the growing ache in your back from standing so long, had you on the verge of collapsing from tiredness.

“That’s what they call me,” you agreed with a professional tone. “What brings you here today?”

“You mean I needed a reason other than meeting you?” Poe’s eyes lit up with mischief and your skin prickled with irritation. BB-8, who had stuck by his side the whole time, beeped loudly.

“Ah,” you nodded, typing the information into your notes. “So you’ve been doing a little drinking, huh?”

“In my defense, I was celebrating… But I will admit that yes, my head feels like it might explode,” Poe confessed, casting an offended look in his droid’s direction before turning back to you and scratching the back of his neck. His confidence clearly knocked down a peg (by his own best friend, no less), he let out a humble chuckle. “So you speak Binary, huh?”

“That I do. What’s your name, little guy?” you smiled kindly in BB-8’s direction (Poe was only slightly bitter that BB-8 had gotten a smile from you before he had), listening to his reply. “Well, Beebee-Ate, I think my own little Cipher would love you.”

“Cipher?” Poe repeated.

“My droid,” you explained, your hands moving to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm and jotting down his results afterwards. “He’s back in my quarters. Figured if he were here on my first day, I’d spend the whole time worrying about him instead of doing my actual job.”

Poe smiled, knowing the feeling of being attached to a droid all too well. “You’re new here, right?”

“I am.”

Poe studied your face as you put the tips of your stethoscope in your ears and pressed the bell against his chest. A small crease formed between your brows, entirely focused as you listened to the steady thump of his heart. Once you were satisfied, you turned back to your datapad. “Yeah, I’d definitely remember someone like you.”

You huffed out a breath, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks at his words. Luckily, your back was still facing towards him, face hidden, and you intentionally took longer in busying yourself with his typing up his results.

Even back at the Academy, you had made yourself a promise: no fraternising allowed. You weren’t against the idea of love by any means, but you were well aware of the ominous, growing threat that was gathering out there in the galaxy. You were well aware that war — and casualties because of said war — were inevitable. Hell, it was entirely possible that some of the people you had examined today wouldn’t survive what was coming, and you weren’t about to put your heart on the line just for it to be torn in two. Not when you had the chance to prevent that from happening.

The room fell silent then and Poe allowed it to, being a model patient as you shone a light in his eyes to check his pupils contraction and muttered your final decision to yourself under your breath. He watched as you turned to search through one of the cabinets behind you, eventually finding the bottle you were looking for and quickly reading the label.

“It’s my first day,” you finally said, Poe blinking in surprise at your return to the conversation. “Hold out your hand.”

Poe did so without question and watched as you set two pills in his palm. Filling a glass with water, you held it out for him to take in the other.

“Swallow those now and take two more later tonight if it still hurts. Like your chart says, you really are in peak physical condition,” you waited for him to follow your instructions before passing him the small bottle of remaining pills, pointedly ignoring the smirk on his lips at your comment. “Your hangover should pass soon.”

“Well, thank you for your thorough work…” Poe trailed off and you knew what he was indicating.

“Nurse is fine,” you told him simply.

“Come on, I make it a habit to learn everyone’s name here,” Poe told you, almost pleadingly and he wasn't lying. He really did know the name of every single person in the base, no matter their rank or job. For his own squadron, he had memorised their birthdays, too, and ensured they always received something special when the day came, be it something simple like a small cake or something a little grander, like an upgrade to their ship. “The cleaners, the line cooks, whoever.”

“That’s… very nice of you,” you said genuinely, meeting his eyes over your datapad. He really was quite handsome and clearly, he was aware of it. A square chin with a jawline you were pretty sure could chisel fiberplast, soft chocolate brown eyes that had a warmth to them that reminded you of a fire crackling, full lips with the bottom looking just a little bigger than the top and a tall build that you noticed made him appear confident even when seemingly at ease. It was a shame, really. If you had met him in some other way, at some other time, you probably would’ve fallen for his charm already.

But unfortunately, you hadn’t.

“If you need any more help, feel free to visit again.” Clearing your throat and reluctantly breaking the eye contact, you held out your free hand which he took firmly, giving it a shake. “And congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you… Nurse,” Poe told you, releasing your hand and turning to leave as BB-8 beeped his goodbyes. Before he had fully stepped out the door, he turned back, the right side of his mouth quirking into the beginnings of a smirk. “I hope we see each other again soon.”

Your gaze softened, brows furrowed together as you gestured around the room which held various medical supplies. “For your sake, I hope we don’t.”

A warm laugh escaped his throat but he said nothing more. And with a wink, he left.

[servicebottomgeralt]

@riohasoreos HOO everything happens so much but one of the things that has happened is Your Fic Request B) it’s not quite jaskier getting mad at geralt but he Does punch him and is a little shit

let me know if you have an ao3 and i can gift it to you there, too!!

Ao3 link

So far, Jaskier has a dozen songs in his line-up of Witcher-related shenanigans, but his latest has been a particular hit. The White Wolf meets a beautiful woman, they have slow, gentle sex on Monday, and they go their separate ways. He sees her again on Tuesday, they have filthy, rough sex, and they go their separate ways. On Wednesday, the White Wolf thinks he's seeing double, but the woman he's fucked the last two days was actually a set of twins, who can't believe he couldn't tell them apart.

The twin from Tuesday, the naughty one, cries and declares she will never lay with a man again, then storms off into the night.

The twin from Monday, who had been so soft and sweet, punches the White Wolf for breaking their hearts and storms off after her sister.

Jaskier is 'embellishing', as usual. There were no twins, and Geralt had established a no sex songs boundary early on that Jaskier worked around by lying through his teeth. The crowd gathered around them now hoots and hollers, laughing when Jaskier wants them to and whistling when things get lewd, and Geralt is happy to stand beside Jaskier as he gestures and dances between tunes of the song, smiling as though he’s telling Geralt’s deepest secrets rather than spinning a comedic-erotica yarn.

Geralt cackles with the crowd when the Wednesday punchline hits. He joins the sympathetic 'aw's when the first twin cries and leaves.

Usually, he nods solemnly when Jaskier throws a punch to the air, describing how the witcher's actions asked for the fair maiden's hand, and, oh, did he receive it!

Usually.

Today, with a small crowd of a dozen or so gathered at the inn they’re staying in, Jaskier calls oh, leans down from the chair and table he’s elevated himself onto, and punches Geralt square across the mouth.

The air rings silent. The punch was enough to knock his head back while he was only focused on enjoying the song, and he expects to see Jaskier looking shocked, afraid, regretful. The crowd certainly does, every face looking varying degrees of horrified, and the smell of fear thickens the air like pouring rain.

Jaskier is laughing.

He doesn't skip a beat; he finishes out the song, wishes everyone a lovely evening, and hops off the table. There are a few scattered claps and whispers of confusion, but Jaskier seems to be the only person that can’t read the room.

Jaskier tries to slip into the crowd for drinks and conversation, but Geralt has already snagged his arm and dragged him halfway back to their shared room before Jaskier can begin to protest.

Geralt throws Jaskier into the room ahead of him and kicks the door shut behind them.

“What the hell was that?”

Jaskier spins around toward him and puts his hands up in surrender.

“I thought it’d be funny,” he admits. "All these stories of the White Wolf tearing monsters apart, bedding women, breaking hearts, only to be smacked by his own bard for a little slapstick."

...Ugh. Damn him.

That is funny.

No random passerby could get away with it, but Geralt's aware that his and Jaskier's companionship appeals to people; he's a dangerous, brooding man who allows only one person to travel with him and live. Not that he'd kill someone just for traveling with him, but Jaskier is the only person that's ever been brave enough to go for it.

"I can tell you thought so, too," Jaskier teases. "Frowning like you don't think I'll notice you giggling on the inside.

He is, but Jaskier shouldn't know that. He shouldn't be comfortable calling Geralt out on it, either, and Geralt suddenly realizes he's allowed Jaskier to know him much too well. There's only the slightest rise in his heartbeat and Geralt doesn't smell any fear or anxiety on him, only amusement and something too sweet for Geralt's taste.

Jaskier should not be this comfortable around him.

Geralt steps forward and Jaskier doesn’t budge. He hasn’t been making good on his threats, has he? Saying he’ll leave Jaskier somewhere to die and then going inconveniently far out of his way to make sure he’s safe and comfortable, instead.

They’re toe to toe, and Jaskier is only looking up expectantly with barely-widened eyes.

Geralt brings both his hands up and clutches Jaskier by the throat.

"That's a brave risk to take," Geralt says low, squeezing enough to feel Jaskier's breath rasp past his thumbs. "I don't believe you know me as well as you think you do."

Jaskier's gaze flickers between Geralt's searing eyes, his bared teeth, and his curled, snarling lip, and Geralt is finally vindicated with a hint of doubt. Not nearly as much as there should be, but it’s a start.

"Maybe not," Jaskier admits. "But I knew you'd think it was funny."

"It doesn't happen again, got it?"

"Of course," Jaskier agrees, breath coming quicker. “Yes, Geralt, okay, it won’t happen again.”

A little more panic. Geralt isn’t keeping him from breathing at all, only keeping him from deeper breaths; only enough to redden his cheeks and make Jaskier’s fingers hover as if to pry Geralt’s hands away but not quite trying to.

Geralt lets Jaskier stew in it another moment. It’s not that he enjoys seeing Jaskier afraid, but he does enjoy seeing Jaskier embarrassed and otherwise knocked down a peg. Maybe he should threaten Jaskier more often.

He releases Jaskier after one last, lingering squeeze.

"Not without a warning, anyway," Geralt amends.

Jaskier’s legs shake as he catches his breath, trying to look casual gasping for air and touching his throat softly.

“You are so mean to me,” Jaskier eventually squawks out, but they’re both laughing. Geralt straightens Jaskier’s collar where he’d caught the fabric and rumpled wrinkles into it, and Jaskier goes into detail about, okay, I should have asked you first but then I wouldn’t have gotten that look on your face, it is so amusing.

It doesn't even occur to him until much, much later, that Jaskier called himself his bard, and Geralt hadn't even noticed.

[arthurmorganthings]

Red Room (2)

Pairing: Pornstar!Arthur/Costar!Fem Reader

Summary: Arthur returns a long awaited favor.

Warning: Contains very detailed depictions of smut.

A/N: for my fellow Arthur hoes @pomini-puttana, @arthursbitch, and @verai-marcel :)

Explicit: +18

You arrive at his condominium promptly after, opting to change into something more fit for the occasion. Your Rolex watch on the wrist and body con dress to compliment the crevices of each curve, cinched tightly to accentuate your hips. Arthur guides you past concierge through the text of his phone. he greets you with a welcoming smile. Comfortably dressed in grey sweatpants and white tank top he pivots his broad self—granting you entry. As you walk past, you can feel his eyes analyzing your choice of wear, sucking in his breath quietly as he shuts the door behind him.

His home was unapologetically modern. Brand new television, white Persian rug with a matching sofa set finish, and a vintage record player. The large windows overlooked the city beautifully though unbeknownst, Arthur was an avid fan of the arts. You'd observe as messy piles of old sketches were scattered in one area in particular. Several studies of contemporary artists filled the off-white walls of his living room. You also notice photos of a child next to what presumably is his mother. His soft blonde locks matched Arthur's, he even has his eyes. 

"It's, it's my son." He confirms, sheepishly. "Isaac."  

You glanced at him as you pondered what to say next. He bears a striking resemblance to his father. Same colored eyes, tan skin complexion, even his locks of hair to the nape of his neck is a painstakingly obvious indicator of Arthur's genetics. 

"How old is he?" You inquire, though you shouldn't—curiosity piques its interest as you observe the woman next to the child in the photo. She looks young, around her mid-twenties. Her brown locks of hair pressed neatly for the family photo; a beat of silence ensues.  

As if hesitant to respond, you add for him. "Unless you're comfortable of course." Another overbearing silence follows causing guilt to wash over you. Arthur returns to the living room with a few candy bars and gummy bears, placing them on the coffee table as he finds comfort next to you.  "Nah, you're alright. He's about five years old. His momma is very protective of 'im. Spoils that kid she does." He mumbles while grabbing the remote. "So, I don't want to seem like some cheesy bastard but I'm about to put on some Netflix. Any recommendations?" 

Giggling on instinct, you nod. "I never pegged you for a Netflix kind of guy." You glance again and you swore that a glint of mischief found him, in that one second. Excitement coursed through your veins at the idea of repeating earlier today. Though he did say he'd be returning the favor, the question would soon come to fruition as to when he'd be able to—perhaps now, or when the movie began to build gradually.   

And it did, Arthur didn't miss a beat to play his favorite western film starring Clint Eastwood. "Well, I ain't too fond of Netflix aside from a few shows. I'm never watchin' TV." Just the way he spoke was enough to voluntarily chafe your thighs together. A gentle reminder of what could potentially happen in a matter of minutes. You nod, reclining even further onto the leather sofa. Arthur isn't as naïve as he may let on, he's a man that slowly builds tension. You'd assume he purposely wore grey sweatpants to tempt you into glancing—your resilience is admirable in that regard, you note mentally. 

"I agree, cable television sucks." You acknowledge, though regretting you worn a dress that ride up to the thighs. It wasn't helping that your slick essence pooled at the center neither, nor you going commando. Almost sure that Arthur seen you sit abruptly, awaiting his response.   

"Sure. Can I ask you a question?" Your heart drops to the center of your stomach before nodding. You glimpse, only to find his emerald-like senses etched to yours. Clearing your throat as you blink.   

"Shoot." Your voice squeaks slightly as you slap yourself mentally for losing your composure in front of Arthur. Admittedly, a man of his stature can be quite intimidating, he is a good man—knowingly.   

"What made you start—uh, you know, filmin?"

You could tell he tried to go about this question respectfully, and you could admire that. You smile at him before releasing a sigh.  

"Nothing too exciting. I felt like life was all about living up to norms, so I figured porn would be a fun way to start." Arthur chuckles, amusingly, admiring your crass language.

"Nothin' too excitin?' you coulda been way off in school than doin' this."  

Again, you shrug, indifferent. "I became an adult film star to rebel against my parents. My father drowned his problems in what money could buy—or what women could charge. My mother never complained, on her way to the bank that is." You reply. "I guess you can say my family is, a bit dysfunctional."  

Arthur blinks, a bit loss for words. He nods in understanding and presses no longer. He averts his attention back to the film. A bit of guilt does linger in his mind, perhaps had he not pressed on about academics, the current tension wouldn't be so awkward.

One thing Arthur could admit to is his wrongs. The last thing he wants is for you to be upset.  

He clears his throat as his eyes stay glued to his high-definition TV. "Listen, I didn't mean to come off as rude. I apologize."  Your brows furrowed before clearing your throat, "Arthur, you've been nothing but good to me."  

"Some things are better left bein' unsaid."   He feels it, your soft, dainty fingers make contact with his thigh. The feel of your hand rub dangerously close to his center.

He balls his fists, in hopes he could keep his brazen side at bay; for a little longer at least. The objective was to make you feel good one way Arthur knew how. You felt his body language grow rigid.

He's holding back. This makes your smirk widen as your fingers finds the outline of his "print," shamelessly hardening at the touch. Palming him, he sucks in a breath before exhaling, his eyes glancing at you in a daze.

"You don't want to do that woman." His voice, a few octaves lower. "Not before I make you feel good first."

"Oh?"  upon initial shock, you find yourself straddling him as if he were some saddle. Your hips gently grinding at where you needed him most. "And what does making me feel good compose of?"

At this point your cunt was throbbing with subdued excitement as you grab Arthur's balled fists, now unraveled against yours, before pressing them onto your breasts. You moan his name softly, but powerful enough for him to grunt. "Tell me, Arthur. How are you going to make me cum?"

You figured it was only a matter of time until Arthur's patience wore thin, surprisingly lasting longer than his set time. You find yourself on your back, atop his expensive couch, devouring your neck while his thick fingers fondle with your pussy.

"You wanna know how I'll make you cum?" Arthur sighs, as his hardened cock grazes your leg. "I've always been a man of action, so why don't I gone head an' show you?"

You gasp, releasing a moan as he encircled your clit with his fingers, teasing you as he trailed down from your neck to your breasts slowly—as if memorizing your body's response to him. He notes how you open yourself to him more when he's at a spot you enjoy, subtle eye contact upon foreplay, and his own response to you.

"Shit." You whisper as his tongue finally reaches where you desperately need them to be. Never mind how drenched your cunt was as Arthur removes your thong with his teeth—when his tongue teases at your inner thigh, he looks up at you to assess the damage.

And oh, was there damage. Your teeth bit painfully deep onto your bottom lip in anticipation. Your neck craned forward while your hand was at the back of Arthur's head.

"Please, ple—oh, fuuuuck." You slurred as his tongue works it's magic at your clit, lapping at your essence while keeping eye contact. Your neck falls back into some pillows while your mouth forms silent 'ohs,' gripping at the locks of his hair, grinding your nether lips into his face.

Your grip on his hair tightened with every painfully slow lap of his mouth, your cries of pleasure only grew in volume, "Yes, keep going just like that."

"Just like that?" he teased. "Or maybe a little more?" He hummed at your lips as he slid his finger inside.

You grew rigid as your jaw fell slack, the squelching of your mound only sounding the room. Your walls tightened as Arthur continued his ministrations, his eyes never leaving yours. Time to time he'd hum, mumbling words like "you taste so good," to push you over the edge.

"Oh fuck, yes." Your voice projects. "Arthurrrr."

His body arises, softly adding another finger as his forehead makes contact with yours. You reached nirvana better than any man could make you reach—you questioned if you'd fallen in love with Arthur with what little time you two spent acquainting yourselves with each other. To make matters worst Arthur uses the pad of his thumb, stimulating your clit as his breath hitches—he knows he has you where he wants you.

Eyes fluttering, clenching of teeth, and hips swiveling in pursuit of your release. You were almost to your peak as you let your body let go, your eyes rolling back as you squirt all over his hands. Your voice was embarrassingly loud, perhaps enough to wake neighbors even.

Arthur didn't allow you intervals of recovery before filling you to the hilt. His cock undeniably hard, you gasp in pleasure as he rams his girth. Your cries of erotic sounds could be heard from far and wide.

Beads of sweat accumulate on your co-stars head as he grunts, his face contorting as his blue eyes find yours. Your heart swirls nearly before your fingers nail his back.

"Fuck." You gasp, "fuck me Arthur—you're so fucking good."

He groans approvingly at your crassness, your ability to tune into your primal mind and let yourself come undone. Arthur smirks as his hands find comfort around your neck, squeezing tenderly as he pistons faster—deeper.

"You like it when I play rough huh darlin'?"

Yes. You loved it, you loved every second of this. His onslaught of rough-play atop his demeanor and bulky self. If you could be underneath Arthur in such a compromising position forever—you would.

Suddenly a change in position shifted as you found yourself on top of Arthur’s body. His hands on the side of your hips as you rode his to bliss. His eyes fluttering close as a familiar tightness in his belly arised. His hands smacked your ass roughly as you slapped your hips harder against his pelvis—his cock grazing the g-spot expeditiously.

“Oh my god, ye—hm, I’m close Arthur.”

“Where do you want me?” You blush at his suggestion, but kept your pace nonetheless. He notes your hesitation, moving his hips at the spot your need him most—you see black.

“Oh fuck–inside me. I want you inside me.”

That was enough to tip the older man over the edge as he pumped his seed deeply, your pussy warm with remnants of him as you remove yourself from his now softening cock.

You collapse on top of him as you both take time to recollect your breathing. There’s a comforting silence as you hear the beat of his heart. His arms wrapped around you tightly as he kisses the back of your head softly. “Not bad for a favor returned Mr. Morgan.”

He chuckles softly before rubbing the small of your back, “Who said anything about the night bein’ done? Darlin’ we just star-“

The conversation cut short by the sound of Arthur’s phone. He apologizes swiftly, motioning for you to sit up as you oblige immediately, though followed by a tinge of curiosity.

“Shit,” He reads the caller ID from his cell.

“What?”

He sighs, a smirk playing on his lips, as if he already knows what’s coming. “It’s the receptionist from the front desk.”

He answers reluctantly, placing the call on speaker. He sighs, “Good evening, Ms. Grimmshaw!”

“Mr. Morgan! Could you please keep it down. Again, I have noise complaints from folk your hall. If you’re going to have company for the love of God control your noise levels. Don’t make me have to kick you and that harlot out!”

Before Arthur could get a word in the line clicked dead, earning an amusing stare from you.

Both of you erupting in a fit of laughter.

=

Debating on if I wanna do the final part but FINALLY, after all of that waiting it’s here :);) enjoy

[warren-lauren]

prompt 4 with Joe or John?

Joe Mazzello x reader

4: SHUT UP! JUST, shut up and kiss me

Warnings: swearing

"Do you need a kiss?"

----------

A kiss. There were so many different types of kisses you and Joe had shared over the years you'd been together. All just as special as each other.

The very first one, you shared on the night your mutual friend, Sebastian, had introduced the pair of you to each other.

"You should do more acting. I loved you in Gossip Girl." Joe beamed at you.

"Gossip Girl? Wow. I did not peg you for a fan of that crap." You teased Joe, receiving an eye roll before the pair of you burst out laughing. "I'm joking. Thank you, but actually, at the moment I'm kinda focusing on stage work." You smiled. "I'm just, really enjoying the magic of theatre... and I love belting out the classic show tunes."

"Who doesn't." Joe winked at you, the pair of you laughing at each other again.

There were a few long seconds of silence as Joe watched you take a sip of your drink and brush a strand of hair behind your ear before you caught him staring. "What?" You blushed.

Joe shook his head grinning. "Do you have, any, idea, how beautiful you are?"

"Oh- No, I- Thank you." You dropped your head so your hair fell over your face slightly.

Joe took a deep breath, "Can I kiss you?" He asked, his arm that as closest to you began to snake it's a way around your waist.

You nodded. "Thought you'd never ask."

Then there was the kiss the two of you shared moments before your first time together.

Hands pulled at each other's clothing and you swapped small pecks and stumbled over to Joe's bed. "Wait," He whispered, taking a hold of your hands in his. "Look at me. Please?"

You smiled lifting your head, smiling softly at him. "What's wrong, Joe?" You whispered, pulling your hand from his grasp to cup his face.

Hw shook his head, letting out a gentle sigh. "Nothing, sweet, just I needed to ground myself before I get lost in the moment." He smiled. "I don't want to rush this, Y/N."

You shook your head and moved closer to him. "Me neither, baby."

There was the 'I love you' kiss. It wasn't a typically romantic moment, actually, it was a rather nasty shouting match.

"Are you kidding me? That's what this is about. Her?" Joe yelled at you as the Pir of you stood in the kitchen. Your romantic dinner was forgotten as you yelled. "Why does it matter so much?"

"Why? Seriously? She's your EX, Joe! And this was OUR night and you wanted her to join us-"

"She's a friend, Y/N!"

"YOUR EX! Who lived here, with you. Your ex who knows more about you than me! It's like, you don't care." You said as tears filled your eyes.

"Of course I care, Y/N. If I didn't I wouldn't be here." He sighed deeply.

"Really? So why ask if she can join? Do you just like making me jealous? Hurting me? Because, if so, you are doing?" You cried turning away.

Joe scoffed. "Oh, come ON! You're being silly. I don't understand why you're acting like this over-"

"BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!" You cried. "Call me selfish, but I don't want some fucking ex of yours here, around you when she broke your heart because you're my fucking everything." Tears fell down your face.

Joe closed the gap between you, pulling you by your waist into him and crashing his lips against yours. Your fingers tangled in his hair as your mouth opened to let his tongue slip in to deepen your kiss. Joe moved his hands down to the backs of your thighs, picking you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist before moving you to the kitchen table. He reached out with one hand and pushed your now cold dinners off, placing you gently on top.

"Hey, look at me," Joe cupped your face in his hands, wiping your tears as he did. He began smiling once your eyes met his. "I love you, too."

You remember the cheeky grin Joe gave you as he held mistletoe over you'd head. 'Got to, it's the rules', he'd said before you gently pressed a kiss to his lips.

The day you moved in together, you both collapsed on your new bed in your new apartment as full boxes were scattered all. Over the place. You turned to look at each other beaming before crashing your lips together.

Jos would always hold you and Kress kisses to your forehead as you snuggled on the sofa or in bed. He'd kiss your cheeks at random moments throughout the day 'just cause I can'. He'd be all dramatic or silly and place sloppy kisses all over your face until you'd squeak and giggle, making him burst out into his own fit of giggles.

The sad kisses he'd give you if someone close to you had passed away, soft, loving, gentle. 'Shh, I know, baby. I know'. You'd like his face gently in your hands as you both cried, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose. 'All better?'

Kisses. It seemed there was a kiss for every occasion.

"Will you marry me?" Joe grinned up at you from where he knelt in front of you.

The two of you were going over some lines when he got on one knee.

"What? That's not in my script. Are you reading the--oh." Tears filled your eyes as you looked down at his gorgeous face.

"I know it's not the most romantic way, buy-"

You jumped on Joe, falling to the floor as your lips crashed into his. 'Yes! Yes! Yes!'. You squealed as you peppered his face with kisses, the pair of you giggling.

"Oh, thank God!" Joe let out a relieved sigh. "Can I put this o- Oh, shit!"

Unlike most engagement nights, you spent yours on your hands and knees searching for your engagement ring.

Kisses. It seems there's one for every moment in your relationship with Joe.

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

"I need to tell you something, Joe." You smiled nervously F him, the two of you cuddled on the sofa.

"Sure, baby." He nodded, kissing the top of your head.

"Okay, so, you know we said we'd wait a good year after we were married before we started thinking about kids," You looked up to him.

Joe nodded. "Right. Do you want to wait longer, sweet? Two years? I guess that would make more sense, what with using both taking new projects on."

"I'm pregnant, Joe." You smiled at him.

He stared at you for a couple of seconds in silence, his eyes wide, almost like he was internally panicking. "Or now," He cleared his throat, quickly getting to his feet and began pacing. "You're pregnant? How? I mean, how? I thought we were safe, with, whatever, we, do-" He rambled.

You rolled your eyes, smiling. "Joe,"

"It's okay. We're okay. We wanted a baby, or two, three, fuck, we'll have a dozen of them-"

"Joe," You smiled. "Do you need a kiss?"

He nodded. "I need to get rid of Cardi-"

"JOE!" You jumped up to your feet. "SHUT UP! JUST, shut up and kiss me." You grinned, placing your hands over his cheeks.

He nodded, finally taking a breath before you kissed. You smiled at each other as you rested your forehead together. "We're having a baby?" He asked with a giggle.

You nodded grinning. "We are." You leaned in to give him another kiss when he pulled back gasping. "What?"

"Can we call him-"

"I swear to God, if you say Ben-"

"I'm teasing." He grinned, pulling you in for another kiss. "I love you."

[imhereforbvcky]

A Safe Place - Part 2

Summary: Steve Rogers has never been afraid of sacrifice, especially for the ones he loves. This time, when he might really be lost, what sacrifices will you be driven to for love?

Prompt:  “I wish you had chosen me.”

Word Count: 4032

Warnings: angst, mission injury, possible character death

Author’s Note: Well I’m a big fat liar and this took me way longer than expected. Sorry! I was honestly sick for 4 whole weeks. Like, “this medicine should help but if you start coughing blood go to the hospital” sick. So here we are! 2 weeks late. It’s stupid long for a multi-chapter though, so hopefully that makes up for it.

A shaft of light pierced through the dark like a dagger into the dusty crater that imprisoned him. At first, Steve had winced at its sharp glare. It taunted him, hope and fear mingled in one single shaft of bright white sunlight.

Heavy whining machinery lifted away the debris, loosened crumbling concrete to skitter around him. Dust snaked like smoke through the beam of light, darkening it, clouding it.

Eventually, the grinding machines and the growing light brought with it a burst of fresh air. It moved like a breeze through his precarious rubble cavern and caressed his skin.

He’d spent uncountable hours trying not to wonder what regenerating cells would do over a lifetime of being buried alive. When the cool air touched his skin it felt like a stream and he became so overwhelmed with the sensation that his eyes began to water and he laughed. Actually laughed.

The beam still lay heavy and immovable across his leg; he could no longer feel his toes. He kept trying to wiggle them, rotate his ankle, anything to keep the blood moving. He had no idea if it was working.

The numbness, although it scared him, had been a gift. He could sleep again, could dream and escape.

Unfortunately, even blessings are a curse in a hell such as this.

He’d lost all track of time and for a body full of cells like his, cells that regenerate and repair at unnatural pace and vitality, time could be hours or it could be days, or weeks.

That shaft of light, that first taste of air that wasn’t clouded with concrete dust and carnage, brought with them as much uncertainty as they did relief.

Unfettered joy became tempered with fear when the sound of unfamiliar voices reached his ears.

Longing turned sour with dread when he realized the language they spoke was unfamiliar to his ears. Unsure if they were hostile or indifferent, he could anticipate nothing. Just as hope had begun to bloom it crumbled to dust. He was choking on it, dry and bitter on his tongue, filling his nostrils, gritty in his eyes.

He could do nothing but wait.

Wait and focus on a reason to climb out of this whole in the ground, to fight, to live. He needed to remember to hope.

He’d stayed late at the office, nodding firmly as each lingering SHIELD agent slipped out for the night. They returned to their lives and their families.

Steve had his work and he buried himself in it. Anything to avoid his apartment with its perfectly crisp sheets and military-sharp pressed shirts. Its order and emptiness only reminded him, every second, of all he’d lost and how undoubtedly he no longer belonged.

The instant he’d enlisted back in 1942 he’d known he didn’t belong there either, not really. He knew that home was not a luxury he could count on any longer. Hell, he knew it long before the war. He’d lost his family young, had had to strike out on his own, make do, find his own way.

The harsh realities of the average life had taught him that home was not a place, but the people in it. Short of that, it was merely a fragile and ephemeral feeling. He’d lost most of that well before the war. Except for Bucky and the war had taken that too.

Now, he was awake in a world he hardly recognized and nothing and no one felt familiar.

Except for the song now drifting down the hall.

The piano reached his ears in a thin, tinny wave. But that’s exactly how he remembered it anyway, piping through the old speakers of his small box radio way back when. The voice was robust and warm, nonetheless; just how it always was. Ella Fitzgerald.

It called to him, tugged at him like a rope tied right around his chest, and he found himself walking silently, wistfully, down the hall toward the familiar sound.

A soft laugh nearly rushed past his lips when he finally found the source. But he held it back with a smile that tightened his cheeks.

Clearly, like him, you’d thought yourself alone in the building, so late after hours with only a scattered few hall lights still lit. Your phone called out the song as you swayed and hummed along, waiting for the copier.

Steve, always one for rash decisions and quick emotions, was somehow slow to love, cautious and guarded with his heart. But here, in the dim office with an echo of the past soft in his ear, he couldn’t help an immediate fondness from blooming for you. For this stranger who danced and hummed for no one’s pleasure but your own. For the charm of someone who seemed to enjoy the quiet and the classic.

Seemingly entranced, frozen with a smile and an amused tilt of the head, Steve leaned against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. He was content to be a mere bystander to your apparent happiness; to let it soothe some ache, some ever unspoken want for such untroubled contentment for himself.

It wasn’t until you snatched up the papers the copier had expelled, and turned with a grandiose twirl in his direction, singing the lines as the tune swooped low and sweet that he realized his mistake.

“’…that music I hear. I get misty, the moment you’re near’—GAH!” you shrieked, throwing the papers as your hand flew to your chest.

He startled, too, at your shout. The thrown papers now drifted to the floor at his feet like giant dancing snowflakes.

“Oh god. ’M sorry!” he fretted, immediately kneeling after your scattered work.

Caught between shock and laughter, you could only stare on, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I… you uhm…” you stammered, finally reaching for the last few sheets. “I didn’t peg you for a spy, Rogers – er, Captain? Steve? Sorry I don’t think we’ve met. I don’t know what to call you.”

“Please, just Steve,” he blushed. “And I’m an awful spy. Not a spy, at all. Romanoff can vouch for that.”

He was so relieved to hear your gracious laugh, so glad that he hadn’t clouded the levity he’d intruded upon, that he laughed too.

It was soft and polite, almost thin sounding, but only from nerves and nothing at all disingenuous. Lucky for him, he had a warm nature when he wasn’t Captain America. You found “Just Steve” rather endearing.

“Well,” you shrugged with a dismissive smile, “her standards are impossibly high. You managed to sneak up on me, so that’s something, right?”

“I was lucky, you seemed kind of distracted.”

His smile was blinding. Like staring into a fire: warm and bright, mesmerizing if you let yourself linger too long in the glow.

After too long a pause, you finally nodded and picked up your phone. With a flick of your wrist, you flashed the screen toward him in agreement before shoving it in your pocket.

“Can’t resist a sing-along. I love Ella.”

“So do I,” he agreed. “Reminds me of… I don’t know. Something familiar. ’I’m Making Believe’ was all over the radio in ’44.”

He remembers the way your hair swam into his line of sight far before the rest of you passed across the doorway. He remembers the glint in your eye when you leaned half of your body into his office on another late night in a deserted government building. Mostly he remembers the laughter in your voice.

It was a sound he could always detect. He heard it when you popped in like this; whenever you answered his calls. Hell, he could even hear it in his head when you texted.

“Busy or bored?” you asked with only the dim yellow glow of his desk lamp to light your features.

The smirk passed his lips before he spoke. “Bit of both.”

“Mmm busywork to cure the boredom, I know that trick well,” you hummed, gliding into the room. “I think you and I could probably hold our own workaholics anonymous meeting.”

He laughed and agreed, quietly enjoying your smiles.

“We could uh… hold the inaugural meeting tonight if you wanted?”

Steve’s heart stuttered in his chest at your offer. His eyes danced over the hopeful little smile curling your lips, up to the nervous lift of your eyebrows. He wanted to memorize every line of your face, every bright hope and warm thought that beamed up at him through it.

“There’s a piano bar I go to sometimes after a late night,” you explained. “It’s kind of a hole in the wall. Dark, and a little dingy, but the bartender’s a total whiskey geek, can mix a damn good drink. And the music is out of this world.”

“It sounds…” he struggled for the right word. ‘Perfect’ came to mind… It sounded exactly like the kind of place he’d have found himself with Peggy during the war, or sliding into on his own when Bucky had run off with a girl, before. Out of the way, familiar, warm. All things Steve craved and needed in his life, now when it seemed devoid of any of them.

He must have been quiet too long, drifted too far. You were ducking out of the room now, with a gracious smile and a slight heat rising in your cheeks.

“Well… No pressure. Think I’ll head over for a drink, see who’s playing tonight,” you shrugged, brushing off the question still hanging in the air. “I’ll um… I’ll hang out in the lobby a few minutes if you want to join me. But either way, you should check it out sometime. Really, you’d love it.”

“You don’t have to wait,” he blurted as he rose to his feet. They were the first words that came to him but, damn it, did he regret them the second they left his tongue.

“Oh,” you nodded, glancing down at your feet for a quick moment to compose yourself. “Okay. No worries.” A less than full smile. “I’ll see you on Monday, then.”

“No, no!” Steve pled, rounding his desk in three long strides, “I meant, I’d love to go. Don’t wait in the lobby, I’ll come with you. Now.”

“Oh!” you laughed, and god, he was relieved to hear that sound in your voice again, see it in your eyes. “You really make a girl work for it, eh?” you joked, playfully leaning your shoulder into his as you walked side by side toward the elevators.

He laughed, looking at his feet as he shook his head. “Sorry.” The elevator chimed its arrival. “You um, caught me by surprise, I guess.”

“Mmm, I do love a good surprise.” You leaned back against the wall of the elevator.

“Yeah?” he asked, “Could I--?”

Once again he stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head. ‘Could I ask you to dance? Could I kiss you? Could I take you out sometime?’ All of them seemed like viable options, all of them battled with his nature. Any of them would be surprising for him.

He laughed, considering how monumentally unprepared he was for modern romance, and thanking whatever god would listen that you had been braver.

He watched you tilt your head, a smile turning into a confused little laugh. It was just a light huff of a breath, a flash of white teeth and soft lips curling, but it was enough. He made up his mind. He could be braver, too.

Embracing contradiction, Steve stepped closer. With one hand sliding over the side of your neck he let go of the slow path, the traditional, and embraced the surprise of something new.

He kissed you gently, just a soft press of lips, warm and inviting. He was somehow soft and firm all at once, holding you steady but easing gently against you. New and familiar, warm and fresh. He was nervous but content all at once.

He pulled back from you, still gently cupping your neck, thumb rubbing over the line of your jaw. 

While your hands had made the lightest fists in the front of his dark, crisp button-up, holding him against you. Something between a sigh and a chuckle passed your tingling lips. Steve didn’t think he’d ever tire of that sound.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

His long dark lashes blinked reluctantly open.

Steve slowly blinked away the dry scratchy dust from his eyes. It wasn’t your flushed lips or laughing voice that greeted him, though. The sun had gone and all he could see was a cloud of dust and the removal team in their thick equipment inching ever closer but attempting neither to understand him nor speak to him.

As the day had worn on and the debris was slowly lifted away, the crew, hidden beneath hard hats and ventilation masks, obscured by the darkness and the blinding glare of the work lights, finally stopped. The nearest ones shouted muffled and unfamiliar cries to those above.

The dust had settled on them too, here in this subterranean hell. He wondered if the firearms clipped to their hips would still fire correctly coated with this dust. He tried not to think about why the hell a construction evac crew needed firearms.

Finally down to the beam pinning him down, they paused, gathered around him, pointing and arguing. He couldn’t understand a word.

“Just do it.” He didn’t expect them to listen, even if they understood. But he was ready for this nightmare to end, one way or another.

It had been a very long time since he’d felt this vulnerable. There was only one thought on his mind, one person he’d held on for, and sitting here crushed under this steel, buried in concrete, doing nothing, brought you and your laugh and your lazy mornings and your out-dated taste in music no closer.

There was only one way out. Only one way to hell or to home.

“Do it!” he shouted. Again they paused and looked to the leader of the removal operation who gave a quick nod and began climbing part way up the cavern.

“It’s going to hurt,” one of them warned in a thick accent before climbing away from the danger.

He knew this already. But he swallowed and nodded anyway, bracing for the pain.

As the beam lifted away and he began to shift and shuffle back with his elbows he felt nothing but relief. So much that he began to laugh again, desperate and wild.

But it wasn’t long before the blood began to flow through his legs, and with it, sensation returned. He began to feel again. The laughter turned to curses in an instant. He could scarcely remember a time he’d experienced this much pain.

He cried out, there in the wreckage, surrounded by enemies. He couldn’t stop it. It ripped up his throat as the agony poured from every cell.

Broken. He felt completely exhausted, drained, and very simply broken.

The body – even his enhanced one – was not meant to withstand such trauma, to sustain such exhaustion. A heavy black daze swam at the edges of his brain and pushed at the corners of his vision when he heard a swift succession of pops. Gunfire.

The extraction leader, the one who’d climbed to high ground, stood over the rim firing down into the pit.

At first Steve tried to make himself small, covered his head and neck. He knew he had to move when he heard the wet squish of bullets breaking skin and the groan-shuffle-thud of bodies sinking to the ground around him.

Completely devoid of energy, he panted heavily as he tried to crawl away. The shooter clambered down toward him through the rubble.  

The pain shot through him like a knife, slicing from his waist straight down to his toes the instant he tried to rise to his feet. A gasping sob burst from his chest with more force than he thought he had left anymore.

“It’s okay, I’m here!” the shooter called and he froze.

His heart stuttered in his chest, just like it had done in his office all that time ago, when he was happy and safe and you were beautiful and new but familiar all at once. He’d been dreaming of that voice, remembering it to stay alive and now he didn’t dare believe it was anything more than a phantom.

“Don’t,” he breathed, horse and tired, collapsing back to the ground. He made tight fists in the dirt as the pain pressed the darkness in closer around him.

“’M right here,” the voice promised with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He blinked up at the worker, helmet and mask, covered in dust. A cloud of it billowed at the shooter’s rapid movement, swallowing them both together.

Steve still wasn’t sure if he could trust his own senses. Hell, they were the very words he’d been replaying in his head again and again. An early morning, warm down blankets, soft skin, and whispered comfort. ‘I’m here. ‘M right here.’

“Jesus, Steve.”

All at once, he could hear everything. He knew it was you because he could hear the grief in the little quiver of your voice, and the anger in the hiss on the ‘s’ of his name. It had to be you.

The knot in his throat gave way. Half a sob, half a laugh and his hands wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close. So close, but it would never be near enough. Not anymore.  Not after this.

Your own hands dug into his filthy blue suit with equal fervor. You couldn’t stop grasping at him. Your hands moved quickly from his shoulders, down his arms, holding his hands, then up to cup his face, gripping in his tangled, dusty hair. It was like the more your touched him, the more real he felt. He was alive, he was in your arms, and you would bring him home.

“What the hell were you thinking, huh?” you cried against his hair when he finally burrowed into your shoulder in exhausted relief. “Fucking hell, Steve! You didn’t come back and they said… I thought…”

The walkie-talkie clipped to your shoulder burst to life and you cursed under your breath. This wasn’t the time to break down, to cry and to comfort. Not yet. This was a rescue. It was a mission.

“We gotta move,” you urged after swallowing your fear and your anger and your worry with a deep shivering breath.

“Move now?” Steve groaned as you stooped under his arm, hauling him to his feet. “Are you alone?” He winced through the demand, but with your hand around his waist, and half of his weight leaning over you, he stood.

“Well, no I let those goons do the heavy lifting,” you winked, nodding toward a couple of the bodies lying a few feet away, covered in concrete dust and blood. “But I’m pretty sure they wanted to take you hostage, so I couldn’t really let them finish the job.”

“Where’s your back-up?” he scowled. “What if there had been more? What if one of them…?”

“Yeah, I mean, what if a building fell on top of me?” you peaked an eyebrow before giving as much of a shrug as you could manage under Steve’s massive weight. “No backup. The Agency isn’t quite as loyal as the Avengers. Collateral damage is an inevitability. Lucky for you, I love you too much to let you become another number in a mission report.”

As you spoke, the pair of you worked your way out of the hole where the building used to be. Straining for every step, grunting with the weight you supported, together you made steady progress out of the darkness of the cavern.

“So when you’re out on an assignment,” he huffed, hauling his waist over the rim of the debris and onto soft, brown earth. “And I’m at home telling myself, ‘Don’t worry. No man left behind; it’ll be fine,’ and all that shit…”

You shook your head, smiling as you panted heavily. Why did you have to pick the biggest of the selfless soldiers for your boyfriend?

“That’s the Marines, handsome,” you laughed. “CIA’s more about cost-benefit analysis. S’why they’ve got so many analysts.”

He let his back fall to the ground, catching his breath, and letting you catch yours. His cheek fell to the still sun-warmed dirt as he rolled his head to watch you chuckle at your own joke. The sound was sweeter than he’d remembered it.

“This might not be the best time to discuss it,” he panted. Your eyes were closed, conserving energy, but your brows rose, interested. “But I think you should look for a new job.”

You laughed again. This one erupted from you with surprise and a heavy taste of bitterness. He wanted so badly to reach over and brush the sweeping lashes dusting your round, smiling cheeks.

“Yeah, about that. Know anybody who’s hiring?” You curled to your feet. You’d gotten Steve out of the debris but not yet to safety. This was still hostile territory. “I sort of threatened the Director of Covert Operations to get here.”

“You what?!”

“I wish you had chosen me,” you shrugged, drawing his weight over your shoulders again. “Y’know. For your mission? Your team? Maybe neither of us would be here right now and I’d still have a job.”

He shook his head and a small breath of a laugh managed past his burning lungs. “Next time.”

You tried to still the shudder in your chest at that thought, the urge to cry, to plead with him that no, it was enough. He’d done enough. No more.

You hated seeing him come home beat up, but this was… this was something else. He hadn’t come home at all. It scared the shit out of you.

“They’re okay, you know. Your team.” You swallowed the lump in your throat. This wasn’t the time. Really, deep down, you knew he could never give it up, this life. Would never. You could either support him; love him and his stupid reckless bravery. Or you could let him go. Your very presence here evidenced the latter was never going to be an option. Not while it was up to you.

“All of ‘em?” he asked through shallow huffs, exhausted from even the little progress you were making toward the tree line.

You nodded. “Well you know Clint, but overall no worse for the wear.”

A deep sigh left his chest and you felt it everywhere. The tension across his shoulders, straining up his spine, stretched over your own frame seemed to ease just a little as you helped him over a downed tree. Relief.

“Sam’s got a bird on the other side of that ridge,” you nodded toward the hill a quarter mile ahead. “He’s gonna get us out of here. ‘N we’ll get you fixed up.”

The voice at the back of your mind complained, wanted to riot. That part of you that forgot pride and resented duty hated how the world used Captain America and the others as a shield for the chaos of their own making. They let him break himself again and again.

Yeah, someone would fix him up. Just in time to send him marching right back out. The world didn’t see ‘just Steve,’ they saw a warrior.

But sometimes Steve surprised you. Sometimes he needed you more than the world thought they needed him.

“Then we’ll sleep in,” he sighed, pausing to look up at the hill that stood between him and all the bright lazy mornings he’d come to love. All the soft tinny music, all the sweet slow kisses, all the feather light strokes of fingertips over sun-warmed skin, all the whispered words. Safety. Comfort. Home. They all lay just over that ridge.

He pressed his lips to the side of your head, nose crinkling up with the weight. Long dark eyelashes, covered in concrete dust caked solid with hours of sweat and pain, flitted closed. With a thick, wet rasp, he whispered into your hair. “For a long while.”

I’ll reblog with tags shortly

[ukulelecal]

Biggest Fan pt. 5

In which you’re a famous singer and Calum is a fan of your music.

Warnings: none? 

Pairing: Calum Hood x Reader

Requested By: Anonymous originally

“hi can you do a blurb on calum where you’re also famous and u find out he’s interested in you and low key loves your music? shebjdjsj idk jus make it fluffy and ill love u forever“

A/N: hell YEAH!!! so, as usual: do you guys want me to continue this? tell me what you thought!!! i love for feedback!! if you want more parts i can add some uhh angst and some uhh smut

Requests are CLOSED! 

*Gif not mine*

Series Masterlist

Calum returned home from tour about a month ago, and you couldn’t be happier.

You couldn’t meet him at the airport in LA when he got back. Both of you being there at the same time would have been too hectic, so you agreed to wait till the next day to see each other.

You met him at his apartment that next day, and he had pulled you into the biggest hug you’d ever experienced, and gracefully smashed his lips against yours.

It was a pretty good day.

He was now in your apartment, and you were both sitting in the small room that you had dubbed your music room. All your instruments were scattered about, and you had awards hung up on the walls. It was like a safe space for you, where you knew you could express yourself without a care in the world. It’s where you’d written some of your best music.

Calum was sat at the piano, messing around with some chord progressions, and you were on the couch, desperately trying to tune your acoustic guitar that had been giving you a problem for a couple weeks now.

“Need help?” Calum finally chuckled, taking his fingers off the keys. You groaned and held it out to him, and he set it on his lap.

“Stupid thing has been out of tune for like, two weeks,” you mumbled, slumping down on the couch. “The pegs are hardly moving and I haven’t been bothered to fix it.”

Calum snickered at you, softly shaking his head. You watched him as he worked, and you couldn’t help but admire the way his fingers easily twisted the pegs, and smoothly got the guitar back in tune.

“Thanks,” you grinned, taking the instrument and setting it back in your lap.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart had become Calum’s favorite pet name for you. He frankly used it just as much as he used your real name, and it brought a smile to your face every time.

The both of you continued to fool around on the instruments, experimenting with random sounds and tunes. It was relaxing; you and Calum did it a lot, just each gave each other some space and made some music.

“We should write a song together,” you randomly suggested, placing your hand over the strings of your guitar to stop the sound.

Calum stopped playing as well, looking over at you. The corners of his mouth were slowly turning up at the idea.

“We should,” he agreed, turning the piano stool to face you. “Just us two or is my band included in this?”

You laughed, shrugging.

“We can write it ourselves, and then decide if they’re going to be on it when we record it.”

“Record it? Like, actually?”

“I mean, yeah. We don’t have to release it if we don’t want to, but we can have it for ourselves still.”

He paused a moment before shaking his head.

“I want to release it. I mean, pretty much everyone already knows we’re dating, but I think the song could be a cute way to make it official, you know? And we could always write more in the future, just for us.”

You smiled lovingly at that. It was true that everyone had their suspicions about your relationship; not that that was anything new. Another leaked photo of you and him walking his dog, Duke, together a couple weeks before pretty much verified it for the world. No one exactly needed anything to make it official, but based on the mostly positive reactions you had been getting, people would love it.

It was also true that you could write more songs later. With both of you being fairly high profile people, you could only keep your relationship so private, but having your own unreleased songs was one thing you could have for yourselves, one thing the public didn’t have to know about you.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you mumbled, and Calum turned the stool to face the piano again. He then scooted over to make room for you, patting the space next to him with a wide grin on his face.

You set your guitar down and grabbed some paper and a couple pencils from your desk, placing them on top of the piano. You sat down next to him, the small stool making for a tight fit, but neither of you minded. Calum bent his head down, pressing a kiss against the top of your head.

“Let’s write a killer song, sweetheart.”

-

Many hours, a few cups of coffee, and a couple breaks consisting of making out and quick back massages, and you had a song. A great one.

Both of you were in love with it. The lyrics were special to you, the instrumentals flowed perfectly, and you knew everyone else was going to love it too.

As soon as the song was finished and you shared a celebratory kiss, you and Calum collapsed onto the couch, both of you too tired to make it to your bedroom, falling asleep almost instantly. It was almost three in the morning when you finished, and songwriting could be exhausting.

The next morning, you woke to find yourself alone on the couch, curled up in a ball. And freezing. You and Calum fell asleep without a blanket, but he was a human space heater. He kept you warm all night, but now you had nothing.

Shivering, you sat up, wrapping your arms around yourself to try to keep at least a little bit warm. The smell of bacon filled your nose, signalling to you that Calum was making breakfast. You smiled to yourself, pushing yourself up off the couch and walking into the kitchen.

Calum was standing at the counter, sticking pieces of bread into the toaster. He turned around at the sound of your footsteps, a smile spreading across his face. He opened his arms for you, and you scurried over to him.

“Good morning,” he mumbled as he pulled you into a hug, and you tilted your head up to give him a kiss. You sighed in content, relishing in the warmth radiating off of him. “I was just making - Jesus, Y/N, you’re freezing!”

He had pulled away from the hug, reaching for your hands, but immediately jerked away when he felt them. You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Well I wouldn’t be if the person who was keeping me warm didn’t get up,” you mumbled with a teasing tone. Calum rolled his eyes, but the grin on his face told you he was only being playful. He pulled his sweatshirt off his torso and handed it over to you, leaving him in only a t-shirt and his basketball shorts.

“Should keep you warm, baby,” he said with a wink, and you glady slipped the clothing on. You were practically swimming in it, but it was comfortable, definitely warm, and smelled like him, so you couldn’t complain at all.

“Thank you, bub,” you mused with a smile, standing on your toes to peck his lips. He smiled back down at you, and then forced his expression to a serious one.

“I’m not getting that back, am I?”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Nope.”

He let out an over exaggerated sigh, and it was his turn to peck your lips.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he joked, and you shrugged innocently in response. “Anyway, breakfast?”

“Yes, please!” You exclaimed dramatically, and Calum chuckled at your enthusiasm. You helped him finish up the food, and then you sat down to eat.

“I was thinking I could call John later, and he can help us record our song. Maybe get Ashton to play drums for us,” Calum suggested after he polished off his serving of eggs. You figured the John he was referring to was John Feldmann, a friend of his and the band’s. You had never met the man, but Calum had all good things to say about him. Ashton was of course his bandmate and best friend, who you had only met a couple times - very briefly in Chicago, and one more time when Calum got you to come to his apartment to meet all the boys after they got back from tour - but had definitely taken a liking to. He was a fun guy to hang out with.

You nodded in agreement, swallowing down the bite of toast in your mouth.

“Sounds good.” You grabbed your napkin and wiped your hands and mouth. “You can play bass, obviously, and I can play guitar.”

“Yeah, and maybe we can split the piano part.”

“Okay. You have to do that part with the accidentals you wrote, though, I seriously cannot play it.”

Calum kicked your shin under the table, and you kicked him back out of instinct, causing a whole game of footsie to break out. Laughter sounded from both of you, clutching your stomach. You stopped kicking, both of you trying to catch your breath. You were overjoyed. Playing footsie and laughing with Calum was such a special thing to you, even if it seemed lame.

Calum was a special thing to you.

“Alright, alright, I’ll play it,” he said, a light pink tint to his cheeks.

You finished up breakfast, and Calum sent out texts to John and Ashton. You both also texted your management, who were very supportive of the idea and promised to get everything arranged.

“John said we can meet him at the studio at 4:30, and Ash is on board too,” Calum said, coming back into the room after he got off the phone with John, who called Calum immediately after he texted. “Does that work for you?”

You nodded, shoving your hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt.

“Yep, I have no plans.”

Calum nodded, sliding his phone into the pocket of his shorts and coming up to where you sat at the table, placing his hands on your shoulders.

“I should head home. I have to change and feed Duke and stuff, but I’ll pick you up on the way to the studio, okay?”

You smiled and stood up to meet him, his hands never leaving your shoulders.

“Text me when you’re on your way?” You asked, and he agreed. You walked him to the door, leaning in to kiss him after he slipped on his shoes.

“Bye, sweetheart.”

“See you later,” you said with a smile, shutting the door behind him.

During the time between Calum leaving and then returning to pick you up to go to the studio, you took a quick shower and made yourself presentable, making sure to put Calum’s hoodie back on. It was the first piece of clothing you had gotten from him, and you were in love with it already. He was definitely not getting it back.

You got a text from him around 4:15, saying he was here. You grabbed everything you needed; your guitar that you had transferred to a case, the papers with the song written on them, your phone. The studio should have anything else you needed.

You walked outside to Calum’s car, and he quickly got out of the car to help you put your guitar in the trunk.

“Hey,” he greeted, hand on the small of your back as he leaned down to kiss you and lead you to the back of his car. Once you got your guitar in, laying it next to his bass, you got in the car and drove off to whatever studio John and Ashton were meeting you at. It wasn’t the studio you normally worked at, but you had driven by before.

You and Calum grabbed your instruments from the trunk and headed inside, finding John and Ashton were already there, waiting for you.

“Hey, guys,” Calum greeted, causing the men to look up.

“What’s up, Cal?” John exclaimed with a smile, going to hug him. Ashton came up to you, easily pulling you in for a hug.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N,” he said cheerfully, and you grinned up at the dimpled man.

“Yeah, you too!”

You felt a gentle hand return to the small of your back, and Calum pulled you back to his side.

“John, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is John Feldmann.”

You extended your hand with a smile, and the man firmly shook it.

“It’s great to meet you,” you said, bringing your hand back and readjusting your grip on your guitar case.

“You as well,” he responded with a grin. “My daughter and I love your music.”

“Thank you,” you chuckled, and you felt Calum pull you a tad closer.

“Alright, let’s see this song you guys have.”

You and Calum got out your instruments, and you showed them everything you had written. You both sang the lyrics for them, and showed them the instrument parts. John and Ashton loved it, praising you for your collaboration. They made some suggestions, which made the song even better, and you helped Ashton figure out a drum part. Then, it was time to start recording.

You recorded the instruments first. You played your guitar first, then Calum on bass, Ashton on drums, and you and Calum split up the piano part.

When it was time for vocals, you and Calum recorded your solo parts before your parts together. The entire time you were singing alone, Calum was watching you with a love struck look in his eyes. He admired how beautiful your voice sounded, the way your eyes fluttered shut as you got into it.

You looked like an angel.

You did the same during Calum’s turn. His voice was a godsend, and you felt chills run down your spine as he hit his notes perfectly.

Then you had to record your parts that you sang together, and you both entered the booth and slipped pairs of headphones over your ears. Once John gave you the okay, you started singing, and the two men outside were in awe.

Your voices melded together perfectly. You were able to harmonize beautifully, and John and Ashton didn’t miss the quick glances filled with adoration that you two made towards each other. They grinned at each other; they could tell you really liked each other, and they were happy that their friend was happy.

After everything was recorded, everyone sat down to put it all together. John layered the parts together professionally, everyone listening closely to make sure it was perfect. You had to record a few things again, but soon enough, the song was done.

“Congratulations, guys,” Ashton said, exchanging hugs with everyone. “You’ve got yourselves a fucking awesome song.”

“Thanks so much for helping,” you returned, lacing your fingers with Calum’s.

“We really appreciate it,” he continued for you, giving your hand a squeeze.

“Glad we could do it,” John smiled.

You all exchanged your final goodbyes before parting ways, John and Ashton heading to their respective cars while you and Calum walked over to his car. You put your cases in the trunk, and right when Calum pushed the door shut, you threw your arms around his torso, pulling him tightly to you.

He chuckled, returning the gesture and wrapping his strong arms around you.

“We have our own song, babe,” you breathed out, looking up at him with a smile.

You were in disbelief, honestly. The thought of a collaboration wasn’t strange to you, but the thought of doing one with your boyfriend was different. It meant something.

Calum felt similarly. He wrote songs and sang with his band all the time, but a duet was a little more foreign to him, and. he loved it. He loved singing with just you.

“I know,” he laughed softly, shaking his head. He kissed your forehead, and you couldn’t help but sigh in content at the feeling. “I’m so excited, sweetheart.”

“Me too.”

-

Some time had passed since you recorded your song, and you were finally ready to announce it. All of the logistics got worked out, cover art was created, and the song was ready to go up.

You were practically trembling with excitement while driving to Calum’s place. You were planning on tweeting to announce the song, both of you saying the same thing at the same time.

You parked the car and headed up to his apartment, rapping on the door with your knuckles. It opened pretty quick, revealing a smiling Calum.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he mumbled, greeting you with a kiss.

“Hey, bubba,” you responded and happily accepted his affection. “You ready?”

“More than ready.”

He lead you into his living room. It was a tad messy, but that was something you had grown used to. You snuggled up on the couch, you in his lap with your back against his chest.

“What should we say?”

You discussed a caption for a few minutes, and included a picture of the cover art; the photo was of you and Calum lying in a bed of roses, eyes fixed on each other while laughing. You were supposed to have serious faces, but you couldn’t contain your laughter, and ended up actually liking that picture better. The title of the song was printed across the top, and your names across the bottom.

Once you both had the tweet typed out, Calum spoke up.

“On three?”

You nodded, taking a deep breath.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

You hit send, and then it was official.

“LA VILLE DE L’AMOUR. Our new song PARIS out Friday.”

[nerdiests]

duet of dimensions

so this isn’t my normal sort of thing, but i wrote something for the @linkeduniverse au by @jojo56830 for the LU discord’s weekly prompt - music!! here goes nothing!!

If one was going to get technical about the whole situation, it started with Four. Four and his very in-tune whistling. While everyone had been going about setting up camp for the evening, Four had started whistling like it was something he did all the time. Which it most certainly was not. Hyrule decided to comment on that fact.

“That’s some really good whistling!” And just like that, not only did Four stop his whistling, the rest of the group’s attention was drawn to the two of them.

“Uh. Thanks?” Four seemed awkward. Oh goodness. The intention wasn’t for everything to be all awkward! Hyrule had just wanted to pay a compliment, and now there was all this… Attention.

“I just wanted to compliment it because I don’t have much music skills and I just thought it was real good whistling! You’ve never really done that before,” Hyrule replied. Four chuckled a bit, moving to continue setting up camp. Hyrule did as well, along with the rest of the group.

“Oh, that’s all I can really do. I’m real good at whistling, but if you try and get me to sing anything I will end up singing horribly out of tune,” Four said as he unpacked his bedroll from his pack.

“I can conduct! And I know a lot of sea shanties!” Wind butted in from across the camp, drawing everyone’s attention. Wind didn’t hesitate for a moment, and took a deep breath.

“What will you do with a drunken sai-” Before Wind could finish even the first verse of what was apparently a sea shanty, someone tactfully cleared their throat. Warriors coughed a few times, while Wind pouted a bit.

“Shouldn’t we finish setting up camp first?” Warriors suggested, and Wind nodded, looking a bit down. As everyone continued to set up everything  Wild started to pull together the ingredients for that night’s dinner, surprisingly Time spoke up.

“Why don’t we all do something musical after we have dinner tonight?” he suggested, and Wind perked back up. Hyrule also looked enthusiastic, and Wild had a slight grin on his face. Though that may have been from what he was cooking at the time… Either way, most everyone was fairly excited at the prospect. Legend wasn’t, but that wasn’t anything unusual.

Four’s whistling continued as camp continued to be set up, and as Wild went about making dinner for the night. It continued as dinner was served, and had a brief reprieve as everyone ate. And the topic came up again as the group discussed over the stew Wild had made.

“I’ve actually whistled in four part harmony with a few of my friends before,” Four said, and there were a few raised eyebrows from across the group.

“That’s so cool! But how can you even do that?” Wind asked, and Four shrugged.

“I’m assuming it’s like singing in harmony, but feel free to correct me,” Four replied, looking out at the rest of the group. No one spoke up, though Legend grumbled something under his breath. No one asked what he’d said, though. The rest of the group took the opportunity to talk about their own musical experiences. Or at least, someone took the opportunity to ask.

“Soooo… Does anyone else do anything with instruments?” Wind asked. There was silence for a moment, before Sky coughed.

“My Zelda taught me some harp, though I’m not all that good at it,” he said, glancing over at his pack.

“I don’t play often, but it’s fun.” Wind grinned at this new information, and Legend’s eyes widened slightly. Hm.

“I happen to know how to sing,” Warriors said, and there was a scoff. He whirled around to see Legend giving him a Look.

“What, think I can’t sing, Legend?” Warriors asked, sounding a bit offended. Legend shook his head.

“No, I just think that it’s exactly what you’d learn how to do. All to sing love songs for pretty people,” Legend replied. Warriors glanced off, pointedly not saying anything. Legend laughed at that, and it went silent for a moment.

“Do you play ocarina, Time?” Wind asked, drawing everyone’s attention to the leader of their little group.

“I don’t just have this for decoration,” Time replied, gesturing to the ocarina that sat on his belt. Twilight snickered a bit, attempting to muffle it behind his hand unsuccessfully. Wild didn’t even attempt to muffle his laughter, and Wind pouted while the rest of the group started to laugh at Time’s reply. As the laughter died down from its uproarious peak, Hyrule glanced over at the two remaining members of the group that hadn’t spoken up about their musical abilities, or lack thereof.

“What about you two?” Hyrule asked, catching Twilight off guard and stopping Wild’s silent giggles. The latter took a heaving breath in - considering Wild had been laughing soundlessly for a while, it was safe to say that he hadn’t been breathing much due to laughter - and looked over at Hyrule with a questioning look.

“What about us?” Wild asked, as Twilight tilted his head slightly.

“Do either of you do anything music-related?” Hyrule asked in reply. Twilight opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Wild spoke up.

“Oh, yeah! I learned how to play accordion from a friend of mine, and I’m still trying to figure out what instrument I used to play before the Calamity. Narrowed that down to a stringed instrument, but I’m not sure which yet,” Wild said. There was a pause.

“Accordion? Really?” Wind asked, childish wonder in his voice. Wild nodded, reaching down to grab his Sheikah Slate.

“It’s in here,” Wild said, scrolling over before tapping the screen twice. For a moment, there was an accordion sitting in Wild’s lap, but it quickly flickered back into whatever limbo Wild stored his items in after another series of taps.

“I could play for you guys sometime, if you’d like,” Wild offered, getting a few scattered nods and an extremely enthusiastic nod from Wind.

“Couldn’t you just play now?” Wind asked, bouncing a bit. He seemed… Very excited.

“I would but…” Wild trailed off, glancing over at the only remaining member of the group that hadn’t spoken. By extension, so did Wind. And the rest of the group.

“...What?” Twilight asked, giving the rest of them a Look.

“Do you play any musical instruments?” Hyrule asked curiously. Twilight paused for a moment.

“Well, I can play some songs on different types of grass…” Twilight trailed off, glancing down at his pack for a moment.

“Is that all?” Wind asked.

“...And I can play the violin.”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be joking.” Everyone looked over at Warriors, who got multiple looks of differing caliber.

“You really shouldn’t go around doubting people’s music abilities,” Time said eventually, with Wind and Hyrule both nodding in agreement. Twilight was staring at his pack like it had a soul he could stare into, and both Wild and Sky were looking at him with concern.

“Are you… Alright, Twilight?” Sky asked, a bit concerned. Twilight blinked once, before nodding a bit to himself.

“Think I can’t play violin?” Twilight asked, picking up his pack from where it sat and started to dig around for something.

“You don’t exactly seem like the type. You know, playing all those fancy delicate songs written by old guys that’re played at fancy soirees that I have a feeling you wouldn’t be seen at?” Warriors said, leaving the end of his statement as more of a question. Might’ve been a rhetorical one, but.

“Oh, I can play a few of those “fancy songs,” Warriors,” Twilight replied, pulling something out of his pack. It looked like… A piece of wood with string on it. What followed was undoubtedly a violin.

“What I’m more known for though…” he continued, pulling something else from his pack and putting it on the violin, before starting to mess around with the pegs at the end of it.

“...Is fiddle music.”

As Twilight continued to mess with tuning his violin, everyone sat in silence, waiting with bated breath.

“...I’ll be a bit,” Twilight eventually said, before making a face and turning a peg ever so slightly to the left. The group sat in silence for a moment, before Warriors took a breath.

“Well, why sit in silence when we can showcase our other musical talents while we wait?” he said with a bit of a smirk on his face. Legend blanched.

“No thank you,” Legend said, moving to turn away. Possibly to spite him or possibly to just show off, Warriors took a breath and started to sing.

“Can… Anybody… Find meeee… Somebody toooo… Loo-”

“Okay stop that.” Legend interrupted Warriors before he could even finish the first line of the song, and Warriors started pouting. Between the quiet sounds of Twilight continuing to fiddle with the tuning of the violin, a hand was raised ever so slightly.

“I could… Play a bit of harp for everyone?” Sky offered, gesturing towards his pack. Wind nodded so rapidly it was a wonder he didn’t hurt his neck. There were a few other noises of affirmation, and both Wind and Hyrule looked to be on the edges of their respective seats as Sky pulled out his harp from his pack and started to play.

Notes flowed through the clearing their camp had been set up in, and the group held a collective breath as the song Sky played seemed to swirl around them. Even Twilight stopped momentarily with his tuning to genuinely pause and listen. It was beautiful. And most definitely warranted the applause that almost everyone gave - save Twilight, his hands were otherwise occupied with a violin - that caused Sky to go redder than a tomato.

“That was very well done, Sky,” Time said, in between the very loud applause that Wind and Hyrule were providing.

“Oh it wasn’t all that good… Zelda plays it better than I do,” Sky said. Multiple people boggled at that.

“If that’s not all that good, I’d love to hear your definition of good, Sky!” Hyrule said. Wind nodded along, and Legend gave an imperceptible nod as well.

“Ah. I think I’ve got ‘er in good shape now,” Twilight cut in, holding his violin up, though still a bit gently. Like one would hold a baby. Flipping the violin up onto his shoulder - gently, gently - Twilight grabbed the bow and put it to the strings. A few notes were played, which resonated throughout the clearing. Loud, crisp pitches. Each note repeated a few times, likely to get a feel for how each note sounded. Twilight looked satisfied after a minute or two, and stood up, glancing at the rest of the group.

“Now, y’all ready to hear some high-class, good ol’ fiddle music?” No one spoke up as Twilight took a deep breath, and put it to the strings again and. He went off.

Eyes widened as Twilight started to play. Notes blended together into a cohesive melody, with double stops, a few triple stops, some sliding, a fair few altered notes, and a lot of fast rhythms. Of course, almost none of the others knew what any of those terms meant, excepting Legend. Because of course Legend knew, he knew how to play cello. Not only did he know how to play cello, though… He could dance.

Legend’s foot had started tapping the moment the impressive melody started, which no one had really noticed, but to be fair. Everyone was enraptured by Twilight’s fiddling skills - and rightfully so. None of them had likely heard such impressive fiddle work. Legend had come close, but no. And goodness, he just wanted to dance. That wasn’t so wrong, was it?

And the song came to a close. Twilight heaved in a breath as he stopped moving, and the group held their collective breaths. The bow was lifted from the strings, and applause broke out, starting from a somewhat surprising origin. Legend was clapping, and as the rest of the group processed, Wind and Wild and Hyrule and eventually the rest of the group joined in the applause. When the applause died down, Twilight moved to sit down, but before he could, there was a hand raised to stop him.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to request something?” There were wide eyes from a fair few people as Legend stood up.

“What, exactly?” Twilight asked in reply, raising a single eyebrow.

“Well. I didn’t mention it because I don’t really talk about it much, but I… Can play a lot of instruments. And I can also dance. And I was just wondering… Since you know how to play, if you could play something specific?” Legend asked, voice a bit… Lighter than normal. Twilight’s brows rose ever higher, and the rest of their group watched the exchange, a bit mystified.

“Depends on what it is, and if I know how to play it,” Twilight replied as Legend walked up to him, talking in low tones. No one could hear the words they said, but they could see Twilight’s face light up in recognition, and the grin that came across his face. Legend moved towards his pack to grab something from his dragonlike hoard of items, while Twilight adjusted a few things with his violin.

The two reconverged in front of the camp, in a bit more of an open area than where Twilight had stood previously. Although Legend was more in the center of their little space, with Twilight standing off to the side a bit. The two locked eyes, Legend gave a small nod, and Twilight put the bow to the strings for the third time that evening.

The group was very shocked by what happened next. As the music started, Legend started to move, and that’s when they all noticed what he’d pulled from his bag. His new shoes clicked together and made a crisp noise as he moved across the clearing. It was almost like he was floating, as his feet moved and his arms barely did. Twilight swayed and moved as he played, and everyone was mesmerized by their synchronicity.

As the dance came to a close and the music slowed to its stop, both violinist and dancer stood frozen for a few moments. Both breathing heavily, both happily satisfied with what they’d done. Everything was quiet, the only sounds their breathing, the reverb of the ending note, and the crickets chirping quietly. Then, applause. One person clapping turned to two, turned to three to eventually everyone. Wind and Hyrule stood up, giving the duo a standing ovation as they deflated.

“That was amazing!” Wind exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a wide grin on his face.

“You’d never told us you could dance, Legend,” Hyrule said. There were a few scattered nods across the group.

“That was… Amazing dancing. Where did you learn?” Four asked, and as Legend moved to sit back down and Twilight moved to put his violin back away, Legend shrugged.

“Around,” he replied, being deliberately vague. Warriors scoffed, but it didn’t sound as if his heart was in it.

“Could you teach me, Legend? Could you??” Wind asked, with a pleading expression on his face. Everyone looked at him expectantly, and Legend sighed. This is exactly why he never showed them that he could dance in the first place.

[funkymbtifiction]

[answered asks for the week]

INSIDE:

Advice to high Ne on how to explain thing simply.

how could a Fe-Dom determine if they’re actually a 2 or a 6?

Hey, I'm toying with the idea of being 7w6 vs 6w7 as an ENFP with SX/sp

it’s totally possible for a Thinker to be “less intelligent,” right?

I'm 6w5 (social stacking) and I've had a very hard time self-typing.

Would believing that other people are responsible for their feelings and should be mature enough to choose not to get upset when you do something they don’t like be a low feeling thing?

IV Help for INFP 4w5 5w4 1w2

Hi, this is a semi-mbti and weird question, but since two of the mods are Ne-doms, do you have any advice to high Ne users who want to be better at explaining stuff? I admire how the ENFP mod makes good analogies to explain stuff, which I do too since I'm INFP, but despite Si being higher in me, I lost connection to it and I feel useless and incompetent. What I say/write is lost in scattered abstractions which make me sound unreliable, which abhors Te and my (4)w3.

You need better Te development. Te is all about finding something that works for everyone that uses it – a streamlined process that produces the same results in a variety of different people. This is why a good analogy appeals to Te, because the information it is talking about has been simplified into language anyone can understand. It’s tempting for any intuitive to stay abstract in their conversation – but imagine yourself trying to explain whatever you are trying to explain to a child. What language would you use? Simplicity (if you can find it, some things are tremendously complex) is best, because not everyone speaks the same language – literally.

So if you find yourself being vague or abstract, slow down in whatever you are doing, and think about how you could make this more detailed or plainer in expression. This is HARD at first. Extremely hard. And it will be hard in some topics going ahead, even after you have gotten good at it. Most people are not simple and straightforward in their communication. They leave out details. They need others to ask them clarifying questions. Think about that, when you are looking at whatever you are writing – even if it’s just an e-mail. Is this clear enough that they will know exactly what I mean? If not, how can I make it clearer? Keep working on it, until you are being clear.

For non-Te users, and especially INTPs (I like y’all, but sometimes I don’t know what you are talking about) the key is to know what the point you are trying to make is, and to lay it out clearly without deviating into sub-trails. I realize you cannot do this in conversation, you process in your head as you go and that switches your conversational tracks, but when sending someone something you have written, you need to use the same idea – SIMPLE. Straightforward.

As for finding other things to compare it to, what’s an analogy everyone can relate to? That’s a good place to start. What do humans all have in common? (Basic needs, desires, and emotions.)

The thing I admire most about one of my INTJ friends is that she says exactly what she means and she means what she says, and if you ask her to explain what she means, she can do so in a way anyone can understand. She said she worked hard to develop that skill (to be plain-speaking) but it’s tremendously useful in her professional and personal life. So my advice is to practice saying what you want to say, and to make sure you are clear. When in doubt, ask someone else if they understand what you mean. If they say no, keep working on it. Practice. Make it a habit.

Hi there! One of your tips on tritype finding (of among thousands, this was the one to stick with me, as a fiction lover) was looking for characters you understand above all else. What happens if you understand a few characters, but they don’t share a tritype? Also, how could a Fe-Dom determine if they’re actually a 2 or a 6, since I think you’ve mentioned before that Fe users can mix their cognitive functions for Enneagram motivations? Sorry for the initial oddball question, and I hope you’ve all had a great holiday season!

We have, thank you. :)

The character thing isn’t foolproof, since you could relate to or understand a lot of characters for a wide variety of reasons (cultural, religious, instinctual, gender-related, their struggles, their decisions, their indecision, etc). It’s easier to identify characters with your same tritype after you’ve found yours, because then you can recognize the same unhealthy behaviors (based on similar motives) that you both have and see how you similarly cope with defense mechanisms. :/

I used a variation of easy-to-understand Enneagram cards on family and friends recently that helped them figure out their types (I had most of them pegged accurately, which helped – since I already knew the answer, it was a test to see if they would accurately perceive themselves by choosing the right card, thus validating that the cards were useful for total beginners).

I will share them one of these days.

Using the cards and with the character examples I used, my father was able to recognize 2 and 6 in himself in that order because he does not identify with nor exhibit the traits of a proper 6. Since I am one, it’s an easy contrast – I am far more analytical than him, and far more … 6 ish. I tell him things about being a 6 and he gives me funny looks like, “People are like that? You think that? Really? Wow, that’s weird.” Real 6 traits. Like being indecisive, self-doubting, ambivalent, challenging of authority yet not pushing people too far, being cautious and watchful of others, but being hard to “rile up.” Under stress, I just work harder (3). He explodes when his 2 moves to 8. You tell him a problem and his 2 has to fix it for you (sometimes before you even have time to turn around, there he is with whatever you need), and if it doesn’t seem fixable then he’s mad that you asked at all, because he’s translating being asked in his head to someone needing help – and then him attempting to provide it and being “shot down” is rejecting him on an emotional level. He’s an image type. Emotionally reactive. And this is on top of being a Fe-dom. Wonderful man, and extremely generous, loving, and kind, but reactive in a 2ish way of wanting payback, not a 6 way.

6′s are not looking for “payback” like a 2 is. If a 2 rubs your feet, then they will expect you to offer to rub theirs at some point in the future. If the 2 continues handing out foot rubs and no offer is forthcoming, the 2 will either drop hints or feel rejected and “used,” even though they volunteered to rub your feet in the first place. And unless the person whose foot they are rubbing is also a 2, or aware of the Enneagram and what’s going on, they will not have a clue that “offering” does not mean “I am doing this ONLY because I love you.” Of course they love you, else they wouldn’t offer to rub your feet. But a 2 finds it extremely hard to ask for the things they need, because they assume that other people should KNOW, because as a 2, they know what YOU need. They are tuned into what YOU need. And they are there to give it to you. So why aren’t other people doing the same for them? The problem is, the 2 never asks… so other people do not know what the 2 wants/needs in return, leading to the 2 becoming bitter about all the nice things they do for other people – with no one giving them any kindness in return. Which other people would do, if the 2 could just admit to their own needs instead of feeling that their own needs are “less” in comparison to other people.

This works even as a lower fix. I have seen 2 lower fixes go through something hard – alone, because they did not want to “impose” on others. Because admitting they need someone’s help or love or attention or support seems selfish to them. They are so used to “giving” and not “asking” – and it is very, very easy for other people to grow used to the endless, abundant “giving” and take advantage of it. Sometimes maliciously, and sometimes totally innocently. And then the 2 will find a sympathetic ear and vent their frustration – often my ear. And I sit there grinding my teeth and encouraging them to “Just ask for what you need. It’s okay. You are not being selfish when you admit to these things. And your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/child is not a mind reader. So you need to be open and honest with them. They love you. They will happily give you what you need, but THEY NEED TO KNOW WHAT THAT IS FIRST.”

You should also read through the Institute’s comparisons, and pay attention to stuff like this: “The feeling-tone of both types is completely different: Sixes warily invite selected others into their lives, whereas Twos throw out the net of their feelings with more abandon and see whom they can sweep into the fold. Sixes want to create partnerships with others that will support them in their bid to be more independent, but start to feel anxious if the relationship becomes too merged or “mushy.” Twos want to be close with others, and the more intimacy and merging they have with their loved ones, the better.”

2: aww, you want to be close!!! *cuddles you and smothers you with kisses*

6: you want to be close to me? why? *gives you a suspicious look* What are you up to? And ugh, don’t even think about smothering me with kisses. I’m not even sure I like you yet. I realize it’s been 8 years but I don’t do feelings. :P

Good luck. I know it can be hard. But being a Fe-dom doesn’t mean you’re immune to being able to figure yourself out. Just… leave others out of it. Go get a proper book on Enneagram, read the chapters carefully, think about your life and the decisions you have made, and why you made them. Ask yourself hard things, like WHY you are doing what you are doing. You should be able to relate not only to the “good” things about your core, but the bad things too.

The good things about a 2 is: helpful, generous, kind. Bad things: overbearing, controlling, manipulative, insincere.

The good things about a 6: analytical, humorous, friendly, warm, likable. Bad things: suspicious, anxious, self-doubting, distrustful.

If you recognize both in yourself, ask yourself which one, if you were allowed to choose only one of them, describes your personality the most.

I should probably also say that it can be extremely difficult for a Fe-dom to realize or accept that they are a 2, because they often do not want to admit that their main motive for being so helpful and generous is so that you will love them. It’s hard for them to think of themselves as worthy of love even if they do “nothing” for you. They just can’t imagine that. Each heart type has their own neurosis, either the need to stand out and even romanticizing their flaws to cover up insecurities (4), the desperate need to achieve and “become” so that you will admire (and then love) them (3), or the need to do things for you, so that you will not turn them away (2).

I have a big heart for 2′s, in case you cannot tell. Maybe because they break it the most often in that I see them as giving, selfless, generous people often taken advantage of or not given enough of the appreciation they deserve.

Hey, I'm toying with the idea of being 7w6 vs 6w7 as an ENFP with SX/sp. I know that 7w6 is usually considered more common for an ENFP, but all descriptions also appear to have the built in assumption of being Sp-blind insread. Would so-blind change your expectation of frequency for an ENFP, or can you give descriptions of both..?

There are… so many differences between those two types, in terms of ENFPs.

Basic things like the 7 being an optimist, the 6 being a pessimist. The 7 having a short attention span, the 6 being able to focus longer. The 7 having bouncing, random thoughts (especially with Ne) and the 6 having linear thinking. The 7 not following through on things, the 6 working steadily to avoid anxiety. The 7 dropping people, things, places, interests when bored and moving on; the 6 holding onto people, things, places, and interests longer than necessary. The 7 dreams of all the things you can do, the 6 tells you all the ways it will go wrong. The 7 being a more stereotypical ENFP, the 6 bringing in way more Te and Si.

You also NEED to consider the sx-first variant, because it makes a HUGE difference. Sx 7 is the most idealistic of the 7s – they don’t want to face the harsh realities of the world, they want to dream and have a good time and be with whomever catches their eye (for as long as that lasts, and for a 7, it is not often a long, long time) – and an sx6 is assertive, combative, and seeks to find someone to take care of them / combat their anxiety. So you have one driven by dreams and cheerfulness (sx7) and one driven by anxiety and self-doubt (sx6). The so-blind means neither one will be much concerned with people other than who they bond to (sx) and will look after their own needs (sp).

If you look at Veronica Mars, she’s a good example of an sx-first ENFP 6w7. Fearful, anxious, reactive, distrustful. Turns on people, tells them off, wonders about their motives – after trusting them too much and being burned. That’s how sx6w7 acts. Contrast her with any sx7 ENFP in the tags. The 7 ENFPs are generally upbeat, playful, optimistic and not nearly as intense as the sx6.

Hi there! This could be a really dumb question, but it’s something I’ve kind of been passively wondering about for a while... obviously, being a Feeler is not an indication of low intelligence (and Thinkers can feel, etc.), so it’s totally possible for a Thinker to be “less intelligent,” right? What would this look like/do you have any examples?

IQ has nothing to do with what personality type you are. There are stupid people of every type. Just go people-watch sometime. ;)

Do I have specific examples? No.

I will, however, say this. Being blessed in one area with a certain kind of intelligence has a deficit, always. A blind spot, if you will. Or an area in which you are not smart, even if overall you appear to have a high IQ. Like the brilliant professor who can do complex math equations in his head but wears mismatched socks to the office.

Reading about Stephen Hawking, it struck me how he could be so brilliant in certain ways and so foolish in others. It was actually heart-breaking. He was a very poor judge of character and wound up being mistreated, neglected, even abused later in his life because he placed himself into the hands of someone untrustworthy. That would seem foolish, and yet… he was brilliant. So there was the trade-off – smart in one area, but unwise in his personal choices.

In my opinion, there’s a difference between “intelligence” as defined by IQ and “wisdom,” which I would consider the true intelligence, because without wisdom you can have a high IQ and still screw up your life irreversibly. Without wisdom, you will chose the wrong business partners and romantic relationships. You will trust the wrong people. You will leap on the wrong opportunities. You will make poor choices in many aspects of your life. And unfortunately, because so many people with a high IQ consider themselves “smarter” than most other people, and thus often have a strong ego, wisdom is something they have to learn the hard way – if they learn it at all.

I'm 6w5 (social stacking) and I've had a very hard time self-typing. If I look at the functions, Fi and Ne are what I relate to the most but I don't relate much to most descriptions of INFPs (including the ones on this site). I'm more academic than I am artistic. Although I have a strong sense of identity, I still need reassurance from others. I do pour a lot of energy into elaborating a trustworthy and logical framework for myself (in a Ti-like manner). Can being 6w5 explain that?

Self typing is difficult, especially if you are a 3, 6, or 9, since all three of those can obscure your functional stack. (3′s tend to see themselves as how they want to be, not how they are; 6′s do not trust their own perceptions and can be inconsistent in their behavior; 9′s can identify a little bit with everything.) Unless you elaborate on what you consider to be a framework, I can’t answer to if you use Ti or not. (A lot of people say they use a framework and then you ask them to explain it and they go ??? or offer a shallow explanation that shows their lack of Ti; an actual Ti-dom can and usually enjoys talking about it.) Though yes, needing reassurances from others is so6 based.

As an NFP 6 so-core myself, I can tell you what it’s like to be a feeler and a 6.

I approach each situation from a logical standpoint. That’s what so6 is about – so6 does not necessarily mean clinging to an “outside” system for security (religion, politics, a social movement) but it can consider “logic” itself a system if you go by, it cannot fail. From a young age  I used “logic” as a system to feel secure. My thought process was and has always been, “If you are logical about this, you will stay safe and be okay.” I looked at people who made what I saw as illogical or irrational decisions as… irrational and unsafe.

It has not given me false Ti, because I don’t do inner frameworks. My logic is based in facts. If you can prove my facts wrong, I’ll change my mind. But you must use evidence and facts, not generalities or inferences or stereotypes.

I have over the years found Te-based (factual) excuses not to do things I did not feel like doing – to myself and others. How fast my brain switches to the facts of the situation sometimes astonishes me. Things like a friend asking if we could do a road trip and use my car. Aww, that’s a sweet thought but I’d rather put several thousand miles on a rental car than my own. Driving = miles on your car. Miles on your car = wear and tear on your car. Wear and tear on your car = the quicker you’re going to have to replace car. Mine has extremely low miles, is paid off, and in excellent condition. So, no, I’m not taking her on a road trip.

There’s also “rationalizing” with facts 6 does, which in a way is aggravating to me, because I’m never able to sulk for long. I’ll give you a specific example. I was friends with a small group whom I saw maybe once a month in my teens. I lived too far away to see them a lot (over an hour away) and I did not want to ask my parents to take me to their house a lot since it was inconvenient for them. We had a mutual fondness for a certain author’s work and agreed to see the movie adaptation of one of their books together when it came out. I looked forward to it. I wondered when we would go. I kept my eye on the release dates. And then I found out they had all gone without me.

I knew the truth: they had forgotten me. Out of sight, out of mind. I felt a little hurt but it did not take my 6 logic long to kick in and come up with a list of practical, factual reasons why they had left me out – thus diffusing my sense of disappointment. I live over an hour away, a parent would have to drive me to a theater downtown and then home again, when they lived within a short distance of each other and could carpool, and see each other every day and decided to go together some Saturday morning. It was not intended maliciously… they just forgot your excitement because they do not see you every day.

That soothed the burn because I accepted the reality of the situation. (But you’ll notice I haven’t forgotten it, either. ;)

Would believing that other people are responsible for their feelings and should be mature enough to choose not to get upset when you do something they don’t like be a low feeling thing? I just learned someone in my family thinks like this and I can’t understand it, and its even giving me mild anxiety. I get not letting others get to you, but believing that you should be able to do whatever you want and others should just choose to not get upset, seems heartless to me. The funny thing is this person gets very upset when other people don’t like them, or call them out on any thing that isn’t perfect. This person thinks they are an INFP 9, so maybe it’s some sort of loop or grip? It just seems off to me, I’d like to be able to help them, but I don’t even know where to start.

There’s a lot to unpack here, so we’ll start with this:

Would believing that other people are responsible for their feelings and should be mature enough to choose not to get upset when you do something they don’t like be a low feeling thing?

No, actually that’s Fi anywhere in the stack. What I mean by that is, Fi takes personal responsibility for how it feels and thinks other people should do the same. Fi knows that the only person responsible for its reactions is… me. And the only person responsible for correcting their own attitude is… me. And if I am responsible for all my reactions and feelings, I don’t see why other people should not do the same. Healthy Fi will not go out of their way to hurt other people, and will apologize for hurt feelings or misunderstandings, but it still believes that if there’s an overreaction or hurt feelings unnecessarily, the other person is responsible for adjusting their attitude.

You can actually tell an unhealthy Fe from a Fi based in where the blame goes. Fe points outward and is attentive to the emotional environment, so an unhealthy Fe is always going to blame the other people first. Fi is inward and focused on “me,” so the blame will go inward first. Thus you will have unhealthy Fe’s who blame other people for their feelings and opinions and overreactions and justify it in some way by refusing to take responsibility; and unhealthy Fi’s who take on too much blame in a relationship or assume it’s always their fault, because they did something wrong.

I get not letting others get to you, but believing that you should be able to do whatever you want and others should just choose to not get upset, seems heartless to me.

What you describe is unhealthy, immature Fi in terms of assuming you can do whatever you want without any emotional or real-life consequences. Fi needs a healthy, sensible Te or it develops an attitude of “this is who I am, get over it” – Te is what says, “Yes, but if you do this, that will cause these consequences.” You will no longer have friends. You will get a reputation as a selfish jerk. You may get fired. There’s your desire to do what you want, and the fact that like it or not, you live in a society that doesn’t care what you want. You also have friends and family who deserve better than for you to treat them poorly.

(On a different note, sounds like this person as an sp/sx social stacking. Meaning they are so-blind, which causes them not to care much about what others think of them. It’s all about their sp-needs and what stimulates them. They will have to work hard not to be isolationist and selfish, and find Fi [treat others as you would like to be treated] and Te [or these are the consequences / how you will sabotage yourself if you act this way] reasons for responsible, mature behavior that takes other people and their feelings into consideration.)

This person thinks they are an INFP 9, so maybe it’s some sort of loop or grip?

Might be Fi-dom (and probably is, frankly) but I’d doubt a 9. Even an sp/sx 9 still does not like conflict and “doing whatever you want” tends to make people upset with you.

I’d like to be able to help them, but I don’t even know where to start.

Just like they believe your feelings are your business, their health levels are their business. You cannot help them unless they want and ask for help. People will not change unless they want it badly enough to learn how to change and actively work toward it. It’s hard (believe me, I know…) but you either have to like them for who they are and let them be themselves and find their own path in life or if you can’t stand their behavior, find different friends.

-        ENFP Mod

IV Help for INFP 4w5 5w4 1w2

Based off of the information provided by you, I think it is safe to conclude that you are more likely an so/sp. You show a lot of awareness and orientation towards soc matters, apart from what you did share as evidence of possible soc in you. Being socially awkward can be indicative of the skewed first instinct. It is said that the first instinct is what we are neurotically insecure about. An sp first would be concerned with “Do I have enough? Will this be enough? How am I right now? Am so comfortable, safe?” That’s their number 1 priority. You don’t exhibit that kind of awareness about yourself.

Hating crowds and preferring one on one interactions, being an intense and romantic individual is also not conclusive proof of sx. You are an INFP, your dominant function is introverted. 4w5 also turns to pull away more from the world, even with a soc variant first. I would advise you to not conflate sx 5 and sx blind 4. The two are vastly different in terms of how the instinctual needs manifest when filtered through the lens of the pertinent enneagram type. It is true that sp 4 is the long suffering 4 that neither seeks to ooze and punish like a sexual 4, nor broadcast the image of a broken/unique individual by comparing itself to the rest of society or its groups like a social 4.

“I can’t actually see myself dating anyone I don’t have strong feelings for or knew as a friend beforehand, and I end up idealizing the person/never telling them anything.” - This is not sx. Sx has a sort of inexplicable pull towards someone, something that doms cannot control. Intensity alone is not sx. We all tend to exhibit intensity in one part of our life or another. Besides Fi doms can be very strong, tenacious and passionate people. Seeking friendship before love is a very good indicator of higher soc because friendship/connecting/affiliating/bonding are primarily soc concerns. This argument is supported by your over analysis of your actions, as well as the way you speak about work with a much wider focus than just enriching your resources first. Emotional intensity, competitiveness especially in the comparative sense you have mentioned is not sx 4. These are just 4 things, as the principle vice associated with this type is Envy.

Sx 5 has issues with trust. The way they open up to intimates is by confiding in them some pretty heavy secrets which can overwhelm the other person if they aren’t ready. It is like an intense secret inner world shared just between the 5 and the person they have sx-ed with, for lack of a better word. The strategies you mention for making friendships is also pretty heavily social dominant. I want to emphasize that being soc first does not mean that you are a social, outgoing individual who is super groups oriented. What it does mean is an acute awareness of others’ perception of you, the people and group dynamics in any room you walk into, knowledge of hierarchies and prioritizing them. Ichazo states that the instincts speak of unmet emotional needs. Misinformation about how the variants affect the enneagram type can cloud your understanding, or even lead to mistypes. Of that, sp 4 descriptions are the worst offenders. As a counter type, its description suffers from ambiguity and a lack of precision.

You are right in your analysis, in that you are sx blind who wanted to be an sx user. However, I urge you to reconsider the order of your stacking typing in light of the data provided by you. A good link to peruse would be oceanmoonshine. Hope that clears it up!

- ENTP Mod.

[transloverism]

Are You Shining Just For Me?

Pairing: Roman x Virgil

Warnings: None that I can think of, but let me know if y’all need anything tagged.

A/N: a oneshot roommate au? some funky tunes? yes indeed

Roman dropped his keys on the granite countertop and sighed. He’d gotten home earlier than he’d expected to, but he was still exhausted. Working double shifts at the local diner as a waiter was exhausting, especially since today he’d been yelled at by an angry customer more than once.

He kicked his shoes off and wandered toward the couch, preparing to flop down and take a well-deserved nap, when he heard the sound of soft piano music and froze. This wasn’t just any lilting piano. This was familiar… Roman followed the sound down the dimly lit hallway that led to his and his roommate’s respective bedrooms. As he drew closer, he was finally able to put his finger on what the music was - Epilogue from La La Land.

Roman definitely hadn’t pegged Virgil as the type to like something like La La Land, so it was odd that this particular music was coming from his roommate’s room, and even stranger was the fact that Virgil’s door was open,  letting the gentle piano drift through the apartment. Virgil almost never left his door open-at least, Roman had never seen it open while he was home.

Roman wandered up to the open door and tried to be as quiet as possible as he leaned against the doorframe. Virgil’s curtains were open, letting the soft orange glow of the sun setting fall over his room. He sat on the floor, eyes closed, leaning against his bed frame.

Sure, Roman had had feelings for his roommate basically since the moment he moved in; Virgil’s soft hazel eyes and sarcasm were almost too much for him to handle. But something inside him broke open as the music exploded from soft piano into a cacophony of beautiful brass, wind and string instruments and he saw Virgil’s chest rise and fall rhythmically, as though waltzing to the music. How was it that Roman had never felt this way before? He held his breath, hoping that maybe if he didn’t make a sound he could live in this moment forever.

The music grew, practically swallowing him and Virgil whole. He had to stop himself from sweeping Virgil up off his feet and twirling him around. Virgil’s head dropped into his hands, soft sobs escaping from him, catching Roman off guard. He’d never seen Virgil cry, ever. Roman would’ve given anything to hold him, to tell him everything was okay, but that conflicted with the fact that there was no way he was going to let Virgil know he was watching him. Coming off as a creep to Virgil was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

As the music slowed and settled back into gentle piano, Virgil lifted his head, eyes fluttering open softly, a sad smile dancing across his lips. He must have seen Roman’s figure in his periphery, because just then he glanced toward him, eyes widening in surprise.

Shit.

“Roman, I-” Virgil gasped.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Roman said at the same time. Virgil let out a half-laugh, half-sigh and wiped his tears from his face.

“I-I’m sorry, I just-I didn’t know you were g-getting home early,” Virgil stumbled over his words.

“No, Virge, I-it’s okay,” Roman said softly. “Are you alright? I’ve never seen you this upset.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just… That song always gets me, you know?” As Virgil spoke, the opening chords of City Of Stars emanated from his speakers.

“I understand,” Roman smiled and took a few tentative steps toward Virgil before offering his hand. “May I have this dance?” Virgil looked up at Roman and raised an eyebrow quizzically.

Oh, god, Roman thought, why did I do that? Of course I’d do something stupid like-and then Virgil took his hand and stood up slowly, hazel eyes shining.

City of Stars, just one thing everybody wants

There in the bars, and through the smokescreens of the crowded restaurants

“Sure, princey,” Virgil smiled. Roman wrapped his left arm around Virgil’s waist and guided Virgil’s right arm to his shoulder. 

“This okay?” Roman asked. Virgil nodded and started to dance, following Roman’s lead.

It’s love, yes all we’re looking for is love from someone else

A rush, a glance, a touch, a dance

“So, La La Land?” Roman raised an eyebrow.

“Mhm,” Virgil replied. “You’re not the only musical nerd, you know.”

“I just hadn’t exactly pegged you as the type to like things like this,” Roman tried his best not to trip over Virgil’s feet, which, though he was an experienced dancer, was awfully difficult when all he could focus on was how soft Virgil’s lips were and how his hair fell over his eyes.

A look in somebody’s eyes to light up the skies

To open the world and send it reeling

“Guess I’m just full of surprises, huh?” The corners of Virgil’s lips quirked up into a smirk. God, Roman wanted to kiss him.

“I guess so, Hot Topic,” Roman spun Virgil around. “What other things have you been hiding? Are you living some secret life I don’t know about?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Virgil laughed.

A voice that says I’ll be here, and you’ll be alright

I don’t care if I know just where I will go, cause all that I need’s this crazy feeling

A rat-tat-tat of my heart

The music slowed, and as it did, Roman dipped Virgil, surprising himself. Apparently it surprised Virgil too-he inhaled sharply, face flushing. Their faces were way too close together; Roman could see deep brown flecks in Virgil’s eyes that had been invisible to him at a distance, every freckle scattered across his nose was now overwhelmingly apparent. What Roman wouldn’t give to close the distance between his lips and and Virgil’s… except he didn’t have to give anything, because Virgil closed it for him. 

I think I want it to stay.

Virgil pulled away barely a moment after, dropping Roman’s hand and backing away from him.

“Oh my god, Roman, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Virgil’s hands shook.

“No, no, I-Virge, it’s okay,” For the first time in forever, Roman struggled to find words. “You… you have no idea how long I’ve wished for that.”

“You… what?” Virgil raked his fingers through his hair.

“Did you honestly not know that I-Virgil, I’ve been flirting with you for months!”

“I thought you were just like that, I don’t know! You’ve always just seemed like the romantic, dramatic type, and it’s not like I was about to get my hopes up,” Virgil’s voice caught. “How could someone like you want someone like me?”

“How could I not want you?” Roman replied. He took Virgil’s hand again and cupped his face. “You’re… God, V, you’re everything.” Virgil smiled shakily.

“Princey, I-uh,” Virgil stammered. “Would you, um, mind if I kissed you again?” Roman grinned and leaned in again, closing the gap between them, the butterflies in his stomach dancing to the music.

City of stars, are you shining just for me?

City of stars, you never shined so brightly.

[g-2doc]

Start of a fic:

Where - ages ago - I wanted to write up my headcanons for Murdocs childhood/write up my take on his entire fuckin life, but kinda went off the idea because of how long it'd probably take... Whoops I'm a quitter ://

Murdoc walked to school. It was quite far, but he couldn't afford the bus and the car had been stuck on the drive for nearly a year, since his dad couldn't be bothered to fill the tank. Besides, getting his dad to drive him in would be suicidal, as there wasn't a day that went by where the man wasn't hammered out of his mind. Murdoc didn't overly mind walking to school either. Though his second-hand, charity-shop, bought-with-his-own-money school shoes were a size too big and didn't let him forget it... Otherwise, he was fine. It just meant he had to wake up earlier than most of the kids who went to his school. Getting up early wasn't all bad either, since it meant he missed when his dad woke up incredibly hungover and even more angry at the world than he normally was.

He always made the effort to arrive exactly on time. That way, he wasn't early - meaning he wouldn't have to hang around in the playground with the other children - and he wasn't late - meaning he wouldn't get a letter home, avoiding a scolding and a few bruises. He wasn't an antisocial child, he would've loved to have been able to gone in early in the mornings to play games with his classmates, but no one wanted him to because no one liked him. So instead, he just showed up on the bell, and went straight to his classroom every morning.

"Hang up your bags, then come sit down at your desks," The teacher instructed as she always did. All of the other children shoved past Murdoc to get to their pegs. He stood back, waiting his turn. Luckily, he was more than used to being ignored. Once there was space, and a colourful array of backpacks and satchels was on display, Murdoc slipped in and hung up the Sainsbury's bag he carried his books in.

"You still haven't gotten a bag, Murdoc?" The teacher asked, appearing behind. Murdoc turned, surprised she was talking to him. He shook his head. She'd told him he'd needed to get one the week before. He used to have one, a plain black one he'd found hanging on the fence of the local church, but it'd gone missing one day during school. He'd found all of his books scattered in the playground - so he'd counted his blessings.

The teacher didn't looked pleased. She folded her hands in front of her long, floral skirt. "You know, they sell school backpacks in the office?" She suggested.

"I don't 'ave any cash, Miss," Murdoc replied, a little worried she was going to tell him off. She sighed, appearing quite agitated.

"Well, perhaps if you ask your mummy and daddy nicely, they can get you one," She then said. Murdoc didn't know how to reply. There wasn't a way a child his age could articulate his home life. He didn't fully understand it himself, even. His dad hadn't explained to him the reason why he seemed to be the only little boy in the school who didn't have a mum. He didn't really understand the reason why they never had any money, and he didn't know why his dad didn't go off to work each day like the other kid's dad's did. He didn't really know he reason why he rarely saw his dad, why he always came home late, or why he didn't wake up early to see Murdoc off to school. He only knew facts, not the reasons for them. So he simply lowered his head, not replying.

The teacher obviously sensed that Murdoc wasn't willing to take the conversation any further, and went back to the front of the class to take the register. Murdoc's peers were all sat at their desks, chatting to one another from across the aisles. Murdoc sat at his desk, the one in the back corner. The kid next to him never spoke to him, always spoke to his friend who sat the other side of him. At the beginning of the year, when they'd chosen where to sit, he'd complained profusely about having to sit next to Murdoc, but he'd put up with it by blanking Murdoc the entire year.

"Children! Quiet!" The teacher scolded. The class hushed. As the teacher begun to take the register, reading out each name, Murdoc begun to continue colouring the corner of his desk with his pencil. He'd managed to get a significant amount done since the cleaner last scrubbed it off, forming quite a nicely sized silvery triangle.

Once the register was done, the class begun to do their morning prayer. Murdoc's dad had told him not to bother joining in with the school's prayers. Murdoc and his dad were Catholic, whilst the school was Anglican, and while Murdoc's dad was hardly a saint, he was loyal to his faith (even though he didn't abide to the teachings of it - at all). The teacher had spoken to Murdoc a couple of times about him ignoring their prayers, but she'd given up trying to explain that the religions were actually both churches of the same religion, and decided to let Murdoc do as he would.

The first lesson was maths, which Murdoc didn't pay attention to either. He knew enough maths to get by, so he didn't need to listen. He opened his maths book, and put his notebook on top so that the teacher would be less likely able to tell the difference.

Murdoc wasn't exactly an artistic child. He couldn't draw, nor paint, nor do whatever else those fancy artists did those days. However, he still had his notebook. It was A5, ring-bound and had a plain black cover; it'd cost him just short of a quid at the post office at the end of his road. He'd had it a couple of weeks and it was nearly full. Though not artistic in the classic sense of the word, Murdoc was remarkably creative. The inside of his head was filled with tunes from the radio, pictures of stars, words that rhymed and melodies that stuck. The book contained scribbled lyrics, funny little sketches, and big ideas: and it'd fast become his prized possession.

"Whassat?" A voice sounded. Murdoc looked up from writing out Space Oddity for what was probably the fifth time in his notebook. The kid next to him was looking at his notebook with a slightly confused expression. Unknowing to how he was supposed to reply, despite being incredibly excited about the fact he'd been acknowledged, Murdoc simply gaped in response. "You deaf or sum'fink?" The kid asked.

"I'm not deaf," Murdoc answered, shifting awkwardly.

"Whassat then?" The kid repeated, pointing to Murdoc's notebook. His friend was talking to someone else, so Murdoc decided he wasn't trying to trick him or anything. He glanced to his notebook, all messy and scribbled.

"Um, it's a notebook," He said.

"Yeah, but what's in it?" The kid questioned. Murdoc picked it up and turned to his favourite page. He'd done a fairly decent drawing of the Bad Company logo, along with some other band's lyrics - some Queen and Led Zeppelin, that sort of stuff. "Oh, you like rock music?"

"Yeah..." Murdoc mumbled, lowering his book again.

"That's cool, my sister has tonnes of vinyls up in 'er room," The kid said. "If you're free after school, you can come to my house and listen to 'em!" He smiled brightly.

Murdoc's eyes lit up. He'd never been to someone else's house, let alone invited round by a classmate. Swallowing hard, Murdoc tried to keep back the grin that was trying to tug at his mouth.

"Um, yeah, I'm free..." He mumbled.

"Wicked. I'm Tony, by the way, Tony Chopper." The kid held out his hand for Murdoc to shake, reaching across the aisle. Murdoc was amazed even further by the fact that he wanted to actually touch him.

"I'm Murdoc Niccals." They shook hands briefly, before Murdoc retracted his hand back to his lap - returning to his position of hunching shyly.

"Murdoc - that's a proper cool name that is," Tony said, sounding very impressed.

"Thanks..." Murdoc mumbled. Name or otherwise, 'cool' rarely existed in the same sentence as 'Murdoc'. In fact, any praise at all was rare. His dad stuck to adjectives like 'ungrateful', 'gross' and 'really fuckin' stupid', and parents were supposed to be the biased ones.

"When your mum comes to pick you up, you can tell 'er you're comin' to mine,"  Tony explained. At that, Murdoc's stomach dropped. He'd already picked up at that age that his home life wasn't normal, but he hadn't picked up how to go about informing others. He shifted in his seat a bit.

"Uh, ok... I will..." He murmured, barely audible. Tony nodded happily, then went back to his work. Murdoc had been excited about going to Tony's house, but suddenly he was terrified. What if Tony's parents wanted to speak with his 'mum'? What if they found out that Murdoc didn't have one? What if they ended up talking to his dad? What if his dad came to the school? Murdoc was panicking. He had a shot at making a real friend and his home life could end up blowing it for him. He considered phoning Billy at his work and asking him to come and talk to Tony's parents, but the number was taped above the bread bin at home, and he had no way of getting it at school...

As it turned out, he spent the entire rest of the lesson fretting over what to do. He hardly noticed when English started, because he'd been so wrapped up in his worrying. Then English went by without him doing any work, or even doing anything in his notebook.

The bell for break rang and the students rushed to get their snacks out of their bags. Murdoc didn't have a snack because his dad never bought him one, and he was no closer to a solution, so he went to sit in the hallway like he always did. He slumped down against the wall - the same spot as always.

[panda-noosh]

Melody {Songwriter!Pidge x Reader}

  Words: 7k

  Genre: fluff – songwriter!pidge

  Summary: You come to Pidge's music shop every day and play the piano. Pidge knows she should kick you out since you never actually buy anything, but she instead finds herself listening to the sweet tunes you provide for her. One day, you ask her to help you with lyric writing, and she finds herself unable to refuse.

  Notes: masterlist – pidge!

---

    Pidge heard the notes ringing through the shop, and her eyes immediately closed.

   You were here again.

   The pen went still in her hand, the lyric book in front of her going discarded as she lost herself to the soft symphony you had decided to play today. A beautiful sound, one that made a shiver course down Pidge's spine, one that made her heart feel heavy, made her almost want to cry-

   She slammed her pen down on the desk and groaned, causing Lance to flinch behind her. “She's here again!”

    Lance placed a hand over his chest, ignoring the un-tuned guitar in his hands. “Jesus Christ, Pidge. Would you warn me next time?”

   “This is getting ridiculous,” the smaller girl growled, standing up from behind the desk and leaning over it to get a better look at the culprit – you. The girl who had the nerve to walk in every day and play a little tune on the grand piano which you knew damn well you shouldn't have been touching – it was for sale. Sure, testing it out was all well and good, but coming in everyday for the past three weeks to simply play a tune and leave was simply milking it.

    “Oh, leave her be,” Lance scoffed, swatting the back of Pidge's hair as a signal for her to sit down. “Until Sam walks in and hears her, we don't have to spoil her fun.”

   “Her fun?” Pidge exclaimed. “She walks in here everyday, plays a little jig for us and then leaves. I don't think she's spent a penny in here since the first time she walked in.”

   “She bought a water off me one time.”

   Pidge snarled, slumping back down in her chair and folding her arms over her chest – whenever her father returned from his business trip and saw the behaviour Lance and herself were ignoring, he would be livid. There was a strict rule against people using the instruments for their own personal reasons. They needed to buy something, or else they were just taking up space.

   And yet Pidge was doing absolutely nothing about it.

   She watched you. Her lyric book lay sprawled out in front of her, the unfinished songs glaring at her. She wanted to finish them, had the lyrics ready in her mind, but whenever you started playing your songs, the words failed her. Her attention was no longer on the songs she had planned to create, but on the tune that was flowing through the music shop.

     Lance chuckled at the pout on Pidge's face, going back to idly tuning the guitar he had been working on for the past ten minutes. “You can't tell me you don't like her sound. She's good at what she does.”

   “Doesn't change the fact that my dad's going to kill me when he finds out we're letting her get away with this.”

   “Sam isn't an asshole,” Lance assured. “He might listen to what she's playing and decide to offer her a job or something like that.”

   Pidge highly doubted such a thing would happen. Her father loved music, yes, but he also needed to pay rent. He also had a family of four to feed and shelter, clothes to buy, a music shop to keep open; people who walked in and expected free use of the instruments were people she knew he would not take too kindly to.

   “Maybe the two of you should collab,” Lance said suddenly.

   Pidge's head whipped around to look at him. She expected him to be grinning, some proof on his face that he had been joking, but his expression had barely shifted from what it was when she had last looked at him – his eyes glaring down the pegs of his guitar, his tongue peaking out of his mouth with concentration.

    “Collab?” she parroted. “What do you even-”

   “You know,” he cut her off, motioning towards her open lyrics book. She slammed it closed. “You give her a song and then she does the melody to it. You sit here and write all these lyrics, but they never actually go anywhere. Maybe she'll be the perfect person to join up with to make something out of whatever it is you spend hours writing.”

    Pidge flushed, looking away from Lance and back towards you. You had stopped playing, were merely tracing your fingertips over the keys with that lazy smile on your face, as if appreciating the feel of them. It was no secret that you loved music – anyone with eyes and ears would be able to pick up on that much. It didn't change the fact that you were breaking the rules, but perhaps that was why Pidge was yet to do anything about it – she enjoyed listening to the tunes you played, and she had never denied that to herself. She knew you were good – beyond good. For the age you looked to be, you certainly played exceptionally well, and there was no point in trying to deny that.

   But would your style really work with the style Pidge worked with?

   Pidge liked complex. She liked lyrics that spoke volumes all on their own, liked abstract wording and hidden messages to be sprinkled upon her creations, leaving her readers – or her listeners, if she ever decided to actually make a song out of any of them – wondering what was going through her head during the time of writing such meaningful things.

   You played slower songs. At least, that was all Pidge had heard during the three weeks you had been playing in the shop.

   She frowned to herself, wondering why she was even contemplating such a thing in the first place. There was no point in getting herself worked up over a suggestion Lance had made – Lance didn't know what he was talking about. He was a vocal coach, for crying out loud. He wouldn't know production if it hit him in the face and yelled at him.

   And once again, Pidge had to forcefully remind herself that you were breaking the rules, and this streak of playing on the piano everyday with no intention of buying it was going to have to come to an end eventually – sooner rather than later.

   ---

   The words weren't sounding right, and it was bothering you.

   How could nothing – not a single sentence in the English language sound right going against the melody you had been working on? How had you been sitting in your room for hours on end trying to come up with something that would work with your melody, and come up with nothing more than a million or so crumbled up pieces of paper thrown to the side?

   How?

   How did anyone write lyrics? You had only been dipping your toes in, trying to make more out of the music you were creating, and you were already on the verge of ripping every strand of hair from your head.

   You groaned to yourself, destroying yet another piece of paper and tossing it behind your shoulder, hoping and praying that the words you had just written would never be read by another human being. You weren't sure you could cope with the embarrassment of somebody else witnessing your failed attempts at pouring your heart out.

   You did that through music, through melody. You let out your emotions by playing the piano, strumming the strings of a guitar – it soothed you, calmed you down. But you wanted to be able to go the full way. You wanted to be able to write lyrics, add them to the melodies you worked so hard to create, but it was seeming more and more like an impossible task the longer you kept to it.

   Perhaps you just weren't meant for lyric writing, which was a sad thought for somebody who wanted nothing more than to make music. Perhaps you were just made for the piano, and that was as far as your musical ability would ever go. Some days, you couldn't even do that properly. You couldn't afford a piano of your own, meaning you were left to use the music shops piano – it wouldn't be long until they kicked you out, though.

   You had heard their whisperings – especially the girl. She always sounded angry, complaining about how you never spent a penny, about how she couldn't believe the nerve of you for thinking you could waltz in and use the instruments for free whenever everybody else was demanded to pay.

   The first time you had heard the complaining, you were half tempted to get up and scatter, perhaps leave a polite apology letter in your wake just to let them know that milking them out of money was not your intention, and you didn't see yourself as some overly-privilaged human being who had a right to free instruments when everybody else didn't – you just truly couldn't afford it, and the only way to practise your hand at your own passion was by using their equipment.

   But you had decided to wait it out for the time being. You continued playing, expecting for somebody to tap you on your shoulder and scold you at any given moment, but that moment never came.

   And you weren't sure why, but you risked it the next day, as well. You came back, expected to be told off, but the scolding never came. And then the next day, and then the next, and then the next, until it got to the point where the man who also sat behind the counter was complimenting you as you left.

   The girl never spoke to you. She sometimes even glared at you, her brown eyes shooting daggers at you as you left the building with nothing but your bag on your back – having not spent a penny, yet again.

   Of course, a part of you felt bad. You felt as if you were scamming them, almost, but you didn't want to leave. You had nowhere else to practise, and if you couldn't play the piano, then how on earth were you going to make a living off of making music? Especially whenever the task of writing lyrics was already difficult enough.

   You sighed and leaned back in your desk chair. It creaked beneath you – it was getting old, and you most definitely needed a new one, but that was something you also couldn't afford. There were a lot of things you couldn't afford.

   That was just how things were nowadays. You wouldn't get yourself worked up over them; you were scraping by, and that was all that mattered.

   With that thought in mind, you inhaled deeply, leaned forward, took another piece of blank paper from the stack, and continued on trying to write the lyrics to the abandoned melody.

   ---

   “Okay, I think I've finally figured it out,” Lance said, storming up to Pidge as she ate her lunch at the front desk.

   She looked up, mayonnaise pooling out of the corner of her mouth that she dabbed with a napkin. Lance seemed ecstatic, though that was nothing new. He approached her in quick, large steps, one headphone dangling from his ear and his iPod in the other.

   “Are you not meant to be working with a student right now?” Pidge asked.

   Lance shook his head, not once looking up from the iPod in his hand. “That's not important. We have all day,” he replied. “Listen to this.”

   Before Pidge could object, Lance had yanked his headphones out of his iPod, and a soft melody began to play – one that reminded Pidge of the song you played.

    She raised a brow, listening intently. Pidge was aware that Lance's curiosity over what it was you had been playing for all these weeks had been gnawing at him to the point where he was spending his lunch break searching for the song in question, and for the past three weeks, he had come up short.

   “Close,” Pidge said, nodding. “But it's definitely not the same.” And it wasn't. She wasn't just saying that to dishearten her friend – she had been listening to the same melody for the past three weeks, and although the tune Lance had just showed her definitely had similar elements, the creation you played was different. It was unique, unlike anything Pidge had ever heard before.

    Lance groaned, throwing his head back. “Are you serious? Listen to it again.” He replayed the song. “These parts are almost identical! Just listen!”

   “I am listening,” Pidge hissed, swatting his overexcited demeanour away. “They don't sound identical. Listen to what she plays when she comes back in and you'll see that they're two completely different songs.”

  Lance grumbled, plugging his headphones back in. “I give up then. She must be making some kind of original song – yet another reason for you to slide in and get her to hook you up with one of her melodies. One that would suit your lyrics.”

   “Can you stop bringing that up?” Pidge grumbled, flushing once again. “Me and her are not making a song together. I don't even know her name. I wouldn't even class her as a customer.”

   “Bit harsh.”

   “She isn't! She comes in here and plays the piano for free – well, I've had enough of it. I'm not putting my entire job on the line just so she can get her daily practising in. It's not worth it, and it's about time somebody put their foot down.”

   Lance rolled his eyes, an amused smirk pulling onto his features. “Look at you. The three-feet-tall menace.”

   “If you say that one more time-”

   Pidge's words were cut off by the sound of the bell tingling over the door. Her eyes shot towards the opening door, her stomach curling at the sight of you walking in, hair drenched with the rain pelting outside. You glanced in Lance and Pidge's direction, and Lance was decent enough to give you a small smile and a nod, leaning over the desk as if prepared to hold Pidge back if things went south.

   Pidge simply watched you. You stamped your feet against the rug, clearing them of any dirt before you hauled your bag further up your shoulders and made your way over to the far side of the shop – the place you seemed to have claimed as your own over the past three weeks.

   Lance turned back to Pidge, a small smile still on his face. “Well, Big Bad Boss. You gonna go over there and tell her off?”

   Pidge opened her mouth to say yes – she should have. As an employee, as the daughter of the man who owned this place, she should have been walking over to you and telling you to stop, perhaps even scolded you for how often you had come in here and done this very thing, even though you knew you shouldn't have. It was common knowledge that you weren't supposed to play the instruments before you had bought them.

   And yet her words fell short, sinking back into her throat as the sound of your humble, soft tune started playing again. Such a smooth melody, oddly quiet for the instrument it was being presented on. The notes ran through Pidge's body, sending goosebumps to track up her arms, and she hated it. She hated that your skills were able to make her pause, that she wanted to hear more from you so badly that she was willing to put her entire career on the line just to let you play on.

   Lance chuckled, noticing Pidge's change in demeanour.

   Pidge scowled, shoving her co-workers arm. “I will. I'll get her to stop – eventually. Let me just – let me just finish my sandwich first.”

   Lance continued to laugh. “Right. I see you like dinner and a show?”

   “Go to hell.”

   Lance's laughter was heard even over the sound of your piano playing, and Pidge had the sudden urge to tell her friend to be quiet just so she could enjoy the soft melody being conducted by your fingertips.

   ---

   Todays practise lasted a little bit longer than you had originally expected it to.

   It had been raining outside, meaning you were in absolutely no rush to be leaving the warmth of the small shop you had cooped yourself up in. Also, the melody you had been creating was being perfected, and it had never sounded better to you than it did today; you often did this. Lost yourself in the notes, lost track of time until somebody was genuinely having to drag you away from the instrument just to get you to come back to the real world.

   The tune was finally becoming something, and you could hear it straightening itself out. The tweaks that had been bothering you for weeks now finally seemed to be flattening, sinking into the song until everything was beginning to sound smooth.

   It gave you goosebumps. That feeling whenever everything was beginning to fall into place, when weeks of hard work seemed to be finally going somewhere – god it was the best feeling in the world, and you basked in it. You lived for it, grinning to yourself even though you were aware of the people around you staring at you as if you were demented, no doubt wondering what you were doing that was making you this joyous.

   They didn't know how long you had been slaving over these notes for. They didn't know how many tears you had shed, how many times you had curled up in bed and told yourself you weren't good enough just because this one part of the song wasn't adding up with everything else – the notes weren't right, the tempo was off and you had no idea how to slot it in to make it look natural.

   But today, things had been working out, and time was no longer a worry for you.

   You looked up after what only felt like five minutes, was startled to see the street lights outside flashing on, the sky going a navy blue. It wouldn't be long until the shop was closing – had you been here all day? You had arrived at lunch – it had been daylight when you sat down, and you were fairly certain it should have been daylight now.

   You frowned to yourself, glancing over at the clock which hung on the far wall – 5:00pm. You had nearly been here for five hours, and not one person had thought to tell you off.

   You nearly choked, standing up so fast that the stool you were sitting on toppled. You grabbed for it, aware of the eyes on you, no doubt people judging you for the mess you were surely looking like in this moment. You didn't care.

   Five hours. Sure, you knew you had been in the zone, but that was ridiculous, even for you. Your parents would be worrying. You had told them you would only be gone for a few hours.

    You grabbed your bag, hauled it onto your bag and made for the exit, refusing to look at the woman behind the desk as you did so – she didn't like you very much. You had caught on to that attitude long ago.

    You reached out, inches away from the door handle -

   “Ma'am?”

   The voice stopped you. Your head snapped around, half expecting the woman to have been speaking to somebody else, but her brown eyes were trained firmly on you.

   You froze, mouth opening. All you could do was point at yourself, asking for confirmation that it was, indeed, you she was addressing.

   She nodded. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

   Your stomach reeled. Oh God, here it was. This was the moment you knew would be inevitable eventually – you were going to be told you weren't allowed back here. Spending five hours seated in the shop without buying anything had been the final straw, and you couldn't blame them for kicking you out, telling you to never return. It was obvious you could afford very little from this place. It was obvious you didn't come here with the intention of buying stuff.

   Slowly, you pulled away from the door and approached the front desk. The lady behind it was short, her brown hair flicking out around her head with large spectacles covering those brown eyes of hers that were gazing at you now with an odd sense of sternness. It was the type of stern that looked like it was forced – she was only looking at you in this way because she believed she had to be, because it was her job to look intimidating whilst telling off a customer.

    “Yes?” you croaked out.

    “I couldn't help but notice that you seem to have taken an interest in that grand piano over there,” the girl said, nodding towards the very piano you had just evacuated in a hurry.

   You nodded in reply, swallowing your nerves.

  The girl continued. “I don't want to be the spoiler of your fun, but that piano is four hundred dollars and will be very, very expensive to replace. We would appreciate it if you could refrain from playing it whilst it's still on sale.”

   You had expected this, but it still didn't stop your face from paling or your hands from clenching at your sides. The girl almost seemed to sound guilty at the scolding she was giving to you – as if she didn't want to tell you to stop. It was a warm thought, but one you were aware was most likely far-fetched – she probably hated you. She probably thought you were trying to squeeze her of money, trying to get some special treatment.

    You nodded slowly. It was the only thing you really could do. Words were failing you. You wouldn't be able to play the piano – after finally figuring out the tweaks to your melody, you were now being denied access to an instrument to play it on.

    You weren't entirely sure why you felt like crying.

   The girl noticed your obvious distress, as her brown eyes widened. She leaned forward, and it was then that your own eyes flicked down to the desk. Sprawled out in front of her was a leather bound, beat-up notebook, the page opened to reveal prettily written poetry-

   No, not poetry.

   Lyrics.

   Song lyrics. The very thing you had been trying to work on for the past three weeks, the very thing you couldn't seem to latch onto.

    Your eyes bulged out of your head, and you weren't entirely sure where the sudden burst of confidence came from, but it slammed into your chest at a million miles per hour and you were suddenly lurching forward, pointing at the page in front of you.

   The girls eyes widened at your sudden movements. “What? What is it?”

   “You write lyrics?” you said.

   The girl flushed, immediately slamming closed the leather bound book and tucking it under the desk. “I don't – They're not that good. Nothing special. Now, do you understand what I was telling you earlier?”

    “Do you think I could read some?” you asked, knowing full well you were overstepping your boundaries with this woman, but your interest had been peaked. You had been coming here for three weeks, and not once did you realise that the girl who had been complaining about your presence the entire time was actually a lyricist.

   You wondered if she was good at them, if that leather-bound notebook held words that would suit the melody she had been playing.

    The girl reeled back. “No! They're personal.”

   “Even better!” you exclaimed, excitement bubbling in your veins. “I've been trying to write lyrics for weeks now, but that's not exactly where my expertise lie.”

   “Do your expertise lie in illegally using a piano at your local music shop?”

   You winced, feeling that familiar feeling of your stomach reeling once again. You shoved it down, clenched your fists at your side. “I'm sorry about that. I'll stop. I didn't realise it was that bad.”  

   “Yeah, well, it is. Come back here tomorrow with four hundred dollars and we'll see what we can offer you, but until then, you need to stay away from it. You've played it enough times to know it works.”

    You frowned. I wish it were that easy. You wished you could just walk in those doors and pay up four hundred dollars, hand it over like it was nothing – but you couldn't, and you knew that.

   “Do you think-” You faltered, swallowing your nerves. If you couldn't play the piano, you could still make music another way. You could learn, and here you had a person who could very easily be the teacher you so desperately needed. “Do you think if I came back tomorrow, you could help me with my own lyric writing?”

    It was such a long shot, and you knew that. God, you knew that, but you were desperate. You didn't want to let go of music – music was your everything. Music was the reason you smiled, the reason why you woke up in the morning with an ounce of passion that could drive you throughout the day. Letting go of that would be like cutting off a limb. You had to have some attachment to music, and if it wasn't through the piano, then lyric writing could be the next best thing for you.

   The girl narrowed her eyes at you, observing you for any sign of falsehoods, any sign that you were joking – you hadn't even read her work, and yet there you were, asking for her assistance. If this stranger couldn't pick up on your desperation by now, you weren't entirely sure how else to show her just how badly you wanted her to agree.

    Her throat bobbed. “My lunch break starts at 12. I'm sure I could give you an hour of my time if you really want it.”

    ---

   Pidge cursed herself. Over and over and over again as she paraded up and down the music shop at 11am the next day.

   Why had she agreed? What demon had possessed her to say yes to the offer you had given to her – it wasn't even an offer. She was gaining absolutely nothing from it – nothing but a wasted lunch break helping out a complete stranger with something she wasn't even sure she was qualified to teach.

   She had been stupid. First, she had let that girl – Y/N, she had later learned was her name – play the piano for five hours straight the previous day. Five hours! That was five hours of constant playing, of watching her get lost in the music, of genuinely watching somebody break the rules right in front of her. She could no longer use the excuse that she hadn't noticed you there – not when you had been sat right in front of her for five hours straight.

   Pidge had finally gained the courage to remind you of the rules, had felt pretty good about it, but then you had asked her about her lyrics, and she had cracked all over again.

   She had said yes. She had agreed, as if it you two had known each other your whole lives.

    “You're gonna put a dent in the floor if you keep pacing back and forth like that,” Lance called. He had been, once again, tuning the guitars all morning.

   “Maybe I can tell her I'm too busy to help her,” Pidge replied. “That's a good excuse, isn't it? The work load got too much so I can't free up my schedule to help her.”

   “You're gonna make her haul ass all the way over here just so you can send her back home because you're too nervous to help her out?” Lance scoffed. “Honestly, that's just cruel. Not the Pidge Gunderson I know.”

    Pidge groaned, well aware that Lance was right – he was always right.

   She had gotten herself into this mess, and she would have to make up for it. One hour with you would do no harm, and Lance would be in the back room anyway. If things got too awkward, or Pidge froze up, it wouldn't take much to signal for Lance to come and help her if need be.

   Right. She would be fine. Everything would be fine if she just let herself breathe.

   An hour passed in what felt like ten minutes.

   The bell above the door jingled, and you stepped inside. You shoved your hood off of your head, and for the first time in a month, you walked directly to the front desk instead of heading straight towards the grand piano. It was a pleasant feeling, and Pidge found herself nervously smiling as you stood before her.

   It was obvious you were also nervous, your smile wavering as you nodded a greeting to Lance before turning back to Pidge.

   “Sorry if I'm a little early. I'm eager.”

   And suddenly, Pidge didn't feel so nervous any more.

   ---

   Pidge sat beside you, a pen in her hand and her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She had just talked you through the structure of a song, had made you copy out the lyrics to famous, existing songs just so you could study the format a song possessed.

   Whenever Pidge had started writing lyrics, this had been the most boring part to her – the structure. She wanted to dive head first into the real stuff, wanted to start writing as soon as possible. That was what she fully expected to hear from you.

   But you seemed so absorbed in such a simple thing, your eyes widening as Pidge explained the reason behind a bridge, how many times a chorus worked, how you could make each verse link up to make one big message at the end of it all.

   And you had asked questions. Again, not something Pidge had expected. From the little conversation she had had with you, you didn't seem to be a confident person. You huddled beneath the hood of your coat for the majority of the time, responded to people with one word answers or simple nods of your head – yet here you were, asking question after question with genuine interest sparking on your features.

   It made Pidge feel oddly happy, and before she knew it, the hour was up and Lance was calling her back to the front desk, but she didn't want it to end. She wanted to sit beside you and discuss music for as long as possible, wanted to hear more about your experience with how you had handled music over the past few years – but time seemed to be against her, and sooner than she would have liked, you were exiting the shop.

   Having not once touched the piano.

   Lance eyed Pidge when she emerged from the back room after saying her goodbyes to you. He raised a brow, leaning over the counter with that stupid amused grin on his face that Pidge had very obvious expected to see as soon as she showed her face.

   “So, when am I gonna hear the song?” he asked, nudging Pidge with his hip.

   Pidge rolled her eyes, but the denial she had become so used to replying with didn't seem as natural any more. She found herself glancing out of the window, watching you exit from the front of the shop before you started jogging down the street.

    The shop seemed eerily quiet without the sound of your melody ringing off the walls.

   ---

   It was another two days before Pidge realised just how bad you were at writing lyrics.

   She must have picked up on it, you knew. There was no way in hell she could sit beside you now and read over what you had written and not realise just how awful you were at the task that was as easy as breathing to her.

   You held your breath as she read over your work. The paper rustled in her hand. You wanted her to rip it up. You wanted her to scrunch it up and throw it in the bin, just like you had done with every other piece of music you had made in the past – it only seemed right.

   But she read until the final line, and then she nodded and set the page down.

   “I definitely got a glimpse of the style you work in,” was all she said, and you felt like you had deflated.

   You sighed, slumping back in your chair after hesitantly tossing the pen onto the stack of pages in front of you. “I told you I was awful.”

   “You're not awful,” Pidge insisted. “Nobody is awful. You've got your main premise down in the first draft, and now we just have to tweak some things to make them work together. That's the easiest way to do it.”

   “What? I have to work in drafts?”

   “Most beginners have to go through multiple drafts before anything good can come out of their work,” she assured. “Is it not the same whenever you're working with the production side of things?”

   You shrugged. “It's not exactly drafting. I don't edit anything – I kind of just pick away at the main basis until things sound even.”

   Pidge frowned. “Is that what you were doing with the melody you were working on before?”

   You flushed – she had picked up on that? Sure, you were aware that it was impossible for her to not notice the music flooding through her shop, but you truly hadn't believed she had paid that much attention to any of it – she had been the one complaining. Part of you had truly believed she may have just popped her headphones in and blocked out the noise you were making.

    “I guess so,” you replied, shyly messing with your fingers. “I've been wanting to put lyrics to it for a while now, but I just can't get it right. Nothing is working. Nothing is-”

   “Wait.”

  You paused.

   “You want to put lyrics to the melody you were working on?”

  You turned to her and nodded slowly, unsure as to why she sounded so shocked right now.

   She gaped then, eyes widening. “If I'd have known that-” She hadn't even finished her sentence before she was grabbing for the pages upon pages of ideas the two of you had racked up over the last hour and scrunched them all up between her two hands.

   Your eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  She tossed them into the bin, the ball of pages exploding, but she didn't care. She suddenly seemed ecstatic, a grin forming on her face that sparked with the creativity that was obviously raking through her entire body right now. You could only watch her in absolute shock, unsure of what to say or do, unsure as to why she was acting this way all of a sudden.

    She grabbed for another piece of paper off of the pile, placed her pen against it and started writing.

   You leaned over, but the words were covered by her arm. “What are you writing?”

  “Lyrics,” she replied. “If I'd have known you wanted to put lyrics to that specific melody, I would have shared my ideas immediately. I've been listening to you play that same tune for nearly a month now – I couldn't help but get some ideas as to what I think would fit with it.”

   Butterflies erupted in your stomach. You pushed them down at the same time you tried to hide your grin, placing your hand over your mouth and leaning back in your chair so you were no longer in Pidge's peripheral vision.

   The thought of somebody paying so much attention to your music that they even had an idea as to what lyrics they would put over it flattered you beyond words.

   In no time, Pidge was slapping her pen against the desk and sliding the sheet of paper over to you. You gawked at it – almost an entire song. Bits and pieces were missing, and she had left notes for herself such as 'Fix the chorus' and 'This verse is shit' but it was the skeleton of the song any way.

   She grinned at you, flashing a set of pearly whites. “Do you like it?”

   It was a love song. Far from what you had imagined, but it worked. It worked. It worked so damn well, and the excitement that ran through you in that moment felt almost paralysing. You couldn't stop the grin from forming on your features. You looked up at Pidge and nodded – words had failed you.

   Pidge smiled even brighter. “Then let's go and see what we can make of it. Let's go!”

   ---

   Pidge knew she was breaking the rules, but she no longer cared.

   Her creativity had been unleashed, and nothing was stopping her from hearing this song be played – absolutely nothing.

   She dragged you by the hand over to the piano she had previously banned you from using. You raised a brow at her, but she brushed you off and pushed you lightly on the bench in front of it before taking her seat beside you.

   She placed the lyrics in front of you, nudged your elbow. Words were not needed. You knew what she was asking, and she knew you were just as excited to hear this song form as she was.

   And so you started playing the melody Pidge had become so familiar with, and Pidge tapped her foot along to it. She nudged you whenever she wanted you to start singing, and it was then that everything seemed to click into place.

   It was a creatives thing. Whenever everything just seemed to click. It was a moment of adrenaline, a moment of bliss. For a writer, it could be when they hit the climax of a story and their fingers don't stop working on the keyboard until the early hours of the morning. For a musician, it could be the moment they hear their lyrics applied to a melody, sung by a beautiful voice for the first time – and it sounded perfect.

   The lyrics were off, and Pidge knew that. She was aware that she would go home tonight and slave over her desk for hours until the lyrics were perfected. But right now, hearing your voice sing to what little she had, Pidge was positive she had never felt happier.

   Her grin was giddy. She bounced her knee along to the soft tune, swaying her body back and forth as you sang – for such a shy person, you certainly didn't hold back when it came to singing. Whenever Pidge looked over at you, your eyes were trained purely on the lyric sheet in front of you, hands doing their own thing on the piano keys. You looked truly at bliss.

   You looked like a musician.

  The end of the song came, and the melody faded away, and Pidge had no words. She was stunned. She looked over at you, raised a brow in any attempt to pry some words from you just to fill in the silence that had settled, but you seemed to be just as stunned as her.

   It was Lance who spoke first, his words mingled with the sound of his clapping. “That. Was. Incredible.”

  ---

   You curled your knees into your chest, the TV playing in front of you. The volume was too low. You were too tired to reach forward and turn it up.

   You had spent yet another weekend at Pidge's house, this time meeting her family. You had been working on yet another song, and this was the third week in a row that you had been forced to spend the weekend at her home. Whenever that happened, it was rare the two of you got a lot of sleep, refusing to close your eyes until the songs you were working on were finished.

   You had gotten home only a day before, and you had a lot of sleep to catch up on.

   You could still hardly believe it had been a year since you and Pidge had partnered up together to create the music you were currently creating – could hardly believe that the girl who had once talked shit about you behind the desk at the music shop was now the girl who you were living out your dreams alongside.

  And sure, there may be more to it than that, but Pidge was unaware of any of those complications, and you didn't enjoy the thought of throwing a spanner in the system you two currently had going on just so you could feel a little less pressure on your shoulders – a stupid crush could be kept hidden if it meant your life wouldn't be completely ripped apart by confessing, because there was no way in hell Pidge would stay by your side if she knew how you felt about her.

   Your eyes were beginning to feel heavy when the knock sounded on the door.

   You grimaced, looking up past the covers you had pulled up just below your eyes. Perhaps if you just stayed silent they would go-

    Another fierce knock. “I know you're in there!” Pidge exclaimed. “Come out, come out, Y/N! I come bearing gifts!”

   You groaned loud enough for her to hear, just to let her know that you didn't particularly like the idea of getting out of bed. You heard her laughing as you approached the door and yanked it open, fully ready to scold her for being here whenever she knew full well you needed at least two days to recover from the work you had been doing.

   But the words died on your tongue when you saw what she had meant by 'come bearing gifts.'

   It was not an unknown fact between the two of you that you struggled with money. Since you and Pidge had partnered up, your financial situation had been a lot better, and you were stable. You were paying your rent with little worry, was even able to move out of your parents home. You could treat yourself now and then to the things you wanted, and it was a nice feeling.

   But you had never spent money on a piano. That was still too much – even for you in your most stable of circumstances.

   So it took everything in you not to completely break down whenever you saw the van parked behind Pidge, the grand piano strapped firmly to the trailer on the back of it, glistening in the sunlight.

   The prettiest sight you had ever seen.

   Your eyes fell to Pidge who was standing in front of you, a smug smile on her face as she gouged your reaction, the exact moment your knees were about to give out. You slumped against the door frame, and she chuckled, reaching forward and grabbing your hands.

   “I thought it was about time we finally got you your own,” she said. “We'll miss you visiting the shop every day, but I thought you deserved this. More than anyone.”

    The first tear fell before you could stop it. Your chest tightened, and you weren't sure where the adrenaline came from, or when it kicked in, but it did and you refused to hold back. Not right now. Not whenever she had done this for you – made your biggest dream come true just because she could.

   So before you could talk yourself out of it, you were wrapping your arms around her neck and tugging her into you, your lips crashing against hers in a way that could only be described as desperate.

   And it was such a risk, and could have very well been the most stupid and idiotic decision you had ever made in your life, but nothing had ever felt more right or more appropriate than what you were doing right now.

   Especially not whenever one of Pidge's arms wound around your waist, resting on your hip and gripping it just slightly. Her other hand came up, brushed your hair behind your shoulder so she could rest her palm upon your cheek. You could feel the cool metal from her rings grazing your cheek, causing you to shiver. Said shiver made Pidge chuckle against your lips.

   You pulled away, panting. Pidge gazed up at you in shock, and the look on her face made you flush; her lips were swollen, her hair a slight mess from where you had tangled your fingers within the flicks.

   She didn't seem to care. Not as she said, “All I expected was a thank you,” before she was slamming her lips to yours again, whispering, “You're welcome,” continuously against them.