#might keep this streak going and finally wash my sink as well!!!

[swordcats]

for the first time in a month i feel CLEAN :00

[curlynerd]

Dean Winchester hates mornings.

It might have something to do with the four hours of sleep that precede them. Or perhaps the lingering memories of dragging a grumpy, petulant 12-year-old Sam out of bed for school when he was still an equally grumpy, petulant kid himself. Or maybe he just isn't wired to handle the early hours.

Whatever it is, Dean Winchester hates mornings.

And yet, he still wakes up early every day.

Drags his ass out of bed with a grumble and a sigh. Keeps his curses as quiet as possible so he doesn't wake Cas beside him. Scrubs at the sleep making his eyes gritty. Shuffles into a pair of pajama bottoms and his slippers with a disgruntled huff, like having to deal with the early morning chill is one of life's greatest inconveniences.

At the doorway, Dean pauses and looks back. Cas is still blissfully unconscious, his breathing slow and heavy and relaxed. The second Dean got out of bed he snagged all the blankets and cocooned himself in them, but by now his hand is out, searching for Dean so he can wrap his arm around him again. When it fails to find him, it curls around Dean's pillow. Cas buries his nose in it and lets out a tiny coo of contentment.

Dean smiles, his heart so full it aches. For just a second, he considers crawling back into bed with Cas. Succumbing to his hatred of mornings and going back to sleep with Cas nuzzled up against him like Dean is his personal teddy bear.

But he doesn't. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible and shambles down the hallway.

Dean's not quite firing on all cylinders without coffee in his system, so he bangs his shoulder on the doorway as he rounds the corner into the kitchen, and he swears a blue streak on his way to the sink. He's still grumbling under his breath as he grabs the lid of Sam's shaker bottle from the side of the sink and washes it with as much malcontent as he can muster. Sam always forgets to wash it when he rinses out his bottle, and Dean always has to clean it the next morning so Sam doesn't get yesterday's nasty protein shake crap mixed in with today's. He sets it beside the clean bottle and makes himself some coffee.

It's not long after the smell of fresh coffee fills the kitchen when Sam walks in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and wearing running clothes like the health freak he is. "Hey."

Dean grunts in acknowledgement. Words are for after coffee. Sam starts making himself a protein shake without so much as a 'thank you' for cleaning his lid. Hell, he's probably not even aware Dean does it for him.

"Oh, can you do extra spinach in my omelette? Gotta use it up; it's getting kinda wilted," Sam asks on his way out the door, like it's a given Dean will make him an omelette. Because it is a given. Five people in the bunker and someone needs to make breakfast for them all. Might as well be Dean. "And tomatoes?"

"Yeah yeah, have it your way, Burger King," Dean grouses as he pours himself a mug of coffee. He dumps what's left and fills the carafe with more water.

"Awesome, thanks." And then Sam's gone off to do horrifying morning activities like jogging.

Dean, however, is doing something even more horrifying. He fills the coffee maker with pumpkin spice flavored coffee and grimaces. But God help him, Cas loves the stuff. And Dean loves Cas, so he'll make him some freakin' pumpkin spice coffee. Though this is the only point in the entire day when he questions his love for Cas. Just a little bit.

As nutmeg and cinnamon fill the air, Dean chugs his respectable cup of plain ol' dark roast and browses the contents of the refrigerator.

Blueberries. He should use those up too. Dean plucks them, some eggs, some butter, some milk, and all of the stuff for Sam’s atrocious vegetable omelette from the fridge.

Jack comes shuffling in while Dean is mixing up blueberry pancake batter, looking sleepy but chipper. He looks even happier when he sees what Dean’s cooking. “Excellent timing! Chop Sam’s tomatoes for me,” Dean commands before Jack even has a chance to say a ‘good morning!’ or grab some juice. The coffee is finally kicking in and dragging him into full wakefulness, but the patient parts of Dean’s brain don’t come online until at least 9am.

Eileen isn’t far behind Jack, but she takes one look at Dean with his spatula and Jack at the cutting board and immediately backs out of the kitchen. “Sorry! Dunno what you’re saying!” she shouts as she retreats, as if she expected Dean to try calling out orders after her. “I’m gonna shower!” Dean sighs and shakes his head. Probably for the best. She handles produce and a chef's knife the same way she does with vampires and a machete.

“Hello, Dean. Jack.” Cas drags himself into the kitchen with half-open eyes. His sleep-rough voice is adorable. The wild shock of hair standing up on one side, even moreso.

“Mornin’ Sunshine!” Dean croons at full volume, like he does every morning, because he’s kind of an asshole and secretly likes the way Cas scowls at Dean’s energy as he makes a cup of his terrible pumpkin spice coffee.

Cas comes up behind Dean and rests his chin over his shoulder to watch him cook, like he’s too tired to even bother holding up his own head. Dean has to be careful how he moves his arm so he doesn’t burn himself on Cas’ hot mug, but he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t one of his favorite parts of the day. Cas tucked up against his back, sleep hazy and warm from their shared bed, those beautiful blues blinking owlishly as Dean makes food for their family.

“Sure you don’t want any?” he asks, pointing down at the griddle even though he knows the answer already.

“No, too early to eat,” Cas grunts by his ear. “Coffee is enough. It smells delicious though.” He tilts his head down to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s shoulder before he pulls away to slouch down in a chair and finish waking up.

By the time Dean finishes breakfast, Sam and Eileen have filtered in too, completing their packed table. For a brief moment it’s utter chaos as everyone grabs plates of food and cutlery and coffee and juice, but before Dean can blink everyone is settled, chowing down on their breakfast or quietly drinking their awful flavored coffee. Dean lets out a weary sigh and sinks down into a chair next to Cas with his own stack of pancakes. It’s way too early to feel this tired.

Almost immediately Cas tilts sideways until he’s using Dean as a headrest again. "I don't see how you can stand getting up so early," Cas says around a slow sip of his coffee. He closes his eyes in appreciation and hums softly.

Dean glances around the table. At Sam, his overly long hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, scrolling through his phone as he shovels egg white omelette into his mouth like he's starving for it. At Eileen, a pleased grin on her face as her closed fist moves in a circle in front of her, her thumb pointed down over her stack of pancakes. At Jack, watching her intently as she teaches him a new sign, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth until a bite of pancake falls off it and smacks onto the table, making Eileen laugh.

At his family, fed and caffeinated and content, ready to start their days because Dean took the extra time to get things off on the right foot.

"I dunno," Dean says with a shrug as he passes Jack the bottle of syrup. He grins. "I kinda like mornings."

[inkykeiji]

Many sad thoughts running through my head but I can imagine Dabi having trust issues as you and the other anon saying. Him being afraid of getting left behind. I feel like he would say “I didn’t mean to say I love you” at some point because that’s a type of vulnerable he doesn’t want to be but it’s just one of many thoughts

AHHHHHHHH anon anon why must u hurt me like this?????? pls my whole heart just broke at this and i uhhhhh wrote 1.7k words about it,,,

❅ cw: soft dabi, angst, rly sappy ❅

It seems to happen at the most random of times. It isn’t like the movies, isn’t ever after some profound incident or momentous occurrence shared between the two of you—no, it’s always right after the most mundane things; after he catches you brushing your teeth in a cute matching set of panties and a tank top, sticking out your tongue at him, mouth full of foamy white toothpaste; after he finds you curled up on the couch buried under a fluffy blanket, nothing more than a lump and a head as your eyes rapidly scan the pages of the book in front of you, entirely absorbed in whatever world it’s built for you; after he walks into the kitchen to see you by the sink washing a few dishes, hips swaying and head nodding as you hum along to whatever song is blasting through your headphones.

But God, does it hit him like a motherfucking bus every single time, punches him in the stomach without warning, knocks the breath straight out of him.

He’s usually good at keeping it to himself, usually able to swallow it back down when those three little words begin to creep up his throat, dancing on the back of his tongue and restricting his breathing.

But eventually, he messes up.

You had started it, right after you had finished sprinkling the pizza stone with some flour while he was rolling out the dough, wiping your powdery fingers down his t-shirt, then swiping a thumb across his cheekbone, leaving a streak of white flour painted in its path, a little mischievous smile on your face and glint in your eyes.

He retaliates immediately, grabbing a pinch of flour from the bag and flicking it right in your face.

“Dabi!” you gasp, but your shoulders are shaking with silent laughter as you wipe at your face, fingers only managing to leave more strokes of the substance instead of clearing it. Your hand dives into the bag, grasping a handful of flour, inhaling deeply—enough to expand your entire chest—before blowing air out of your mouth, casting tiny, thick explosions of white at him, speckling his shirt and dusting his inky hair.

“Oh, you little brat,”

And, fuck, you look so goddamn beautiful, giggles ringing out around the room, flour strewn in your messy, tousled hair, smears of it across your cheeks and neck, sprinkled on your clothes, eyes bright and breathing laboured with exhilaration as you daintily leap away from him.

They’re bubbling up in his chest, those three stupid little words, climbing up, up, up his throat to settle on his tongue, light and sweet, floating in his mouth like candy floss and melting on his tongue only to be resurrected by another one of your giggles, or playful yelps, or squeals of his name.

And he’s too preoccupied to remember to swallow them down, to chew and chomp on them until he’s crushed them into a thousand tiny pieces as he chases you around the kitchen while you throw clouds of flour at each other, too enraptured by the soft, cute, precious sounds he’s endlessly pulling from you, too hellbent on hearing more, a man possessed.

Because he hasn’t laughed like this in ages, isn’t sure he’s ever laughed like this in his entire life, and they just slip out, when he finally catches you, chest heaving a bit from the thrill of it all as large hands curl around your shoulders.

“God, I love you,”

They’re muttered softly, just a huff of breath, really, blanketed by his laughs and yours, and you nearly miss them.

Nearly.

And then, everything stops. Your laughs abruptly cut off, and he wishes he’d have missed the sharp intake of breath you inhale through your mouth, lips parted slightly, wide eyes staring at him as your body freezes up, going rigid in his grasp, feet fused to the floor.

He stops, too, lets go of you so quickly you’d think your skin burnt his palms through the thin material of your shirt, sapphire eyes growing wide—wider than you’ve ever seen them before—as his mind catches up with his mouth, stumbling a few steps back from you.

He wants to say something, anything, but his voice is caught in his chest, fading into pathetic squeaks of breath any time he tries to force a few words out. And it aches, heart pounding almost painfully against his ribcage, breathing shallow—almost ceased completely—as he stares unblinking at you, sharp, tingling anxiety flooding his veins.

And you—well, you’re staring at him with this look in your eyes, something that he can’t decipher, and it makes his stomach lurch. It’s a look he’s never seen before, your eyes shining as you gaze at him, almost glittering as you stare at him, unmoving, unbreathing, unexplainable. Are you upset? Angry? Disgusted? Stunned? A combination of all four? None at all?

The fact that he can’t tell, that he doesn’t know, when he prides himself on being able to read others so insanely well, ignites flames of anger that alight his entire body, right to the tips of his fingers and his toes, blazing straight through the anxiety and simmering in his chest, eyes hardening as they glare back at you.

A beat passes, your ears ringing from the thick, tense silence draped over the room, and then he’s pushing past you roughly with a choked snarl that sounds a little like a mix between a sob and a growl, and storming out of the kitchen.

He’s cut off all communication entirely, has been ignoring you for a few days now, only leaving his bedroom out of absolute necessity and refusing to answer any of your countless texts that have been collecting on his lockscreen, refusing to even touch his phone. He doesn’t want to see what you have to say, desperately tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care, that he isn’t scared of what your messages might reveal, isn’t terrified of that impending rejection he’s so sure is lurking on the horizon.

But there’s only so long he can keep avoiding you before you finally catch him in the kitchen, just past three in the morning, fixing himself a late-night snack.

“Oh, thank God,”

He whirls around at the sound of your voice, cobalt eyes gaping for a moment before narrowing into sharp slits an instant later.

“Dabi, listen—”

“No,” he growls, eyes flashing. “You listen, I don’t want to fucking talk about it, alright?”

Leaping in front of him, you block his path, prohibiting him from leaving the kitchen and speaking quickly. “Yeah? Well I do!”

“I don’t care,” he spits viciously, the ache throbbing deep in his chest—at the very core of his body—reminding him otherwise. “There’s nothing to talk about, anyway! It’s not like I meant them,”

And that—that gets you to stop, tripping a little over your own feet as you stumble back like he’s physically slapped you, a soft, hurt little whimper getting caught in the back of your throat as tears rapidly pool in your eyes, blurring your vision.

“Wh-What?”

He glares down at you, molars grinding together as his nose twitches.

I didn’t mean to say I love you.

What a pathetic fucking sentence—it’s almost laughable, the corners of his lips quirking up in a sardonic little grin. Your breath hitches, and his shoulders tense at the sound.

‘You aren’t supposed to know I love you’ is much more accurate, his mind sneers at him. Coward. Fucking coward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, though his voice is beginning to quiver, trembling hands curling into tight fists in an effort to stop it, short nails biting into the flesh of his palm as the skin stretched taut over his knuckles turns bone white.

“Didn’t mean what?” you whisper, glistening tears finally spilling over and streaming down your cheeks, leaving gleaming trails of salt water behind them. “Say it, Dabi,”

He’s got his eyes shut tightly as he shakes his head, knows if he opens them, if he looks at you, that he’ll break, shatter into a thousand pieces, split himself open at the very core of his body and bare his entire soul to you.

“Look at me,” you demand softly.

His jaw flexes once, slowly exhaling out his nose.

“Dabi, look at me,” a pause. “Please?”

“No.”

“W-Why?” the word escapes your lips in a little whine, broken up by your sniffles.

You know why.

But it’s those little half-sobs, the ones that keep catching painfully in your chest, that do it, interspersed with your soft whimpers as you plead with him—please, open your eyes, just look at me for a second, please!

Unable to stand it any longer, his lids finally rise, slowly revealing sparkling sapphire, glowering at you, his harsh gaze protected by a thin shield of water.

He hates this, hates not having control over his own fucking body, over his own fucking thoughts, hates the unfamiliarity of it all, of the unpleasant fluttering in his stomach and burning in his throat, swallowing thickly past the hard lump that’s formed, constricting his breathing.

Revolting, his inner voice snarls at him. You’re weak, letting some stupid little girl get to you like this, as if you even—

Your touch silences the voice, cutting it off midsentence, his whole body flinching at the soft, small hand resting so tenderly against the curve of his face, subconsciously nuzzling his cheek into your palm a second later, eyes slipping shut again.

“Dabi,” you begin, and something has changed. You no longer sound hurt, no longer sound wounded, your voice gentle and—

No. No, no, no, this can’t be happening to him right now. Panic grips his heart, puncturing it with its claws, sending blistering, sharp pain searing through his chest and slicing him open, raw and vulnerable.

“Please, don’t,” he whispers, words tumbling from his lips without his permission, voice frail, fragile, broken.

Don’t. He doesn’t want to hear them, doesn’t need to hear them, can’t bear to hear them—not if they’re false, fake, uttered out of misplaced pity and sympathy.

“I love you, too,”

A pathetic hiccup gets caught in his throat and he chokes on it, chest stuttering as he shakes his head, lids clenching tightly against the unfamiliar sting of tears, lips pressed together firmly to stifle the tiny distressed sounds that keep crawling up his throat, trying to escape.

There’s no way, she’s lying, how could she ever—

“Yes,” you whisper, thumb caressing his jaw. “I love you, too,”

[ashes-and-ashes]

Sirius comes back covered in blood.

His whole body aches, sharp pains shooting through his side as he fumbles with the key and the lock. The night air is cool against his skin, the stars seeming so very bright as he cracks the front door open and slips in, locking it carefully behind him.

He’s trying to be as quiet as possible but even he can’t stop the small groan that escapes his mouth as he toes off his shoes, tries to remove his jacket and then thinks better of it. The kitchen is just down the hall and he heads over, careful not to let any of the blood drop to the floor.

He finds a small dish towel, holds it under the faucet and turns it on, letting the water seep through his fingers and down the drain. It stings the cuts on his hands but he ignores it; he’s been through worse and right now he’s worried that he might have bled through his shirt.

With steady hands Sirius cuts the water off, almost collapsing at the kitchen table. There’s a plate of cold food lying there - leftover Indian it looks like, and Sirius digs in gratefully.

By the time he’s finished his food it’s almost 3 in the morning, the blood long since dried on his back. Sirius wants to close his eyes and fall asleep here, on the table but James and Lily thought he had come home 4 hours ago when his official shift ended. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to his feet and brings the dish over to the sink.

He’s putting the cutlery away when the lights cut on suddenly. Sirius jumps, his hand automatically going to his wand at his side, even as his ribs screamed at the motion.

“Sirius?” James blinks up at him blearily. His hair is messy as always, all over his face, in pajama pants and a ratty t-shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Eating,” Sirius says. Oh shit.

James frowns, eyes taking in the dishes and the cutlery and the eaten take-out food. “Yeah, we left some for you for after your shift. That was hours ago, though? Weren’t you back at eleven? Shifts are only four hours.”

Sirius swallows, hard, mind desperately racing as he struggled to come up with an excuse. “I was...at Remus’,” he says, keeping his voice as smooth as possible.

“Sirius,” James’ voice is gentle. “Remus won’t be back for another month or so.”

“I know.” Sirius closes his eyes against the sharp pain in his chest, the echoing reminder that Remus was gone. “I just...his stuff...”

“You’re lying,” James says quietly. His eyes are steely, arms folded across his chest. “I can tell. You always play with your hair when you lie.”

Sirius freezes - his hands are in his hair, raking anxiously through the curls. There’s bits of dried blood tangled up the the strands and he frowns at the crimson caught underneath his fingernails.

James’ eyes go right to it.

“Shit,” Sirius says as James’ eyes snap around the kitchen; the small streak of blood on the counter, on the glass, in Sirius’ hair and on his jacket and vivid red where he had missed a spot on his neck. His eyes finally settle on Sirius’ chest, right through the leather and the cotton as if he could see the gaping wound on his rib.

He can practically hear the betrayal in James’ voice when he finally speaks. “You’re taking my shifts again.”

Sirius doesn’t bother to deny it. He slumps back against the table, stifling a groan at the pain in his ribs. James is at his side in an instant, arms wrapped firmly around Sirius’ shoulders as he eases him into a chair.

The gentleness of his grip contrasts with the burning anger in James’ eyes. “I told you not to. Jesus fuck, Sirius, I told you not to!”

Sirius is too tired to muster up a response. He just sits there, his eyes half closed, pain shooting through his side as James slowly peels the leather from his skin.

“Fuck,” James breathes, as Sirius’ shirt comes and cold air washes over his torso. “What the fuck was this?”

Sirius shurgs with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Death Eater. Some sort of hex, probably. I think it’s burned.”

“You think?” James lets out a low laugh. “The skin’s gone black around the edges, Sirius.”

“Oh.”

James is pissed. Sirius can see it; the set of his shoulders, the burn of his eyes, the way his fingers clenched on the edge of the table as he picked up his wand. “I told you,” he grits out - Sirus winces at the cold press of wood against his wound. “I’m a part of the Order as well.”

“Never said you weren’t,” Sirius grits out; the pain is getting worse now, James’ wand a line of cold fire on his flesh.

“Then let me do my damn job.” James’ face is grim. “How did you even trick me like that - I got the shift schedule - “ His eyes widened. “No. You gave me the shift schedule. You changed the shift times.”

When Sirius doesn’t reply James throws his hands up into the air. “Bastard. You lied.”

If Sirius wasn’t so tired he would have denied it, come up with another excuse. But he’s sleepy and exhausted and so, so cold, James’ voice like metal against stone in his ear.

“Can it James,” he mutters; James looks like he was slapped. “Just - just shut up alright? I’m fine - it doesn’t matter anyways. I’m replaceable.”

James’ hands go white where he gripped onto the table, the bite of his fingers curling into the hard wood. “No you fucking aren’t. Sirius, what the hell are you doing? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“I’m fine!”

James shakes his head. “Bullshit. You’re hurt and exhausted and taking two shifts at once - “

“Three,” Sirius says softly.

James stares at him. “Say that one more fucking time.”

“I’m not going to let Lily out there am I?”

“You,” James grits out, “Are an idiot. An absolute idiot. You have got to be fucking joking me.”

Sirius just lets his head fall back to rest against his chair, rubbing a weary hand over his face.

“Asshole,” James hisses, with soft venom that Sirius has never heard before. “You bastard. How dare you - this is my fight too - “

“There’s plenty of Death Eaters to go around,” Sirius mumbles; he’s staring up into the brightness of the ceiling lights, head pounding with every cutting word of James’.

“That’s not the fucking point.” James slams his hand on the table; the echoing sound makes Sirius jump. “How dare you. How dare you lie to me, right to my face. I told you - I told you to let me handle this and you went behind my fucking back.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, his temper flaring. “Yeah, I did. And you know what? I’d do it again? I’d do it all again beside I am keeping you safe. I am making sure that Harry grows up with a father, and doesn’t have a shitty childhood like I did!”

“That’s not the fucking point!” James throws his arms out. He was more angry than Sirius has ever seen him, eyes blazing with rage. “Jesus Sirius - you think I’d want to be saved if it means you’d die?”

“You think I would want to live knowing that I could have saved you?”

James shakes his head, a mocking smile twisting into his lips. “What does Remus think about this?”

The words are like a bucket of icy water to Sirius’ face. He doesn’t realize he’s on his feet until he feels the blood flowing from his side and knows he’s bleeding again. “You know what? We both agreed, actually, before he left. That Harry was our priority, and that if it came down to it, we’d sacrifice each other to save him.”

James looks like he’d been slapped, a mixture of gratitude and relief and sorrow dancing over his face. He swallowed, hard, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely. “But not me. Don’t die for me. I don’t want you to. Sirius - you’re my brother. You can’t - “

“What would you rather have,” Sirius says softly. “Me? Or Harry and Lily, that perfect life you always dreamed of?”

James shakes his head, his face twisted. “Don’t. Don’t make me choose like that. I - I can’t - “

Sirius just offers him a crooked smile. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I chose for you.”

[dustofbrokenheart]

The Covenant: Lazy, Summer Day

Tyler Simms x Reader

Word Count: 1,650

Summary: Tyler and reader enjoy a day on the water to get away from the heat. Based on this post by @saviorsong​ which you should all totally check out! 

“I called in sick?”

“Yeah, this morning. See? We crossed your name off the schedule and everything.” A finger tapped rapidly on the big whiteboard that had everyone’s name written in dry erase marker.

Sure enough, there was a hastily drawn line going right through the middle of yours.

They really had thought you weren’t coming in. “That’s impossible,” you said confused. “Because I didn’t call in sick.”

“Alright, alright. I believe you,” the supervisor said. “You’re one of the normaler ones that we have and a normal person wouldn’t have driven clear across town when they already had the day off.”

Both of you stood there scratching your heads. Your thoughts were leaning towards this possibly being a dream. You had weird dreams all the time, right? And it wasn’t unlike you to be dreaming of work even when you were off the clock.

There was a good chance you would wake up any second now, still swaddled in bed sheets.

The supervisor had a completely different reaction. “Well, the building ghost strikes again! They must’ve called on your behalf knowing how hard you’ve been working. Just take the day off. We’re covered anyway.”

“Are you sure?” you hesitated. It felt weird taking the day for yourself when you were perfectly able to work. “Since I’m here, I could do—”

“Nope. Enjoy some of this weather. Summer is almost over, you know.”  

With that you were ushered out the door and left standing on the concrete sidewalk, not a clue as to what you should do.

There were always things to be done at the apartment. You hadn’t cleaned the bathroom in a while…yikes. Tyler also had his collection of expired leftovers in the fridge that he was terrible about tracking of.

Oh! You could wash the cars, too! Tyler had finally gotten rid of his monstrosity of a Hummer a few summers back in favor of a classic sixties car that Pogue had helped him fix-up. He liked to keep it spotless.

Speaking of his car…you looked up and noticed it parked across the street. And it was definitely his. Not only were there not many of them still out on the roads, but that was clearly Tyler smiling at you in the driver’s seat as he waved you over.

“Were you flagging me down this whole time?” you asked. He nodded with a heavy dose of enjoyment sparkling in those baby blue eyes. “Sorry. It’s been a weird morning.”

“Didn’t expect to have to day off?” Tyler’s smile becoming more pronounced.

“Of course not—wait,” you trailed off in realization. “It was you. You’re the one who called in sick for me!”

He stroked your wrist through the window with his thumb. “You caught me. But don’t be mad, I promise it was for the greater good.”

Greater good? You raised both eyebrows. “And what’s the ‘good’ in question?”

“Weather man predicted we’re supposed to hit high eighties today. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t drag you to the lake house to take advantage of it?”

“That’s a terrible excuse, Ty.”

“Fine,” he admitted with a laugh. “How about you’ve been working this whole summer, and I miss you and want to do something nice for you?”

On the inside you felt yourself vibrate with excitement but you tried to keep it together. You shouldn’t encourage him making plans without you, especially when they disrupted work, but you were a sucker for surprises. “Better,” you admitted with your nose titled up.

And he knew that. Knew that you weren’t really cross with him as he turned the engine over, jolting the car to life with a heavy rumble. “Come on, my lady. I promise that it’ll be fun.”

The lake house in question referred to one of several Simms family properties in Massachusetts, appropriately named for it’s position right next to a small, picturesque lake. The area was naturally beautiful with shimmering water that was encased by tall, shady trees that were a godsend when the sun became too much to handle.

The drive there went like it always did: fast, thanks to a good playlist and easy conversation, and soon Tyler was pulling up to the lake house.  

Not wanting him to fixate on the fine dust the gravel kicked up, and how it was dirtying the car, you leaned over the center console to kiss him. It was just long enough to steal his attention.

When his hand cupped the back of your head, you pulled back. “Last one to the dock has to use the tacky orange kayak!” You stuck your tongue out at him as you dashed out of the car and towards the dock.

Unprepared for the challenge, Tyler sputtered as he tried to take his seat belt off with clumsy fingers.

You ran around the outside of the house and dodged trees as best as you could, laughing the whole way. You may have gotten the head start but you could hear the tell tale sounds of the man gaining ground behind you.

The dock was so close you could picture your victory as. Only a few steps more, you would’ve had it.

Then two arms wrapped around your middle in a steel tight grip, halting you in your tracks. A large exhale was forced out of your lungs at the sudden impact.

“No fair,” you whined. Slumping back into his embrace, you turned to look at his smug face. “I can’t match your stupid arm strength.”

Tyler laughed, the argument a familiar one. “We’ve been over this. If you can use the element of surprise, then the element of muscle is fair game.”

That was the agreement but that didn’t mean you couldn’t pout. Not everyone was blessed with good genetics and years of a background in competitive swimming.

“Well, let’s consider this a tie then because I refuse to use that hideous orange boat.”

Tyler hummed, the vibration noticeable against your back. “Nope,” he said. The answer was abrupt and before you could get another word out, you were sailing through the air, lake water rushing to swallow you up.

The shock made your lungs seize up and your limbs flailed in the haze of the foggy water.

Breaking the surface, hair and clothes plastered to your skin you paddled around to glare at him. The effect didn’t have the ferocity you hoped for because he merely but his hands on his knees and laughed so hard it seemed like he might tip over.

Dodging the water you splashed at him, he got the laughs under control and walked to the edge of the dock to give you a hand. You glared at it personally offended by the gesture. Those were the hands that had just thrown you in without any warning.

But Tyler was patient and held his hand out steadily until you were ready to grab hold of it. For a moment, you debated trying to sink him to the murky depths along with you, but as his impressive looking biceps flexed under the warm glow of the sun, you realized you’d have to take revenger later when you were more certain of your success.

With the added help, you hauled up to the dock. The access water from your clothes ran off, darkening the wood in random splatter patterns, and you realized for the first time that it was pretty hot out.

The sun was bright even with your hand covering your eyes as you looked up; not a cloud in the sky as the bugs buzzed around lazily.

“Sorry.” Tyler fidgeted awkwardly, bringing your attention back to down earth. “I didn’t mean to be, well, mean.”

“Most people would think you’re an angel but you surely have a competitive streak, Tyler Simms.”

He shrugged apologetically. After a moment, he stood up and called over his shoulder as he jogged away. “I’ll go grab a towel for you. Meet me in the cabin!”

It was hard to stay mad at him. Especially when he tried to make up for it by doing something cute, like literally running to get a towel. He really was puppy-like; a little reckless but very contrite when he realized he messed up.

True to his word, he did bring you a towel along with a whole bag of clothes he had packed for the trip. Figuring it’d be a waste to dry your hair—you’d be on the water soon again any way—you settled for patting down the rest of your body and changed into extra clothes.

After Tyler managed to coerce you into putting on sun block (he was strict about it, likely leftover from his swimming days, while you tended to be lazy about it), it was back to lake where each of you set off in a kayak.

And even though he had won the bet earlier, he took mercy and neither of you had to row in the garish orange kayak; a mercy on both pairs of eyes, to be sure.

The sun turned sweltering before it had even reached its highest point, the heat feeling like pin pricks all over your body. The water definitely helped. Between kayaking, swimming, and even a brief diving contest off the end of the dock, you kept cool enough.

Enjoying a late lunch under the shade of a large tree, you felt the pull of an after-lunch nap calling your name.

Tyler noticed the way your eyelids drooped and laid down on the blanket and pulled you into his chest. “Nap time?”

Utterly content, you nodded languidly.

“Alright then, let’s nap.” He pressed a soft kiss into your hair. “Thanks for letting me drag you here. This is perfect...”

The was the last words you heard as the summer heat, filling lunch, and buzz of cicadas lulled you to sleep.

_______________

We could all use a summer day like this. I’m contemplating writing more based on the other boys’ preferences too, but we’ll see. Hopefully this one was enjoyable! 

[let-it-raines]

I Hope We Never See October (5/?)

When his personal life and football career go up in flames, Killian Jones escapes England for America, finding seclusion in Martha’s Vineyard in order to hide from his demons. It’s a fresh start, or at the very least a paused moment in his life, and all he needs is a few months alone to allow his heart to heal. He doesn’t count on meeting Emma Swan.

Emma’s life depends on tourists who come to the island every summer. It’s how she makes her money working in restaurants and clubs across the vineyard, but every year, she cannot wait until autumn comes and her life returns to normal. She especially cannot wait for Killian Jones to leave.

Rating: Mature

ao3 : beginning | current

tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |

-/-

Emma likes seafood.

She likes seafood, but she mostly eats like a ten-year-old boy. Apparently, there’s a little place near her house called Granny’s where she devours grilled cheese and onion rings like arteries aren’t a thing. It makes him laugh when she tells him because she eats how he’s always dreamed of eating. The only time he ever gets the chance is when he’s with his nieces and they convince him to get them food Elsa and Liam never let them get.

She also likes 80’s music, has been working at the Blue Dog for over half a decade, prefers her kickboxing classes to cycling ones, and her favorite color is blue.

That last one was a bit of a throwaway question, but he asked it anyway. Then, of course, he made sure to let her know that his eyes were blue. He got an eye roll and a ‘shut up’ for that before she started rolling her hips again. It was damn distracting, but he didn’t stop laughing at how frustrated she was that he wasted his one personal question a day on that.

One personal question a day.

It’s childish, but he thinks it works. It keeps the line between them defined. He knows what this is, has done it enough times before to not be blind to it. They’re both visitors in each other’s lives. They have expiration dates, and when there’s an expiration date, there’s no harm in spending time together.

There’s no commitment, so there’s no hurt.

He’s not an expert on Emma Swan, no matter how much she fascinates him, but he gets the feeling she’s avoiding relationships just as much as he is. There is a past hurt there, a damned painful one, and if anyone gets that, it’s him.

But he doesn’t ask about that in his one question a day. He asks for her favorite color and food and if she’d rather hike uphill for 10 miles or swim for 20.

For the record, she’d rather hike because she could sit down and eat along the way.

“Would you look at that?” Emma says as she runs her hands under the water of the sink at the bar. “You, sitting at this bar, again.”

He slices his salmon with his knife and grins. “I tried that Granny’s place, but the food had too much grease. Met a rather charming waitress, though.”

“Let me guess. Red streak in her hair, boobs on full display, argued with the owner the entire time?”

“How’d you know?”

“Because that’s Ruby, my best friend.”

“Is she now?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Is that your personal question of the day?”

“Nope,” he says, taking a bite of his food. “I’m saving that for a later time.”

“A later time,” Emma repeats, like she’s considering the words. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the bar. “What makes you think you’re going to be seeing me at a later time? This isn’t enough for you?”

He looks around them and leans closer to her. “Too many clothes.”

Emma laughs, legitimately, and that feels surprisingly good. “I’m literally in a tank top and shorts. That’s about as dressed down as you can get.”

“I was talking about myself, actually. There are too many clothes on me, but it’s nice to know you think so highly of yourself.”

That gets him another laugh and a shake of her head, and he likes that too. He may have no real inclination to become overly attached to her, but he can at least admit to himself that he enjoys her company.

“Shut up.” Someone calls Emma’s name from across the restaurant, and she holds her arm up, putting up one finger. “I get off at The Oaks at eleven. I’ll drop by your place if I’m not too tired.”

“Why the hell are you working there so much?”

“I like the money. And, Jones, that counts as your personal question of the day. I’ll see you later...maybe.”

She grins and winks before walking away, and he swears she puts a little extra sway in her hips. Killian shakes his head as he feels his own smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What a bloody woman,” he whispers to himself before spearing another piece of his salmon.

-/-

“Right there,” she moans. “Like, seriously, right there. Don’t fucking change anything.”

Kilian smiles against her, but he’s quick to return to what he was doing. Emma’s legs tighten over his shoulders, her hands yank at the sheets, and as much as he is throbbing right now, it’s bloody glorious to have her like this. The filter is gone, so too are the reservations, and he gets a bit of satisfaction knowing this is him doing this to her.

His only skills aren’t on the football pitch after all.

He is definitely a bastard for thinking that right now, but he’s never claimed to be otherwise.

“Fuck,” Emma huffs after she comes down from her high. Her legs shiver over his shoulder, thighs tightening so all the sounds fade for a moment, but then her legs fall and all sounds come back in screaming color. “What did I do to deserve that so early in the morning?”

“It’s ten, love.”

“Yeah, that’s early on my day off.”

Killian laughs and kisses the inside of Emma’s thigh before making his way up her body, planting a final one underneath her collarbone before he collapses on his side of the bed and pulls the sheets above his waist.

“It’s not early for the rest of the world.” He smiles, which she doesn’t appreciate, and she sinks further into the bed, yanking the covers over her. He can still see her flushed cheeks and the slightest content smile on her face. “You should try it sometime. See the sunrise, dodge early morning joggers, eat breakfast at a normal time.”

“Trust me, I’m usually up early enough to want to drive into the early morning joggers while I have a Pop Tart hanging out of my mouth. My summer schedule is just...it’s different than usual.”

He has questions about that. It’s something she’s alluded to before, but he doesn’t know if she’ll count that as his question of a day.

He’s thirty-five years old, and he doesn’t know if he can ask the woman he’s sleeping with more than one question about her life. He knows he’s fucked up a lot, but this seems to be the culmination of several screw ups in his own life.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that. Well, no, he has all the time in the world, but lately, the boredom has dissipated, the loneliness too.

Lately, he’s got a damn good distraction, and he’s not about to fuck that up.

Emma flips over on her side, her hair a wild, curly mess. She used his pool last night and didn’t wash her hair after. It’s made it even crazier than usual. He thinks he likes it. Makes her seem less reserved.

His phone rings on his bedside table, and he leans over to pick it up.

“Hello, darling.” Emma’s brow raises, but he ignores her. “How are you?”

“Good,” Elsa says. “We’re all good. The girls are in the garden right now, running around and getting all their energy out. I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

“I’ve been...busy.”

Emma’s hand finds his thigh, and his leg jumps before steadying. She is not about to do what he thinks she’s about to do. Bloody hell.

“Busy?” Elsa asks, as Emma’s hand walks a little closer to his groin. “Doing what? Have you made friends?”

“Why do you always ask me that like I’m a child?”

“Because you’re basically my baby brother.” Killian laughs and then hisses as Emma’s hand wraps around him. She smirks, obviously satisfied with herself, and he knows she’s doing it for the reaction above anything else.

Tease.

He doesn’t mind.

Except this is a poor idea.

“I believe I’m actually older than you.”

“Semantics.”

He laughs again, and Emma’s hand starts working a little more. Fuck. He needs her to stop, and even though she’s doing delicious things to him, she is looking away, acting as bored as can be. And maybe she is, but then he sees one corner of her mouth tick up.

“Mum, is that Killian?” he hears Ally ask, echoed by a squeal from Sophia, who is obviously having the time of her life. There’s a bit of a shuffle, some muted voices, and then his niece’s voice comes through. “When are you coming home?”

“Hello, Ally,” he says, his voice going high when Emma moves her thumb. “How is one of my favorite nieces doing?”

Emma immediately stops and yanks her hand away, practically falling off the bed. She catches herself and kicks up, moving the comforter up and nearly pulling it off him.

“What the actual fuck?” she whispers hisses, slapping him.

He ignores her as Ally asks again when he’s coming home.

“At the end of September, sweetheart,” he promises. “I’ll come home, and then I am going to kiss you right on the cheek.”

“Ew,” she complains, and he can imagine her nose scrunching.

“I also might give you a present.”

“I like that better.”

“Good. I thought you would.” he watches Emma get up and pull a t-shirt out of a drawer. It’s an old Man. United shirt, and he pretends that doesn’t do a damn thing to him, especially since she was just working him up a minute ago. “Listen, Ally, darling, will you hand the phone to your mum? I - ”

“Sophia, that is my hat! Do not wear it!”

And then the line goes dead, and he wonders how long it’ll be before Elsa gets back to her phone and calls him back.

“You let me do that to you while you were on the phone with your niece?” Emma mumbles, pulling the shirt down then pulling her hair into a mess of a knot on the top of her head. He’s not sure if she’s annoyed or amused. “I hate you.”

“Technically, at first it was my sister-in-law,” he corrects, tapping his head.

“That doesn’t make it any better.” Emma gets back in the bed, pulling the comforter all the way up to her chin, and then she shuffles a little further into the bed before sitting up against the headboard and groaning into her hands. “I am mortified.”

“I did stop you when Ally took the phone,” he points out before pulling at the arm of her shirt. “Nice shirt.”

Killian stands from the bed and walks toward his bathroom, grabbing his briefs along the way. “It’s comfortable,” Emma says. “Is this the team you played for?”

Killian stops, the tile cool against his feet, and then keeps moving, leaving the door cracked as he gets half dressed and starts brushing his teeth. As good as it was a few minutes ago, the mood is gone.

Especially now.

How the hell does she know he used to play football? And how long has she known that? Is that why...no, that couldn’t be why, but he knows that’s why a lot of women have.

“A long time ago,” he says, spitting out toothpaste. “I was with Chelsea when I retired.”

“Is that another team?”

“Uh, yeah,” he laughs, continuing to brush his teeth but sticking his head out of his bathroom door. “You didn’t know that?”

Emma shrugs as she types on her phone. “I don’t know anything about soccer. I only know you played because Ruby internet stalked you a few weeks ago and showed me your Instagram. I literally thought you were just one of those adults who is really into his hobbies.”

Killian nearly lets out a sigh, but he stops himself and turns back around to the sink to spit again before rinsing his brush. He looks up at the mirror. His hair is disheveled, there are lines around his eyes and on his forehead, and his stubble is growing to the point where a beard is beginning to form. He’ll shave later.

So Emma doesn’t know anything about football then. Or him, for that matter. He’s not sure he entirely believes her, that she didn’t look up any more about him, and he doesn’t like that uncertainty. Usually, when he meets someone, they have the upper hand and know the surface layer of all the dirty details of his life.

They usually don’t care to find out the real stories. Not that most of them redeem him in any way.

“Not a hobby,” he says, taming his hair with his hands. “It was a damn good job.” He leaves the bathroom and leans against the doorframe. “You ever play?”

She laughs and puts her phone down. “No.”

“Not even as a kid? Come on. I hear every lass in America plays as a kid.”

“Is that your question of the day?”

Damn. “No.” Killian walks toward the bed and puts his hands on either side of Emma’s head on the headboard, leaning in close. He sees her chest rise, and he smirks. “My question is to ask you to stay in bed with me all day. What do you say, Swan?”

She sits up, and her lips lightly brush against his mouth when she talks. “You should have asked me about the soccer because I was already planning on staying here the entire day.”

“Really now?”

“If we can get crepes delivered from this place that’s, like, ten minutes from here.”

Killian kisses her, long and slow until there’s heat simmering low in his belly. “As you wish.”

-/-

Emma doesn’t come over every night. Nor does he go to her place. But it seems that way as July rolls by, full of hot days that seem to linger forever. Killian finds himself busy during the days. Emma usually has work early in the mornings, so if she’s staying over, she leaves before eight. He doesn’t know how she has time to breathe working at both the Tavern and The Oaks, but she makes it work. When she leaves, he gets up and uses the gym in the basement of the house, going through his tried and true routines before he laces up his trainers and either runs on the beach or on the sidewalks through his little area of the vineyard. He finds the sidewalks are better for his knees, so he tends to stick with that and leaves walking on the beach for his afternoon phone calls with Elsa and the girls or Ariel and Eric.

It’s a routine, one that changes during the day, but for the first time since he got here, he doesn’t hate every damn day. He doesn’t spend his time actively having to try not drink or thinking about Liam or football. He practically buys out a local bookstore and goes through the novels faster than he has in years. He visits different restaurants, museums, goes along with some tourist activities he finds online, and he explores any shop that strikes his fancy.

And while his routine changes, there is one constant: he eats a meal at the Blue Dog Tavern.

At first, he thought Emma would kick him out for it, but now, she often comes and sits with him for a few minutes or sends him a drink from her office. He always sits in Ashley’s section and lets her talk about her growing belly even if he knows little about pregnancy, and he spends at least an hour eating and watching all the people around him.

It’s a hell of a lot better than the twenty-four-hour diners with sticky floors and bad coffee.

Killian shoves his keys in his pocket and pushes open the door to the Blue Dog. Marina greets him, telling him to seat himself anywhere in Ashely’s section, so he goes to his favorite booth and settles down. He can’t see the television from it, so it’s the perfect spot to completely escape from the world with no risk of his past showing up right before his eyes.

He may be feeling better, may be able to have a drink or too at night without wanting to have five more, but he knows he’s possibly only one bad day from it all coming undone, the thread unraveling faster than he can wind it back up.

“Tea or coffee today, Killian?” Ashley asks, notepad in hand.

“Tea, I think, but not the blasted stuff you gave me last time.”

She laughs and writes down his drink order. “Do you know what you want to eat already or should I come back?”

He hands her the menu. “The daily special and a side salad.”

“Perfect. I’ll be back with that as soon as possible.”

“No need to rush,” he says, smiling. “Is - ”

“She’s filling out orders for next week, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Ashley winks before walking away, and Killian wonders what the hell everyone in this restaurant thinks of him and Emma. It must be peculiar, but if he’s picked up anything from Emma, it’s that she likely doesn’t share much about her personal life with her employees. She surely won’t tell him that he’s the man she’s sleeping with for the summer, but they might pick up on that on their own.

The food here is good, but it’s not every day good.

He’s finished his salad and half of his sandwich when she comes out from the back. Today, she’s already in the black dress she wears to The Oaks, and her hair is pushed back into a ponytail. She looks exhausted, and unfortunately, the reason has nothing to do with him.

“I only have a second to say hi,” she says, sliding into the booth and grabbing a roll from the basket, breaking off a piece and popping it into her mouth. “We are having an issue with our fish orders, and it’s an absolute nightmare.”

“That sounds like I won’t be ordering any fish this week.”

Emma takes another bite of her bread. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Do you want to come to my place tonight? I’m off at ten.”

“Sure.” He picks at the bread on his sandwich. “Though, the last time I was at your place, that damn crab pillow ended up in the bed, and I didn’t appreciate that.”

Her nose scrunches with her laugh. “I hate that thing too, but Ariel loves it.”

“You live in that house the entire year. Why don’t you redecorate it for your taste?”

Her shoulders tense, and she stops chewing before slowly starting again. He already knows this is going to be his personal question of the day. Sometimes she forgets about it and lets the conversation flow freely, but when he hits a nerve, she’s more on her guard.

He gets it. He can be the same way.

“Personal question,” she says, and he knows her better than he should. “And I’ve redone my bedroom and little bits in the kitchen and living room, but I don’t know. I guess I keep it how the Fishers have it because it’s their home. There are memories there, and I don’t want to take any of those away for when I do eventually get another place. It’s....it’s good to have a family home with memories.”

Killian arches his brow, but Emma looks away, picking at the roll again. He never really had a family home, not after his mum died and his dad became obsessed with using Killian’s football skills for his own fortune, but he likes that sentiment.

A family home with memories. Good ones. That would be the dream.

“What about you?” she asks, changing the subject before he can press further. “Aren’t you excited to get back to your place where all the stuff is yours? You’re living in a place that’s not your own, so I’m sure you’re ready to get back to your family.”

She doesn’t mean anything by it, but her words cut. He’s here because he lost the one person in his family who he was closest to, but he doesn’t want to talk about that, not now. This is supposed to be a good time. It isn’t supposed to be about dark histories.

“I’m enjoying my time here,” he answers honestly. “There’s this woman who is an absolute spitfire, and she’s been occupying most of my time. I’ve been, well, metaphorically tied up in bed too much to think of returning home.”

“Ha, ha,” she monotones with a roll of her eyes. “That’s not what I - ”

“Hi!”

They both turn, and Emma’s friend Mary Margaret is standing there, bouncing back and forth on her toes. “Hi, Marg,” Emma says. “You’re early.”

“I know. I got finished tutoring early, so I thought I’d drop by. I didn’t know you’d have...other company.”

“Nice to see you again,” Killian says, nodding at Mary Margaret.

“Yeah, nice to see you.” Mary Margaret seems hesitant, like she didn’t meet him weeks ago at dinner, and he wonders just how much she knows about his arrangement with Emma. From what he’s learned, they seem close, but he also knows Ruby is Emma’s more...accepting friend. “How are you?”

“I’m good, love. Just badgering Emma at work. I’m surprised she hasn’t kicked me out yet.”

“Annoy me a little too much, and I will.” Her ankle hooks with his under the table, and Killian bites his lip to keep from smiling too much. “So, what’s up, Marg? Why’d you want to drop by? Have you heard of this thing called phones?”

Mary Margaret chuckles before sliding into the booth next to Emma. Emma’s ankle unhooks from his, and he tucks his feet under the booth. “So, you know how David wants to have that big barbecue for all of our friends and neighbors?”

“Yeah, you guys do it every year because you’re insane.”

“Anyway,” she says, playfully rolling her eyes, “we were wondering if we could get the Blue Dog to cater some of the sides. I know you guys don’t cater, but we could pay extra. Please.”

“You do know there are restaurants who do cater who could handle this?”

“Yes, but we love the food here. Killian gets it, right?”

“Uh, yes,” he mumbles, not sure what he’s supposed to say. From Emma’s death glare, he knows he’s chosen incorrectly. Bloody hell. “I love it.”

“Exactly,” Mary Margaret says. “We’ll pay extra. Promise. In tips so the staff can get it instead of the owners.”

Emma sighs and sinks into the booth, crossing her arms over her chest. “I need to know the order at least two weeks ahead of time, and it’s going to take me some time to figure out how much you guys need to pay.”

“Ahhhh, perfect!” Mary Margaret hugs Emma before sliding out of the booth. “You’re the best! I can’t wait to call David! Oh, and Killian, you should come too. It’s on August 14th. We’d love to have you there.”

Killian scratches his ear and nods, flashing her a tight smile. He doesn’t think Emma would welcome him at a party full of her friends, so he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable no matter how nice it might be to be in a large group of people.

“He’ll be there,” Emma says, surprising him, and he feels her toe tap his shin. “If he can make it, of course. You know, he has a very busy social calendar.”

“I wonder why that is, darling.” He winks, making Emma smile, and he taps his toes into hers right back. “I’ve heard you keep pretty busy as well.”

Emma’s mouth gapes before closing, and her green eyes widen, lashes nearly hitting against her brows. “Ass.”

“Well, I know you like - ”

“Okay.” Mary Margaret claps her hands together. “I’ve got to go. Emma, I’ll send you the menu after I talk to David tonight. And Killian, we really would love to have you there.”

“I’ll see,” he says as he fights to keep from smiling too widely. “May I recommend the cheddar bites for the menu. They’ll kill you, but you’ll enjoy it.”

“I have never once seen you get the cheddar bites,” Emma scoffs.

He leans over the table, pressing his chin in his hand and smirking the way he knows she likes. She tells him he’s obnoxious when he does it, but sometimes he can see past that hard shell exterior. “I’m full of surprises, darling.”

“That you are, Jones. That you are.”

-/-

-/-

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[lalainajanes]

For Klarosummerbingo! This square was "suspicious ranch hand"

Leave The Roads, Take The Trails

Two years after her mother’s passing, about twelve years after her father left, livestock begin to go missing.

The first month it’s just one, a calf that’s been struggling. They might not have noticed, except Bonnie’s been checking up on the calf every morning. Initially, Caroline’s not too concerned. She rides out with Enzo, finds a trail of blood that leads to a sagging fence, blood droplets leading into the woods. They fix it, and she assumes the problem’s solved.

Except the next month, they lose a yearling, a cow, and three of her most productive chickens. Caroline begins to grow concerned. The ranch sustains them, but she’s working hard to turn more of a profit, well aware that the salaries she’s paying Enzo and Bonnie are meager, that the temporary workers she relies on in the spring and during the harvest are far from the best of the best. Her savings are thin, and even a medium-sized disaster would obliterate them.

Caroline cleans her mother’s old shotgun, rides into town for another box of ammo, internally wincing as she passes over her coins. Every night for two weeks, she patrols, a herding dog or two at her side, ears straining for anything out of the ordinary.

The nights are quiet, cold, and uneventful.

Most mornings, she almost falls asleep into her porridge. Bonnie and Enzo try to make her go to bed, but Caroline’s not about to shirk the morning chores. The ranch bears her name, and it’s her responsibility. She grabs a nap in the afternoon, insists that she’s fine, even when her eyes are gritty and her body feels heavy with exhaustion. In the early evenings, while there’s still light, she and Enzo work on reinforcing the fences.

After two weeks with nary an issue, Caroline decides the patrols are no longer necessary and eases back into her routine.

After a particularly great night’s sleep, she bounds into the kitchen, feeling energized even though it’s her turn to make breakfast – her most hated chore. Enzo’s just coming in the backdoor, hat in hand, face grim. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, damp streaks on his jeans, which means he’d washed up in one of the rainwater barrels before coming inside.

Caroline stops abruptly while braiding back her hair. “What happened?”

“Lost a bull this time. Two of the lambs.”

Her teeth clench, and she has the urge to slam her boot heel into the floor as if she were still a child and not a grown woman of twenty-six. Caroline takes in a breath through her teeth. “Damn it; I should never have stopped patrolling.”

Enzo smiles sympathetically, tries to make a joke, “It was a full moon last night. Maybe you’ve got a local werewolf.”

Caroline doesn’t laugh. She stiffens, eyes widening, cursing her stupidity. Her father will be disappointed if he ever hears about this; he’d insisted she learn to track the moon phases when she was young. It’s a habit that’s waned.

Her father had left upon reading about a series of suspicious deaths in Chicago. Said he’d be back once he eliminated the brazen vampire, but he’d found another soon after. Caroline’s accepted that her father likes being a vampire hunter more than a rancher.

If she’s honest, she rather enjoys her lack of parental judgment.

Her complacency comes down to the fact that she’d been told that there hadn’t been a werewolf in the area since the last Lockwood had picked up and set out for the city.

The gossip mill in town would have gone wild if a founding family member had returned so it can’t be Tyler or his father or uncle. That doesn’t mean a stranger hasn’t recently moved or isn’t passing through.

Enzo interprets her shock differently, patting her arm to offer comfort. “It’ll be alright. We’ll put in some more work on the fences, yeah? Make them higher on the wooded side. Why don’t I take your turn at breakfast?”

She forces a smile, “Would you? I need to have a quick chat with Bon.”

If they’ve got a werewolf, it’ll be better if Bonnie explains to Enzo anyway. Enzo had been a drifter who’d shown up looking for a couple of weeks of work eight months ago. Caroline strongly suspects he’s stuck around so long for the pleasure of Bonnie’s company.

“Of course. She’s out with the horses. Don’t be too long, yeah? My pancakes are better hot.”

* * * * *

When Sheila Bennett had died, Bonnie had been left with little. Once Grams was buried, the debt collector’s filled their pockets. The crumbling house Bonnie had grown up in, a small patch of land, and nothing else. The Bennett homestead was adjacent to the Forbes’ land, and Grams had been helping with the Forbes’ animals for years, soothing sickness and healing wounds. Bonnie had been barely fourteen, with no other family, and Caroline’s mother had offered Bonnie a place in their home.

“Bon?” Caroline calls, walking into the barn.

“Back here!” she calls out, and Caroline makes her way to the farthest stall, finds Bonnie brushing out Persephone, her favorite mare. “You saw Enzo?” Bonnie asks when Caroline’s close enough that she no longer needs to shout.

“Yeah. Question, does he know that you’re a witch?”

Bonnie pauses, throws Caroline a look as if she’s insane to ask. “Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not?’ You must know he’s stupid for you. You could probably tell him you needed his assistance in a naked moon ritual, and he’d be out of his pants before you finished your sentence.”

“I don’t do naked moon rituals.”

“I know that, but he doesn’t. Could be a good way to move on from those intimate fireside chats you two are so fond of.”

She’s teasing or trying to, but Bonnie’s expression remains serious. “I’m not going to tell him. We can’t afford for him to leave.”

It would be a struggle, but they’d make do. She and Bonnie had survived worse. “You mean you don’t want him to leave.”

Bonnie turns away, and Caroline follows, helping when Bonnie heaves a saddle off the wall. “He’s not Jeremy Gilbert,” Caroline says, quieter now. She can’t guarantee it, of course, but she suspects Enzo’s loyalty is a stubborn thing once given.

Bonnie doesn’t reply; Caroline decides to table the subject. Possibly until such a time when she can ply Bonnie with liquor and sweets, until she’s a little more loose-lipped. “Well. Turns out we might have a werewolf.”

Bonnie sighs, “I think so too.” She gives Persephone an affectionate pat, “I’ll ride out with you after breakfast and see if I can sense any trace of magic. Is there anything you can send Enzo to town for?”

“I’m sure I can think of something.”

A jangling rings out, causing Caroline to jump because they rarely bother with the dinner bell. She nudges Bonnie, then throws the saddle over Persephone’s back. “C’mon, let’s hurry up. Enzo offered to cover breakfast, and he obviously wants it appreciated.”

“He does cook better than either of us.”

“But we’re not going to tell him that; he’d be insufferable.”

Bonnie laughs, finally, and a bit of Caroline’s earlier good mood returns.

* * * * *

At the next full moon, Caroline’s prepared. She has her mother’s rifle and two revolvers her father had left behind, one loaded with silver bullets. It’s a contingency should the worst happen, and the werewolf gets close enough to hurt her. She’d rather not kill a person just because they happen to transform into a wolf once a month. They might be perfectly lovely otherwise.

She tucks a knife into her boot, straps on the rifle.

Enzo’s leaning against the water trough, watching her worriedly. “I still think you should stay here.”

Caroline rolls her eyes. “And I think that’s adorable, but I’m a better shot than you are. I’ll be fine.”

She’s taking the perimeter tonight, leaving Enzo and Bonnie to guard the house and the barn. Bonnie’s enchanted the bracelets Caroline wears under her leather coat. She’d picked up a signature last month and connected it to the jewelry. Bonnie’s spell should help point Caroline in the right direction.

She’s slightly annoyed at Enzo, suspects he doesn’t quite believe them about the werewolf. Bonnie has yet to confess she’s a witch, likely sensing the same thing and sinking deeper into her doubts about Enzo’s steadfastness. Bonnie’s withdrawn from Enzo, tends to flee when he enters a room. He’s grown moodier in response, and Caroline’s had the strong urge to smack some sense into him a time or two.

She still needs to get Bonnie drunk, too. Hopefully, she’ll solve the werewolf problem tonight, and then she can devote more attention to matchmaking.

Which is different than meddling, in Caroline’s expert opinion.

Caroline sets her foot into a stirrup once her weapons are accounted for and swings herself up into the saddle. Enzo’s arms are crossed, she’s tempted to tell him to stop pouting, but she knows he’s only worried about her. She smiles, settles in, “Don’t let any more of my animals get eaten, okay? And make sure Bonnie gets a decent dinner. She’s been working hard lately.”

Bon’s insisted on putting up additional protections. She hides it, but Caroline knows that’s exhausting.

Enzo nods, serious, “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Hmm, I kinda like the sound of that. Maybe a little salute? Could be fun.”

He fights it but Caroline spies a small smile. “Don’t let it get to your head.” He hands her the bag she’d packed, taking the reigns while Caroline gets it situated. “Be careful out there, will you?”

“Promise. I’ll be back at first light.”

Possibly not alone, but she’s not going to tell Enzo that.

He’d only worry more.

* * * * *

The bracelet on her left arm warms first, and Caroline urges the horse in that direction. By the time she reaches the gate that opens into the forest, the bracelet’s practically humming. She’s not surprised; Bonnie had said the most potent traces of the werewolf had come from the area. Werewolves are, at least according to her father’s lessons, creatures of habit. Caroline turns the horse around, leading him to a patch of grass that should keep him occupied. She hops off, tying off the reigns so the horse won’t trip while he grazes. She unbuckles the saddlebags and walks back to the gate, hanging them on a fence post.

Then she grimaces, reaches in, and pulls out a hunk of beef that she would much rather be using for a hearty dinner. Caroline winds up and heaves it as far as she can, reaching in for another handful. Once the meat’s been thrown, she cleans her hands as best she can with a splash of water from her canteen and a handkerchief. She then sinks to her knees, propping her shotgun between the fence slats, and settles in to wait.

Bonnie’s magic warns her when the werewolf approaches, the metal on her wrist heating until it nearly hurts. Caroline rips it off and tenses, squinting into the darkness, taking careful, even breaths. She hears leaves rustle, underbrush crunching. She swallows a shocked noise when the wolf first lumbers out of the treeline.

She’d known it would be larger than the typical wolf but knowing is different than seeing. The werewolf is enormous.

Its fur is fairly pale, a sandy brown, making it easier to see under the moonlight.

Caroline’s next inhale is shaky, and she lets her finger rest on the shotgun’s trigger. The wolf eats the meat she’d provided, sitting down when it’s gone. Caroline’s muscles are starting to ache with the effort of staying so still.

Best case scenario, the wolf is satisfied with the meal she’d provided and lopes back into the forest. Then, Caroline can continue with her discreet inquiries in town. Three people have moved to town recently; a family’s taken up residence in the old Salvatore ranch. The werewolf must be among the newcomers; she’s just got to figure out the most likely suspect.

Tonight, luck is not on her side.

The wolf’s head tips up as he sniffs the air. Caroline hears hooves faintly, just behind her, much closer than they should be.

The wolf stalks closer, unmistakably hunting, and Caroline silently curses, carefully lining up her shot.

She catches the wolf’s shoulder just before it leaps, and she cringes at the high-pitched yelp of pain it emits. She fires another shot, wide this time, hitting a tree. It’s enough to scare the wolf away, and it retreats, limping into the forest.

Her horse nudges at her pack, and Caroline sighs, sitting down in a more comfortable position. She digs out an apple, takes a bite before offering it to her horse. “I hope you know; I just saved you from being dinner.”

The horse is unbothered, only concerned with his treat.

* * * * *

Once the last trace of the night sky recede, Caroline treks into the woods. She’s careful to keep her footsteps silent, has one pistol loosely clutched in her hand.

The one loaded with silver sits heavily at the small of her back. The bracelet guides her though she likely would have been able to track without it. She spots blood at a few points, a streak against a tree here, a few drops decorating the grass there, and there’s a distinct set of prints.

Guilt churns in Caroline’s stomach, but she tells herself her aim was good – she’d learned to shoot as soon as her hands were big enough, her mother had insisted she become even more proficient when Caroline had been a teenager. She’s beaten every boy her age in town at the summer fair, most of the men older than her too.

It had to have been a clean shot.

So caught up in her anxious musings, she almost misses the body in the clearing.

Caroline crouches low to the ground and tucked behind the trunk of a thick maple. She catches the relieved breath before it exits her mouth when she sees the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest.

A fairly nice one, not that she’s leering.

He looks like he’s resting, his hand clutched over his shoulder. There’s blood but not what Caroline thinks is a life-threatening amount. He must have healed some in werewolf form.

She hadn’t put much thought into this particular portion of her plan, something she regrets now. She’s confident he’s not a threat, naked and injured as he is, so she tucks the gun away.

Caroline stands, runs a hand over her hair, dislodging a few bits of leaves. She strides forward, no longer taking care to be sneaky. “Good morning!” she calls cheerfully as if they’re meeting at the market.

The man scrambles to a sitting position, dragging himself back with his uninjured arm. Caroline lifts her hands so he can see them, turning so he’s no longer in her line of sight. “Sorry!” she says, “didn’t mean to startle you. I did mean to shoot you, but I’m sorry for that too. You’ve already eaten too many of my animals.”

He clears his throat, “Miss,” he says, something stern in the tone even though his voice comes out a hoarse scratch, “What are you doing out here?”

She scoffs, “I should be asking you that. This is my land. Why are you on it? And without a stitch of clothing on?”

There’s a lengthy pause. “I assure you, there is a perfectly logical explanation.”

He’s not quick to supply it, and Caroline takes pity on him. She tosses her pack behind her in his general direction. “There’s clothes in there, clean handkerchiefs in the front pocket. You’re welcome to them.” He doesn’t reply, but she hears cloth rustling, assumes he’s taken her invitation. “Let me know when you’re decent.”

He makes a noise, soft and amused. His motions seem to hasten.

She’s relieved he seems willing to hear her out, at least. Or perhaps the blood loss has made him more pliable. Caroline suspects she knows who he is, but she’d rather not have to chase him down in town.

No need to invite gossip.

“You can turn around now.”

Caroline whirls. She’d filched the clothing from Enzo, and it hangs a bit on the stranger. He’s left several of the shirt’s buttons undone, has bunched up the linen she’d offered, and his hand presses it to his wound.

Katherine Pierce, who owns the saloon in town, had described one of the newcomers as “pompous but easy on the eyes” before talking up his physical charms. Her descriptions, many of them borderline lewd, fit this man to a tee.

“Klaus Mikaelson, I presume?”

His brows rise in surprise, “Correct. And you are?”

“Caroline Forbes. I own this land, the ranch to the east. And the livestock you’ve been snacking on for the last two months.”

His eyes narrow, shoulders straightening, and his gaze grows cool and dismissive. Caroline understands where ‘pompous’ had come from. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of.”

She doesn’t try to hide her annoyed sigh. She grabs one of her revolvers, the weightier one. Caroline flips open the chamber and shakes out one of the silver bullets. “Catch,” she says, tossing it at Klaus’ face.

His hand flies up automatically, and he hisses in pain once his fist closes around the silver. He throws it aside, shaking his hand.

Her point made, Caroline stows the gun again. “You’re a werewolf. I’m fully aware of the existence of werewolves. Let’s move along to the real issues, shall we?”

Klaus doesn’t look happy about it, but he nods stiffly.

And because Caroline’s not a total monster, she offers and assurance first. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He doesn’t respond, but he seems in no hurry to leave, apparently intent on studying her person.

Caroline wishes she looked slightly more put together if she’s honest.

She tips her head in the direction she’d come from. “Why don’t we head back to my place? My friend Bonnie’s a witch; she’ll be able to make sure those wounds heal right up. I’ll even throw in breakfast.”

He appears mystified. “I’m a werewolf, love.”

“And? We’ve established that.”

“I’m dangerous.”

She laughs. Klaus remains unamused.

“I’ve got five more bullets that can kill you, another gun and a knife for good measure. You’re not even wearing shoes, and I can hear your stomach growling.”

“It’s improper. Your reputation…”

“Oh, that was tarnished ages ago,” Caroline informs him breezily. “Matt Donovan, have you met him? I think he’s the Sheriff’s Deputy now. I fell hard and fast for his pretty blue eyes when I was seventeen, and everyone knows about the time we were caught sneaking back into the church at the Founder’s Day picnic. My dress was horribly grass-stained. He bumbled through a marriage proposal the next day, but I let him down easy.”

Klaus blinks, mouth slightly ajar.

That may have been more information than he needed, but she’s forgotten how fun it is to be shocking. Caroline generally minds her manners in town and pours on her considerable charm so people will buy from her, or trade, with a minimum of fuss. It’s only at home that she can be free and genuinely herself.

“My parents were wildly eccentric,” Caroline continues, “so really, I had no chance with the snobbier townsfolk.”

Klaus opens his mouth like he’s going to offer another argument, and of course, he’s stubborn.

Caroline’s confident she’s more than a match in that department.

She spins away before he can say anything else. “We can do this again next month if you like, gunshot wound and all, probably. You’ve returned to the same spot three times. Seems like a pattern, doesn’t it?”

She hums a tune, meanders away like she has all the time in the world.

Caroline counts to four before she hears Klaus’ footsteps following her.

[crowfootwrites]

The Bath [Rafael Barba x Reader]

Hi all! This is my first attempt at writing one-shots, to keep me sane while I work on a v long Barba x OC fanfic. Also, DISCLAIMER: I'm still getting used to Tumblr as a platform, so please excuse any weird formatting or me just generally not knowing what the fuck I'm doing.

Also, I would greatly appreciate any feedback or engagement with my writing! This fic was created based on a prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting, who I adore.

It had been an incredibly long day by the time you made it back to your apartment that night. You checked your phone as you made it to your front door. 10:03 pm. You sighed. Today had been Rafael’s day off and when you had arrived at work this morning, you had actually hoped to be finished early so you could head home and spend some time with him. But then your boss had dropped a stack of overdue needs assessments on your desk and told you they needed to be up to date by end of day. You had slogged through all of them, even working through lunch, but it had still taken you until 7:30 to finish them. And then all of the assessments needed to be charted. And then you had to answer all the emails you had been avoiding all day in favor of finishing the assessments. You had finally dragged your ass out of the office at 9:30, and all you could think about was sinking into a warm bath with a glass of wine and the company of your very handsome boyfriend.

As you shoved your key grumpily in the lock, mad at the world for taking away your time with Rafael, you hoped he wasn’t upset. You had, of course, messaged him right away to let him know how your day was shaping up, apologizing that it might be a late one. He had, of course, been completely understanding and kind about it. It would have been hypocritical for him to react in any other way, given the work hours he traditionally kept. But you silently hoped that there wasn’t actually some little seed of resentment growing there. Both of you had such busy lives, such hectic schedules, and it wasn’t entirely uncommon for both of you to have to apologize to one another for work getting in the way.

As you stepped into the apartment, you breathed in the warm scent of corn tortillas. Music was coming from the living room, a swell of soft piano carrying through the apartment. You dropped your bag on the entry table and shucked off your heels, padding to the kitchen to find Rafael standing in front of the stove, his back to you. You had just a moment to gaze at him before he noticed you, and you smiled in pleasure at the way his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, at the streaks of silver in his hair. When he turned around to greet you, his smile was genuine, his eyes clear and content. You crossed the kitchen in two long strides to wrap yourself in his arms.

He chuckled, a low sound rumbling in his chest against your ear. “Hola, preciosa.” He placed a kiss on the crown of your head, breathing in the smell of your lavender shampoo. “How was your day?”

You look up at him with a pout, partly playful, but partly serious. “Long and bad.”

Rafael smirked, his hand coming to cup your cheek. “Lo siento, baby… How about this? I’m finishing up dinner. Let’s eat, and then we’ll get you in the bath, huh?”

You nodded. He knew you well.

After the two of you had finished dinner – incredible roast pork tacos with fresh pico de gallo – you padded to the master bathroom to start running the bath. You lit the candles perched around the edge of the bathtub and tossed in a lavender scented bath bomb, hoping to ease some of the stress from your muscles and your mind. You could hear Rafael clanging around in the kitchen, washing pots and loading the dishwasher. You thought about going back out to insist on doing that for him, considering that he had cooked, but you knew you didn’t have the energy. You’d have to make it up to him. Maybe you’d get up early in the morning and pack him a lunch.

You stripped your satin tank top and dress pants off, kicking them towards the hamper in the corner. You flipped the lights off and immediately felt your headache ease a little. Slipping out your bra and underwear, you felt your body finally relax. You turned off the water and stepped slowly into the tub, letting the heat caress your skin, sinking beneath the surface of the pale purple water. Your eyes closed automatically, heavy after such a long day, as you laid your head back against the edge of the tub.

When you and Rafael had gone apartment hunting after deciding to move in together, you had told him that your only demand was a good tub. Baths were your favorite form of self-care and you usually indulged in more than one per week. So, he had spoiled you by finding an apartment with a large, deep, garden tub and the night you moved in, you had made him soak and given him a massage, to show him what he had been missing out on as more of a shower-type man.

A quiet knock on the door pulled you out of your reverie as Rafael came into the dim room carrying a glass of wine for you and a scotch for himself. He handed you the wine and you breathed a heavy sigh, so glad to be home. The light from the candles flickered, bouncing off the shiny white subway tiles around you. Rafael settled on the edge of the tub, his gentle fingers running long your shoulder and up your neck. Your head lolled towards him, eager for his touch. You raised a wet hand from under the water and gripped his fingers, placing a kiss on his palm. He sighed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You looked so peaceful, the shimmering purple water like magic around you, and suddenly Rafael wanted nothing more than to have you in his arms. He leaned over you in the tub and placed a kiss on the crown of your head. As he pulled away, you heard his low voice murmuring, “Is there some space left in that bathtub?”

You grinned. The only thing that could make this bath better was enjoying it with Rafael.

“Always, mi amor. Come join me,” you hummed softly.

Rafael stripped down and helped you sit forward in the tub, sliding down behind you. You leaned back, sinking into the soft embrace of his body, his chest and arms solid around you. He placed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the busy thoughts that were always in his mind suddenly quieting. His tan knees bracketed around your ribs, and you ran your fingers over his thighs, feeling complete. Silence reigned in the bathroom and you focused on the rise and fall of Rafael’s chest against your back, counting his heartbeats like the very best sound of home.

[whenimaunicorn]

Playing House - Part 7.1

This one's a little short and a little subtle, but I thought I'd whet your appetite for more mayhem this week. Going for a weekly update schedule on Tuesdays for as long as I can keep it up!!

There is a small time jump here; it’s been a few days since the last chapter. 

Catch up: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Ivar has really nice knives. You’ve never seen him cook, not since you moved in and not before, but you know the set of expensive Messermeister knives in the grey canvas case belong to him. They are just a dream to use, better than anything that you could afford.

You know that the knives belong to him because he gave you very explicit instructions for their care. “No one else is allowed to touch them,” he told you during the first week after you moved in, running his fingers down the longest blade as he showed them to you, “but I will allow you that privilege if you follow all my rules.”

There’s a problem today. His breath hitches when he opens the case; your body stills. “Y/N, what is this?”

You inch forward, peering over his shoulder with apprehension. His fingernail is tapping at the wide blade of the chef’s knife.

“Did you dry these with a cloth, right after you cleaned them?”

There are a few translucent white circles marring the blade, the kind that are sometimes left behind after water evaporates.

“I—” your throat is suddenly dry. “I must not have.”

“Evidently not.” He turns the knife around, offering you the handle with a significant look. “Wash it again.”

He doesn’t seem angry, and the tingling in your body is not exactly anxiety. “Of course.” His eyes linger on yours, even after you look down to carefully take the exquisitely-crafted tool from his hand.

You turn to the sink, listening to Ivar gather his ingredients behind you. This morning he had surprised you with a long, very detailed shopping list for what is apparently his signature pasta sauce. Details as in brand names, and specifying the amounts down to the ounces. You have never seen the boy cook before, but today you’re learning why he would even own expensive knives.

I cook, he had said almost defensively as you teased him about the uncharacteristic request. But do you think that animals like my brothers deserve to enjoy my skills?

Your cheeks warm now as you contemplate that statement. It meant that he considers you to be worth cooking for tonight, doesn’t it? You rub soap on the knife carefully from the back edge and glance over at him.

Ivar is inspecting the fresh herbs you bought. You hold your breath, but he gives them a little nod and moves on to the onion and garlic. You dry the knife and bring it to him.

“Good girl.”

Even just those simple words have your body thrumming. He’s not a dick about it, he just likes things his certain way, and that submissive streak in your soul is just loving every opportunity for Ivar to keep telling you what to do.

He sets the knife down, then holds out his hand. “Give me that towel.”

He folds it twice and lays it on the table in front of him. He pulls a tool from the bag that looks like a round little sword. “Oh,” you say, “does it need to be sharpened?”

“This is not for sharpening,” Ivar says, his voice cool and still, like he’s preparing a ritual. “This is a honing steel.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a common mistake. But we don’t want to sharpen a knife too often. Sharpening removes some of the metal. This,” he says, setting the tip of the steel against the towel and holding the hilt up vertically with his left hand, “is for honing.” He lifts the knife in his right hand and sets it at a close angle against the steel. His fist grips the hilt of the steel firmly, while his fingers curl more loosely, elegantly around the handle of his knife. He draws it down the length of the steel in a firm, deliberate movement. “Honing merely aligns the sharp edge of the blade, so it doesn’t blunt itself by curling to one side.” The blade crosses to the other side, sliding down in another brisk line. He builds a rhythm, every movement deft, controlled, and faster than you would have felt safe moving that blade around. “There.” He admires the edge with a satisfied nod. “Bring me the teak cutting board, from the bottom of the pantry.”

You didn’t even know they had a “teak cutting board.” You and Ubbe have been using a scarred plastic one that looks ready to crack in half at any moment.

You find the board wrapped up in the back; when you pull it out you want to cry. The rich shades of amber and honey in the woodgrain are just gorgeous. “Why do you have such beautiful things?” you say softly as you set it down in front of him.

“I like beautiful things.” He catches your eye, and there’s no way he’s not including you in the sentiment.

You smile and look away, smoothing your hands down your skirt just to give yourself something to do. Your movement draws his gaze, and a thick, satisfied look suffuses his eyes as he admires your outfit. Inspired by your little domestic 1950’s housewife fantasy, you’d bought yourself a vintage dress, royal blue, complete with full, knee-length skirt, fitted waist, and sweetheart neckline. Now that that fantasy seems to be coming true, you couldn’t resist putting it on today, even if your only plans consisted of staying home and cooking with Ivar.

He drags the knife across the steel a few more times.

“How do you know it’s sharp enough?”

He flashes you a grin, the one with the sadistic edge that makes your knees a little weak. “There is one test,” he lifts the knife in his competent grip, “to see if it can shave an arm hair . . . hold still.”

His eye glitter as you take a step back from him, sucking your arms up tight against your ribcage. Even though the idea of Ivar holding cold steel against your body is making your heartbeat quicken, a little warmth gathering between your legs.

He cocks his head, don’t you trust me written all over his smirk. He savors your discomfort for a moment, before speaking again. “Or, we slice a piece of paper.” He takes a flyer off his stack of mail on the table, something unimportant with Act Now! in big block letters at the bottom. Grasping it at the top between two fingers, he lifts the knife and slashes down quickly through the vertically-suspended page.

It slices neatly in two, the outer edge fluttering down to the floor in front of him. “Wow, that is sharp.” You wanted to say something infinitely cooler, but how exactly do you tell someone “your knife skills are turning me on right now?”

Ivar frowns at the lower portion of the 9-inch blade. “I felt a catch toward the bottom.” He turns back to the honing steel and rasps a few more precise passes.

He may be pretending this is still a normal conversation about sharpening, but there’s a darkness in his eyes when he looks up at you again. He tips his head dramatically to the side, looking you up and down until your cheeks start to heat up.

“Seeing something that you like?”

You stammer out two answers at once, so the sounds you actually make are non-sensical.

“Do not forget that I can tell when you are turned on.”

You finally notice your mouth hanging open, and you close it.

He inspects the blade’s edge with an unnecessary flourish. “You into knives?” he asks casually. His predator’s eyes watch carefully from under heavy brows as you flail about for an answer.

“Mmm,” you say, completely uninformatively. “Um, you mean like, sexually?”

Ivar nods slowly, as confident as you are flustered.

“There is something—something about it,” you babble, trying to push through your embarrassment well enough to be honest, “but not like… I’m not saying I want to get cut up right now.”

Ivar’s mouth makes a soothing sort of sound, his gorgeous lips puckering up. “Of course not. But there’s something about—” he hefts the knife in his hand, “—the threat inherent in a dangerous object, isn’t there. Even though I’m not even threatening you with it right now.”

You gulp. “Yes.”

His head is waggling, eyes narrowed over his smile. “Come here.”

It’s simultaneously the best and worst thing he could possibly say to you right now. You want to trust him, but you really have no idea what Ivar Lothbrok will do to you if you come within arm’s reach of him. You make a small sound.

He makes a beckoning gesture.

The heavy knife is resting against the cutting board; when you step toward him Ivar leaves it there and opens his arm to pull you in close. With a hand on your waist he guides you to face the cutting board, your back against his front. The stool he’s sitting on is tall enough that he can still see from behind you, and his arms up come up around either side of your body.

“One more test. I want you to feel this one.” His voice is rich and low, so close to your ear. “Did you know that if the knife is sharp enough, cutting an onion won’t make you cry?”

“No,” You say brightly, through a burst of exhaled air. You’re relieved, although maybe just a little bit disappointed, that the topic of conversation is back to cooking, and not secret dark kinks that you might not even be ready to admit to yourself. Ivar’s body brushes softly against yours as he places an onion at the center of the cutting board and sets the knife against it.

“Here,” he says, wiggling his right hand just a bit. “Take the knife from me. Keep it lined up, but do not cut yet.”

You do as he asks, and his hand ghosts over yours, covering your grip on the handle.

“You barely have to push down. Slide it forward slightly, and the blade should sink right in.”

His guiding hand follows as you do, and the onion comes apart easily.

“Good. Keep going. We want this one finely diced.” He keeps your body pushed forward with the pressure of his from behind. Is he making sure your face is right above the onion, ready to take in all the fumes that usually blind you with tears after the first few slices?

You get the skin off and keep slicing, as instructed. The little approving noises Ivar is making into your ear must mean that your method is correct, so far. And, miraculously, your vision is still clear.

“A dull blade crushes the onion cells, releasing the chemical that makes you cry. A sharp one slices through so cleanly that this barely happens. Are you feeling anything yet?”

“No,” you say. Not from the onion, at least. The way Ivar’s body is wrapped around yours, his breath warm on your neck, has you feeling all kinds of things.

Ivar coos. “Then I’ve done well. And so are you. Even finer, please.”

You pinch the back of the blade between your fingers and chop quickly. Ivar has released your hands, placing his own about your waist instead. When you finish, you set the knife down and he coaxes you to turn around.

He inspects your face. Your eyes had started stinging just a little during that final pass, but no tears have formed. His tongue clucks, softly. “Honestly I’m a little disappointed not to get to see you crying. I think we’ll remedy that later.”

You just about quiver in his arms.

You were supposed to be his sous chef today. I mean, that would only be appropriate given the roles that you two like to assume with each other in every other context. And it is Ivar’s recipe, after all. But once he knows what watching him use a knife does to you, he performs all the rest of the dicing and chopping himself. You’re relegated to walking back and forth across the small kitchen, fetching and washing and lining up the neat little prep bowls as Ivar fills them with each of his ingredients.

He watches you all the while, in between bouts of extreme concentration on his work. He says nothing about your dress but you catch him admiring its twirl as you spin through the kitchen.

Watching him chop the garlic is almost unreal. Ivar’s not one for that garlic press contraption, and clearly he doesn’t need it. He takes a second knife from his collection, one that’s flatter and a little more squared. His slices are just about paper-thin, and he’s minced them and scooped the little pile up on the side of his blade so fast you just have to stop and stare as he does it again for each clove. His hands are large but elegant, their subtle strength readily apparent as he handles the blade with impressive agility.

“Why did you switch knives?”

He tilts the tool in question in his hand. “This is called a santoku. Japanese knives are great for speed, and the fancier skills. But for most tasks I prefer the weight of the chef’s knife. These German-made ones feel so good in the hand.”

“They really do,” you agree. “How did you get so into cooking?”

“Just a hobby I picked up for a while.” His eyes meet yours. “I am enjoying having the excuse to remember my skills again.”

You almost can’t bear to keep looking at his face, his angelic visage just beaming his delight at you. For the second time you flush, and duck your head. You’re definitely not used to Ivar being so . . . direct about his feelings for you.

He saves you from having to respond by issuing his next order. “We are ready to start cooking. Measure a tablespoon of olive oil into the pan, turn the burner on high, and help me get my stool next to the stove.”

He puts the garlic in first, stirring it briskly to, as he explains, suffuse the oil in its flavor. Next come the onions, and there is something about the way his wrist cocks as he keeps everything moving in the pan that’s almost as fascinating as his knife work. His rhythm remains steady as he directs you to add each ingredient, his other hand lightly teasing at your waist, or your hip, or your leg at the bottom edge of your skirt every time you move close to him. He pretends he’s not doing it, but there is mischief behind his eyes. By the time a thick red sauce is filling the wide pan, you’re about ready to skip this dinner and see what other treats he’s got planned for your night in.

The apartment door swings open. Ubbe enters noisily, slamming the door shut behind him. “Smells so good, Y/N! I’m starving, what are you—” He cuts off when he rounds the corner into the kitchen, and sees Ivar sitting by the stove. He takes in the luxury kitchen tools spread out on the table, and you in your housewife dress and your kitten heels. He pulls back just a little, like maybe he’s thinking he shouldn’t intrude. But then he leans one forearm against the wall and grins. “You’re making the sauce, bro?”

Ivar rolls his eyes. “Yes, Ubbe.”

“I can’t fucking wait.” He turns to you, his wolfish eyes bright. “This is gonna be the best spaghetti night you’ve had in your life.”

“It is not spaghetti night,” Ivar says crossly. “We are having gnocchi. Also, I didn’t think you were going to be home.”

Ubbe shrugs. “I don’t have anything going on.”

“Ubbe,” Ivar chides, shaking his head as he speaks. “Don’t you usually have a date lined up just about every night?”

Ubbe is only looking at you. “That just doesn’t seem very interesting anymore.”

Ivar makes a dismissive sound and nudges you. “Time to add in the spices, Y/N.”

You tear your eyes away from Ubbe, and all the things that you might just be imagining are lying behind his eyes. He walks away as you lift the last prep bowl, headed back toward his room. You sprinkle the herb blend over the sauce.

“Now we simmer,” Ivar says, turning the burner down low. “But we must keep stirring.” He slides the spoon quite precisely around the edges of the pan, then spirals it through the middle. “Can you do it this way?”

You take the handle from him and attempt to replicate his practiced movement. After a little adjusting, he leans back with a satisfied sound.

“Keep that up. No more than sixty seconds between stirrings.”

He reaches for his crutches, and you lift a brow in silent question.

“I want a shower before dinner.” He gets to his feet, then leans down to murmur low into your ear. “I am planning a long night after that.”

How can he slay you so well with only a few words?

The corner of his lip is quirked as he shifts his weight back into his crutches. “After ten minutes, start the water boiling for the gnocchi, too.”

Read On

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[themagicmistress]

He finds her in a back alley dumpster, head down, fur matted in ugly, spotted clumps that speak of long, hungry months and too few meals.

When Magnus fishes out a piece of jerky from his front pocket, she doesn’t even growl at him. Instead, her tail wags lightly, shifting the dust around behind her.

“Hey, buddy,” he mutters, approaching slow. “What’re you doing all alone out here?”

There’s a flash of tooth that has him retracting his fingers, and the jerky is scarfed down as she tears into it, messy. Her muzzle is grey, he notes, the fur around her scruff shot through with thin lines of silver. She sniffs after finishing and then growls when he reaches his hand out.

Magnus freezes. “Hey,” he starts, “it’s okay. I’m alright, I’m not gonna hurt you.” She gives him dubious eyes, pupils big and black, cautious in a way that hurts his soul. “Really,” he promises.

She leans her wet doggy nose forward and sniffs the palm of his hand, leaning her head down and giving him permission to scratch the back of her ears.

Well, he’d always wanted a dog, right? Magnus still wanted a dog, in fact. It’d been ages since he’d gotten to take care of one. Since he’s woken up to paws on his chest, a tail bouncing against his legs. It’d been a long time. Maybe too long.

She doesn’t resist when he picks her up and brings her to the vet either.

The first thing she does when Magnus brings her home is bound across his home. He runs in after her. “Julia!” he calls out, half-laughing despite himself. “I’ve got a surprise! Make sure the studio is closed.” God, he hopes he closed it before leaving.

He rushes into the kitchen to find her with an armful of German Shepherd, hands awkwardly wrapped around fur and a pattern of muddy pawprints up the side of her skirt. Julia turns to him, eyes alight, a delighted little grin dancing across her face. Her fingers are stained with wood polish and the sunlight makes her deep brown skin glow through the kitchen window.

“Is this delightful little lady the surprise?” Julia coos to her, and the dog in her arms licks the side of her face, flat pink tongue leaving a streak of saliva behind. She laughs in bright peals. “Hi, honey, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

“You don’t mind?” Magnus edges awkwardly. “Ah, I’m sorry, I know I didn’t ask and this is your home too.” He falters and doesn’t continue. He doesn’t want to bring her back.

Given the mock-offended look she gives him, his girlfriend doesn’t either.

“This cutie? Absolutely not,” Julia clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Mine now. But maybe yours for a couple seconds. Can you take her? My fingers are sticky and I don’t want to get anymore polish in her fur.”

“Oh! Yeah, here,” Magnus helps the no-longer stray to the ground.

He finally manages to tear his eyes away from Julia and sees a row of wooden bows on the kitchen counter, carefully propped up on long planks as to not get any polish on the table. Reality doesn’t quite come crashing down, because the rebellion is an ever-present weight in the back of his mind, but his chest tightens at the reminder.

Their new dog sniffs slightly at his side. “Just trying to bulk up for the final push against Kalen,” Julia says, turning to wash her hands in the sink. “I have about thirty more in the studio. What do you think?”

Magnus plucks one of the strings. It twangs under his fingers. “Jules?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m not sure if everyone’s gonna be able to fire these?” He says unsurely. “I mean, the workmanship is excellent, and they look great, but…”

Julia frowns at them, tapping at one near the end of the counter to check for tackiness before holding it up. Careful, she pulls back the string and her biceps flex as it draws back with ease. Magnus gulps. Her eyes dance, mischievous and knowing as she puts it back down before she draws a breath.

“Yeah,” Julia grimaces at the row of bows, “I see what you mean. I’ll re-string them a bit later. Forget about work for now, did you have a name in mind for her?”

The dog jumps up onto his legs, paws on his pants and Magnus reaches down a fond hand to scratch between her ears. “I was thinking,” he hesitates, “what do you think about ‘Star?’”

It’s not quite right. It doesn’t feel wrong, but it’s just shy of the goalpost, like biting into banana bread without chocolate chips in it: not bad, but weird. Julia still nods, face warming as she looks at the new addition to their home.

“I like it.”

~

He’ll find them together on their off-days, few and far between, Star curled in Julia’s lap as she takes the time to read one of those detective novels she loves, but never has the chance to look at.

Star will look at her with pleading eyes whenever his girlfriend strays too far to the door, leash dragging after her. Star follows her around the house too, so much that they’ve had to install another, gated door in the entrance to the workshop because she’ll try to wander in if they’ve forgotten to close it behind them. During strategic meetings for the rebellion, Magnus will look around the planning room and Star will be around Julia’s legs because everyone they know is at the meeting too and they can’t leave her home alone.

The revolution is no place for a dog. It’s no place to have a life either, but then, he plans to do something about that.

It’s apparent to both of them who the favourite is. “Who’s the best girl in the whole wide world?” Julia says to Star, a goopy grinning mess on her feet in their bed.

“Love you,” Magnus says: to Star, to Julia. To whatever gave him a home, a better future on the horizon, a family he loves, and a ring with a wooden rose carved on top, tucked away in the second drawer of their bedside table.

She shifts closer to him, a warm weight at his side.

Julia pulls his chin to her and plants a kiss on his lips, warm and soft. Then, she pulls back and Magnus blinks, dazed but happy.

“Say that again,” She tells him, eyebrow quirked. “But this time, don’t make it sound like a goodbye, alright?” 

Magnus grins, a little sheepish. “I love you, Jules.”

A pleased grin spreads across her face. “I love you too.”

The week after Governor Kalen goes down, they take some time off to go to the park, toss around a ball. Magnus actually brought five balls, because he keeps throwing them a little too enthusiastically and they go bouncing outside the gates of the park.

“No, girl,” Julia giggles as Star jumps up onto her pants, “bring it back to Magnus, okay? Oh, alright, fine.” She seems to begrudgingly add another stick to her pile.

A guy nearby grumbles about the lack of sticks in the park and Magnus raises his voice. “Hey, Jules? Didja know they’ve been calling me ‘hero of the people?’” Magnus watches him pale and proceed to fuck off with no small amount of petty satisfaction.

“Yeah, babe! I know!”

“Isn’t that a great name!”

“I like ‘Maggie’ better!” Jules yells back and throws a stick. Magnus gets knocked over as a ball of fur collides hard with him and when he manages to push himself up, she’s laughing so hard her hands are wrapped around her stomach and her face is red.

“Just stand there,” Magnus shouts back, grinning too, “see if I care. Our dog loves me more than you and I’m pretty sure she just gave me a concussion!”

Julia throws another stick and they have learned nothing from their mistakes because this time Magnus really does get a concussion.

~

He finds her across the bridge that once connected to the Craftsmens’ Corridor, snout between her paws, fur coated in dust so thick she looks like a grey dog instead of a brown and black one. Magnus searches for Julia, upturns every outcropping of Raven’s Roost just in case there’s some chance she might have made it out, that she might have survived. Then, he does the same for Kalen, but for very different reasons. When he can’t find either of them, Magnus cries into Star’s fur.

He sets up a camp on the outside of town, just a little tent, something to put a roof over Star’s head. Magnus sleeps with her at his side and he is always cold, with the damp forest grass soaking through the thin layer between him and the ground, the clothes on his back that do nothing to warm his fingers, and each breath calcifying in his lungs like liquid nitrogen. Star becomes the only warm thing about him.

The first day after he sets up camp, Magnus wakes up to find her gone.

“Star?” he calls out, instantly alert. “Star?” Magnus bounds out of the tent, having slept in his clothes, and yells out to the forest. “Star? Girl, are you out there?” He searches, half-blind and panicked, not realizing where his feet are taking him until he’s there.

She’s at the edge of the cliff again, staring hopefully out over the two posts where a bridge once connected to his home. There is no bridge anymore. There’s no Craftsmens’ Corridor and instead there lies the open ocean, stretching in front of him for endless miles.

He walks to her side in a daze, a dream-like state. The horizon’s wrong, he thinks. From Hammer and Tongs, he could see the ocean, breathtaking and unending. Here, the other stone outcroppings lay scattered and empty to his right, marring his fantasy that for just a second, he’s home again.

“C’mon, Star,” Magnus mutters. She doesn’t move or look at him, just staring out over the water. He can’t find it in himself to tear her away, so he doesn’t. They sit there together until the sun goes down.

The next day, he wakes to find Star gone again.

Magnus keeps going there with her, leaving only to find them food. He goes to the cliffside in his dreams until there is no difference between his waking hours and sleeping hours. He always wakes up, disappointed that his wife’s never in them.

Eventually, he has to drag himself away. Star needs food, actual dog food and that takes money. 

At first, he leaves her with the Burringters, a family with a little girl that shrieks in delight at the sight of Star. They’re some of the last stragglers on their way out of town.

“Make sure she has her ball when she’s feeling nippy,” Magnus tells Mrs. Burringter and places a ratty green ball in her hand with long tooth marks gouged into its sides. “Sometimes she forgets how much she weighs, so just— be aware. Of that.”

“Of course,” the halfling woman says, hair done up into a high ponytail, belly swelled with many months of pregnancy. “Where’re you looking to find work?”

“Oh, uh, Birchmore.”

She nods. “I think Greg’s got a cousin up there if you needed help finding something to do. He’s got a little business importing leathers.”

Magnus blinks at the bit of unexpected generosity. “I’m good, thanks. Nice of you to offer, but I’m alright by myself for now.”

Mrs. Burrington eyes him and all of a sudden he’s small again, being stared down by his mother and he almost thinks she’s going to lick her finger and wipe off a bit of dust from his cheek. “You know, if you need something, we’re always here.”

“That’s—”

“Not just us,” She puts a hand to her chest. “Anyone from Raven’s Roost, Magnus. Any of us.”

Magnus isn’t sure what to say. He settles for, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

The sun rises and sets on the ocean and the two of them are there to watch it every time. Or, almost every time. Eventually, people leave Raven’s Roost and he can’t leave Star alone by herself so he brings her with him when he needs to find work, to buy food and essentials.

A part of him thinks Star needs to grieve, to take that time before moving on with him. Another knows that isn’t the reason he stays. 

She’s all he has left of her.

One day Magnus wakes up and Star hasn’t gone, and there is nothing warm about her presence at all. Her paws are on his chest, eyes closed and he knew she wasn’t a young dog, but somehow he’d still managed to miss the rapidly greying hair of her muzzle, the way she dragged her feet back to the tent.

Or maybe Star hadn’t died of old age. Maybe it had just been a broken heart.

He buries her beside Julia’s empty grave, makes her a wooden marker with simple lettering. She loved and was loved, he scrawls across it and the writing is crooked, far too messy for what she’d deserved, but it’s the best he can do.

The next day, Magnus packs up his bag and his tent, hefts his ax over his shoulder, and leaves the sea behind. A part of him already misses it and still, he knows it’s not the town he misses. 

Magnus doesn’t turn back when he leaves Raven’s Roost for the last time.

He knows he’ll see them again.

~

Link to A03 version here.

[americasass81]

Make Her Mine - Chapter Eight

Warnings:- 18+, Dark theme, Smut, Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sex, Brief Mention of Spanking, Oral (male receiving).  Do not read if any of these warnings are upsetting.  Feedback is welcomed.

This contains adult themes and by proceeding you are acknowledging that you are over 18 and are consenting to the content below the cut.

Word Count:- 2,571

Sitting you down at the dining table in the crypt, as you now called this place, Tony washed his hands and began moving seamlessly around the kitchen preparing what you assumed was pasta, again.  You thought about trying to talk to him, but whenever you opened your mouth, no words came out.  Eventually you took to taking small glances in his direction until he finally had enough.  "Darling let us have a quiet dinner and then I promise, we will try to resolve everything.  Okay?"

"Sure." you replied, staring at the table before returning your gaze to him.  "Um Tony, is there anything I can help you with?"

"Yeah, I guess.  Do you want to set the table while I finish the meatballs?" he smiled, moving effortlessly from one task to the next.

Getting up, you joined him in the kitchen and went about removing the necessary plates and cutlery before placing them where they were needed.  Retrieving the wine glasses proved a more difficult task however when you discovered you were unable to reach the cabinet overhead which housed them.

"Here, allow me darling."  Thinking that Tony was coming to your rescue, you let out a squeal when he placed his hands on your waist and easily lifted you up to reach them.  "How about we leave these two down for the duration of our time here?" he suggested as he lowered you gently back on your feet.

"Would make more sense I suppose.  Though since I'm no longer allowed wine, does it matter what I drink out of?" you mused as you stepped aside to allow him to continue the meal prep and carried the glasses to the table.

Eventually walking after you, Tony allowed you to set down the glasses before taking your hand in his.  "Okay, so the meatballs are in the oven, ready to go and V.I.R.G.I.L. can now take over while we get cleaned up.  Shall we N/Y?"  Reluctantly following him to the master bedroom, you hoped that the incentive of dinner would be enough to keep his hands off you.

Thankfully it seemed your worries were unfounded however when Tony simply ushered you into the shower and proceeded to gently wash every inch of you.  Then stepping out and wrapping a luxurious towel around each of you, the shocks continued when he opened the double doors to the closet and led you inside.  "I'd like you to make an effort for dinner, but honestly if you don't feel like it, I understand.  Just have a look around and see if something catches your eye."  With that he walked to the other side, picked out a complete suit and returned to the bedroom, leaving you alone.

Moving along what you assumed was your half of the walk-in, it still surprised you that you could be shocked by the discovery that all the clothing here were in your size.  Kitted out like a well stocked department store, albeit a high-end one, you planned on something casual until your fingers skimmed over a light grey silk dress.  Taking it down and looking it over, you told yourself you could never pull it off, but placed it in front of you before the mirrored wall all the same.  Hearing Tony inform you that you had about twenty minutes, you threw caution to the wind, found the matching shoes along with a dusky pink set of lingerie and dressed in record time.

Walking out into the bedroom, Tony turned around at the sound of your presence and the look he shot you, turned you on and made you uncomfortable in equal measure.  "My god darling, I thought you were beautiful that night in the restaurant, but now you're a vision.  That is most definitely your color."  Dropping your eyes towards the floor as he came over to stand beside you, Tony kissed your cheek and looked at his watch before raising your chin to face him.  "Ready to go eat, my love?"

"Actually yes.  I am kinda hungry." you answered while trying unsuccessfully to maneuver out of his tender hold.

"Don't do that Y/N.  Don't hide from me . . . or the world." he requested, as he took your hand and led you back to the dining table.  Pulling out your chair, you quickly sat and enjoyed the wonderful aroma permeating around the place while Tony got to work plating up the meal.  Placing it on the table along with water for both of you, you noticed, he too sat down as you tucked into the most delicious spaghetti and meatballs you could ever remember eating.

Having enjoyed the meal in companionable silence, Tony rose from the table but refused to let you help as he cleared up.  "Thank you Tony, that was amazing.  But if you don't mind me asking, where did you learn to cook?"

Laughing at the question, he turned around to face you as he finished off his water.  "Y/N, despite what everyone thinks, I don't actually have a bunch of servants who do everything for me.  I'm quite capable of looking after myself and those I care about."

Not missing this little remark, you turned back towards the table and tried to get your thoughts and feelings in order while Tony finished up what he was doing.  You were however afforded a bit more time when his phone rang and the conversation indicated that Steve was on the other end.  Suspicious as to why Stave was asking questions about a woman he had probably only glimpsed once outside the office, Tony stuck to the 'employee being treated on the company health plan' script before finishing up the conversation.  Looking your way while realizing that Steve might not be as gullible or loyal as he thought, he knew now more than ever that he needed to make you his.

                  *************

Putting away his phone and walking over to join you at the table, his heart broke a little when you pulled your hand back before he had a chance to take hold of it.  Sighing deeply as he thought how best to approach the situation between you, he decided for now he would try to avoid bringing up the fact that you had attempted to kill him not once, but twice.

Taking his seat, you looked up to see him press something on his wristwatch before he lifted his head to look at you.  "I've disabled the shock feature on your nanoparticles.  Now, if you promise not to try anything, perhaps we can discuss our future without any extra fear on your part.  How about you tell me simply why you fear being with me."

Thinking through your situation, coupled with what little you knew about Iron-Man, the Avengers and the slew of enemies lurking around every corner, you checked Tony's demeanor before standing up, moving over to the couch and getting comfortable.  Sighing as he sat down next to you, but acknowledging that you seemed to be thinking, he reluctantly kept his mouth shut until you were ready to finally talk.  Setting aside everything that had happened and could still happen, as well as all the feelings threatening to swallow you whole, you instead set your analytical mind to the task before you.

Thinking back on why you first rejected his advances, you accepted that both his loose morals and your own views on love and relationships was reason enough to steer clear of the egotistical playboy.  Added to that his life as an Avenger and the deck was clearly never in his favor.  However, a small part of you had to admit that being easy on the eyes, coupled with his oh so numerous skillful body parts, meant that falling for him wouldn't be the hardest task in the world.  It was simply a matter of how much you wanted it.  Then of course there was the monumental task of getting away from him if you so chose.

After two unsuccessful attempts, you wondered if you even had it in you to finish him off, but you knew as long as he still had breath in him, you would never be free of the iron avenger.  That just left you relying on your mob friendship and you had to wonder if they really stood a chance against the world famous heroes.  Feeling the exhaustion of everything that had happened, along with the weight of what was to come, you looked towards Tony to see him watching you apprehensively as the minutes you deliberated ticked by.  Finally accepting that when you played ball he tended to give you the benefit of the doubt and so you could only hope that given enough time you could use that to your advantage, while dealing with whatever consequences said timeframe created.

Catching his knee bouncing with irritation, you figured it was probably time to let your inner musings out.  Turning to him, you quickly reiterated your earlier statement about being his flavor of the month and lifting your hand to shush his evident interruption, continued to confess your fears about his superhero lifestyle.

Taking your hands in his, he reaffirmed that everything about you, from your cheeky, defiant attitude to the dangerous streak you kept directed towards him, was more than enough to keep him faithful.  He also promised that if you remained by his side, given enough time and trust, he would be only too happy to hand over the nanoparticle armor he designed for you the first night you slept under this roof.

Letting his words sink in and making a silent wish that you survived long enough to take possession of the promised armor, you kept your expression neutral as you launched yourself across the couch and crashed your lips against his.  Feeling his goatee tickle your chin as your tongues wrestled with each other, you pulled back slightly when your lungs cried out for air.

"Am I to take that as offer accepted, darling?" Tony asked, as he pulled your body closer against his strong frame, a glorious smile evident on his face.

"Take it as I'm willing to give this a try and see how things go." you replied and in the next instance, Tony's skillful hands had unzipped your dress and dropped it off your shoulders.

Moaning at the lacy pink material, because there was no way it could be called a bra, barely concealing your gorgeous tits, he looked up at you with lust-filled eyes and his next words took you completely by surprise.  "Tell me I can make love to you darling.  Please." he begged and as you realized this was the first time he had asked your permission, it finally hit you just how much power you might actually hold over him.

Feeling the now usual, yet powerful, tingling sensation deep in your core, the shocks continued coming as you nodded your head and allowed Tony to have his way with you.  Leaning forward to kiss your lips, his tongue snaked out to dance with yours but didn't linger before moving down to place soft wet trails along your neck.  Giving yourself over to the tune he was pulling from your body, a deep groan left your throat as Tony's mouth latched onto part of your exposed breast and he bit down just enough to send shockwaves rushing south towards your aching sex.  Writhing against him as he then ran his tongue across the area to soothe the sting, affording the same treatment to the other breast had you cursing his level of self control as you silently wished for him to fuck you senseless.

As it was, you refused to give voice to this particular desire, and instead simply reached out, grabbed hold of his hair and brought his sinfully skillful mouth back to yours.  Kissing him with both a passion and hunger you never knew you possessed, your body emitted a squeal as he rose from the couch with you secured in his powerful arms and walked you back in the direction of the master bedroom.  Losing your dress somewhere along the way as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, you looked at him in complete frustration as he dropped your now almost naked form on the bed while he stood before you, fully clothed.

Looking down on you as your eyes pleaded with him to join you in a state of undress, his eyes tightened as they roamed over your heaving form while his gaze focused with pin-point accuracy on your heels.  Leaning forward, his hands took hold of your right leg and removed the shoe before moving to the left.  Kicking your legs out in pure frustration, Tony couldn't help laughing at the pout that now settled on your features.

Stepping closer still while removing his jacket, his lips found yours again before resting his head against your forehead.  "Don't pout Y/N, good things come to all in time." and with that he moved back and winked at you before slowly and teasingly unbuttoning his white dress shirt.  Licking your lips as more and more flesh appeared before you, you still couldn't figure out why this man wanted to be yours.  Tossing the shirt across the room while removing his shoes, your thoughts were pulled back to the present as his weight between your legs caused the bed to dip and your eyes to lock with his.

"Want to unwrap your package, darling?" he smirked and even you couldn't stifle the laugh that erupted past your lips as you joined him on your knees.  Reaching forwards, your trembling fingers closed on his belt only to be stalled when his hands rested over yours.  "Take your time Y/N, neither one of us is going anywhere."

Licking your lips while looking up at him, you nodded, before unbuckling his belt, undoing the button and deftly slipping down the zipper.  Placing your fingers along the waistband, you pushed his pants down to his knees as his hand reached forward, cupped your chin and kissed you passionately while your hands found their way into his boxers.  Placing them firmly over his ass, his breath hitched against your mouth as you squeezed hard.  "Fuck me darling, you're too good at that." he panted, and even you had to admit the praise was kind of intoxicating.

Continuing to knead and pinch the firm flesh, you deftly maneuvered one hand around the front and taking hold of his warm, semi-hard cock, you coaxed the most delicious sounds from the world's most eligible bachelor as your hand worked him up and down.  Then somehow managing to use one hand to nudge down his boxers, you marveled at your hand wrapped around his shaft as creamy precum made it's home against your palm.

Moving your hand down to massage his sac as your head bent forward, Tony's knees began to shake while your tongue started to lick the vein on the underside of his cock.  Finally gaining control of his facilities, he caught hold of you and tossed you on your back before moving forward between your legs.  Looking down at you through hooded eyes, he smacked your thigh playfully before placing a soft kiss against your panties.  Then rising from the bed, he fully divested himself of his clothes, before smirking over at you saying, "You've had your fun darling.  Now it's my turn."  

Tagging:- @nsfwsebbie @hoseokchild @gotnofucks @ironlady1993 @floatingdaisy7 @taintedgenre @buttercandy16 @kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay , sorry if I missed anyone.

[honey-dewey]

The Rainbow Connection

Pairing: Ezra/Male! Reader

Word Count: 2,123

Warnings: canon-typical violence and language.

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell​

It is week two of pride month! As I have said, I am participating in @flightlessangelwings and @autumnleaves1991-blog​ Pride writing prompts! This one was super fun for me, and I hope you enjoy. 

Prompts:  Rainbow and/or “Hold my hand tight. I’ll protect you.”

“Babe?” 

You rolled over, groaning and putting your arm over your eyes. You and Ezra had been prospecting on a truly hellish desert planet for nearly a week now, and the three suns made the sky as bright and as hot as it could possibly be. It filtered through the pod’s tiny window, lighting the entire room. “Yes Ez?” 

Ezra smiled down at you, putting his hand on the bed and leaning in to kiss you. “Good morning dove.” 

“Did you wake me up just to say good morning?” You asked, rolling out of bed and fumbling for a pair of pants. You ended up grabbing Ezra’s from the night before off the floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he stared rather obviously at where the elastic met your bare waist, the skin marred by scars you’d gotten while working. 

“Hey, Casanova,” you said, turning and catching Ezra staring. “What’s on the agenda for today?” 

Ezra smiled, leaning against the bed. “They just found a new deposit of zipreye out a few miles north. It’ll be a hell of a trek, especially in this weather. Hot as the devil out there.” 

You sighed, grabbing a tank top out of your travel bag. “Think I should just go topless?” 

“Might feel better,” Ezra decided. “But you might burn, so grab the sunscreen. And don’t forget your boot covers this time.” 

“Mhm,” you hummed, tugging on thin socks and your heavy hiking boots. “And you better not forget your glove again.” 

After a long and lazy breakfast, you and Ezra left the pod you were temporarily calling home and started traveling north, both carrying your prospecting equipment. The heavy bags combined with the suns and the physical labor of walking made you groan more than once. The air was barely breathable, and it felt like thick soup going to your lungs. Multiple times you had to stop for water, leaning against Ezra, who was just as tired as you were. 

By the time you arrived at the dig site, you were both sweating and exhausted, but the scenery made up for it. The site was settled on the very edge of a giant canyon, at least a hundred feet deep and streaked with color as far as the eye could see. The sky was growing grey and cloudy, the sunlight filtering through creating pockets of sunshine shining on the rocks. The air was cooler out here as it swelled up from the depth of the canyon, and you took a deep breath of the sandy air, eyeing the rapidly growing clouds. 

“Think it’ll rain?” You asked, turning to the dig site and kneeling down so you could unpack your stuff. 

Ezra shrugged, sitting cross legged on the dirt so he could unload his own bag. “Dunno. I like that shirt on you, by the way.” 

You smiled, looking down. In an effort not to get horrifically sunburnt, you’d put on a thin white shirt with short sleeves and a hood. “Thanks. I think it’s yours.” 

“Ah, well, that would explain it.” Ezra smiled as he squinted at the sky. “It does look like rain, but it’s far off. We have an hour. Maybe two, at a push.” 

You nodded, bending down. Zipreye was one of the easier minerals to prospect, with no need for acids or dangerous conditions to battle against. All you had to do was find a deposit and chip it out, piece by piece. It was harder for Ezra, with only one hand, but he made it work. The reward was enough for you two to finally take a vacation after this trip. You two were planning on visiting Cee, who had joined a few distant family members on a perfectly habitable and safe planet. It would be a nice break from the chaos of planet hopping and hoping to find a job. 

You and Ezra had been prospecting for nearly an hour and a half before you felt the air shift for real. It had been stirring the sand for a while, but now it started to truly whip your lighter equipment around, making you look up and see the suddenly very dark clouds completely blocking the sun. The temperature began to drop noticeably, and you carefully lifted the chunk of zipreye you’d been harvesting out of the ground before beginning to pack up. 

“Dove?” Ezra looked up at you, confused. “What’s wrong?” 

“The rain,” you said. “Can’t you feel it?” 

Ezra sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. “I can,” he murmured. “Let’s go, before it hits us.” 

You weren’t very lucky, and the rain began to pour a mile or two away from the pod. It stung your skin and soaked your bodies, making your clothes stick to you and forcing Ezra to push his hair out of his eyes every few seconds. It took everything you had to keep your equipment as dry as possible, the bag at your side shielded by your body and the waterproof backpack getting absolutely drenched. 

“Pod’s just up there!” Ezra yelled above the downpour, pointing to a familiar looking ridge. “C’mon!”

You grabbed his hand, continuing to trudge through the rain. It was seriously coming down, and it burned badly enough that you had to wonder if it was acidic. 

“Ez!” You shouted, tugging on Ezra’s shirt to get his attention. “This planet doesn’t have acidic rain, does it?” 

Ezra shrugged, looking at his bare skin. It was starting to get red, and so was yours. 

“We have that soap with the burn relief shit in it,” Ezra said, pulling you closer. “And a thing in the first aid kit. It’ll be fine, even if the rain is acidic. We would’ve been issued a warning and suits if it was dangerous.” 

You nodded, looking out over the blank horizon, hoping you’d be able to see your temporary home soon. The landscape did look familiar, and you sighed deeply. Taking another soggy step, you decided today could not get much worse. 

Of course, it somehow could, because the pod was just barely in sight when Ezra was attacked. 

Something large and soaking wet came running up out of nowhere and swung a large weapon at Ezra, catching his indefendible right side. Ezra yelled loudly, flinching away as the attacker got a lucky strike in. 

You screamed as Ezra bumped into you, grabbing your dagger off your belt and immediately pulling Ezra back behind you, away from the attacker. The man, at least you thought it was a man, made a blind swing in your direction, but you were quicker. You whirled around him, grabbing his throat and shoving him down. Two quick moves with your knife later, and you were standing, wiping blood off your knife and letting the rain clean up the rest. Ezra, who had been knocked to the ground, winced when you pulled him to his feet, blood washing away as it hit the sand, but he was definitely bleeding. 

“Did he get you?” You asked, checking Ezra over as best you could. 

Ezra nodded, moving his hand off his right stump. “My shoulder.” 

You hissed, seeing the tattered wound. “Disinfectant,” you said. “A bandage. But no stitches. You’ll be a-okay.” 

Ezra shrugged, still shaking as you reached into your bag for a temporary bandage. You tore the bottom off your shirt and used it to tie the gauze pad in place, effectively giving yourself a crop top. 

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching out and taking Ezra’s hand when you were done. “Hold my hand tight. I’ll protect you.” 

The walk to the pod was quiet. The rain was starting to let up, finally, and after drying off somewhat, you herded Ezra into the kitchen so you could examine his arm. Both of you were covered in mild burns from the rain, but after careful consideration, you decided that cleaning Ezra’s wound and taking a nap would be best. You two could bathe and treat your burns later, but for now, you removed the current bandage and discarded it in the sink, taking another look at the sluggishly bleeding injury.

“Looks worse than it is!” You announced, putting on a pair of sterile gloves and opening your first aid kit. “I promise. It just needs disinfecting, like I said.” 

Ezra fidgeted from his spot at the tiny kitchen table as you grabbed a towel and used warm water to wipe away the worst of the mess. “Sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you said, opening a can of spray-on disinfectant. “This’ll sting.” You braced Ezra’s shoulder with your non-dominant hand and sprayed the wound with the other. His face twisted with barely concealed pain, and you took a breath. “Ez?” 

“I’m fine, dove,” Ezra said, although it sounded strained. “Fine. Keep going.” 

You nodded, continuing through the motions of cleaning and bandaging Ezra’s wound. Somewhere in the middle of the process, you started to sing. It was a mindless lullaby, but Ezra seemed to enjoy it. 

“Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side? Rainbows are visions, but only illusions. And rainbows have nothing to hide.” You pressed the last piece of tape to Ezra’s arm, gently kissing the patch of gauze. “So we've been told and some choose to believe it, I know they're wrong, wait and see. Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers and me.” You pulled your gloves off and threw them out, coming back to stand in front of Ezra. “How’s that feel?”

Ezra smiled, resting his head on your shoulder. “It feels fine,” he decided softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, putting your arms around Ezra and holding him close. “Do you want me to put something on those burns or would you rather just go straight to bed?” 

Ezra shrugged. “Do we have any quick burn stuff? I don’t want a shower right now.” 

You chuckled slightly, digging through the first aid kit and finding a bottle of burn lotion. “You said you need to use mycotex, right?” 

“Yeah,” Ezra said, not removing his head from your shoulder. “I’m allergic to the other stuff. What is it?” 

“Acitretiza,” you said. “My mom used it all the time.” As you spoke, you gently rubbed Ezra’s tender shoulders with the lotion, hearing him sigh with relief as the lotion began to cool and heal his burns. “Works better to help scars, but I think mycotex feels nicer.” 

“Amen to that,” Ezra mumbled into your skin. “You ruined your shirt, by the way.” 

You looked down at the ripped edge of your shirt. It was bloody and unrepairable, and you were a tiny bit disappointed. “I can always find a new one,” you said, continuing down Ezra’s back and digging your thumbs into the knots under his skin. “Maybe I’ll get you one this time.”

Ezra chuckled, taking the bottle of lotion from you and motioning for you to turn around. “Cee would have a field day if she saw us in matching shirts, and you know it.” 

After you and him had both rubbed the lotion into each other’s skin, accompanied by no less than six thinly veiled sexual comments, you decided it was time for a nap. Ezra’s eyes were dropping and he was clearly exhausted from the job and from the trip home. 

It was no struggle getting Ezra into bed. Neither of you bothered with your barely damp clothes, so you left a trail of discarded clothes to the bedroom, leading up to the bed. Pyjamas were a fruitless endeavor, so you just grabbed a second blanket so neither of you would be cold. Ezra fell asleep first, snoring slightly as you sat beside him, working on your laptop. At some point, you got up to put on pants and an old shirt of Ezra’s. As you worked on mind-numbing files, you hummed, unable to get the song you’d been singing earlier out of your head. Turning to look at Ezra, you smiled, watching his side rise and fall gently as he slept, completely oblivious to your actions as you bent down and kissed his temple. 

Sitting back up, you looked out the window, seeing a beautiful and vibrant rainbow illuminating the canyon you’d just been prospecting near. The rain had left the earth wet, and it glimmered like a thousand diamonds under the afternoon sun. The scenery made you grin, nodding your head slightly as you went back to work, your humming turning to soft singing. 

“What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing, and what do we think we might see? Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers and me.”

[paversandplatters]

||𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙|| (5/20)

Apocalypse! Au (TW! Minor gore and cussing)

Reader x multiple

Chapter 5: A Flock Found

They pack a wheel barrow to the brim with the newly acquired supplies they find not botheringing to leave behind much of anything, making sure to cop the twenty five gallon container of gasoline from the tool shed out back behind the building... Lord knows they'll need for the grand task ahead of them. By the time the light in the south western sky began to fade from a light gray to pink over the backwaters of the panhandle they're ready. They slip outside through the rectory's side door and creep single file along the edge of the property. Y/n takes the lead, periodically glancing over her shoulder for any sign of the herd that had crossed the highway or any sign of the group that occupied this space all too recently. She carries a glock with a full magazine just in case. The dusky air gets clammy and cool on the back of the stranger's neck as he follows them to the car. They climb in hurriedly, stowing their provisions in the rear cargo bay. Y/n kicks the engine on as the newcomer clambers into the passenger seat next to her- much to the dismay of the other two- unfolding an old dogeared map.

"They usually stick pretty close to the ocean." He says almost to himself, silently calculating the mileage between them and the gulf. "Probably should start down by Perry or Carwfordville." He senses movement ahead of them through the windshield and glances up in time to see a couple of jagged shadows emerging from the woods about a hundred yards away, drawn to the sound of their engine. Garbled growls can be heard over the drone of crickets. The trace smell of garbage on the breeze, the light and space of the outdoors is almost overwhelming to him. He feels like he's been asleep for a hundred years, locked away in that dank and dirty church- he starts to feel dizzy.

Y/n gooses the accelerator and the SUV lurches away. He sinks into his seat as they roar down the road, swerving to avoid the half dozen or so biters now skulking out of the woods blocking their path. They sideswipe one the creatures, ripping a chunk of its shoulder, splattering fresh gore across the glass of his side window.

"You get used to it." she states after he flinches in disgust. He just stares at the splatter, flecks of bone chips, and a long trail of black bile.

"I don't think anyone can get used to that ..." Nick mutters from the back seat.

Night falls and the darkness deepens behind the trees on either side of the road. Most of the streetlights in this part of the country have gone the same way as the internet or cable TV, so the road only gets darker and darker as they head south towards the steaming thickets and festering swamps of the coastal lowlands. The going is slow, most of the two lanes are crowded with rusted out wreckages ,the carcasses of cars and trucks so old now that the weeds and switchgrass have begun to grow up from their metal endoskeletons. The two young men in the rear breathe heavily, thickly, half asleep while Y/n drives and softly hums some forgotten tune. They had passed the jerky and water around a few minutes ago- their standard fare of supper- and now their bellies growl and their eyelids droop with exhaustion.

"You never gave your name..." His hushed voices rings out from the shotgun seat.

"Hadn't crossed my mind at the time, sorry about that... It's Y/n" She chuckles softly. "The one with the headband is Nick but goes by Sapnap, don't ask i don't know- the other one with the accent is George." he just simply hums in reply.

"What about you big guy? What do they call you?"

He takes a moment to regard the woman seated next to him; his head still trying to wrap itself around this complete stranger who's shown him nothing but kindness. On the one hand, she seems trustworthy enough, friendly, a good listener, courteous and capable of single handedly taking out an entire chapel full of reanimated corpses... On the other hand she seems like a walking time bomb. He'd seen her type before- they type that's too kind until something or someone breaks that trust. A hairline trigger. The sad fact is he doesn't have a large array of options. Staying in that hellhole of a church with those enslavers, listening to the groans of the dead, waiting for whatever those bastards would do next quickly loses its charm... Seeing the aftermath of her cleaning house with that knife had given him an odd charge- a cathartic release. He's also aware that he'd never be able to find the caravan on his own given the sorry state he's in. He really has no choice but to go along with her and her scruffy ass men and hope for the best.

"I don't have a name.. that is, one that I can remember.."

She desperately wants to pry, how could he not remember his own name? But the thousand yard stare and glassy gaze is enough to stop her from inquiring any further. "Well we've gotta call you something big guy." She's met with silence in response. "Alright, I guess Big Guy it is then." He offers only a meek hum in response. In an attempt to silence his own raging thoughts his eyes landed on the red bandanna tied to the rearview mirror for what was probably the hundredth time since he started on this way too long car ride.

"... What's that about?" He points to the red scarf.

"It belonged to a friend of mine a long while back, before Sapnap and George were a thing." Her hands tighten their hold on the wheel. "I was caught by 'traders' and he was stuck in the same hole as me... Couldn't have been any older than fourteen at the time. One night the compound was under attack, their front gate was breached- luckily we were kept at the very back end, so when the opportunity came we managed to escape our holding cell and I hoisted him over the wall. Told him to keep running, to not look back. He got away but I was caught again," She takes in a deep breath before resuming her story.

"I was quickly sold off to some asshole who had these two chained up for breaking into their stores... one thing led to another and we snuck out and snagged this ride... we've been moving around since." It was obvious by her tone there was a lot she was leaving out and probably for a good reason. Notably the two in the back seat were dead silent, so much so that it made the air feel heavy and dense enough to cut with a sharp enough knife. Suddenly he was wishing he hadn't bothered to ask in the first place

"That sign back there," He manages, desprate to break the heavy air "Said 'Cross city 12 miles" He glances up from the map in his lap, gazing out the side window at the stewing darkness of Dixie County Florida. "Got a feeling we're getting close."

The vast patchwork of wetlands passes in a blur on either side of them. The land oozing a low blanket of methane as gray as mold, clinging to the shadows of pine thickets and gullies like dirty lace. The air smells briny and rotten with dead fish. Every few minutes they pass the ruins of a small town or wreckage strewn trailer parks. No sign of survivors in these parts, though only the occasional silhouette of an upright corpse shambling by, it's eyes like twin yellow reflectors in the darkness.

"We can't just keep burning gas all night." Sapnap says from his place in the rear, his voice all cranked up with pain and panic "and we can't just go off of what you overheard those traders talking about- Much less go off of feelings.." Big guy just keeps a neural face.

"We're in the ballpark" He persists "Believe me they'll be hard to miss." Y/n grips the steering wheel, her jaw working overtime on a piece of gum, snapping and chewing complusively as she drives.

"How many vehicles do they have in this convoy?" George questions between wheezy breaths.

"No idea... but it's quite a few ."

"That's pretty general."

"They'll be easy to spot." He replies once more, gazing back out at the darkness. "Our best bet is to follow the coast, they like to keep close to the water.."

"Why's that?"

He shrugs. "According to those 'traders' they keep their eyes peeled for ships or any possible way they might get their asses the hell out of here. Most of the bigger boats around here have been destroyed by the hurricane that hit a couple years ago, so it's a long shot that they'll find anything..."

They're about to give up the search when they start to climb the gentle slope- at first so gradual it's almost unnoticeable - up the side of a vast malodorous landfill- the barren trash-strewn scrubland to their left reaches across miles of sandy berms, all the way down to the deserted ghostly boardwalks that wind their way along the beaches. The sky has begun to bruise pink with predawn light and Y/n has just started to say something when the Big Guy sees the first faint streaks of red dots in the distant haze.

"LOOK!" He points his large gnarled hand down at the far dunes of ashen white sand winding along the coast. The surface is so pocked and windswept it resembles the dark side of the moon.

"Where?" She cranes her neck, slowing the vehicle down to a crawl.

"I don't see anything."

"About Half a mile up there... Look at the tail lights!"

She takes a deep cleansing breath as she finally sees the caravan chugging along the coastal road in the predawn light, it looks like embers throwing up puffs of smoke in their wake.

"Holy shit, I see it." A big smile washes over her face, Glad she decided to follow through with this insane plan.

"What do you think of those boys?" The two young men in the rear lean forward, transfixed by the sight, each of them rapt and silent as they gaze at the convoy.

"What are you doing?! Blaster your horn at them," George stutters anxiously. "Don't let them get away !"

Y/n smiles to herself, in her former life she used to be fascinated by the wildlife shows, often catching them in the late night showings after work before she turning in for the night. She remembers one episode in particular, on the behavior of sheep vs the behavior of wolves. She remembers the flock mentality; the sheep moving almost as one, easily managed by a single sheepdog. She remembers the instinct of the Wolf, stealthy, patient as it and its pack creep up on the flock. She shoots a glance across the dark interior at the larger man sat next to her before turning her head to face the two sat behind them.

"I have a better idea."

Taglist

@the-wandering-pan-ace @hvrcruxes

[jimlingss]

Sugar and Coffee [5]

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 5.5 OR Chapter 6

➜ Words: 4.2k

➜ Genres: 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst, Pâtisserie school!AU

➜ Summary: It isn't hard to be a pâtisserie chef, but it's not a piece of cake either. It seems like for you in particular, life keeps throwing in one wrench after another. It always finds ways to make your sweets bitter. The cherry on top is Jeon Jungkook — a rival with a sensitive sweet tooth who always finds ways to complain about you.

cr.

Life won’t give you a break.   The moment midterms are complete, you have to begin preparing for finals. While the urge to bury yourself underneath your covers and pull the blanket over your head has lessened, you still don’t want to venture out into the world. But there’s no way to resist the inevitable. You can’t let your schooling go down the drain — it’s the only thing you’ve got going for yourself after all.   5:49 pm. Jungkook: where u at bitch?   5:50 pm. Y/N: im on the toilet asshole 5:50 pm. Y/N: call me a bitch again and ill kill you   5:50 pm. Jungkook: Gross tmi 5:52 pm. Jungkook: can i ask you for a favour tho pls   You wash your hands after wiping, flushing and pulling up your pants.    5:54pm. Jungkook: dont leave me on read   5:55 pm. Y/N: clingy much 5:55 pm. Y/N: the hell do you want from me   5:55 pm. Jungkook: lovely as usual 5:56 pm. Jungkook: I need the notes for comm 209   You scoff as you re-read the message. He has some audacity asking for your notes for a class he skipped on a Friday afternoon, probably to hang out with his friends instead. But before you tell him to gladly ‘fuck off’, you’re stopped by an idea. He needs something from you and there’s something you need from him.   Now’s the perfect opportunity.   “Tempering chocolate?”   “Yeah. You want to be a Master Chocolatier, right? This is a great opportunity to teach someone how to do it. They say you know your stuff when you can teach others.”   Jungkook rolls his eyes at your shamelessness and how you’re trying to milk him to your advantage. “Somehow I think this far outweighs the favour of me getting your notes.”   “Do you want to help me or not?”   “Do I want to?” He looks unsure but gives in to your will anyways, or at least he's curious enough to hear your troubles. “What’s your issue with tempering chocolate?”   “It just doesn’t temper right. There’s no snap or shine to it.”   “Do you measure the temperature with a kitchen thermometer?”   “Well obviously, Jeon. Noooo,” you pull out the syllable, voice dripping of sarcasm. “I dip my hand in to tell. Duh! Are you an idiot? What do you think?!”    At once, Jungkook’s expression washes over, becoming impassive. He spins around on his heel to walk out the door, but you grab onto his sleeve desperately.   “I’m kidding. It’s a joke. Sorry. Help me?”   He shifts around to look at you. You’re busy batting your lashes with those eyes of yours, trying to appeal to him — it disgusts Jungkook instead. It makes him feel sick to his stomach that you’re trying to act cute when you’re obviously a brat in disguise.    Yet somehow he finds himself in the kitchen on a late Tuesday night anyhow, despite having class early in the morning the next day.   “What method do you use?” Jungkook asks with crossed arms as you pull out the right materials, silver bowls, chocolate, thermometers, and a cooking pot.   “Which is easier?”   “They’re all the same,” he deadpans.   Jungkook’s arrogance irritates you but you’re not about to insult him and have him running out of the kitchen, so you restrain yourself and start with the seeding method. You chop the solid chocolate you have into smaller pieces while he watches you in boredom. After a minute, Jungkook pulls out his phone and scrolls through his social media so he can mentally stimulate himself and not have his brain cells dying on themselves.   “Only three quarters of it goes into the bowl to be melted,” he says without looking up. If he did, it would occur to him that you’ve already got it prepared and on top of the double boiler too.   “I know.”   “Do you want me to help or not?”   “When I ask for it.”   Jungkook’s eyes flicker up. “Well didn’t you ask for my help?”   “Not now, Jeon.” You sigh. It was quite profound how quickly the bastard could get under your skin for doing so little. “God, you can be so fucking—”   He suddenly puts his hand up to silence you and he sniffs with that big fucking nose of his. “Why do I smell burning?”   Jungkook looks over to your pot on the stove and notices it steaming oddly. You follow his line of sight and take your bowl off, hissing at how hot it is. “Careful,” he scolds and looks over. Jungkook nearly facepalms himself into a coma. “Oh my god, you forgot to add water into the double boiler?!”   “It’s because you were distracting me!” you shout at him and run over to the sink to add it in. The water begins burning as it hits the hot double boiler, sizzling and smoking even more. Jungkook groans. “You’re supposed to help me, not look at your phone! Maybe I would’ve realized if you actually paid any attention!”   “Fine, fine.”   You add an inch of water to the double boiler. It’s an improvement.   But then as it begins to steam properly with the candy thermometer in the chocolate as you agitate it with a spatula, you look down and your blood runs cold. “Oh shit.”   “What?” Jungkook sighs. Frankly, it’s impressive you’ve made it this far into the program. He didn’t know you were such an idiot in the kitchen — you might as well burn the whole place down and he wouldn’t be surprised. “How’d you manage that?”    You rush to grab a paper towel, trying to dab the water that got into the bowl. But Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Don’t bother. You have to start again. If you get water into the chocolate, it makes it seize and becomes unstable.”   “How do you know that?!”   “Do you even read your textbook?” He is appalled and you pull out the cutting board to chop chocolate all over again, starting from the beginning. Jungkook sighs, spinning around his stool as you repeat the steps and put the chocolate over the heat. “You know what the temperature needs to be, right?”   “A hundred fifteen. I’m not an idiot.”   “I don’t know about that,” he chimes. “You forgot to add water to a double boiler.”   Your arm drops to the side, putting the spatula down. “Okay, fuck you. I haven’t seen you actually give me good advice or anything. I asked for your help, not for you to berate me.”   “What advice do you need?” His brow cocks upwards. “It’s pretty self-explanatory. Just follow the procedure and you’ve got yourself tempered chocolate!”   “I can’t believe I thought you could ever teach me!” you hiss at him. “You’re a condescending asshole.”   “Excuse me? Guess who’s with you on a Tuesday night?! I’m an angel for helping you!”   “No one asked you to!” you scream back at the top of your lungs.   Jungkook scoffs. Any other time where he wasn’t being attacked, he’d recognize that you were returning to your former self, but he still doesn’t appreciate your brattiness. “Are you kidding m— God! What’s burning now?!” Him and that giant nose of his inhales and a delayed moment later, it hits you too. The both of you whirl around to where the chocolate is burning. “You forgot to stir!”   “It’s not like you reminded me to! You’re a distraction!”   It’s excruciating. Jungkook has a feeling he’s going to be here all night, so he helps you speed up the process. While you clean up the mess, he chops more chocolate. And this time, you both manage to get it in the bowl, stirring, without anything burning whatsoever.   The chocolate goes to a hundred fifteen degrees before you remove it from the heat and add the rest of the chocolate you reserved on the side. The temperature is brought down to eighty six degrees and then you put it back on the boiler to melt it all at ninety degrees.    A strip test is done, a streak of chocolate made on parchment. And for a whole two minutes, you wait for it to set. But it doesn’t.   “What the hell…?”   Jungkook is genuinely perplexed and finally, he gets what you’ve been talking about. “See? It just doesn’t work!”   He shakes his head, refusing to admit defeat. “It must’ve increased in heat before we added the other chocolate in. Let’s try again.”   The pair of you chop chocolate across from each other, silent in your determination. But when you glance up, you see Jungkook’s brows furrowed, thoughts probably lost. You don’t see him serious often — well you do, but you never paid much attention to him before. Not like now.   The process is repeated. The chocolate is melted to a hundred fifteen degrees and then decreased down to eighty six as you add in the loose chocolate, and then it’s brought back up again….    But then the temperature begins climbing — faster than you and Jungkook can react. “Fuck, fuck.”   The two of you help each other take the bowl off the pot in urgency and then press your burning fingers to your ears before running it under cold water. “It went to a hundred? Do you think it’ll be okay?”   “I don’t know. We have to test it.”   The strip test is done, but the chocolate never sets. It stays wet. Dull.    “Mother fuc—”   “We’ll try again,” Jungkook reassures you with a hand on your shoulder.   It’s painful having to re-doing everything and going way later into the night than you initially intended. You feel like you’re being driven crazy, but you’re glad Jungkook’s here with you — you know you’re not going insane alone.   You look back at your textbook and your notes, making sure you’re doing it right and you hope for the best in the next batch.   “It set….but it’s so streaky.” You look up at Jungkook who’s an inch away. He hums and leans down to get a closer look.   “It’s bloom. The lipids moved through the cracks of the chocolate.”   “You think it’s because the kitchen’s too hot?”   “Yeah, we should try to put it in the fridge to cool.”   One last attempt is made. It takes twenty more minutes and then it’s put in the fridge. But after the chocolate sets, there’s no shine or snap.   Jungkook finds slumped on the floor, spooning chocolate, one of the failed attempts, into your mouth. You’re hugging the silver bowl in your lap like it’s your anchor. “I give up.”    It feels like you’ve gone through a thousand batches. The kitchen is an absolute mess — spatulas and tasting spoons littered on the counter, double bowlers and bowls, wasted chocolate everywhere. There’s a sink-full to wash and that alone makes you want to cry.   You slurp up more chocolate in an attempt to feel better. “Fuck chocolate.” But why does it have to taste so delicious?   “I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” Jungkook admits with a frown. It just doesn’t seem to work with you. “It’s not rocket science. It was fine when I did it.”   “Fuck you. You’re not supposed to boast. You’re supposed to help me.”   “Was the last two and a half hours not helping you?” he questions. “You just have to watch your temperatures and keep practicing.”   “That’s helpful.”   “Hey, I’m trying.”   Jungkook pisses you off. Everything comes so easy for him. As chocolate destroys you, he’s out here wanting to be a chocolatier. But maybe it suits him — chocolate’s an asshole and so is he.   “I’d like to see you try to caramelize sugar as well as I can, or better yet, pipe flowers.”   The boy scoffs, looking down at you and your patheticness. You don’t even realize you have chocolate all over your mouth. “That’s easy.”   “I worked at a cupcake shop for three summers.” You stand up on your feet, facing him head on. “You think you can beat me in piping flowers?”   “I think I can do better than you can temper chocolate.” Jungkook smirks arrogantly, enough to push you off the edge.   “Let’s bet on it then!”   “Fine. How much?”   You have a better idea than money. “Loser has to cover for the winner during the internship in May. Whenever the winner goes on break or makes a mistake.”   He scoffs. It’s a big wager but it sounds delightful when he knows you’re going down. “Deal.”   //   It’s a busy Thursday, but that doesn’t stop any of you. Even after a long day of classes, sitting in lecture halls listening to theory to working in the kitchens, you find yourselves a spare kitchen space afterwards to finally put this all to rest.   You won’t tell Jungkook that you practiced all of yesterday by yourself and actually got it to work once — you nearly started to cry out of happiness when the chocolate tempered.   “You want me to make this?”   Jungkook looks at the picture on your phone. “Yep. I made it last summer using buttercream. They’re peonies. Why? Think it’s too hard?”   He scoffs. “As if. Watch, I’ll make it better than you did.”   “Uh-huh. Keep talking, Jeon.”   Jungkook eagerly takes on your challenge.    While you take up half the kitchen, he manages the other half, and the two of you share the center island together. You get your double boiler ready, chopping up chocolate to melt while Jungkook mixes butter, vanilla, confectioner's sugar, and milk together. The fucker doesn’t even use a hand mixer. He simply uses a spoon to make it, blatantly showing off as his veins in his forearm pop. He smirks when he notices you staring and you roll your eyes.   Jungkook makes a variety of colours, pastel pinks and baby blues, and puts them into the piping bag as you stir the chocolate over the heat.   You focus on the numbers on your thermometer, but out of the corner of your eye, you watch him.   He cuts squares of parchment, puts one on a flower stand, adds a small cone of thick buttercream to the paper, and then picks his tip. You muse that he must’ve been doing his studying when he chooses a one twenty seven tip. It’s a straight teardrop shape, and he squeezes while turning the nail wide ends towards the center, narrow end outwards.   But he sighs after a moment, hands halting.   It’s your turn to smirk.   “Not so easy, is it?”   His eyes flicker up to glare at you. “Keep a watch on that chocolate before you burn it again, brat.”   You scoff, continuing to stir. You keep your heat low so the temperature climbs slowly.   In the meanwhile, Jungkook switches his tip out for a one twenty and tries again. You take a glance, and it’s not too bad — still sloppier than yours and he knows it too.   After a moment of frustration, he switches to a one twenty two.   “You should check the consistency of that buttercream,” you sing-song. “Can’t be too stiff or soft.”   “I’m fully aware.”   “Are you?” You smile at him, mockingly so. “Just making sure.”   Jeon Jungkook doesn’t appreciate you provoking him, but realizes it’s similar to how he treated you. It’s not his fault his forte isn’t in teaching. And yours clearly isn’t either.   “A one twenty five?” You scoff. “Are you trying to make a rose or a peony?”   Jungkook’s smile is stiff. “What do you suggest I use then?”   “Go back to the one twenty seven tip or pick a curved teardrop shape. Also, you’re squeezing too hard too fast, muscle pig.”   “I know something else I squeeze too hard too fast,” he mutters as he follows your instructions.   “Go fuck yourself, Jeon.”   “Didn’t need to spell it out, sweetheart, but that’s exactly what I do every night.” He smirks and you roll your eyes again.   “God, you’re going to make me throw up all over my chocolate.” You take it off the heat once it reaches a hundred fifteen degrees, putting the rest of your chocolate in and mixing. You have a good feeling about this batch. Even if it’s your first try of the day too.   Usually you’d rush, get too impatient, but it’s entertaining to see Jungkook struggle. Time goes by faster.   You mix in your chocolate, bringing the temperature back up again, and you do a strip test when it’s all nicely melted, putting it in the fridge. All there’s left to do is wait a few minutes now.   You come back, dusting your hands off, feeling confident. Meanwhile, Jungkook is still piping flowers with his thick brows furrowed, the tip of his tongue peeking out as he concentrates.   “It’s taking you a while there, Jeon.”   “Whatever.” He sighs, resting his hands on the counter as he rolls his neck. “You had a full three hours practicing with me on Tuesday. This is the first time in a while that I’m piping, alright? Give me a break.”   “Uh-huh. All I hear are your excuses. Less talk, more work.”   You grab some parchment and an icing bag he’s left abandoned in a cup. With a flower needle, you begin piping yourself to pass the time. It’s actually one of your favourite things to do — it’s therapeutic. You can listen to the sound of your own breathing and the crinkling of the piping bag while you make literal flowers from your hands.    You break out of your focus to find Jungkook watching you intently. Your arm extends, showing off your flower with pride. “Pretty, right?”   The icing flower has perfect ruffles and petals. It looks real, and by the expression he has, he’s already aware.    Jungkook grumbles incoherently and returns back to work, making you giggle.   You take another piece of parchment, but this time you steal a spatula-full of his blue icing and put it in the pink bag to make two-tone flowers. And you pipe them on, spinning the flower nail, as it comes to you with ease.   You listen to the crinkling of the icing bag, your heartbeat in your own ears, the white noise of the quiet kitchen, and Jungkook’s breathing. You’re not sure what compels you, perhaps a sudden urge, but you quietly blurt— “I never stole your millie cake recipe.”   “What?” His eyes flicker up and Jungkook finds you concentrating on piping, not paying him any mind.   “The September incident,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth. “I never stole your mirror glazed blueberry whatever millie cake recipe like you think I did.”   Maybe you’re telling him because things are different now.   You know he won’t jump down your throat and accuse you otherwise, for lying, or trying to cover yourself. Won’t denounce you. Bark out in laughter. Your relationship with Jungkook has become strange recently — you think it’s something other people would call a friendship. But you thought he should know. Just in case he still hates you for it.   You know you don’t hate him so much anymore.   “You threatened to go up to the Dean and expel me, remember?” Your pupils flicker up for a moment.   Jungkook recalls it clearly — the confrontation in the kitchen, the fight that broke out, how you slapped him, how he was planning to do everything possible to get you expelled. How you were ostracized over the rumours for weeks until people forgot and moved on as they naturally did.   But you and Jungkook never did. You always both remembered.   “I went to Mrs. Ahn before she left on maternity leave. I was stuck — didn’t know what to add to my portfolio, so I asked her. And she gave me your recipe as a reference. Told me to give it a try. Gain inspiration from it.”   You put your hands down, connecting your eyes with his.    Jungkook is rendered speechless. “And that was when I saw you…?”   “Yep. You busted into the kitchen without letting me explain and accused me of stealing your shit when I didn’t even know it belonged to you. I didn’t know you were the one who came up with it.”   “Why…” He shakes his head, frowning deep enough that it hurts. “Why didn’t you say anything?”   “You didn’t deserve it. The truth. I knew I was right and I was so….so mad that you could accuse me of stealing, that I could even be capable of such a thing. I wanted you to bring it up to the Dean. I wanted you to do it so you could be embarrassed when you realized what actually happened.”   It’s all in the past now. Your anger doesn’t surge as much anymore, but you can still recall a time when you felt utterly enraged he could think so lowly of you — a time when Jungkook didn’t deserve your explanation, so you slapped him. In hindsight, it was probably a bad decision on your part. You escalated the situation when it didn’t need to and it spiraled out of control.    You’re at fault for being rash and impulsive as much as he is.   “It wasn’t like I was going to use it anyway,” you mutter with a sigh and pick up a new square of parchment to continue piping. “For inspiration or whatnot, much less add to my own portfolio. I swapped the blueberries for blackberries, and it turned out to be disgusting. I messed up on the glaze part too.” You muse, “Chocolate’s never been nice to me.”   Jungkook absolutely baffled. Bewildered.    All of this hatred against each other was caused by a misunderstanding. All of it which could’ve been avoided.   “I—”   “Wow, are you kids practicing your techniques?” Miss. Kang is at the door, visibly impressed as she regards you both. “And here I was on my way home. You two are so diligent! And look at you both working together like this! I always knew you put your differences aside and be friends.”   “You have great timing, Miss. Kang.” You smile at her. “Jungkook and I were just having a friendly contest. Would you like to be our judge?”   “Sure. I think I can spare a moment or two.” She steps in, looking around. “What are we doing here? Looks like someone was tempering chocolate and you’re….piping! Goodness, me. Did you make those, Y/N? They’re very lovely.”   “Thank you.” You grin, beaming from the praise of your piping skills. “But the contest was me tempering chocolate against Jungkook piping.” You move over to the fridge, taking out the metal tray with your strip test. You hand it to her, and she hums.   “Very shiny, and it slides right off the parchment!” she exclaims. For the final examination, the young female teacher bends the chocolate and it audibly snaps. You could burst out into cries of happiness. “Looks tempered to me.”   You look over at Jungkook, head quirked to the side, wearing a big smile that’s infectious enough to make him grin too. “Here’s my piping.” He places the parchment on the counter and she leans over to study it, humming.   “Not too bad, Jungkook. A little messy around the edges, but I’d say a job well done. If this was an actual exam, I’d give you full marks.”   Jungkook cocks a brow towards you, sly smirk on his face. You step forward. “So which is better?”   “Well, it’s very difficult to judge on tempering chocolate and piping since they’re two completely different things. I’d say it was equal.”   “If you had to pick one?” you ask, desperate for a winner to be proclaimed.   Miss Kang hums a long note. You and Jungkook are put in suspense, anticipating her final decision. She taps her chin, deciding to chew on your chocolate as she studies the flower.   Finally, the teacher nods. “I can’t complain about the chocolate — it’s a hundred percent tempered. But I can say the piping needs a little more work, so…”   “I win!” You give Jungkook a cheeky grin causing him to scoff lightly.   “It was a stroke of luck.”   “Keep telling yourself that, Jeon.”   “It’s a tie,” he insists, “She said only if she had to pick.”   “That’s true.” Miss. Kang backs him up before you can retort.   But you still pout. “Sore loser. I win and you know it.”   “Hmmm.” Jungkook playfully shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Let’s just call it even, Y/N.”   “Nuh-uh. That’s not how it works!”   The pair of you argue back and forth — yet there’s no real malice. It’s simply banter and it causes Miss. Kang to laugh. She bids her farewell and quips that you both better get the kitchen clean. In the end, Jungkook compromises. He still insists it’s a tie but he does the hard work of cleaning the dishes and you give into his will.   As you prepare the mop water, he scrubs the bowls.   “I’m sorry,” Jungkook pipes up after a second of quiet contemplation. He turns his head to look at you. “For the misunderstanding.”   “You don’t have to be sorry.” You divert your vision elsewhere. “Not anymore. You’ve given me more reasons to be thankful. So we’ll call this even.”   Jeon Jungkook smiles softly. “Deal.”

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Fourth Coming

Fandom: The Wilds Rating: T Word Count: 2157

Summary: And on the twenty-third day, Nora ate goat and thought about love.

Nora sees the experiment through two lenses, like the red and blue acetate in those cheap 3D glasses. One lens is the scientific, the other is the brutal. When she puts these metaphorical glasses on, she’s just there, in the middle of it, but when she’s feeling particularly tired (understandably often) or just relaxed (inexplicably often—a fact to be concealed from the others), she shifts between the two views. Each is sharper alone than they are combined.

Scientific: counting the days; subtly taking her own inventory of the rations; monitoring Fatin’s dehydration, the commensurate level of distrust the rest of the group have for her.

Brutal: cold fingers in wet, black sand, disinterring Jeanette’s grave; Dot’s tumbling, shivering recount of spearing and battering a snake; ralphing, ralphing, ralphing bad mussels.

It isn’t until the goat that these contrary perspectives finally attain a kind of beautiful balance in Nora’s brain. And it isn’t her thoughts, or rereading one of her journal entries, that has her mental clouds clearing. Actually, it’s what Leah says. About barbecues and normalcy and the Fourth of July. Leah’s remark—possibly offhand, certainly poisonous, even if Nora can’t see how yet—gracelessly and unselfconsciously reveals the barbarism of order. A social gathering on the same day each year, centered around fire (fireworks, sure, but Nora is amazed by how dazzled people are by something not so very far advanced from what had the cavepeople oohing and awwing) and the cooking of meat. Ritual is the summit at which the scientific and the brutal join hands.

The day doesn’t matter. (Every day could have been June 29th and what difference would that have made for them on this island?) The conditions of their environment haven’t changed. (No major shift in the seasons or significant weather patterns, just the single freakish high tide.) The slaughter of the goat and the subsequent cookout should be put down to chance, Nora knows. Toni, Martha, and Shelby decided to look for food. Martha happened to find the goat. She happened to lay her hands on a tool that could do the job. She happened to be successful. And now, miraculous barbecue in honour of… what?

Nora’s sure that most of the girls would say the feast is in honour of themselves, their power, their survival. All of that would really put a spit-shine on Gretchen’s mission statement, but Nora’s not just an agent, a plant, a spy, a wolf in castaway’s clothing. She seeks to understand as much as she always has. She wonders if Shelby thanks god for the goat, or eats it as a form of praise. Nora constantly spots her toying with the cross on her necklace, frequently in a way that holds it far from her throat, almost like she’s thinking about ripping the necklace off and hurling it into the ocean. That would be going a bit far, but then, so is hacking your hair off because a brush got stuck.

Their ritual could be the sacrifice of another creature in the hopes of sparing themselves—a kind of desperate, gasping celebration. Privately, Nora decides they’re celebrating love. Leah’s persistent aura of tragic romance is part of the inspiration for that, but she isn’t part of either of the two developing relationships Nora’s been observing.

Martha’s picking at her goat meat glumly, so Nora rises and goes over to her. Her gait is unsteady on this sand and on these legs, weakened over the past two days of starvation, but it’s enough to carry her until she can slump down next to Martha. Sweet and strong, vulnerable and clearly capable (judging by the sizzle of fat dripping from the roasting goat leg and hitting the fire), Martha smiles when Nora joins her. Nora smiles back and that’s enough between them for a few minutes.

Nora watches the browned meat, nearly allowing herself to be hypnotized by the texture that urges her to sink her teeth in, the crispy spots she knows would taste incredible. But she can’t gorge herself; her stomach needs to be cool about what she’s already eaten or the chewed up goat goes the way of the slurped mussels Rachel found.

Carefully, Nora turns her head to study Martha. She decides that what this girl needs is the same thing Leah needed on Day 12 when she was sitting alone on the beach: some kind of dirty joke. Since she’s fresh out of filthy material of the Christmas variety, Nora tells Martha, “One second,” and heaves herself up again. She comes back dragging Marcus. He’ll be her muse, but it’s also a reunion of lovers.

“You two could get married,” Nora tells Martha. “Shelby said she was an ordained youth minister, remember?”

They laugh and it’s softer than the crackle of the fire. Nora likes that. The steady, rolling sound of their laughs together. How they taper off, unlike the ceaseless noise of breaking waves that drives Nora insane whenever she surfaces from her numbness to the sound. Like becoming conscious of your breathing and working like hell to stop noticing it, because having to purposefully regulate every breath is exhausting and terrifying.

Martha frowns a little in consideration, then half-smiles.

“Nah. I don’t know if I’m ready to commit like that. I think this could just be a fling. All those abs and he didn’t come help me haul that goat.”

“That’s true.” When Martha gazes at the mannequin, Nora assesses Marcus as well. “And it’s not like you’d want to keep him around because he gives great head.”

“He might’ve once,” Martha defends, brushing hair out of her face when a breeze kicks up, “but he gave so much head that there’s none left for me.”

They catch each other staring at the clean line where Marcus’s neck ends and nothing rests above it and trip into laughter again. Though Nora feels like she accomplished her dirty joke, Martha made it even better. People have underestimated her. Nora’s noted it from the start. It’s probably because Martha was injured. Group dynamics were established quickly and have formed and reformed in the days and weeks since, but Day 1 showed them the rawest version of who they are together and, before they knew about Jeanette, Martha was the weak one. Have the others seen her role evolve like Nora has? Are Nora’s observations anything special, really?

“This is totally not a judgement thing or anything,” Nora says, meaning it. “I was just wondering if you were maybe going to wash your clothes. Or change them.”

“Oh.”

Martha looks down at herself and now Nora’s glad she said something; it doesn’t seem like Martha was really aware that she’s been sitting here crusted in drying blood. Nora weighs the acceptability of a period joke and decides against it.

“You don’t have to,” she assures Martha, raising a gentle hand. “It just seemed like maybe the, uh, the slaughtering process? Was kind of a mindfuck?”

“Yeah.” Martha stares straight ahead and lets out a short laugh that Nora doesn’t join her in. “I’m glad Marcus wasn’t there to see. He might not’ve come back the same.”

Nora peers at her a moment, then resolves to just say what she’s thinking.

“Did you?”

Turning her head, Martha looks at Nora and her smile’s the same, but her eyes are different. No, Nora would write in the journal. The answer is plain. Maybe she’ll record it on paper later and maybe she won’t. Looking into Martha’s eyes, Nora knows she won’t need help remembering this.

“I’m just living my best life,” Martha tells her, batting the ends of her hair with her hand.

It sounds like something Fatin would say in this moment, or at least have printed on a t-shirt or something—it’s flip and glib—and for the very reason that it reminds Nora of Fatin, she’s certain that Martha not only means the silly words sincerely but that she feels the kind of truth in the trope, the mindfulness in the meme, that Fatin fights so hard to experience herself. Fatin is deeper than that ocean over there and Martha is a girl scooping out the sand in front of her mannequin boyfriend, digging him a sturdy trench to rest in so she can lean back against his factory-sculpted physique, painted in the blood of her first kill.

For whatever reason, Marcus is the man Martha wants. Nora can’t imagine him becoming anyone else’s property after all this is over.

“Do you want a lychee instead?” she offers. Martha’s flat-out ignoring her leaf-plate of meat now.

“Maybe in a minute.”

She turns her dreamy eyes away from where she’s rubbing a streak of dirt off Marcus’s bicep. Nora follows her gaze to Shelby, who seems to be counting out and partitioning the lychee haul, looking to Dot from time to time. Dot isn’t interfering, just giving encouraging nods when Shelby seeks them out. And of course Toni’s watching too.

“You think they’re telling the truth?” Nora inquires bluntly. “That whole ‘wrong turn in the woods’ story?”

Martha shrugs and says, “Yeah,” but Fatin scootches towards them, evidently drawn by the hum of gossip in the air.

“Are you talking about Toni and Shelby?” she asks, but it’s more of a demand. Her eyes are bright and excited, her mouth grinning, and Nora knows that a lot of that effect is thanks to their first meal in days, but it astounds her how socializing lights Fatin up as much as it used to shut Nora down.

“No,” Martha says quickly, but no faster than Nora’s flat, “Yes.”

“Dope. Yeah, those two are a hundred percent lying.”

“Are you sure?” Nora asks.

She’s not, but the cameras will be. Seeing the footage afterwards isn’t something she negotiated on when Gretchen made her part of the team. Speculation, though less scientific, is much more fun.

Fatin rolls her eyes like Nora’s questioning the laws of gravity. (She blinks and sees the poster of Newton. Sees Newton seeing the apple. Her throat closes up until she softly coughs it clear.)

“Definitely,” Fatin says. “Even if they were just out there all day picking fruit, it’s still the most sapphic thing I’ve ever heard. It’s, like, biblically sapphic.”

Martha laughs.

“Uhhh, sorry, which version of the Bible did you read?”

Nora smiles broadly and looks from Martha’s expression of brimming joy to Fatin’s concentrated delight. Like she’s on to something and whether or not she’s right is beside the point. That kind of approach makes Nora pleasantly dizzy. She remembers being little, standing at a department store perfume counter she couldn’t see over while her mom spritzed scents on her wrists that floated down to Nora’s nose. Fruit and flowers and anything and everything that could make the air beautiful when a woman walked into a room.

“None, but come on, there’s the garden, right? I know some shit. The marketing for this retreat was super Christian-centric anyway. We’re out here representing the fucking Dawn of Eve!” Fatin gestures triumphantly around at their dismal (except for the goat) camp. “If those two bitches weren’t getting their freak on under a fruit tree last night, I’ll eat my gold watch.”

Nora scrutinizes the girls in question.

“Shelby does look especially glowy today.”

“Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s chronic sun damage,” Martha singsongs.

“Maybe it’s what Toni did to those mussels with her tongue,” Fatin acknowledges frankly, “because Shelby sure as hell didn’t borrow my hundred-dollar highlighter. That shit got swept out to sea.”

Fatin trains her eyes on Shelby while Martha watches Toni, and Nora watches both of them watch the others. When they switch subjects in a moment of unvoiced agreement, Toni jerks her head up and spots Fatin staring at her. The tender gazes she’s been throwing Shelby’s way over the low mound of red fruit tighten into suspicion.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Toni barks, and a laugh sputters from Fatin as she raises her hands to show she means no harm.

“Ok,” Martha says to Fatin and Nora, giggling. “I see it now. Something happened between Shelby and Toni yesterday. Some kind of hunter-gatherer romance.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve taken the ‘hunter’ title away from Shelby,” Nora points out.

“Well, whatever. Gatherer-gatherer then.”

“With an island colony of all women, it was only a matter of time,” is Fatin’s pragmatic take. “Another couple weeks without an orgasm and I would’ve fucked Toni myself.”

“It wasn’t just time,” Martha scoffs, tipping her head to the side. “It’s love.”

“It’s both,” Nora says. She could prove it to them, flourish the statistics she’s been tracking in her journal. How those bald numbers lie there next to the drawings that spill to the edge of the page. She’s made bedfellows of data and emotions. She just sits there and grins at them. “It’s the aphrodisiacal influence of the Fourth of July.”

[dweetwise]

i can’t remember the last time i wrote a proper date, this was a joy to work on and i hope you enjoy <3

ship: felix x ace warnings: none word count: 3740

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Where there’s smoke, there’s fire (part 5)

Felix despises meeting clients.

They're entitled, they're whiny, and in this particular case, they're obnoxious and unwilling to compromise.

It takes half an hour of their appointment to even get to its point, the client and his associates preferring to engage in pointless small talk, as if this small talk was worth Felix’s 18-hour flight. Still, he puts on his business face and laughs his polite fake laugh to humor them, since the project is important to Lauren.

When Felix finally gets to presenting his studio’s offer to the group, there's an influx of stupid questions that he hadn't prepared for. He improvises the best he can and ignores the rude comments about Lauren's design style, trying not to let the annoyance show on his face.

The hours tick by and his clients don’t seem to be in any sort of hurry, content to keep bullshitting and dragging out the appointment. Felix’s pulse is racing and he almost feels like he’s about to be sick, nerves mixing with dread as he realizes he’s going to be late for his date with Ace.

When he's finally allowed to leave, five excruciating hours and way too many fake laughs and handshakes later, Felix is almost ready to kill someone.

Instead, he calls Ace as soon as the office building’s doors close behind him.

“Hello?” Ace's voice sounds annoyed, and Felix doesn't blame him in the slightest.

“I'm sorry, my meeting ran late,” Felix apologizes hurriedly, checking his watch to notice it’s already six o’clock. “Do you still want to meet?”

“Oh! Yeah, sure!” Ace's voice perks up, his words difficult to make out through some strange background noise. “Don't worry about it, I kinda lost track of time too.”

“I can come straight from the office, I'll just get a cab,” Felix says, looking around the street for signs of a taxi.

“Uh, alright!” Ace’s voice sounds surprised. “There's this Italian place just a few blocks from the hotel. I can be there in twenty, I'll text you the address.”

“Sounds good,” Felix sighs, already feeling calmer now that he knows he didn't mess up his chance with the man.

Somehow, despite the taxi getting stuck in traffic for minutes on end, Felix arrives at the restaurant before Ace does. He hovers near the entrance awkwardly, not sure whether he should go inside to wait.

He decides to stay outside on the sidewalk, hoping the fresh air will soothe some of his overwhelming nerves. Standing there in his work clothes, clutching his briefcase and repeatedly glancing at his watch, Felix feels utterly ridiculous and is already starting to regret the entire thing.

Ace is either ten minutes late or is standing him up. Is it revenge for Felix neglecting to contact him earlier? Was Felix imagining the connection between them? Felix really shouldn’t have come; he's completely drained after the meeting and would much rather curl up in his hotel bed—

And then he spots Ace making his way over, and as soon as their eyes meet the doubts fizzle out and disappear.

“Hey, handsome!” Ace greets with a radiant smile, and Felix is instantly ready to forgive him. “How was work?”

“It was fine,” Felix lies, not wanting to sour the other's permanent good mood.

“I'm glad!" Ace says. “Hope you're hungry, because I'm starving,” he smiles, reaching for the restaurant door and holding it open for Felix.

Almost as soon as they step inside, Felix’s anxiety decides to flare up. The place looks more casual than he'd pictured, and he feels way too overdressed, his stiff suit and tie surely standing out among the crowd.

“Sorry I didn't have time to get changed,” Ace apologizes, coming up beside him. “I was planning to wear something nicer for you.”

Felix realizes Ace is in the same clothes as earlier today, apart from a blazer he's slung casually over his shoulder. It's reassuring to know Felix isn't the only one worrying about his outfit, even if Ace's patterned button-up seems much more fitting for the occasion.

“It's fine, I also would have preferred not to wear my work clothes,” Felix says, discreetly starting to tug off his tie to attempt to make the look more casual.

“Well, I do love a man in a suit,” Ace says and shoots him a wink, and Felix decides he definitely needs to remove some layers if he's going to survive the dinner without sweating buckets from the flirty attention.

While Felix is shrugging out of his suit jacket, a waiter comes to greet them and Ace effortlessly takes over, making small talk while they're shown to a table and given their menus.

"You got any wine recommendations?” Ace asks the waiter.

“Our house wine is a light chardonnay that goes well with most of our dishes.”

“Perfect,” Ace says, before turning to Felix. “You wanna share a bottle?”

“Yes, please,” Felix says, relieved at the chance to get some alcohol in his system. Maybe it’ll finally make him stop fretting so he can focus on their date.

As the waiter leaves to get their drinks, Felix follows Ace’s example and familiarizes himself with the menu. They make some small talk about the dishes, most of them unfamiliar to Felix, prompting Ace to make a few gentle suggestions. Following the advice, Felix settles on chicken risotto while Ace goes with some sort of seafood pasta that sounds way too adventurous for Felix’s taste.

The waiter returns to pour their drinks and take their orders, and Felix tries not to cringe in embarrassment as he butchers his dish’s pronunciation after Ace fluently orders his own.

“So, um…” Felix starts once the waiter leaves with their orders. “What do you do? For a living?”

The question feels clunky on his tongue, but isn't that what people ask on first dates? Felix takes a bigger gulp of wine than is appropriate to wash down his embarrassment.

“Straight to business, huh?” Ace says, his voice teasing, before taking a sip of his own wine. “You could say I'm a professional poker player.”

The surprise must be clear on Felix's face, because Ace chuckles.

“Not the most conventional gig, I know,” Ace offers good-naturedly.

“That sounds… interesting,” Felix says, realizing that somehow, the job makes sense. He should have guessed the strange man would have an unconventional occupation. “What is it like?”

“Unpredictable, risky and infuriating,” Ace huffs, before grinning. “But I love it.”

Felix nods in acknowledgement and stays silent, wordlessly encouraging Ace to go on.

“It’s just…” Ace eagerly continues. “The feeling of winning a high-stakes game? The anticipation and nerves when you don’t really have a good hand but have to keep going anyway, and finally manage the card you need at the very last round? Nothing else even comes close!”

Felix happily listens to Ace talk, enraptured by his ever-growing smile and eyes shining with pure, childlike excitement. He always enjoyed hearing people share their passions in life, and it sounds like cards are to Ace like architecture is to Felix.

“So I might be known to take a few more risks than most players,” Ace adds with an impish smile. “But it mostly works out—I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been told I’m quite lucky,” he says, shooting Felix a wink.

Felix chuckles against the rim of his wine glass, enjoying the attention even if it makes his cheeks feel warm. He can’t deny Ace took a gamble by approaching him, though he wouldn’t necessarily attribute the success of that gamble to luck.

Speaking of gambling...

“Is your name a coincidence, or…?” Felix asks.

“Oh, funny story, that!” Ace chuckles. “I actually had it changed because of a bet.”

“I—excuse me?” Felix says.

“I was on this insane blackjack win streak in Vegas,” Ace says. “Got to play at the high rollers’ table; big bets, even bigger wins. It got to a point where people were crowding around the table, the other players dropping out just to make wagers on when I’d finally lose.”

Felix leans closer, listening raptly as Ace tells his story. He’s never been one for gambling, but he can almost see the scene play out in front of him; others looking on in awe and horror as risky bets were made, Ace reveling in the attention in the middle of it all.

“So, eventually, I bet everything on a single round,” Ace grins. “Crowd gasps and cheers, guy next to me says I’m a complete dumbass for pushing my luck.”

Felix can’t help but agree with the nameless player, but he bites his tongue.

“And wouldn’t you know it, I get a hard ten and the dealer gets a twenty,” Ace says. “Crowd’s cringing, guy’s laughing, saying there’s no way I’m getting a blackjack. So, I announce that if I get an ace, I’m legally changing my name to that.”

“And?” Felix asks, sounding more eager than he means to when Ace pauses for dramatic effect.

“Dealer hits me with an ace, jaws drop to the floor, I make a dent in the casino’s profit that night,” Ace smirks victoriously. “Got my name changed within the hour—good thing paperwork’s easy in Vegas.”

“That’s… wow,” Felix chuckles, taking a sip of his wine while he lets the incredulous tale sink in.

“Told you I’m lucky,” Ace says. “The money might not have lasted long, but I got a kick-ass name and good story out of it! Actually, there was this other time…” Ace suddenly trails off and glances to his right.

When Felix follows suit, having been completely immersed in looking at Ace, he notices the waiter approaching with their food.

Felix gives a polite nod as his order is placed in front of him. The appearance of the dish isn’t the most appetizing, even if the chef has clearly tried to pretty up the chicken and rice with some garnish. However, the smell is absolutely delicious, making Felix eager for a taste.

“Thank you,” Ace smiles up at the waiter as he receives his own serving.

The waiter is off with a polite “enjoy your meals” and Felix’s stomach rumbles in return.

“Well, bon appetit!” Ace offers, thankfully not seeming to have heard the sound.

“How do you say it in Italian?” Felix asks, wanting to acknowledge Ace’s roots.

When Ace looks up in surprise at the question before smiling brightly, Felix gives himself a mental pat on the back for accidentally being smooth.

“Buon appetito,” Ace says, looking at him warmly.

“Buon… apetito?” Felix tries his best to repeat the sentence.

“That’s it,” Ace encourages, happy with his attempt. “Now dig in, before it gets cold!”

Felix doesn’t need to be told twice. He scoops a small bit of the mushy rice and some chicken onto his fork, careful to avoid a piece of mushroom sitting on top as a garnish.

As suspected, the food tastes just as good as it smells. The rice is creamy and the chicken is tender, a strong flavor of cheese and herbs accompanying the taste.

“What’s the verdict?” Ace asks playfully, having apparently paused his eating to watch Felix slowly chew through his food.

“It’s very good,” Felix praises, going to scoop a bigger piece onto his utensils. “And yours?”

“Really nice!” Ace says, returning to his meal. “It’s been a while since I had this dish. Can’t really go wrong with it.”

Felix nods in acknowledgement and takes another bite of his food, this time accompanying it with a sip of wine. Ace seems happy to follow suit, and there’s a beat of comfortable silence as they enjoy their meals.

“So…” Ace speaks up, turning his attention back to Felix. “I realize I kinda went off earlier, only talking about myself.”

“I don’t mind,” Felix reassures. “It was a good story.”

“One of my favorites,” Ace grins. “But what about you? What do you do?”

“Me?”

“I mean, I only heard you bitch about your clients last night,” Ace says, and Felix is embarrassed to realize that he's right.

How on earth Ace not only dealt with his awkwardness, but also listened to him whine about his work and still decided to approach him is beyond Felix’s understanding.

“Which sounds totally justified, by the way,” Ace reassures with a grin when Felix internally panics instead of replying. “I just never caught what it actually is that you do. I've been guessing between law and marketing.”

“Sorry," Felix says, giving an apologetic smile for talking Ace's ear off the other night. “I'm actually an architect.”

“Oh, neat!” Ace exclaims. “I should've known you weren't just a pretty face,” he offers with a wink over the rim of his wine glass.

“It's not nearly as complicated as you seem to think,” Felix says, fidgeting from the praise.

“Modest, too,” Ace grins.

Felix doesn’t know how to reply to the compliment, so he opts to take a big bite of his food instead.

“Anyway, I promised to take your mind off work, huh?” Ace says. “What do you do for fun?”

Felix falters. He always dreads the hobby question, since his job pretty much is his entire life. Obsessively checking work emails or drinking until he passes out surely don't count as hobbies.

“I usually read architecture magazines or go jogging,” Felix lies.

Ace doesn’t reply, only quirks a skeptical eyebrow through a mouthful of pasta.

“Ehm… what?” Felix asks, suddenly self-conscious.

“This isn't a job interview,” Ace snorts in amusement. “I asked what you do for fun.”

“Ähm, sorry,” Felix apologizes, looking at the tablecloth in embarrassment.

“I'll start!” Ace decides. “I like to laze around and watch shitty 3PM telenovelas.”

“Telenovelas?”

“Oh. Latin American soaps,” Ace explains with a smile. “They're tacky and predictable but remind me of home.”

Felix returns a small smile, finding the thought of Ace watching cheesy afternoon TV oddly endearing.

“I guess I enjoy quiz programs,” Felix says. “And… maybe get a little frustrated when the participants get the obvious ones wrong,” he confesses.

“I bet you’d do great in one of those,” Ace says. “You’re so smart.”

“I’d probably swallow my own tongue from the nerves,” Felix mumbles, poking at his food.

“Oh, right,” Ace hums in thought, followed by another smile. “God, it’s so funny that a gorgeous guy like you is so shy,” he chuckles.

“It’s embarrassing, I know—” Felix starts.

“It’s endearing,” Ace corrects, and Felix swears his heart skips a beat.

“Do you have any other hobbies?” Felix asks, feeling like he needs to contribute to the conversation.

“Do lame card tricks count?” Ace grins. “If not, I sometimes play guitar—badly, I might add.”

“Both of those sound like a lot of fun,” Felix says. “I’ve never played an instrument.”

“It’s fun if you don’t take it seriously! You should try it, if you ever get the time,” Ace encourages.

They finish the rest of their meals while chatting pleasantly. Felix finds it easy to open up, Ace’s warm smile and relaxed demeanor putting him at ease. At the same time, he’s eager to learn more about Ace, every small detail he hears only serving to make him even more fond of the man.

When Felix eventually finishes his dish, save for the mushrooms and some questionable greens he doesn’t recognize, Ace has the audacity to look at his plate with a knowing smirk.

“What?” Felix says, although suspecting he already knows the answer.

“Nothing!” Ace says. “I’m just happy I got a picky eater to… almost finish his plate.”

“For the record, I liked the food,” Felix argues, bantering along. “It’s much better than the idiot sandwiches I had for lunch.”

“Uh… idiot sandwiches?” Ace asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Oh, eh…” Felix falters, feeling stupid for resorting to an inside joke the other obviously wouldn’t understand. “That’s what my business partner calls the stale snacks that are served in meetings. Like sandwiches and quiche and the like.”

“I… see?” Ace says, obviously still confused.

“You know… like in the joke?”  Felix explains, but Ace looks even more lost, cocking his head in curiosity. “With the bread,” Felix says, placing his hands on the side of his head in a poor imitation of the video Lauren showed him once.

“I've gotta confess, I'm not great with tech,” Ace finally admits in defeat.

“Well, at least you know how to use a smartphone,” Felix says, recalling Ace effortlessly texting and exchanging their numbers.

“Okay, I'm not that old,” Ace jokes and kicks him playfully under the table.

While they’re sharing a chuckle, the waiter comes by to collect their plates.

“Did you enjoy your meals?” he asks.

“Absolutely!” Ace says.

“It was very good,” Felix agrees.

“I’m glad,” the waiter says with a smile.

And as he leaves with their plates without further blabbering, Felix makes a mental note to tip him well for making the evening such a pleasant experience.

“So,” Felix says, eager to return to the conversation with his date. “How old are you?”

It’s only when Ace quirks an amused eyebrow that Felix realizes his mistake.

“Sorry, you don't have to say,” Felix says, nervously wringing his hands under the table for being so rude.

“Naw, I don't mind,” Ace says with a smile. “I'm forty-eight.”

“Oh,” Felix says, not sure how to respond to the predictable answer. “I’m thirty-seven. You, um. You look very good,” he settles on, feeling his neck heating up from the awkward compliment.

“Not so bad for an old coot, huh?” Ace jokes, but something about it doesn’t sit right with Felix.

“What do you mean?” Felix asks.

“I mean…” Ace says, his smile finally faltering. “'You look good' doesn't really have the same ring to it when it's always followed by 'for your age',” Ace admits, staring into his wine glass thoughtfully.

The earnest confession takes Felix off guard; so far, he hasn't seen Ace display any signs of insecurity.

“But hey, that's life!” Ace immediately perks back up, offering a smile that doesn’t seem entirely genuine.

“I didn’t mean for your age,” Felix feels the need to clarify. “I think you’re, ehm. Very handsome,” he mumbles, and by now his face must be bright red.

But it’s worth it, because Ace’s smile softens into one that finally reaches his eyes.

“Thanks,” Ace says, before clearing his throat. “I mean, I don’t really let stuff like that bring me down, but… it’s still nice to hear, you know?”

“I do,” Felix says, deciding he should try to take a page from Ace’s book and be freer with his compliments, awkwardness be damned.

The waiter chooses that time to return to their table, not an entirely unwelcome distraction from the sudden feelings blooming in Felix’s chest.

“Would you like to order dessert? Coffee?” the waiter asks.

Ace only smirks and looks at Felix mischievously.

“I had something else in mind,” Ace says, his voice sounding deeper than before. “What about you, babe?”

Felix flushes both at the nickname and the reminder that for all intents and purposes, he is the dessert.

“I'm good as well, thank you,” he manages with a surprisingly steady voice, gulping down some more wine.

“We'll probably just finish up the wine and take the check,” Ace offers to the waiter with another pleasant smile.

“Of course,” the waiter says and is off with a polite nod.

“Wow, I didn't even realize the time,” Ace says, glancing at the clock over the bar counter.

Felix's gaze follows suit, and he sees that they've apparently been in the restaurant for over an hour.

“Time flies, huh?” Ace grins.

“Indeed,” Felix agrees.

He feels much more relaxed than when they arrived; the wine, good food and cozy atmosphere surely all have played a part in making him feel comfortable.

But not nearly as much as the company.

“Here you go, gorgeous,” Ace says, smiling as he refills both of their glasses with the remaining wine.

“Thank you,” Felix says, the cheesy compliment no longer making him fluster.

Instead, there’s a warm fluttering in his gut, fondness for his date mixing with anticipation of what’s to come.

It’s only when the waiter returns to drop their check on the table and Ace immediately reaches for it that Felix wipes the lovestruck smile off his face.

“You’re not paying,” Felix protests, reaching his hand over the table towards the bill.

“Oh, I think I am,” Ace says, lifting the small folder out of Felix’s reach. “I was the one who asked you out.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Felix argues. “It’s my treat.”

“Hmm, let me think about it,” Ace says, pretending to mull over the suggestion. “Nope!” he grins.

“Ace,” Felix says, exasperated but not able to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching up.

“Felix,” Ace counters with a shit-eating grin, and Felix snorts an ugly chuckle at the other’s ridiculousness.

After a few minutes of playful arguing, Ace begrudgingly agrees to split the bill.

But Felix adds the tip money before Ace has a chance to, much to the other’s annoyance.

“It’s not splitting if you pay twenty bucks on top of half,” Ace argues when they’re making to leave.

“You didn’t mention the tip, so it’s only fair,” Felix points out, smiling smugly as he rebuttons his suit jacket.

“Where’s this sudden sass coming from?” Ace exclaims in mock shock, a hand over his heart. “I’m starting to think the shyness is an elaborate act,” he teases.

And then he, once again, holds the door open for Felix as they exit the restaurant.

“You got me,” Felix says sarcastically. “I’m actually a stand-up comedian, not an architect.”

Ace laughs warmly at his joke, and something in Felix’s heart clenches.

He doesn’t know what comes over him. In one instant, Felix is watching Ace’s smile as he keeps playing off of the joke, and in the next, Ace is freezing mid-sentence, eyes momentarily widening in surprise as Felix has grabbed his hand with his own.

Felix already has an apology ready on his tongue for his embarrassing lapse in judgement, but Ace apparently has other ideas. His hand returns the hold on Felix’s as he resumes the conversation right where they left off, taking Felix’s clingy gesture in stride.

And Felix doesn’t remember when he’s last felt as happy as when they walk the few blocks to their hotel making stupid jokes and holding hands.