#my poor eyeballs and my head

[feshsticks]

once a vulture, forever a vulture

[ittybittybumblebee]

Is there any official art/ written appearance info on chnt characters where do i find that stuff

[caramelteaa]

Ylva in a silly mood

[midnightwriter21]

can we have the first meet soulmate thing for sorcerer! reader please?? w gojo only

jjk hcs: satoru meeting sorcerer!soulmate!reader

characters: satoru gojo x reader, megumi (mentioned), yuji (mentioned), nobara (mentioned)

warnings: u kill a cursed spirit, possible injury but not rly, mature language (reader cusses gojo out lmfao), the kids & reader lowkey bullying gojo lol, gojo is kinda suggestive at the end

AN: soulmate au where the first words your soulmate says to you are tattooed somewhere on your body!! read the non-sorcerer version HERE

SATORU GOJO

being called in as back up for a mission involving a 2nd grade cursed spirit was not on ur to-do list today

but guess where you are!!

an empty mall!!

an empty mall where you’re currently watching 3 teenagers run around like headless chickens

the curse is ugly… as most of them are but..

this one is NASTY looking

several different colored eyeballs sticking out of various places on its body

it’s oozing some sort of greenish brown liquid

and the smell

dear lord it’s bad

the poor pink haired kid is simultaneously holding his nose and trying to fight the curse with one hand

and it’s main attack seems to be the ability to spit that greenish brown liquid at whoever it’s attacking, rendering them immobile

almost like a glue trap for mice

the curse backs the three kids into a corner and prepares to spit that sticky liquid at them

and that’s when you decide to make your entrance

jumping from the second floor of the mall, in front of the kids, and drawing your weapon

you block the attack and jump towards the curse

severing it’s head and therefore exorcising it in one quick movement

you sheathe your weapon and turn to the kids, “why the hell are you three taking on a 2nd grade mission?”

the pink haired boy from earlier explains, “our sensei was supposed to be with us but when we split up he went to the food court… and uhhh… we haven’t seen him since.”

you give the kids a sour look, “your sensei must be a complete moron”

all at once the kids agree

“he is” -the girl with the hammer

“yeah, pretty much” -the boy with the black spikey hair

“i mean.. kinda, sometimes” -the pink haired boy

you sit the kids down on a bench so that you can check over them and access any possible wounds

mama bear mode activated.

you ask the boy, who you now know as megumi, to get in touch with his sensei

when his sensei answers the phone, megumi explains that the curse has been exorcised

but before he can explain about your presence, you snatch the phone from him and let out a string of expletives directed towards the man on the other end

“you must be a fucking idiot huh? your kids could’ve died taking on a 2nd grade alone and you’re off being an irresponsible jackass somewhere-“

before you can continue you hear the dial tone

he hung up on you

without even saying a word

nearly growling in anger you shove the phone back to megumi and move over to yuji

you take his hands in yours and begin to wrap his hands in bandages saying, “you know, if you keep punching through walls you’re going to end up really hurting your knuckles”

as you wrap his hands you’re not really paying attention to your surroundings, so the smug voice coming from behind spooks you a little…

“it’s good that a pretty little thing like you came to the rescue or else my kids could’ve died since i was off being an irresponsible jackass”

he’s throwing your own words back in your face

whipping your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, you prepare to launch into another ass chewing

but your words get stuck in your throat when you’re met with a tall, blindfolded, white haired man

a man known to everyone in the jujutsu world

Satoru Gojo

in response to your stunned silence he lets out a chuckle, “what? cat got your tongue, pretty?”

his mocking snaps you back into reality as you fire back, “no, i’m just surprised on how someone like you can be such a complete and utter dumbass!”

“awww cmon is that the way you’re supposed to talk to your soulmate?” he smirks down at you

you give him a confused look before it hits you

his first words to you from earlier…

“it’s good that a pretty little thing like you came to the rescue or else my kids could’ve died since i was off being an irresponsible jackass”

those exact words are printed on your back underneath your shoulder blade in neat handwriting

looking up at him with wide eyes, you watch as he turns his back to you, pulling off his uniform jackets and lifting up his shirt

ignoring the faint gagging sounds from his students

and there it is, printed in the exact same spot as yours, in your handwriting

“you must be a fucking idiot huh? your kids could’ve died taking on a 2nd grade alone and you’re off being an irresponsible jackass somewhere-“

“no. fucking. way.” you say in disbelief as he turns back to face you

“you have a dirty mouth, sweetheart,” he leans in and whispers softly in your ear, “can’t wait to see just how dirty it can get,” he leans back and says in his normal voice, “but we’ll save that for later!”

[nibbelraz]

I am endlessly entertained by the prospect of MBJ just having literally no clue how human physiology works, and thus believing everything he hears (which, paired with SQH's propensity for saying dumb shit without thinking, is a recipe for disaster)

like:

SQH: ugh if I read any more expense reports my eyeballs will fall out of my head

MBJ: *frantically gathering as many expense reports as he can carry before shoving them into the fire*

SQH: *literally watching all his work burn up in flames* i-

MBJ: please hold in your eyeballs

______

SQH, offhandedly: lmao wei qingwei ate so many bao buns at the festival that I honestly think he's going to turn into one

MBJ, absolutely horrified, actually gives his condolences to the (very confused) human man because this affliction which will soon take his humanity is a fate worse than death. Also he starts hiding SQH's melon seeds

_____

SQH: ugh I'm so stressed out i'm gonna EXPLODE

MBJ: NO-

Yes YES OH man Shang Qinghua definitely has no filter when complaining about stuff, Poor Mobei he's learning so many awful things about humans and how MUCH DANGER THEYRE IN (how much danger his favorite human is in)

He tries to learn more about what can happen to his poor human so he's spying on Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghuas meetings only to hear them BOTH dramatically explain how tired they are, Shen Qingqiu with some peak lord duties juggled with Binghe and Shang Qinghua with just the amount of paper work and how they both won't make it if things don't slow down soon which prompts Mobei to immediately tell Luo Binghe that his consort is going to DIE if he doesn't get rest immediately this second

I can see this getting SO out of hand so fast, He'd bury Shang Qinghua in blankets and hold him tight so absolutely nothing can bother him and he'd be safe

[fickleminder]

50 Ways to Die in the Devildom

To prevent another war, one of the cardinal requirements of the exchange program was for the exchange students to be alive at the end of it. No one said anything about what happens in-between.

Content warnings: violence, blood, gore, lots of death. Halloween 2024 fic 👻

Diavolo nearly spat out his tea laughing. "In the freezer? Lucifer, you sly demon!"

"It got the job done, didn't it?" Lucifer took a sip from his own cup with a satisfied hum. "The human has a pact with one of us now, and there's nobody else I trust more than Mammon."

"Indeed. The responsibility will do him good, on top of securing our contingency plan if things go awry. Excellent work!"

"Thank you, Lord Diavolo."

.

.

.

"Well, that was fast."

"The human didn't even last one month—"

"All of you, shut up." Lucifer knelt next to your body on the floor of the student council room. "Mammon, use the pact to keep track of their soul. Beel, stop licking blood off the tiles and help Asmo with the cleanup. Levi, going for the jugular was quick but messy; you're on cleanup as well. Satan, prepare the materials for the resurrection spell."

"Seriously, all this over a stupid quiz…" Mammon grumbled.

Finally coming back to his senses, Levi spat out the chunk of your neck still in his mouth and started to scream.

.

.

.

Beel took one look at his half-eaten custard before transforming with a roar and stomping towards the culprits.

"N-Now wait a second, Beel! Lemme explain!" Mammon quickly put himself between you and his rampaging brother. He didn't want to have to participate in that dumb ritual again; calling souls back to their bodies was too much effort. "There's a good reason for—"

"You... ate... My... CUSTARD...!" Beel's fists smashed into the kitchen counter, the cupboards, the walls, and anything else he could get his hands on, while Mammon kept you behind him and dodged the blows. Any physical contact with Beel was sure to obliterate you in a heartbeat, and not even Satan would be able to put you back together if that happened.

With his attention focused on Beel, Mammon failed to notice when a chunk of concrete came flying in your direction, clobbering you squarely on the side of your head with a wet CRUNCH.

You hit the floor like a sack of rocks, and both demons froze at the sight of all the innards spilling out of your caved-in skull.

"Not again!" Mammon wailed loudly.

.

.

.

"I don't want to hear it."

Despite the very real threat to his life, Mammon still felt the need to rub it in Lucifer's face. "Hey, I'm just sayin', ya can't pin this one on me this time!"

"At least Luke didn't see anything. I hope." Beel frowned at the little angel's unconscious form in his arms, with the grimoire still clutched tightly in a death grip. The poor kid had fainted when Lucifer unleashed his power and... Well.

To prevent another war, one of the cardinal requirements of the exchange program was for the exchange students to be alive at the end of it.

No one said anything about what happens in-between.

You had literally dropped dead after Lucifer shifted into a higher demon form to intimidate you into getting out of his way. He never intended to use force against you to begin with, but had also completely forgotten that some things were just not meant for mortal eyes. Your eyeballs were burnt to a crisp, leaving behind charred, bloody sockets in your face.

Lucifer rubbed his temples with a sigh. "Mammon, take my card and go buy a new pair of human eyes. Make sure to get them in the right color."

"Ugh, fine, but you're getting Levi to call their soul back!"

.

.

.

Henry 1.0 purred loudly and coiled up to take a nap after his snack.

"Asmo, quit messing around and do something!"

"Shut up, Mammon! Or do you want to get eaten as well?"

"Mmm grilled snake..."

"For the last time, we're not eating Henry 1.0!"

The human-shaped lump in the giant snake's belly was unmoving.

"You realize that if they die, you ain't gonna get this kind of power anymore, right?"

Asmo froze, the drunk smile on his face faltering. Mammon had a point; Solomon had only lent you a tiny fraction of his magic, and yet you were able to draw out so much power in him! It was undeniable, you were one human he definitely had to hold on to.

"I think it's starting to digest—"

"Bad Henry! You spit them out right now or—"

Sighing, Asmo batted his eyelashes at the giant snake and began working his charm.

.

.

.

"I can explain—"

"Let me guess. You tried to make a pact with the human in another pointless bid to get under my skin. They refused, and so you chopped them up. Not exactly helping your chances here, are you."

"Tch. I can put them back together—"

"You'll have to convince one of your brothers to call their soul back, since you obviously can't do it yourself—"

"Don't you think I know that already?!"

"Stop throwing books at me! You should know better than to lose control of your wrath—"

"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—"

"Wait, that book is—!"

*THUNK*

"…"

"…"

"F—"

.

.

.

Belphegor knew you and his brothers were close, but he was still determined to make his point. When he had thrown your body down the stairs and into the foyer as though you were nothing more than a mangled rag doll, he expected tears, anger, heartbreak—

"…Seriously? We just finished the last ritual yesterday!"

"ROFL not it!"

"Not it."

"Not it~"

"Belphie, I missed you so much! Oh, not it."

"You guys are the WORST!"

—not whatever the hell this was.

"What the fuck is happening?!" Belphie snarled, pointing furiously at your corpse. Blood was soaking into the carpet, yet even Lucifer looked only mildly annoyed. "Why aren't any of you mad? The exchange program—"

And then your body dissipated into wisps of fading light, another you poked your head over the top of the stairway to stare at the commotion, and Lucifer gave a long, deep sigh before revealing the secret he'd been keeping for centuries.

.

.

.

You'll get the rest when we get our money back! The note read.

Inside the parcel it came with was a severed hand with broken fingers. The area where your forearm had been sawed off was still sluggishly oozing blood, but Mammon guessed you had probably already bled out by that point.

He shouldn't have left you to walk home by yourself after class, but what's done was done. All he could do now was come and get you and put you back together. It was his responsibility as your first, after all.

Mammon cracked his knuckles with a grin. Time to show those lesser demons why messing with the Great Mammon's human was a bad idea.

.

.

.

"How was I supposed to know they couldn't swim?" Levi complained despite looking thoroughly chastised.

"I shouldn't have had to tell you that a mere human doesn't stand a chance against Lotan's floods." Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him, Satan was attempting something called CPR, having read about it in a book and wanting to try it out. There was a loud CRACK, followed by a quiet "oh shit", and that was when Lucifer decided to call it a day.

"Levi, cleanup duty. For the entire house."

"But—!"

"Satan, ritual. You can handle the spell on your own this time."

"Tch."

.

.

.

Levi and Beel watched from the broken window on the second floor as you floated face down in the garden's pool fountain. At first they thought the fall would have killed you, but apparently the allure of water from the siren's song was too strong for that.

"…Should I try CPR?" Beel asked after a while.

"Please don't, you'll end up shattering all their ribs like Satan did." Levi grimaced. "Tell you what, if you call their soul back, I'll perform the spell and nobody else has to know."

"Deal."

.

.

.

"Drop it."

*growling*

"Cerberus! I said: Drop. It."

Whining sadly, the giant hellhound lowered his middle head and carefully deposited his cargo at his master's feet. The left head nudged it gently with his snout, and the right one howled mournfully when it did not move.

Lucifer couldn't help the small wince as he took in your state. He could tell it had been quick at least; it wasn't the first time you had to take Cerberus out for his daily walk, but he had likely been in a playful mood today, hence the accident.

Said hellhound was clearly remorseful and kept glancing at the small pile of snacks and toys you had brought along to entertain him during his outing. Even Lucifer softened at the sight, and as he bent down to scoop you into his arms, broken spine and charred flesh and all, he found himself looking forward to personally calling your soul back to him.

.

.

.

When your skin started to break out and swell rapidly, Asmo realized that something had gone terribly wrong.

"Darling!" He screeched as you clawed at your throat, which had ballooned in the few seconds Asmo took to reach you. The moisturizer he had given you dropped to the floor, and he quickly picked it up to inspect it.

"Acid lavender scented... Demonologist approved..." Asmo murmured as he read the printed label. "For external use only... Hyperallergenic—"

By the time the answer finally clicked in his brain, you had already turned blue. Not a good color on you, in his humble opinion.

.

.

.

The curse was simple: the afflicted would experience random bouts of frostbite on their fingers and toes, no matter how warmly they dressed. The nipping cold would serve as an excellent inconvenience and at worst, it could completely freeze over entire limbs.

Perfect for a stuck up older brother who always dressed like a prude.

Unfortunately for Satan and Belphie, Lucifer was not the first one to touch the newly-cursed air conditioner remote.

"W-what's going on…" You slurred on the floor, curled up and hugging yourself for warmth. You weren't shivering anymore, which was a good sign, right? "Wh-why… s'cold…"

Satan and Belphie exchanged looks. The effects of the prank were clearly more severe on humans, but even then it didn't seem like you were going to kick it anytime soon. They could try to break the curse, but given how complicated it was to cast it in the first place, maybe they were better off putting you out of your misery.

"It's a Devildom thing. We get cold snaps out of the blue sometimes," Satan explained as he cradled you close, feeling as though he were holding a block of ice. "Due to the skies being constantly dark here..."

Belphie's magic trickled into you as Satan distracted you with magical theory, and before long you had gone still in his arms, eyes closed.

.

.

.

"...Are you sure we can't tell Solomon? I mean, we have solid proof that his cooking is lethal now, so this is technically his fault."

"Who the fuck brought his food into the house to begin with?!"

"I did, sorry. He must have snuck some stuff into the basket of pastries Simeon and Luke gave us."

"Seriously, this guy needs to take a hint when everybody tells him to stay out of the kitchen..."

.

.

.

Lucifer was seething. "What. Happened."

"I didn't do nothin'!" Mammon exclaimed, still clutching you tightly. You looked like you were sleeping in his arms, if not for the blue of your lips and your still chest. "We were just walking home, and then the next thing I know, they're eating dirt!"

"Liver failure, brain damage, collapsing lungs…" Satan looked extremely grim after assessing the current state of your body. "There's no singular cause; everything's just… falling to pieces."

Asmo paled. "But why? We've been so careful! We always got the freshest parts, and there hasn't even been an incident in weeks!"

Levi and the twins nodded frantically.

But the truth was undeniable. There were only so many times you could have your organs and limbs replaced or repaired with magic before your body decided to break down completely. Death was inevitable; it was coming for you regardless of how often you'd already cheated it.

How long did you have left before they couldn't bring you back anymore? You had exceeded all their expectations, lasting until the end of the exchange program and beyond, and they'd grown too attached to let you walk out of their lives permanently. You had gone from becoming a chore for them to prevent all-out war to something akin to a beloved house pet.

"What do we do?" Mammon looked to Lucifer for answers.

But for once, the first-born had none.

.

.

.

"Blacked out from stress, you say? How uninspired."

"I know, right? You would think they'd be able to come up with new excuses over time, but nooo, it's always the same old story."

Michael gave a deep sigh. "Those brothers never learn. How long was it before they became complacent and stopped wiping your memory?"

"Four months." You grinned and reached for another scone on the tray of pastries. "To be fair, they do tend to make it quick so there usually isn't much to remember to begin with."

"I still can't believe those idiots thought the Celestial Realm wouldn't find out," Thirteen snorted. "How dare they think I don't know how to do my job!"

"Now Thirteen, it's natural for souls to spend some time in Purgatory before ascending or becoming Damned. Their mistake was assuming the pacts gave them any claim in the first place."

You tilted your head slightly, as though you were listening to something far away. "Speaking of, I think I hear them calling! Thanks for the tea, it was lovely chatting with you, as always."

Michael frowned. "You can't keep this up forever."

"Chill out, Mikey—"

"Don't call me that."

"—it's all good! No need to start a war in my name or anything."

Thirteen rolled her eyes. "He's right, you know. And just because you had nothing going for you in the human realm doesn't mean you have to keep playing along with those brothers in the Devildom."

"What can I say?" You shrugged nonchalantly as the reaper prepared to escort your soul back to your body. "They make me laugh."

[goldfish-afterhours]

How the Genshin Characters Find Your Ring Size

Characters: Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Zhongli, Xiao, Thoma, Scaramouche x Gn!reader

Type/genre: Bulleted headcanons, fluff, comedy

Warnings: None

Diluc

Asks for the measurements of your hand and pretends it’s for another reason

The trees are now bare and it is getting chilly outside, so Diluc takes the opportunity to ask for your hand measurements for custom-made gloves

You raise an eyebrow when he asks for measurements instead of a size, but you get out a string measurer and measure anyways

Sneakiness: 7/10. Accuracy: 10/10.

“The glove maker prefers the most accurate of measurements for his craft. And it’ll be warmer if it’s fits better.”

Kaeya

Brings you home one of those plastic rings as a joke

You accept it graciously, playing into his bit and slipping it onto your thumb since it was so big. Kaeya shakes his head, saying it has to go on your ring finger

You roll your eyes but put it on your ring finger anyways

It’s one of those flexible rings so you can push the bands together so they touch, fitting perfectly on your finger

All he has to do is steal it back from you when you take it off to shower, and now he has the perfect reference to take to the jeweler

Sneakiness: 6/10. Accuracy: 7/10

“For Your Royal Highness, monarch of the entire universe, I present to you, the ring of destiny!”

Childe

I can’t imagine that this is the first time Childe’s bought any sort of jewelry for you

This man would love to spoil you, and I can see him buying you necklaces and rings even before he gets any ideas of proposing

You wear a ring on your index finger that he brought back from Inazuma a while back. The size is a a little odd, and the two of you have been talking about getting it resized to fit better

He’ll take you to the jeweller, who will insist on getting the measurements of all your fingers “as we do for all new customers to keep on file!”

They do not, in fact, do this for all new customers. Childe specifically asked them to, and now he has your exact ring size.

Sneakiness: 10/10. Accuracy: 10/10

“Wow, the customer service is pretty good here, right?”

Zhongli

Doesn’t know which size to get? That’s fine, he’ll buy all the rings that seem around your size

That is, if he had the mora. Since in terms of mora, he has no mora, Zhongli had to find another way to figure out your ring size without you knowing

Traces the outline of both yours and his hand on a piece of parchment, pretending it’s for an old ancient Liyue tradition that couples do that you’ve never heard of and neither has Zhongli until an hour ago

You don’t question it because Zhongli is always bringing up stories and traditions you’ve never heard of, so you just assumed this would be one of them

Sneakiness: 10/10. Accuracy: 7/10

“My love, with the silhouette of our hands etched together on this paper, we will be blessed by the spirits for eternity.”

Xiao

Poor boy doesnt know what to do and too prideful to ask someone else’s help in finding out your ring size

He’ll judge it on his own

Fine I’ll do it myself

The next time the two of you are holding hands, Xiao will spread his straight out against your palm

You’ll follow suit, and as much as Xiao is enjoying the romantic moment, he’s busy trying to memorize how your hand looked in proportion to his

Since he’s eyeballing it, the measurements are a little off and ends up buying a size too small

Sneakiness: 7/10. Accuracy: 2/10

“It’s nothing. I just…like holding your hand.”

Thoma

Has one of his many friends help

One of his friends is a peddler, and they parked their travelling stall on your route home from work

They call you over, praising your beauty and insisting you take a look at their wares, that someone who shines as brightly as you deserves the finest jewellery to match

Though the flattery was too much, you felt bad about just leaving so you try on one of the rings the peddler recommended

Seeing it didn’t fit, the peddler insists you try on a different size, until you found a perfect fit

Thoma’s friend then changes attitude, suddenly saying none of the wares were for sale anymore and shooing you away

You go home and tell the strange thing that happened to you today to Thoma, who just nods innocently and pretends he had nothing to do with it

Sneakiness: 8/10. Accuracy: 10/10

“Huh, that is weird! The world is becoming a stranger place, it seems.”

Scaramouche

Flat out asks you for your ring size

When you tease him, asking what it was for, he’ll mock you, saying you’re really flattering yourself thinking he was going to propose

But when you ask him for the real reason, he’ll open his mouth to respond but no sound will come out

His head goes blank and he can’t think of a reason, and his face just turns redder by the second

You tell him your ring size, and teasingly remind him not to get you a halo ring <3

Sneakiness: 0/10. Accuracy: 10/10

“D-Don’t look so smug! If you don’t want it, then forget it.”

[goose-duck]

Creepypasta incorrect quotes ⭐

~~~~~~

Nina: spirit Halloween opened up early and my poor money decisions are always open so I bought a bunch of stuff

~~~~~~

Jeff: so...are we the best or the worst?

Toby: yes, sir.

~~~~~~

Jeff: he doesn't have eyeballs bro- he probably doesn't have balls either...

~~~~~~

Nina: he's ugly, I love him

~~~~~~

Y/N: There's just something abt his lack of a mouth and being less fluffy that makes me want him

Toby: he can't scream

Y/N: perfect

~~~~~~

Jeff: best friends!!

Y/N: nooOOOOO!!!!

~~~~~~

EJ: I learn from the mistakes of people who take my advice

~~~~~~

Y/N: heading into work~

*explosion*

Y/N: or maybe not-

~~~~~~

Nina: so romantic~

Jeff: *screaming*

Nina: romance <3

~~~~~~

Y/N: Jack, why am I in this room?

EJ: am I responsible for you moving from room to room now?

Y/N: yes.

EJ: then stay in that room.

~~~~~~

Toby: it's an elevator

Masky: this is a ladder, Toby.

Toby: imagination ✨

Hoodie: just because you put a sign that says "elevator" doesn't mean it's actually an elevator.

Toby: imagination ✨

~~~~~~

Y/N: but not me, because no one can get mad at me

Jane: I feel like in an hour we're all gonna be mad at you for something

~~~~~~

Toby: I made a house, what did you make?

Sally: a balloon

Toby: wonderful

~~~~~~

Jeff: just don't be blind

EJ: wow, you've cured me

~~~~~~

Toby: someone please take me off this fucking planet

~~~~~~

Y/N: Don't look at ceilings when ur tired. Never know what you'll see.

Toby: context, please

Y/N: Thought I had a fucking ceiling fan but it was just the balloons that I refuse to take down from my 13th birthday. I can't tell if I'm tired or stupid but I think either way it's correct.

Toby: it's probably both

Y/N: Exactly- It scared the shit outta me too-I saw it and was so fucking scared that I might have a ceiling fan in my room-

Toby: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA A FAN! ITS ON THE CEILING!!

Y/N: Y/N, Weakness: ceiling fans that may or may not be there

Toby: strength: walking in high heels, weakness: imaginary ceiling fans

~~~~~~

Hoodie: it's just a deer or something

Masky: bro, that is not a deer

~~~~~~

Jeff: *sees a spider* I should have just bombed the house the last time I saw one of you fuckers

~~~~~~

EJ: I'm doing good...im doing great...i have a headache.....

~~~~~~

Jeff: this is like when I threatened to steal your skin and bones and stuff

~~~~~~

Jeff: it's like if a heat stroke were a room

Y/N: me

Jeff: no, you're like if a heat stroke were a person

Y/N: oh

~~~~~~

Y/N: tree tops

Jeff: crispy

Nina: crispy tree tops?

Jane: why are they crispy?

EJ: why is everyone talking about trees??

~~~~~~

Jane: I'm moving the pumpkins, sorry, Toby

Toby: nooo, my life's work...

~~~~~~

Toby: would you be more offended if I got a mug of milk or orange juice?

Masky: milk.

~~~~~~

Jeff: they're all safety scissors, I don't think I can possibly be unsafe with them

*pile of about 10 safety scissors*

~~~~~~

LJ: I took some of his teeth and coloured them like candy corns

~~~~~~

Jeff: I'll steal ur hair, I'll take ur eyebrows and I'll steal ur skin too

Toby: please, that's all I have

Jeff: U have bones, mucles, veins, blood, cartilage and organs that I could take too

Toby: no thanks

~~~~~~

Hoodie: Masky is this big *puts his fingers together*

~~~~~~

Jeff: what are you doing dude?

Y/N: hugging? I think??

Jeff: it's weird...

Y/N: yeah, let's never do that again

~~~~~~

Y/N: die.

Toby: :0

Y/N: in a nice way..?

~~~~~~

Nina: I'm sure there's someone in Fabio who's named Russia

Jane: what?

Nina: yup.

~~~~~~

Jeff: I hit myself in the face with an eye!

EJ: give it to me!

~~~~~~

Ben: what the rational number?

~~~~~~

Toby: I think I failed at life...

~~~~~~

*Jeff and Toby leave the room*

Masky: well, that was a headache

Hoodie: which one?

EJ: both.

~~~~~~

*Jeff walks by*

Jane: look at him, he's greasy

~~~~~~

Y/N: why are you only offended when Jeff says something?

EJ: because it's Jeff

~~~~~~

Toby: well how's this right?

Jeff: because I'm here!

~~~~~~

Jane: I'm going to Halifax

Jeff: Hali-fuck you

~~~~~~

Sally: I saw a girl and she was young

Y/N: you're young

Sally: I'm 8

Y/N: exactly, young.

Sally: so you're a grandma?

~~~~~~

Toby: fellas, if you need me, I'll be living inside this cabinet

~~~~~~

Y/N: I'm afraid of togetherness

[gallusrostromegalus]

Okay but given that crows are ready to Throw Down with eagles at the slightest opportunity, I have to know- 1) are there crows in the Seireitei and 2) how much of their Daily Enrichment is causing problems for the 11th Division on purpose?

There absolutely are crows and jays and even ravens in the Seireitei and very nearly all of their daily enrichment is causing some level of mayhem at every division of the Gotei-13,

...except the 11th.

See, Zaraki has the distinct advantage over most eagles in that he is also a human, with a canny eye for social dynamics, and he's worked out a deal with the local corvids. He noticed the pair of ravens on the roof of the 11th the first afternoon he was there, made a note of them, carefully folded it up, and put it in his mental back pocket for later.

The ravens didn't actually notice him that much on the first day because there was an entire bisected corpse of the former Kenpachi and the medics were delayed in retrieving it for some reason so that meant lungs and liver and a spleen and gallbladder and a special course of freshly exposed brains before an eyeball each for dessert while some poor wretch from the 4th completely failed to chase them off with a broom. They did very much notice him in the middle of the afternoon on the second day, when he returned from the early morning captain's meeting they had slept through, on account of yesterday's food coma. -But even still sluggish with guts full of guts, they still sat up and took notice of a man wearing, loud, shiny and extremely steal-able BELLS.

A-ho, A-ho! Called the first raven from the middle boughs of the pine in the courtyard as the new Kenpachi sat down on the porch that surrounded the small and rather pathetic little garden, sighing deeply. What's this that jingle-jangles in like a jester and sighs and settles like a corpse at the bottom of a lake?

A great way for your mate to lose her beak if she gets any closer. He growled back, and the raven on the roof behind him startled, flapping away out of his blade's reach.

A-joke! A-joke! Don't hiss and rattle so! She huffed, joining her wife on the pine and ruffling her feathers.

It might be amusing sport on another day, but I have no humor to speak of. He clattered, turning his patch-covered eye to them in apology. I have suffered a bereavement.

A-no! A-no! Who is it who has died? Asked the first raven.

One who granted me the knowledge of letters, and further so, the wisdom of tales- in telling, and moreso in listening. Thrice blessed by her I was, and only now do I learn of her demise, fifty years too late. He explained, rubbing his temples and shaking his head, trying to soothe himself.

A-woe! A-woe! cooed the second raven in agreement. Any who teaches is a living saint, and their passing the most terrible loss.

A-woe, A-woe! the first raven cooed in sympathy. She didn't leave clutch or wife for you to look after?

She had a husband, but I do not know his name, and he is apparently deceased as well. The Kenpachi frowned. Her brother yet lives- he is my colleague even, and how I learned of this. A wretched way to meet someone she spoke so highly of- but you are right, he needs looking after. He is... unwell, and was never thriving to begin with, but the same sort of saint of words as she, and much braver than his body should allow. Of course, I will look after him for her, as is right.

A-woe, A-woe- A wretched meeting but the right and honorable thing to do. Nodded the second raven.

A-woe, A-woe, but this is not the source of your miserable sighing? asked the first. No, his care does not worry me- The Kenpachi shook his head, folding a leg up and resting his elbow on it and his cheek on his hand in turn. It's that I am left to wonder- If I had known sooner, or even before this catastrophe, if there was something I might have done. But you are interesting company so I will divert myself from useless morose- what do you call yourselves, carrion queens that live beneath my roof?

I am Mun-Yin! Declared the second raven, that spoke only in statements.

If she is Mun-Yin, might I then be Hau-Yin? Asked the first, who spoke only in questions.

You might. The Kenpachi nodded.

A-so? A-so? Who might you be that wears the shredded rags of a dead man like a pauper, but speaks with the grace of a prince? Hau-Yin asked, hopping from the pine to a closer boulder, cocking her head at him.

A-ho! A-ho! It may be your house that supports our nest, but we live above your roof, not under it! Mun-Yin laughed, hopping closer as well.

I am Zaraki Kenpachi, Captain of the 11th division! He smirked at the birds who rolled their eyes at him.

A-no! A-no! Pouted Mun-Yin We didn't ask for your NAME!

A-no! A-no! Sulked Hau-Yin Who ARE you?

The Kenpachi regarded them for a moment, then lifted his head from his hand and leaned forward, a conspiratorial grin on his face. Would you like to know a secret?

A-yo! A-yo! We love a secret! Said Mun-Yin, bouncing in excitement.

A-yo! A-yo! Do we not spend all day learning all the secrets of the city? Giggled Hau-Yin.

Then I will offer you a trade- The Kenpachi grinned, beckoning then closer. -I'll tell you who I am if you promise to leave my hair-bells alone.

Hmmm... the ravens considered, then shook their heads.

A-low, A-low, those are some very shiny jingle-jangle bells, and that's but one measly little secret. frowned Mun-Yin

A-low, A-low- Agreed Hau-Yin. That's not much of a trade is it?

On the contrary, it's a very good secret! Maybe the best secret in all of the Seireitei! The Kenpachi wagged his finger at them. Nobody knows it but me and my daughter, so it's very exclusive! And the risk is all on my end- some secrets are dangerous to know, but in this case, it would grant you great advantage- it would be DEEPLY embarrassing for me if any of the humans -and whatever Komamura is- were to find out.

Hmmm... the birds considered again, and nodded this time.

A-Quo! A-Quo! Very Exclusive and Deeply Embarrassing Secrets are The Best! We will take very good trade! Agreed Mun-Yin

A-Show! A-Show! Who are you, that we will leave your bells alone? asked Hau-Yin, hopping closer and bowing her head, looking up at him with a mischievously glittering eye.

I am Zaraki Kenpachi, Captain of The Eleventh Division, Father of Yachiru, Great Sword Bastard of the North 80th District, and most relevant to you- Youngest and Most Beloved Son of She Who Rules The Sky.

The ravens stared blankly at him for a moment.

What that fuck? Asked Hau-Yin.

Didn't realize we were speaking to ROYALTY. Muttered Mun-Yin

See? It's a VERY good secret! The Prince Kenpachi grinned, leaning back and lounging a bit- someone like him could make even a bare wooden porch look like a throne. -Also, you see how you DO SO live under my roof! He added, pointing up at the clouds.

The ravens shuffled a bit nervously, reconsidering him.

A-so? A-so? Hau-Yin asked, cautiously, shuffling a sideways to him.-How does Your Highness come to be a Shinigami then?

A-so! A-so! nodded Mun-Yin. Your Highness and We alike are strange enough birds for taking Names, but to take a JOB is unheard of!

It has it's benefits... The Prince Kenpachi shrugged. Alas, I may be Her Majesty's Son, but I did not inherit my mother's wings and guts, so I cannot live on the wind and whatever I might find by the roadside alone. Still- like a Name, a Job both restricts and offers opportunity- I am bound by duty, but I also am gifted a dry and sturdy nest and all the meat I may eat in exchange. And better still- My daughter now has her choice of tutors and scholars to learn greater Wisdom than I ever will.

A-sow! A-sow! Mun-Yin considered. You do reap well in that exchange!

A-though, A-though- considered Hau-Yin. Would you have the chance to reap in such fashion had you the wings of your mother? Are you perhaps Blessed in strange Human fashion?

The Prince Kenpachi laughed. Perhaps I am! Perhaps you may be even more blessed than I- you have wings and carrion-guts, but you are not bereft! I can offer you similar employment, if you should find it agreeable.

A-ho! A-ho! You are in a fine humor now, My Prince! Chirped Mun-Yin.

A-ho! A-ho! What is this Job you have in mind for the like of us? Asked Hau-Yin, intrigued.

I am in much better humor now, thanks to you both. The Prince agreed, offering Hau-Yin an outstretched hand and patting his knee to indicate Mun-Yin should join him too. There is naught you may do against death, but you may yet ease my bereavement- I am am saddened by the loss of my friend, but it's the lateness of the news that worries me. You say you spend all day learning the secrets of the Seireitei, and that you greatly desire Shiny Jingle-jangle bells?

A-so! A-so! Mun-Yin bobbed excitedly, hopping onto The Prince's hand. All over, all over from the high pillars of the execution grounds to the lowest grates where the sewers open up, we fly all over all over My Wife and I! And we see and we hear and we remember all the secrets of the city!

A-stow? A-Stow? You poses yet more shiny shiny bells? Hau-Yin clicked with interest, hopping onto his knee.

I happen to have two such golden bells, even bigger and louder than these, and will happily give them to you- with a Doll's shiny ribbon so you may wear them if you so desire- and other shiny and noisy things as I find them, if you tell to me all the secrets of the Seireitei.

Hmmm... the ravens considered.

A-yo, A-yo- It is a good deal. Nodded Mun-Yin. -But sometimes the winter is cold or the pickings are lean, and there is only so much comfort a shiny jingle-jangle brings when it is so.

A-yo, A-yo- Agreed Hau-Yin. Maybe sometimes a secret is worth a night out of the storm or a scrap of meat instead?

You are both very wise. The Prince Kenpachi nodded and the ravens preened with the praise. I am amenable- The ribbon-bells for all the secrets you know right now, and we can work out what payment is best in the future, when you discover more secrets for me?

A-Yo! A-Yo! crowed Mun-Yin, flapping with excitement. Your Highness is as generous as he is wise!

More, I hope! Laughed The Prince Kenpachi. I promise, I am a colossal fool!

A-Yo! A-Yo! crowed Hau-Yin What secrets would you like to know first? And may I have a Pink Ribbon?

I would like to know all you know about- hm, that's a tricky question actually.- There are so many things I wish to know! He considered, rubbing his chin, then jumped to his feet, making them hop, an Ancient Bird Game. Let me go get your ribbon-bells first, and make up my mind!

A-ho! A-ho! the Ravens laughed, hopping down the hall after him.

---

"Hey Boss, I found the payroll forms but fuck me if I can make heads or tails of- what's wrong?" Ikkaku called out as he came into the courtyard half an hour later, only to find Yumichika standing in the doorway, frowning pensively with his hand over his mouth.

"I'm not sure anything is wrong, per se-" Sighed Yumichika, waving at the scene before him.

Zaraki was seated on one of the boulders in the courtyard, delicately fastening one of Yachiru's shiny pink hair ribbons around the neck of an exceptionally smug-looking raven in an elaborate bow with a large golden bell in the middle. A similarly adorned Raven perched upon his shoulder, chattering excitedly between fondly preening where his eyepatch parted his hair.

"-but I can't help but think I've seen this scene before..." Yumichika muttered.

"They look like they're all having fun?" Ikkaku shrugged as Zaraki finished the bow and the raven ruffled her feathers into place, making it jangle and Yachiru giggle and applaud from where she sat on her father's knee. The Newly-belled raven hopped around to croak and click at him as well, flapping excitedly, and he put a hand up to stop her, asking her something in the shrill hiss and click of his native Aquiline tongue.

"You ever get the impression The Boss is way more articulate in Eagle than he is in Japanese?" Ikkaku frowned.

"Darling, he learned his Japanese from Bandits and Buskers and in Brothels, his Eagle has GOT to be better than that." Yumichika rolled his eyes.

"-ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Zaraki suddenly bellowed, shaking his finger at the raven in his lap.

Both ravens cawed in objection.

"-THIS IS NOT UP FOR NEGOTIATION! SO LONG AS YOU TWO LIVE UNDER MY ROOF, YOU LEAVE KANAME AND HIS EYEBALLS ALONE." he growled.

The Raven on his shoulder tipped her head, speculating.

"-He is TOO using them, they're there to keep his eye sockets and brain from getting infected with gods-know-what flesh-eating bacteria or whatever. NO. PECKING."

Both Ravens hunched up their wings and turned away, pouting.

"What's-His-Ass in the Fifth? The faintly greasy one that looks like a sad mop? His glasses are fair game, if it will amuse you." Zaraki relented, and both birds perked up. "-Might be worth a bag of potato chips if you can bring me a pair intact." he offered.

"Oh Gods, he's not gonna make me try to add a pair of BIRDS to the payroll, is he?" Whimpered Ikkaku.

[writerbugg]

Psychic In Training ::

Chapter # 1 Tourist Trapped

Wattpad

Code, Chapter 1 (You are here)

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. - Conan Doyle

»»————- 🪬 ————-««

'Ah... Summer break, the time for parents to ship their kids off to some negligent camp to terrorize some poor 20-year-old looking for some extra cash.'

'That is... unless you're with the Pines.'

You scream as the golf cart crashes through the billboard, roughly hitting the ground before speeding up again. Glancing backward, you could see the shadow of the creature chasing you, and it seemed to be getting closer.

"Dip!" You yell, "It's gaining on us!"

"I know! This thing won't go any faster, Y/N!" The boy in front of you shouts back.

"Uhh guys," The girl next to him peaks her head out of the cart, "It's getting closer!" She shouts panicked.

"We know!" You and the boy yell at the same time.

'My name is Y/n. The sweaty boy in front of me is Dipper, and the girl beside him about to puke is Mabel.'

'Now, you probably already know why we are fleeing from some imaginable horror in a golf cart. Well I'm going to tell you anyway, and I promise, it's for a completely illogical reason.'

»»————- 🪬 ————-««

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You groan, reaching over to silence the alarm. It's the first day of summer break, but your mother insists on the 7:00 AM wake-up call.

"Y/n! The Pines are here!"

You groan louder. Your mother found a loophole after promising not to send you to camp this year. Now you're left wondering what's worse: a summer at Camp Campbell or a summer with the Pines weird uncle.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you slip into a short-sleeve turtleneck sweater and a pair of shorts, moving as slowly as you can.

"Come on, Y/n! We don't have all day!"

Grabbing your backpack on the way, you rush downstairs, where you're met with Dipper's less-than-enthusiastic expression and Mabel's overly enthusiastic grin.

It can't be that bad, right? No crazy, out-of-control adventures.

With a resigned sigh, you follow the Pines out of the house, bracing yourself for whatever this summer has in store.

»»————- 🪬————-««

"I'm pretty sure this is breaking some kind of child labor law," you mumble as you restock the blue and white pine tree hats. Off to the side, Dipper is polishing a jar of eyeballs while Mabel stalks some random customer.

"Mabe," you call out, giving her a pointed look. "Stop creeping on that poor guy and help me with these hats." Mabel just blows a raspberry at you, her focus undeterred. You turn to Dipper with a shrug. "Well, I tried. Your turn."

Dipper sighs, rolling his eyes as he sprays the jar again. "Mabel, I get that you're in your 'Boy Crazy' phase," he says, stealing a glance at the list in the customer's hand, "but you're kind of overdoing it on the 'crazy' part."

Mabel blows another raspberry, this time at Dipper. "Come on, you two!" she exclaims, bouncing over to join you. "This is our first summer away from home!"

You raise an eyebrow. "Speak for yourself, Mabe. I've been going to summer camp since I was five. It's not all it's cracked up to be-just a bunch of rules and chores." You gesture to the hats you're organizing. "This is just a slightly more illegal version of that."

Mabel crosses her arms, a smug smile spreading across her face. "Mock all you want, but I've got a feeling this summer's going to be amazing. In fact," she points dramatically to the door, "I wouldn't be surprised if the man of my dreams walked through that door right now."

The three of you turn to see Grunkle Stan walking in.

"Ha!" you snort, pointing at Mabel. "Dreamy enough for you, Mabe?" You continue laughing as Mabel cringes in disgust.

Stan strolls over, eyeing the three of you. "Alright, I need someone to go hammer up these signs in the spooky part of the forest."

"Not it!" Mabel and Dipper shout simultaneously, making you groan.

"Uh, also not it," Soos chimes in.

"Nobody asked you, Soos," Stan deadpans.

"I know, and I'm comfortable with that," Soos replies cheerfully, taking a bite out of a chocolate bar.

Stan turns back to you and the twins. "Well, since one of you was slow, you're doing it." He dumps a stack of signs into your arms. "But you've got a habit of 'getting lost,' so you'll need a companion."

Scanning the room, Stan spots Wendy at the counter. "Wendy! Help Y/n with these signs!"

Without even looking up from her magazine, Wendy replies, "I would, but I... uh... can't... uh... reach them."

Stan mutters under his breath, "I'd fire all of you if I could," before turning to Dipper. "Alright then, let's make it eeny-meeny-miney..." He points at Dipper. "You."

"What?!" Dipper protests. "Grunkle Stan, I always feel like I'm being watched when I'm in those woods." He sneaks a glance at you, lowering his voice. "And Y/n gets weird in the forest."

You shoot Dipper a glare. "Hey! I can hear you, you know..." They ignore you.

Stan gives Dipper an unimpressed look, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ugh, not this again."

"I'm telling you, something weird is going on in this town. Just today, my mosquito bites spelled out 'beware.'" Dipper rolls up his sleeve to show Stan.

Stan squints at it. "That says 'bewarb.'"

You snicker. "Who knew mosquitoes were bad at spelling?"

Dipper lowers his arm, embarrassed, scratching at the bites. Stan shakes his head. "Look, kid, the whole 'monsters in the forest' thing is just a local legend made up by guys like me to sell merch to guys like that." He nods toward a sweating, grinning customer clutching a handful of merchandise.

"And Y/n's just... a little special. Nothing weird about it." Stan shrugs. "So quit being paranoid."

You huff, handing some of the signs to Dipper. "For the record, I can still hear you."

»»————- 🪬————-««

Hanging up the signs quickly became boring. Dipper was hammering nails into the trees so that you could hang the signs, he was muttering something about Stan not believing him.

"Could you not?" You snap, "All you do is complain, it'd be nice if you'd talk about something more pleasant for once."

Dipper shot a sharp glare your way. "Like you're any better. All you do is make snide comments and dump your work on everyone else."

You gasp, feigning offense. "When have I ever?"

Dipper's expression turned flat, clearly unimpressed.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

"Who shrunk my sweater!?" Mabel wailed, holding up the now tiny garment. "I told everyone this was special cotton! It needs delicate care!"

You glance up from your magazine. "Pretty sure Soos did it," you answer before returning to your reading.

Dipper stared at you before his eyes flicked to the chore list on the wall, your name plastered next to 'Laundry'.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

"That was one time." You defend yourself.

"No! It wasn't! That was one of multiple times!" Dipper said exasperated, placing down another nail and hammering it.

Clank

Both of you freeze, staring at the tree. Dipper taps the hammer lightly against the trunk again, confirming the odd sound. Lowering the hammer, he examines the tree closer, running his hand over the bark until he finds a small crack.

With a glance at you, he pries open the "tree."

A mechanical box with two switches sat within a hidden compartment. Dipper tests one of the controls, nothing. He flips the other switch, and next to you, a hatch suddenly opens in the ground.

You exchange a wary look with Dipper before cautiously peering inside the hatch. There, nestled within the earth, lay an old, thick book. Dust covered it completely, cobwebs clung to its edges, and millipedes skittered across its surface. The cover bore a gold six-fingered handprint, with the number "3" written on its palm.

You slowly reach for the book in the hatch, somewhat hesitate as a bad feeling sinks into your stomach.

A sharp shock runs through your hand as your fingers graze the surface of the book. The air around you seems to hum with a sudden energy, and a burning sensation spreads across your palm.

Something was drawing you towards the book, something ancient and powerful as if it had been waiting for you. The sensation sharpens, and a rush of images and whispers, flood your conscience.

"-/n! Y/n!!" With a sudden tug, you're pulled away from the book. Dipper, who was now in front of you, was gripping tightly onto your shoulders, a look of genuine worry on his face.

"What was that?" he asks, searching your face for answers. When you don't respond, he turns and reaches into the hatch, carefully pulling out the book.

He places it on the ground and opens it, eyes scanning the pages.

"It's hard to believe it's been six years since I began studying the strange and wondrous secrets of Gravity Falls, Oregon." Dipper flips through the book, each page revealing bizarre creatures and terrifying monsters.

"What is all this?" Dipper whispers in awe. You lean over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of a page that reads "TRUST NO ONE!"

"My worst fears have been confirmed. I'm being watched. I must hide this book before it's found. Remember, In Gravity Falls, you can't trust anyone."

You and Dipper exchange a tense look, a silent pact forming between you both.

"HALLO!!"

You yelp in surprise, falling backward.

Mabel was behind you, leaning over a rotten log. "What'cha reading, some nerdy thing?" she teased, trying to peek at what Dipper was hiding behind his back.

"Uh- uh- it's nothing!" Dipper stammers, shooting you a desperate look.

""Uh, uh, it's nothing!" What? Are you not gonna show me?" Mabel laughs.

Dipper looks at Mabel then the Journal then back at Mabel. "Let's... go somewhere more private."

Mabel raises an eyebrow but simply shrugs. She hops over the log and strides quickly toward you, extending a hand to help you up.

You offer her a grateful smile as you reach for her hand.

"What is that?!" Mabel exclaims, suddenly tightening her grip on your hand as she examines it closely. "When did you get a scar like this?"

Startled, you pull your hand back and stare at your palm, shocked to find a vertical eye seared into your skin.

»»————- 🪬————-««

"I can't find anything," Dipper mutters, flipping through the pages with a frustrated sigh. "There's nothing about a mysterious vertical eye appearing on someone's palm."

The three of you have ended up in the Mystery Shack's resting room. You're seated beside Mabel, while Dipper paces back and forth, rifling through the Journal's pages.

"But still, this thing is incredible!" Dipper exclaims, holding the Journal open for Mabel to see. "Grunkle Stan thinks I'm just being paranoid, but according to this book, Gravity Falls has a hidden dark side."

You lean forward, a frown tugging at your lips. "Dip, this could be dangerous. That book gives me the creeps." You wave your hand in front of Dipper's face. "And look at what it did to me!"

Dipper bats your hand away, his expression annoyed.

Ding-Dong

"Who's that? More tourists?" you ask, glancing toward the door. Mabel grins at you. "Well, it's time to spill the beans." She playfully pushes over an empty can of beans. "Boop. Beans." Mabel beams, clearly pleased with her joke before continuing, "This girl's got a date! Woot woot!"

You and Dipper exchange incredulous looks. "Wait," you begin, "In the half hour we were gone, you managed to get a date who didn't run away from your... let's say, intense enthusiasm?"

Mabel nods enthusiastically. "What can I say? I guess I'm just irresistible."

Dipper looks like he's about to say something, but you cut him off with a grin. "You know what? You go, girl."

The doorbell rings again, and Mabel jumps up, hurrying to answer it.

Dipper sighs, slipping into the seat Mabel just vacated. "I can't believe I was right," he says with a grin, flipping open the journal. "Do you mind trying to touch it again?"

You hesitate for a moment, then nod. "Alright, but if I get possessed, I'm blaming you." Dipper brushes off your comment and passes the journal to you.

You carefully take it from his hand, bracing yourself for anything.

...

But nothing happens. No surge of energy, no eerie whispers—the journal sits quietly in your hands, completely still.

"What'cha reading there, slick?" Grunkle Stan asked as he walked into the room.

"Oh!" Dipper yelped, quickly shoving the book behind his back and snatching up the nearest magazine. "Just catching up on..." He glanced at the cover in his hand, "Gold Chains for Old Men?" He read aloud, raising an eyebrow.

Stan leans over Dipper's shoulder and grins, "That's a good issue."

"Hey family~" Mabel calls out as she drags some homeless-looking guy with her, "Say hello to my new boyfriend!"

"Ugh- ew-" you blurted out at the sight of the pale, disheveled boy, but quickly stopped when Mabel gave you a look, "Sorry, it was involuntary."

"Sup." The boy says.

"Hey," Dipper responded awkwardly. Stan, still focused on the TV, didn't bother to look at the boy. "How's it hanging?"

You squinted at him, suspicious. "How old are you?" you asked.

The boy hesitated, stumbling over his words. "Uh- um- fifteen?" he answered, uncertain.

"...You're definitely lying-"

"We met at the cemetery!! He's really deep." Mabel quickly interrupts your line of questioning.

Dipper narrows his eyes, suspicion clear in his voice. "So, what's your name?" he asks.

The 'teen' straightens up, a bit tense. "Uh... Normal... MAN!" he blurts out.

A faint warmth begins to radiate from the center of your palm, just enough to make you curl your fingers slightly. Unbeknownst to you, a soft greenish-blue glow flickers beneath your skin.

"He means 'Norman,'" Mabel chimes in, leaning closer to him.

You take another look at Norman. "Right... and is that blood on your cheek, Normalman?" you ask, pointing to the red liquid dripping down his face.

"...It's jam," he replies, a little too quickly.

"...Seriously?"

Mabel gasps, delighted. "I love jam!" She turns back to you and Dipper with a grin. "He's perfect!"

You shake your head. "Mabe, your standards... where are they?"

Norman turns to Mabel, "So, you wanna go hold hands or... whatever?" He asks, Mabel blushes shyly, "Oh, goodness!" she exclaims, casting a quick glance at you and Dipper. "Don't wait up for me!" she calls out, her voice light and excited as she hurries out the door with Norman.

As they disappear, the burning sensation in your palm begins to fade, replaced by a faint, lingering buzz. You lift your hand, studying the vertical eye with a puzzled expression.

»»————- 🪬————-««

"Of course Stan sticks me with the broom closet for a bedroom," you mutter, shuffling into the cramped space. As soon as you reach the bed, you collapse onto it with a weary sigh. Your gaze drifts to your hand, staring at the vertical eye on it.

"...What are you?"

KNOCK KNOCK

"Y/n!!" You jolt, startled by the sudden noise.

"Mabel'sdatingazombieandshe'sgoingoutonadatewithhimrightnow!!!" Dipper's frantic voice spills through the door in one breathless rush.

You quickly get to your feet and swing the door open. "Woah, woah, slow down, Dip-" You grab his shoulders, worry knotting in your chest. "Explain that again, but slower."

Dipper takes a couple of shaky breaths, but his panic is still written all over his face. "Mabel's dating a zombie, and she's going on a date with him right now!" Without waiting for a response, Dipper turns and dashes off, pulling you along with him.

"Huh!? Wait- how do you know?" you manage to ask as you stumble after him.

"Earlier today, I was following him to gather evidence," Dipper confesses. "When I reviewed the footage, I saw him lose his hand and then reattach it!"

"I knew something was off about that weirdo..." You mutter, following Dipper out of the Mystery Shack. Stan was standing in front of a crowd, showcasing some kind of rock face, which made it virtually impossible to get his attention.

Scanning the area for an alternative, your eyes land on Wendy, casually sitting in a golf cart. "Dip! Look!" you exclaim, pointing toward her. Dipper's eyes widen before he grins at you. "Nice catch, Y/N!"

Rushing over, you quickly approach Wendy, "Wen, Just the gal I need, you don't mind if we steal that cart and possibly wreck it right?"

Wendy looks at you, then at Dipper, then back to you, and shrugs with a lazy grin, tossing you the keys. "Just try not to mow anyone down."

With a smirk, you hand the keys to Dipper. "Let's go save your sister."

You and Dipper jump into the cart, ready to back out of the lot when Soos suddenly appears, blocking your path.

"Dude, it's me, Soos," he says with a grin, handing Dipper a shovel. "This is for the zombies." He then turns to you, passing you a bat. "And this is just in case you come across a piñata."

"Uh... Thanks?"

»»————- 🪬————-««

"I am seriously regretting giving you those keys" You shout as Dipper drives through the forest like a madman.

"Don't worry Mabel" Dipper shouts loudly, "We'll save you from that zombie!!" He accelerates faster.

"Help!" A shout resonated from off in the distance. You and Dipper gasp,

"Mabel!"

"Mabe!"

Dipper makes a sharp turn off the road, driving through the forest trying to follow the sound of Mabel's voice.

Soon, you both approach some kind of cave, and inside you can see Mabel surrounded by... gnomes?

Dipper slows down, parking once he's in the cave. "What the..." He mutters, "What the heck is going on here!?" he shouts, both confused and extremely underwhelmed.

A gnome runs up to you and hisses, prompting you to kick it.

"Dipper! N/n! Norman turned out to be a bunch of gnomes!" Mabel shouts as she bats away the gnomes crowding her, "And they're total jerks!" One particularly persistent gnome latches onto her hair, making Mable gasp in pain, "Hair- hair- hair-!"

Dipper stares at the chaos, shaking his head in disbelief. "Gnomes... huh, I was way off."

A faint warmth begins to emanate from your palm, similar to before. Glancing down, you gasp seeing the vertical eye glowing with a soft greenish-blue light.

"Hey! Let go of my sister!" Dipper yelled at the brown-haired gnome.

The brown haired gnome spins around, offering Dipper a sheepish grin. "Oh! Uh, hey there," he stammers with a nervous chuckle. "This is just a big misunderstanding, really. Your sister's perfectly safe. She's just, you know, marrying all thousand of us to become our gnome queen for eternity!" He turns back to Mabel with a smirk. "Right, sweetheart?"

Mabel, now tied down, glares daggers at the gnomes. "You guys are butt-faces!" she yelled before one of them hastily muffled her.

You step up beside Dipper, and kneel down to the gnome's height, trying to ignore the faint warmth spreading in your palm. "Listen here, Normal-man," you mock, voice steady, "if you and your creepy little friends don't let Mabel go, I'm going to recreate that gnome scene from the 2015 Goosebumps movie." You give your bat a subtle lift, just enough to make your point clear.

The gnome glares at you. "You think you can stop us? You have no idea what we're capable of. The gnomes are a powerful race! Do not trifle with the-"

You nudge him off the rock with your bat.

Dipper wastes no time, stepping forward to cut the string holding Mabel down with his shovel. Mabel flashes him a grateful smile before kicking the gnomes away and rushing toward the golf cart.

Dipper grabs your hand, pulling you along. For a brief moment, he hesitates, noticing the glow in your palm. You can almost hear the questions forming in his mind, but the urgency of the situation forces him to push them aside.

Once in the cart, Dipper quickly starts it up and speeds away. Faintly, you hear Jeff yelling behind you.

As the three of you exit the cave, Dipper eases up on the speed, his tension fading.

"Hurry, before they come after us!" Mabel urges, prompting Dipper to chuckle. "I wouldn't worry. Did you see their legs? Those suckers are tiny!"

You frown. "I'm with Mabe on this one, Dip. That was way too easy."

Dipper rolls his eyes. "And you called me paranoid-"

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

"...I blame Dip. He jinxed us."

A giant gnome monster, made up of smaller gnomes, looms behind the golf cart, chasing you.

"Move, move!" Mabel shouts at Dipper. He stumbles but quickly picks up speed. Glancing back, you see the creature's shadow growing larger.

"Dip!" you yell. "It's gaining on us!"

"I know! This thing won't go any faster, Y/N!" Dipper shouts back.

"Uhh, guys," Mabel says, peeking her head out of the cart. "It's getting closer!" Her voice is panicked.

"We know!" you and Dipper yell in unison.

The monster swings its massive arms, hurling small gnomes through the air toward your cart. Two gnomes land beside you, and out of reflex, you smack the one on your left, knocking it out cold.

The gnome on your right hisses, ready to pounce, but you swiftly grab the unconscious gnome and toss it at the other, sending both tumbling out of the cart.

Another gnome crashes onto the hood and springs at Dipper, latching onto his face with a tight grip.

You lunge forward, reaching over the seat to help the boy. The moment your hand touches the gnome, a greenish-blue light flares from your palm. The gnome yelps in pain, releasing Dipper and snatching his hat away in the process.

Mabel gasps, turning to you with a bright smile. "How'd you do that?" she asks. You stare at your hand, bewildered. "I... I don't know..."

Before either Mabel or Dipper can ask more, a tree crashes down in front of the cart. "Watch out!" you shout as Dipper swerves to avoid it. He manages to steer clear, but the sharp turn tips the cart over, sending all of you tumbling.

Groaning, you crawl out of the wrecked vehicle. "Called... it..." you mumble, slowly getting to your feet.

The ground trembles as the giant gnome monster approaches, each of its thundering steps echoing through the forest.

"Stay back, man!" Dipper shouts, grabbing a shovel and hurling it at the monster. The creature swats it away effortlessly.

The twins cling to each other in terror. You step in front of them, instinctively trying to shield them from the looming threat.

With every step the monster takes, you and the twins retreat, until you're backed against a wall.

"It's the end of the line, kids!" Jeff yells from atop the monster. "Mabel, marry us before we do something crazy!"

"Shoot..." you mutter, glancing at Mabel. "There's gotta be a way out of this..."

Mabel's gaze locks onto the monster as she carefully considers her next move. Slowly, she steps past you and Dipper, her expression firm. "I gotta do it," she says, her voice steady.

"Mabel, don't!" Dipper grabs her arm, fear evident in his eyes. "Are you crazy!?"

She doesn't waver. "Trust me," she whispers.

Dipper hesitates, about to protest, but you place a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Dip," you murmur. "Trust her, just this once."

After a tense moment, Dipper sighs in frustration, then steps back.

Mabel offers you a grateful smile before turning to face the monster. "All right, Jeff. I'll marry you."

"Hot dog!" Jeff cheers, scrambling down the monster's side. "Help me down there, Jason! Thanks, Andy! Left foot, there we go... watch those fingers, Mike."

Jeff approaches Mabel, holding out a diamond ring with a smug grin. "Ehh? Ehh?" he says, gesturing to the jewels. Mabel kneels down, letting him slip the ring onto her finger.

"Bada-bing, bada-bam!" Jeff dances with glee. "Now that's how you get a wife! Let's head back to the forest, honey!"

Mabel admires the ring. "You may now kiss the bride," she declares.

Jeff smirks, leaning in for the kiss. "Well, don't mind if I do."

As Jeff moves closer, Mabel leans back and flicks on the leaf blower behind her, aiming it straight at him. The suction pulls him in with a whoosh.

"That's for lying to me!" Mabel shouts, cranking up the power. "And this is for breaking my heart!"

Jeff flails helplessly, yelping in pain.

You and Dipper approach, both thoroughly impressed by her quick thinking. Mabel glances over her shoulder, a sly smile forming on her lips. "And this... is for messing with my brother and my best friend."

She lifts the leaf blower and points it at the monster. "Want to do the honors, Dipper?"

Dipper grins widely. "On three."

"One, two, three!"

They launch Jeff out of the leaf blower, sending him crashing into the giant monster, scattering it in pieces.

With their leader gone, the gnomes scramble in confusion. You grab a rake leaning against the Shack and start herding the gnomes back into the forest.

Once you were sure they were all gone, you turned back and started heading in towards the Shack, Mabel had gone inside after talking with Dipper, leaving just the two of you.

"Oh- Um, Y/n!" " Dipper called out just before you reached the door, making you turn to face him. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to, uh, clear the air?"

He hesitated, glancing at you to gauge your reaction. "Since we've been stuck here, it kinda felt like we were at odds," he admitted. "But with everything that's happened - the journal and all - I figured we should..." His voice trailed off.

"But especially after today," his tone grew firmer, "you helped me when you didn't have to. If it wasn't for you, I don't know if I would've been able to get to Mabel..."

You smiled. "I get it, Dip, no need to get all mushy." He flushed, groaning a little in embarrassment. "But, honestly, you proved me wrong. You're a lot braver than you give yourself credit for."

Dipper stared at you for a moment, then smiled. "Thanks, Y/n. That... means a lot."

A comfortable silence settled between you just as Mabel popped back outside. "Come on, guys! Grunkle Stan has a present for us!"

»»————- 🪬————-««

You admire your new ring, a simple silver band etched with intricate Celtic designs. Inside, the name 𝕌ℝ𝕎𝕍𝕆ℝℍ is engraved, the letters catching the light as you turn it between your fingers.

A knock on the door pulls your attention from the ring. Shuffling around the tight space, you make it to the door and carefully open it.

"Dipper?" you ask, seeing the boy.

He nods, clutching the journal under one arm, a pen in his other hand. "Yeah, I wanted to talk about your... strange mark." You step aside, allowing him to enter, and the two of you settle on the bed.

"This started when you touched the journal?" Dipper asks, glancing at your hand. "Can you feel anything from the mark?"

You nod slowly. "Yeah, there's this constant faint buzzing sensation, and sometimes it gets really warm." Dipper jots something down in the journal, his brow furrowed.

"And do you know what triggers the warmth?"

You pause, thinking back. "It happened when Normalman first appeared - my palm started aching. And then again when we were near the gnomes."

Dipper murmurs to himself, deep in thought. "But why now? Was it the journal that set it off? Could you be some kind of psychic?" He clicks his pen repeatedly, lost in thought.

"Maybe... you have a knack for sensing the supernatural," he suggests, his voice trailing off.

You glance out the window, noticing the sun had long set, "Let's discuss this more tomorrow ok?" You suggest, "It's been a long day Dip, you should get some sleep."

Dipper frowns, trying to protest. "But-"

Before he can finish, you start nudging him toward the door. "Nope, not until I get my beauty rest," you say with a playful grin.

Despite his reluctance, you manage to push him out of the room and shut the door behind him.

"He worries too much," you mutter with a smile. With a yawn and a stretch, you make your way to your bed, sinking into the comforting embrace of the covers. As your eyes grow heavy, you're unaware of the soft glow beginning to emanate from your palm.

. . .

When you open your eyes, you find yourself standing in an empty field. The sky is a strange, burnt-orange hue, and to your surprise, you spot not one, but two suns hanging low on the horizon.

"Where... where am I?" you murmur, spinning around to take in your surroundings. Far off in the distance, you notice a figure, their entire body obscured by layers of clothing.

With nothing else to guide you, you approach the figure cautiously. "Hello?" you call out, the sound of your voice echoing slightly in the eerie stillness.

The figure jolts, turning abruptly to face you. A scarf and goggles hide their expression, but their posture is tense. "You!" he shouts, his voice sharp. "How did you get here? Who are you?"

You hesitate, glancing around once more before offering a helpless shrug. "I don't know. I just went to bed and woke up here."

He studies you closely, his gaze unnerving. After a moment, he reaches out toward you, his hand passing through your form. You blink in surprise.

"Fascinating," he mutters to himself, stepping back to examine you more. "Somehow, through your dreams, you've crossed into this place."

A strange sensation begins to ripple through you, like a tug from deep within. The man's eyes widen in alarm. "You're waking up," he whispers, almost in awe.

You glance down at yourself, watching in disbelief as your body starts to fade, the colors draining like watercolors bleeding into the paper.

"Wait!" the man calls out, suddenly frantic. "There's so much more I need to-"

But before he can finish, everything blurs, and the dream collapses in on itself.

. . .

Your eyes snap open, the soft light of morning filtering through your window. The room is still, the quiet only broken by your racing heartbeat. You lift your hand, the glow slowly fading once more.

You exhale deeply, trying to shake off the lingering sense of unease, wondering what it all could mean.

__

A/N: Wooo Gravity fall's fandom is making a comeback!! This is an old - old rewrite of a fanfic I made on google docs as a kid. Now that I can write, I figured why not revise the old thing?

[miraclewoozi]

HIGH FIDELITY, PT 1. -c.hs

getting back on the horse is hard, and failing to hit it off with the cute gamer guy you went for a drink with last night has the potential to be your love life’s last straw. but when up and coming rockstar VERNON unexpectedly canters into your life, you find yourself asking one very important question: do you have it in you to saddle up, one more time?

pair ; vernon x fem!reader.  content ; strangers to lovers.  up-and-coming musician!vernon x record store owner!reader.   fluff, angst, parts two and three will contain suggestive themes and smut. (MINORS DNI).  warnings ; drinking + alcohol is a big theme pretty much throughout. mentions of past relationship breakdowns. reader experiences a lot of stress, anxiety and feelings of doubt, reflected in self sabotage.  wc ; 13.5k ( ~35k total. ) disclaimer ; this fic was inspired by rob + liam in the series high fidelity and is therefore pretty influenced by the show. if you’ve watched it, you’ll probably see a lot of similarities! i just felt so drawn to vernon in this kind of role that i really wanted to try and put a spin on it. i do not claim that every idea behind this is original. notes ; been working on this one for a while. hope you enjoy it.<3

“What do you mean, no?”

Your best friend and longest standing employee Seungkwan turns his head away from the customer he’s serving to look at you with filth in his eyes. Unsurprisingly, his features don’t soften when you double down on your response to him.

“I mean, no,” you laugh. “I’m running on fumes, dude. I’m not going. No way.”

“But…” he whines, putting down the record in his hands. “No, come on. I told you about this weeks ago. You’re really gonna make me go on my own?”

“You won’t be on your own. Chan’s still going.”

Your younger friend, upon hearing his own name, whirls around from where he’s been rearranging the wall of cassettes and lifts an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“You’re still going to that guy’s show tonight, right?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I am. Why?” Chan eyeballs your guilt-adjacent expression for a second before his face falls and he looks at Seungkwan with a curled lip. “What did you do? Why’s she not coming anymore?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Seungkwan barks. The customer he’s still not finished ringing up flinches at the lift in his voice, but he doesn’t notice. “Why is that always your first–”

“Shut up, don’t start this right n–”

“I’m not starting anything! You started–”

“Guys!” You interrupt, looking between the two of them and doing your best to smile apologetically at the poor lady fumbling through the cash in her fingers like it’s an Olympic sport. “Can we park this one? For five minutes? Please?”

The bickering pair fall quickly into silence and Chan sends one last glare at Seungkwan before he turns back to the cassettes, grumbling something under his breath. 

With a clearing of his throat the only giveaway, Seungkwan drops seamlessly back into his customer service voice and plasters a charming smile onto his lips. He checks the register and warmly tells the young woman her total, holding out his palm for her to place the money into. Even knowing him as well as you do, the switch-up gives you a little bit of whiplash.

The customer passes over her cash and accepts her change from Seungkwan’s hands before making perhaps the swiftest exit you’ve ever seen anyone make. No sooner has the bell above the entry to OFF BEAT Vinyl rung and the door has clicked shut, the two men turn once again.

But not on each other.

On you. And it’s the more gentle of them that pipes up first.

“Why aren’t you coming?” Chan asks, abandoning his little project and hurrying over to the desk with a frown. You’re sure it’s supposed to look sympathetic to whatever issue it is that’s changed your mind, supposed to fool you into believing that this has nothing to do with him still blaming Seungkwan entirely. But… you know him better than that. You know them both better. If Chan and Seungkwan weren’t both employed by you, you don’t doubt that they would have ripped each other to shreds within the first hour of meeting. Their dynamic is fascinating to watch — one minute, the best of friends, the next just seconds away from throwing fists; you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve had to send them to different rooms to avoid having to clean blood and tears off your shop (and sometimes your apartment) floor. 

“I didn’t sleep so well last night, I just want to go to bed early. Is that… okay?” 

(This is an embellishment of the truth, but what they don’t know can’t hurt them.)

“No,” they both exclaim at the same time, but Seungkwan goes one step further and slams his hands down on the counter for good measure. You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him, but he keeps his palms flat and doesn’t give any indication that he’s about to apologise, so…

“Okay — God.” You turn away from them, heading towards the little office out the back of the store to try and get a few minutes’ respite. “Whatever. Fight with the wall, you guys – I’m not going. Check in with me before you head out, okay?”

Behind you, Seungkwan dramatically calls you a traitor and says he’ll never forgive you for this, but you just shake your head and continue on your way. The world falls into silence as you shut the door after yourself and you lean back against it, letting out a deep exhale and pinching the bridge of your nose. 

Now, you did have an awful night’s sleep last night, and after how on-and-off busy the store has been all day today, the headache you woke up with this morning has only slowly gotten worse. But there are reasons for those things outside of what you’re going to admit to out in the main storefront. As close as the three of you are, there are some things that you’ve always thought it wise to keep… a little bit hushed. Especially at work. 

When Chan and Seungkwan start an inquisition into your private life, it feels like it may never end. And so sue you, you’d actually like to make it home at a reasonable time, today. 

True to your parting request, the two men close down the store for you while you sit out the back in your ‘office’, lights dimmed, pouring over both a new store playlist you’re trying to compile and a few less exciting — but actually important — tasks. Chan heads out first, all puppy-dog eyed when he pokes his head through the door and asking if you’re really not coming out. You shake your head, telling him to have fun and tell you all about it on Monday when he’s next penned in.

Seungkwan is slightly less easily brushed away. A few minutes after Chan says his final goodbye, your other employee slides into your office and shuts the door, sitting down in the armchair opposite you with his eyebrows scrunched together.

He doesn’t speak for almost a full thirty seconds, at which point, you look up at him from the small mountain of receipts you’re trying to organise and click your tongue.

“What?” you ask, leaning back in your own chair and crossing your arms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You know why.” Seungkwan shifts forward on the cushion until he’s sat almost entirely on the edge of the seat. “You might think you’re really good at hiding your shit, okay? But you’re not. Not from me.”

“Please,” you sigh. “It’s nothing. I’m telling you, I’m just tired today.”

“And I’m telling you that I know you better than that. Come on, talk to me.”

This is, unfortunately, something you can’t deny. It also seems to be his unfailing last line of defence every single time you’re stubborn over discussing your problems. One of these days, you’ll be ready for it — you’ll have a response sitting on the tip of your tongue ready to shut the conversation down, and he’ll be the one on the spot, and you’ll treat yourself to a pint of ice cream or something when you get home as a victory snack. But today? Isn’t that day; Seungkwan stumps you, once again, so you groan in defeat, cradling your head in your hands.

“I went on a date last night,” you say under your breath.

“What?”

Clearing your throat, you look up at him. You say, louder, “I went on a date last night.”

His eyes blow wide and if he could get any closer to you without actually sitting on top of your coffee-stained worktop, you think he would. Which is strange, if you really let yourself think about it, because Seungkwan is sort of an ex-thing, and talking so openly to someone who has quite literally been inside you about going out with other people… shouldn’t come as easily as it does.

But that was quite some time ago, and for three long months, you drove each other nuts. The two of you are way better off as friends. (Whether you’re better as colleagues is still up for review.)

“You what?” he whisper-shouts. It feels almost like he’s hinting to an invisible audience that this piece of information is extremely scandalous: all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Which would be fine, except it’s not really that scandalous at all, and neither should it be a surprise: you’re single, you have been for a while, and you have an entire sub-folder in your phone dedicated solely to dating apps — you’re at perfect liberty to go out with whoever you like. You just continue to stare at him, refusing to repeat yourself for a third time. 

“You haven’t even been home, have you?” Seungkwan asks after letting the dust settle, the silence just on the brink of uncomfortable. “Oh my God. Tell me everything.”

“Shut up,” you groan. “His name’s Wonwoo. I met him on Hinge. And fuck you – yes, I went back to my own place.”

You pause for a second, taking a breath when his features cloud with the question he’s about to ask. 

“It’s just-... so did he.”

Seungkwan leaps to his feet and claps loud enough that your already tender eardrums feel assaulted, adding an ‘I knew it!’ for good measure. You cringe at his volume, rubbing your temples – you should’ve known telling him this wouldn’t calm him down, but a small part of you was still hoping. This time, he actually does circle around the desk, carelessly shoving a few bits of paper out of his way before sitting on the newly cleared wood. 

“Had you up all night, didn’t he?” Seungkwan asks. You shove his thigh, looking away from him, embarrassed. “What was the date?”

You just wish it was the kind of embarrassment that he thinks you’re feeling. Flustered, shy, giddy even. But it’s not any of those things.

“If I tell you, will you please turn it down a notch?” You ask, and Seungkwan nods, giddily kicking his legs over the side of the desk. With a sigh, you continue. “We just went for a drink. It wasn’t special, okay? It was bad. We had nothing to talk about, he was awkward, I didn’t even wanna be there – I took a bathroom break after like… a half hour, and I tried to bail but I’d left my phone on the table so I had to go back.”

“And how did that end up with him in your panties?” Seungkwan asks, thankfully a little quieter when he speaks this time. 

“Do not talk about my panties out loud ever again,” you grunt, drumming your fingertips on the arm of your office chair. You give a dejected sigh as you answer him properly. “I guess… It felt like a sign that I was trying to give up too early. So I stayed a little longer, told him the truth about how I was feeling. I don’t know, maybe it took the pressure off or something? But we got talking a little more, we found some stuff we had in common… It just got easier and he started cracking a few jokes, so…”

“So… he laughed his way into your—?”

“He doesn’t drink alcohol,” you interject slowly, narrowing your eyes. “I asked him if he minded driving me home.”

“You devil,” Seungkwan grins, lightly prodding your calf with the side of his foot. “Was he good? Was it big?”

“Seungkwan!”

“Did he make you–”

“He was gone this morning when I woke up.”

Your friend doesn’t say ‘oh, shit’ out loud, but he doesn’t have to. The silence he suddenly falls into speaks for itself, his newly adopted slack-jawed expression the exclamation mark at the end of his unspoken sentence. 

“Always the fucking ‘nice’ guys.” You push up from your desk and start to gather your things, shutting off your computer and grabbing your phone off the desk. You’re over it – you can deal with all this tomorrow.

Seungkwan hops down, biting the inside of his cheek as you pull your keys out of the pocket of your jeans. “Come with us tonight,” he tries one more time, laying a hand on your shoulder and sounding the kind of gentle that makes your skin itch. You swerve out from beneath his palm, shaking your head at him again. “Maybe it’ll take your mind off it.”

“I don’t need my mind taking off anything,” you insist softly. “I’m fine, I just don’t feel like going out. Gonna order in some food and get my ass to bed. Okay?”

Knowing he’s fighting a losing battle, your best friend finally stops pressing. He circles around you and flicks on the overnight alarm, letting you lead your way out of the office and then through the front of the store. He helps you pull the shutter down and tests the lock for you, as he so often does, before he holds both of his arms out in front of him. With a resigned roll of your eyes, you walk into his embrace for a couple of seconds.

“I’m okay, Seungkwan. Go without me. Have fun and let me know if this Vernon guy is any good, okay?”

“We’ll miss you,” he says as you pull away, and you clap him on the upper arm once before turning away, slipping your headphones on over your ears. 

What you neglected to inform Seungkwan, even after allowing yourself those rare few moments of vulnerability, is who you bumped into on your way to the bar where you met Wonwoo last night. The encounter that set the tone in the first place. The reason you were so cold with the stranger who sat across from you in the booth, the reason you tried to bail, and two-thirds of the reason you’ve felt so damn out of it all day. That’s a story for another time, you tell yourself on your walk home. Maybe. 

But… then again. Maybe not.

You’ve been marinating on your couch in a pair of sweatpants and a crisis hoodie for at least two hours and are currently on your second bowl of evening cereal when you hear a knock on your apartment door. You purse your lips and set the spoon back down inside the milky sludge, but you don’t set your ‘dinner’ to one side just yet. It’s probably just the old lady next door, asking if you’ve seen her cat, Houdini (you can’t help but feel like she was asking for trouble giving him a name like that) (in any case — no, you haven’t), or the middle-aged couple opposite asking you to turn your music down (you won’t) (it’s not even that loud).

You’re not getting up. All you have to do is wait for them to give up and away. 

Knock, knock, knock.

They’ll leave. 

Knock knock. 

Any second, now.

…

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

You groan loudly as you haul yourself to your feet and skid over to the door, crossing your arms tighter over your chest to try and shield you from the chill that always lingers in the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Mrs P,  I haven’t seen H—” you start on exasperated autopilot, falling quiet the moment your eyes land first on Chan’s beaming smile, and second on Seungkwan’s guilty eyes. “How… the fuck did you guys get in here?”

“We followed someone in,” Chan tells you as he slides past, inviting himself into your haven and heading through to the living room where your favourite album is spinning on your record player. “That really tall guy – I think he lives on the second floor? Crazy hairline. Like, right back h—?”

“Cool,” you interrupt, except it’s actually everything but cool. Seungkwan steps through the door too, following behind you as you stalk after your younger friend. “Next question. Why are you guys in here?”

“You’ve been in a funk all day,” Chan says, tossing himself down onto your couch and nearly tipping your cereal all over the cushions. He eyes the glass you have on the side-table, raises a brow and looks back at you. “And you can’t deny that. You’re drinking rosè and eating fruit loops at 9pm on a Saturday. You need to get out of this apartment.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” you tell him, sitting down on the armchair to Chan’s left that only ever gets used when these two idiots show up at the same time. 

“One hour?” Seungkwan tries again, crouching down in front of you and taking hold of your hand. “You don’t have to be out late. And – and I’ll open tomorrow. You can stay in bed as long as you want.”

“Do you guys ever stop?” You ask them, and in tandem, the two men shake their heads at you. “I’m staying here. You’ve gotta go, or you’re gonna be late.”

Chan whines your name loudly, stomping like an upset toddler. “You know it won’t be as fun without you.”

“It’s gonna have to be,” you shrug, picking your feet up off the floor and resting them on the coffee table. “Come on. I’m serious. Get out of here.”

Seungkwan watches you for a moment longer but when you eye him sternly, he stands up again, giving your hand a squeeze and sending a nod to tell Chan to get up and follow him. First taking a long sip from your wine glass, the younger man does as he’s instructed, concern etching a frown onto his lips as he walks towards the door.

“If you change your mind, you know where we are, okay?” Seungkwan says and you nod at him. “See you in the morning.”

The door clicks shut behind them and you feel your shoulders droop, a long sigh leaving your lungs now you’re finally back on your own again. You roll your head side-to-side, relieving a tiny bit of the tension that you’ve been holding up in your neck all day, before relaxing back against the cushions behind you.

I’m not going out tonight, you tell yourself as you try to time your breaths to the beat of your music, letting it drown out the fact that the young couple who live two doors down have started arguing just outside your front door. It’s not gonna happen. 

There’s no way. 

The chill of an ice-cold glass meets your palm not even an hour later.

Chan and Seungkwan had been sitting on the stairs outside your apartment building, giving you fifteen more minutes just in case you happened to change your mind. To your credit, neither man had expected you to get out of your quarter-life-crisis outfit. Each gave a whistle of approval as you stepped outside into the air in a nice pair of jeans and a cute, long-sleeved shirt.

You all set off in the direction to the Arrowhead (so-called thanks to the venue’s unconventional triangular room shape) and both of your friends managed to successfully paint a few smiles on your face along the way. Once inside, Seungkwan dragged you by the wrist up towards the main bar space. Before you even had time to process the blurred faces that you walked by and the fuzzy neon signs all the way up the stairwell, enthused cheers and applause from the room ahead and the melodic strumming of a guitar drowned out the dread you’d been feeling ever since you woke up.

“This guy is not covering U2,” Chan says almost incredulously as he thrusts the drink he paid for into your hand. You manage to work your way through the crowd a little: it’s busier in here than you’ve ever seen it before, and certainly way more full than you would have really expected, but there’s still just enough movement room.

“Yeah, he is,” you say as you weave your way into a decent spot, where you can actually see the musician whose logo has been plastered on every notice board around town for the past month and a half. You even end up with a bit of breathing space, which is a rare, but welcome, treat.

But whatever you were about to say next – about how you don’t like U2, and how you’ve never really forgiven them for putting their entire new album onto everybody’s iTunes back in 2014 – dies a magnificent death on your tongue. You pause with your drink halfway to your lips as your eyes land on the main attraction, the man up on the stage; he has a small band up there, too, but all the lights draw your focus to him. His eyes are sparkly. Both his hands are wrapped around the microphone like he’s caressing it, his rosy lips brush over the metal as they move with each word that comes out of his mouth. Watching him quickly becomes almost hypnotic.

So. This is Vernon.

Long, dark hair sits low over his temples, perfectly parted and shaped in the middle to frame his brows. The top few buttons of his emerald satin shirt are popped open, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the hem half tucked into his black jeans. He has rings on almost every finger. A silver chain around his neck. He looks good, but his voice?

I think I hated this song ten minutes ago, you think to yourself, but there’s something about Vernon’s deep, rough-edged tone that has you considering never listening to anything else. If you could stand to look away from the way he cradles his mic, and the way one of his eyes squeezes tighter closed as he lifts up into a higher note, and the way he moves on the stage like he was born to be on one, you might notice your friends (and everyone else around you) equally entranced by this gorgeous rendition of Beautiful Day as yourself. You can’t, though, so you don’t. 

You keep your attention locked on the singer and instead start to wonder just what he injected the air with when he stepped out from behind that curtain. 

Vernon’s eyes flutter back open right as he hits the final line of the song, a smile spreading over his lips. You realise only now that you’re hardly breathing, nor blinking — your body doesn’t remember to function in the ways it needs to survive, too caught up being immersed all the way to the last beat. You think he looks right at you from up on the stage, you swear one of his eyebrows lifts and his features twist into a satisfied smirk. You’re certain, because for half a second it feels like the world tumbles into slow motion and it’s like he’s reading every single one of your secrets, scouring every corner of your mind. 

And then… he looks away. He looks across the crowd applauding and cheering and whistling for him, before crouching low and taking a sip from the water bottle sitting on the floor beside his mic-stand. Only then does he speak. 

“Risky opener, I know,” he chuckles, his speaking-voice deep and smooth and wholly entrancing. The room erupts into soft laughter, a series of whoops coming from the crowd, everyone disarmed by his slightly awkward charm; the singer’s cheeks turn rosy and a gummy smile lights up his face before he continues. “Thank you guys for giving it a chance, though. If you didn’t know… I’m Vernon—…”

You’re hooked on his every word as he starts to introduce himself and the band behind him — everyone is, but you don’t care about the people around you. Despite being shoulder-to-shoulder with your two best friends and with every breath inhaling the overpowering cologne of the guy standing right behind you, it feels, in a way, like you and the singer could be the only two people in the entire room. 

The set lasts just over ninety minutes and is a carefully put-together mixture of mostly original songs and a couple of crowd-pleasing covers, a few slower ballad-types to offset the higher energy rock songs that he beams the whole way through. In-between, Vernon wins over the crowd with his dry sense of humour and a natural charisma that has you feeling mortifyingly warm, despite the fact that you know he isn’t speaking directly to you when he breaks to talk. You’ve been to more than your fair share of gigs in this venue over the years, but few performers have ever made one of their shows feel so genuinely intimate; by the time he says goodnight and heads off the stage, bidding everyone a safe journey home, it feels, in a weird way, like… you know him.

Most of the more local artists who play in the Arrowhead tend to hang around after their sets – sometimes they’ll have copies of EPs, others come with pins and badges showing off their logos, various cute freebies for people to take home. A few even just stand around in the bar and talk for a while, thanking people personally for coming, sharing information about their upcoming releases and future gig schedules. Unless you’ve been really blown away, this isn’t something the three of you often stick around for, though.

It’s therefore a bit of a surprise that when Vernon re-emerges some fifteen minutes later, you don’t even have to convince your friends to work your way into the crowd already starting to form. If anything, the look exchanged between you all establishes that wanting to praise this guy and say hello is very much mutual; the time that ticks by before you’re face-to-face with him really feels like no time at all.

The people in front of you move off to the side and you catch your first actual, unobstructed glimpse of him. He takes a sip from his glass and wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand before greeting you kindly. Somehow, he’s even more handsome up close. You really didn’t think it was possible. 

“Amazing set, man,” Chan says brightly, doing little by way of snapping you out of your trance. “Super fresh.”

“Seriously. So, so good,” Seungkwan gushes.

Vernon pushes away from where he’s leaned against the bar, pulling his other hand out of his pocket and extending it to your friends in turn. 

“Thank you so much,” he says. “Glad you guys liked it.” Another one of those easy, bright smiles spreads over his face. Maybe you entertain, for a second, that it grows a little more when he holds his hand out to you, too. 

You’re still stunned into silence by how breathtaking he is, but you put your drink in the other hand and wipe the condensation off your palm on the side of your jeans before shaking his hand, as well. He’s really warm, maybe even a little clammy, but when he squeezes with his fingers and looks straight into your eyes, this becomes a very negligible detail.

“Your vibe really reminds me of someone… God, what was his name-...” Chan starts to babble, clicking his fingers at lightning speed as if it’ll help him remember. “He was on that survival show-...”

“We’re sorry about him,” Seungkwan interjects after a few more seconds of nonsense and half-spoken, incorrect names, lifting a hand and covering Chan’s mouth. “He gets a little… it’s just when he’s excited.”

“No I don’t,” Chan huffs, swatting Seungkwan’s hand away. You inhale deeply, trying not to cringe as you watch Vernon’s amused eyes bounce between your two friends like he’s watching a tennis match. 

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Case in point—” Seungkwan starts, at which stage you lay one palm on each of their shoulders to try and get them to stop talking.

By some miracle, it works. At least, their mouths stop moving; there’s definitely a silent conversation ongoing in the filthy looks they continue to exchange, but they stop bickering aloud and that’s good enough for you, for now.

“Come on, let’s leave the poor guy alone,” you say, and Chan shoots Seungkwan a filthy look before he nods and takes a small step back from the altercation. 

Vernon’s eyes glitter under the venue’s neon lighting, wide and focused on you while you do your best to mediate. You only notice this when you look back at him, by which point it’s far, far too late to stop the eruption of butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

“You’re really good,” you compliment finally, a smile tugging your mouth up on one side. 

“Thank you.” Vernon grins, briefly dipping his head in your direction, but looking for a second as if he’s about to say something else. His chest rises with a breath, his lips push forward like they’re about to separate again, but before he can, Chan finds one more thing to come out with. Of course. (Seungkwan, regretfully, was right — he does get a little…)

“Do you like records?” he asks, pulling Vernon’s gaze away from you. The singer tilts his head, questioning. “Records. Vinyl – albums? Records.”

“Shit – yeah.” Vernon nods then. “Yeah, sorry. I um-... Sure. Yeah. Totally.”

“She owns a record store,” Chan says, jerking his head towards you. You feel your eyes blow wide and you’re tapping harshly at his back in an instant, begging him to stop. “OFF BEAT Vinyl. Not too far from here – it’s a cool spot.”

“No kidding?” Vernon says, glancing back in your direction, but you’re too busy silently pleading at Chan to shut up to realise.

“Mm. You should swing by, some time,” Seungkwan agrees, and all of a sudden, you’re overcome with the urge to fight him, too. “We all work there.”

“All right, let’s go,” you cough eventually, grabbing both men by the wrist and tugging. Vernon chuckles softly at the interruption; it’s almost as sweet a sound as his singing.

“OFF BEAT Vinyl,” he repeats, tasting the store’s name on his tongue, swirling it around his mouth like a wine he’s trying to savour. “For real. I’ll look it up.”

Chan grins proudly, finally letting himself be pulled away from the singer, and you manage to make exactly two paces before Vernon’s voice rings through your eardrums one more time.

“Hey, uh – what was your name?” he asks. It’s unmistakable who the question is aimed at (your friends don’t even entertain for a moment that he could be asking them), but regardless, it takes you a moment to let yourself believe he really wants to know. Vernon doesn’t push, though – he knows you heard him and he waits for your answer, leaning a little forward. 

So, you look over your shoulder and you tell him. You see his lips move silently as he repeats it to himself, just like he did with the name of the store. He tastes it. Plays with it on his tongue, remembers the way it feels. As if it’s something he really intends to remember.

“Cool,” he breathes, pushing his hair back and off his forehead and making it very difficult to feel in any way rational. “Well – it’s great to meet you guys. Thanks for coming out, again.”

Finally, you manage to get your friends away. One of them, at least – Seungkwan decides that he actually wants to grab a few copies of his EP (‘one for me, a few for the store’) and rushes back towards the singer; you tell him to just meet you back at the bar.

Then, with another round of drinks on order, you turn to Chan and land a gentle thump on his bicep.

“Dude,” you groan, and he looks at you incredulously, rubbing his upper arm with a pout. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Chan asks. 

“Tell him about the store!”

“I mean – I didn’t think it was classified?” he says. “Shit’s slow right now, and he seems like the kind of guy to have a record collection. What’s the damage?”

Seungkwan appears behind you with his hands full of CDs, badges and a scrap of something that you’re reasonably sure is firstly, a napkin, and secondly, has been signed. So you rest your elbows on the bar and place your head in your hands, grumbling quietly about how you don’t know you’ve managed to survive this long knowing these two losers.

“Because you love us,” Seungkwan says, fastening a button to your t-shirt. “Stop trying to deny it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you sigh, accepting the drink from the bartender and taking a long sip. “God, you better have been serious about opening up for me, tomorrow.”

(Well. You have to give it to him: he was.)

“It’s just my opinion!” 

From your perch on top of the store’s counter, you raise both of your palms in a display of your innocence. Chan stands in the middle of the R&B aisle, looking personally offended, fingers curled around the top of one of the wooden crates holding your stock. 

“Me saying ‘I don’t think Welcome to the Black Parade is the best track on that album’ is not me saying that it’s a bad song.”

“But how can you say that?” Chan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who’s hearing the opening note to Famous Last Words and feeling the same way as they do with the Black Parade?”

“Most iconic doesn’t mean the best,” you counter. “Besides – I never said you weren’t allowed to have it as your favourite. It’d be a boring game if we all had the same answer.”

“I cannot cope with you anymore,” Chan whines. “You know what? No. I don’t even believe you. You’re just being a contrarian.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask. 

“Because it’s the best song on the goddamn albu–”

The bell above the door chimes loud and clear through the store and both of your squabbling voices fall silent. Your head turns in the direction of the entrance, an autopilot greeting already forming on your lips, but you feel them fall slack the moment you realise who it is that’s just walked in.

It’s been five days. Though it would be a mistruth to claim you hadn’t thought about the singer since the night of his gig, it’s not one to say you didn’t think he would ever actually come into your place of work. 

Much less at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. On a Thursday.

He pops his wrists as he walks a little further into the store, glancing around. Barring one of your regulars who walks about with his earphones in all the time, the store is completely empty; an adrenaline spike prickles the hairs on your arms, all the tiny muscles beneath your skin pulling them to stand upright. 

“Hi,” he says once he deems himself to be close enough, stopping in his tracks and kicking the toe of his shoe against the floor.

“Hey,” you greet him in return. 

“I’m-... Vernon. We met at the show, the other night?” 

“Yeah — yeah, I remember you,” you smile. “I’m-... well. I’m still y/n.”

“Still y/n,” he says on a relieved exhale, grinning and glancing away from you. “I uh… I just had some free time. Thought I’d swing by and see what you guys had going on here.” Vernon adjusts the collar of his t-shirt, the silver of his rings glinting under the flickering yellow light overhead.

(It was definitely somewhere on your list of things to get fixed. Honest.)

“Sure, yeah,” you nod, swallowing hard and trying your best not to stare at him. It’s hard, though – in broad daylight, the way the flannel tied around his waist floats down over his hips and the way his jeans hug at his thighs is… you don't even have the words. “Let me know if you need help finding anything, okay?” 

“I will.” He starts to thumb through one of the wooden boxes, offering a small smile your way. “Thank you.”

You’re holding your breath a little as he pulls a few 80’s rock albums out, his lips downturned in surprised approval at some of the records you carry. He holds onto a couple as he moves around the store and the entire time, you can feel Chan and Seungkwan staring at you. If there wasn’t a very real danger of Vernon looking your way again at a moment’s notice, you know you would be showing them your middle finger.

Really, they come away lucky.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve been trying to find some of these,” Vernon says after a few minutes, sauntering toward the desk – you’re still sitting on top of it, your legs swinging in the air beneath you. “Might have to make this my new stop.”

And displayed beside you on the counter – right by the cash register – are a few of his albums. The ones Seungkwan picked up after the show; until about two seconds ago, you had forgotten they were even there.

Vernon’s face lights up when he notices, turning to Seungkwan. “Come on, no way. I thought you were kidding about that.”

“Deadly serious,” Seungkwan laughs. Out of the corner of his eye, he must see you start to freeze up: he keeps talking instead of letting the silence settle. “It was on the speakers yesterday. Four people asked us about you.”

“For real?” Vernon asks. When all three of you nod your heads, you see the beginnings of a blush start to creep up his neck. “Wow. Thank you – um. That’s really cool of you guys.”

“It’s good music,” Chan shrugs. “You’re super talented.”

You’re not sure what it is about the onslaught of passive praise that gets so deep into Vernon’s head, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself other than repeatedly saying ‘thank you’. Relief comes in the form of another customer jingling the bell above the door and drawing the attention away from him for a few moments.

“I’ll take these,” he says breathlessly as he turns to face you again. You find yourself a tiny bit lost in the warmth of his eyes and it takes you a second to remember to swivel around and slip off the other side of the countertop. You do, though. Eventually. 

“Nice,” you say softly as you shuffle through them, ringing each one through. He’s got pretty decent taste, even if less than a week ago you were actively cringing at his choice of cover song. (It’s okay. That was before you knew better.) “Do you– need sleeves, or…?”

“I’m good. Thank you, though.” Vernon rests his hands against the edge of the counter and drums a quiet rhythm out with his thumbs as you tap away at the register. “Are-... you guys busy tonight, by the way?”

You look up from placing the records into a paper bag, glancing over to your colleagues who both rush to shake their heads. Vernon looks from them, to you, and you mirror their action. Even if I was, you start to think wistfully. I’d make time.

“I’m playing at the Orchid? Uh— it starts at eight thirty; I could get you guys on the list, if-... um…”

“That’d be awesome,” Chan says, nodding so hard you’re surprised his head doesn’t roll off his shoulders and start bouncing across the floor. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Seungkwan adds. 

Vernon grins at them both, humming softly, before turning back to you and fumbling with his wallet to take out his card to pay for his purchases. You turn the machine around to face him; he hovers with his hand just above it. 

“Maybe… I’ll see you tonight, too?” He says.

You can’t help the delight that rises inside you, as if it’s been injected straight into your bloodstream. It’s everywhere, all of a sudden. In your brain and your heart and your bones and in your lungs.

Yet, you somehow manage to keep your composure when you say, “yeah. Maybe you will.”

The payment goes through and you slide the bag over towards Vernon, your eyes never leaving his and his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers brush over yours as he takes it from you, the bite of the cold ring on his index finger a shocking contrast to the warmth the rest of his hand radiates. You hope your little gasp isn’t too audible, but… the way Chan whirls around to face away from the scene in front of him (presumably to poorly conceal his laughter), you know you haven’t gotten away with it.

“Cool,” he says, hesitating another second before finally pulling himself away. He bows his head in the direction of your friends, sending another of those irresistibly sweet smiles at you, and then he starts off towards the door. “See you, then.”

You feel your heart finally start to slow down as you grip the counter for dear life, setting out a long, drawn-out breath. What just happened? Why do you feel all… fuzzy?

“Maybe… I’ll see you tonight, too?” Chan asks in the deepest voice he can muster, snapping you out of your own head none too pleasantly. You turn in their direction as your other favourite moron feigns tucking hair behind his ear and flutters his eyelashes across at Chan.

“Yeah… Maybe you will.” And Seungkwan’s imitation of you is a little too accurate. Creepily so, and you want to curse him out for it. Instead, you scrunch up a bag to throw towards the pair of them, grinning despite yourself as they both swerve to dodge it.

“Oh my God, shut up,” you chastise them. You don’t have any bite, though, your brain still tingly and positively reeling and seeing Vernon’s dazzling smile every time you so much as blink. And when Seungkwan takes a running start and launches himself, full-force, into Chan’s unsuspecting arms? When Chan lifts him up and spins him around, and when they start making kissy-noises at each other between unearthly cackles? 

You know that the next few hours are going to be the longest of your entire life.

The rest of the afternoon goes by without much disturbance and with evening plans now in place, you make the executive decision to send the boys home half an hour early. The three of you agree to meet outside The Orchid at just after eight o’clock, giving you all a chance to eat, wash up and change before the show; your friends separate and head in the different directions to the places they call home, making a promise to text your group chat before you leave to coordinate the link-up time. You head back into the office to finish tying up your loose ends and manage to depart just an hour later. 

On your way to your apartment, you plan everything out to the minute in your head. You even allocate yourself twenty minutes to sit on the couch and decompress from your working day. So, when you settle down a little further into the cushions and put your head back, resting your eyes… when you tell yourself you’ll get up in just a minute and hop into the shower…

You certainly don’t expect to be woken up two and a half hours later as your phone vibrates on the floor of your living room.

With one eye still closed, you pick it up, yawning and stretching the lingering wisps of slumber from your body. Seungkwan’s contact name shows on your screen and you swipe to answer the call; on the other end of the line, a song you’ve never heard before is audible, but it’s accompanied by a voice you most definitely do know.

Everything snaps into place at once; in an instant, you’re wide awake, and you feel physically sick.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” you hiss into the speaker, scrabbling upright, tugging the phone away from your face to see the time. How is it already past 9pm?

“Oh, hello to you, too!” Seungkwan has to half-shout to be anywhere near audible over the music. You can almost perfectly visualise the way he’ll have sandwiched himself in a corner of the venue, pinching the bridge of his nose, head resting against the wall to try and block out enough sound to hear you. “Good to know you’re actually still alive!”

“Dude, I’m so sorry,” you say, rushing through to your bathroom to check if you can get away with leaving the house as you are. (Jury’s out, but you don’t have much of a choice.) “I… don’t know what happened. I fell asleep – I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

Seungkwan chides you again, this time reminding you that he’s been on your ass about going to a doctor to get your iron levels checked for months, that your timekeeping is terrible and that you really better hurry. You promise you’re on your way and hang up the call, pocketing your (horrifically under-charged) phone and slipping into a pair of sneakers you keep by the door before you head out. You told him you’d be here. Seungkwan’s voice rings loud and clear in your ears as you lock up your apartment.

But of course, bad things never happen in isolation. Waiting on the street outside your apartment block, you find yourself being cancelled on by not one, but two uber drivers: by the time the third reaches you, and has to follow the world’s most inconvenient diversion to get past some construction work, it’s 9:35. You know it doesn’t matter how quickly you run down the last stretch of the street and get up the seemingly never-ending staircase: it’s going to be too late.

You only manage to catch the literal last two songs of Vernon’s set. You’re not sure he even knows you’ve arrived, and in a way, you hope he doesn’t. Maybe having him believe you were a no-show is better than him knowing you’re about as low-functioning as a grown adult can be. You just slip in through the door as discreetly as you can and hover at the very back of the room as he rounds up for the night; Chan slips an arm around your shoulders as you turn to the bar and order yourself a drink, but it doesn’t do much to reduce the guilt that weighs heavy in your chest. 

Which… is odd, really, you suppose. Seeing as you hardly know the singer much beyond his name and, now, a fraction of his record collection. Seeing as you certainly don’t owe him your presence at any of his performances. But there’s something in the way he made sure to ask you personally if you’d be able to make it, too, and you can’t shake it off, and… yeah, screw it, maybe you did want to be here. Maybe you did want him to notice. Maybe you do care what he thinks of you. 

Maybe… you hope he feels the same about you.

Your drink hasn’t even arrived yet by the time you hear a chain of ‘excuse me – sorry, can I just? Yeah, thanks – sorry, excuse me’ -s behind you. Your eyes fly wide and you almost choke on your own spit at the sound, growing closer and closer, somehow audible over the background music floating through the speakers, over the other chattering voices and shrieks of laughter in every direction. Part of your breathlessness, admittedly, is to do with how immediately you just knew who that voice belonged to.

“Excuse m–” it sounds again.

And then, softer: “Hey.”

You turn around on your bar stool, barely managing to bite back a smile. “Hi.”

Vernon grins at you from a few feet away, a dark singlet hanging loose on his frame, showing off his long, lean arms, displaying the few bracelets he wears on one of his slender wrists. You’re staring – you know you are; you don’t even notice the fact that Chan takes several steps away from you, or how he throws a side-along glance toward Seungkwan, nor the fact that your two best friends start talking quietly among themselves, leaving you and Vernon almost alone.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know how I managed to…” But Vernon’s already shaking his head, coming up beside you at the bar, settling into the seat on your left. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, glancing over at you where you’re sitting. “I’m just glad you’re here, now.”

Chan stumbles over to you somewhere around midnight and claps his hand down on your shoulder, interrupting Vernon’s very enthusiastic explanation as to why flying is totally a better superpower to want to have than invisibility. Your giggles fall silent and Vernon stops mid-flow, waiting to hear what your friend wants to speak to you about. Unfortunately, Chan’s words are barely intelligible; it’s only when a marginally-better-for-wear Seungkwan appears too a moment later that you’re able to make any sense of him.

“We’re gonna–” Seungkwan hiccups, covering his mouth with his hand and wincing, no doubt at the burn of everything he’s had to drink now sitting high in his throat. “Gonna head out. Are you coming? We’ll split a taxi with you.”

You find yourself glancing over to where Vernon is standing, propped against the pool table that you’re now leaning on the edge of. He just smiles back at you, lifting his shoulders.

“I think… I’m gonna stay here a little longer,” you say after chewing it over. “You guys go ahead.”

Seungkwan looks between the two of you and frowns slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Vernon gently pipes up from your side, sliding over a little so that his palm rests flat on the felt of the table, his forearm supporting your hips from behind. But it isn’t you he addresses, despite this butterfly-inducing contact. All deep and serious, he says, “I promise, she’s safe with me.” 

He takes his time to show it on his face, but ultimately this satisfies Seungkwan, who (despite being just about able to support both his and Chan’s weight in his current condition) has before, and still will, ignore his body’s demands in the name of ensuring your safety. But maybe he sees a trustworthiness in Vernon, or maybe he knows that you can and do handle yourself quite well. Whatever it is, he’s happy with this development, and your two friends bundle you in a hug so tight that it squeezes the air out of your lungs before they make their way towards the exit.

Once they’re out of view, you turn back to Vernon again, raising both brows at the man now closer to you than he’s ever been. But it’s far from claustrophobic – not as these things can so often be. No. No.

It’s addictive.

“Oh you promise, huh?” The tease comes out before you can do anything about it. You even end up batting your lashes at him for good measure. 

“Cross my heart,” he says with a small shrug of his shoulders. His eyes dip from where they’re boring into your own, glancing down a fraction, just for a moment, and you’re sure you see him start to lean. Drawn to you like an opposing magnet, like a moth to a flame — his breaths feel hotter as they fan against your skin, his cologne starts to smell a little stronger… then, his fingers on the other hand curl around the pool cue he’s been balancing on his side and he drags himself away from you. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna kick your ass one more time.”

One more game of pool quickly turns to two, and it even threatens to become a third as you tease, again, that Vernon just got lucky and he flashes you another one of those looks that says ‘oh? Try me’. But as tempting as it is, you don’t think your pride can withstand any more losses. You resign yourself from the table with a huff when he rests his palms flat on the velvet covering, leaning towards you in that mouth-watering way he’s been doing for hours. The thing is, for the size of his pool-playing-ego, Vernon isn’t even that good. Not if you consider the number of completely missed shots, questionable connections and pocketed cues. But, because your own skill level leaves plenty to be desired, he doesn’t have to be up there with the big leagues. 

He just needs to be a tiny bit better than you.

Asshole.

An announcement for last orders from behind the bar tells you that it’s nearing one in the morning as he starts to circle around the table and makes his way towards you. The bar has emptied considerably since you arrived, the music has steadily started getting more and more cheesy, people in all four corners of the room have started draping themselves over one another like well-dressed blankets, having already chosen the individuals they’ve decided to take home tonight. By all accounts, it’s the perfect time to leave. If you head out now, you’ll miss the rush of people flooding into the street and, if you’re lucky, the surge in taxi prices. The really good takeout place around the corner doesn’t close for another half hour, too. 

There’s just one problem. You don’t want this night to end just yet.

“I think I’m gonna get some fresh air,” you say to Vernon, trying to stretch out a burning knot in your shoulder. “It’s like, a thousand degrees in here.”

Vernon nods. “Yeah – cool. I’ll come with you.”

And with your bag slung over the arm not causing you an ache, you start off down the stairwell. The doors are already open and the late night breeze has you feeling like you’re walking through the gates of heaven as you head outside. You inhale deeply, making the most of this very rare occasion of the city’s air not feeling thick with car fuel and cigarettes. Your eyes fall closed.

“I always liked being out at this time,” Vernon says as he joins you, leaning one shoulder against the brickwork of the outside of the bar. “Feels peaceful.”

“Sure,” you nod, craning your neck to look at him. His face is half-illuminated in the neon red of the bar’s sign above you. The harsh lighting and the shadows cast by his angular features have him looking… sort of sinful, in a weird artsy way that you can’t explain thanks to the pleasant buzzing in your brain. Straight out of an arthouse, indie movie. I bet he likes those, you think absently. 

He looks straight into your eyes, intense and focussed as if he’s trying to search them, though for what you’re not sure. Honestly, you think if he gave a few more flutters of those beautiful lashes, you’d bend in-half-and-half-again to give him anything he wanted, so in a way you’re interested to ask what he’s thinking about. You don’t end up saying anything, though. There’s something wonderful in these little unspoken moments with Vernon. Something raw. 

Something… unexplainable. 

Sitting at the bar and stealing tickled glances as the waitress fumbles and drops a tray full of glasses on the floor. Subtle winks of his right eye (always, you’re discovering, the right?) from across a pool table when he succeeds in making a shot he has absolutely no business pulling off. Standing opposite you in the store you own, waiting to find out when – not if – he’s going to see you, again –

“You know,” he starts, the tiniest edge of nervousness in his voice for the first time tonight. Is the performance adrenaline finally wearing off? Is he… maybe starting to feel a little shy? Whatever it is, your last train of thought melts away into the drain just to his right, and you focus on him as he continues down this new path instead. “I got a new coffee machine in my apartment last weekend and I haven’t had the chance to use it for anyone yet.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah.” He nods, swallowing. “I uh…” He bounces one fist in the palm of his other hand, searching for the right order to put the words into. “I mean, it’s not like, one of those super fancy ones, or anything… but it’s sorta retro looking? Which is cool, and—”

“Vernon?”

“Yeah?”

“You‘re a little out of practice, huh?”

He chuckles on an outward breath, bowing his head, a grin that threatens to split his pretty face in two taking residence on his lips. “That obvious?”

“A tiny bit,” you say. “It’s cute though.”

He glances up at you, head a little tilted. “Yeah?”

“Mm… getting less-so by the second,” you tease him. “You can just ask me to come with you.”

“I-…” he starts, but he takes a deep breath instead and corrects his posture, as if it’ll prepare him somehow. “Okay. Okay — do you… maybe wanna come back to my place, with me?”

Not without flashing him a look first that says ‘now, was that so hard?’, you find yourself nodding up at him. 

“I’d love to,” you say.

He pushes away from the wall and when you do the same, he falls into step, heading in the direction of his apartment. You try to discreetly roll your shoulder out again but it’s obviously not discrete enough; it draws his attention down to your arm, and he frowns slightly.

“Is that giving you trouble?” He asks. 

“It’s fine.” You wave him off, stretching the muscle as best as you can by tilting your head as you walk. “It’s been like this for years.”

He scrunches his brows. “Here — can I?” He asks, his fingertip looping beneath the strap of your bag. You look down at your shoulder, then back up at him, before raising one brow, dropping the other. 

“I mean — I don’t know if it’s your colour?” 

Vernon barks out a ‘ha’, easily slipping your bag down your arm, the tips of his warm fingers brushing against your comparatively cool skin. You make no effort to stop him. He positions it on his own shoulder instead, the one furthest away from you so he can still walk right against your side. 

“There’s a reason I wear all black, okay?” He says. “It makes everything my colour.”

His fingers smoothly slip between yours as he says it. It was quite the move, and for a second you’re impressed. At least, until it turns out that this simple action seems to jolt him back to his factory settings, because—

“I’m so serious about this coffee machine, by the way.”

“I know you are,” you laugh, bumping your weight against him and squeezing his hand. “I’m counting on it.”

“Okay, so,” you start, settling into Vernon’s couch and tucking one of your legs up beneath you. You cradle the mug of coffee he’s made you — admittedly, the retro-style machine was pretty cool — between both of your hands, a thumb brushing over the raised pattern on the ceramic. The fresh air from the walk here seems to have decently sobered you; barring a pleasant buzz, you feel almost like you haven’t drunk a thing. “How did you get into music?”

Vernon matches your posture play-for-play, biting the inside of his cheek before he answers. He drank less than you in the first place, but he seems steadier now, as well.

“Uh… a couple things, I guess,” he starts. “I mean, my parents are big into music. Sometimes they'd take me with them to shows and stuff, had a bunch of CD’s all over the house — all that. You know? I really grew up on it, so…"

You nod, tilting your head to gesture for him to continue. 

“Then… I don’t know. There’s- okay, I was kind of a loser in high school,” he goes on. You roll your eyes; Vernon nudges your thigh with his knee playfully, shaking his head. 

“I just mean, I didn’t have a lot of friends.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “So…, I mean, that’s— that’s whatever. The point is that I spent a lot of time on my own and I basically had an earphone in any time I thought I could get away with it, and–... and sometimes even if I couldn’t.” He chuckles. “Weird. Most of my teachers didn’t like me much either.”

You laugh too now, and Vernon bows his head a little; every single one of his handsome features brightens up and you don’t really know where to look. His never-ending lashes are so long they cast shadows down onto his cheeks, and the ambient lighting reflects off his eyes so beautifully that they look like they’re glimmering. 

He goes on, “there was one, though. My bio teacher? She was really cool. She had a lot more time for me than the others did. And uh, she called me into her office after school one day and just said… basically, my options were to start giving a shit about… cells, and mitochon– whatever, or start really working for this great big thing that I spent all my time daydreaming about. And it’s been a little up and down, but…”

He trails off, shrugging on one side.

“I think you’re doing pretty okay,” you chime in, leaning one arm against the back of the couch and resting your head in your palm. “I bet those kids would lose their minds if they could see you now.”

“Oh?” Vernon asks, setting his coffee down on the side-table. You click your tongue at him.

“Don’t– come on.”

“No, seriously,” he laughs. “What do you mean?”

“I mean-…” you start, shaking your head. “Okay. People go out of their way to listen to you. Everyone who comes to one of your shows… that’s an hour, two hours, whatever – of making people feel exactly the way you want them to feel. They... all want to understand you. Right?”

Vernon just looks at you, forehead a tiny bit creased — the cogs in your brain tick away trying to find a better way to explain what you mean, but he finally speaks. (You’re glad, because you were struggling to come up with anything else.) 

“Shit, I thought that was just an in to say you thought I was hot, or something.”

You push at his chest lightly, your palm lingering on his vest a moment longer than is, perhaps, strictly necessary. 

“Shut up,” you groan. But a second later… “I guess there’s that, too.”

He sits back a little, pushing his hair off his forehead with a chuckle. “I dunno, I mean — I sort of… is it weird if I don’t really think about it that way?”

“Of course not,” you tell him.

He gets that look back on his face again; the pensive one, where he appears like he’s seconds away from saying something else, something important. But he falters, and when he glances back at you, his engine stalls. 

Then, with a shake of his head, he says, “wow, okay, enough about me. I’m so sorry. Can I ask you a question?”

You take another sip of your coffee and set it down, too, nodding ‘yes’. To be honest, you were quite enjoying talking about him; at the same time, you know what it is to feel a little too perceived sometimes, so you let him move on without argument. 

“How do you just… own a record store?”

You laugh. It’s been a while since you’ve had to explain this one. (When was the last time one of your dates was interested enough to ask?)

“I’m not as good a storyteller as you are,” you preface, mirroring him when he rolls his eyes, pretending not to notice that he shuffles even closer. You launch into it easily enough — the old store owner was a friend of the family, he let you work there while you were in college, took you on full-time after you dropped out. When his eyesight started deteriorating, he chose to retire and told you it was yours, if you wanted it. 

“Place would’ve closed down, otherwise,” you shrug. “But I couldn’t do it on my own, so I brought the guys in to help. Two years later... yeah. I guess that's how.”

The whole time as you talk, his eyes don’t leave you. He’s quite expressive, you find — whether he’s lifting a perfectly shaped brow, nodding along to what you’re saying, smiling at you… you feel listened to. When he’s sat across from you, you feel heard; you feel known.

“Well, first — take it back. You’re a great storyteller,” he says. You feel your face grow warm and you nudge him with your knee, but you don’t argue — you aren’t convinced he’d let you win, anyway. “But that’s… really cool? Actually.”

“Oh yeah, I heard nine-to-five retail is the coolest thing you can do, these days,” you laugh.

Vernon scoffs at you. “You close at six thirty.”

(How on Earth does he remember that?)

To avoid thinking about it too much, and so you don’t have to try to navigate asking, you roll your eyes.

“You’re right,” you say to him. “That’s way better.”

“Do you like what you do?” He asks, and you tilt your head at him. “Well — okay. If you ignore the… boring, back-office stuff.”

“Yeah,” you say after a pause. “I guess I do.”

“Then it’s cool.”

Your coffees both go cold as you talk more, and more, and more — he asks about your life, and growing up, your friends, and he answers all of your questions in turn when you ask them. He has an interesting way of talking about himself outside of his job; it’s not so much that you have to pry for information, but he’s not super forthcoming. It’s as if he’s taking all of your questions at face value, like he doesn’t know how to go about expanding on them. 

Maybe he’s just more of a listener, you contemplate once he turns yet another of your questions back on you and you teasingly pull him up on it. It flusters him, which you can’t help but find very endearing. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I just… you have such a pretty… voice?” he confesses, rubbing the back of his neck, ears burning pink. 

“Oh?” You ask, stumped for a moment as your heart lurches in your chest. When he nods, you find the gall from somewhere to say, “takes one to know one.” 

(You’re not sure how.)

And on it goes. On, and on, and on. More questions, more answers, more lighthearted shoves and lingering touches and shy glances away from each others’ scorching gazes as heat rushes to your cheeks. He even shows you his record collection and puts on one of his favourite albums for background noise before you settle back into the couch. It’s so natural, even when the vinyl runs to the end and the only noise from the player is a distant crackle. Being in his space and having mindless conversation after mindless conversation feels almost as comfortable as being in your own home. 

You notice something, as you’re rounding off a monologue about why your highschool math teacher was the worst person you’d ever met. A tiny hair on the apple of his cheek. One of those lashes you envy so much. Even as you try to focus back on your closing remarks, your eyes keep dropping to it and you trail off into silence a few words short.

“I’m sorry, you’ve-… got an eyelash,” you say, tapping roughly the same spot on your own cheek. 

“Mm. I have a few of them,” Vernon counters, wiping the heel of his thumb against his skin. He misses, though, and drops his arm back down with the lash still stuck to his face. 

You move before you can stop yourself, hand lifting up to his face and hovering just a few centimetres away.

“Can I?” you ask. 

Vernon nods, wordlessly. He goes cross-eyed and his lids twitch in a flutter as he watches you get closer; you brush the lash onto your thumb and he only breathes again when you rebalance it on the tip of your finger.  You hold it up to him, settling back into your own part of the couch; he just stares back at you. 

“Make a wish,” you prompt. 

His confusion is poorly concealed, head cocked to one side as he looks from the lash to you and back again. “Huh?”

“Don’t you…?”

He shakes his head. 

“Okay, wow,” you laugh, glancing down at your finger too. “You have to make a wish on your eyelashes when they fall out.”

“No, I got that part,” Vernon snickers. “I just mean — why?”

“I—” you start to explain, but you fall short of an explanation and frown instead, biting the inside of your cheek. “… I don’t know. It’s just what you’re supposed to do. I’ve always done it.”

The downturn of your lips doesn’t last very long, though. 

“Well, what if it’s not an eyelash? What if it’s like… one of my eyebrows, or something?” He asks. 

It's such a simple but off-the-wall response that you can't help but laugh, except it comes on so suddenly you start to choke on your own saliva. One of his hands circles around you and rubs soothingly between your shoulder blades as you cough, succeeding in bringing him even closer and failing to lower the fever you’re starting to feel creep up on you. By some miracle, you don’t drop the lash, even as you hack pathetically into the crook of your elbow; Vernon waits for it to subside, a weirdly fond look on his face all the while.

Now, when you turn your head, he’s right there. In your space. His arm still around your back, the glint of the bar pierced through his brow drawing your attention up away from those smiling lips. 

“I guess it just doesn’t come true? I don’t know,” you say, shaking your head. “I’ve never tried wishing on an eyebrow before.”

“I’m just saying,” he starts, falling back against the cushions now he knows you’re not suffocating. His arm doesn’t move, though. If anything, he sort of pulls you with him. “What if it ends up like a reverse wish. Whatever I ask for, the opposite comes true, or something.”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” you say, starting to bring your finger closer to yourself. 

Quicker than you can blink, he reaches to you and lightly lays his fingers around your wrist, stopping you in your path.

“Wait,” he says, pouting a little. “I didn’t say that.”

Both of you glance down to this new point of contact. Two sets of lips stay parted but two identical breaths remain held, burning in both your lungs and in Vernon’s. His gaze shifts back up to your face, eyes wide and wholly serious and unblinking. 

“What do I do?” He asks on the eventual exhale. It reminds you to breathe again, too.

“Close your eyes.”

It takes him a second to obey, but he does. His eyes flutter closed and you clear your throat, lifting your finger until it’s just in front of his face. 

“Make a wish.”

A few seconds later, his brows relax and he nods. 

“Then… blow.”

His lips purse and he pushes a breath through them, lifting the stray lash off your skin and sending it out into the room. He opens his eyes, then, smiling in a manner that you can tell is absolutely despite himself. 

He doesn’t move away, and his cologne, fresh and citrusy, mixes tantalisingly with the sandalwood candle he lit on your way back to the couch a little while ago, both accented by the chewing gum he popped to get rid of the mocha aftertaste still lingering on his breath.

“What did you wish for?” You ask, dropping your hand back down to your side.

He frowns. 

“I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you,” he says. “Pretty sure that’s against like… wish laws, or something.”

“Boring,” you chide, slumping your shoulders, but he just grins at you, darting his tongue out over his lips.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his Adam’s apple bob in a thick swallow and you can feel the gentle brushing of his thumb. The slow movements, up and down over the exposed area on your hip where your shirt has started to ride up, make you shiver, and you know your chest stutters when his fingers move to press wholly against your bare skin. You know he notices, because he does it again. And again, and again. 

It's maddening. You end up stuck in this never-ending feeling of falling head-first into his arms.

“Where do you think the laws stand on showing you, though?” He asks, inching a little closer.

You hold your breath, little more than anticipatory static flooding your brain. 

“I think they’re okay with it.”

You mirror, slowly, hooked in the gaze that has adrenaline dripping down the length of your spine like honey, and you can’t bring yourself to look away until you can practically taste him. He closes the space between you in half speed, but gently, like you’re both made of tissue, he brings his thumb and forefinger to your chin and touches his lips to yours. His nose presses against your cheek. 

It’s comfortable. It’s warm. It’s easy, it’s exhilarating, it’s perfect. You feel like your heart just might burst clean out of your chest—

But… you can’t.  

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp, tugging yourself away and clamping your hands over your mouth. “Shit — I’m-… I’m sorry.”

Out of nowhere, you’re fighting to catch a breath, head spinning in circles, and no longer in the good way. Have those beers finally come back to bite you in the ass? Or, deeper down, do you know your sudden intoxication isn’t alcohol related at all? Vernon shoots back from you like you’ve gone up in flames and he might catch, too — his eyes search your face as you scramble to get to your feet, and he looks… scared. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. You don’t respond right away, already looking around the apartment for where you left your shoes, already trying to locate your bag too. (As you try to swim towards the surface, you forget that it wasn’t you who still had hold of it when you came through the door and placed it on the loveseat back in the living room.) “Hey… is everything-…?”

“I’m fine,” you interrupt. You’re not. “I just-… I remembered-… I have to go.” 

You catch sight of your shoes, hidden behind the ones Vernon kicked off just after you, and you hurry across the apartment to get to them. 

No bag. Where’s your bag? Where did you leave it? But… ah, your keys are in one back pocket and your phone is in the other and maybe it’s not the end of the world if you never see that lipstick again—

“It’s really late,” Vernon says as you bend down to re-tie one of your laces, hovering just a few steps behind you. “Are you gonna be okay to get home?”

“I’ll be fine,” you rush. “I’ll get a cab.”

“Well, at least let me wait with you until it—”

“I said I’m fine,” you insist, you snap, only now looking up at him again. He tenses, but his eyes stay soft. It’s not in the same way you’ve seen them all night, though. Not in a nice way. Not glittering and full of intrigue. No. He’s hurt. And like a wounded animal, he takes several stiff, unsure steps back away from you, swallowing hard and looking anywhere, everywhere else. 

“I’m fine,” you say again, trying to sound a little quieter, a little calmer.  Even if that is miles away from the truth. 

“Okay,” he says, unconvinced and wringing his hands in front of his stomach. “If-… I’m sorry if that was-… I didn’t mean to make you-…”

You shake your head, standing back up to your full height, but you don’t close the gap between you. You don’t reach out to him, even though you want to. You just have to blindly hope he can read your mind somehow — there’s no way to explain it quickly enough without leaving you both in a mess, and right now... 

“Hey,” you say, forcing him to look at you once more. “It’s not-… it isn’t you. I just have to go, okay?”

He doesn’t seem overly reassured by this, but he nods anyway. “Can-… you text me when you get home?” He asks. Then, hurried: “Just so I know you’re back safe. That’s all.” 

You swallow hard. 

“Yeah,” you say on an outward breath, cringing at how exasperated it sounds. You don’t mean it to — you’re really not mad at him. “I will. I’ll message you.”

Biting the inside of his bottom lip, Vernon takes another step back. He doesn’t say anything else, just shoves his hands as far into the pockets of his jeans as he can and watches you. 

“I’ll message you,” you repeat, opening the door, speaking more to yourself than to him. “I promise.” 

Then, you’re stumbling out into his hallway. Hurrying down the too-narrow staircase. Leaning your back against the brickwork outside, a light drizzle of rain splashing all over your bare arms. The stone prickles through your t-shirt as you slide down, as you feebly try to suck thick, damp air into your lungs, as your head starts to ache, as a dull throb starts to reside behind your eyes. 

It takes ten minutes of staring into the empty road in front of you before you feel steady enough to attempt to wrestle your phone out of your pocket. No matter how many buttons you press, no matter how many times you tap it, the screen refuses to come to life and you only now manage to recall the ‘low battery’ notification that came through several hours ago. Briefly, it crosses your mind to go back upstairs and ask if you can request a ride on Vernon’s phone. You know he’d say yes. Hell, he’d probably throw a blanket over your shivering shoulders and fix you another cup of coffee while you waited, too. But you can’t. The look on his face as you slid out his front door is burned into your memory like a brand and there surely couldn’t be anything worse than having to go back in there and face him like this.

Five more minutes pass before you find the energy to stand, to stretch out your bunched up muscles, and start on the walk home. Another thirty until you’re trudging, sodden and blurry eyed and heavy-hearted, through your apartment door. Three and a half after that before you finally manage to text Vernon to say your phone died, but you’re back, you’re safe. That you’re sorry. 

Barely ten seconds tick by before it pops up that he reads your message. (Followed by ninety seconds of staring down at the bubble that says he’s typing, waiting for a reply that ultimately doesn’t come.)

And four hours later, you’re still wide awake, lying under your covers, staring blankly up at the ceiling. You think you ought to be giddy, squirming, hiding your smile in your pillow — that’s how first kisses are supposed to make you feel. Isn’t it? Alas, you’re flooded instead with visions of the last time a first kiss felt like it made this much sense; in place of all the endorphins you’re sure should be ricocheting off every inner surface of your brain, all you know is heartache and dread. 

So you stare, and you stare, and you keep on staring; even when your eyes start to burn, you stare a little more. 

thank u so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it! as always, likes, reblogs, comments & feedback are so so appreciated. parts 2 and 3 are very nearly finished, as well, so stay tuned.<3

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 11

Summary:

His hands tremble as he holds them in front of himself, and the room suddenly feels too tight. His pulse raises and he’s aware of every set of eyes on him now, including the shrewd glare of his father.

But most of all, he can feel Tiberius’s weighted presence, silent and steady. Tiberius hasn’t even acknowledged him for most of the evening, and yet now, with a simple caress, he’s reminding Tony of his power, of his control.

It’s deliberate, calculated, and that makes it all the more fucking infuriating.

“Sorry,” Tony gasps out. “My, uh. Foot fell asleep.”

Words: 13,112

Tony’s distracted. It’s why he misses so many of the signs.

And true, some hints that were once his most obvious tells are less apparent now. For the past week, he hasn’t given a second thought to pesky nuisances such as the constant throbbing of his scent glands or the ever-present flush of his skin.

The tightness in his lower abdomen feels like a factory setting whenever he’s in the same room as Bucky. And lately, his increased sensitivity seems more like an unexpected perk rather than a human-sized red flag indicating his looming biological crisis.

He’s practically a human slick-factory these days, impending pre-heat or not. What was once a source of shame linked to his deepest gender-specific insecurities has transformed into a nearly constant sensation that Tony has now, weirdly enough, grown quite apathetic to feeling in his underwear.

Sure, he’s done more loads of laundry in the past month than he’s done over the past two years, but it’s worth it to watch the way Bucky transforms when he detects Tony’s arousal. He’ll scrub his drawers and bedsheets in the sink every morning for the rest of his life if it means the Alpha will push out a breathy laugh, slot his thigh in between Tony’s, and croon:

“Oh, you poor thing. Wet for me already, sweetheart?”

Tony doesn’t remember Thursday night’s dream (if there even was one), but he wakes up on his stomach with his sleep shorts rucked down to his thighs. His release coats his belly and his half-hard cock, still fresh, while warm fluid dribbles out of his hole and drenches his cheap cotton sheets in a cocktail of bodily fluids that has his nose wrinkling.

Tony never knows what to make of his scent, usually—cloying, honeyed, and sharp to his own nostrils. Today, it’s practically overwhelming. He turns his head away and releases a low whine.

His lashes are wet, his lips red and bitten raw.

He knows one thing for certain, even while navigating through his post-climax haze—if he has to jerk off with his own hand or grind his mattress to one more half-baked orgasm, he’s going to fucking explode.

He goes through the familiar motions of cleaning himself off, his mind wandering. His muscles ache—he wants to crawl back into bed for the next week.

He sits through class and ignores the dull migraine pounding behind his eyeballs. He ignores the twinge in his jaw. He tries to ignore the—surprisingly aerodynamic—paper airplanes filled with study revisions that Rebecca Barnes launches onto his desk with frightening precision.

“You’re going to fail Home Ec. It’s called a ‘colander’, you dunce. Not a ‘water jail for vegetables’.”

“Leave me alone, wench,” he scribbles back, flicking the paper in her direction. He misses, and it hits Sue-Ann Whitaker—class snob and resident social climber—in the back of the head, one desk away.

The red-haired Omega casts him a glare fierce to melt carbon.

Tony responds by making an impolite gesture with his finger.

“You know, I heard the only reason Stark’s still here is because he got caught messin’ around, and now none of the Alphas want him,” Sue-Ann’s faux-whisper carries to two classmates Tony can’t be bothered to remember the names of. At the front of the classroom, their eighty-five-year-old professor grades papers at her desk, half-deaf and none the wiser. “He was supposed to be bonded off aaaaages ago, but now that all of New York knows he’s loose, no one’ll take him. Not even those Alphas shopping… secondhand.”

The girls snicker.

Tony rolls his eyes. If only he were actually getting any action, maybe he wouldn’t be dry-humping his pillow every night in his sleep.

“I heard that he was sneakin’ around with Rebecca Barnes’s brother. The army boy? My ma says she spotted them at Red Star on Sunday night. You know, that diner off Ellis Street?” Lackey Number One chimes in.

Tony doesn’t snap his pencil in half, but it’s a close thing.

From her own desk, Rebecca freezes.

“The older brother? James Barnes? Oh please, there’s no way,” Sue-Ann sniffs.

“I remember him,” Lack Number Two giggles. “He was here when Becca moved in. God, what a dish.”

The only dish on Tony’s mind is one he can crack over his own head so he won’t have to hear the rest of this conversation.

“They were sitting on the same side of the booth. Sharing a spoon. And—” Lackey Number One glances around conspiratorially. “—kissing.”

Becca shoots him a look, which Tony promptly ignores.

It’s a gross over-exaggeration, anyway. He tried one bite of Bucky’s pie, and the closest they got to any kissing was when Bucky hooked an arm around his neck and childishly licked the whipped cream off his cheek like an overzealous Saint Bernard while Tony sputtered in protest.

They had received several disapproving looks from the surrounding patrons.

Including, clearly, his classmate’s prudish mother.

“Whatever it is, it won’t last,” Sue-Ann declares. She sends another sneer in Tony’s direction. “Stark’s a boy-mega. My father says that his kind basically serve as chew toys for older men. Consolation prizes for disgraced, Alpha has-beens.”

Lovely.

“It’s a shame about the older brother, though,” Lackey Number Two sighs wistfully. “He’s gorgeous—like, a total dreamboat. That smile. I’d probably risk a little social impropriety myself to go to a diner with an Alpha like that.” Both lackeys burst into another round of giggles.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nancy,” Sue-Ann snaps. “He’s poor. The entire family is practically destitute. Have you seen Becca’s uniform? The buttons haven’t matched in six months. There are more patches than any original fabric. I suppose when you can’t afford a new uniform, you have to make do with what’s already falling apart.”

Becca scowls at her desk, her cheeks flushing with color.

“You don’t settle down with Alphas from families like that. My father’s a state representative; I already have offers pouring in from all over the country,” Sue-Ann boasts. “My Alpha’s going to be handsome and influential. I’ve already been corresponding with a boy who’s on his way to becoming a managing director for a private equity firm.”

Tony snorts. Loudly.

The three girls whip around to stare at him.

“Eavesdrop, much?” Sue-Ann hisses.

“Oh no, don’t flatter yourself,” Tony says. He’s carving at his pencil with Jarvis’s old pocketknife, shaping the wood to a fine point. By the end of class, he’ll probably have himself a make-do shiv.

God willing, he can use it to lobotomize himself.

“Just reminiscing on my own propositions. Of course, nothing so ostentatious as the, what was it? ‘Son of a managing director of a something-something-snooze-fest’? Mazel tov to you and your charming future doormat.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sue-Ann seethes. One of the lackey’s lips twitch. ”I mean, we all can’t expect to be so lucky. Last weekend, my sole offer was a pass from some sleazy U.S. Armed Forces Committee chairman.”

Becca bursts into a startled laugh, which she quickly disguises with a strangled cough.

“You’re a filthy liar,” Sue-Ann spits. “My father would never. My mother, God rest her soul, just passed this winter—”

“No, of course, you’re right,” Tony says with a dismissive wave of his hand. He hasn’t even bothered to look up from his shiv-pencil. “Richard, right? Representative Richard Wanker—sorry, Whitaker. Though, I suppose it must have been some other skank’s pervert of a father. New York is just so large, and my dumb, horny boy-mega brain gets all of the influential scumbags confused.”

“You complete WORM!” Sue-Ann cries, slamming her palms down on her desk. Several heads turn in their direction. “My father is an honorable man. He would never demean himself by associating with someone like you.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Your drunken slob of a father asked if I was ‘pure’—which, gross—and then made several observations about my ‘burgeoning wiles’. At this rate, Whitaker, you can expect to be calling me ‘Step-Dad’ by next Christmas.” He glides the pocketknife up the pencil with a satisfying scrape, and tosses in a wink for good measure.

He gets kicked out of Home Ec.

He’s supposed to go to the Headmaster’s office, but that’s always a colossal waste of time for all involved parties. Instead, he slinks back to his dormitory room and sleeps fitfully until it’s time for Jarvis to pick him up.

He wakes up feeling marginally worse, somehow. Groggy and disoriented, he tosses clothes into his duffle bag and splashes his face with cold water, hissing at the hypersensitivity to his pulsating glands.

By the time he’s dragging his feet into his butler’s awaiting chariot, he’s a half-conscious, delirious, shivering mess.

“Don’ feel so good,” he mumbles, tipping over and pressing his face into the cool, leathered interior of the Rolls Royce. “Might be dyin’.”

Jarvis takes one glance at him through the rearview mirror and sighs, long and heavy and audible.

“Oh, Tony. I truly have to commend your knack for somehow managing to escalate every potential disaster. Not to mention your gift for seeking out the most horrendous timing imaginable.”

“Missed you too, buddy,” Tony says into the leather. And then: “Wait, huh?”

“Having your real heat directly after we informed your father about your fake heat isn’t exactly ideal, you know,” Jarvis remarks, tone deceptively light.

Tony’s brain grinds to a halt.

“I’m not—” he pauses. He slaps a hand to his throat. His mating gland pulses so hot he can practically feel it vibrating under his palm. “Oh, my God.”

“Ah, I see you’re just now joining us in the real world. Welcome.”

“Oh my God. What the fuck, J. What the fuck.”

“You have always had a flair for the dramatics; however, I fear I’m missing the punchline to this particular bit.”

“Take me back,” Tony demands. He sits up too fast, and his head spins. He grips the headrest to keep from vomiting onto his shoes. “J, take me back. Turn around. Right now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Jarvis sighs, sounding truly apologetic. “Your father is having guests for dinner, and your presence is expected.”

“Dinner?” Tony wails. He falls onto his back and presses his fists into his eyes. “Howard and his fucking vanity celebrations. Jarvis, I can’t be at dinner. I’ve been in pre-heat since… fucking Christ, since last night. I’ll be fully out of commission in a few hours, max.”

He’s so stupid. He’s so, so stupid.

The signs were right there.

And he was too busy basking in the glow of five-day courtship to notice.

Tony hates spending his heats at The Institute. The designated heat rooms are sterile and impersonal, and after three days Tony feels more like a lunatic locked in a padded cell than anything resembling a sexually satisfied Omega.

But Tony hates spending his heats at home even more, where his father’s disgust and scorn permeate every wall of the Manhattan mansion.

Besides, there’s nothing quite as humbling as sobbing into your childhood pillow with two fingers up your own ass.

“You’ve had a … tumultuous week, I’m sure,” Jarvis says, not unkindly. “I’m sure many factors could have triggered your cycle.”

“Gross, Jarvis. Please never say ‘cycle’ ever again,” Tony moans petulantly. “This is a fucking disaster. Howard’s going to know I was lying. He’s going to know I wasn’t at school. He’s—”

“Relax, Anthony,” Jarvis cuts in. “I can’t smell you, yet. Chances are, your father won’t be able to, either.” Small mercies for Beta noses. “I’ve just become more attuned to your early… tendencies.”

“Flattering,” Tony says dully.

“We’ll get you washed up. We’ll use those scented oils your mother always buys you for Christmas that you pretend not to throw away. Ana keeps spares. You’ll sit opposite the table, as usual. You’ll behave yourself for one dinner, and then you can hide up in your room for the remainder of the weekend. Your father will be none-the-wiser.”

“That’s ambitious,” Tony croaks. His eyes are burning a little. “Who’s coming to dinner?”

“I’m not sure,” Jarvis admits, and Tony’s heart sinks like a rock into the pit of his stomach. “Ana was just told to prepare four extra place settings in addition to yours and your mother’s.”

“Any Alphas will know,” Tony whines. “They’ll smell me.”

“Any mention of Howard Stark’s son’s biological well-being at dinner would be highly inappropriate, I am certain.”

Tony snorts. “Hasn’t stopped any of Howard’s friends before.”

Jarvis sends him an exasperated look. “Bath. Oils. It’s still early. I am confident that you will be fine.”

Tony swallows heavily. His throat burns. “Monday,” he says. “You take me back Monday. Regardless of… it doesn’t matter. It it’s not… over.” He wipes at his eyes. “Monday, I go back to Brooklyn.”

He doesn’t specify The Institute. It’s not what he means.

Somehow, Jarvis knows.

His butler nods. “Monday,” he agrees softly.

Now that Tony knows he’s in pre-heat for certain, the symptoms suffocate him.

Ignorance can indeed be bliss. After all, ignoring his sticky thighs and half-hard cock is manageable when he’s fully aware that a libido gremlin dominates his every waking thought.

But this time, when he tears off his clothes in his ensuite bathroom and is confronted by a familiar, inevitable mess in his underwear, he panics.

The whine that erupts from his vocal cords is shrill and feminine. He sneaks a frenzied look at his reflection—flushed skin, wild eyes, noticeably swollen scent glands—and knows he’s doomed.

He’s cut it too close. His thoughts are mostly lucid, but he can feel the fog creeping in on the outskirts—the familiar haze that makes his mind go a little soft, lets his brain float in and out of that submissive space. The urge to succumb to his body’s cravings is already palpable—last night’s interaction with Bucky outside the school was enough to send him dropping, and that was almost twenty-four hours ago.

He rakes a hand over his face and resists the urge to scream.

When he dunks his head under the bath water, he briefly contemplates drowning himself.

He scrubs at his overly sensitive skin. He washes away the evidence of the past week with scent-neutralizing soap. He rubs floral-smelling oils into his glands and even spritzes down his underwear, though the sensation immediately makes him physically recoil. His body only craves one scent, and it’s certainly not the artificial aroma of his mother’s expensive jasmine perfume.

He tucks his non-cooperating prick into the waistband of his pants and prays to a foreign deity that tonight’s predictably dull conversation is enough to suppress his arousal and keep his body in check.

He refuses to focus on the sliver of dread that curls in the pit of his stomach. The distant recognition that this pre-heat feels so much more intense—is already taking a heavier toll on his body—than any heats previously.

That he’s craving the presence of a certain Alpha so deeply, it feels all-consuming. He can already feel his desire for Bucky taking root inside his body, echoing within his bones.

“I need a drink,” Tony announces, pushing into the kitchen ten minutes later. The fabric of his suit scratches at his skin with an intensity that makes him want to pluck his eyes out. “Vodka, whiskey, lighter fluid. Anything.”

Ana opens a hidden cabinet, and moments later, a bottle of Old Crow is thrust into his hands.

“Bourbon works,” Tony croaks, swigging the cheap liquor straight from the bottle. He relishes the burn. It distracts him from the burning in his own veins.

“You look terrible, Antal.”

“Thank you, I’m fully aware.” Tony waves the bottle of bourbon for emphasis. “S’why we have to blame it on me getting… er… how do you say ‘drunk as swine’ in Hungarian?” He takes another large gulp before the bottle is yanked from his lips. He frowns. “Heyyyy.”

“If you’re wasted at dinner, I’m the one who will have to hear about it from your mother,” Ana chastises. The Beta presses a palm to his forehead, causing Tony to hiss and flinch away. “You’re too warm.”

“Noted,” Tony says. He reaches for the bourbon, but Ana holds it out of his grasp. “Who’s all here?”

“Your father is entertaining his guests in the billiards room. A group that I recognize from the last dinner. The officer, the Omega woman. That funny-looking German.”

Dr. Abraham Erskine.

Tony curses.

Suddenly, it becomes glaringly clear why he’s being forced to attend supper.

No one revels in a power play like Howard Stark. By forcing Tony to share a meal and engage in social niceties with the man who once attempted to enlist him in some secret scientific war effort—without Howard’s consent, to boot—his father sends a clear message to both: he’s still the one in control.

Heaven forbid Tony have a pipe dream.

“Jarvis said there were four extra place settings,” Tony presses.

Ana rolls her lips, returning to her kitchen station.

“Mr. Stone will be joining a bit later. Dinner is at eight; you can stay if you don’t make yourself useless. Come, finish the silverware for me.”

Tony doesn’t move.

“Tiberius is coming?” His voice pushes out as a strangled rasp.

Tony can’t remember Tiberius ever attending a family dinner.

“He… insisted,” Ana says delicately.

Tony stares blankly at the wall behind the stove.

“Oh,” he says, because if he says anything more he’ll definitely throw up.

Ana touches his elbow. The contact startles him.

“We’ll seat him at the opposite end of the table. Near your father,” she says carefully. “He won’t know.”

“He’ll know,” Tony replies numbly. He blinks away from the wall and stares at his family’s cook.   “He… I’m not sure what he’ll do about it. But he’ll know.”

Ironically, the only one who appears oblivious to the situation is Howard.

Tony’s mother blinks at him.

“You look nice, dear,” she says in that typical absent way of hers. But her eyes, usually distant and unfocused, trail from his throat to his face, and for a brief, startling moment, Tony detects a flash of clarity. His Omega mother’s nostrils twitch, almost imperceptibly, and she reaches for his arm. Her fingers tighten around his sleeve. “Jasmine, right?”

Tony nods mutely.

She smiles. “Lovely.”

The dour Alpha—Colonel Phillips—regards Tony with a look of such pure bewilderment, Tony would probably find it amusing if he weren't vibrating with panic. He sits on the far end of the table from Tony and avoids eye contact.

‘No one will notice’, my ass, Tony thinks petulantly.

The British Omega woman, Agent Carter, quickly schools her expression and shakes Tony’s hand, but not before sending a fleeting sidelong glance at Dr. Erskine.

The German doctor simply smiles at Tony. Tony ignores him.

He sits beside his mother while the group crowds around Howard at the opposite end of the table and resists the urge to bury his head in his arms.

As far as humiliation rituals go, he has to admit that a group of strangers sniffing out his impending heat ranks pretty high up there.

“Just waiting on one more,” Howard assures them, grinning like a shark. “My business partner. Running a little later, should be here any minute. Don’t be shy, dig in. Miss Carter, more wine?”

“Agent,” the Omega says primly. “And no, thank you.”

The seat next to Howard’s is empty, and suddenly doesn’t feel far enough away.

“Tony,” his mother says quietly. Her voice doesn’t carry past the two of them. “Are you feeling alright, dear? You look quite peaky.”

“Swell, Ma,” he remarks. He swirls his soup with the spoon but can’t seem to bring it to his mouth. “Just tired.”

“Still… recovering?” She asks. “From last weekend, I mean.”

Tony’s spoon ceases its movements.

“Yes,” he says through his teeth. “Still recovering. Can we change the subject, maybe?”

He plays with his soup more than he manages to eat it, and his mother won’t stop casting him these frantic, worried glances, but miraculously, he somehow manages to survive the first course while preserving his dignity. Until:

“Sorry I’m late, everyone.”

Tony’s fork clatters to his plate.

Tiberius Stone sweeps the room, his presence immediately consuming the space like wildfire smoke—suffocating and inescapable.

Tony grits his teeth and holds his breath to avoid choking on it.

“Ty!” Howard exclaims. “The chair is all yours, my friend. Grab a seat.” He gestures to the vacant spot on his right.

A king and his regent.

But Tiberius isn’t looking at Howard. His ice-blue eyes are locked onto the Omega at the opposite end of the table, flushed and petrified and furious and trying desperately to conceal his emotional turmoil from escaping through his scent like a guiding torch.

For a brief moment, Tony’s own gaze flits to Stone’s, revealing a fleeting glimpse of something dark and predatory, only to be swiftly replaced by a facade of practiced neutrality.

The entire interaction lasts mere seconds, if that, but it feels like a lifetime. The Alpha’s nostrils expand, and Tony knows; he knows that Tiberius can smell him, even through the oils and the perfumes and the bullshit.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Tiberius chuckles with a good-natured wave of his hand. “I’m merely here to observe. Howard’s the pro at handling negotiations; I just sign the papers.”

The table laughs, Howard preens, and Tony watches with a dry mouth as Tiberius plucks the chair from next to Howard and stalks toward Tony’s end of the table.

“I’d rather not interrupt. Lord knows I frequently have Howard’s ear. You all can catch me up after dinner,” Tiberius offers. He pushes his chair next to Tony’s left. “Anthony, do you mind terribly?”

Tony gapes. The rest of the table goes silent.

Publicly, Tony doesn’t associate with Alphas. Not without a chaperone.

He hardly interacts with them. He doesn’t really speak to them. He certainly doesn’t sit directly next to them at his father’s dinner table.

As far as his parents are concerned, these are the first words Tiberius Stone has uttered directly to Tony since he presented.

His mother clears her throat. “I don’t think—”

“Can’t promise you’ll have as much fun on that side as down here,” Howard teases, signaling a servant for more wine. The rosy spots on his cheeks indicate he’s becoming healthily tipsy. “My son never did know when to keep his trap shut. But hey, pal, it's your funeral.”

“Howard, I’m not sure—”

“More wine, Phillips?”

And that’s that.

Tiberius presses in next to Tony, and when his shoulder brushes against the Omega’s, Tony drags his chair closer to his mother’s.

“Missus Stark. Tony.” Tiberius’s gaze flashes to both of the Starks. “You both look lovely.”

Maria smiles amicably. “Tiberius. So pleased you could join us.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Tony stares down at his placemat with a fixed, burning intensity and wills himself to ignore the looming presence of the Alpha just a few feet away.

His grip on his autonomy is already slipping with every inhalation of Tiberius’s encompassing, obnoxious pheromones, and Tony loathes the way his body betrays him.

The Alpha’s scent is everywhere—thick, invasive, clinging to his skin like it’s soaked into his very being. It’s overpoweringly earthy, like soil churned up by a storm, and beneath it lingers the faint metallic tang of iron, sharp and jarring, scraping against his senses. It slams into Tony like a tidal wave, raw and unrelenting, and he can’t stop how his pre-heat body responds, no matter how hard he tries to suppress his own primal instincts.

His subconscious doesn’t care that this scent feels wrong, that it grates against every rational part of him. His heat only cares that it’s Alpha, strong and undeniable, and it twists through him like a cruel mockery of what he truly needs.

He grips his fork with enough force to dent the sterling silver, the tension coiling through his body leaving his limbs feeling tauter than a bowstring.

Tiberius takes a sip of wine, and Tony avoids staring at the translucent, vampiric expanse of his throat.

“Maria,” the Alpha says. His voice is deep and controlled. Tony shivers. “Howard tells me you’re in charge of hosting the upcoming charity luncheon?”

“Oh, yes,” Maria replies pleasantly. “For the children. Education and care for those orphaned by the war. It’s going to be the event of the season.”

Tony takes his knife and stabs at his steak, pretending it's Tiberius’s head.

“I’m sure it will be simply dashing,” Tiberius says, and Tony’s mother beams.

Tony sends a long, resigned look toward the ceiling.

Tiberius prattles on with his mother over his head. They discuss luncheons and garden clubs, the latest opera, Maria’s bridge party. Tony chews his food without tasting it and challenges himself to hold his breath for dizzying expanses of time.

Lightheaded and feverish, he almost misses the brush of the Alpha’s finger against his thigh.

Tony’s breath hitches. It’s a ghost of a touch—Tony’s distracted, and the sensation is so light, so subtle that with anyone else, Tony might question whether he simply imagined it.

But then it happens again.

Tiberius’s hand, warm and insistent, slides across his thigh under the dinner table, and the sensation feels like an electric shock to his nerves. For a split second, he’s utterly paralyzed.

And then, without thinking, his legs snap away from the table, jerking him out of his seat with a sharp, involuntary motion. His plate clatters to the floor.

The sudden movement catches the small group’s attention, the quiet hum of conversation faltering as Tony’s chair scrapes harshly against the floor. He’s standing now, face flushed with mortification and the rush of blood in his ears, his eyes darting around in a blur as he tries to compose himself.

His hands tremble as he holds them in front of himself, and the room suddenly feels too tight. His pulse raises and he’s aware of every set of eyes on him now, including the shrewd glare of his father.

But most of all, he can feel Tiberius’s weighted presence, silent and steady. Tiberius hasn’t even acknowledged him for most of the evening, and yet now, with a simple caress, he’s reminding Tony of his power, of his control.

It’s deliberate,��calculated, and that makes it all the more fucking infuriating.

“Sorry,” Tony gasps out. “My, uh. Foot fell asleep.”

Tony wants to carve the rotten smirk off Tiberius’s face with his steak knife.

“Sit down, boy,” Howard orders. He snaps his fingers towards Tony’s mess of dishes. “Clean that up,” he directs sharply toward a member of his staff.

“I’ve got it,” Tony says numbly, dropping to his knees. Desperately looking for an excuse to escape back into the kitchens.

“Don’t be absurd; get back in your seat,” Howard hisses. “Now.”

Tony’s throat constricts. Tiberius’s pheromones are an electric crackle in the room’s dense ozone; an oppressive humidity that the Alpha does little to conceal.

It’s a game, Tony realizes, and he’s the prey.

“Apologies, everyone,” Tony rasps. He sinks back into his chair, feeling ill with trepidation, angling towards Maria until their knees are practically touching.

Tiberius is still watching him, his stare heavy and knowing, the silent challenge hanging between them.

His mother’s hand reaches out to feel his forehead, and Tony cringes away.

Why do people keep touching his fucking forehead?

“Anthony,” she gasps. “You’re burning up.”

Tony bats her hand away.

“M’fine.”

He is so not fine.

Tiberius’s presence is a plague. Every moment that passes, the Alpha’s own arousal—subtle, contained, but unmistakable—becomes more palpable, and Tony knows with dreadful certainty that his impending heat is the thing that’s drawn it out.

And Tiberius is letting his pheromones linger, just enough to make Tony’s skin prickle with discomfort. Reminding him that the storm in the air is real, and it’s closing in.

Because the sick bastard knows exactly what he’s doing—knows that the heat pulsing through Tony’s body is a weakness he can exploit without ever having to look at him.

When the Alpha’s foot grazes his leg during dessert, it takes every modicum of Tony’s self-control not to fling his spoonful of pudding at Dr. Erskine sitting across from him.

It’s not until dishes are cleared and coffee is poured and Tiberius deliberately squeezes Tony’s kneecap with deft fingertips, forcing a gush of slick to pour into his underwear, that the Alpha’s intentions swell like a symphony.

Tony spills burning liquid all over the tablecloth and wretches away from the table for the second time, chest heaving. His lungs on fire and his disposition murderous.

“Excuse my son,” Howard grits out. Tony can hardly hear him through the dull pounding in his ears. “Table manners have never been his strong suit. He’s acting like a—”

“Bitch in heat?” Tiberius interjects mildly.

Tiberius is wide-eyed and contrite. His palms are raised in defense.

“My sincerest apologies, truly. That was distasteful of me—I assumed everyone was aware.”

Tony doesn’t bother to stick around for a scandalized response because he’s already ripping himself from the table and barrelling into the kitchen with some excuse about helping Ana with the dishes.

He barely registers his feet moving, his body acting on autopilot as he bolts from the dining room. His vision blurs at the edges and his pulse roars in his ears, fingers trembling as he rips at the tie at his throat. By the time he shoves into the kitchen he’s shaking all over, slamming against the door as it shuts behind him.

His legs finally give out entirely and he slides down to the floor, his head dropping back against the wall as his chest heaves in shallow, rapid breaths. The coolness of the tile beneath him does little to soothe the feverish heat rolling off his skin. His fingers dig into his thighs as he tries to suppress the wave of shame and anger threatening to swallow him whole. He clenches his teeth, his jaw aching from the tension as he squeezes his eyes shut, willing the sensation to pass, willing himself to breathe.

The kitchen staff stares at him, bewildered.

“Antal?”

Tony blinks up at Ana, vision bleary.

The cook sinks down to her knees, pressing her palms to his face. Stabilizing his lolling head.

“Howard knows,” Tony says dully.

His mother bursts into the kitchen. Tony winces at the intrusion, the slamming of the door jarring to his heightened senses.

Maria takes in the sight of her son—an undignified, crumpled heap on the floor—and straightens her back.

“Ana,” she says calmly. “Our guests would like more coffee.”

Ana hesitates. Her hands are still pressed to Tony’s cheeks.

Tony pats her wrist. I’m okay.

He’s not, but.

The show must go on.

Ana’s reluctance is palpable, but she pulls away. Slowly, the rest of the kitchen staff trickles out of the room as well.

Tony ignores his mother. He stares at his slacks and wills her to disappear.

She doesn’t.

“Your father is… confused,” she says instead, after a heavy beat of silence. Her voice is collected, her posture perfectly composed. Tony kind of resents her.

He says nothing.

“He was under the impression that you experienced a heat last weekend. That’s what Jarvis informed us: why you spent the weekend away from home. At The Institute.”

Again, Tony says nothing. He just sits there—shaking and raw. His fingers curl into fists against his thighs.

His distress leaks from his ears, but still, he keeps his mouth shut.

Maria sighs. “Tony,” she says carefully, like she’s speaking to a spooked, foreign animal and not her teenage son. “About Tiberius—”

“Tony!” Howard’s voice cracks like a whip. His father storms into the kitchen, reeking of fury and wine. “You.” He points to Tony on the floor. “Get up. Now.”

“Howard,” Maria says, tone placating. She places her hands on her husband’s bicep. “Let’s just try and be rational about this; I’m certain there is a perfectly reasonable explanation—”

“Our son can’t even sit through a simple dinner without embarrassing us. Do you have any idea what this looks like for me? I’ve been trying to iron out a private contract with the United States military for months. But you just have to make everything about you, don’t you, Tony?” Howard laughs, abrasive and sardonic, and Tony turns and presses his cheek into the wall. He screws his eyes shut and tries to ignore the way he’s already losing the grounding he has on his mind, the edges of his brain turning soft and weak.

“He’s in heat, Howard,” Maria mollifies. “He can’t help the way—”

“He’s always in fucking heat. We have a son who can’t keep it in his fucking pants. This is getting ridiculous. You’ve been trying to push off his bonding, and I’ve listened, I’ve been reasonable. But enough is enough, Maria.”

“If I may,” interjects a fourth voice.

Tiberius pushes past the kitchen door, cool gaze darting to Tony’s position on the floor before flickering to Tony’s parents. “I beg you pardon, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I simply came to apologize. But I believe I may have some sort of… logical explanation, for your son’s predicament.”

Tiberius’s argument for Tony’s second heat justifies the existence of his last, nonexistent heat— which Tony is certain Tiberius knows never actually occurred.

He listens with growing dread.

“Tony is an unmated Omega. His cycles aren’t regulated yet and won’t be until he’s fully bonded. It’s not uncommon for unbonded Omegas to respond dramatically to… external stimuli.”

Howard gives Tony a withering look. “External stimuli?”

“It is my belief that Tony is suffering a re-bound heat. His biological impulses are most likely still sensitive from last weekend’s heat. Omega cycles are unpredictable; no one knows for certain how long it takes for the hormones to flush out of the system. If an Omega were to encounter, say, a biologically compatible Alpha so soon after a heat cycle, with an increased amount of heightened hormones still coursing through their body, well. It’s fully likely that this interaction could trigger another heat.”

Tony feels like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

He gapes at Tiberius in horror.

“Are you saying…” Howard’s brow furrows as he stares at his trusted advisor. “That your ‘biological compatibility’ with my son triggered a re-bound heat?”

Tiberius holds his hands out, shrugging his shoulders modestly. “It’s just a theory. I sensed something at dinner—you know, Howard, that my interactions with your son up until this point have been limited. I had no way of knowing prior… but, well.” He flashes his boss a grim smile. “I would be lying if I didn’t say that our close proximity tonight didn’t create a sense of intrigue. Omegas are fascinating, delicate creatures; like most Alphas, I feel a certain draw to them at a base level. I’ve heard rumors of a stronger sort of connection… one that transcends biology. If my instincts are correct, I am quite certain that our—affinity, if you will, very well could have been the factor that rekindled your son’s heat.”

The silence that follows is stretched. Endless.

Tony can’t move. His mind reels, a chaotic tangle of rage and realization as Tiberius’s words sink in like slow-moving poison.

The audacity, the sheer nerve of this man, to stand there so calm, so nonchalant, weaving this fabricated explanation while Tony’s entire world threatens to shatter around him.

Howard’s expression shifts, his frown deepening into something sharp and contemplative. “Rebound heat,” he says flatly, his gaze snapping to Tony. “Because of you?”

Tony opens his mouth to protest, to say something, anything, to deny it, but no sound comes out. His throat is dry, his tongue heavy, his pulse pounding too loud in his ears for him to string together a coherent thought.

Tiberius, the raging lunatic, has the audacity to look almost apologetic. “As I said, it’s just a theory. But if true, it would explain a great deal.” His pale eyes flicker to Howard. “Sir, this could even be seen as… fortuitous. A compatibility this strong is exceedingly rare. It could suggest—”

“Enough.” Howard’s glare pins Tony in place. “Well?”

Tony feels his throat tighten, the words of protest clawing at his tongue but refusing to emerge. If he denies it—if he even so much as hints at the truth—then Jarvis’s carefully constructed alibi crumbles, and Ana’s involvement comes under scrutiny. Both had lied for him, bent over backward to give him the freedom he so desperately needed, and now…

Now, Tiberius had him trapped, right where he wanted him.

“I… I don’t know,” he forces out, the words bitter and foreign on his tongue. “It’s been a strange week. Lots of Alphas at the gala.” The glare he sends in Tiberius’s direction is laser-sharp, pointed enough with the intent to melt the Alpha’s brain behind his skull. “Pretty sure I would respond the same way to a little heavy petting from the mailman.”

“Regardless,” Tiberius’s voice is suave, measured, the very picture of a benevolent Alpha with the best intentions. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Howard. Compatibility at this level could even be considered an advantage.”

Howard barks out a laugh, crossing his arms. “You think this is an advantage?”

“In the right context,” Tiberius says smoothly, “yes. A bond with an Alpha whose instincts align so strongly with Tony’s could stabilize his cycles, perhaps even regulate them more efficiently. Of course, I wouldn’t presume—”

“Please, Christ, no more presumptions,” Tony butts in, finally meeting Tiberius’s infuriatingly calm gaze. “Haven’t you already prattled on about this being ‘just a theory’?”

Tiberius’s lips twitch, holding back a smirk. “Of course,” he says mildly. “I only meant to offer some insight. I’ll take my leave, if that’s what you wish.”

Howard grunts. “You’ve done enough. Go.”

Tiberius dips his head slightly, gazes at Tony with something carnivorous in his icy expression, then turns on his heel, striding out of the kitchen as though the entire situation had been nothing but a minor inconvenience.

The oppressive silence returns. Maria hovers nearby, her expression unreadable, while Howard continues to glare at Tony as though he were a bug squashed on his windshield.

“Well?” Howard snaps. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

Tony bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, willing himself to stay silent. He can’t risk saying the wrong thing, can’t risk making this godawful situation worse. So he shakes his head, lowering his gaze to the floor.

Howard made a disgusted sound. “Unbelievable. If this gets out—”

“Howard,” Maria said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough.”

Tony risks a glance at her. Whatever passes through her eyes is fleeting, and her usual composure returns quickly as she turns to him. “Go to your room, Tony,” she says softly. “We’ll handle the guests.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With shaking hands, he pushes past them and out of the kitchen, his steps wobbly as he makes his way toward the relative safety of the upstairs wing.

And as he climbs the stairs, his stomach twists with the sickening realization that Tiberius had just tightened his grip on the strings, leaving Tony to play the part of the obedient puppet

“Telephone,” Tony says numbly. “Need the telephone.”

Jarvis pushes the device into his hand, and Tony dials the number he memorized by heart the moment Bucky tucked the slip of paper into his palm, seven digits scribbled in hasty black ink.

He sinks to the floor of the Jarvis’s private quarters, cradling the telephone in his ear, and pulls his tie and suit jacket off. Unbuttons his shirt to his sternum. Presses his forehead against the wood of the desk and instructs the operator to connect him to the one person who might keep him from completely falling apart.

The phone rings. The receiver clicks. And then:

“Hello?”

Tony’s lower lip wobbles.

“Hiya, Rogers.”

“Tony!” His friend sounds relieved. “Buck said you were gonna call. It was getting a little late; I figured—” Tony hears faint rustling in the background, and then Steve’s voice away from the receiver, “Yeah, it’s him. Hold on, just—hold on.”

Tony clutches the telephone between his sweaty palms like a lifeline. Ana and Jarvis bustle around the apartment, stealing stealthy glances, pretending not to eavesdrop.

Tony hears more rustling, followed by Steve yelping, “Ow, Barnes, Jesus. Fine, Christ, take it—just, tell ‘im I said goodnight.” A little louder: “Goodnight, Tony!”

“Tony?”

Tony’s breath catches in his throat, the sound probably audible through the receiver.

He swipes at his eyes.

“Tony? You there?”

“Yeah,” Tony croaks. “Yeah, hi, I’m here.”

Tony hears the rush of Bucky’s exhale, and it’s the loveliest sound he’s heard all damn night. It cracks his splintered heart in half.

“Tony,” Bucky sighs. “Hi, darlin’. It’s getting late, didn’t think you were gonna call.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry. Got stuck at dinner.”

“No, hey, don’t apologize. I’m real glad you did.” He sounds like he means it, too, and Tony wants to cry.

Because two sentences from Bucky is enough to release that ugly, hateful feeling clenching in his chest. A quiet sense of rightness floods him, momentarily, replacing the noise and the confusion with something simpler, purer. The chaos in his head quiets.

The memory of Tiberius’s touch still burns on his skin. The way his body had responded to the Alpha’s presence—it was purely primal, a biological pull. Something out of Tony’s control.

But the way he feels when he’s surrounded by Bucky Barnes—even miles away, through the fragile connection of a telephone—is something sound. Sure.

A connection beyond hormones or heat or anything fleeting.

Even at a distance, even with nothing but memories to accompany him, he feels it—an anchor, a tether that keeps him from spinning out of control. Because with Bucky he knows, without a doubt, that something exists beyond the biology. Even if he can’t put a name to it, Tony recognizes a kernel of belonging that no amount of chemical attraction or external influence can replicate.

And that quiet epiphany after a night of shame and fucking chaos—that nothing had ever compared to the physical, mental, or emotional connection he shares with this Alpha—is relief unlike anything he’s ever known.

“Are you okay, Tony?”

Tony blinks up at the ceiling. His head feels foggy.

“Bucky?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be mad,” he begs.

A soft sigh through the phone. Tony wishes he were here.

“Could never be mad. Not at you.”

And God, if Tony isn’t already dreading the day Bucky will inevitably stop feeling that way.

“I’m going into heat,” he whispers.

Bucky’s lungs hitch audibly through the telephone, and Tony is pretty sure the Alpha stops breathing.

“You’re—” Bucky clears his throat. Tony pictures him running a hand through his hair, like he does whenever he’s anxious. “You’re in heat?”

“Going into heat,” Tony says miserably. “I’m in pre-heat. Have been since… last night, probably. It’ll probably hit full force tonight; it’s getting worse. I—” he licks his lips, chapped and bitten. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I usually notice. Everything’s been, uh. Different.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long time. Tony’s almost worried that he’s hung up. Until:

“Sweetheart,” the Alpha rumbles, low and steady. Tony rolls his forehead against the desk leg and suppresses his whimper. “Oh, Tony. I knew… fuck, I knew something was off. You smelled so—” Tony can practically hear Bucky gritting his teeth. “But you always smell so fuckin’ sweet. I should have—” The Alpha bites out another curse. Tony squeezes his legs together.

“Come home.”

Home. Tony shivers.

“I can’t,” Tony groans. “My parents know. It’s a long story. Everything’s a mess. But I’m stuck here for the weekend.”

Bucky makes a noise of protest, something deep and primal, and Tony realizes that it’s probably not too long before he’s staining his butler’s floor with the evidence of his arousal.

“You should be here. Damn it. I don’t like the idea of you all alone in that house.”

Tony lolls his head backward. Croaks out a laugh.

“Yeah, well. You and me both, pal.” He doesn’t inform Bucky that he’s absolutely certain that this heat, in particular, is going to rock him.

His heats are always miserable and unsatisfying; however, this time, he has to contend with hormones are already a fucking mess due to his body’s very specific Bucky-Barnes-shaped-cravings.

Not to mention Tiberius’s wildly unnecessary interference.

The crash is going to be catastrophic, no doubt.

“When can you leave?” Bucky’s voice is gravelly, and it’s doing little to help reign in Tony’s already fleeting self-control.

“Jarvis already promised to take me back Monday. But I—my heats are always three days, at least. Sometimes four.” Not to mention Tony’s convenient susceptibility to post-heat sickness.

“Monday,” Bucky repeats. “Monday, you come back to me.”

Tony shudders.

“M’gonna be a mess, still. The worst of it’ll be over, but there will be, ah. After-effects.”

“I’ll take care of you.”

Tony’s face flushes, and he cups his hand over the receiver to give himself more privacy from the Jarvis’s prying ears.

“You don’t…” Tony’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. “I know we haven’t really talked. About that. I’m not expecting, uh, anything. I wouldn’t expect you to…” He trails off pathetically, cheeks flaming.

Bucky makes a noise into the phone, rich and throaty, and Tony’s toes curl in his socks.

“M’not gonna fuck you yet, gorgeous. Need you clearheaded for that. When you—fuck—when I get you coming on my cock for the first time, you’re going to be lucid.” Bucky’s voice is gravel and grit.

The sound that comes out of Tony’s lungs is an undignified moan. His own cock stirs in his trousers, and he draws his knees to his chest.

“Know this heat is gonna hurt, sweet thing. God, I’d do anything to be there with you. I’d kill a man to come take care of you.” Bucky’s delivery drops several octaves, sending reverberations that vibrate through Tony’s ribs. “Know you’d be so perfect, so sweet for me. Such a good boy for your Alpha, right, baby?”

Oh.

Your Alpha.

Tony bites down on the fleshy part of his palm and squeezes his eyes shut. He feels himself slipping, fast.

“Uh-huh,” he says instead.

“My beautiful, sweet boy. My perfect Omega. Just a few days, doll. Ride it out for a few days, and then you’re all mine.”

“S’not good,” Tony slurs uselessly. “By myself. After a while, can’t even…” He���s not usually able to make himself come anymore after he hits the height of his heat, on day two. Just writhes out the remainder in over-stimulated agony. He can’t reach the spot inside himself that his body craves, can’t simulate the pressure that he needs to crest that peak.

Bucky makes a wounded noise over the phone. “I’ve got you, pretty. I’ll take care of you. Make you feel so, so good.” Tony doesn’t whine, but it’s a close fucking thing. “I’ll take away all the hurt, sweetheart. Feels so good when I get my hands on you, my mouth on you, doesn’t it? When I kiss you nice and right, get you all sweet for me.” Bucky’s croon through the telephone is borderline obscene and just what Tony needs, making him feel deliciously dizzy. “You’re such a good boy for me, Tony. Always so good for me. Come home, and I’ll show you have fucking lucky I am to have you. My sweet, perfect boy.”

And Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s doing, really. Washing away the sins of Ty, replacing the acrid pheromones in Tony’s nostrils with something familiar, something trusted and sacred.

Dropping him right into his heat in a way that feels safe, cocooned.

“Promise?” Tony whispers.

“Promise, baby,” Bucky says back, hushed like a vow. “Think you’ll be able to call back tomorrow? Check in?”

“Prob’ly not,” Tony admits. “Can have Jarvis call you.”

“That’d be great. So thoughtful of you, honey,” Bucky praises, and Tony sighs.

“Miss you,” Tony says, voice wobbly.

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath over the telephone. “I miss you more, sweetheart. Thank you for calling. Are you gonna be okay?”

Tony’s mind drifts to Ty. He pushes that thought out just as quickly as it creeps in. “Maybe. Probably. Dunno. Hate it.” He rubs his hand over his face. “Hate this.”

Bucky lets out a strained laugh. His tone, when he speaks, offers no room for argument.

“Next heat, Tony, you’re with me.”

It is, predictably, the worst weekend of Tony’s life.

His heat rips through him like a raw hunger, tearing him apart from the inside.

He hardly has time to drag himself out of his second bath of the night (scrubbing the artificial oils and perfumes out of his glands) before he’s crawling into bed, naked and sobbing, hand wrapped around his weeping dick and wringing himself to the first of several wholly unsatisfying orgasms.

There’s nothing to extinguish the fire coiling through his veins, nothing to stop the relentless cramping in his abdomen. His desire is punishment, and he spends the next three nights in a delirious, frustrated state of constant over-stimulation, chasing a non-existent release. It doesn’t matter how many times he comes—by Sunday night, his cock is red and practically hot to the touch, too sensitive for his own hand anymore.

His fingers are no use, either; he can’t replicate that sense of fullness that his body demands.

Every time his heat hits, he almost understands why so many young Omegas get bonded off as soon as they present. The agony of suffering through his heat alone is so awful, so excruciatingly unbearable, that Tony knows he would have surrendered to Tiberius and his earthy, metallic pheromones by the second day if only to extinguish the flames temporarily.

The treacherous thought only adds to his overall misery.

He spends Saturday and Sunday in an incoherent, feverish daze, spilling bodily fluids all over his sheets and crying out for his Alpha into an empty room. Tony can’t stop Bucky’s name from tumbling past his lips like a drunken, agonized prayer, and when Jarvis half-carries him into the bathtub on Monday morning, he’s sore, raw, and shivering.

“This never becomes less humiliating,” Tony grumbles, swatting away his butler’s hands so he can scrub his own hair. His aching limbs scream in protest. A vast, empty chasm is starting to form in his chest—a deep, gaping void of loneliness that always looms during Tony’s more difficult drops.

If he starts fixating on it, the pressure becomes enough to restrict his breathing.

“I helped change your diapers,” Jarvis reminds him conversationally.

“Must we bring this up, every time you see my ticker?”

Jarvis drives him back to Brooklyn late Monday afternoon—after Tony washes up, eats as much of a sandwich as he can stomach, and sleeps fitfully until his father leaves for a work trip to some army base in New Jersey.

The worst of it is over—that’s to say, he’s no longer grinding into his come-soaked mattress for the umpteenth time, two fingers pumping into his ass, teeth tearing holes into his pillowcase—but he’s still in heat. On the downswing, mostly, and he hasn’t been able to touch his cock without hissing since Sunday afternoon, but the urgency no longer feels as ‘life-or-death’, so it’s a small victory.

His lower abdomen still clenches and cramps like a motherfucker, though, and he’s still daydreaming about the sweet, glorious, mouthwatering relief of an Alpha’s knot in a way that is probably devastating to Omegan suffragists and the feminist scholars whose journals he likes to sneak from the prohibited shelves of his school’s library.

When Jarvis finally pulls up to the Brooklyn side street, Tony practically falls out of the car in his urgency to reunite with people whose scents don’t turn his stomach. He bids his loyal butler adieu, trips up the rusty fire escape, and crawls through the familiar fourth-floor window Bucky promised to leave open for him, practically keeling over when he’s greeted with the glorious, familiar concoction of

Wintercedarfirewoodturpentineoilpaintsnowfallcharcoal.

His foot catches on the windowsill. Lacking any proper balance or strength, he tumbles gracelessly to the floor, landing flat on his back with his limbs sprawled.

Tony’s heart beats an erratic cadence against his ribs as he sucks in pheromones and blinks at the ceiling.

He inhales Steve. He inhales Bucky.

And that’s where Steve finds him, collapsed on the Alpha’s kitchen floor, releasing a syrupy warble of a moan that has his friend blushing up his ears.

“You made it," Steve observes, carefully diplomatic for a man who purposefully keeps several feet of distance as he regards Tony with a slight, shocked stupor.

“You know me and my grand entrances,” Tony croaks back at the ceiling. “Bucky left the window open. We felt it was best not to alert the neighbors of my current, ah, disposition.”

Tony can tell when Steve scents the air because the Alpha’s pheromones immediately swell into the space between them in a way that sends his weakened pulse hammering.

Steve’s pupils visibly dilate, and his blush heightens, but he doesn’t show any other indication that Tony’s heat is affecting him. Instead, he peers down at the Omega on his floor, and asks, “Are you hungry?”

Tony is not hungry.

Not for food, anyway.

But Steve coaxes him up with careful, platonic touches and helps him to the kitchen table. He regards Tony attentively, his brow furrowed, while Tony hugs himself with his arms, feeling lightheaded and woozy and a tad self-conscious.

The déjà vu is staggering.

"Wait here," Steve commands, as if Tony has anywhere to go. He disappears into Bucky’s room and returns shortly, a bundle of fabric in his arms.

“It’s Bucky’s nightclothes,” Steve explains. “And an extra quilt from the linen closet. One of his. I just figured… I don’t know. That it might help? For nesting?” The Alpha’s cheeks are bright, fire engine red. “I might be a little off base, I’m just goin’ off what I’ve heard. From school and books, things like that. I’ve never actually been around an Omega in heat before.”

Tony’s throat burns as he forces a swallow.

He’s never nested.

He never had anything to nest with, really, so he never saw the appeal.

“He should be home soon,” Steve continues anxiously, noting Tony’s extended silence. “He’s off from work at seven. If you want to… you can lie down if you need to; I’m sure you’re tired. Buck said to let you sleep, was sure you were going to be exhausted. And you look—” the Alpha cuts himself off, teeth sinking into his lip.

Tony—with his mussed hair and flushed skin and drowsy, half-lidded stare and abominable, sunken posture—knows exactly how he looks.

He takes the clothes from Steve. The bundle of fabric is warm and smells so heavenly he might keel over in his chair and black out onto the floor.

Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.

“These are perfect,” he rasps. The pheromones wafting from his Alpha’s pajamas rebound into his nose, his head, his dick, cracking into the parts of his body that have been relatively dormant for the past few hours. Reigniting sensation in his nerve endings.

Steve smiles softly. “I’ll warm up supper.”

Tony changes into the nightclothes and wraps the quilt around himself like a shawl, cocooning himself in the warmth of the only man who makes his blood sing.

It’s exquisite.

He collapses back into his chair, feeling drugged, euphoric, and half-hard. Everywhere he turns he’s surrounded by soft fabric that smells like Bucky, clinging to his skin and seeping into his pores, and the dying embers of his heat spark back to life in his veins.

Steve reheats dinner on the stovetop. It’s clear that the Alpha is on edge—his movements are carefully tight, his muscles rigid and his jaw flexing frequently. Still, he regards Tony with subtle, easy restraint and only reveals his discomfort through the barest slip of his microexpressions.

“Eat,” he says simply, pushing a warm plate under Tony’s nose. “And then you can sleep.”

Tony shakes his head. “Don’t wanna sleep. Slept all day.”

“Y’look like you’re about to collapse right into your carrots.”

“Blame my hormones, Rogers, not my circadian rhythm.”

Steve huffs. He fixes his own plate and sits across from Tony. His eyes are completely pupil, his nostrils flared, and his cheeks have a constant, splotchy pink hue. It’s the only indication that anything is amiss as he cuts into his own meal and chews thoughtfully.

“I didn’t schedule 'entertain a cranky Omega in heat until his Alpha comes back' into today’s itinerary," Steve muses. “Aren’t you supposed to be all sweet and sensitive right now? You know, amenable, affectionate,” he raises an accusatory brow, “docile?”

Tony launches a carrot at him. It hits the Alpha square between the eyes. Steve yelps.

“Sorry to ruin this lurid domestic fantasy, but the only thing feeling particularly sensitive right now is my dick after three days of being rubbed raw.” Tony spears a carrot with his fork and ignores Steve’s indignant sputtering. “If there are any Omegas managing solo heats with the poise and grace of Mother Teresa, please direct them to me. I’d love a few tips.”

Steve blinks at him, wide-eyed and sincere. “What would help?” He asks.

Tony recognizes his own posturing, aware that in his current state, there’s probably no discernible universe where Bucky’s cock inside him wouldn’t reduce him to a docile, mewling, submissive mess.

That, however, is not any of Steve’s business.

Instead, Tony asks, “Do y’have a deck of cards?”

When Bucky returns home an hour later, it’s to a thoroughly incensed Tony, bundled in his nightclothes, wrapped snuggly in his quilt, scowling terribly as the Omega loses his sixth consecutive round of Gin Rummy to a smug, self-satisfied Steve.

“Steven Grant Rogers, you’re a dirty, filthy cheat,” Tony sulks, tossing his hand onto the table. “I don’t know how. Don’t know why. What are you doing, marking cards? Stacking the deck?”

“Could’ve warned you to pick a different game. He’s godawful at Pinochle.”

Bucky strides into the apartment, smudged in soot, smile weary but eyes sparkling, and Tony briefly forgets what muscle groups are used to inhale because the Alpha is immediately crowding into his space. Bending over to wrap his arms around Tony from behind, around Tony’s blanket cocoon, and nuzzling into the Omega’s neck. Relief becomes palpable, tangible, in both Bucky’s body language and his scent. “Would’ve warned you that he’s a real sore winner, too.”

Tony’s tongue cements to the roof of his mouth. After a weekend of heat-induced fantasies of Bucky doing heavily explicit things to his body, his physical presence feels somewhat like a fever dream.

He thought bundling himself in Bucky’s clothes was enough to reignite his stagnating heat, but even that pales in comparison to the blazing flames that ignite in his belly from being bracketed in Bucky’s embrace and feeling his smile against his throat.

“S’all luck,” Steve volleys back, shuffling the cards with a modest shrug. “Just had some good hands. Dinner’s on the stove, Buck.” Too busy soaking in his victory to regard the way Bucky noses at Tony’s jawline. The way Tony trembles and sags in his embrace.

Pulled and picked apart during their separation, already slowly getting woven back together.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Bucky croons lowly, breath caressing Tony’s ear. “Did you eat?”

Tony nods.

“Good boy.” He hugs him tighter and presses his lips to Tony’s temple before releasing him. Tony tilts his chin up to follow him like a flower seeking sunlight.

Like Steve, Bucky’s composure is betrayed by small hints. The faintest sliver of gray iris, overshadowed by glittering, iridescent pupil. The way his jaw swells below his ear, Tony’s eyes fixating on the knot of tension. The warmth to his skin, curling from the unbuttoned expanse of his chest up to his temples.

Unlike Steve, however, Bucky doesn’t bother masking his scent signal. It blooms and swells, rich and musky, feeding off Tony’s pheromones to respond with an aroma so tailored to Tony’s specific brain chemistry that he has to bite down his primal urge to moan like a wanton animal.

The instincts that drive the deepest parts of Tony’s heat edge back into his body and churn like a roiling, crashing wave in his gut. His knees lock underneath the table.

Bucky keeps a hand on him. Sweeps it through his hair. Tony’s lashes flutter.

“I’m going to clean off, real quick.” If Bucky’s telling him or Steve, he doesn’t know. He lets the Alpha’s voice wash over him like a drug. “Keep an eye on him, alright? Try not to do anything that sends him down any further.” A thumb caresses his cheek. Tony pushes into it. “He’s dropping fast.”

“He was fine,” Steve says, a little quiet. Stunned. “A few moments ago. I mean, I knew he was in heat, but. He wasn’t… we played cards for an hour. You know Tony, he was talkin’ all about chemical radiation. Stuff I couldn’t keep up with.”

“Vita radiation,” Tony slurs, dropping his forehead against Bucky’s hip. The Alpha buries his hand under the blanket, under the edge of Tony’s shirt collar, palm flush against the expanse of Tony’s neck. Grip warm, steady and secure. Tony shivers. The skin-to-skin contact turns his spine turns to liquid. “Stabilizin’ properties. An’… electromagnetic wavelengths.”

“He’s in heat, jerk. What do you expect him to do next, help you with the dishes?”

“No thanks; I’ve already witnessed him attempt that task clearheaded. It’s fine, go shower. I’ll help him into your room—”

“Don’t touch him,” Bucky says, command sharp and laced with something a bit carnal, a bit more uncontained. Steve sighs.

“Put your knot away. Ain’t gonna try anything, Jesus.”

“Christ, don’t ask me to be level-headed here, Stevie. It’s taking every ounce of restraint to keep myself from throwing your scrawny ass out the window for stinking up the room.”

“He’s an Omega in heat. I’m not some superhuman who’s suddenly immune to thousands of years of biology. But he’s also Tony. I would…” Steve’s throat clears, hoarse and strained. “I would never, alright?” His voice quiets. “You know that.”

Tony tunes out the posturing until Bucky’s pulling Tony into his bedroom himself. He coaxes the Omega to sit on the edge of the bed but Tony refuses, doesn’t want to pull out of Bucky’s embrace, and when his hands cradle Tony’s cheeks, Tony nips at his thumb.

“Hi,” Tony says finally.

Bucky rocks his forehead against Tony’s. “Hi, honey.” He pulls back to assess Tony, his gaze sweeping over the disheveled, drowsy Omega. “How are you feelin’?”

Tony considers the question for a beat too long.

“Warm,” he says.

Bucky’s lips twich. “I can tell. You feel warm to me, too.” He pushes Tony’s curls out of his eyes. “Are you tired? Do you need to sleep?”

Tony shakes his head vehemently. The motion leaves him feeling dizzy.

“No. No, I need—” he cuts himself off, his voice hitching as he tries his best to assess the gravity of the situation through the thick, syrupy fog leaking into his brain. He releases a trembling breath and squeezes his eyes shut. When he reopens them, Bucky’s expression is an open chasm of affection and concern.

“Anything,” Bucky promises lowly. The weight of the word sinks like a stone into Tony’s whirling, cramping stomach. “Anything at all, and it’s yours. Tell me, Tony.”

The command activates his synapses.

“Need you,” he pushes out in a rush. His following breath is a whine. “I was alone all weekend. I’m alone every time. Wasn’t enough. S’never enough. Everything hurts, s’not done and I need to come but I can’t anymore. I tried,” he hiccups, and Bucky’s fingers spasm on his cheeks. “Tried everything by myself. Thought of you the whole time. Wished you were there, needed you—”

He’s cut off by Bucky’s mouth on his, kissing him silent. He grabs the back of Tony’s neck and devours him, ravenous.

Tony releases a soft, strangled warble when Bucky separates Tony’s lips with his tongue and pushes the quilt off Tony’s shoulders, his fingers reaching to grip the ridges of Tony’s spine. Tony’s heart gallops against Bucky’s and he feels the bow of his ribs as he’s arched backward. For a wild moment, he thinks Bucky’s going to lay him on the floor and oh, Tony would let him, can’t imagine anything he wants more in that moment than for Bucky to push him onto the cold, hard, unforgiving surface of his bedroom floor and fuck the ache out of his bones, quick and rough and dirty.

A low, predatory growl rumbles from Bucky’s chest, the vibrations pushing into Tony’s mouth, and Tony sucks them down greedily.

“Needed you too, gorgeous,” Bucky drawls, voice hoarse. His lips trail Tony’s jawline before sucking on Tony’s scent gland, and Tony shakes. “Drove myself near crazy, thinkin’ about you. My sweet boy, all alone. Hurtin’ real bad for his Alpha.” Deft fingers nudge Tony’s—Bucky’s—sleep shirt up to Tony’s navel, and Bucky’s fingers grip the skin of Tony’s bare waist like a vice.

“Please,” Tony gasps, not entirely sure what he’s begging for. He pushes his hips against Bucky’s, blindly seeking purchase, and his stomach dips when his sore, leaking dick presses up against Bucky’s own staggeringly huge, clothed erection.

“I’m gonna take you apart. M’gonna take my time with you, give you exactly what you need. And you’re gonna come for me, Tony,” Bucky croons. His own hips pitch rhythmically, his hands keeping Tony locked in place for the inevitable onslaught of magnificent, glorious friction. Bucky’s own breathing is shuddery, and he pushes his promises out through his teeth. “Bet you could come just like this, couldn’t you, doll?”

Tony’s responding moan cracks and shudders into a wail, and it has Bucky chuckling into his throat, low and dirty.

“Oh, baby doll. Pretty baby. So easy, just needs a few sweet words and a little help from his Alpha, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that, honey. Take what you need, baby, I’ll give you more.” His voice is rough yet soothing, warm yet dangerous, washing over Tony and heating him from the inside out.

He is going to come like this, no doubt—right into Bucky’s sleep pants like some hormonal pup, and it’s going to be the best damn orgasm he’s ever had.

Sensing Tony's resolve faltering in his shaky limbs, Bucky hooks his arm around Tony’s waist and hauls him toward the nearest surface, crowding the unsteady Omega to perch on top of the small, wooden desk pressed into the corner of his bedroom. Pencils and pens go clattering to the floor, papers scattering, but neither boy pays the mess any mind.

Bucky pulls Tony’s legs around his hips. Presses a bruising kiss to Tony’s mouth that’s mostly tongue and teeth, fingers gripping Tony’s thighs. His skin is still smudged in a layer of grit, his work clothes wrinkled and stained with grime, and he smells like smoke and sweat and something else so deliciously animalistic that Tony wants to sink his teeth into it.

When Bucky peers down at Tony, his eyes are a little wide, a little wild and unfocused, and Tony thinks it’s the most beautiful the Alpha’s ever looked. The Alpha pushes their foreheads together, his own damp with a layer of perspiration that Tony wants to lick.

“For three days, I thought of nothing else but you. I thought of every single way I could take you apart. I popped a knot into my own fist picturin’ you, just like this.” With single-minded determination, he rocks his hips into Tony’s, and stars explode behind Tony’s eyelids. “And maybe I’m a selfish bastard, sweetheart, because I promised you such sweet things, promised you a bed, and promised to take my time. And I will, darlin’. God, I’ll do everything. Anything you want.”

Tony’s gasp saws out of his lungs, slick gushing out of him like a faucet. Dripping into Bucky’s sleep pants and pooling between his thighs. Bucky’s nostrils flare and his scent spikes with something feral.

“I’m gonna put my mouth on every part of you. My hands on every part of you. You’re not leavin’ this room until all of Brooklyn knows you’re mine.”

“Bucky,” Tony whimpers, the familiar, delicious pressure in his abdomen building and swelling like an ocean wave. Bucky drops his head into the crook of Tony’s knock and grinds his hips into Tony’s and Tony burns, the contact bordering somewhere on the delicious cusp of pain and pleasure as his weeping, oversensitive prick drools against his bare stomach.

He tries to orgasm like this, in heat, on his own. Usually on his stomach, crippled with exhaustion, dragging his hips against a soft, unyielding surface after hours of spilling into his own hand.

It’s either a fruitless endeavor or bookended by the shame Tony feels immediately after. Stuck humping the mattress like a dog.

This is neither of those things.

This is Bucky’s scent curling in his nostrils. This is Bucky’s hands on his thighs, his waist, his cheeks, his neck, anchoring him in the Alpha’s grip. This is Bucky’s shallowed breathing punching into his ear, the press of his straining erection against Tony’s inner thigh, the lewd, filthy promises spilling out of Bucky’s lips that the Alpha can’t seem to contain.

So when Bucky’s hand trails from his hips to lift him, just enough to shift his grip to Tony’s ass, Tony knows he’s done for.

Because Bucky’s fingers ghost the unmistakable, dampened trail left behind at the seam of Tony’s borrowed sleep pants, and he snarls.

Raw. Uninhibited.

He runs a finger down the seam, just the tip applying the barest, teasing amount of pressure, before he pushes in and catches the rim of Tony’s hole with damp, sodden fabric.

Tony jerks like he’s been shocked, a full-body quake that makes his spine arch and his thighs squeeze tighter around Bucky’s hips. His body reacts before his mind can catch up, a strangled, desperate whimper spilling from his lips. The friction of the soaked flannel against his most sensitive spot is maddening—too much and not enough all at once.

“Ah, fuck, Buck—” Tony's voice cracks, breaking on the last syllable as his head tips back. His throat is bare—vulnerable—and his scent thickens, sweet and heady with desperation. It hits them both like a freight train and has Bucky’s pupils blowing wide.

“Language, baby doll,” Bucky chides, though the low rasp under his words betrays his self-control. His lips curve into a sinful smile, the hand at Tony’s waist squeezing just hard enough to remind him of the strength coiled beneath the Alpha’s flesh. “You keep talkin’ like that, and I might start thinkin’ you’re beggin’ me to ruin you.”

Tony’s brain short-circuits. He doesn’t know whether to gasp or nod, so his body does both at once, resulting in a breathless, trembling noise that seems to light a fire in Bucky’s chest. The Alpha grins wider, his teeth flashing sharp.

“You want that, don’t you, pretty?” Bucky murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling purr that slides down Tony’s spine and pools molten in his core. He presses his finger harder against the seam of the sleep pants, rolling his hips in a deliberate grind that has Tony keening, his hands scrabbling at Bucky’s shoulders for something—anything—to hold onto.

“Yes,” Tony breathes, his voice trembling but certain. “Anything. Alpha. Please.”

The words snap something inside Bucky. His fingers tug at the waistband of Tony’s sleep pants, the damp fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin. He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through Tony’s chest, as if the barrier between them is some kind of offense. With a single sharp motion, the pants are shoved down, past his ass and taut at Tony’s thighs, leaving him bare and dripping onto the desk.

Bucky’s hands seek out the newly exposed skin and palm the flesh of Tony’s slick, leaking bottom.

“You’re mine,” Bucky growls, pressing his face to Tony’s neck and inhaling deeply. The rough scrape of his stubble sends shocks of sensation racing across Tony’s skin, and the scent of cedar and pine thickens in the air, blanketing Tony in warmth and safety. “All mine, Tony. Say it.”

Tony’s lips part, but the words don’t come immediately. His chest heaves, his pulse racing under the heavy weight of Bucky’s gaze. The Alpha waits, his nostrils fluttering as his thumbs trace soothing circles into the flesh of Tony’s hips, grounding him.

“I’m yours,” Tony finally whispers, his voice soft but his conviction steady. Surprisingly clear-headed. “Always yours.”

Bucky’s response is a deep, satisfied rumble that vibrates against Tony’s skin. He presses his lips to the sensitive spot beneath Tony’s jaw, a kiss that lingers just long enough to leave a burn, and then his hands begin to roam. Every touch is deliberate, claiming, and Tony melts into it, his body pliant and willing.

“Good boy,” Bucky praises, his voice rough and reverent. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Gonna give you everything you need.”

Tony trembles beneath Bucky, too overwhelmed to process the mix of sensations flooding him. His body is caught between an unbearable heat and the aching, empty feeling that comes with wanting more.

Bucky’s eyes darken, catching the raw need in Tony’s expression as the Omega squirms beneath him. “You want more, don’t you?” Bucky murmurs, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down Tony’s neck, kissing the sensitive skin there. “Want me to take care of you properly, baby?” He doesn’t give Tony a chance to answer, rolling his hips again, the hard press of his cock a cruel tease against Tony’s bare, slick-coated thighs.

Tony can barely breathe, let alone form words. He nods, his hips instinctively rocking up into Bucky’s, seeking that friction, that release.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters, pressing his lips to Tony’s ear. “I know, sweetheart. You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re needy like this. Want my hands on you again, don’t you? Want me to finish what I started?”

Tony can’t stop the whimper that escapes him, his fingers clutching at Bucky’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer as the heat in his belly builds again, stronger, more urgent. The ache is overwhelming, but Bucky’s own fingers are already trailing lower, down to the waistband of Tony’s sleep pants, his breath hot against Tony’s skin.

Without warning, Bucky pulls Tony’s hips forward, his free hand gliding under the fabric. His fingers brush over the wet, slick mess of Tony’s dick, trapped under the flannel and already straining with the desperate need for release.

Tony gasps, his back arching, his breath catching in his throat as Bucky’s warm, callused hand finally finds him, wrapping around his hot, aching length.

Tony bucks into the touch, unfamiliar and perfect. His mouth drops into a surprised o.

“Look at you,” Bucky murmurs, his voice thick with wonder and hunger. “Is this what you need, baby?” he croons. “Let me make you feel good, Tony. Let me help you come.”

Tony’s head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as Bucky’s hand starts to move, slow and deliberate, up and down the length of his cock. It’s perfect, the pressure just right, sending waves of pleasure crashing through his already overstimulated body.

Bucky’s thumb runs over the tip of Tony’s dick, spreading the pre-cum leaking from the slit. “You feel so good like this,” Bucky murmurs, his voice rougher now, the tension in his body palpable. His own arousal pours into the room through his scent, wolfish and unrestrained. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you, sweet thing?”

Tony can barely form a coherent thought, his body too consumed with the building pressure to focus on anything else. All he can do is nod, his legs trembling, the intensity of the pleasure hitting him hard.

“Fuck, Tony, I can feel you. You’re so close. Come for me, baby. You know you want to.”

Bucky’s pace picks up, his strokes faster, rougher, wetter, until Tony’s body is trembling uncontrollably beneath him, every inch of him aching with the need to release. He leans in, his forehead pressing against Tony’s, his gaze locked onto the Omega’s flushed, blissed-out face. “Let go for me, Tony,” he commands, his voice low. Wrecked. “Come for me. I’ve got you.”

The command hits Tony like a lightning strike, and his body obeys without hesitation. His release crashes over him, white-hot and all-consuming, ripping a broken sob from his lips as his release coats Bucky’s hand and stomach in thick, sticky warmth.

His entire body trembles, his posture threatening to give out, but Bucky’s strong arms are there, holding him steady, murmuring, “Baby, baby, baby, oh, that’s it,” with the reverence of a prayer as he grounds him through the rolling crests of his orgasm.

“Sweet boy, pretty Omega, so perfect.” A hand sweeps through his hair fingers gripping his curls. Teeth scraping against the hinge of his jaw. “Let me hear you.”

“Alpha,” Tony near-sobs. The world tilts, the pleasure consuming him completely, and all he can do is hold onto Bucky for dear life as the Alpha continues to guide him through it, gentle but insistent.

When Tony sags against him, boneless and spent, Bucky presses his mouth to Tony’s sweat-dampened hairline, his voice a soft rumble in Tony’s ear. Tony is left panting, breathless, and utterly spent. He slumps into Bucky’s arms, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks.

Bucky presses another kiss to Tony’s temple, his hand lingering on Tony’s waist. “You’re so good for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice softening. “So fucking good. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

Tony nods, his chest heaving with the effort of catching his breath. “Always,” he slurs, sinking into Bucky’s embrace. “Always w’you.”

And for the first time in days, Tony feels like he can finally relax—finally let go.

That sweet, syrupy feeling washes over him again.

He’s in Bucky’s arms, and that’s all that matters.

[megalomaniacz]

ACADEMIC!RIVAL ABBY 🇫🇷✈️🏨

what can i say? i missed academic!rival abby…

academic!rival abby has a very serious problem with her tongue, which she usually has to make up for with her muscles.

her figure towering over the crude and judgmental woman that had formerly been in front of you. suggesting that your ideas were pathetic and impractical. that no one would ever let you do anything in their offices, except for file paperwork.

abby can see you’re taken back, biting down into your tongue. stunningly holding composure. you excuse yourself to the bathroom and end up walking out into the cold night.

“you wouldn’t know smart if it smacked you in the face. your company is crumbling, i’ve seen your stocks, and let me tell you something about impractical. impractical is you thinking you’re an entrepreneur when you’re really just a disgrace and a forever COO.”

after reading the poor woman to filth, she’ll come out to find you: crouched down holding your face in your hands. “hey, what’s the matter? don’t let that idiot get you down.”

“she’s right though. i’m not cut out for this. i’m not like you. you’re gonna be a doctor someday and i’ll be stuck with my head in the clouds.”

and she’ll remain silent for a moment, crisscrossing her legs and joining you on the ground. the bottom of her pricey dress pants ending the lives of a small family of large ants.

“you are the smartest person i know. and you have the most brilliant ideas. you’re going to go farther than anyone i’ve ever met because you have the heart for it. you have the heart for anything.”

you look up at her and she smiles, running the pad of her thumb over your cheek to catch a tear. “and that heifer in there is about two more dr miami sessions away from looking like a lab experiment.”

you laugh and her heart goes warm.

📒📂✏️⁺｡˚⋆˙📏📐✍

the first time you and abby, who had formally been your rival, sleep together it’s passionate and heated. on a school trip to paris, funded by the lovely mr anderson himself, she ensured that you were bunked together. you’d seen a slip in your grades (from 99 to 98, god forbid) and you planned to study until your eyeballs fell out of your head.

“i don’t understand why you’re working yourself to death!” her voice will travel from the hotel room’s bathroom to its lounge area where you resided. “you’re already smart.”

“you don’t get it abby. i need to be smarter. god i’m so fucking tired.” is a frustrated sigh. she’ll mumble something along the lines of i told you so— just go to sleep and you’ll turn around to argue with her. surprised to see she’s standing over you with a serious look on her face.

“you being up is keeping me up. you need to chill the fuck out.”

“don’t tell me what i need to do anderson. you need to get out of my fucking face.”

you’re both breathing heavy and leaning in. the air around you seems to push you closer together, your lips clash. it’s as if igniting a flame, her hand on your lower back deepening the kiss. you humming because it feels so good to be in her care. she’ll pull up for air and you both look at each other like “what the fuck did we just do?”

but it wasn’t bad, something you both can agree on. all the way to the bed when she cups at your clothed cunt, making your legs shake. “this why you all tense? just haven’t been touched right?”

you nod and try to let out a breathy “yeah.” but it’s caught in another kiss as her hands pull up your shirt. her tongue toys with your right nipple while her thumb plays with your left. working at the bundle of nerves building in your stomach.

she’ll move her head back up to your neck to leave sweet wet kisses, a couple hickies in the mix. you’re so wound up you think you might fucking explode. you needed her so bad it was making you sick.

“abby please. please fuck me i need you.” you whimper into her ear. she shifts gears, nearly tossing you off the bed from how quickly she changes positions. kissing your cheek before going further down. “don’t worry, i’ll take good care of you.”

and ofcourse whatever that night was, it was big hush hush. whatever happens in paris, stays where?

[pinkslaystation]

[Part 2] Unimpressive yet Impressed.

König and gn!Reader

Part 2 to Impressive yet unimpressed! In which König attempts to reconcile with you after his attack. TOOK 4EVER but part 2 is here teehee fuck midterms Word count: 4.3k; translations in purple, shout out google translate.

König sat on the cold plastic chair beside your hospital bed in the infirmary, for what felt like months. 2 to be exact.

The room was empty at 2 A.M on a grey Sunday. Of course it was, it was 6 hours past visiting hours ended, but König couldn't help but enter through the infirmary's window, tiptoe past all the injured, asleep soldiers, and rest on the chair, watching your chest painfully heave up and down, with ragged breathes.

His first sane thought was to break into the respected infirmary, where he remembers laying after broken bones, with you besides him. It makes sense for him to return the favour.

I mean...he's the reason you're in a coma in the first place...

After attempting to check up on you, he'd overheard the doctors' order: You see a poorly dressed mammoth of a man, you tell security immediately. The poor girl's distressed enough, mentioned the Colonel's name and her heart rates quicken to an alarming rate.

That broke his heart. He loved having such an affect on you, yes! But in a 'cutesy-butterflies-in-my-stomach' way, not a 'panic-attack-about-to-die-omfg-scary-man-alert' way!

So he sits here, patiently waiting for the sun to rise, so he can exit the infirmary as quietly as possible, and sneak into, yet again, another room. Yours. Where he lays in your bed. Using your expensive floral soaps. Ate your food. Anything to feel like you were with him again.

He swears he sees your fingers shift, closed eyes twitching ever so gently, but according to your files (which he stole), stated that you 'were in a worse state that before, slowly recovering although there's limited hope,' and ah 'one of the worst non-mission on-base injuries seen'.

His actions caused great harm, I mean look at you. But one would say his plan worked.

News spread like wildfire, with almost everyone talking about the combat room incident. Soldiers murmured everywhere he walked.

König means King you know, bro lives up to the name.

He's a fucking beast, beating her up like that, mans got no emotion i swear.

Heard he's getting promoted for that stunt he pulled...

And indeed he was getting more recognised. His once slow forgotten image was roaring in popularity, with his higher-ups signing him up for more missions than one should be given.

"It's a great opportunity Colonel. I mean you've improved this month! Like you're on steroids or sum'" König finds himself being cornered in the hallway of the barracks by his superior, cheeks wet and reddening under this mask, after sneaking out of your room one morning.

His superior's eyes glisten cunningly, "And uh...those moves, yeah. Impressive." His head nods, gesturing towards your room.

König squints his eyes, glaring so hard in pure shame, he swear he feels his eyeballs vibrate. But instead he walks off, vowing to abstain himself from anymore violence. He's learnt his lesson.

'Unimpressive...' he mumbles, physically shivering as his mind is forced to recall that fateful day again.

Minutes feel like days and days feel like months, and all those hospital visits from your teammates gradually decrease, some unable to see you resting corpse-like with jagged scars painting your skin, some purposely avoiding the whole situation, with paperwork as their main excuse.

But König finds solace staring at your almost dead but resting state. Yes, he cringes at the slightly bent nose, the busted lip, and the countless stitches on your scalp, but overall he notes you seem peaceful on the bed.

Not like that fearful expression you pulled before he...you remember.

Though he'd rejected the numerous proposals to lead missions, he finds himself persuaded into changing into his musky, unwashed uniform, adjusting his mask whilst attempting to silence his growing headache. One more König, one more mission. Think about who you're doing this for. Think about your future. Think about that cottage. Think about that Austrian countryside.

So he gears up, attempting to push you away from his thoughts, though he can't. He curses himself for using your floral scented soaps, his senses being heightened and hyper-focusing on it the entire ride in that aircraft. It smells like you. Not like that dreaded dull stench of the hospital.

His train of thoughts halt as his superior yells strings of commands towards his team, and his priority shifts to stays alive for you.

After exiting the aircraft he takes a good look of his surrounding, as his team gather round in group, and his face drops. It looks like just Alpbach, the countryside he wanted to settle down in with you.

His eyes catch the small row of houses and buildings kilometres away.

That was meant to be the cottage you two grow old in...

"König! Where's your mind at?"

His eyes clench.

No time for mistakes.

2000 kilometres away, lay you. Eyes indeed twitching rapidly. You were most definitely not conscious yesterday, but the memory of a German bedtime story being read to you early morning comes to you frequently, must be deja vu.

Today though, you open your eyes, lazily making eye-contact with the medical intern who'd been studying you for research purposes.

"Hey, hope you don't mind m- OH MY GOD. UM- OH. MY GOD. ¿QUÉ DEMONIOS ESTÁ PASANDO? EH, ¿POR QUÉ ESTÁ DESPIERTA? VUELVE A DORMIR." What the fuck is happening. Um, why is she awake, go back to sleep!

And a week passes by, and your movements are restricted to sitting up and switching the TV channel. But you're better. Your closest 2 teammates visit you daily now, adorning you with gifts, like your luxurious chocolates.

But no one dares mention his name. Not even you. You don't care about the lack of flowers or medals by your bed like your last hospital visit.

"But you should have seen her face-" One of your teammates chokes on his laugh, caught up on a story you'd missed, "bitch tried to tackle me-" he stifles a laugh, "ever seen a mouse try to fight a lion-"

"How are you still on that, it was 2 weeks ago!"

You turn to your other friend, stationed at the other side of your bed.

"Wow, sounds like I'm stronger than you, and I'm in hospital." You tease her, cheeks aching from smiling too hard, a painful feeling you've missed.

"Dude, I tried to tackle him, König styl- I mean. I- um. Sorry-"

Oh.

Your face flashes a pained look, before your eyebrows furrow in anger, fixating on your clenched fingers.

"She, um, she didn't mean that. It's just-" your friend tries to defend her.

"So what's that fucker up to, huh?" You ask, though it comes out more like a command than a question.

"Um...he's on a mission, like in Austria or something, I don't know.-"

You scoff, "Good, hope that asshole dies there."

Another month and another successful mission from König's team go by, and your higher ups have talked you into being stuck at an office desk, buried in paperwork. It's long and monotonous, and although you want to be focus on improving your overall physical ability, your grateful you don't see as many soldiers on the base as usual, given the amount of pitied looks you've gotten after being discharged.

But hey! The good news in that you're not doing it all on your own. You occupy a small office with a lower ranked soldier, and though you both work under different positions, you both share a similarity. Both victims of König. The soldier you'd seen on the floor, who'd looked like he'd left bleeding to death, also recovered moderately well, and he sits across your desk, cheeks always looking flushed. As if he's still sick.

"You have another pen? Um, this one's ran out."

He's got a gentle voice, like König, but his don't make you pause in fear. He's definitely not as bulky as König rather, he's on the other end of the spectrum. Shorter, leaner, less muscular. But his differences to König make you appreciate him more.

"Huh- yeah, here." You toss a pen towards him and he clumsily misses it, apologising before crouching to pick it up, and you don't fail to catch his bruised knuckles and wrists.

"Thanks..." he mumbles shyly, pulling his sleeves down after realising what your gaze on.

You both haven't discussed it, but have mentally agreed not to talk about that night in the combat room.

"Team's coming back from an assignment today. Or so I heard." He strikes up a conversation, blushing and still avoiding eye contact.

You smile at him, humming as your fingers type away at the keyboard, "Hmm, when do they get back?"

"Couple of hours from now...it's been a month I think."

You nod in response, "They wish they were doing paperwork right now."

He snorts, before coughing it away from embarrassment, but you smirk at his reaction.

"Adorable." You mumble.

"What?" His eyebrows raise.

"Huh?" You mock teasingly.

The evening of paperwork and back and forth banter goes by, and you find yourself with him - who you've now nicknamed 'Paperwork' - at the canteen, sitting and eating alone, isolating yourselves from the obvious glances and murmurs from the other soldiers, yet neither of you want to mention the obvious unspoken tension.

"All my soap's gone, Paperwork!" You look at the obvious peaking black eye that he failed to cover fully with the wrong shade of foundation.

He looks at you curiously, amused at the new found nickname.

"Like, it's gone, and my bed's all messy." There's a cut on his plump lips.

He nods awkwardly.

"Food's nice." You state, receiving a hum from him, but you focus on his swollen wrists, gently reaching to touch them.

He flinches, dropping the steel cutlery on the floor, earning more stares than before, if that was possible, squeaking an apology and continuing to eat like nothing happened.

He's cute. You smile. He's nothing like him.

You continue munching on your food, unaware of the stares you receive. Of the stare you receive.

The 6'10 colonel stands metres away from you at the entrance of the canteen, your back turned to him, as his fists clench and squeeze at the first bouquet of hand-picked Austrian flowers out of envy, as he studies your new found friendship. Considering it's the evening, he's happy he's standing in the dimly lit corridor by the mess hall doors, so he's aware that you cannot see him.

But König can see you.

Most importantly, König can see you, with him.

Was zum Teufel macht er mit ihr? He curses. What the fuck is he doing with her?

"The food's shit mate-" He's interrupted by lower ranked soldiers, and he skillfully moves out of the way to hide behind the door, as they enter the mess hall, and he swears you turn back to look at him.

He wants to walk up to you. He wants to look at you straight in the face and apologise, but he deep down knows that no matter what he says to you, what he gifts you, what he promises you- you will never forgive you for his abuse. For the way he neglected you and your feelings, for putting his greed before you.

And he knows deep down, you'd be happier with...with him. That puny guy. Aren't soldiers meant to be strong and muscular? This guys looks the same weight as König's left calf, no wonder he beat him up to a pulp.

He scoffs, ignoring the sinking feeling in his heart, hearing your laugh at whatever this guy says to you. Deep down he knows he lost you. Deep down he knows he's no longer yours.

"Hey, I'm gonna get my phone, I think I left it in my room, see you in a bit?" You ask the soldier, and after he nods, you find yourself walking towards the entrance of the mess hall.

König watches as you walk towards the door and he swears his mind pauses.

You're walking towards him? Right now? What is he meant to say to you? Are the flowers okay? Would you like them? Would you even talk to him?

He finds his anxiety catching up to him all of a sudden, head feeling light and palms beginning to sweat. Though he feels a rise of panic, he doesn't find the strength to move, not even a muscle. He wishes you were by his side, stroking his biceps.

But you're not by his side. Yet, that is.

You open the semi-transparent door, yawning inaudibly, closing your eyes in the process.

And you walk straight into a brick wall-

"Holy shit, you scared me..." You look up at him, halting immediately after you realise who you bumped into.

König looks down at you, and like his brain, his heart stops and skips a beat.

"Liebling- what- who- why are you talking to him? Are you over me that quickly?" darling-

You glare up and him angrily. Over 2 months without König and no apology? And instead he dares question your relationships with other soldiers.

"Listen mein baby, I'm tired, can we just go back to our room-" my baby

"Our room?" The first words you've uttered to König before the incident.

"Our. Room?"

König looks away in embarrassment. "Liebling, can we talk in our-your room, I don't feel comfortable being here-"

"You don't feel comfortable? You don't feel comfortable? Oh what, now I'm supposed to care about YOUR feelings like you care about MINE? Are you fucking kidding me right now?" You point your finger at his chest as you feel your emotions pouring out.

"I-"

"You don't get the fucking right to tell me what I fucking do, you insolent freak. Yeah no wonder you were abused as kid, maybe domestic violence runs in your fucking blood." König widens his eyes at that last dig, knowing you said it only to hurt him, which it did.

He watches you walk away angrily, stomping down the dark corridor, slowing fading out of his vision and into the dark.

He knows he lost you.

He knows, but he'll try again.

The next 2 weeks you receive letter upon letter, all written in various languages, some in English, some in German, some in your mother-tongue, which were definitely google translated.

And every single one, you burnt. You wake up with them under the door of your room, and every single time you take your lighter and burn the bottom right corner without even bothering to read the entire letter. König could write a fucking novel for you, but nothing would fix the evident hatred you felt for the Colonel.

"And he just sends so many damn letter, like enough Shakespeare." You groan to your paperwork partner.

Over the weeks you've definitely bonded with him more, eating together more often, roaming the grounds more often, hell, one night he even slept on the couch in your room! You're grateful to have him by your side, if he weren't there, you would be spiraling down a hole of indefinite depression. Though, you question whether you could say the same to him, and you swear he ever so silently shifts away from you.

"You shouldn't get back with him." He warns you.

You smirk, "Paperwork, you jealous?" and he coughs aggressively in response.

Your smile thins, "But for real, I would never. What he did to me, what he did to you- it's unforgivable. I promise."

He nods wincing at the thought of seeing you with König, a smile ever so gently etching on his flushed face.

"You wanna go take a walk around?"

So you both tour around the base, past the barracks, past the canteen, past that damn combat room, through the gardens, until you find yourselves sitting on the benches by the empty concrete grounds, a comfortable silence filling the air.

The sunny yet cold weather breezes past you, your pony-tailed hair gently swaying towards the direction of the wind as you stare at both your shadows in front of you.

"Weather's nic- are you fucking for real?!" You grip the bench, gritting your teeth as you see a taller third shadow rising beside the original two shadows. Paperwork, looking behind him, jumps out of the bench after realising it was his superior.

"Colonel, sir", he salutes towards König, "sir- I-."

You interrupt him instantly, "Paperwork, I love you, but shut the fuck up."

"2 weeks and we're confessing our feelings already huh?" König stares down at the two of you.

"The only person that should be confessing their feelings should be you, Colonel. To a fucking therapist." You scoff.

"Schatz, listen-"

"Nothing you say will change my mind König. I don't want to see you anymore. Can't you get that through your thick skull or is that shitty cloth on your big head getting in the way?"

König feels his eyes shut involuntarily, being bombarded with all these insults, "Can I not apologise? Did you not read my letters?"

You laugh sarcastically, "König, you're a better clown than a Colonel, cos you're a fucking joke. Now leave me the hell alone." You brisk-walk away, yanking Paperwork behind you, who shoots an apologetic look towards König.

"Scheisse...." König mumbles. Shit....

König's relentless attempts of begging for your forgiveness were all fruitless. He attempting breaking into your room to leave flowers on your bed, but he didn't realise that he'd see you and Paperwork hanging out in the living room.

"Didn't realise there was a fucking rat infestation in this fucking building." You groaned, before slamming the window shut on König's fingers, as he jumped at the pain before falling 2 stories down onto the hard ground.

And there was a time he even had the audacity to sit next to Paperwork, across from you on the dinner table in the canteen.

"Hallo-" But he was rudely ignored by you throwing your scorching hot coffee straight onto his uncovered forearms.

"NEIN, MEINE ARME, ICH WERDE STERBEN, MAMA, HILFE!" NOOOO MY ARMS I'M GONNA DIE MAMA HELP

His useless attempts to woo you remained ... well, useless. You'd never spare a second for him, unless you inflicted pain onto him, like when you knocked down the weights at the gym on top of his feet, or when you 'accidentally' kicked his crotch as he snuck up from behind you. Although you found it funny, going back to your dorm to tell Paperwork about the new event, you just couldn't scratch the burning feeling in your chest. Like you only hit him, burnt him, kicked him out of spite, out of anger, out of revenge from that pain he caused onto you. You may be angry at him for his actions, but you knew hurting him just wasn't what you wanted. You wanted to be the bigger person, and cut him out of your life once and for all.

If only he got the hint.

When you found yourself forcing yourself to knock on his door, cringing at the awkward silence, you had learned from Paperwork that König had be assigned for another mission, which was listed for 2 months.

Ahhhh, 2 months without König. What a dream.

But oh how quickly those months have gone by. One month in, and you and Paperwork were back on the field. The doctor gave you both the signal that physical activity was okay, if done carefully, so now your evenings before dinner, you two would be found dead lifting at the gym.

And damn, did Paperwork look good in a black compression shirt.

"3, come on, 2 let's go Paperboy, 1 more 1 more come on, okaayyy and you're done, well done!" You patted him on his back.

"You're getting better, boy!" You toss him your water bottle, which he takes graciously.

Out of breath but smiling, he nods contently, sitting down on the mat, gesturing you to sit beside him.

"I need to tell you something." He starts, and you look at him narrowing your eyes.

"Don't tell me you have a wife and 3 kids and home..." You snort at him, quickly silencing yourself after he doesn't return a laugh.

"Listen, I was thinking..." He looks away from you.

"This isn't for me anymore-"

You furrow your eyebrows, "This friendship, did I make you uncomfortable, did König tell you I like you?" You ramble on.

"You like me?" He tilts his head, ignoring everything else you've said.

"Huh?"

"hUh? No! No. No, I've been thinking about my career in the army, and I've done it for like 2 years now, which you know, isn't a lot, but the paperwork we did together...it changed me."

You're the confused one now.

"Maybe I'm destined for an office job, maybe this, this just isn't me..." He trails off, finally meeting your eyes, looking for an answer.

You nod, and this time you look away, "No, that makes sense."

There's a pause in the conversation, and for a while, the both of you just stare at the other gym-goers in the vicinity.

You sigh, "I've been doing some of my own thinking you know..."

"You have?"

"Yeah, I talked to the boss and I asked for a tr-"

Suddenly the door, bursts open, and your friends run towards you, huffing, "König-" huff, "He's-" huff, "oh my days, I am so out of breath, I've come to the right place, the gym!"

"Get to the damn point, woman! König in the hospital, he's been shot-"

That was enough to get you up and running.

A 4 hour surgery later, and you and Paperwork sat outside of the hospital door, the same one where you were admitted to, and the same one König lay behind. Paperwork swears he felt his eyes strain, watching you walk up and down the corridor, and he questions whether there was still some unspoken, remaining feelings you had for his superior.

The doctors, leave the room, with a solemn look to their faces, greeted with you running up to you immediately.

"So? Is he finally dead?"

"Ma'am, what- no. He's good, he's recovering rapidly. He's also asking for you." A doctor states, pointing towards, leading both you and Paperwork towards the room.

The hospital rooms still sends shivers down your back, memories of the previous few months rushing back to you all of a sudden, but you're calmed down by the soft rub on the small of your back by Paperwork, who's already looking at you with a soft smile.

You walk towards the bed, with Paperwork standing behind you.

"König. And you're still here."

You look down at you and you wince.

There König lie, bloodied and bruised worse than ever. If your state when you were admitted was described as the worse, you wondered what the doctors were to say when they saw him.

"Schnucki...bist du das?" Sweetie-pie...is that you?

"König honey, what happened?" You gently rub the tears of his swollen face.

"Feind…habe es nicht gesehen…es tut mir alles leid..." Enemy…didn't see…i'm sorry for everything

You hum stroking his bare face, and you look back to Paperwork, knowing it's probably his first time seeing the Colonel maskless.

"Papierkram, es tut mir alles leid...Ich bin ein beschissener Mann mit noch beschisseneren Taten, aber du kannst es in dir finden, mir zu vergeben...." Paperwork, i'm sorry for everything. I'm a shitty man with shittier actions, but you can find it in yourself to forgive me.

Paperwork smiles, nodding as he understood what the fuck the Colonel just said to him in the foreign language, "Sì, non preoccuparti, amico." yeah dont you worry mate (italian)

"Glaubt dieser Idiot, dass ich Italiener bin?" Does this idiot think I'm italian, König warily asks looking at you.

Stroking your cheek, you giggle.

"König, listen. What you did, was...unforgivable."

König sits up slowly with your help, listening intently.

"But as much as I want to strangle you and throw you as you did to me...it's not going to solve any issues."

König tears up.

"I'll never forgive the memories we made together König. I really did love you. But-"

"But?" he squeaks.

"But we're done. I want to be someone's priority always. And König, let's be real, you need to talk to someone about all these pent up emotions."

König nods, tears now streaming down his face.

You wipe his tears, "Hey, hey, don't cry okay, listen. I know it's hard, but it's for the best. We both need to heal and grow separately. Maybe someday we can be friends again, but we need space."

König nods again, sniffling as he tries to compose himself. "I understand. I'll seek help, I promise."

You smile softly, feeling a mix of relief and sadness. "That's all I ask. Take care of yourself, König."

He nods once more, and you lean in to give him a gentle hug before standing up. As you start to stand up, you hear him whisper, "Danke für alles." Thank you, for everything.

Paperwork walks towards you, his arm wrapped your waist.

"Pass auf sie auf, ja?" Look after her, will you?

Paperwork nods, "Sì, signore, lo farò." Yes sir i will. (italian)

"Boy if you don't- listen. I wanted to tell you both something.

The two men look at you intensely.

"What I wanted to say at the gym...and to you König...I've been thinking, for a few months now."

The two men look at each other.

"I've talked to the superiors about this, but I requested a transfer. To England. And...it was approved this morning." You mutter.

König and Paperwork widen their eyes.

"Liebling, that's amazing! I mean I'm sad to see you go as a friend and a team mate, offensichtlich, but I'm happy. Truly impressed soldier." Darling, offensichtlich - obviously.

Paperwork smiles by your side, squeezing your arm gently, "England here I come," and you chuckle to the thought with him by your side.

"Where are you being transferred to you?" König asks.

"Oh, um, Task Force One-Four-One."

Why choose between Paperwork and König when you can have both, YALL GET ME?! Also this should've have taken me so long, my God, but i'm glad it's done fr, sorry for the wait :D also not proofread, so if you see any mistakes, treat it like a middle child and ignore it &lt;3 I have a tag list! -> lemme know you're interested to be tagged in my future posts! tags -> @lilliumrorum

[oristian]

I was not aware that the “Who killed the King of Hybern” argument was actually so intense on here until five minutes ago, but truly what is this argument? I see half of the people saying that Nesta is a poor teammate in that she has not credited Elain for stabbing the king, and the other half saying that Nesta is protecting Elain’s image? I would add the pages from the books directly, but I have seen people arguing over verbatim quotes, as well.

Elain stabbed the king and ultimately saved Nesta and Cassian’s life; no one is arguing against that. Without Elain and her efforts, more than likely Nesta and Cassian would have died on the battlefield. However, Elain dropped Truth Teller and Nesta actively finished with the killing blow. The king was reaching for his weapon and moving in Nesta’s grip while she was beheading him. On top of that, there are worse injuries in the ACOTAR series that has been survivable. Could the King of Hybern have survived his injuries? Possibly, given that this is a magic world and an eyeball and a finger bone could be thrown into a magic Cauldron and turned back into a man.

Nesta not crediting Elain could be understood in different capacities, but since there are no canon quotes directly from the books that support any of the arguments that I have read through yet, it’s speculation. The scenes in which Nesta “took credit” for killing the King of Hybern were at the praise of other characters—Gwyn, Emerie, Merrill, et cetera. They all heard of the female who held up the King’s head in triumph after promising him a death at the point of her finger in ACOMAF. It is symbolic, and it is powerful. Could she have eluded to Elain being part of that effort? Certainly, but what good would it have done?

“You slew the King of Hybern, with the Shadowsinger’s knife.”

“Actually, my sister stabbed him and I just beheaded him.”

“Uh, oh, okay.”

—

“The female who slew the King of Hybern and held up his head like a trophy as his blood rained upon her.”

“It was actually a joint effort.”

“Get back to work.”

Truly, what would it have done in those scenes—especially the scene with Merrill—to divert all attention from her and add an additional character that was not a large presence in ACOSF, nor was she present during those scenes? It just creates unnecessary verbiage that does nothing for the scene. Killing the King of Hybern was symbolic for Nesta. Elain will have her thing that will solely be her’s in her book.

I also want to reiterate that I do love Elain’s character and where she has the potential to go as the series comes to a close. I want something special just for her that doesn’t involve such senseless arguing over essentially nothing.

[babybadger]

Do you write for Pierre Gasly? If so what about how Pierre reacts to finding out you want kids within the next five years. I love your writing about drivers with kids x

Recently you and Pierre had travelled back to France over the break and met with his family, including his gorgeous little nephew.

Pierre suggested babysitting his nephew to let his brother and wife have some time off as parents. However he didn’t inform you of this. Meaning when you came back from the shops and heard a screaming baby in your apartment, you were very confused.

Walking further into the apartment you sed Pierre standing in the kitchen, sippy cup in hand trying to bribe the poor child to calm down. “mama mama mama” the little one in Pierre’s arms muttered in between big gasps for air.

“My my my what’s going on in here then peaches” You ask Pierre who lets out a breath when he sees his backup. Your nephew immediately silenced himself to just little sniffs and reaches out his arms for you. Walking closer to Pierre, you take the child and place the sippy cup on the kitchen island. Holding him close to your chest you slowly sway and whisper in his ear. “Is it scary away from mama? That’s okay little one she’ll be back soon. You’re okay shhh shh shhh.”

Pierre looks at you amazed with wide eyeballs and a dropped chin. He’d been trying to calm him down for the past 20 minutes and here you are swaying slowly round the kitchen as his eyelids gradually begin to drop and he gently lulls himself to sleep, head on your shoulder. “How did you do that?” He whisper shouts at you as you both move towards the couch and the little boy snuggles into your chest. “I’ve got a way with babies. People around me always say so. I love them so much.” You reply, gently running a finger over the little one’s thinly haired head.

Pierre watches you admire the little one in your arms. Content as you watch his tiny chubby cheeks now dry from tears, puffing in and out as he sleeps soundly on you.“You never told me how much you love babies” Pierre speaks softly back, worried of your response. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured. Your job is very time consuming, I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose between raising babies or racing.” Pierre shuffled back on the sofa and looks across the room. He was disappointed in himself that he didn’t know how much you wanted a family. He felt horrible that you were basing your life around his dream. Taking a deep breath, he turns to you and asked “if me racing wasn’t a factor, would we have a family by now?”

You smile softly as you register the sadness in Pierre’s voice. He wants you to have everything you want, and he especially wants a family with you. “Racing will always be a factor baby, and that’s okay. No point wondering if this and if that. I love our little life. That being said, I don’t want to wait around forever or one day wish I had kids earlier. Our time will come.” You smile at him, your hand extending to hold the side of his face. Your thumb rubbing the frown line between his eyebrows to soften it.

You look back down to the quiet baby on your chest. “Want to hold him now he’s settled, while I put my shopping away?” Pierre looked at you a little frightened. “I don’t know how to deal with babies.” You giggle at him and shuffle across the couch to him, slowly moving the contently sleeping baby boy over to Pierre’s lap. “He’s asleep babe, he’s not going to attack you.” You smile as you watch pierre’s body physically relax into the sofa, a little smirk on his face as he places a hand on the babies back and looks down at him with admiration. “Okay we need one of these.” he chuckles quietly. “The next five years are gonna be crazy.” You say standing up from the couch to leave, kind of hoping Pierre doesn’t register what you said. “Five years?” he questioned, his head snapping to you. You have to sit back down, you can’t ignore that you just said that. “Yeah I mean, I’m not getting any younger Pierre, I’d like babies while i’m still young.” You mumble looking between the baby on his chest and the floor. “I was thinking more in the next two babygirl.” Your eyes snap to his, the smirk evident on his face. “Yeah I guess we could have one in the next couple years couldn’t we.” Pierre huffs out a chuckle at you and pulls you into the opposite shoulder his nephew had nestled into. “Just imagine, in a couple years, this little baby could be replaced by our own.” Your mind drifts to the two lines test in the nightstand. “Yup it could be.”