#readin' next shadow

[twola]

if you're still open to requests, HH!Arthur forced to endure the classic "only one bed" trope with a petite, bookish F!reader? still an outlaw but much more suited for infiltration than shootouts and analyzing difficult paperwork. maybe spectacles even, go wild with the idea!! love your other works ❤️

Accounting and Other Arts

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

You're not one for gunshots or drunken brawling, as Arthur learns one night in Saint Denis.

Saint Denis reeks. The whole damned city. It either smells of horse shit and rotting garbage or of obnoxiously over-perfumed rich men and women traipsing about thinking that they are above the common folk.

The mare beneath him grunts as the dirt road turns to cobblestone, a high whinny as her hooves clack on the road. Arthur clicks his tongue to calm her down. Upon reaching an alleyway to the west of the market, he slides down from the saddle, grabbing his horse’s reins and tying them to a wrought-iron hitching post. He pats her mane gently as he eyes the alleyway. Stepping toward it, he strides past men and women heading to market, finding a quiet, shadowed spot and leaning against the brick wall of the alley.

“You’re late.”

Arthur snorts, pulling a cigarette from his satchel, and strikes a match against the arched brickwork in the alley. Lighting it, he eyes you from under the rim of his black hat.

Your arms are crossed over your chest, and you glare from the golden rims of your spectacles at him. Clad in a dark velvet vest over a maroon blouse, your matching skirt swishes as you stalk angrily in his direction.

“My apologies, ma’am.”

You scowl as you approach, looking up the alley past where Arthur leans against the wall.

“Y’get what you need?” He rumbles as he takes the cigarette from his lips, letting a plume of smoke float into the air.

You nod, pulling off your spectacles and tucking them into the breast pocket of your vest. “Tomorrow morning - the money’s going to be moved from the poker room back to one of Bronte’s safehouses. Be there a half hour before a half hour before six. Only supposed to be two men there.”

Arthur takes the cigarette from his lips and blows smoke to the side. “How much is the take?”

“If my calculations are correct, twenty-three hundred dollars.” You reply, straightening your skirts as you lean back against the brick wall in the alleyway. 

Arthur drops the cigarette and grinds it under his boot.

A strand of hair escapes from your tightly pulled bun, and you huff as you tuck it behind your ear. You’ve been told the hairstyle makes you look severe, you’d take it. In this world of guns and robbery and stealing you live in, you feel the need to do anything to make yourself look serious. 

Guns weren’t your weapons. Numbers were. You ran scams and cheated men out of money. You assisted Strauss in his loansharking. 

“Where y’been stayin' here in town?” Arthur asks, his hands gravitating to his gun belt.

“Shitty little place off the docks. Not much, but at least we can rest there until you have to go out in the morning.”

He nods, holding out his arm down the alley, “Lead the way.”

-

A hot, heavy, night has fallen in South Lemoyne - stifling in its haziness and the heaviness in the air. You’ve stripped down to a chemise and your bloomers as you climb into the old bed, the darkness outside staved off by a solitary oil lamp on the bed. 

Arthur’s boots scuff the dingy floor of the room you’ve been renting, the sound of him dragging the rickety old chair next to the small fireplace grates in your ears as you try to get comfortable in the lumpy bed.

Instead, you reach for the book that you’ve been reading from the bedside table, cracking it open as Arthur mercifully quiets down, pulling his hat from his head and placing it on the mantle as he sits down.

“Whatchu' readin’?” Arthur asks from across the room, pulling his boots off and tossing them near the door.

You look up at him over the rims of your spectacles, “I’m sure nothing you’d be interested in.”

He snorts, pulling his hat off his head and placing it on the table next to the fireplace.

“The Wealth of Nations.”

Arthur’s eyebrows raise, “That certainly ain’t one of Mary Beth’s pillow books.”

You shut the book and frown. “No. It ain’t.”

Arthur stares into the unused fireplace, rolling his shoulders.

“Get into the bed, Arthur. You’re the one who's gotta get up in the morning.” You eye him over those gold rims again, scolding in your tone.

“Ain’t terribly proper,” Arthur mutters under his breath.

“We’re both adults. And it ain’t like I take up much room. Just shut up and lay down.” You pull the spectacles off of the bridge of your nose and fold them up, leaning over to place them on the bedside table.

You unwind the tight bun you have your hair pulled into - your tresses falling in curls down your back, and completely miss the dumbfounded look he gives. As you shake out your hair, you shake out the severe look about you, your spectacles gone for the night.

It’s then, under the dim oil lamps of the saloon’s room, that he discovers that you’re beautiful. 

The moment passes quickly as you begin to look up at him, and his eyes dart away as not to be caught staring.

“Get in bed.” You command, looking at him for a second longer before turning over in bed and reaching for the lamp. You don't wait for him to make up his mind, plunging the room into darkness when you turn off the light.

After what seems like an eternity, the mattress sinks down on the other side of the bed.

-

You awaken far before dawn, a shout from outside jolting you from your sleep. Thinking it’s a fluke, you close your eyes again only for them to snap open as shouting continues again.

A crash fully awakens you, and you begin to lean up on your elbow, looking toward the window a few steps away. A large hand finds purchase on your belly as your entire frame is pulled backward in the bed. 

“Shh,” Arthur whispers, curling himself over you as he listens to the shouting outside. Glass breaks. Threats made. The sounds of a fight echo through the street, but now all you can think about is the fact that you’re tucked into Arthur’s body as he listens to the fight, ready to jump up and grab his revolver at a moment's notice.

Glass crashes again against the brick wall of the building you’re in, not terribly far from your window, and you turn inward from the noise. You may be a criminal, a fraudster, but you certainly aren’t one for violence. You don’t shoot and you don’t kill.

“ ‘S okay. I’ve got you.” Arthur mumbles, leaning over you to listen more intently to the scuffle outside. You bury yourself into his embrace, your face tucked into his neck as his hand pats your hair gently, ready to whip around and grab his revolver from the table if needed.

The fight in the alleyway dies down, fortunately, and as the agitated voices fade into the night, Arthur gently unwinds his arm from across your shoulders, his hand finding its way to settle atop your hip. Your fingers clutch at the worn fabric of his union suit atop his broad chest.

“Jus’ a drunken fight.” He whispers, patting your hip in a calming manner.

The men outside are the farthest thing from your mind at the moment. No, Arthur’s hand upon your hip and yours against his chest - that's all you think about. The rapid beating of your heart is all you can hear. This isn’t rational. It isn’t logical. But deep in your core, you burn. You’re driven by something completely different, animalistic, emotional, needy.

“Y’oka-” Arthur murmurs before you shove your mouth against his. It's only half a heartbeat before he’s kissing you back.

You throw your leg over his hip, and he takes a large hand full of your rear, pulling your hips against his. You are unable to hold back the moan from your throat as you feel his cock thickening against your lower belly.

For several moments, your bodies tessellate against each other until he yanks the hem of your chemise up to your belly.

“Christ,” he groans, and it’s just another moment before he rolls you underneath him.

“Y’ever done this?” He pants as he peels your bloomers down your legs, tossing them somewhere on the floor before his hand trails up between your thighs.

“No… but I have an idea-ah-!” Your sentence is cut off when you uncontrollably moan, a thick finger having immediately parted your folds and pressed against you.

Well, this feeling wasn’t something you had read about. You mewl into Arthur’s shoulder as his pointer finger moves back and forth between the seam of your body, pausing to circle the hooded nub that makes your toes curl.

Arthur sucks gently at your earlobe, his panting growing louder as his finger travels along your body, pausing for a moment once he’s reached the rim of your cunt, weeping slick as you want to die from the stimulation.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, and he growls in your ear as he quickly draws back and sits up on his knees, unbuttoning his union suit with the ferocity of a caged beast. You’re barely able to catch your breath before watching him tear his arms out of the sleeves, bunching the fabric at his waist, and pushing it down, baring himself completely.

Certainly, sketches in anatomy books had nothing on the real thing. Sketches weren’t hewn from decades of labor and violence. Sketches weren't tapered waists and the outline of solid muscles under pale, scarred skin that told stories of robberies past. And sketches assuredly were not so well endowed.

He’s back on you in an instant before you can even react - slotting himself between your legs as his mouth attacks your neck, sure to leave a mark that will show in the morning.

Arthur’s large hand moves to once more cup your core, and your breath hitches.

He presses himself against your thigh and you shudder as you feel how hard he is, how big is - Christ, how the hell was that supposed to fit inside you?

His finger pushes inside and your mind goes blank. You cry out wantonly as Arthur’s finger curls within your core, and he quickly begins to pump within you. Your back arches uncontrollably as he adds a second finger, and thrusts his hips against your body.

“Fuck, fuck. Y’sure you want this?” Arthur pants against your ear, unable to stop his hips from rutting against you. His cock settles in the crease of your thigh and god, he’s so close to where you need him.

Christ, maybe you should have taken Mary Beth up on one of her dirty romance novels.

“Y-yes, Arthur please-”

He presses inside you and there aren’t words for the feeling. No vocabulary to adequately describe the stretch, the filling, the connection one has when that last bridge is crossed. Though sex is simply an action, a physical coming together of body parts - the emotions that want to burst forth from your chest - you want to envelop him the same way he envelops you.

“Y’okay there? C’n I move?” He whispers into your ear, pressing his lips against your temple.

Are you okay, are you okay? All you can respond back with is a needy gasp as you turn your head to the side to find his mouth, desperately shoving your tongue inside as if to mimic the fact that he’s buried inside of you.

As your tongue delves into his mouth, you wish the thoughts flying through your head could possibly come out, but with him between your legs, his weight pressing you down into the mattress, his flesh parting you deep, all you can do is moan.

So much more than okay. How do people stand being apart? How can they not bury themselves in each other all day, every day? I want… oh god, Arthur, please, please move.

Somehow, he understands. His elbows brace himself on either side of your head as his hips retract, in a glorious swell of movement, he presses back in.

You whine needily into the column of his throat as he grunts, finding a rhythm as your legs wrap around his waist. Arthur grinds your hips into the bed, your small frame engulfed by his large one, and each thrust seems to take you further and further away. Gasping, tensing, shuddering. 

A desperate noise leaves your throat, and if you weren't so preoccupied with how the tip of his cock keeps hitting a spot inside you that makes you want to scream, you’d be mortified.

“Come for me.” He orders, voice sex-hoarse and demanding, and your body immediately complies. 

Every muscle, every tendon, and fiber of your body clenches at once, and your cry is loud and needy into his shoulder. Tears burst forth from your eyes. He groans into your hair in response, his rhythm faltering, and it’s only a moment more before he wrenches himself from you, his cock smacking against your belly as he jets his hot spend across your pale skin and hiked up chemise.

Arthur pants, nearly out of breath, for a moment, before leaning his forehead against yours and taking your lips in a slow, languorous kiss.

Your fingers card through his hair and one of his hands finds its way to your face, palm warm against your cheek before he finally pulls back.

Arthur immediately frowns when he sees the tracks of drying tears. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, smiling, “When can we do that again?”

He snorts in amusement, rolling off of you and onto his side, “Let me go get our money,” he kisses your forehead, “Then I’ll get us another day here.”

“Sounds amenable.”

“You and them fancy words.”

Your smartass retort is drowned out by his kiss.

[pand1on]

do ants read really small books

Word Count: 1166

Summary Being a superpowered ant unfortunately doesn't mean Matilda is exempt from learning some basic reading and writing skills. Turns out learning like most people do doesn't work so well for her. Sonic helps bring some fun into it.

Matilda was reading a book. Well, she was trying to read a book. 

She sat in lush grass under an old oak tree. Reading inside had been a completely futile effort, and she had hoped that a blue sky instead of a pale ceiling would make her practice a bit easier. 

It didn’t.

The sun was too hot, the air was too still, the world too quiet. 

Most notably, the book that Shadow had given her was painfully boring. Matilda’s eyes kept glazing over and she quickly forgot words she read a moment before, if she could even process them in the first place. Sounding out words was not as helpful as it was supposed to be, many of the sounds didn’t resemble anything she’d heard before, and even the act of translating the image of a word to a sound was a struggle. She found herself staring at the same page for an untold amount of time, as if looking at the words hard enough would imprint them into her mind. Her focus was not on reading, but on how she should be reading. How it should not be this difficult, if she was to believe what everyone told her. 

Reading was not as difficult as writing, which was in turn not nearly as difficult as math. She thought, maybe, that practicing reading would be an easier method of being productive. Maybe it would provide a small victory she could bring home to brag about and use as a bargaining chip to buy herself a break from learning. 

All it really did was frustrate her.

Matilda was so absorbed in how she was not reading that she didn’t notice Sonic skidding to a stop near her. He leaned on the oak tree to look over her shoulder and startled her when he spoke. 

“Whatcha readin’?”

Matilda jumped. She stared at Sonic, trying to formulate an answer. Her eyes drifted down and she felt embarrassed. “I dunno.”

“Must not be very interesting if you don’t know.” 

Frustration bubbled in Matilda’s chest. She slammed her book shut and tossed it in the grass beside her. The book was suddenly an object of hatred, and she did not want to look at it anymore. It felt like a representation of her failure.

Sonic kneeled down to pick it up. He sat in the grass next to Matilda and turned the book over in his hands. 

“Well no wonder,” he said. “This sounds like it sucks!” 

Matilda hugged her knees to her chest. “Yeah. It does.” 

Sonic gave her a knowing look. “Shadow gave this to you didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He said it’s easy, but I don’t know what he’s talking about,” she sighed. “But I’m supposed to learn so…I’m trying to read it. But it’s hard! And it doesn’t make any sense!”

Sonic tapped his chin, thinking. “What’s hard about it?” he asked. 

“You’re good at reading, you won’t get it.”

“Nah,” Sonic said. “I just do it a lot, doesn’t mean I’d pass a test.” 

Matilda lifted her head and gave him a quizzical look. 

“It’s true! I hated reading when I was a kid, and I’ve always been pretty slow at it.”

“Then why do you do it? Seems like it’s the worst,” Matilda said.

“A good story is worth the effort.”

Matilda started picking at blades of grass. She mulled over the sentiment, and found herself unconvinced. So far her experience with reading was nothing but frustration and feeling like she was missing something.

“How about this,” Sonic said. He reached into his quills and pulled out a thick book bound in forest green. “Let me show you my favorite book. I think it might change your mind.” 

Matilda hesitated, but was curious. “What’s it about?” 

“There’s awesome fights in it. And dragons.” Sonic smiled when Matilda’s antennae perked up and her eyes widened. “If you like it, you can use it for reading practice. But forget about all that for now, see if you like the story.” 

“Okay,” Matilda said. “But if it’s boring, I’m never reading again!” 

Sonic laughed. “Alright.” He cleared his throat for some drama and presented the cover of the book. It was a beautiful deep green with gold leaves around the border and a hedgehog holding an elaborate sword below overly fancy lettering. The edges of the cover were frayed and some of the lettering was fading. 

King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. A collection of legends and tales from the land of Camelot.

Sonic had told the truth in saying that he was not a fast reader. He would stutter or reread sentences, much like Matilda found herself doing in her reading practice. Still, she was enraptured. The drama Sonic put into his voice and the excitement of the stories themselves were more than enough to keep her attention. Often Sonic would stand and walk around, he would gesture and lose his place and preface certain sections with an assurance that “now this is the good part”. Matilda found herself doing some of the same. There was no pressure to remain still or quiet, and she felt free to move about and laugh and commentate. 

Some hours passed. By the time Sonic turned the final page, the sky was a dusky orange, and the sun was slowly making its way below the horizon. By the end of the book, Matilda and Sonic found themselves back under the oak tree. Now Matilda was smiling and talking about the stories. She focused on the sword fights of course, jabbing her arm in a mimickry of stabbing a sword as she talked about them. Her sullen attitude from before was completely gone, replaced by a childish excitement much more typical of her. 

Sonic let her talk, listening intently until Matilda was interrupted by the sound of approaching rocket skates. Matilda leapt up at the sound, immediately starting to tell Shadow about the stories she’d just been told before he’d even stopped in front of her. Shadow listened, but looked past Matilda at Sonic, who held up the book. 

Sonic stood and held the book towards Matilda. “Safe to say this might be some fun practice?”

Matilda nodded enthusiastically and took the book in her hands. “I love it!” She hugged it to her chest and leaned slightly forward, dropping her voice. “It’s a lot better than that other one.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Sonic said. “And hey, it’ll still be hard, but at least it’ll be a fun read.”

Matilda looked hesitant. “Um…Could I practice with you sometimes?” 

“Of course kid,” Sonic said. “I’ll make sure I’m more fun than whatever this guy’s doing.” He gestured at Shadow, teasing. 

Shadow rolled his eyes, but did not comment. 

Matilda beamed. “Okay!” 

Goodbyes were exchanged and Matilda scampered off homewards, expecting Shadow to follow.

Although Matilda herself had not read, she had a new excitement for the idea of it, and the prospect of practicing was no longer absolutely sickening.

Sometimes all it takes is swordfights and dragons and room to run around.

[gothicxreylover]

I want to request a Yandere Angeldust from hazbin hotel

Yandere Angel Dust Headcanons

(Reader is gender neutral, and angel dust is based off the pilot)

1. Possessive Love

Angel Dust is naturally flirty and carefree on the surface, but when it comes to you, he becomes incredibly possessive. Anyone who flirts with you or even looks at you the wrong way is met with his sharp tongue and, if necessary, a bullet from his gun.

2. Constant Attention

Angel thrives on attention, and he demands the same from you. If you spend too much time with someone else or seem distracted, he gets pouty and passive-aggressive, making sly comments to pull you back to him.

3. Manipulative Tendencies

Angel knows how to use his charm and wit to keep you dependent on him. He’ll shower you with compliments and gifts, only to subtly remind you that no one else will ever love you the way he does.

4. Violence as a Solution

While Angel tries to keep things lighthearted, his yandere tendencies surface when he feels threatened. Anyone who tries to harm or take you away is met with his deadly efficiency. He might even make jokes while dealing with them, masking his true rage.

5. Clingy Behavior

Angel constantly wants to be near you, whether it’s hanging out, holding your hand, or cuddling. If you try to create some space, he panics, convinced you’re slipping away, and will go to extreme lengths to keep you close.

6. Paranoia

Angel constantly worries that someone will take you away or that you’ll leave him. This paranoia makes him overly protective, often shadowing you or interrogating you about your interactions with others.

Small Story: “Strings Attached”

The dim neon lights of the Hazbin Hotel cast a glow over the room as you sat on the couch, flipping through a magazine. Angel Dust lounged next to you, his long legs sprawled out, one arm casually draped over the back of the couch.

“Whatcha readin’, babe?” he asked, leaning closer to peek over your shoulder.

“Just a magazine,” you replied, chuckling at his exaggerated curiosity.

Angel’s grin widened, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “You’ve been real into that thing. Almost like you’re ignoring me.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully nudging him. “Don’t be dramatic, Angel.”

Before you could react, he grabbed the magazine and tossed it aside, pulling you into his lap with surprising force. “Dramatic? Nah, doll, dramatic would be if I started tearin’ this place apart ‘cause you’re not givin’ me enough love.”

His tone was teasing, but the grip he had on your waist was firm, almost too tight. You tried to shift, but his spider-like legs locked you in place.

“Angel, what’s gotten into you?” you asked, half-laughing, trying to diffuse the tension.

His grin faltered for a moment, replaced by an intense stare. “You’re mine, ya know? Ain’t nobody else gonna treat you like I do. And if anyone tries to take you away…” He trailed off, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Well, let’s just say I ain’t afraid to make a mess.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and despite the fear creeping up your spine, Angel’s arms wrapped around you in a gentle, almost loving way.

“Don’t look at me like that, doll,” he murmured, his cheek brushing against yours. “I just love ya too much, that’s all. You’re my everything, and I ain’t lettin’ anyone screw that up.”

His lips pressed against your temple, the gesture sweet and possessive. “Now, let’s forget all this heavy stuff, huh? C’mon, let’s watch somethin’. Just you and me.”

You nodded, unable to find your voice as Angel pulled you closer, his smile returning but his eyes still glinting with that unmistakable, dangerous devotion.

[senka-mesecine]

Girl gimme a ficlet about Bobby (Barnes 🩷) not being able to sleep after receiving a letter from a girl he left at home ages ago, finding him and checking up on him 💌 😩

love ya,✌🏻 thanks if you do this 😘

Bobby.

Robert Barnes x (Indirect) Reader.

@woman-with-no-name

-

Suck up O'Neill brought him a letter that morning with the words 'Heya, Bob. Thinkin’ this is for you.’ and twelve hours later, the envelope was still precisely where Barnes left it. That was the way of things.

Next to the poker stack.

In the company of Budweiser cans and emptied ashtrays.

People just didn’t have the habit of touching his things. Didn’t have the balls, more like. So, he could put stuff exactly where he wanted to put them and expect to find them there, not even an inch moved, however many hours or even days later. Was a little test he tended to conduct and the result was always the same. Things intended for him remained where he wanted them to remain and he supposed why he put off reading this particular bit of correspondence was precisely due to who and where it was coming from. Letters made Barnes comfortable, that was the truth of it. He could admit that to himself, couldn’t he? Nobody would hear him in his own head, now would they? Not that he’d ever say it or even talk about the subject but in these four years, the only mail he’d receive was the allotted provisional parcel every limpdick in this platoon got by default. Waterproof matches and cigarettes. Reminders that the outside world existed as such — it tended to give him a whiplash he’d rather cut down by the root so it would cease growing especially when the letters were from you. He recognized the address in an instant, just by throwing a careless glance at it. After all, a no-name hill hamlet former mining settlement not appearing on a map had only two houses. One he grew up in and another, the neighbor’s family down the dirt road. He thought how you’d have to find a way to travel out to Cottage Grove thirty two miles down the nearest highway just to send this fucker.

And now, ten thousand miles away on the other side of the world, he was putin’ off readin’ it. You sack of shit, he thinks, to himself, about himself, biting the bullet, tearing up the envelope, using a knife to cut the glued in paper open.

Read it and get it over with.

‘Bobby.’

The first introductory word hits him like a speeding train and something coils up inside of him.

When was the last time he was called that? Childhood?

Seemingly, in a time that bypassed memory or reason by now.

‘I know you don’t like letters much but I’m of the firm opinion everyone should receive nice words from home every once in a while and I know that approximately a few weeks from now, if everything goes well, you’ll be holding this in your hands and the thought makes me happy because it’ll be like a hug or a long overdue ‘hello’; touching across distances through a piece of paper I had in my hand and that you have in your hand right now seeing as how the biggest event this tiny neighborhood has had in years, maybe even decades, was the day you were deployed and the biggest event is the hope you’ll be tired of fighting and come back. Nothing’s happened since. Not much happens here ever. Life moves slowly. Except thoughts of you. We grew up together, fence against fence, roof against roof, so I’m allowed to say that. You’re missed out here, Robert. Do you know that?’

Barnes looks away, just about ready to crumple up the damn thing and stop reading, paused in his intent perhaps only by the passage about touch and the thought of your fingers holding the pen, the imaginary phantom of your presence lingering like a shadow and he envisions you there, squeezing your hand. Sap. You were always a sap. What were you doing, waitin’ around for him, not living your own damn life? He was tempted to take to the paper himself, feeling like some sort of snot nosed brat wasting time on civilian correspondence, just so he could write you a scathing reply that orders you to move on with yourself and quit deluding yourself. Find a man, he thinks only for the notion to immediately perish once he feels his jaw tighten and he concludes that no — no, the thought of that didn’t feel good at all. Not as effective of a retort as he felt it would've been. You were never a walkin’ back home like a couple, you were just the neighbor’s kid and not much else, but something about you being given away to someone felt like giving away his gun and the last bullet in it. Naked. Stripped. Disarmed. 

Jealousy.

Felt like jealousy. Cold and murderous.

He places his arm as a rest under his head instead of a pillow so it would tempt him away from grabbing a nearby bottle and chugging it dry. He keeps reading, fingers squeezing the paper so hard he leaves dents behind. Angry at you, both for waiting around and at the very idea you'd be with someone else. Why he didn't like letters. Precisely for this reason. Did something to his insides.

‘We heard you were wounded a couple of times in combat but as you never write us, we worry. We worry constantly. More so when you kept re-enlisting and extending your contract. I don’t begrudge the lack of letters. I can’t imagine it’s easy writing out there. Can’t imagine a person has the tremendous desire to. It’s a different world; different habits emerge. So I wrote you instead to let you know that I know. I know why pictures don’t ever arrive either. I want you to understand I don’t mind and it changes nothing for me. What kind of friend would I be if it bothered me? I care about you. I love you. I think I always have. Ever since we were kids. That’s so much easier to confess in written words than it is in person although I think I’ll be swallowed up by the floor while just holding the pen. Funny how that works. Getting second hand embarrassment like this. Everything feels so formal and grand in a letter, yet so far away and distant, like writing an imaginary someone. That’s how long I haven’t seen you. Seems a lifetime and a half.’

In a sudden flash of unease, Barnes touches his own face, the scarred part, feeling himself, somehow self conscious even though he was down in the foxhole all by himself, laying down on mattress away from sight, in the shade. In his mind's eye, though, your eyes are right there, so kind he could blind himself purely not to look at them looking at him. Yeah, so? You heard about how many times he was shot? Heard about this face? Heard about how many stitches they needed to pull him back together? What now? Want a medal for it too? He sits up from his bunk, angry, angry at everything and not even sure at what exactly out of the whole goddamn bunch, and then it hits him; he was angry at your acceptance because it was like a limp, soft thing that he could crush in his hand and not even blink. He remembers you as a child. You were sweet then too. The same now as well. The world hasn't changed you. Ruined you in any way. Which is precisely why you should never write here again if you knew what was good for you.

The final lines of the letter traced by his thumb get lost under his touch.

He loathes admitting he wishes there was more.

About anything. Any topic at all.

The weather, how it affected you and whether the crops were good this year.

How many inches you've grown since he's last seen you, if at all.

‘But, Robert — You don’t have to respond, even now. Toss this into a fire once you’re done. Tear it up. Step and spit on it. Just understand that there’s always a home to come back to. And someone who’d receive you with open arms once you do. That’s the point of all of this, ultimately. That you’re so very dear to me.’ With all the love in the world — your cherished friend.

Your words come to an end and all he's faced is a momentary blank, thinking about that concept, there always being a home to come back to, that he was, what'd you say, dear to you? Dear to you. Dear. Dear. He measures to word carefully, testing it, scrutinizing it, head falling back until he's looking up at the earthy ceiling held up by wooden pillars. He wasn't clueless. He knew there was a place to go back to in the technical sense. Walls. A roof. Windows. A patch of soil. But, the thought you were actually waiting? That you loved him? He wanted so badly to label you as stupid, a time-waster, idle and someone throwing away actual years and for what, finding he couldn't do it. Yeah, he loved you too. Just thought you'd wisen up and move on so he could be relieved for once. Relieved that you'd cease holding out and suffering. Unwittingly, perhaps for the first time in years, he imagines himself being there. He sits down at the same dining table as you and the world's suddenly worth a damn again. He folds up the letter, neatly, slowly, and tucks it into the first pocket he can feel up once he hears footsteps, turning eyes towards the root of the sound.

Red.

-"Hey there, Sargerooney? Letter, huh?"-

O'Neill bumbles, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth, seeming fidgety and nervous, like he was expecting praise for a job well done but Barnes almost finds he can't be profoundly pissed off at the guy. Not today. Maybe some other time, just not exactly now. Feeling, perhaps, internally grateful. For bringing him this. Bringing him you. Having the good sense not to touch you. Open you up. He says nothing in response, humming, at best, as a retort, deciding to give Red a good, hard stare instead. He felt that was more than sufficient, still pondering you and reaching out across that table where you'd write your letter to hold your hand. The hills of East Tennessee are frozen and as cold as a dog's bone in his mind, cooling off the searing humidity of the jungle; the war's over and he stays there with you in a snowfall that never ends, cutting off all roads to everywhere and anywhere. It's you and him. Nobody else in the mist. Barnes doesn't sleep that night by choice, hand pressed over the pocket containing your torn envelope. You're right there, sleepin' with him.

Tomorrow, he decides he'll go back to reality.

[wrxsslin-hours]

Hey, Lover (Chapter 1)

next chap |

Bret was only supposed to deliver flowers to Shawn, not fall in love with him.

(Quintessential Delivery Boy x Househusband bretshawn au)

a/n: Hi hello, how y'all doing? Remember that one time I wrote this fic? A year ago, I think? Wild. Since Christmas break is coming along and I don't have classes until the 22nd, I was thinking I should finish this small fic-let. Thank you for readin'

I've rejected affection for years and years. Now I have it, and damn it, it's kind of weird. He tells me I'm pretty. Don't know how to respond. I tell him that he's pretty too. Can I say that? Don't have a clue - "Valentine", Laufey

The flower shop was the apotheosis of all flower shops—small but brimming with buckets and pots of flowers. A tender farrago of lilies, carnations, and hydrangeas filled the room. The floor was a mess of leaves and rogue petals; the shelves above, a nest of ribbons and silk. Wrapping papers crumpled, and the radio sang. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains and bathed the room in warmth; dust and pollen danced in its rays. It was a peek into the world through pink-tinted glasses, a sea of reds and whites. And in the middle of it all, Bret arranged roses as if he were a man on a mission.

Like clockwork, Bret tied a bow around the neck of the bouquet and gently placed it beside the others he had made. He rubbed the underside of his nose to block the overpowering aroma of flowers. The corners of his lips tugged into a frown. Customers would say the scent was heavenly; Bret would beg to differ. Curly black tresses framed his face as the sound of hushed giggles drowned the staccato melodies of the radio. An annoyed huff sliced through the air. Bruce, Bret’s brother, let out an exasperated sigh, his nose buried between the pages of his newspaper.

“Would you two stop poking your noses where they don’t belong?”

Bruce’s reprimand fell on deaf ears. Bret turned his head to Owen and Elizabeth, the sides of their faces glued to the cracked door of their parents’ shared office. It wasn’t too long ago that a tall man came barreling down the shop doors, wallet in his hands like a rifle ready to shoot through every assortment of tulips and orchids. The stranger was a far cry from their regular customers. He didn’t have the caved shoulders of a shy teen or the worried lines of a husband who forgot his anniversary. He was confident and sharp, savvy like a businessman with a heartthrob smile. He wasn’t the average Joe. And after such a slow day of work, his intrusion caught everyone’s attention. It’s been ten minutes since their parents whisked the man away into their office, and Owen and Elizabeth sat fixated on the shadows that shifted underneath the gap in the door.

Owen waved his hand, and his sandy blonde hair swayed as he did so. He reeled his head back to face his brother’s furrowed brows with furrowed brows of his own. “Pipe down, Bruce. I can’t hear a thing over your yapping.”

The older Hart gritted his teeth, ready to crack from the tension of his jaw. Before he had the chance to stand, roll his newspaper, and whack Owen upside the head, Elizabeth squealed and stopped him dead in his tracks. Four pairs of eyes darted to her as she slid her back down the wall, her hands on her flushed cheeks.

“He ordered fifty roses.” She swooned, the skirt of her lilac dress pooling around her as she sat on the floor. Owen scrambled beside his sister, his head cemented onto the door once more. As the conversation beyond the door rambled on, Owen hung onto every faint word his ears could decipher.

“Fifty roses!” Owen gasped, disbelief in his eyes. The blonde turned his head to his brothers and wiggled his eyebrows, “Talk about a Casanova.”

Elizabeth pushed herself to her feet, leaves on her skirt. “Isn’t it romantic?” she mused starry-eyed. “I’d love to get a bouquet like that,” she sighed, her head tilted heavenward.

Jim rolled his eyes at her daydreaming, gaze as dark as the stem-covered marble counter he lay on. He pursed his lips and twirled a flower between his fingers, “Fifty roses are daylight robbery. Pretty sappy if you ask me.” He plucked a leaf from its stem. “This guy must be loaded to make an order like that.”

Bruce sat down on a stool, the soles of his shoes balanced on its footrest. He shrugged his shoulders as he opened his newspaper and went to the page he left off. “That just means there’s more money for us.” He leaned his head back and laughed.

The office door suddenly flew open and thwacked Owen square on the face. A groan escaped the blonde’s lips. But his pain was left muted by the gruff voice of the man that opened the door. “Watch it, twerp,” the man snapped, his face red and his suit white.

Cowboy hat on his head, chocolate-colored eyes pointed to the studded watch on his wrist. The man’s black loafers, shined to perfection, smacked against the checker-tiled floor. Like a tornado, he stormed out of the shop and knocked every pot that stood in his way. Bret stared as the stranger crossed the street, entered his eggshell-colored limousine, and drove off. Bruce grumbled as he, Jim, and Elizabeth picked up the pots the man pushed down. Owen shakily stood up beside Bret with his hands on his nose and redness on his forehead. “I’m not delivering for that jerk,” he sneered. He patted Bret on the shoulder, “He’s all yours.”

Before Bret could retort, their parents strode into the room, an argument along with them. “We can’t possibly have fifty roses ready for today,” Helen bickered as she unfolded the napkin their customer gave, her hair brown like the apron she wore. “We won’t have them restocked until Saturday.”

Stu huffed as his eyes darted around his shop before they stopped on the rose bouquets on Bret’s work table. He grabbed the flowers and began to unwrap them. He piled the roses into a hill and cast everything else aside. Bret sputtered, his shades sliding down the bridge of his nose as he did so, “Dad, those were an order for Miss Mae–”

“Miss Mae can wait, Bret.” Stu wrapped the roses with precision. Helen sighed beside him as she plucked a notecard and began to write down whatever their latest client scribbled on the coffee-stained napkin. “Mr. Layfield is paying big money to have his delivery done today,” Stu explained. “It’s the biggest order we got since we opened, so we should make him happy.”

It didn’t take long for Bret to have a behemoth of a bouquet in his arms and a clipboard tucked under his chin. Bret could feel the dull pinch of thorns on his biceps; the aroma of roses bombarded his nose as it completely buried his upper body. With one last tweak on the bouquet from his mother, Bret was out the door and into the delivery truck. Before he could drive off, his father’s voice rang in the breeze. Bret peeked over the roses to see Stu waving at him. “Take off your sunglasses!” he exclaimed, hands around his mouth to amplify his words. Bret fought to roll his eyes as he dragged his sunglasses to the top of his head and steered the truck into the busy streets.

Bret passed a flurry of saloons and office buildings. The world outside the truck was a blur of greens and grays. White picket fences turned into towering hedgerows, wooden street lights turned into metal lamp posts, and mismatched row houses turned into palatial mansions. Bret’s delivery truck stuck out like a sore thumb in the presence of luxury sedans. A low whistle escaped his lips as he slowed to a halt in front of the rose bouquet’s intended.

A mansion stood tall in the presence of neatly trimmed hedges and surrounded by an army of limousines and cars. Upon the home’s slate roof was an array of leaves connected to twining vines that hugged its brick walls, and behind those vines were large arched windows, like hair that covered soulful eyes. Bret could faintly make out the beige curtains behind the glass panes. He grabbed the bouquet and reveled in the manor’s beauty. It was the picture of pristine perfection, a scene straight from the home magazines his mother would regularly read. Bret would’ve been impressed if the mansion didn’t look like every other house in the cul-de-sac. He grabbed the rose bouquet and slipped his clipboard on top of it. The gravel path crinkled underneath his feet as he walked to the manor’s grand double doors. The sun bore onto his skin as Bret pushed the doorbell with his elbow. He rolled his eyes at the sound of cowbells that echoed in his ears. The doorbell tune was ostentatious as the roses in his hands.

Silence filtered the air. Bret clicked his tongue and pushed the doorbell again, the sound of the doorbell more annoying than the first. He juggled the flowers in his hands as he looked down at the address written on his clipboard. The idea of being in the wrong house filled his mind, but before Bret could turn his back from the door, it swung open. ‘Finally,’ Bret thought. With his eyes still on his clipboard, he tilted his head to the side. “Does Mr. Shawn Layfield live here?” he asked.

“Well, hello to you too, handsome,” a voice drawled, sweet like honey and slow like molasses.

Bret’s head shot up as a chill ran down his spine. His dark eyes landed on the man in front of him, his breath hitched. Bret balanced the bouquet in one hand as he tugged on the collar of his pink shirt with the other. He expected the thick velvet of a butler’s tuxedo, not the glossy sheen of a silk robe. He expected thinning silver hair, not damp blond curls that clung to tanned skin. Bret was ready to smell the musk of dust, not the aroma of cigarettes and Parisian perfume. He shook his head in a vain attempt to escape the other man’s allure. “I have flowers for him.”

Shawn’s smile widened, “Are they from you?”

“They’re from–” Bret read his clipboard – “Mr. John Bradshaw Layfield.”

The blond’s smile left as fast as it came. He pursed his lips like he was chewing on a lemon rind and leaned against the door frame. “A bit over-the-top, isn’t it?”

Bret gave a wry grin. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just the delivery boy.” Bret waited for the other to take the bouquet from his hands. But the door only opened wider. The delivery boy raised a brow; his head cocked to the side.

“What?” Shawn shrugged; his robe slid down his shoulder as he did so. “You don’t expect me to carry all of that, do you?”

Bret blinked owlishly. Shawn seemed perfectly capable of carrying the order. He gazed at the taut muscle underneath Shawn’s clothes for a moment. And at the drop of a hat, Bret’s eyes stayed pointedly on the blond’s bedroom eyes. “You’re a delivery boy,” Shawn continued. He stepped to the side, his brow in a sly arch, “Go on and deliver.”

Bret frowned and took a wary step. Shawn guided him into the living room, and Bret followed as if God watched him. Cautious and guarded, Bret took each step as if it was his last. The shuffle of carpet slowly replaced the sound of shoes against the wooden floor. And Bret caught himself in the company of lush couches and intricate cabinets as Shawn excused himself to get a vase. He tapped his toe against the white tiger rug underneath him as the chandelier shined above his head. To say Bret felt out of place was an understatement. The living space was lavish, just like everything else in the mansion. Bookshelves as tall as the ceiling covered half of the room, each shelf overflowing with novels and encyclopedias. In the corner was a grand piano, free from dust and fingerprints. Paintings upon paintings hung from the walls, bronze candelabras scattered along the corridors. Bret narrowed his eyes. There were no framed pictures or lightly stained patches on the floor. The house was opulent, but it didn’t seem as lived-in as it should be. His contemplation was interrupted by Shawn’s call.

“Tell me, delivery boy, what do these flowers mean?” He asked as he placed the water-filled vase on the coffee table and situated himself on one of the many chairs in the room. “Don’t they have meanings? The language of flowers and whatnot.”

Bret hesitantly unwrapped the bouquet and propped the roses inside the porcelain vase. He handed the notecard to the blond with a rehearsed smile, “That’s what cards are for.”

“You are so boring.” Shawn stretched on the chair; his legs dangled on its cushioned armrest. “Read the note for me.”

The delivery boy exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. Bret would’ve left ages ago if his father wasn’t so insistent about pleasing their clients. Not wanting to waste any more time, he began to read the card. “Love of my life–”

“Is it too late to return the bouquet?”

Bret couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped him. The corner of Shawn’s lip quirked up at the sound of his laughter. He twirled a strand of his golden hair between his fingers, “You should rest a bit before you go.” Shawn stood up and strolled towards Bret, “You must be tired.” He brushed his hand against Bret’s forearm and grinned at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I should go, Mr. Layfield–”

“Call me Shawn.” He peeked up at Bret through his lashes, “You’ve got a name, delivery boy?”

“What I do have are other deliveries to do.” Bret felt his cheeks warm as he raised his clipboard and offered the other man a pen, “I need your signature, Mr. Layf– Shawn.”

Shawn pouted, his shoulders sagged as he took the pen and clipboard from Bret’s grasp; their fingers brushed against one another. Bret bit his top lip as Shawn signed the paper with a flourish and gave the clipboard back to him. The delivery boy could feel the tension leave his body; this whole fiasco was finally sealed to a close. “It’s been a pleasure, Shawn.”

The blond took an abrupt step towards Bret’s personal space; their chests flushed together. Shawn tucked the pen behind the other’s ear. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he purred.

The tension left Bret, and his soul might as well follow along with it.

A stormy haze engulfed Bret’s consciousness, and it didn’t clear up until he was seated in his truck. The events that transpired minutes ago replayed in his mind like a broken cassette tape. He combed his fingers through his hair, and the pen balanced behind the shell of his ear fell on the passenger seat beside him. His eyes darted to the clipboard on his lap; the name ‘Shawn Michaels’ written on the signature line mocked him. He glanced at the mansion’s reflection on the crooked rearview mirror, and with the thoughts of Shawn plaguing him, he drove off.

Shawn didn’t cross Bret’s mind again until a week later. He was sat on the counter redoing the messy ribbons Owen hurriedly tied beforehand when his dad lumbered into the shop with a box of lavender colored craft paper in his arms. Bret raised a questioning brow at Owen, and their father placed the box on the counter. “Big order coming up,” the older Hart mused.

Bret could already feel the sleepless hours they will undoubtedly spend making flower arrangements. Owen groaned at the very thought. Their father cleared the counter from leaves and petals, letting them drop to the floor. “Mr. Layfield has a soiree in a week and since he loved our flowers the last time, he wanted us to arrange flowers for it.”

Owen groaned even louder and slouched in his chair. “Hate that guy,” the blonde grumbled under his breath, a sour taste still in his mouth from the last time their rich client last visited them. “That guy is paying for our food on the table, son,” Stu tutted.

As both Harts bickered back and forth, Bret gulped. Bret usually didn’t think of the people he delivered flowers to; their faces stay blurred for the short time they linger in his thoughts. But Shawn, with his not-so-subtle interest and that damned silk robe of his, was the exception.

“I bet his husband didn’t even like the bouquet!” Owen complained. Their father scowled but couldn’t disagree. The younger Hart wrapped his arm around Bret, “Right, Bret? The guy didn’t like it, did he?”

Bret ignored his brother, instead feigning nonchalance with a cross of his arms. He turned to Stu, “Say, do you know anything about Layfield’s husband?” Stu hummed, rummaging through the box he carried in, “The boy got married to Layfield the moment he graduated college. Layfield paraded the young man around like a prized diamond to his even richer friends. That’s about everything people know around here.” Owen butted himself into the conversation, “He doesn’t have good taste, then.” Stu shooed his younger son away with a roll of ribbons.

Bret fiddled with the ends of a flower stem, distracting himself. Stu gave him a knowing look, and Bret shifted his eyes to the lone pair of scissors on the floor, far more interesting than the squinted look of his father at that moment. “His husband is coming here later to discuss decorations. I won’t be here—” Owen clapped his hands, already aware of where their father was hinting at. “Oh, would you look at the time, I should really help Lizzy with the groceries. Okay, bye!” Owen bolted out of the store in a breath, the front door bell jingled when he set foot outside and left his family staring at his retreating form.

Stu clicked his tongue before he fished out his notepad from his back pocket. He handed it to Bret, “Just make sure to keep the customer happy.”

It wasn’t that Bret was avoiding Shawn, far from it. But when presented with the chance to flirt back with a man married to someone who could buy all of Bret’s possessions that he’s had or will ever have, he’d rather steer clear of it. But there was something about Shawn that Bret could not stop thinking about. From the beauty mark underneath his lashes to the way he smirked at Bret’s flustered state, Shawn was beautiful, and he knew it all too well. He seemed to know just the right buttons to press to make Bret second-guess his words. And the Hart was trapped between a rock and a hard place when Shawn finally visited the flower shop, an hour late from schedule.

Looking at Shawn made Bret unconsciously smooth out the wrinkles of his shirt and fix his hair any chance he got. Under Shawn’s gaze, Bret felt awfully small. When Shawn entered the store, he brought in an air of sweetness, the type that makes Bret’s mouth water. It was a nice change from the aroma of flowers, and for once, Bret didn’t have the urge to hide his nose behind his hand. Shawn dressed simply, but with the way he carried himself, it proved otherwise. He was fond of silk, Bret noticed, as his eyes trailed from his silk shirt to the jeans that hugged his waist.

“Hi, delivery boy.”

Bret blinked; his eyes shot back to Shawn’s face. “Welcome, Mr. Layfield,” Bret managed to utter. Shawn pouted, “I told you not to call me that.”

The blonde locked his gaze on the array of flowers behind Bret, his pout melting into a grin. “Those are pretty. I wish I got those bouquets instead.”

Bret turned to where Shawn was staring and laughed, “50 roses not good enough for you?” Shawn smiled, “Not even good to begin with.”

[redheadspark]

I am LOVING these prompts! Do you think you could do Druig with 9? The one where reader is reading and Druig’s being a clingy watcher?

A/N - Druig would definitely do this! Thanks for requesting this, anon!

Passage

Summary - After the Emergence, you and Druig have a moment to pause and have peace.

Warnings - Just fluff :)

It started with a simple bit of movement on the couch, you staying still as you flipped to another page.  Then it was the feeling of a shadow right behind you, yet you remained calm and read the passage in front of you.  Of course you knew this game far too well, it’s happened so many times you lost count.  Especially since it started long before technology had started. 

Centuries ago this started, and it hasn’t really lost its fire.

Finally, you felt arms wrapped around you from behind and a neck tucked on top of your shoulder.  You hummed, feeling those hands before on your lower waist with the right amount of pressure, the softness of the brown hair against your neck and ear, and the scent that he carried after being out in the sun for far too long.

“Whatcha readin’, lover?” You heard in your ear.

Druig.

“A book I found in Makkari’s personal treasure trove on the Domo,” You hummed as your eyes were still moving and following along, “This one is called Treasure Island, a pirate adventure,” 

“Ah, sounds like somethin’ you’d like,” He replied as he too was reading some of the words there, “Never took Makkari as one to like pirates.  Then again they stole gold.”

“Oh, and Makkari steals gold like a pirate?” You asked as you paused in your reading, looking over your shoulder barely to see Druig’s eyes on your thanks to your peripheral vision.  He said nothing but smirk as you clicked your tongue, “Fine, I’ll go tell her!”

“No!” Druig said suddenly, keeping you close on the couch as you were about to get up.  You laughed as he peppered kisses along your cheeks and neck to keep you in one place.  The mood was a bit lighter then in that moment, given the last few days and all that you had to deal with together.  Once you both were done laughter and simply holding each other, you looked around the room that you were in, sighing in both remorse and regret.

Ajak’s living room at her farmhouse.  

It’s been two days since the near Emergence, you all came to the Farmhouse to unwind and lay low since the news all over the world was talking about the marble being that was frozen in the ocean.  Sersi, Kingo and Sprite were already back in London, going back to reality themselves as the rest of you went to South Dakota.  There was no real mindset on what the future was going to hold, Thena wanted to hold a meeting later that day to see what we should do next.  Sersi was our new leader, yet she was waiting to go back to London to talk to Damon and perhaps but every that happened behind her.  You would have too, yet you and Druig were still deciding on what to do.

“I miss her,” You said as you drank in the small living room you two were in.  It all was Ajak, the paintings and decor on her walls, the rug along the worn floor, even the slightly peeling wallpaper against the wall. It had charm and life in its bones and walls, just like how Ajak was when she was alive.

“Me too,” Druig murmured as he took was looking at the walls and then out the windows, “She meant well with all of is….and with me,”

“Druig,” You said his name, “We talked about this.  You know she loved you, beyond loved you.  What happened is in the past, and all we can do is move forward,”

Druig was heartbroken when he heard about Ajak’s death through Sersi.  He kept it to himself while the Eternals were visiting your home in the Amazon.  Yet when the fight was done, and after you had the service for Gilgamesh, Druig finally collapsed in your arms as you two slept in your little shack. He mourned for not being able to talk to her again.  He mourned for not telling Ajak he was wrong in how he blew up against her.

He mourned for never apologizing.

“We did stop the world from ending, and I think Ajak would have been proud of us,” You explained as he was still searching your eyes to see that you were telling the truth.  You moved his brown hair from his eyes, tracing his nose slightly with the tip of your finger.

“Proud of me goin’ against Arishem even?” Druig had to ask, speaking about the very Celestial whom he butted his head against ever since you all came to Earth.

“No, Druig.  Proud of you protecting humans, the same species we were sworn to protect since we came here to this planet,” You answered him.  Druig finally gave a smaller smile and leaned into you to hug you.  You hugged him back, kissing the top of his head as you rubbed his arms, “Ajak would be proud of you and how far you have come, Druig.”

“Aye, the same for you, M’Lady,” he said your nickname with you as he hooked his chin on your shoulder again, “Now, read to me some of this pirate book that you think is amazin’.”

You opened the book again, finding the page where you left off and started to read aloud.  Druig hung onto your every word as the South Dakota wind was picking up outside the farmhouse. Now that the world as not going to end and life can move on and grow, you were optimistic about the future that you were going to have with Druig.

You both were going to find your peace again, one day at a time.  

The End.

June Summer Prompts

[serendibity]

Advantage Point

Sigiriya is a small village located in the northeastern part of the teardrop island. Its biggest draw is a UNESCO World Heritage Site known as Lion's Rock, a granite toadstool that soars 183 metres into the air thanks to volcanic activity from the 5th century.

The Lion King of Sigiriya, Kasyapa himself, transformed it into a fortress and palace in the middle of a landscaped water garden. Later, it became a pilgrimage site before falling to obscurity in the 12th century, to be rediscovered in the 1800s.

There's no two ways about it - from the ground, it is spectacular.

I pay my obligatory foreigner ticket of $36 (for reference, locals pay 36 cents), ignore the swarms of so-called "guides" that offer "tours" for varying degrees of payment, and start climbing.

After the first bit, I have to sit down.

No one said anything about this being the 9th circle of hell for someone with vertigo. Although to be fair, I should have known better.

But whatever - my acrophobia has never stopped me before (maybe it should have). Besides, the purpose of this trip was for me to tackle my fears. So, I ignore the copious warning signs my body is pumping out and tackle the next stage.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm going to fall off the monument. With my heart pounding and head spinning, I sit precariously on a rock-faced step, put my head in between my legs, and try not to pass out.

Several anxiety-stricken seconds go by.

All of a sudden, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hello! Are you OK?"

I look up into the face of a friendly local who looks worried. I say yes and meekly wave him off, but he stays put. Strange, but not unusual - he's probably just a concerned citizen, one of many who visit this sacred place on their day off.

The nausea isn't passing, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's time to call this off. The bitterness starts coursing through my veins, and I'm furious with myself, least of all because I've failed on several fronts.

The next time I raise my eyes, I ask him where the exit is.

Quick as lightning, he starts guiding me down the path from whence I came. Shaking in my boots means I am grateful for his presence, and several times, he offers to hold my hand through a particularly vomit-inducing passage. I clearly am not in any position to get back by myself.

This wasn't one of my most extraordinary ideas, I have to say.

We're about 40 metres to ground level when he starts mentioning money.

At first, I brush him off and focus on where my feet are landing. But then the pestering becomes more frequent.

He starts directing me towards merchants stationed on every corner, selling anything from wooden frog souvenirs to supposed magic healing oil.

It finally hits me that I've been had. He's one of the guides I pushed through in the beginning.

I start walking faster now that we're on terra firma, but he lingers in my shadow and won't let me go. He tries to take my hand or arm, which I wrestle out of his reach. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm still incredibly light-headed, I'd be running.

Now I'm scared. He's getting more aggressive and in my face. "Euros. Dollars. Rupees. Anything."

I hand him a nominal amount in the latter denomination, which he refuses.

I step aside, and he blocks my way.

I give him more, and he shouts, "Not enough."

"Take it or leave it. I have nothing else."

Ain't that the truth. My anger is palpable. In a moment of physical and mental vulnerability, when I'm counting on the kindness of a stranger, I've been taken advantage of by someone who saw me as an easy target because I couldn't think straight.

Now, I take full responsibility for my naivety. But this encounter doesn't help my general view of the world that people are just no good.

He finally understands that I mean business, takes the bill, and slunks away, probably in search of his next unwitting victim.

But hey - this is the first time I've ever paid someone to eff off. So there's something worth commemorating.

Also, do me a favour - for anyone reading this, go to Pidurangala Rock instead.

[pandoraheadcanons]

:((((

[wildbornsiren]

Sugar | Rhett Abbott x F!Reader

Sugar

Synopsis: A moment of quiet, and daisies

Drabble: 924 words. AFAB/ female reader.  Companion to  Sweet

Warning: Absolutely none. This is pure fluff. 

Notes:  Comments and reblogs are so appreciated. Likes are loved. Thank you so very much for reading. It means the most.  

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Big, brilliantly clear blue sky stretched out above you for miles. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, a gentle breeze kept the air from being too warm. The house, however, was entirely too warm, so you had taken refuge outside. You scrounged up a sheet from one of the large closets and filled a small cooler with water and snacks; and taken up a spot under a large tree. Your back rests against the warm trunk, an open bag of white cheddar popcorn open next to you, a book open on your lap. It’s quiet and peaceful, the stress of dealing with your father’s estate evaporating momentarily. You close your eyes listening to the bird calls and soft buzzing of the insects further off in the field. More and more your mind had drifted to staying in this small town that you’d started to think of as home. The low rumble of an engine made you open your eyes. Rhett’s truck went by, stopped and reversed. He gets out of the truck, climbing over the fence he had repaired a few weeks ago.

“Break time?” You ask. Rhett had been coming by for a few hours every day working on repairing the fence that had gone down and patching other places that had fallen into disrepair. The two of you had fallen into a little routine. He’d work, you’d organize, you’d sometimes share a meal, and often you’d end up tangled up in each other. He nods, sitting next to you on the blanket. “What’re you reading?” “I found this collection of poetry stashed in the office.” You hold up the leather-bound book. “I think it was my grandmother’s. It’s all her writing.” He places his hat on his knee, hands running through his hair. “Wouldn’t mind hearing a couple.” He glances at you, and you’re struck once more by that small half smile. “Not one for readin’ it myself, but don’t mind listening to it.” You glance down at the book in your lap, flipping back to one of the pages you had dog eared. You find yourself sitting up properly, clearing your throat. You can feel the weight of his gaze as you start to read, falling into the pattern of the prose easily. The first finished, you flip to another one and start anew. He shifts next to you, stretching out on his back, his head resting in your lap. You adjust the book allowing him to settle against you. His eyes are closed, lashes casting long shadows on his face. There’s a light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheekbones., Pale pink scar tissue on his nose, and a fading bruise on his collar bone. Your fingers comb through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. When you glance down, his breathing is slow and even, lips parted slightly as he sleeps. Holding your breath, you lean down and kiss his forehead. A quiet sound comes from him. He rolls onto his stomach, upper body resting against your lower legs, cheek pressed to your thigh. “Don’t stop,” his voice is low and rough and so sleepy, “I like listening to you.” You read until he’s well and truly asleep, his breathing gentle against your thigh. He’s heavy and warm, and there’s nothing on heaven or earth that would get you to move him. You hadn’t ever thought you’d get to see Rhett like this, completely relaxed and at ease; and the fact that he trusted you that much made your heart skip a little. You set the book aside, still toying with his hair. There’s a small patch of white in the grass next to the edge of the blanket. 

You can reach the daisies without disturbing him, plucking the flowers and twisting the stems into a chain, and then a circle. Gently placing the flower crown on his head, you pick up the book, returning to the romantic prose. You’re not sure how long he’s asleep, but eventually he sits up. “What’s this?” His lifts the flower crown from his hair. He holds it gently, a genuine, soft smile across his face. “Decided that I needed prettying up, darlin?” “I don’t know, you’re awfully pretty without it. I wanted to make you feel special.” He places the daisy chain carefully on his hat, tucking it around the worn leather. “Sittin’ here with you like this is pretty special.” You duck your gaze, looking down at the book. He lifts your chin, a soft kiss landing on your mouth. “Rhett…” He kisses you again, his hand cupping your jaw. “I should get back to it.” He reaches past you plucking a daisy from the grass. He tucks it behind your ear, another soft kiss landing on your cheek. You get to your feet when he does, a gasp slipping past your lips when he pulls you to him. Rhett’s arms wrap around you, holding you tightly to him. His hand smooths up and down your back, before he’s pulling away, his hand catching yours. “Are you coming up for dinner later?” “Yes ma’am.” He kisses the back of your hand. “Lookin’ forward to it.” He lets go, and you instantly miss his touch. “Want me to take you up to the house?” You shake your head, knowing that if you get into that close of quarters with him, nothing will get done. “I’ll be alright.” He pulls you in once more, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll see you in a little bit, darlin’.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Laisse tomber les filles 6

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; size kink; age gap; manipulation; sexual acts and dubcon (not explicitly tagged for a surprise but nothing extreme).

This is a dark!fic and Lee Bodecker x (short) reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find yourself ostracized on campus by your shyness, but your reticence won’t deter an unwanted suitor.

Note: We’re in the lion’s den now, thots.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You lost yourself in your notes for your History of Print class. The subject was dull, not true history, more so the anatomy of the press and the amount of prints issued from year to year. It was much unlike the description for the course but it was too late to change now.

You bent over the coffee table as you scribbled in a notebook. You were distracted enough by your effort to understand the significance of all the numbers that you didn’t think much on the noise of dishes in the kitchen. You sat up and yawned as you rubbed your forehead.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Lee intoned and you winced as you noticed his figure in the doorway.

“Hm, what time is it?” you went to check your watch but realised you’d forgotten it.

“Just after five, honey,” he said, “you been working hard.”

“Oh,” you closed your notebook around your ballpoint pen and stood, “is dinner ready then?”

“It is,” he smiled and raised his arm over his head to lean on the wood, “I even made us a special dessert.”

“Really, um, thank you,” you neared and he shifted sideways to let you through, his elbow still planted on the frame. 

You brushed against him as you entered the dining room, the table set for two and the light overhead turned low as a candle burned below. You went to a chair and Lee pulled it out before you could. You sat and looked over the red cloth and shining utensils anxiously. The roasted chicken steamed next to the French cut beans and seasoned potatoes.

“It smells good,” you offered as he sat across from you.

“I hope it is,” he said, “found an old recipe book in the attic and… not as easy as it looks.”

You picked up your fork and knife and cut into the chicken breast. It was juicy despite his doubts and you popped in a chunk of potato as you kept your mouth busy. You didn’t have much to say and you really just wanted to go. It was peaceful enough not studying in your loud dormitory but not much easier given your company.

“You like it?” he asked as he swallowed a mouthful.

“Mmm, very good,” you said behind your napkin, “thank you.”

📚

You finished up the sugary cake topped with strawberries. You stood carefully as you gathered up the dish and fork but Lee was quick. Despite his size, he was around the side of the table in an instant.

“I got it,” he insisted.

You let him take the saucer and he retrieved his own on his way to the kitchen. You stood tenuously by the table and pulled your lip down with your teeth as you thought. Would it be too soon to ask to go home?

You stood in a trance as his shadow blurred in your vision again and you were only shaken as he approached you. He touched your shoulder, his thumb rubbing the blouse as he gazed down at you. You looked up at him for a second then swiftly away.

“Y’alright, honey?” he asked.

“Just thinking,” you said, “sorry.”

“Don’t needa be,” his hand slipped down your arm and covered yours. 

You winced as he led you around the table and sat blindly in his chair. You gawked at him dumbly as he brought the back of your hand to his mouth and kissed it. He kept you in a vice even as you tried to pull away.

“That was sweet cake but not as sweet as you,” he purred.

“It’s late,” you said weakly, “I should pack up my stuff--”

“It’s Saturday,” he tugged on you, “why you in such a hurry?”

“I’m not, I just… don’t want to impose,” you murmured.

“Nah, you ain’t,” he grinned as he grabbed your other hand, “come here.”

“I dont’... what are you--” you gasped as his hands went to your hips and he pulled you closer as he pushed the chair back, “sir, I--”

“Lee, but sir if you must,” he hummed as he guided you closer, his knee pressing between yours, “just sit with me, honey.”

He urged you down and you caught yourself on his shoulders. You straddled his leg awkwardly as you collapsed onto him and found your skirt riding up around his thick thigh. You gasped softly as he framed your chin with his hand but kept his other firmly on your hip.

“S--Lee,” you sputtered, “please…”

“What, I just wanna be close to ya, talk a little,” he said, “this really is nice on ya.”

He played with the little belt loop on the skirt. Your weight rested heavily on your crotch and a peculiar pressure built as you kept your toes on the floor. You tried to ease off of him as much as you could.

“So you readin’ a new book for this club?” he asked as he dragged his fingertips down your cheek and stared at your lips.

“Well, um… can I please get up?” you asked.

“I asked you a question, honey,” his voice hardened, “you might be a quiet one but I do expect some courtesy.”

“I… just a book called The Bell… Jar,” you began, “it’s different, sad, grim.”

You felt awkward, sat on his thigh like you would a horse, and his eyes following the movement of your lips. His tongue poked out as he nodded and his fingertips poked against the skirt. His other hand crept along the top of your blouse and fluttered behind your neck.

“You like sad stories?” he asked.

“They feel real,” you said as he urged you forward and your neck ached as you tried to resist his strength, “but I like other… ones. L--”

He forced you against him, your hands crushed to his chest as he growled along your lips. He nibbled and moved your pelvis back then guided it back forward. The friction along your panties made you squirm and he flicked his tongue along your lips.

You tried to shake your head but he kept your head still and prodded more urgently. He rocked your hips again and you mumbled into his mouth as you opened yours. His tongue dove inside without hesitation and you dug your nails into his button-up. As your crotch rubbed against his thigh, you felt a flurry in your core unlike anything you’d ever felt.

You pushed your hands up to his shoulders and he hugged you closer. His palm slid across your ass and he stretched his fingers along the plaid fabric. He kneaded you hungrily as he tilted your hips more fervently. Tendrils trickled down your thighs and crawled up your spine. 

You moaned around his tongue as you quivered in his grasp. His strength was inescapable and something about the tickle inside you made it even more difficult. He grabbed your chin again and forced your mouth away from his. He gripped you tightly and made you look at him, his blue eyes fiery but dark.

You closed your eyes and groaned. You bit your lip as you tried to resist the building heat and squeezed his thighs between yours. You slapped his shoulder as your stomach pressed to his and he turned his hand to poke a finger in your mouth.

“Look at me, honey,” he rasped.

You shook your head, or tried to, and he pressed down on your tongue.

“Look at me,” he snarled and your lashes snapped open, “that’s it. This isn’t so bad, is it?”

Your lips closed around his finger as you teared up in a panic. Why did you feel like this? Your mind said you didn’t want it and yet your body felt electric. You were confused and horrified by your own flesh.

“Is it, huh?” he cooed, “look at you, riding me like that… I thought you was sweet, girl.”

You panted and sucked on his finger without thinking as your eyes rolled back. He hummed and moved you fast, pushing down so even more pressure settled between your legs. You latched onto his collar and bit down on his finger. He grunted but kept it there.

“Come on, honey,” he said, “you’re almost there.”

You whined and your legs quaked as you were overcome by waves of heat and then a flood of icy waves. You grabbed his wrist and tore his hand from your mouth as you cried out and threw your head back. You rode him on your own will, chasing the high until it faded.

You stilled at last and covered your face. You shook your head and muttered in shame. He lightly took your wrists and drew your hands down. You couldn’t look at him as you felt the wetness in your underwear.

“Why you hidin’?” he asked in a smoky voice.

“What did you--”

“Did it hurt, honey?” he interjected, “did I hurt you?”

“N… no,” you admitted, “but I don’t know… that’s never… happened to me before.”

“You mean, you never… came before?”

“Came?” you squinted.

“Orgasmed,” his lips twitched, “you never even tried to touch yourself?”

“Please, I don’t wanna say,” you gulped.

“You don’t gotta be ashamed, not with me,” he ran his hand up and down your back, “it was nice, right?”

You dropped your chin and nodded. Your lip trembled but you held back the tears. You were humiliated and helpless.

“Can I get up, please?” you asked.

He inhaled and rubbed your arms, “sure, honey, you go on get up… and get cleaned up.”

You stood unsteadily and reached back to hold yourself up against the table. He chuckled and looked down at his slacks. There was a wet smear along his grey pants but more overtly, his crotch was tented as his arousal pressed against the fabric.

“Look at the mess you made,” he touched the spot with his fingers.

“You made me--”

“You let me, honey,” he said as he stood and adjusted his belt, “you want it. We both heard you.”

“I…” you breathed, “but…”

“You hardly tried to get up,” he rebuked, “I’ma show you so much, honey pie, you just gotta relax.”

You stared at him but when his eyes held yours for too long, you had to look away. You squirmed and fixed your skirt.

“May I use your bathroom?” you said.

“Best you do,” he pointed through the front room, “just under the stairs.”

[strawberryspotsstuff]

HI HELLO love ur work :D could you possibly make sum jasoncult and masc reader content? no pressure ^_^

omg!! ty!!!! of course I would!!!!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Jasoncult x Masc Reader

The night washed over the sky quiet quickly as the day went by, a boring, quiet day. And after dinner sitting alone in a room, a dimly lit candle, sitting on a table infront of him and making lighting for his leather back book. Jason quietly mumbled verses to himself, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the dusty bible he read, again.

Jason carefully flipped over the old pages, readjusting himself on his leather chair, leaning back into the soft material. As he did he noticed his door slowly creak open and the flicking hallway lights, casting a shadow notifying him to look up.

"Y/N" Jason gritty and tired voice spoke up, smiling at the square shouldered figure which walked into his room.

"Evenin' Jason" You hummed lowly as you entered his room and closed his door at the same time.

Jason nodded in return, spotting you a spot next to him on his quite spacious leather chair.

"Join me, I'm just readin'" He announced, turning his gaze back to the book, flipping over a page.

"The bible again?" You asked, taking a seat and kicking up your legs on the table.

He nodded softly, as you got yourself in a nice spot, leaning you head on his shoulder.

"There was another fight again, after dinner" You yawned, rubbing your eyes.

"tch" Jason muttered, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Of course there was, when will there not be one?" Jason continued, his face contorting into a frown and furrowed brows.

You shrugged lazily in return, cuddling up to his side, humming. "Well, I wanted to hide here" you chuckled.

Jason cracked a smirk in amusement, looking down at you. "Alright stay as long as you need"

You smirked back, nodding, before getting some shut eye.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

[lu-undy]

New Sniper/Spy work!

This time I’m going back to the “fluffy request” format. You may send a few lines for an idea, or a bit of dialogue between Sniper and Spy and I will turn it into a short story.

Here is the first one: "Sniper catches Spy reading a book, the title of which is "Solitude, But Two". More curiously, the Frenchman stares and blushes..."

As always, I recommend reading it from AO3, following the underlined link, the formatting is better there. :)

The team's effort had earned them victory upon victory that day, and as it was the end of the week, the mercenaries all gathered in the common room. Some were playing cards, some were watching the television, while others were chatting with a beer in their hands. 

On one of the chairs lay Sniper, his hat on his face and his hands crossed on his stomach, making sure the bottle of beer there wouldn't slide down and fall. His absurdly long legs were flowing straight in front of him, with his feet almost touching the sofa facing him. The noise of Demoman's hearty laughter woke him up from his nap and the Aussie winced as he removed the hat from his face. 

Flash, too bright. He grumbled and blinked repeatedly for his eyes to adjust to the light. When his brow relaxed, his eyes fell on his colleague on the sofa opposite him. His varnished, black Italian shoe was tracing slow circles in the air. Sniper followed the pinstripe pattern of his trousers up to the Frenchman's lap. The man in the mask was sitting with one leg on top of the other, reading a book.

As Sniper's eyes rose lazily from the book, he realised that Spy's cheeks were pink, and his eyes were on the Aussie himself. The second their eyes met, Spy's eyes flashed back to the book and he frowned harder.

Sniper's eyebrows jumped in surprised. He saw his colleague exhale the smoke of his cigarette through his nostrils. Ha, what kind of emotion was the snake trying to convey, huh? 

"Hey, Snipes has woken up, guys. Yo, wanna join up? We're gonna play darts."

"If ye wanna lose again…" The Aussie answered as he adjusted his posture on the seat. "How high's the bet? Wouldn't wanna rob you of your pocket money."

"Right, fine, go back to your nap… Jeez…" Scout turned his back and joined his group of colleagues to play darts. 

Sniper's head turned back to Spy and to his greatest surprise, he found the Frenchman staring at him, with pink cheeks at that!

"What?" Sniper asked. "Got somethin' on my face?" 

Spy's eyes darted back to his book and his brow furrowed. 

"Non. My apologies." 

Sniper frowned for a second, but didn't think much of it. He looked at his bottle and realised it was empty. So he stood up to go and grab another one. As he came back, he tried to read the title of the book. He winced as he managed to catch only the first two words.

Solitude, but…

There was another word but it was hidden by Spy's gloved fingers. Bah… 

Sniper resumed his seat and lazily enjoyed his beer, while listening to the conversations here and there, his ears jumping from one voice to the other. He stretched his arms and legs. "Oh, sorry." He had kicked Spy's foot. The Frenchman buried his head deeper in the book. 

Sniper ignored it and lay back on the chair. When his eyes went around all of his colleagues, they came back to see what was in front of him and again fell on the Frenchman. To say he was absorbed by his reading was the understatement of the century. The Aussie knew that Spy enjoyed reading. It wasn't the first time that his participation in the Friday evening activities consisted solely in sitting on the sofa or the armchair and reading, surrounded by the ambient chatter of his colleagues. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like it had been the same book for the past few weeks at least.

Sniper’s eyebrows jumped in surprise when he realised that Spy had raised his eyes to him. Their gazes hang up in the air for a moment, Sniper’s cheeks turned pink while Spy’s already were. 

Their eyes snapped away from each other and Spy cleared his throat. The end of his cigarette lit up in bright orange before the smoke exited his nostrils in a long laminar sigh.

Often, Sniper didn't even know when Spy would leave. One moment he was there and the next, he was gone. He probably left because of the noise getting to him, or something being a tiny inconvenience for a normal person, but a huge annoyance for the aristocratically mannered Frenchman. 

Sniper's eyes stayed on Spy for a while. He wondered what he looked like under the mask, like everyone else. All he knew was that he had light blue, almost grey eyes, with black and long eyelashes. His nose was slightly hooked and his lips very thin. They always held a cigarette, to the point where Sniper wondered if his colleague slept or showered with them too…

Spy's eyes were scanning the printing lines at a constant rate, and sometimes, his eyes would stop, he would squint and come back a few lines ago to read a paragraph again. Sniper noticed with amusement that whatever Spy was feeling, it would leak through the subtle movement of his eyebrows. Lightly frowning or relaxing them was more than Sniper usually saw him show.

Curious and mysterious man he was that Spy. But a good teammate and undoubtedly redoubtable in his trade. An assassin as loud as a shadow, but his seconds would be counted upon being found out, a bit like Sniper himself. And similarly to him too, he wasn't one to be very talkative. He would say what was required of him to say, and not more. Small talk wasn't something the Aussie was well versed in but no doubt Spy was different. With the successes he was said to have with women, surely he was very good at it but just chose not to partake in it with his colleagues. 

He respected them as far as work was concerned, but beyond that, Sniper didn't think that Spy would call his colleagues "friends". Ah, actually, did he even know what a friend was? Had he ever sat in a pub and enjoyed a few beers with friends? 

Spy’s mind wasn’t in the common room at all. He was in the setting described by that story. Australia, the bushy and red desert. Wide and wild empty spaces, where the only noises would be those of the exotic birds. Ah, the descriptions really made his mind travel. He had never been to Australia, despite being fairly well travelled. His work had never taken him that far from home. Ha, home… If anyone asked him, he would answer that France was his home country, but it wasn’t his home per se. He didn’t feel more at home in France or right there, in the base. Such was the problem with travelling that much, nowhere is really home anymore.

Spy’s train of thought was interrupted when a bottle of beer appeared between him and the book.

“Here.”

Spy realised that Sniper was standing behind the sofa and handing him the bottle over his shoulder.

“Merci.” He accepted the beer and took it in his hand. 

[Thank you.]

Sniper smiled.

"What’cha readin'?"

"Not over my shoulder." Spy shut the book.

"C'mon, you've been stopping every other minute and looking up to me. Just wanna know why, is all."

"I was not looking at you. I was just taking a break in my reading to process what I just read. Not everything has to do with you, Sniper."

"You've had that there novel in your coat for weeks, and you never let it leave your side; must be a damn good one, Spook."

"I enjoy some kind of literature. It takes my mind off of the fact that I live with lunatics."

"Well, I certainly understand the feeling." Sniper pointedly glared at Scout, who was in the process of unwedging his baseball from the rafters. "Mind sharing that little corner of sanity with me?"

"Non." Spy turned to Sniper. "Now, do you mind? I was in the middle of a chapter."

Sniper resumed his seat further away. He put his hat over his eyes and pretended to sleep. He let his breathing stabilise and knew Spy was watching him to make sure that he was asleep and no longer a disturbance for his reading. But Sniper also knew he was certainly more patient than the Frenchman.

Spy resumed his reading, raising his eyes from time to time in another direction. When he was convinced that Sniper was asleep, he raised his eyes and stared.

He stared…

Sniper could fall asleep anywhere at anytime in any situation, a great quality for a spy, when sometimes situations called for gathering strength in the least comfortable positions.

Sniper suddenly moved the hat away and stared back and Spy got startled, almost jumping on his seat.

"Gotcha starin' again, Spook...."

Spy frowned and left the room to go to his private one. He was obviously furious and fuming but Sniper noticed the blush on his cheeks, the embarrassment. God knew that man hated being embarrassed more than anything else.

Sniper decided to wait for a few minutes before he followed and knocked on his door.

"Who is this?"

"It's me."

"Non merci, see you tomorrow on the battlefield."

[No thanks]

"Spook..." Sniper insisted still behind the door.

"Would you understand it better in French?" Spy asked, irritated.

"C'mon, Spook, just a minute.... Or maybe you'd prefer me to say everythin' I want out in the open, in the corridor...?"

Spy rolled his eyes and shut the book. He pushed himself to stand up and stood off of his armchair to open the door.

"Come in and make it quick."

"Right, right... Can I sit down or do I have to pay extra?"

Spy gestured to the sofa, next to his armchair.

"What is it you seek?"

"You were starin'. Just wanna know why. I checked my face, I don't have anythin' on it, so what is it?"

Spy frowned and put a hand on the bridge of his nose.

"Is that about that book you've been reading?"

The Frenchman looked away, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Seems to take you places, that book. What is it about...?" 

Spy reached for it on the coffee table but Sniper had the same idea. Both withdrew their hands.

"Hey... I just wanna understand cause uh... those looks you give me when you stare at me. Even Engie noticed the blush on yer face."

Spy put a hand on his face.

"Oh, merde...." Spy sighed.

[Oh, shit...]

"I just wanna understand, is all. If it was a magazine, I'd thought it was one of those that Scout's gettin' delivered, eh...."

"Bushman!"

"I know, I know, not your style. So I'm just wonderin'. What the hell gets your cheeks red?"

"I hardly blush. And you cannot see it with the mask."

"Maybe, but I can still see it up there...."

Sniper raised his finger closer to Spy's face, on his upper cheeks. Spy’s eyes followed the finger until they got too close to his personal space and slapped the hand away.

"What do you think you are doing?!"

Sniper took advantage of the Frenchman being destabilised for a fraction of a second to snatch the book away and run out of Spy’s quarters.

"BUSHMAN!"

Spy ran after him, racing the man with taller legs than him, until the Aussie locked himself up in the back of his van.

"BUSHMAN, GIVE ME BACK MY BOOK!"

"Hold on! Need to read the back page, what's this about....?"

Spy banged the door repeatedly with a furious fist.

"BUSHMAN!"

Sniper read, loud enough for Spy to hear from the other side of the thin door.

"After a decade out of his job, the retired Frenchman is called again by no less than the Minister of Defense himself. There is a case to solve, that only the ex-spy can deal with. So he puts on his suit and tie again and flies to Australia where his target is.

He does a good job on his own, until a certain wild kangaroo barges into his mission, and his life."

Spy had stopped knocking on the door and gulped down his constricted throat, sweat breaking on his brow.

"Sounds like something you could be in, eh?"

"Bushman, give me my book NOW!"

"Or what? You gonna disguise yourself as a sheet of paper and slide under the door?"

Sniper couldn’t really hear or understand what the Frenchman mumbled under his breath, and just chuckled at how ridiculously Spy had reacted, chasing him down the base and outside, all the way to his van. But now that he had the book, let’s just open that thing and read bits…

“Oh… Oh hold on…” Sniper frowned, his smile vanishing more as he read line after line.

From the other side of the thin door, Spy got his cigarette case out, opened it to retrieve the pins he concealed there, and started to pick the lock.

"Oh bugger... I get it.... I.... Wow.... That's why you were starin' at me and blushin' like a sheila...? Wait, hold on, if you're looking at me like that and all, does that mean you-Woof?!"

The lock yielded and Spy barged in the room full force, tackling Sniper to the floor.

"Give me back my book!" Spy roared.

"Hold on…" Sniper looked at Spy with wide astounded eyes.

The man in the suit took the opportunity of Sniper being distracted to snatch the book back and stand up. He dusted off his suit.

"Spook...?"

"Good night." Spy turned and headed away.

"Hold on!" Sniper jumped to his feet and held him back from his shoulder.

"What now?! Can't I be left in peace?!" Spy was infuriated.

"Hey…"

Sniper’s voice was much softer than Spy’s raging one. Their eyes met.

"How far were you in the book?"

"What?" Spy squinted.

"How far were you in? Beginnin'? Middle?"

“Why do you care?”

“Just answer! Closer to the beginnin’ or the end?”

Spy sighed and his shoulders sank. 

"Closer to the beginning than the end, why?"

"Wanna... Read it together?" Sniper gestured to inside his van. "I don't have a couch or anythin', but there's a bench, or the bed if it's too uncomfy for you…"

"Wh-...?" Spy was at a loss.

"I only read bits. Don't leave me hangin', eh?" Sniper smiled. The Frenchman stared in disbelief.  "C'mon, I wanna know what happens to the French Spook in Australia."

"If you ever speak of this…" Spy raised a threatening finger to his colleague.

“I know, I know, tiny knife between my shoulder blades, yada yada yada.... Now come in and let's shut the door before someone sees us."

“I would do so much more than just backstab you, believe me.” Spy threatened but nonetheless entered the van fully.

Sniper stared in astonishment as Spy removed his jacket and loosened the tie on his neck before removing his shoes and climbing the ladder to the bed.

"Oh alright…"

"Do you have any water in this ridiculous dwelling of yours?"

"Yeah, I'll get you a glass. I'd tell you to get comfy but you already did...."

"Come on, I don't have all day...."

"A minute! Jesus, you're supposed to be patient and all, aren't you?"

Sniper climbed up and joined Spy on the bed before switching on his night lamp. The light was yellow and not too bright.

"How can you take so much space with yer skinny arse?"

"I am not! You are the one pushing me! Also, I could do without any remarks on my behind, thank you very much Bushman!"

"I’m not pushin’ you... Anyway, here, yer bloody water, now... You can pick up where you left off, don't need to start at the beginnin', eh."

"Merci. I was not going to anyway. Now...."

"And I read slow, so don't go and turn the pages too fast, yeah?"

"May I start already?" Spy rolled his eyes up, part of him still wildly surprised. 

"Yeah, yeah, alright, go ahead…"

Spy took a sip of water and started reading out loud.

"Hold on, what are you doin'?!"

"I am reading, wasn’t that what you wanted now, Bushman?"

"Out loud? I know how to read, eh!"

"A pleasant surprise.” Spy answered. “Now, you wanted the story, yes or no?"

"Yeah?"

"So keep quiet."

Spy took a deep breath and resumed the reading. Time passed, pages were turned, Spy only stopped to drink a bit of water from time to time. Sniper enjoyed himself. Spy knew how to read well. His tone, his voice and the way he played the characters in the dialogues were very pleasant to the Aussie’s ear.

Sniper leaned his head on Spy's shoulder, following the text on the page with his eyes. Spy was taken aback for a split second, but carried on, choosing to ignore it rather than making it more awkward. After all, he was in Sniper’s bed reading him a story...

Holy dooley…

Sniper wasn’t expecting that. Spy was now reading a moment of… romance between the French spy and the Aussie in the story. The Frenchman kept his composure, force of professional habit, but Sniper started to get uncomfortable, a bit like when he was watching the TV with his parents and a hot scene came on. What made it all so much real was Spy’s voice acting of the characters. For the French spook, he wasn’t changing his voice at all but for the Aussie hunter, he sounded strikingly like the enemy Sniper. And the flirting written in the story, the banter, it all sounded so real.

"Bushman?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you shaking?"

"I-I'm not. Keep goin'."

"Sniper…"

Spy looked down on his shoulder. Sniper avoided eye contact, his eyes remained glued to the book as if his life depended on it.

"You lie very poorly."

"Well... good thing I'm not paid for it then I guess...."

"Indeed. Now, what is the problem?"

"Nothin'. C'mon, continue, or I'll read it...!"

"You are trembling, you can barely speak and you try to make me believe that you will read this out loud? Go ahead then, humour me." 

A smirk crept across Spy's thin lips.

"Uh... Right... Where were we... Uh... I-I can't find the line anymore!"

"I have my finger on it, Sniper.”

"Yeah, well…"

"Now, what is it? Have you never read un roman à l'eau de rose before?"

"A what now?"

"Literally, a 'novel with rose water', it is an expression we use to describe a romance novel. Have you never read one of those before?"

"N-not really.... They're books for sheilas…"

"Do I look like one?" Spy asked.

"No…"

"Then, it is not."

"It's not what?"

"'A book for sheilas'. Now, shall we resume?"

"Spook...?"

"What?"

"I'm just... It's an Aussie hunter and a French Spy in the story, right?"

"Oui."

"Is that why... I mean..."

"You are trembling for the same reason that I was blushing." Spy answered. “Now, may I?”

"'s bloody ridiculous, I'm sorry."

"It is fine." Spy leaned his head on top of Sniper's.

"Shall we resume now?"

"Uh, hold on... Ahem... I-I'm sorry.... I-it's worse now...."

"Mon Dieu.... Wait, can you hold the book for an instant?"

"I-I can try...."

Sniper held the book open with shaking hands and watched as Spy removed one glove, then the next.

"I can hold it now, merci."

The Aussie gave him back the book, Spy held it with one hand, as he slithered the other to Sniper's.

"Now, where were we? Ah," Spy cleared his throat and resumed reading as if he wasn’t holding Sniper’s hand. The Aussie's heart backflipped in his chest the moment Spy's slender fingers reached his. 

"Can you turn the page, please?"

"Uh, sure… Spook?"

"What now?" Spy sighed.

"Thanks, eh."

"Hm."

Spy’s fingers slid between Sniper’s and he felt the trembling fingers struggle but reciprocate. The Aussie shifted on the bed slightly to adjust his head against Spy's shoulder. Spy lifted his head, and then leaned it again once Sniper was comfortable again.

"Shall we resume now?"

"Yeah, I think I'm uh... I'm better."

Spy started reading again.

"Spook?"

Another, longer sigh.

"What is it, now?"

"Will ya… remove your mask too?"

"Non."

"Oh, okay…"

"It is too cold in your van."

"Hold on…"

Sniper hopped out of bed, turning on the heater. 

"Are you serious?" Spy asked.

"It's just to see if you look like the bloke from the book, is all."

Mundy quickly covered them both with the blanket.

"Alright, carry on, sorry…"

"Now it is too hot." Spy complained, thinking that Sniper would snap at him and ask him to leave.

"Will you remove your mask, then?"

Spy’s eyebrows jumped. He didn’t expect that. 

"Non."

"Oh... So you just said that like that....? Alright...."

Spy resumed his reading but his mind wasn’t on the story. His whole attention was on the hand he was holding, on the fingers that now slithered back between his. He stopped reading sharp. Sniper waited, expecting Spy to take a sip of water but the Frenchman didn’t move.

“What?” Sniper asked. “You didn’t finish the page so I’m not gonna turn it.”

"Would you like to remove it for me?"

“Remove the page?” Sniper was confused.

“Non, my mask.”

The Aussie's eyes snapped wide, his jaw lowering as if it had a mind of its own.

"Wait…" He looked up at Spy. "You serious?"

“Am I ever in the habit of joking?”

“I don’t know, you’re so hard to follow.”

"Do you want to see if I look like Lucien from the book or not?"

"Yeah! I mean…” Sniper calmed down. “If that's ok with you...?"

"Then, go ahead." Spy closed the book and turned to face Sniper, who sat up and turned to the Frenchman.

“You sure?”

“The more you ask and wait, the higher the probability of me changing my mind.” Spy answered seemingly annoyed.

“Right, right…” Sniper raised his hands up and his fingers approached the Frenchman’s neck. He pinched the fabric and looked up at Spy’s face. The man was staring at him with his arctic blue eyes that seemed even more light under the yellow night lamp. Sniper took a deep breath and rolled the fabric up before gently pulling it up.

"Jesus Christ..." Sniper took an instant to discover all the features unknown until then. 

Spy carded his hair back with a nonchalant hand.

"So, does the description fit me?" He smirked, amused by Sniper’s astonishment.

"Ah... I mean... Uh... I... Uhm... Hold on...."

"Come on, just be honest. That should be easy for you, you lie terribly."

"You're gorgeous." The sentence escaped Sniper’s lips and his control. It was one thread of air that slid out of him. Spy’s eyebrows jumped, not that he wasn’t used to hearing it, but as the years passed, he heard it less and less. Besides, it wasn’t anyone who was saying it, but the Aussie hunter.

"Well, thank you. You don't look all that bad yourself. Now, shall we resume?"

"Y-yeah…"

Sniper sat back next to Spy and looked back up at him.

"Sniper…"

"Hm?"

"You do realise that you are staring at my face?"

"Oh, bugger, sorry...." Sniper’s eyes moved away to fall on the book again, but he didn’t see the pages, the ink on the paper, the bed, the van. All that his brain projected on his eyes was Spy’s naked face...

"Sniper?"

"Yeah?"

"I never asked you to stop."

Sniper’s head swooshed to Spy’s with wide open eyes. The Frenchman smiled, sweetly. 

“I uh… What are you doin’? You playin’ with my nerves or somethin’?”

“You were the one to invite me in your bed.” Spy smirked as he knew very well that his comment would make Sniper blush and it didn’t miss. The Aussie exhaled long and hard, before wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. “Come on, will you play the shy card now?”

“What’re you playin’ at?”

“Your invitation and the fact that I am still here speaks at length for what you think about me. But it is curious that you worked up the courage to ask me to remove my mask, but not to just phrase what you feel.”

“Get out of my head, Spook.”

“My apologies.” Spy chuckled. 

“Although I s’ppose if you are in my head, you don’t need me to tell you anythin’. You’ve read it already.”

“I am afraid so.”

“You’re afraid so?” Sniper repeated.

“Oui, I started reading and could not really stop.” Spy answered. “More seriously, you have not kicked me out yet, so I suppose you don’t find my company to be too much of a burden.”

“Yeah, I guess this tells me that you're ok with me too.” Sniper raised his hand, which fingers were still intertwined with Spy’s.

“You guess correctly.”

Their eyes met again and both smiled.

“What do you think of the story so far?” Spy asked.

“It’s nice. Although I don’t think I’m that shy with you.”

“Indeed. But you should read the rest, you become braver.”

“I thought you hadn’t read more of it?”

“Oh, please. I have read it again and again.”

“You liar.”

“When I need to, oui.”

“So you’ve been readin’ this book on loop, eh?”

“Oui, it was a curious find. There is this bookshop I like in town and I was having a look around when the shopkeeper recommended it to me. I read the summary at the back and it caught my attention. Since then, the book hasn’t left my side. And I am delighted to have shared a part that I enjoy with you. But this book, it is the only company I have besides that of that awfully clingy mistress.”

Sniper raised a curious eyebrow. 

“You have a sheila?” He removed his hand from Spy’s and the Frenchman chuckled, oddly enough.

“I think you and I share her.”

“What?! No! I don’t have any sheila! I’m-I’m with no one!”

“Sniper?”

“What?”

“Do you want to drive her away with me?” Spy asked, looking deep in the lagoon blue irises of the Aussie.

“Oi, not gonna stand between you and your sheila!”

“Sniper, I am not talking about a woman. I mean the Solitude that fills my days as much as it does yours.” Spy finally explained and Sniper saw his light irises half hide behind a delicate curtain of long, black eyelashes.

“I… Uh… Spy…”

The Frenchman smiled. It was egotistical and narcissistic of him, but he loved seeing it, seeing the moment the person he had in his mind fall for him, and with Sniper, it was just then and there. Spy slid his fingers through Sniper’s again and leaned his head on his shoulder.

“Please?” Spy asked in a whisper, a thin thread of air that punched Sniper’s guts out of his body. That voice, that damned voice, that accent… “Spend some time with me.”

“Gosh…” Sniper felt the soft waves of air against his neck and his heartbeat accelerated. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on Spy’s hand. “Y-you serious?” He whispered back, for no one else to hear, in the secrecy of the dimly lit van.

“What do you think?” Sniper could hear the smirk through Spy’s whisper. “Here I am, in your bed, with you, without my mask. Do you think that it is all staged, all a joke, a prank?”

“I-I don’t know… It’s just… It’s just too good to be true.” Sniper’s breath was hard and fast. He screwed his eyes shut harder and leaned his head on the wall behind him, raising it and feeling Spy’s breath periodically blow on his neck, constantly reminding him that he was there, the gorgeous devil in a suit and tie. Oh Sniper wanted to remember it, he wanted to bottle up those whispers, those intense and secret words, those feelings, bottle them up somewhere and reopen the bottle when he felt too lonely. He wanted to believe Spy’s words.

“Too good to be true? Hm…” Spy smirked and raised a finger. Sniper felt it grazing his skin on his jaw.

“S-Spy…”

The Frenchman turned and slid a leg between the Aussie.

“Let us sleep. You are tense and could do with a bit of rest.” Spy pulled him down to lie and threw away his own tie before opening a couple of buttons on his shirt. He snuggled up against Sniper and used his shoulder as a pillow.

“Spy?”

Sniper raised his head to look down at Spy. The Frenchman looked up at him.

“Oui?”

“You serious?”

Spy graced Sniper with one of those smiles that made the Aussie’s insides burn.

“Oui…” The Frenchman went to his ear. “You can call me Lucien, Mundy.” Sniper’s eyes snapped wide. He turned to look at Spy and his body reacted before his mind could hold it back.

Coffee and nicotine were all he could taste on the thin lips of the man he was holding between his hands, in his bed.

[potrix-the-queerschlaeger]

too fast for love

Technically a sequel to this and this, but can totally be read as a sexy-fluffy standalone. And it’s also over on AO3.

- - -

1

It became a ritual after Sam returned home from Afghanistan, filled with overwhelming misery and crippling grief, and too jittery with the pressure of it most days to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. AJ and Cass had been so young, back then, a teething toddler who barely remembered his uncle, and a baby small enough that Sam had constantly been afraid of accidentally squishing him, somehow.

Which hadn’t stopped Sarah from pushing them into his arms with a cheery, “How about some time with Uncle Sammy, boys?” and absolutely no regard for Sam’s fumbling and sputtering.

He’d resented her for it, at times. For having the boys, and someone to raise them with, while Sam hadn’t even been able to bring Riley home to bury him. For making him be part of her happy little family, for engaging him and involving him in their daily lives. And even for being stronger than him, later on, for not falling apart completely, when Caleb had had the accident and made her a widow.

It still fills him with shame and guilt, even today, to think about those months. Because Sam knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that if it hadn’t been for his sister, he wouldn’t be here today.

He would have given up.

But Sarah hadn’t let him. She’d always been the more stubborn one, out of the two of them.

(Watch out for the break!)

And so Sam had gone out on the boat with Caleb, had helped out at the restaurant, and had looked after the boys for them. He’d changed poopy diapers, endured tantrums, argued with a sassy two-year-old, and had realised, eventually, how much he loved it.

Loved it, and needed it.

Evenings had always been his favourite. He’d been perpetually exhausted those days, awake most nights to avoid the nightmares he knew would find him if he closed his eyes, and it had always been the worst during the evenings, when things started to calm down and settle. And the boys, however young they’d been, must have felt it, too, because in the evenings, they were content to curl up with Sam on the couch, watching him with big, curious eyes while Sam read to them.

And, somehow, they’d just never stopped.

They’re too old to want to be tucked in by their uncle every night, now, but whenever Sam’s home for a stretch of time, they’ll eventually fall back into their comfortable, practiced routine. The books have changed, from ones with few words and colourful pictures to novels about pirates and treasures, but they still sprawl all over Sam with their pointy elbows, bickering over the best spot until Sam makes them shriek with laughter by threatening to dump them on the floor.

Sam is simultaneously surprised, and not surprised at all, by how seamlessly Bucky fits into all of it. As if there had always been this space, reserved and waiting just for him, ready to be filled with snarky remarks and soft, eye-crinkling smiles alike.

He’s leaning in the doorway of the boys’ room, watching them puzzle over their newest Lego set with Bucky. It looks like it’s got about a million tiny little pieces he will undoubtedly step on at some point, and Sam’s honestly kind of relieved that Bucky seems to be genuinely enjoying the whole building process, because he’s not sure he’d have the patience for it.

Cass is still sorting pieces into piles, despite his drooping eyes, but AJ is mostly leaning against Buck, yawning every so often as he squints down at the instructions. They’d insisted they wanted Bucky, tonight, high-fiving and grinning at each other when Sarah had given them the okay, nearly tripping over each other in their hurry to get upstairs and into their PJs.

“Looks like your stuck with the dishes, buddy,” Bucky had said, all fake sympathy, before he’d winked at Sam, and followed the boys with a shouted, “An’ don’t forget to brush your teeth!”

“Look at you, all smitten,” Sarah had teased, and only laughed at him when Sam had forced the undoubtedly sappy smile off his face to glare at her. “Now go grab a towel.”

AJ slumps a little more against Bucky, not even pretending to read anymore. Bucky strokes a hand over his head, and glances up at Sam, brows raised in question.

“All right, monsters,” Sam says, stepping into the room, “time for bed.”

The boys are tired enough that they don’t even put up much of a protest, crawling under the covers while Sam turns off the overhead light, and Bucky turns on the star projector. Bucky gets sleepy fistbumps from them both, then leaves Sam to say good night in peace.

AJ is already mostly asleep, only murmuring quietly when Sam kisses the top of his head, but Cass tugs at his sleeve until Sam perches on the edge of his bed. He pillows his head on Sam’s thigh with a happy little sigh, making Sam chuckle softly, and gently scratch his fingers through his hair until his breaths even out.

Bucky’s fresh out of the shower when Sam gets up to his attic bedroom, towel slung around his hips and hair still wet. He comes readily when Sam reaches for him, tucking himself against Sam, and humming contentedly when Sam runs his hands up and down his back.

“You’re good with them,” Sam tells him, and presses a kiss to Bucky’s shoulder, right over the connection between metal and flesh, “Uncle Bucky.”

Sam can feel Bucky smile against the side of his head. “They’re good kids,” he murmurs back, arms winding around Sam’s waist.

“I’m surprised they didn’t make you read to them, though,” Sam muses. He opens his mouth against Bucky’s neck, just to feel him shiver, and threads his fingers into the short hair at the back of his head. “Only a few chapters left in this one. They’ve been bugging me for two chapters most nights.”

“Nah,” Bucky says, pulling back. His face is open, eyes half-lidded, and mouth soft with a half-smile. “Readin’ with them, ‘s your thing.”

Sam marvels, sometimes, at just how good Bucky is at reading people. Sam never told him any of this, yet here Bucky is, knowing it anyway, and going out of his way to find his own special thing to do with the boys.

Being considerate. Being downright sweet.

It’s tempting, to say it right then. To tell Bucky. But it’s too soon for something so big, so important, so Sam swallows the words back down, and kisses Bucky instead.

 2

Watching Bucky come undone beneath him is something Sam will absolutely never get tired of.

It’s intimate, a privilege, to be allowed to see Bucky like this, unguarded and trusting. There’s a watchfulness that’s been beaten into him, in the army and under HYDRA, that Bucky’s never quite been able to shake again. It’s most pronounced on missions, during fights, where Bucky’s unwavering awareness of their surroundings has saved both their asses on multiple occasions.

At home, here in Delacroix, he’s different. To most people, he probably looks relaxed, at ease, but Sam knows better. Sure, yeah, Bucky isn’t constantly on high alert, lets himself be a person instead of a soldier, but that doesn’t magically erase decades of training and torture that have become instinct.

And that instinct shows, in small ways, every day.

The neighbourhood adores Bucky, and Sam is unspeakably grateful to them for bringing him into the fold without questions or judgement, but whenever they’re delighted because Bucky remembers a birthday or some other special occasion, Sam worries. Because Bucky’s genuine with his well-wishes and kindness, but the reason he knows what he knows isn’t the town gossip or new friendships he’s struck up, it’s hours upon hours of research and observation to ensure there isn’t any sort of threat hiding out in plain sight.

There hasn’t been a single broken glass or plate in the house since Bucky’s been staying with them. He always knows exactly where the boys are, if they’re playing outside, and he’s got Sarah’s work schedule memorised down to the minute.

And at times, mostly after particularly bad nights, he can barely let Sam out of his sight.

Bucky has been without control over anything for so long, it’s become something he’s borderline obsessive about, now. They don’t talk about it much, but Sam knows Bucky’s working on it with his new therapist; on sitting back, on letting others be in charge, of themselves and of him, when it’s necessary.

On letting himself be taken care of.

“Sam,” Bucky says, voice hoarse, pulling Sam back out of his own head. “Sam, please.”

“Sorry, baby,” Sam murmurs, and leans down to brush a kiss over Bucky’s slack mouth. “I’m right here, I got you.”

He gives a shallow thrust of his hips that has Bucky moan softly, eyes fluttering, and brushes some of the sweaty hair away from Bucky’s forehead. He kisses the soft skin under Bucky’s left eye as he begins to move again, slow but steady, one hand cupping Bucky’s cheek, and the other trailing teasingly down his chest, lower and lower.

Bucky’s breath hitches when Sam’s hand curls around his straining cock, then he groans low in his throat when Sam starts stroking him in time with his thrusts.

“Ssh, baby, it’s okay.” Sam kisses his cheek, chuckling softly when Bucky turns his head with a whine, demanding more. “I got you, you’re okay. Let go for me, baby.”

He kisses Bucky, properly, and flicks his thumb over the head of Bucky’s cock the next time he pushes in. Bucky’s quiet as he comes, going tense for a long moment, fingers digging into Sam’s back, before he shudders all over, and melts back into the mattress.

“That’s it,” Sam praises, working him through it. “That’s it, baby, that’s perfect.”

He moves to sit back when Bucky’s cock starts to go soft in his hand, and takes a moment to just look, to appreciate. Bucky’s eyes are glassy and damp, his lips red and swollen. He’s got his arms stretched out loosely over his head, fingers twitching absently every now and again, and there’s evidence of his orgasm from his navel up to his chest, a few drops dangerously close to one pebbled nipple.

He looks obscene. He looks absolutely gorgeous, and Sam’s so fucking in love with this man, it’s unreal.

But he knows better than to say as much with his dick still hard inside Bucky, so he settles his hands on Bucky’s hips, and asks, “Okay?”

It takes Bucky a few seconds of blissed-out staring to respond, but then he nods, and rasps out, “Yeah, c’mon.”

Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He tightens his grip, and starts thrusting again, faster now, chasing his own release. Bucky’s making the most beautiful sounds for him, breathless little ahs with each of Sam’s pushes, back arching, tongue dipping out to lick his bottom lip—

“Shit, Bucky,” Sam curses when he comes, collapsing forward, onto Bucky’s chest. He tucks his face into Bucky’s neck, panting, as Bucky wraps an arm around him, squeezing him. “Gonna kill me, one of these days.”

Bucky’s chuckling as he rolls them over, ignoring Sam’s half-hearted complaints, and lowers himself down to bring their mouths together. They make out unhurriedly, hands roaming lazily, until Sam has to pull away to yawn.

They’re sticky and gross, and Sam’s definitely going to bitch about it tomorrow, but he lets Bucky tug the covers up over them anyway. He grunts at the manhandling when Bucky rolls him over onto his side to spoon up behind him, but lets Bucky take his hand, and link their fingers together.

He falls asleep to the steady, familiar rhythm of Bucky’s breathing.

 3

The temptation to dropkick the guy with the weird, glowy spear right off the roof is really fucking hard to ignore, what with Bucky’s blood still dripping from the thing’s tip. At least the guy looks suitably terrified as Sam stalks towards him, looking up at Sam with wide eyes as he clutches at the bullethole in his shoulder.

Because of course Bucky still manages to shoot someone while he’s in the process of falling off a goddamn three-story building.

Sam has to shake his head against the memory of the sound it had made, the sickening crunch, when Bucky’d hit the ground, of Bucky’s pain-filled scream in his ear right before the comms had gone quiet. He ignores whatever the guy is saying as he kicks away the spear and cuffs him, a little rougher about it than strictly necessary, and takes off as soon as the first SWORD chopper comes into view.

“Torres—”

“We’re in an ambulance, heading West,” Torres answers immediately, “they’re taking him to St Anna’s.”

Swooping higher, Sam finally spots the ambulance’s flashing lights in the distance. “I see you.”

Torres doesn’t say anything else, but he keeps the connection open for Sam. The medics don’t say much, too busy stabilising Bucky, but being able to hear them work—knowing that they’re not giving up on him—is the only thing keeping Sam sane right now.

People part for him like the Red Sea as he storms into the emergency room, and for once, he’s glad to be recognisable when a nurse approaches him with a nod, and a brisque, “Follow me, Captain.”

He’s led to an empty room and given a set of scrubs to change into, which he accepts gratefully. The nurse quirks an apologetic smile at him when he asks about Bucky.

“He’s in surgery right now,” the man, Alexei, tells him, voice full of sympathy. “His right lung was punctured, but at the moment, they’re more worried about potential spinal injuries. Sergeant Barnes was unresponsive when he arrived, but his vitals looked promising, given the circumstances.”

“That’s—okay, yeah.” Sam scrubs trembling hands over his face, taking a few deep breaths. “Thank you.”

Alexei inclines his head with another kind smile. “I’ll let you know the moment there are any new developments.”

Sam’s just changed into the scrubs when there’s a knock on the door, and Torres peeks his head in. He slips inside when he spots Sam, closing it quietly behind himself.

There’s blood all over him, from his neck down to his waist, but most of it on his arms and hands. He’s pale, and trembling, and Sam has pulled him into a tight, bruising hug before he’s even consciously aware of having crossed the room.

Torres grips him back just as hard for several long moments, before he steps back with a wet, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, I tried to help, to stop the bleeding, but there was so much blood everywhere—”

“It’s not your fault, kid,” Sam cuts in, gentle but firm. He reaches out to squeeze Torres’ shoulders, giving him a little shake. “You hear me? You did everything you were supposed to do, Lieutenant.”

He sends Torres’ off to go clean up in the small ensuite while he goes to find another set of scrubs. While he’s at it, Sam detours to the first snack machine he sees, and buys the most sugary things he can find. He can feel the exhaustion creeping up on him, now that he’s not pumped full of adrenalin anymore, but he refuses to crash.

Not before he knows that Bucky’s okay.

They wait for what feels like hours, sitting next to each other on surprisingly comfortable chairs back in their room, snacking on their candy. Alexei comes by every so often, though he can’t tell them much. Torres’ nods off eventually, slumped against Sam’s side, but Sam stays awake, watching the door.

He still jumps when it finally opens, startling Torres awake as well. They both stand as Bucky is wheeled into the room, followed by a woman who must be the surgeon. She explains the procedure and Bucky’s injuries, but Sam’s brain shuts her out as soon as he hears that Bucky’s out of the woods.

It’s definitely rude, but Sam doesn’t currently have the mental capacity to care. All he can focus on is Bucky. Bucky’s ashen face, and the dark circles under his closed eyes. The coolness of his skin, when Sam takes his hand to press a lingering kiss to the back of it.

He doesn’t notice Alexei and the doctor leaving, or Torres moving closer. Not until Torres tentatively touches his side to guide him into one of the chairs he’s dragged over.

It’s early morning, Torres asleep on the floor this time, when Bucky’s fingers curl around Sam’s, holding on weakly. Sam lets himself cry, then.

“I love you,” he thinks, clutching Bucky’s hand like a lifeline. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 +1

“Fuck, shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Sam swears as he sprints across the hall, the hardwood floor way too cold under his feet. “First thing we’re getting is a rug.”

It won’t technically be the first thing they buy, since they’ve already ordered some more furniture online, but it’s too early in the morning for semantics. The point is, the heat hasn’t been turned on yet in their new house, which hadn’t been as much of a problem last night with a human-shaped furnace under the covers with him, but seems like a pretty severe oversight right about now.

The noise Sam makes when an arm sneaks around him from behind, lifting him up and depositing him on a stool at the breakfast bar, definitely isn’t anywhere close to a squeak. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, man?”

Bucky drops a kiss on his shoulder before he moves back to the stove, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What, that’s the thanks I get for savin’ your poor feet from frostbite?”

“Well, thank you, honey,” Sam says sweetly, making sure his words are   dripping with sarcasm, “I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

Bucky puts a steaming plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. “Damn right, you wouldn’t,” he preens, waggling his eyebrows, and kisses Sam’s forehead.

“Thank you,” Sam says, a couple of minutes later, genuine this time. He lifts up a forkful of perfectly soft, cheesy eggs when Bucky raises a brow at him. “These are good.”

Bucky just smiles, and hooks his foot around Sam’s. But then the smile turns wider, suddenly, brighter, until he’s laughing quietly, and shaking his head.

“What?” Sam asks, and knocks their knees together when Bucky just keeps giggling, all excited and giddy. “Come on, Buck, what?”

“We got a house,” Bucky manages eventually, biting his lip, though his eyes are still crinkled happily. “Sam, we own a house. Together. For real.”

Warmth blooms in Sam’s chest at that, and he just has to reach out and grasp Bucky’s free hand. “Yeah,” he says, unable not to smile back. “Yeah, we do.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Bucky cheers, which has Sam laughing in turn. He stops abruptly, though, when the next words out of Bucky’s mouth are, “I love you.”

There’s a beat of silence before Sam groans, and throws his hands up in the air. “Are you kidding me? For months I’ve been trying to find the right moment. The perfect moment. I was gonna make it romantic, woo the shit out of you. And you just—”

“Sam, sweetheart.” Bucky sounds amused, mostly, but there’s so much affection there as well, in the soft lines around his eyes, and the way he’s sweeping his metal thumb across the back of Sam’s hand, slow and steady. “I fuckin’ love you, you shithead. An’ I said it first, so, ya know. Deal with it.”

“You’re an asshole, you know that, right?” Sam says, without heat, even as he uses their joint hands to tug Bucky towards him across the bar. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

“Yeah,” Bucky hums, leaning in close, “I really am. Now shut up, and kiss me, Samuel.”

And for once, Sam sees no reason to argue, and does just that.

[slasherkisss]

4 a scenario, maybe a not easily scared and weird (persevered as creepy by others) reader with pennywise? You can also make this into a headcanon if this doesn't work for a scenario!

[Its a kind of soft, fluffy thing... also Pennywise giving you bones]

“Y/N... Hey! Hey Y/N!”

Pennywise’s voice appeared directly next to your ear but you didn’t flinch. Hell, you didn’t even look up from your spot against an old, worn down box as you flipped through a book you had brought to read in your spare time. The old piece of rotting wood creaked with dangerous warning groans but it was sturdy enough to hold your weight still. Crossing one leg over the other, you took your time in flipping through one last page, knowing it would annoy him to no end, before finally acknowledging his presence.

“What is it, Pennywise?”

You dared to glance to your side and you saw his glowing eyes widen and his teeth form into that terse, cute (read creepy to everyone but you) smile that you adored on his mouth. He scooted closer to you, as if trying to shove himself onto the box at your side like some sort of annoying cat, and tilted his head. Wisps of red hair tickled your cheek, making you roll your eyes as you scooted over to let him on.

His head bumped into your shoulder.

“Hmmmm-What’cha readin?” He cooed out curiously, his clammy hands wrapping themselves around you, as if trying to unnerve you. He probably was, but, they were just cool and comforting if anything else. You smiled and held up the book you were holding.

“It’s a book about a guy kidnapped by a serial killer and ends up becoming a serial killer himself. I think you’d like it. The author has some hard core descriptions of the guy pulling people’s teeth out and eating them. It’s cool!”

Pennywise grinned and that grin morphed into a laugh. One of those chortled, silly laughs he did. There was a reverberation of something darker behind it though, just lingering in the corners like shadows in your vision. He plucked the book from your hand, making you whine in protest as he examined the hardcover copy with that contined echoing laughter.

“Don’t lose my page.” You huffed with a frown, watching Pennywise stare at the book with curious eyes before shifting them to you.

“You’re a weird human, Y/N! A weird, weird little human! Don’t most humans find this... disturbing? Gross? Tor-ter-ous?”

He emphasized each word by tapping your nose with a free hand, making you laugh as his claw grazed your chin. He smiled wider, those teeth sharper now as he all but chucked your book to the side, making you whine in protest.

“It doesn’t matter, I think!” He declared, standing up, “I have something better for you!”

“Better than my serial killer teeth murder book?!” You bemoan as you gaze at the watery space around you, sure that your new read was lost to its swampy moisture. Great, how were you going to explain to the librarian that you’d never be able to gt that book back? The fees you’d have to pay...

Suddenly Pennywise was in front of you, his face intensely close to yours as he grinned. His breath, like cotton candy and rot, washed over your face and made you smile despite yourself. You loved his intensity. His eerie uncleanness to humans and his efforts he put into being himself. Of commanding fear. Those who were terrified of it didn’t see the beauty in it, certainly. They were blind, unlike you. 

“Look, see?!”

He opened his hand up and you looked down. A small pile of rodentia skulls rested in his hands, their bones hitting together and jingling like strange keys as he showed them to you. Your heart leapt and you grinned, reaching down to touch at them curiously. They were picked completely clean, the white bones shining and the redness of the rodent’s teeth shining healthily in the moonlight.

“Are these all rat skulls?”

“Yes! You wanted some right? You told me you had skunks and mice and rabbits but no a rat’s yet, so I found some for you! They tasted funny but were easy enough to clean off.”

He dumped the skulls into your hand and you laughed, leaning forward and pressing a grateful kiss to his nose. The alien entity startled back, eyes wide as he blinked sheepishly forward at you. If he could blush he probably would, you realized with your grin continuing on your lips.

“I love them, Penny, thank you!”

He grinned and was on you again, this time he was ready and took a kiss from you with greedy desire. He was all rough lips that felt more like leathery skin and sharp, taught teeth as he giggled into your mouth. You clutched the rat skulls tight, determined not to let them go and have them lost as your book was, and kissed back with delight.

Humans who were afraid of him were missing out, you thought as you received a hungry nip to your neck and a chortling growl, but then... They always called you weird and different, didn’t they?

You guess that wasn’t a bad thing. 

[slater-later]

Clarence x Reader Flirt at the Bar

Audience: General

Warnings: None, flirting

Notes: At Y/N, insert your own name, pronouns, and preferred complimentary words. That way, Clarence uses what you like!

Read below the cuff!

For: @da3m0ns-exe

The two of you had met at an Irish pub a few blocks down the street. Dimly lit under the cheap green ‘chandeliers’, at least, they were trying to be, hanging over a narrow line of booths. A green shamrock sign buzzing in the corner window, listing O’ Conners next to the four leafed sign buzzing beside it.

It was a fine dump, gritty and warm and thick with cigarette smoke. A few old geezers sat at the bar, buzzing back large thick dark beers as they chatted in Greek. It was Detroit after all, and everyone was welcome. The D brought everyone together. And if you had a few bucks to spare, it would make your night worth while. The jukebox buzzed in the corner, firmly set from the 70’s and stacked high with classic 45’s. A quarter would get you two songs, and it would flip through the rest. Buzzing Marvin Gaye’s Through the Grape Vine through the open speakers. There were a few TV’s in the corner of the bar, one showing a Tigers baseball game and the other the racetrack. A chestnut filly bending over the corner and splitting from the pack. Her jockey lit a firecracker from out under her behind as he rode her to the front, cracking his crop as they crossed the finish line. Taking home 50k- something a brod in the corner was upset by. Throwing her hands up as she watched, swearing! Because she had bet the bar that #5 would win. California Folly, the chestnut mare, bit her for the win, and she slapped up her cash to the house. Her buddy chuckled to himself at her anger. The bartender greedily took her cash, smirking, as he slipped it into the cash register. He changed the chalk boards odds for the next race. A commercial flashed across the screen.

It was a bettin’ bar, and it was a Friday night. That meant, the race tracks were on. They even caught the signal from the tracks out West. Meaning people could get drunk and lose their money all night long. At least, far enough into the night to be firmly fucked by 10, and either pissed from losing their money or giddy because they made a decent buck. Either way, it meant the crowd pounded back drinks. The bar took home a load whether it was packed full or filled with crickets. 

Clarence was seated up at the bar, his army jacket slipped off and hanging on his chair. He slowly leafed through his comic, head buried deep in his book. He slowly drank, the rum and coke sitting at the edge of his lips, relaxed and quiet after a long day at work. 

He had closed up shop and came in for dinner, a burger and fries, and read the newest edition of Deadpool in his freetime. He actually had a small stack of them next to them. He had cashed his check and sorted the freshly delivered boxes before he locked up. Making a mental note to pay the old man in the morning- he would stuff the bills in the register tomorrow morning.

The new stuff sold fast, and that was exactly why he needed to make his pick before it hit the shelves. He had to be strategic! Take advantage of the perks of running the store!

You slid into the stool a few spots down, gesturing over to the bartender as he made his way over. He was built, wearing a plain black shirt that hung over his body. A gold chain that hung from his neck. He looked kind and quiet, gentle. He had worked there for several years.

“Whatcha’ having?”

  “Pabst,” You nodded, popping out your wallet.

“Pint or pitcher?”

“Pint.”

“Alright, but they’re $7 until 11.” He collected your cash and made his way up the bar, pouring your drink.

Clarence’s nose was in the comic, one hand holding the bridge of it while the other slowly set down the beer. Reaching out for a fry and mindlessly dabbing it into ketchup before it crawled to his mouth. Slowly inching closer. 

His long and shabby fry broke off, falling into his lap and getting on his jeans. You couldn’t help but to laugh. “You okay over there bud?” The bartender handed you your beer, curling in the glass as you took a sip. The foam made a fine mustache on your upper lip.

“Jesus!” He bit, pissed. He had just gotten to a good spot- he fucking didn’t want to stop! “I don’t know man.” He shook his head, nabbing a handful of napkins out of the dispenser and cleaning his lap. 

He finally looked up as you set down your glass. Catching the side of your face- “I ain’t pulin’ your chain, but ya got somethin’ on your face,” He grabbed another handful, passing it over. “A lil’ on here,'' He rubbed his upper lip, brushing his faint five o’ clock shadow.

You grabbed a napkin from him, quickly wiping it away before you got too embarrassed. Shit happens. “Thanks,” You muttered with a smile, softly laughing. Folding it afterwards and placing it under your glass. 

He nodded, reaching for his comic again. 

You were in a good mood and company always made it better. You had the urge to chat, he was attractive, after all. “So, whatcha readin’?”

He looked over, eyebrows raised. “It’s uh, Deadpool. Issue #7,” He put his thumb on the page and flopped it over to the front. Reaching out his arm to show you the cover. “It’ll hit the shelves tomorrow.”

“How’d you get your hands on that?”

“Oh,” He flashed a guilty smile. Caught. “I work at the comic book store down the street, this is next week's issue,” The cover showed Deadpool stepping forward, gun in hand, his red and black latex suite dressed with a heavy white jeweled overcoat and flashing plants. He was wearing the iconic Evil Presley suit, black wig and sunglasses and all. Finger-pointing at a very unpleasant Cable, probably cursing Wade for being alive. Or was it that he can’t die?

“It’s the new Deadpool and Cable issue. It’s a new series they’re doing, do you wanna look?” He offered it and you happily accepted. Taking your time as you flipped through the pages, reading the inside insert. The introduction.

He rattled on, “It’s not as good as some of his other series but then I saw the front cover. I wanted to grab it before we ran out. I’m a big Elvis fan,” He smiled softly. Watching you read.

“Oh?” You peered up, raising an eyebrow. A hook- Elvis wasn’t exactly your man, but it didn’t deter you. “Is he your favorite?”

He beamed as he sipped his glass, nodding as the glass left his lips, setting it down on the wet napkin. “Favorite? It doesn’t begin to describe how much I love that man,” He could rattle on for forever. Even blab again about how much he wanted to fuck Elvis. But, usually, that wasn’t the most widely loved small talk conversation? He was better off tabling that conversation for a later time. Unless he wanted to blow his chance when flirting with a hot person. A man needed to get lucky sometimes, alright? Sheesh, he didn’t think some bisexuality was a bad thing. Isn’t that, a, you know? A sexual fantasy for some folks?

He drilled a finger into the side of his temple, elbow up on the bar as he watched you. How your feet shifted in your sift as you curled up closer to him, leaning in, tenderly turning the page of a secretly, newly loved comic. Mashing up the two things that made him bounce up and down with pure excitement. He was delighted.

“I’m a huge fan, I’ve always been since I was a kid. My dad used to listen to him while I was growing up, and I’ve had the itch ever since. He changed rock n’ roll forever, for the better,” He would watch old tapes of his dancing and performing on stage, having become familiar and comforting to his body. It was something he could return to, regardless of how he felt, and know he felt comfort in.

That, and watching him dance up on stage was light lightening. A friend and a lover.

“What’s your favorite song?” You smirked, flipping a page. You were more interested in his eyes than the panel. Wondering if he had caught on. 

He slid from his seat to the one next to you, dragging his beer along with him. The bartender snapped up his long forgotten dinner. Wiping down the table. “Do you mind?” He gestured to the seat, checking in.

“No,” You shook your head smiling, your delight so easy to read. “Not at all,” You swore you could feel your heart skip a beat. Your body felt fresh, warmed by the flash of heat spreading through your cheeks. You hoped another drink of your beer would help, at least to calm the giddy building up inside of you.

You would cut yourself off at two beers. At the rate of your drinking, you’d been in the hole after three. Too drunk to drive and by the soft patter of the rain outside, you didn’t want to be stuck in the rain. Trying to wave down a cab as it poured, head buzzed and tired, ready to flop down in your bed and forced to make it back. Getting fucked up was fun, but getting home could be a challenge.

  The thought already sounded miserable. You’d much rather be here, with the jukebox, under the warm hum of the bear and its speakers. It switched over to You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine by Lou Rawls. 

“Good,” He smiled with a surprising amount of soft charm. Voice low as his pinky mused with his lip, eyes slow as they took in your body. 

He had to look away. 

FUCK! It wasn’t polite to do that shit, he was either going to get a drink thrown in his face again or something!

He kept his eyes up at the bar, tongue flashing across his teeth as he chuckled to his mind. He could be so fucking stupid! This Y/N was going to beat him. 

He fisted for his cigs in his flannel pocket, offering you one.

Okay, this guy was an idiot, but a cute one.

“Thanks,” You took a cig and slipped it between the side of your lips. Grabbing  your lighter in your coat pocket, prepared as a common smoker should. You lit both of your cigarettes.

“So, you didn’t answer my question,” You shot, releasing a draw downward. 

He snapped it out of his mouth, square in hand as he shook his head awake. “Shit, what was it again?” He laughed, he was losing his head around you. You sucked all the smarts out of his brain.

You elbowed him lightly, amused. “What’s your favorite Elvis song?”

He paused for a moment, getting his mind in gear. Quickly shuffling the different songs on his head- “Hound Dog, and then Blue Suede Shoes, and All Shook Up,” It was the fast, catchy beats of Elvis’s drawl that got him. The electricity that he exuded, that made him want to dance and grab the hand of a friend, a stranger, even an old person! 

It made him want to boogie to the music.

You snickered, he hit right on the money. Damn, this guy had taste. Of the few you knew well, those were it. “Where does Jailhouse Rock rank?”

“8th,” He said clear as day, pointent. It was clearly not his favorite, but a hot contender. He had, in fact, listened to every single god damn song Elvis had published. Including the Hawaiian soundtrack album, which was a partial wash. He thought Elvis was at best when he was shaking it for a crowd, not trying to play at movie making. Yet, it hadn’t stopped him from consuming them all. “I paused not because I didn’t have a top three, but because…” Shit, he got himself in a hole? Wasn’t he playing the ‘cool guy’ really well?

“Because?” You flicked into the ashtray, bringing your arm in for a draw. Raising your eyebrows at him as you drew, feeling the air.

“Because I was thinking about you,” He slipped both elbows on the bar, facing forward towards the line of liquor and head turned towards you. Smirk painted on his lips, shameless in his expression, “You’re very Y/N.” He smiled, eyes stilling on you as they peered into yours eyes, then passed down your shoulder. “And I don’t normally get to talk to a Y/N like you.” Usually, they either weren’t interested in talking about comics and Elvis. So, what was there to talk about? Stupid small talk they he didn’t know much about? It was much harder, trying to find a Y/N with similar interests.

Your face felt warm again. You finished off the rest of your drink. Quenching your fuzzy head with the sharp inhale of nicotine, trying to peel the flush off of your cheeks. You couldn’t hide it- his soft pink lips looked beautiful when they moved. Especially when they were saying such sweet words.

You slicked a hand across your face, hiding the bite of your red cheeks, “How about we get a booth in the corner? And you tell me a bit more about yourself?” It seemed like a good idea. And it would give you a moment, to collect yourself, before continuing your chat.

You raised a hand to the bartender. He turned and you held up two fingers. A pint for you each. 

“Hmph!” His spiky eyebrows peaked up, elated. “Sounds good to me!” He snickered, collecting his stack of comics and waiting for the drinks to come. You two stepped to the back to back of the bar, sliding in next to each other at the dark spot in the room. A place, where neither of you would be bothered. Holed up, until the bar closes, chatting about sweet nothing while you got to know each other. Maybe get, caught in the rain together, under his umbrella. Before turning in, to his apartment. 

It was, in fact, closer than your apartment.