#so i drew this comfy smooches instead

[r33s3-art-pieces]

They're girlfriends 😤

[overwatch-imagines-hub]

New follower here! :D I love your work! As for a request? I was wondering how Zenyatta, McCree, Reaper, Soldier, and Mercy would be with an artist s/o. They're super shy and don't show off their work often but one day s/o decides to show their partner a drawing they did of them? I hope you have a lovely day/night~!

This is me if anyone wants to date

I’m also pretty sure I’ve done a piece like this in the past? If I find it (probably on my Wattpad because that’s easier to maneuver than Tumblr), I’ll link it!

Sorry for the long wait; school and all. Welcome to the blog (sorry again for the inactivity

Like what I do? Leave me a tip!

~~~

Zenyatta

You drew him while he was working in the sanctuary

It’s a picture from your perspective at one of the smaller of the mismatched dining tables

Zen is helping a group of children gather plates of food, either to eat themselves or to carry back to their families

It takes you a while to decide that you’re going to show him the piece, being shy about your work and all

After a long day of work, Zenyatta comes to you with the notion that he sometimes feels like he’s not doing enough

Even some days the brightest light can dim sometimes and Zenyatta is no exception

It’s then that you decide to buck up and show him your work, hoping to prove to him that his notion is wrong

You don’t expect a whole lot in response but are quickly proven wrong

Zenyatta is touched to point where, if he was human, he’d probably tear up

Not only by the meaning of you showing him but by the fact that you care enough about him to show him your work despite your shyness

He’s also greatly impressed by your work, and tells you so

He wants to keep the piece as a keepsake, to remind him that his work matters even during darker days

If you let him take it, he keeps it pinned to his room’s wall, above his personal indoor meditation area

Traveling, he packs the piece up and carries it as a keepsake

McCree

The piece you drew was of Jesse cleaning his Peacekeeper after getting home from a long mission

It was just a soft, quiet moment and the lighting was great; you couldn’t help yourself

He probably noticed you drawing him not long after you started, resulting in him flashing crooked smiles and locking eyes with you whenever you looked over at him

He also probably finished cleaning his gun before you were done drawing but made the executive decision to keep pretending do so, so you didn’t lose your muse

When you’re pleased with the finished product, you relax

Only to see your gentle cowman trying to peek over despite being on the far side of the room

Of course, he always respects your wishes and never presses if you choose not to show your work

That doesn’t mean, however, he won’t give you puppy eyes every time to try and convince you to do so

This time, you just so happen to be in a good enough mood to not mind, not to mention he’s been practically watching you the entire time when not trying to be your muse

When you get up to show him, he’s very excited

He’s your biggest fan, regardless of how often he gets to see your work

He just loves experiencing what makes you happy with you

Loses his damn mind when he sees the work you did

Genuinely impressed with and excited about your work

He’s just Like That

Wants to hang it somewhere in the house if you’re alright with it

Will definitely try to keep it whether you want him to or not

If you try to take it from him, it will probably result in a wild goose chase around the house

Even if you manage to get it back from him, the next day it will probably end up framed in the living room

Reaper

The piece is of Reaper working in his office late at night

He’s still wearing his uniform and hard at work doing paperwork

You’re tired, bored, and, unless you have a tablet or sketchbook on you, are probably doodling said piece on a napkin or the back of scratch paper

You’re sharing his desk and kinda sleepy, so Gabe’s able to catch a glance of what you’re on occasion

During this time, Gabe has probably suggested once or twice you going home instead of staying up until ungodly hours with him, to no avail

Your sleepiness is what gives you the courage to show him your art

Which he is in awe of, but also flustered by

There’s a very clear sentiment to your work, with the fact that you decided to draw him at all and even decided to show him

Considers better than any photo that has been taken of him, especially in his Reaper uniform

He asks if he can keep it, and if you, in your sleep-induced haze, allow him to, he keeps the original piece hidden away in his desk for when he’s having a day that’s rougher than usual

Lowkey wants to pay you for your efforts and thinks it’s not fair that he gets to have your work without you getting anything in return

But that’s something he’ll talk with you about when you’re not half-asleep

If you let him, Gabe will make a blown up copy of it and use it as his official Talon image

Soldier 76

You thought it would be funny to draw the grumpy, hardworking man in a cute, cartoon-y style

In the image, Jack’s in his uniform and poised to fire at an enemy off the page, very serious despite his current cute stature

You think the finished product is amusing enough to show him

You just kind of track him down, push your piece into his face, and ask him what he thinks

Of course, he loves your art and as someone who doesn’t draw immensely well unless it’s battle plans, he’s impressed

However

“Why is my head so large and why are my arms and legs so tiny?”

When you tell him you thought it’d be fun to draw his grumpy self in a contrasting cute state, a teasing argument breaks out on whether or not he’s actually that grumpy

Mister Soldier “I’m not grumpy; everyone’s just stupid” (AKA “I’m an old man” 76 everybody

Once that settles, he asks if you’re giving it to him or not

If so, he’ll take it and keep it on his at-home office desk

If you prefer to keep it, he tells you that’s fine, compliments your work, and then gives you a smooch on the forehead

If neither of you are busy, you’ll probably hang out and snuggle for a bit too, until Jack’s inevitable workaholic tendencies creep up

Then it’s time to do everything in your power to convince him not to do the thing and stay for more cuddles instead

Mercy

You drew her while the two of you were lounging around on one of her few days off

She’s curled up in the cozy armchair next to the couch, wrapped in a blanket and wearing comfy clothes that she doesn’t usually get to wear

Reading one book from the several stacks of miscellaneous reading materials that sit on almost every flat surface in her humble home

If she wasn’t a literal goddess, you’d probably consider her a goblin among her hoard

Although, a dragon would make sense too

Yes, and dragons are prettier too

Angela’s definitely a beautiful, intimidating, take-no-shit, dragon with a book-hoarding problem

After your weird self-debate, you chuckle and make a mental note to draw your girlfriend as a dragon at some point

Your little giggle catches said girlfriend’s attention and she gives you a questioning quirked-brow and small smile look over the brim of her book’s cover

It’s a quiet moment and neither of you really want to break the silence fully, so you just smile back and shake your head a bit before turning your piece to give her a quick peak

To which Angela’s response is to break the silence and tell you that it’s gorgeous

She also adds that you were probably weren’t laughing at that, then asks if she can see the piece properly

You hand it to her after she saves her place in her book

You get to watch her marvel at it a bit, gently running her fingers over the lines, before telling her about your dragon idea

Angela cackles and warns that you better make her a pretty dragon, to which you promise you will

She mentions that she’d love to see that piece when you’re done as well

Now it’s up to you to chase your shyness away for long enough to show her

[jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear]

New Years with Harleen

For the majority of his life Jonathan Crane spent New Years alone. He was fine with this, Jonathan did not like to celebrate things. He didn’t want to watch the ball drop or get drunk on fancy champagne. His only new years resolution, if you could call it that, was to spread more panic and terror than ever before.

Crane was laying low in his farmhouse hideout. The fireplace was cold, in fact the whole house was cold. He couldn’t afford heat and had already used all of his firewood. To compensate and keep warm, Jonathan wore a big itchy sweater that he got as a gift from one of his old colleagues.

He was lounging on his favorite recliner when the doorbell rang. With a sigh, he reluctantly pulled himself out of his comfortable chair and walked towards the door. it was probably Edward, wanting to shove a New Years themed riddle in his face. He always visited at inopportune times like this.

When he opened the door he was not greeted by a man clad in a green question mark suit, but instead a clown princess of crime with a innocent grin on her face.

“Hiya professor, I’m here to wish you a Happy New Years!”

“Go tell someone who cares.”

“Awwhh, don’t be like that Jonny. I think you need some holiday cheer!”

“I need to be left alone.”

“Not on this New Years. Tonight you’re hangin’ out with me!”

She grabbed Jonathan without a second to spare and pulled him into her car. He tried protesting but Harley’s puppy dog eyes proved to be too strong. The ride to her apartment was full of disgruntled mumbling and a handful of frustrated signs. Normally, Jonathan didn’t mind being roped into Harley’s shenanigans, but tonight was different.  He didn’t want to be thrown into a big party, and he was sure that was what she had panned.

Luckily, he would be proven wrong.

When they arrived, Jonathan noticed the lack of cars parked outside and the dim lights coming from the windows. Perhaps this would be a quiet affair. Harley took his hand before he could contemplate any further and she lead him inside.

Her apartment was small, but welcoming, twinkle lights were flickering across the hallway and her Christmas tree was still lit up center stage. To Jonathan’s bewilderment, nobody else was in the apartment, not even Harleen’s closest friend and off and on again partner, Pamela Isley. Was this a set up? Surely someone was about to jump out and yell “Surprise!”

“Harleen, I must ask, why did you invite me here when you could be spending the holiday with someone else? ”

“Well, ya see...I would have spent the holiday with Ivy but she’s buried in her work and I don’ wanna to be a burden when she’s this close to a breakthrough in her research. I get real lonely ‘round this time of year and I thought you might make good company. I know that big parties aren’t your style, but maybe we could just...hang out?”

“I suppose that would be alright.”

Jonathan unfolded his arms and relaxed just slightly, he looked around and spotted a fancy recliner adorned with fluffy pillows. He pointed to it and asked

“Mind if I sit?”

“Get comfy professor, I have peach pie in the oven and some coffee brewing just for you!”

With that, he almost smirked. She knew him well, peach pie was one of his weaknesses, and Harleen’s peach pie is to die for. Jonathan took the pillows and moved them aside before sitting down in a chair far more comfortable than the one he had at home.

“You know that I don’t care for this holiday, right? If I was home right now, I’d be reading”

“Oh, I know Jonny.”

“Then what why did you bring me here?”

“So you wouldn’t be alone. Even grumpy old men like yourself deserve company occasionally. Ya’ might think you’re better off alone, but I know even grinches like yourself need companionship.”

She was right, as much as he hated to admit it. Crane drew a breath and signed. “Alright, when will that pie be ready?” Harleen snickered and snapped her fingers. “Right now!”

She put on some patterned baking mitts and pulled the pie out from the oven. The scent of cooked peaches filled the air. Jonathan’s sense of smell had withered away years ago thanks to his experiments, yet by some miracle he could faintly smell the sweet aroma. It made him feel at home, if only for a moment. Harley planted the pie and handed Jonathan his piece. The two ate quietly, with the occasional pleased purr coming from Jonathan as he slowly savored the dessert.

For the rest of the night, Jonathan and Harley discussed various advances in  psychology, and talked at length about their favorite novels. They could go on for hours, and Jonathan would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying her company.

Time passed and before they knew it it was almost midnight

“Jonny, would it be okay if I counted down the seconds to new year?”

An amused breath came from his mouth “Sure, Harleen.”

She looked at the clock on the wall and began to count.

10...9...8...

Harley stood up and moved closer to Crane. The seconds slowly ticked away as she reached out and grabbed his hand. He looked confused, and Crane had been in this situation before. It didn’t end well, but he hadn’t the time to worry about the past.

7...6...5...4..

“This is my present to you, Professor” 

3...2...1...

Harley leaned in and took his cheeks with her hands, planting a soft yet sweet kiss onto his lips. Jonathan blushed, a feeling he was not used to. His head told him to pull away, but his heart won the argument and he learned into the kiss.

Fireworks went off in the background as the rest of the city celebrated the coming of the new year. He could hear them faintly, but he was more focused on the kiss. Crane slowly parted lips, the feeling of the kiss lingered.

“Why...” Jonathan paused “Harleen, you haven’t kissed me in years”

“Yeah, well I thought it was about time you deserved ‘nother smooch!”

He paused, then smiled genuinely.

“Happy New Year Harleen, and thank you for making it special.”

It truly was remarkable, Crane had only been kissed a handful of times in his lifetime, and he still was not used to the feeling. It made his cold heart feel warm. Harley knew just how to make the grizzly old man melt.

[myspookysunshine]

Purple Haze 1/1

Summary :  Steve always thought the lyrics sounded better his way. Even more so now.

Pairing : Steve Harrington/Jonathan Byers

Rating : Mature

Warnings : Recreational drug use, mid-level sexual content, language

Reposted on AO3 as  dustyirish

Mondegreen (noun) :

 a misunderstood or misinterpreted word or phrase resulting from a mishearing of the lyrics of a song.

Steve caught up to Jonathan in the school parking lot.

"Hey, you have to work?" he asked through the open passenger window.

Jonathan shook his head.

Steve raised a questioning eyebrow.

Jonathan nodded.

Steve opened the door and hopped in.

Jonathan backed out, automatically heading for their spot at the edge of the woods.

Steve couldn't remember when, exactly, it had become a thing.

Nancy had been with Steve. Nancy had tired of Steve. Nancy had dumped Steve. Nancy had snagged Jonathan. That apparently hadn't done it for her, either - he was dropped within the month. The end result of this whirlwind do-si-do had somehow left Steve and Jonathan together to fend for themselves.

Steve didn't mind nearly as much as he thought he would.

The first few times they had just kicked back, talking. Rather, Steve had talked and Jonathan had listened. After awhile, Jonathan had grown comfortable enough to add to the conversation.

Steve hadn't minded that, either. Turned out, Byers was pretty cool. Weird - shit, yes - but cool.

Then had come the next thing. The weed thing. Surprisingly, it had been Jonathan that introduced the idea.

One afternoon he had popped open the glove box, fished around for a moment, then produced a lighter and a fatly-rolled joint. Steve had grinned. Then, as Byers had explained that he'd pilfered it from the stash Hopper kept tucked into a bra in Joyce's underwear drawer, Steve had laughed for five minutes straight.

Even with the addition of pot, Jonathan was still quiet and thoughtful. But definitely more relaxed.

Sometimes he even smiled.

They sat now, finishing off the last of their smoke, listening to one of Byers' endless supply of mix tapes. There had been little movement out of either of them except for a few feeble attempts on Steve's part at air-guitar.

Purple Haze kicked on. Steve lazily mimed the intro then started talking.

"That was really fucking brave, you know?" He had his legs dangling out the passenger window. The top half of his body had been slowing moving downward in increments, threatening to land in Jonathan's lap at any moment.

"Like seriously brave."

Jonathan was tilted back against the headrest, eyes closed. "What? Who?"

Steve flicked the spent roach out onto the gravel. "Hendrix, man."

Jonathan gave a noncommittal grunt.

Gravity finally won out and Steve hit denim, his head coming to rest on Jonathan's thigh. Even a month earlier this would have sent Jonathan bolting upright in shock or fleeing the car altogether. Now, he only sighed and shifted his arm to make room.

"I wouldn't have the nerve. I mean, the nerve to do it, sure, but not to sing about it." Steve realized he was delivering his soliloquy to Jonathan's crotch and flopped onto his back so he was looking at the roof. "It's bad enough now, but back then? Nobody got away with that shit. Except Hendrix. Because he's a god."

Jonathan finally peered down at him, eyes slightly fuzzy. "What are you rambling about?"

Steve tried using hand gestures to get his point across, blearily thinking it would be more eloquent. Or something. He wound up confusing even himself and finally gave up and just said it. "You know - man love!"

Jonathan's eyebrow quirked up. "Oh, I can't wait to hear this explanation."

"What's to explain? It's right there, big as Jimi's balls : 'scuse me while I kiss this guy!"

There was dead silence from Jonathan for a beat, then he began laughing so hard he nearly bucked Steve right off onto the floor.

Witnessing Jonathan Byers having a giggle fit stunned Steve into his own few moments of silence, but he finally recovered enough to glare up at him. "What!? What the hell's so funny?"

"I'm wondering," Jonathan gasped out, trying to regain control of himself. "how many times you've belted out those lyrics in front of other people. And what their reactions were when you did."

Steve scowled. "You saying I'm wrong?"

Jonathan wiped his eyes, one final burble of laughter escaping. "No, I'm saying you're fucking ridiculous. And wrong."

Steve was irritated, but not quite irritated enough to vacate his comfy spot. "Really. Then what is he saying, Mr. Music Master?"

"Excuse me while I kiss the sky."

Steve thought about it, then finally admitted defeat, huffing out a breath. "Huh. Well, that's not what it sounds like. At all."

He reached a hand out, rooting around on the seat for his pack of cigarettes, frowning when he found it empty. "Got another joint?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Not sure you really need one anyway."

They were quiet for awhile, listening to tunes. Jonathan was the one to break the silence.

"One other thing you're wrong about, Harrington. You don't have the nerve to do it."

Steve had been close to nodding off. He crinkled his brow in confusion. "Huh? Do what?"

"Kiss a guy."

Steve raised up on his elbows to look at him. "That a challenge, Byers?"

"It's whatever you want it to be. Doesn't matter what you call it, because you won't do it."

"Bullshit!"

"Uh huh."

"It's not that simple. It's not something you just ... do."

"Whatever you say."

It was smug, it was sure, and Steve was having none of it. "Alright, c'mere." He crooked his finger. "Bend the hell down, man!" he instructed when Jonathan didn't immediately obey.

Jonathan leaned down so his face was a few inches away from Steve's. "Okay, I'm here. Now what?"

"Pucker, motherfucker." Steve's own wit cracked him up for a few seconds, during which Jonathan patiently waited him out.

Steve finally quashed the giggles and put a sincere look on his face. "C'mon, seriously, Byers. Pucker up."

Jonathan shook his head and rolled his eyes but did as told.

Steve ran a sensual finger down the tendon in Jonathan's neck. "You ready for this?" he purred. "Gonna rock your world, baby."

Jonathan muttered a 'Yeah, right' through pursed lips.

Steve inched up, closer, closer ... then veered off at the last second, planting a playful smooch on Jonathan's cheek.

Steve grinned triumphantly up at him. "That what you wanted?"

Jonathan sighed, sat up and lay his head back again. "Not what I wanted, no," he murmured, "but it is exactly what I was expecting."

Steve blinked at the change in tone.

He pulled his legs back into the car and slowly sat up himself, his voice softening. "Hey, man. Look at me." He reached out, aiming for Jonathan's arm. He found his waist instead, but let the hand stay. "Jonathan."

The use of his rarely-used first name caused him to look.

"I was just messing with you."

"You usually are." Jonathan pointed out, glancing back down, hiding under his bangs.

"Yeah, true, but I'm not now," Steve said lowly and leaned in, brushing Jonathan's lips with his own.

He looked into Jonathan's eyes and saw a hint of surprise. And a hint of something else.

It was the something else that drew Steve back in, making full contact this time, closing his eyes and letting himself sink into it. It was slow and gentle at first, with Steve initiating everything, but after a bit Jonathan got with the program and opened to him.

And that was when things went a little insane.

Jonathan's tongue brushed tentatively along Steve's lips, testing the waters. Steve eagerly met it with his own, drawing Jonathan in all the way and sucking.

Jonathan groaned softly and Steve's cock sprung to life, so fast it was dizzying. He made a ridiculously embarrassing noise, something between a whimper and a purr, a noise he couldn't quite believe had come from him. His fingers clenched almost desperately on Jonathan's hips.

Jonathan had one hand on Steve's shoulder. The other was gently cupping the back of his neck. Steve found himself leaning into the touch, liking the warm, comforting weight of it. It was reassuring, somehow. Safe. Sappy, yeah - but that didn't make it any less true.

Jonathan pulled away first. He leaned his forehead against Steve's and laughed breathlessly. "Okay, you win. Challenge fulfilled."

Steve, if anything, was even more breathless. "Yeah, pretty sure that wasn't all about the challenge, dude."

Jonathan made a small noise of agreement that Steve swallowed with his mouth.

If Steve had any doubts about Jonathan being on board for more, they ended when he pulled back for a breather and glanced down. Jonathan's cock was a rigid outline against his jeans. A rigid big outline.

A surge of pure, unexpected want raced through Steve. He doubted he would know what to do with it if he got it, but holy hell, he suddenly wanted it.

"Oh Jesus," he groaned shakily.

He looked up and met dark eyes looking back. Jonathan knew exactly what was going through his mind.

Steve felt a jolt of terror; if things were going to go bad, this would be the moment for it. And one beat-down from Jonathan Byers was enough in a lifetime.

"Oh Jesus," he repeated, with more trepidation.

Jonathan leaned in and kissed him sweetly, first his lower lip then his upper. Steve was vastly relieved as he realized there would be no punching.

The relief then turned to shock as he felt Jonathan's hand nudging under his thigh, encouraging Steve to straddle his lap.

Steve rose up, careful to avoid smacking his tailbone on the steering wheel or his head on the roof, and swung his leg over. He sank down, hardness met hardness, and Jonathan's stilted moan was eclipsed by Steve's strangled keening.

No female Steve had ever been with had made any noise half as girly. There had to be estrogen infused into Hopper's goddamned pot supply.

Had to be.

Jonathan's hips bumped up softly, just once, as if to reassure Steve of future possibilities, then stilled as he started back in on the kissing.

More kissing was good. Steve knew how to do kissing. Although, he had to admit, he had never done kissing quite like this.

Jonathan's hand had found his cheek, and every once in awhile a finger would sneak out and brush along their joined lips, as if Jonathan had to keep checking to make sure it was actually happening.

Steve realized he himself was murmuring indistinctly between kisses, utterances that he seriously hoped weren't some form of endearment, but greatly feared might be.

Steve had thought about kissing another dude once or twice before, and had always imagined it being harsh; a clashing of teeth, a battle for dominance. This ... wasn't that.

Steve couldn't begin to come up with a name for whatever this was.

Jonathan kissed with an intensity that would be frightening if it wasn't so tender. He was entirely focused on the act and seemed to immediately pick up on what felt best for Steve. Pick up on it and then improve on it until Steve was helpless to do anything but whimper for more.

How the hell had Nancy ever thrown this away? Or had Jonathan maybe never shown this side to her? If so, Steve figured they were even - Nancy sure as shit had never heard him sound like a virgin bride being deflowered on her wedding night.

After a bit, Jonathan broke out of the kiss and just kind of hugged Steve, head snugging against his shoulder, one hand slipping underneath the back of Steve's shirt to touch skin.

"Is this okay?" he whispered, unsure.

"You have to ask, after all that?" Steve laughed gently. "Yeah. It's definitely okay."

He realized how rarely Jonathan gave affection, outside of his immediate family. This was him taking a chance on trust, and Steve wasn't about to do anything to make him sorry he had. He slipped his own arms around Jonathan's back and gave a reassuring squeeze. "Better than okay."

Jonathan's hands were spanning Steve's waist, his fingers gently sliding along the skin of Steve's lower back. Steve just stayed quiet and held him, occasionally nuzzling a bit against his cheek.

Here they were again, smack dab in Harlequin romance territory. And Steve decided then and there that he was done worrying about it. If it felt right for both of them, it was right. It's not like anyone else was going to be there to judge.

The motion of Jonathan's hands grew a little firmer, massaging, his fingers dipping towards slightly more dangerous territory.

Steve hummed approval and brought his own hand around, slipping it under Jonathan's Kinks shirt, knuckles lightly teasing along his stomach. "This okay?"

Jonathan nodded against his shoulder then moved his head up. There was a puff of breath at Steve's ear and then a warm, wet tongue dragging along the shell.

Steve let loose with a yelp that would have done Cyndi Lauper proud. "Oh fuck me," he half groaned, half laughed. "Be bop a lu."

Jonathan leaned back slightly to squint at him. "What?"

"Nothing, never mind, just keep up what you're doing." Jonathan sucked an earlobe between his teeth. Steve shivered deliciously. "Forever, please. Forever would be awesome."

Steve knew there was no hope of stopping the ridiculous sounds coming out of his mouth - but he might be able to fix it so that he wasn't the only one making them.

He slid his hand up further, grazing a thumbnail over a nipple, and Jonathan hissed in a shaky breath. Then Steve gave a flick that had Jonathan whimpering, his head dropping back to land on Steve's shoulder.

Jonathan's fingers flexed, the tips finally making it below the back of Steve's waistband, barely brushing along skin.

Steve flicked again, then traced soft circles with the pad of his thumb until Jonathan was gasping.

"You like that?" he murmured into Jonathan's hair.

"Yeah." It came out on a croak. "Jesus. Yeah."

"How about this?" He gave the nipple a gentle pinch.

Jonathan moaned long and low and buried his face against Steve's neck. At the same time his hips stuttered up.

Steve had never lost his boner entirely, but things had dropped safely below critical mass. Now, at the sensation of hardness pressing along his ass, they went screaming back into the red zone. He met Jonathan's movement with a helpless thrust of his own.

Then they were kissing again, hands exploring, rocking smoothly together.

Steve's head was spinning with weed and arousal; he closed his eyes and let himself float with the feeling, knowing Jonathan would be there to keep him from sinking completely.

It was a minor miracle that Steve even heard the sound of approaching tires crunching on gravel.

He blinked his eyes open, listened for another second to make sure he wasn't imagining it, then shot off of Jonathan's lap, slamming his head against the roof in the process. "Shit! Shit, someone's coming!"

Jonathan made a hurried adjustment to his jeans, started the car, paused, then leaned back over to Steve and gave him one last soft kiss.

It was like Jonathan was making a statement, taking time that they didn't have to tell Steve something. And whatever it was, he was clearly more worried about it going unsaid than he was of them being caught.

As Jonathan finally popped the car into reverse and quickly pulled out of the lot, Steve flopped back into the passenger seat, stunned, heart pounding.

He wasn't sure how it had happened.

He wasn't sure precisely how he felt about it.

All he was sure of is that they had just found themselves a whole new thing.

[mintypothos]

BurrMads: Burr being kissed around the neck, soft touches under his sweater, James snuggling into the smol boy's neck and praising him

SORRY! This has been in my inbox for quite a while! I did not forget about it, I just needed a break from daily fic writing! More under readmore

Itwas a long day. It was always a long day, for both of them. Still,even through his own haze of gentle exhaustion- the feeling of aproductive, if challenging, day of work- Aaron recognized the look onJames' face.

“Badday?” Aaron gave his boyfriend an encouraging smile. Usually wellkept together, even in private, James let out a long, quiet sigh ashe dropped his bags on the floor. James' coat dripped as he pulled itoff and hung it on the staircase railing to dry. “I don't recall itraining..?”

“Sprinklerswent off.” James spoke in short, sharp tones as he peeled hissweater off- also very wet.

Aaronconsidered the sight- his boyfriend sad and wet, versus the actionshe could take. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”From any other person, the response would sound rude and hurtful.Aaron knew James by now though. He'd never been one for many words,even compared to Aaron himself.

“Doyou want me to get you some dry clothes?”

Jameslet out a soft sigh this time, shucking out of his dress pants andstanding in a mere shirt and boxers. “No thanks.”

Aaronraised a brow- would James rather stand there in the middle of thekitchen, half dressed?- but then James wasn't just standing there, hewas striding over in quick, purposeful steps. In one quick motion,Aaron found himself with an armful of James. Instinctively, his handsclosed around the slightly smaller body. James tipped his head downuntil wet hair, nearly dripping, rubbed against the side of Aaron'sface. Distantly, Aaron thanked the fact that James preferred a shortcut.

“Wouldyou dry me instead?” The request was mumbled into Aaron's shoulder.He could almost feel James' lips, could definitely feel his breath.Aaron didn't deny a slight shiver, equal parts ticklish and anticipating.

“Sure,but only if we move to the couch.” Aaron conceded, not bothering tohide the smile working its way up his lips. James relented, movingout of the embrace so that he could lead the way, fingers slidingdown Aaron's arms until they rested against hands, gently towingAaron forward.

Jamesgestured slightly, turning his head. It almost looked shy, but Aaronknew better. He sat down first, settling comfortably. Aaron held hisarms open, just slightly. James took the invitation- in this, theydidn't need words.

Hedidn't quite straddle Aaron, but he did take the proffered lap, kneesbent together and curled to the left, on the remainder of the couch.With a soft huff, James relaxed his body, falling against Aaron.There was still a hint of dampness to his shirt, not completely savedby the sweater James has worn overtop. The room was warm though, andboth of them comfy. It wasn't as important.

Theystayed that way for several minutes, perhaps longer. Long enough forAaron to close his eyes, soothed by his partner's steady heartbeat.Then, silently, James shifted. His arms curled tighter, claspingAaron's shoulders in a protective hold.

“Thanks,'ron.” James sighed against Aaron's neck. Aaron nearly jumped, bothfrom the ticklish sensation and the rare use of nickname. “It'sbeen a godawful day.”

“Musthave been,” Aaron said back, bemused. “You don't swear foranything less than total chaos.”

Thisearned a quiet jolt- James, holding back a snort. “Just becausesome people use crude langauge doesn't mean we all have to.”

Itwas a common point, usually made to Hamilton when he occasionallyneedled James. Aaron smiled fondly. “Yeah, I know. We all admireyour high standards of language.”

“False,”This time, James really did snort.

Aaronshrugged. “Well, I admire your high standards of language,anyways.” He felt a sharp breath against his shoulder blade-another successful laugh. Aaron was on a roll, today.

Jameswiggled again, pulling his head back so that he could look at Aarondirectly. Aaron was taken again- even stressed out and obviouslyexhausted, James Madison was a beautiful sight. “Don't say yes justbecause I'm miserable,” James said suddenly, eyes suddenly glancingdown. “but can I go under your sweater, without being reciprocated?I just want to feel you.”

Therequest immediately made Aaron's face heat up. “Uh, okay.” Hereplied. Then, “I mean, I'd like that. Nothing too sexual?”It came out more like a question than intended, but he trusted Jamesto understand.

“Ofcourse.” James agreed immediately, mouth forming into a soft smile.“I'm too tired for that, anyways. Can I kiss you, though?” Aaron nodded,and was rewarded, not with a kiss on the lips as he was expecting,but a gentle peck on the cheek.

Aaron'sarms were around James' hips, originally there to steady him. Now,James carefully moved them up, until Aaron was holding the small ofJames' back. Aaron obliged, settling his arms into the preferredhold. James' smile turned into something more resembling a smirk ashe leaned down again, planting a soft kiss on Aaron's jawbone next.

Slowly,fingers tucked under Aaron's sweater and shirt. Shockingly cold handspressed against the slight fat of his hips. Aaron flinched. “Ah!,”he hissed, “warm those up first!”

“Sorry,”James said, sounding more amused than sorry. Still, the fingersretracted, gripping softly from the outside of the sweater instead.Wedged between the heat of Aaron's form and the back of the couch,they would warm in no time.

Instead,James returned to Aaron's neck. James' soft nose ran gently down thehollow of his throat. Even softer lips, though slightly rough on theoutside from cold-chapped skin, peppered Aaron's collarbone withquiet kisses. There was no sucking; no biting or bruising- justoverwhelming softness, warm like a fleece blanket by the fireplace.Aaron sighed in bliss, feeling himself turn boneless.

Jamescontinued his efforts, layering the other side of Aaron's neck inwarm smooches. His breath tickled against skin, highlighting the tinypinpricks of moisture James left in his wake. “Are my hands warmenough, yet?” James spoke in a hushed voice, slightly above awhisper.

“Idon't know, are they?” Aaron replied, equally quiet. It wasn't thetime for volume. Carefully, he withdrew his hands. Understanding themotion, James drew his back as well, allowing Aaron to clasp themeasily.

Itwas something special, how their hands fit together, almost exactlythe same size and perfectly suited for the other. Neither of them haddone much physical labour in their lives, but James were somehow justa hint rougher, a tiny scar on the right thumb that Aaron had alwaysfound adorable. Aaron pretended to gauge the temperature, folding hisfingers between James' in a tight hold.

“They'lldo,” Aaron finally admitted, grinning at the unimpressed look Jamesshot him with. “If you still want to, anyways.”

“Always,”James scoffed, “Just as long as you're sure?”

“Yes,”Aaron nodded, and then tipped his head up again as James immediatelynestled the side of his head under Aaron's chin. Fingers made theirway down, creeping under the edge of the sweater. Then, they settledsimply against the skin of Aaron's hips.

Jameslet out another sigh, noticeably more content. “You're too good forme.”

Aaron'sheart was already soft, but now it was threatening to puddle. “I'mgetting a free cuddle and I'm not even the one who had a bad day. Icould say the same to you.”

Jameshuffed, nestling his face even further into the front of Aaron'ssweater. “It makes me feel better. You're so good for snuggling.”James paused a moment to move his hands in slow circles, stillwarming Aaron's hips comfortably. “You're good at so many things,but also snuggling.”

Thepraise was ridiculous, and Aaron had to bite his cheek to preventgiggling at it. That didn't make the heat in his chest any less real.“You're good at snuggling, too.”

“No,you're the best. You're so soft. It's nice.” Hands drifted toAaron's small pouch of belly fat, gently caressing before trailingback to Aaron's sides.

Aaron'sgut flipped, in a good way. “I'm glad I make you feel better, evenfrom something as simple as this. I don't feel like I'm doing much.”

“Youalways make me feel better,” James assured, fingers grippingslightly. “Even without this, just being here. But you are verynice to hold, too.”

Aaronwas sure his smile must be ridiculous by now. He couldn't help hisreaction to praise from his boyfriend. “That's good to hear,” hesaid, not bothering to hide the emotional waver. “Still, you'reprobably hungry. Do you want me to make dinner tonight?” It wasostensibly James' turn, but Aaron hardly considered a chore scheduleagainst the effects of a terrible day. James would do the same forhim in an instant.

“Yes,please.” James agreed. “But can we stay like this a bit longer?”

“Ofcourse,” Aaron leaned his cheek against soft, tightly curled hair.The moment wouldn't last forever, but they had nowhere to be. Theywere content.

[ceslatoil]

Pass the Salt

I came up with this story for @fiddleford-appreciation-month after hearing a few people wanted to see more interactions between Fiddleford and his Wife. Enjoy :)

           “Pa, quit sticking yer head out the window before you get hit by a bus.”

           Embarrassed, Fiddleford McGucket suppressed the canine instinct that had come over him and sat back down in the rental car at his son’s command. He couldn’t help it. Though he had regained a great many of his memories, McGucket could not recall the last time he’d ever been to the beach, and as they were traveling down the road towards their seaside destination, he was overcome with excitement. It was a lovely, golden spring day, and the ocean was still and shining as they drove past. There was still a chill in the spring air that would forbid swimming in its waters, but it was beautiful to him all the same.

           Tate, however, had formed his mouth into a solemn gash across his already stony face. He was concentrating on the road, which, thankfully, wasn’t too congested with traffic since it was still the off season, but it’s hard to drive when so much is weighing on the mind.

           “It was awful nice of yer Ma to invite me to Easter dinner,” said McGucket, still bouncing up and down in his seat. He was currently fiddling with the potted lilies he had brought for the occasion. He couldn’t remember if his ex-wife enjoyed flowers or not, but lilies always seemed to brighten up the rooms in his new mansion. How could anyone dislike lilies?

           “Now Pa,” said Tate, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he chose his next words carefully, “I should warn ya before we go in, Mom remarried a couple of years back now—you sure you’re gonna be fine with that?”

           “Aw, Tater Tot,” said McGucket, flashing his snaggletooth smile at his gloomy son, “I don’t mind none; I remarried loads of times after she called it quits on me.”

           “Pa,” said Tate, rolling his eyes as they drew nearer to a secluded house by the beach, “being married to your beard ain’t really being married at all.”

           “I know that,” said the old man playfully, “Why’d ya think yer Ma and me split up in the first place?”

           “Pa!”

           “Tate!”

           “Look—I’m glad you’re in a good mood,” said Tate, who turned up the lane towards the beach house with growing trepidation, “But I still want you to brace yourself, for your own sake.”

           “Yikes, yer makin’ it sound like some big, scary musclehead’s gonna beat me up the second I walk in the door,” said McGucket, who’s knees began to bounce together out of nervous habit. “Is that what yer tellin’ me? That yer Ma got hitched to some muscle-bound lug and he’s gonna beat me up?”

           “I can promise you this, Pa,” said Tate, who in spite of himself was beginning to crack a hesitant, friendly smile as they finally pulled up to the house, “Ma doesn’t have a giant muscle-bound lug who’s going to beat you up.”

           The beach house was painted a cheerful, sunny yellow with sea foam green shutters lining the windows, and a comfortable porch with wicker patio furniture on the deck. Sitting on one of these wicker chairs was a woman, though her hair had turned gray and her face still lined with faint wrinkles, she had a youthful quality about her, from the way she smiled at both Fiddleford and Tate when they got out of the car, to the way she jumped down from the porch and practically tackled Tate into a bear hug.

           “Baby Tate,” she cried; if she’d had the strength she would have picked him up and twirled him around like a baby doll, “So glad you could make it!” When she broke away, she shot McGucket a beaming smile, and grabbed him by the hand, shaking it firmly.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you too, Fiddleford,” she said with a wink, “I’ve heard tons from Tate, and from the Missis of course. Carla McCorkle.”

McGucket squinted at Carla for a moment, as if trying to read very fine print from a long distance, but, after spotting the ring on Carla’s left hand and the sheepish grimace on Tate’s face, the truth hit him all at once and he let out a barking laugh.

“So you’re the big guy who’s gonna beat me up,” said McGucket, now shaking Carla’s hand in earnest.

“Tate, what stories have you been telling your father,” Carla chastised the younger McGucket man, “It’s not nice to fib on Easter, you know!”

“I ain’t told him nothing,” said Tate defensively.

“Well, let’s get you two inside,” said Carla, waving her hand theatrically towards the beach house. “It’s been chilly all week, and dinner should be ready in about an hour. I’ve got some wine and cheese set up in the living room, you two make yourselves comfy while I get your bags.”

 The living room was airy and comfortable, and on the glass coffee table stood a tray of different cheeses, fruits and bread. McGucket grabbed a few handfuls of everything, but a look from Tate told him not to stuff the snacks into his face like he had wanted to initially. It was difficult to control his hunger, the smell of chicken frying wafted in temptingly from the kitchen, and the scent of cinnamon and apple was detected as well. Even if he was a little nervous about meeting his ex wife again after all these years, the promise of good, filling food always makes things a little easier to face.

A fluffy, white cat crept into the room; its wide, squashed in face kept it from achieving true beauty. McGucket knelt down and held out his hand to the tiny creature; she took one look and swatted her paw at him, grazing his hand with her claws.

“Ouch!”

“Lovelace doesn’t take kindly to strangers,” said a voice behind McGucket; he turned to see a woman, her graying brown hair shaggy as always as she scowled at him in that old familiar way he was starting to remember. She wore a dirty apron over her outfit, a heather gray sweater and brown corduroy pants, her arms crossed over her chest as she examined McGucket from across the room, pursing her lips as she did so.

McGucket’s ex-wife was a quiet, secretive sort of person, to the point where I, the narrator, hardly know much about her. I don’t, for example, have a clear idea what her face looks like, having only ever seen a rough sketch of a thirty-year-old photograph of her in Stanford Pines’ third journal. I don’t quite know what her voice sounded like, what perfume she liked to wear, what sort of jokes made her laugh (or, for that matter, if any jokes made her laugh at all), and, I’m embarrassed to admit, I don’t even have a record of her full name. I only know that she was once Mrs. McGucket, and now she’s a Mrs. McCorkle. However, since that name applies to two completely different women in this tale, I have elected to call Mrs. McCorkle-Who-Was-Once-Mrs.-McGucket the much less trying to type “Trudy” instead.

“Well, howdy,” said McGucket, giving his ex a smile she couldn’t return. He got up to scoop her into a tight hug. She had gone stiff in his arms, so he let go early.

“You, ah… you look nice. Pretty house,” said McGucket awkwardly. Trudy said nothing, and merely turned her attention to her son.

“How was the drive,” she asked quietly.

“Easy enough,” said Tate, who shared his mother’s dislike of talking too much. Silence filled the room like heavy smog, and the three McGuckets simply stared at each other, unable to really say anything at all. It was to everyone’s immense relief when Carla came back in holding the potted Easter lilies in her arms.

“Fiddleford, did you bring these?” she asked happily, “They’re beautiful!”

“I grew ‘em in the garden,” said McGucket, the grin returning to his face as he took the lilies from her, “sprouted up once it started getting warmer again. I reckon you’d like to have them!”

He offered the flowers to Trudy, whose scowl only got deeper.

“Lilies,” she explained, “are highly toxic to cats.”

“Oh,” said McGucket, who hadn’t realized this at all. “I’m sorry! Didn’t know ya had a cat when we came to visit! I apologize.”

“You should,” said Trudy, eyeing the flowers resentfully as she bent down to pet her cat, “Even just the pollen could cause Lovelace immense harm if she were to breathe it in or ingest it. Though I guess with all the money you’ve made off of your death robots, I could just send the vet bills to you.”

“Trudy,” hissed Carla, who knew to cut her wife off quickly when she went into these sort of moods, “It was a simple mistake. We’ll just keep the flowers outside; Lovelace is an indoor cat, she won’t even see them.”

Trudy gave them each an unreadable expression.

“I have to get back to fixing dinner,” she said, turning away from them as she did so. “It’ll be up in about an hour.”

With that, she was gone.

 The first five minutes into dinner, no one said a word. Tate was never a very talkative person to begin with, and both Carla and Fidds tucked into their dishes in earnest. Trudy, for her part, only picked at her plate, staring dully at her ex husband as he consumed the meal she’d prepared.

“So,” said Fidds, still chewing on a fried chicken leg, “How’d you two meet?”

“Oh, it was actually just a few years back,” said Carla brightly; she grabbed Trudy’s hand and squeezed it gently as she spoke. “I was in a production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf off Broadway—I played Martha, just the most fascinatingly devious role—and one night after curtain call, I get back to my dressing room and find a bouquet of roses from a mysterious admirer!”

“What can I say,” Trudy shrugged, a phantom of a smile briefly appearing on her gloomy face, “I always had an eye out for the great performers.”

“Oh? Since when,” said McGucket, puzzled.

“Since always,” huffed Trudy petulantly.

Carla coughed uncomfortably before continuing her story.

“Anyway,” she said, picking at her salad nervously, “I kept getting roses night after night, until one matinee performance I catch her in the act! I ask her out right then and there, I tell her, ‘no way in heck am I accepting roses from a complete stranger,’ and then, one thing lead to another, and here we are today!”

Trudy blushed; she took Carla’s hand and gave it a quick, affectionate smooch.

“And she’s quite a sweetheart when you prod her out of her shell a bit,” said Carla brightly.

“Well ain’t that just lovely,” said Fiddleford, raising his chicken leg in a sort of toast to the happy couple, “I think I should probably start going to plays if I ever wanna meet somebody as special as you!”

Trudy apparently did laugh at this, a cruel, mirthless laugh that sounded like an icicle through the throat.

“…Why’s that funny,” said McGucket quietly.

“…Nothing,” mumbled Trudy, who began to guzzle down her glass of wine.

Tate spoke up, “This salad is fantastic mom, where did you—”

“No, why is that funny,” Fiddleford insisted, his voice uncharacteristically aggressive.

Trudy finished her glass of blood-red wine in one gulp.

“You at a play,” she said disdainfully, “Come on Fiddleford, don’t kid yourself, theater is for the sophisticated and the refined, you’d stick out like a farm hand shopping at Barney’s.”

Fiddleford glared at her from across the table, a look she returned with tundra-like cruelty. He looked down miserably at his plate, unsure if he could enjoy another bite.

“Now, really Trudy,” chastised Carla, “You’ve been married to me long enough to know that sort of snobbery should have no place in the fine arts. Theater should be accessible to everyone, charging the sort of money they do for tickets nowadays is just robbing the common people one of the greatest joys in life.”

Carla patted Fiddleford on the arm affectionately. “You and Tate should come see a show with us while you’re here! I’ve got some good tickets to see Kinky Boots, and I think you’d get a huge kick out of that show.”

“I ain’t much for singing and dancing,” mumbled Tate, who was giving his mother an icy glare.

“Tate, d’you mind passing the salt for me,” said McGucket, not looking up from his plate. Tate took the saltshaker from the middle of the table and handed it to his father, who began to sprinkle it onto his chicken absentmindedly as Carla continued to chatter absentmindedly about other musicals.

“You’re going to over season the chicken,” snapped Trudy suddenly. Ugly silence fell across the table like a crashed jet engine.

Slowly, Fiddleford spoke up, “well dear, you’ll forgive me I hope, but you hardly used any spice when frying up this bird. It just tastes like plain flour, I just thought I’d liven him up with a little salt.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my chicken!” Trudy gritted her teeth together as if she’d like nothing better than to sink them into her ex’s throat, severing an artery.

“Just as there ain’t nothing wrong with me putting a little salt on him. You never were much good at putting spice on things, sweetheart,” said McGucket, sprinkling even more salt onto his plate.

“You’re lucky I even let you eat at all, you filthy bum!” Trudy was standing now; she slammed her fists onto the table violently, rattling the silver wear and glasses upon impact.

“Now really,” said Carla, mortified. “We don’t need to argue like children over dinner—”

“Well,” said McGucket, his voice trembling, “I guess I definitely had worse dinners than this, I did spend thirty years living out on the streets; I don’t know if’n ya ever had to eat garbage out of the can before, it’s really an unforgettable taste!”

“You’re the one who left,” Trudy snarled.

“You told me to go,” McGucket retorted. Faintly, he remembered a difficult conversation in the back of his mind: Think about what sounds better: spending time with your best friend working on a subject you both love, or staying in the suburbs playing house with a wife you have nothing in common with but your son?

“Did I tell you to not write or call for months on end,” Trudy gesticulated wildly at her Ex as she spoke, “Did I tell you not to visit your son?”

“Mom, leave me out of it!” cried Tate, slamming his fist on the table as well.

“Oh,” Trudy continued, not paying a bit of mind to her son at all, “I guess I’m the one who made you send that robot after me when I served you the divorce papers because I was just so done with your—”

“You left me to die on the street!”

Fiddleford had never said this out loud, hadn’t even dared to think it, but had kept this thought buried away in his heart for a long time, hoping it would rot away into nothing. Tate drank from his cup deeply, a guilty glint in his eyes as silence fell over the table again.

Trudy took Carla’s glass of wine and hurled the contents into Fiddleford’s face. He sat there, dripping wet with wine that stained his beard like blood.

“Trudy,” cried Carla, horrified.

“Get out,” hissed Trudy at her ex husband, “Get the hell out of my house right now!”

McGucket scrambled out of the dining room and ran into the night, his eyes stinging from the mixture of wine and tears as he ran.

 We like stories because, like magic wardrobes and hidden portals, they take us to a version of reality we want to exist. A place where the lines between gentle, good hearted people and nasty, cruel people are thick and easy to see, where morals can be cut up and fed to us in easy to digest little bites, where all is well and right by the end, wickedness is defeated and kindness is rewarded as it deserves.

In this story, however, there is no wickedness to be defeated, as nobody in this story is truly wicked. Yes, Trudy McCorkle was cold and hostile to McGucket, and she wasn’t without her own small burden of blame, but she had her reasons and resentments that lead to her unhappiness with her ex-husband, something he would come to agree with in time. Forgiveness is a long process that takes a different amount of time for everyone, and Trudy’s time simply hadn’t arrived.

Fiddleford turned over these angry, mixed up thoughts as he fell into a fitful slumber on the shores of Glass Shard Beach. The moon was as gibbous and milky as a blinded eye in the sky above; it seemed to stare down coldly at Fiddleford as he tried to sleep. He didn’t know why he’d thought visiting his ex-wife was a good idea. He should have just stayed home and not bothered people who didn’t want him in their lives again.

“Pa!”

Tate was running towards him from further down the beach.

“There you are,” said Tate, panting as he sat down next to his father, who had curled into a tight ball in the sand. “Come on, Dad, let’s get out of here.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Fiddleford, obviously not fine at all, “I’ll just stay here in the dirt. You Ma’d be happier if I stayed out of her way.”

“I don’t give a crap about what’d make her happy right now,” snapped Tate, “That was—that was inexcusable. I told her that she ought to be thanking you for saving everyone last year, and that she was acting like a jackass.”

“Tate,” cried Fiddleford, popping out of the sand at this, “Don’t go saying such things to your mother!”

“But she—”

“What we’re arguing about ain’t something we should be dragging you into,” said Fiddleford, “and I’m sorry if that ever got taken out on you, Tater Tot.” He gave his son a hug, squeezing him tight.

“Pa, really, I’m a grown man.”

“Hush, you ain’t too old for hugs.”

“Anyway,” said Tate, pulling away from his dad, “Just… look, Carla’s real upset how everything went down. She wants to make it up for what happened. Did… did you wanna go see a play with us?”

“… You sure I won’t embarrass ya none,” Fiddleford asked quietly.

“I think we got all the embarrassment out of the way tonight,” said Tate, who, alongside his father began to walk down the beach towards the boardwalk. “Come on—if we move now, Carla says we can rush into the theater.”

Real life is often chaotic; but there is some comfort in getting to spend a moment away from that chaos, especially if it’s with the people you care about.