#street smarts of suburbia

[charliemwrites]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

Next

Masterlist

[orions-choker]

Drink My Cherry Blood (Vampire!Kirk Hammett x Reader NSFW)

Vampire Kirk, Rough sex, Oral Sex, Blood Drinking, Unprotected Sex.

Word Count: 4,557

Reader meets Kirk at a party and gets a lot more than she expected when he follows her home.

(Cross posted to AO3, this is just an excuse to write Vampire Kirk smut sorry <3)

The moon hung high in the midnight sky. Despite the darkness the California night was pleasantly warm against Y/N’s skin. It didn’t stop a shiver from running up her spine. Each step she took against the pavement brought with it the feeling of being followed. Each time she peaked behind her shoulder she was greeted with nothing. 

Her knuckles turned white, her grip on her crossbody purse deathly tight. Her pace hastened slightly. She was almost home, she could see the faint light from her house in the distance, like a beacon of hope in this small corner of suburbia. It took all her will power to avoid breaking into a sprint, not wanting to look like a fool when truly there was nothing following her. 

A sudden crack sounded behind her, a pebble hitting asphalt. It cried out like a strike of lightning on the otherwise silent street. Y/N stopped abruptly, whipping her body around to catch the perpetrator following her. Nothing. Her eyes trailed down the empty sidewalk, landing on the suspect stone that had startled her. Too far behind her to have accidentally been her. 

“Hello?” She called out, voice wavering as she desperately hoped for no reply. She waited a moment, and then a moment more before shaking her head. “I’m going crazy.” She mumbled to herself turning back towards her target, home, she just needed to get home. 

The sound of her worn converse scuffing against the ground suddenly seemed impossibly loud. An irrational part of her brain telling her the noise was bringing too much attention to herself, like prey being stalked through the forest. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat getting stuck like a heavy weight in her chest. 

Home, Home, Home. It was the only thing she chanted. Somewhere in her mind she reprimanded herself for leaving the party so late, by herself. Her only saving grace was her choice to stay sober tonight, knowing she had work tomorrow she decided to be smart for once in her life. 

The party had been a goodbye party for a close friend, despite that Y/N seemingly knew no one there. Not a single mutual friend aside from the host, Y/N had found herself nursing a cola in the corner of the kitchen for most of the night. That was until she had been approached by Kirk. That was the name he had given her anyway. 

He was a cute thing, he had dark curly hair that cascaded down his shoulders, he was lean and lanky, not incredibly tall but towered over Y/N’s short stature nonetheless. He had these big brown eyes that oozed comfort and for that reason she had found herself chatting with him through the night. 

He was pleasant, in conversation and to look at. She was thoroughly endeared by his knowledge of music, games, comics and movies. He was a bit awkward at first, it was endearing the way he stuttered over his words, laughing at his own poorly timed jokes. Despite his charms there was a feeling she couldn’t shake around him, not fear, but anticipation. Something about the way he seemed to loom over her, the way his teeth, a little crooked, seemed impossibly sharp, like razors in his mouth. He felt..off. 

Still Y/N felt sad saying goodbye to him, exchanging numbers with him as she left the party around 11:30. He had offered to walk her home, insisting it wasn’t safe this late for a young woman such as herself. Suddenly she felt inclined to agree. 

Snapped out of her thoughts of the night earlier, Y/N heard it then, footsteps. Unmistakably against the ground behind her, someone was there, and gaining on her fast. Her breath hitched and without a second thought she broke into a panicked sprint. The ground seemed to shake and crumble away from her feet as she heard the person behind her gain speed. 

Then there was a hand on her arm, a grip so tight it felt bruising. She was stopped, yanked back with incredible strength. A scream ripped its way from her throat but died quickly, muffled by a warm hand against her mouth. She thrashed in the hold of her mystery assailant, teeth sinking into the flesh of his hand and nails scraping against his arm. Her efforts earned her nothing more than a pained hiss. 

“Hey shit calm down Y/N.” The voice in her ear, from earlier that night. Kirk? Her eyes rolled back trying to get a better look at the man behind her. She couldn’t see his face from this angle, but the curls falling around his shoulders and the dark fabric of his shirt confirmed it for her. She stopped for a moment, her body going limp as he pulled her down the alleyway. 

She was roughly turned around, body pressed against the brick wall behind her. His hand still covered her mouth as his body caged her in. She looked up at him with wide eyes full of fear. How stupid had she been to talk to this guy, he had seemed harmless enough. Oddly enough his eyes were elsewhere, darting towards the entrance of the alley as he shuffled them further into darkness. His body concealed her from view. 

Tears sprang to her eyes, this was how she died? In a dark alleyway, body disgraced by a man she had just met. She couldn't help the small sobs that came from her muffled mouth. Kirk's eyes widened as he looked down at her. He shook his head quickly. “No shh shh.” He whispered, his hand pressing down harder. “Please be quiet, this isn't what you think, just quiet.” He hissed urgently, eyes darting back towards the open road. 

Y/N was caught off guard by the interaction, stunned into silence again by the gentleness in her voice. They stood there for what seemed like an hour. Y/N pressed against the warmth of Kirk's body as he completely encased her there in the alleyway. She noticed he didn’t breathe a second of the time they spent there. Finally Kirk released a shaky sigh, stepping away from her, hand slowly falling from where it had gagged her. “Please please don't scream, let me explain.” He pleaded, a guilty look in his eyes. 

“What the fuck.” Y/N hissed, still speaking lowly as Kirk did. “What’s your deal dude, are you trying to kidnap me?” She asked, voice raising in fear and anger. Her back was still pressed against the wall trying to keep as much distance between him and her. She noticed in the glint of the moonlight his eyes seemed to almost glow a deep red color, his gaze on her still filled with worry. 

He shook his head frantically, looking like a kicked puppy at the accusation. “No god no!” He defended himself quickly. He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Fuck, ahh how do I explain this?” He groaned.

“Explain attacking me in the middle of the night after I talked to you once at a party?” 

He winced at her acid laced words. “Look I’m sorry, I didn’t want to.” His hands came to his face, rubbing at his skin and gently pulling at his lower lash line as he struggled to find the words. “You were being followed, I was worried about you.” Kirk sighed, eyes desperately searching hers in hope she was willing to listen. 

Y/N’s face contorted, lips pulling into a tight line and eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Dude you were the one following me?” She slid down the wall slowly, exhausted by this whole interaction she let her body slump forward as she sat on the dirty pavement beneath her. 

Kirk followed her, crouching before her, keeping a good distance to not scare her further. “No, I mean yes, but to protect you.” He stumbled over his words. “You wouldn’t let me take you home, but you were being watched at the party and I couldn’t let you leave alone, you wouldn’t have made it home alive.” He tugged his bottom lip between his sharp canines. 

They seemed inhuman, those teeth. Y/N couldn’t pry her eyes away from them. “And how do you know that?” She asked him, voice softening a bit. There was just something about his demeanor that made her want to believe this stranger. “What was with you dragging me down here and keeping me silent.” 

“The guys that were following you, I know them, I didn’t want to fight them not in front of you.” He explained carefully, there was something else lurking beneath his words. “I just wanted us to keep low until they fucked off” 

His explanation came with more questions than answers. “I didn’t hear anyone out there, how do you know?” Y/N asked, pulling her knees to her chin as she stared at him in wonder. “And what do you mean fight them? It sounds like something you do often.” 

“God why do you have so many questions.” Kirk whined in defeat, his head hanging low. He picked gently at a small piece of gravel on the ground. He was unwilling to make eye contact again with her as he spoke slowly. “You aren't gonna believe what I’m gonna say.”   

“Try me.” 

With a final sigh Kirk dropped from his crouching position, sitting down in front of Y/N in the alleyway. “It’s a long story…I’m well i'm not human.” He began his explanation, taking note of the way Y/N’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open to say something but shutting again as he shot her a glare. “The guys following you? Not human either. I’ve had a couple alterations with them before, they like picking fights. I made the mistake of chatting with you and just to piss me off they figure it would be fun to kill you…or worse.” 

As the words tumbled out Y/N shivered. Silence fell over them before she spoke again. “What do you mean, not human?” She asked, rather than disbelief she sounded curious. She leaned forward a little closer, eyes trailing to his teeth once again as they got caught on his lip. “Like…a vampire?” She whispered. 

Kirk hesitated before shrugging. He nodded his head “Something like that, yeah.” He whispered back. His eyes searched her own for any trace of fear, anger, anything really. Suddenly she was on her knees, crawling towards him. The dim light from the street lamp outside the alley illuminated her face, eyes wide and sparkling with interest, lips parted slightly as she studied him like a wild animal. 

“How can I believe you, can you turn into a bat or something?” She asked almost jokingly. She crawled between his legs, hands coming up to pry open his mouth and run her thumb along the sharp canines. Her touch barely ghosted over them yet she could feel the edge like a knife. A little more pressure and she would have nicked herself. 

Despite his surprise at the sudden boldness he allowed her curious hands to wander and study him. He chuckled awkwardly “Well uh no, I said like a vampire, not actually one like from the movies.” He tried to explain. One of his hands came to softly pry away her prodding hands as he smiled his best comforting smile at her. “I'm uh really strong? I guess…I drink blood, don't eat, sleep or breathe.” He hummed for a moment wondering how he could prove himself here. His eyebrows shot up. “Wait here, watch this.” 

Y/N’s eyes trained on him as he raised his own palm to his mouth, quickly he dragged the skin along his flesh, cleanly slicing open the flesh. He held his hand out to Y/N and she watched as the wound gushed blood, dripping onto the ground between them, then quickly..it stopped…and then the skin pinched together. It healed leaving no mark, no sign that the wound had ever been there. 

With a gasp Y/N leaned back, grabbing Kirk’s hand in her own as she examined it, looking for the secret to his trick. “No fucking way.” She mumbled, yanking his hand in every which way. It earned her a soft giggle from him. She looked up at him from where she was still sitting between his legs. “So like, are you immortal? How old are you?” 

Kirk’s smile widened a bit, a sense of relief flooding through him that she hadn’t run away screaming. “I think I am, I haven't really been around long enough to find out, this happened to me a couple years ago now, my twenty fourth birthday.” He chuckled “I'm twenty six now so not the best gauge on my immortality.” He slowly slid his fingers between her own, holding her hand gently. “You actually believe this?”

She gripped his hand a little tighter, her fingertips pressed against the back of his palm. She thought for a moment, pursing her lips. “Kinda hard to say no when I just watched your skin meld back together.” her body lurched forward suddenly, Kirk using his grip on her to bring her crashing forward into him. Her face pressed against his chest as his arm snaked its way around her waist. “Oh, hello.” She mumbled against him, craning her neck to look at him. 

Looking down, Kirk’s eyes locked onto her own, a flash of something predatory passing through them.. “And you aren't scared?” He punctuated his question with his grip tightening around her hand and waist, squeezing hard enough to earn a gasp from Y/N.

With a gulp Y/N shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so now, I was a bit before.” Her gaze settled on his lips. “Honestly, the whole thing is kind of hot.” She admitted, a deep red rising to her face. “Always had a thing for vampires.” 

“I wasn’t hot before?” He asked flirtatiously, his free hand came up to grip her chin, keeping her gaze steady. “Can I kiss you?” His tongue swiped along the points of his teeth, Y/N’s eyes following its movement. Silently she nodded, the look on her face desperate. Suddenly she was knocked off balance, Kirk’s leg hooking under her own and effortlessly flipping the two of them. 

She was left with her back pressed against the rough gravel. His arms caged either side of her head, knee pressed between her open thighs. Kirk’s hair tickled her face lightly as he swooped down. He kissed her feverishly, like he was devouring his last meal. It left her completely breathless, hands coming up to clutch at the back of his shirt. She gripped onto the fabric desperately as she was sucked in. 

Y/N’s back arched as she surged forward, chasing his touch. Her mouth parted open eagerly to feel the warmth of his tongue against hers. He swallowed each needy whine that left her. Kirk pulled away to allow her to breathe, nipping at her bottom lip and drawing blood as he did so. She hissed at the sudden sting of pain, fingernails digging into him. 

“Holy fuck.” She panted, lungs heaving as she searched for the air he had stolen from her. Her pupils were blown, leaving a sliver of color left on her irises as she looked up at him in wonder and adoration. “Do you want to fuck me?” She asked unabashedly, too high on the feeling of him surrounding her to bother being embarrassed. 

A laugh ripped its way from Kirk’s throat, it was a sweet noise that seemed to contrast the intensity between them. It brought a smile to Y/N’s lips. “Right here in the alley? I think you deserve better than that.” He mumbled, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he tucked a wild strand of her hair behind her ear. 

She leaned into his soft touches, eyes fluttering closed in content. “My house is just down the road.” Y/N sighed. “I was almost home before I was so rudely kidnapped.” She joked. Her hand fell from his back, trailing to his chest and then neck. The chain hung there dangled between them and she gave it a teasing tug. “But with how bad I want this, the alley is fine too.” 

Suddenly she was tugged to her feet. It happened faster than her eyes could comprehend. One moment Kirk had been pressing her into the ground and the next she was standing, his arms wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin resting against her shoulder. “Take me home then beautiful.” He whispered into her ear, teeth nipping at her lobe. A shiver rippled down her spine as she silently nodded. 

His arms left her waist to allow her movement. She reached behind her, gripping his hand and dragging him behind her. The two emerged back onto the empty street. Y/N’s legs wobbled as she led them down the block towards her house, her salvation. As the pair stumbled into the empty house, Y/N quickly tugged her shoes off before leading Kirk upstairs. 

Her room was pitch black as they entered but that didn’t seem to affect Kirk as he effortlessly moved them to the bed in the corner of the room. “Night Vision.” She asked him jokingly. He pushed her down against the mattress, his hands tugging on the bottom hem of her shirt. She lifted up allowing him to pull it over her head. She was left in her jeans and bra. 

Kirk stood between her legs, drinking in the sight of her sprawled beneath her. Skin glistening under the soft rays of moonlight that streamed in from her windows. “You know it baby.” He grinned crookedly at her. With a sudden urgency he tugged his own clothes off, stripping down to just his underwear. Y/N followed him, quickly unbuttoning her own jeans and shimming them down her legs. An appreciative sigh escaped his lips, the bed dipping under his weight as he crawled on top  of her. 

“Fuck you’re pretty.” He breathed out heavily. His fingertips gently ghosted down her skin from her jaw, down her neck, coming to rest at the swell of her breast. “Mind if this comes off baby?” He asked out of courtesy, his hands already going to work behind her back to unclip the fabric. 

At a loss for words, Y/N nodded. There was a sudden chill against her skin as Kirk tugged her bra away. Her nipples hardened as she shivered lightly. Kirk groaned at the sight, his head dipping down to her chest and sucking one of the hardened nubs into his mouth. Y/N gasped, hands coming to clutch at his shoulders. 

“Ahh fuck.” Her voice was whiny and pitchy as Kirk's thumb pressed into her other nipple. Even the slightest of his touches seemed intense to her. With a pop Kirk pulled back, looking up to lock eyes with her once again as his lips left soft wet marks against her skin down to the waistband of her panties. Y/N couldn’t look away, watching with wide eyes as he pressed his tongue flat against her through the fabric of her underwear. 

Her hands tangled into his dark curls with a moan, fingernails digging into his scalp. “Oh my god, Kirk.” She whined. Her thighs pressed against the sides of his head as he lapped at her core. His fingers curled around the edge of her underwear tugging them down slowly. Obediently Y/N lifted her hips off the bed to let him slide them down, coming to hang around her ankle as moved back in. 

The raw feeling of his tongue against her folds had Y/N’s head tossing back against the mattress. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She chanted breathlessly as his long fingers pressed against her entrance. The combination of Kirk’s tongue against her clit and his fingers pressing inside her had her thighs trembling around him. She could feel the sheets beneath her growing damp from his spit and her own arousal. 

“Please please, don’t wanna come without you inside of me.” She groaned, hands tugging at his hair in a desperate attempt to pull him back. “Please m’gonna.” Her words slurred together as he curled his fingers expertly, rubbing against her walls. 

Kirk pulled back only for a moment, a grin plastered against his shiny lips. He looked at home between her legs.”C’mon baby you can finish more than once, wanna taste you.” He denied her request and moved back in with more fervor than before. He sucked her in, teeth gently grazing her skin. His fingers moved so fast, Y/N belatedly thought it was a wonder his hand hadn’t cramped. 

“Fuck Kirk, I’m-” Her voice raised, being cut off by her own moan as she clenched around his fingers, body shaking as her release gushed across his tongue. The warmth and stickiness between her legs grew as she moved her hips against him, riding out her climax. Kirk let out his own muffled groan between her legs, eyes fluttering shut. Slowly her body came down from the high, going limp against the mattress, her hands falling from his hair. 

The feeling of cool air against her core as Kirk pulled away left her body twitching. He wiped his lips off on the back of his hand before moving up her body again, pressing a sweet kiss against her lips. “You okay for more?” He asked her kindly, pressing a few comforting kisses to her cheek. His hands rubbed up and down her sides soothingly. 

Y/N nodded, her hands weakly reaching for his underwear in a sad attempt to pull them down. “Really want you in me now.” She smiled as he quickly shed his last piece of clothing separating them. Her eyes trailed down, widening a bit in surprise as she saw the length of his cock, resting against her stomach. 

The head was a pretty deep red, glistening and dripping precum just beneath her bellybutton. He was thick too. “Fuck thats gonna’ hurt.” She whispered nervously. Looking back up to Kirk’s face, worry etched onto her pretty features. 

“You’ll be okay, don't worry baby.” He smiled at her, leaning down to capture her lips in distraction. She held onto his arms as he reached down. He grabbed the base, aligning it with her dripping warmth. He earned a surprised squeak as he pressed the head in, teasing her with just the tip. Pulling back just enough to have her suck him in again. “Deep breath baby.” He warned her as he began to fully sink into her. He leaned forward, breathing heavily into her ear as he bottomed out inside her. 

It was a near painful stretch, soothed only slightly by the work of his fingers earlier. Y/N hissed as her body adjusted to his large size. Her nails dug into his skin. “Kirk, ow, fuck, so full.” She moaned. It felt heavy against her walls as he finally reached the base, his hips fully pressed against her ass. “Can’t believe it fits.” 

Kirk let out a shaky laugh mixed with a moan. “Fuckin’ fits perfect, like you were made for me Y/N.” His words left Y/N’s skin feeling tingly. “Want to fucking destroy you, please can I move?” He begged impatiently. His hips bucked forward against her trying to bury himself deeper. 

“Yeah, yeah you can move now.” Y/N groaned, rolling her hips against him. At the confirmation Kirk’s hips pulled back and snapped forward violently. It shifted Y/N’s whole body up the bed, her tits bouncing obscenely with each thrust. All words escaped her, the only thing leaving her lips an endless string of moans. 

Kirk was incredibly vocal, whining into Y/N’s ear as he hammered his cock into her with reckless abandon, like an untamed animal. Predator finally devouring its elusive prey. He fully consumed her with each movement. He had gripped her hands in his own, pinning them down above her head. She thrashed helplessly against his grip as held her in place, using her body like a toy. 

Amongst her most incoherent ramblings Y/N begged him. “Kirk, please, fuck, bite me, want you to bite me.” Her head lolled to the side, exposing the smooth expanse of her neck. And who was Kirk to look a gift in the face and deny it? His lips pressed against the skin between her neck and her shoulder. He started slowly, sucking the skin into his mouth, leaving a pretty bruise in his wake. 

Her voice raised in pitch, her body pressing back down to meet each of his thrusts. Kirk could feel himself hitting so deep inside her, the head of his cock brushing against the wall of her cervix. He winced at the thought of the pain that must cause her but Y/N seemed unbothered. He opened his mouth, allowing his teeth to graze the skin of her neck before he sunk down. His canines effortlessly punctured the soft skin. 

Y/N screamed, tightening around him and he could feel the warmth of her second climax of the night around his cock, making his movements wetter and sloppier. The taste of iron against his tongue sent his hips stuttering, losing his pace as warm blood filled his mouth. She was sweet, sweeter than anyone he had drank from before. It dribbled past his lips, down her neck and collarbone. Small trails of blood mixed with saliva pooled around her chest. 

Kirk’s hand left her own, going down to grip onto her hips for better leverage. His thrusts grew sloppy as he chased his release. He sucked around the wound he created, moaning as he swallowed the sweet liquid. “Ah, hurts, too much Kirk.” Y/N gasped beneath him. 

He stopped mid thrust, pulling away from her neck to meet her gaze. A sheepish smile on his lips, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Shit sorry.” He mumbled, dipping back down to lick apologetically at the mark. Y/N giggled lightly, her hand coming to rest on his hair and tugging gently, giving him the go ahead to keep going. 

Kirk's thrusts were gentler now, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her hips as he rocked into her, he moved up to kiss her sweetly. Skin to skin, hearts beating in time. They moved together like a well oiled machine, made to work in time with each other. With a final thrust Kirk stilled inside her. He groaned into her mouth, cock pulsing as he coated her insides with his release. 

“Fuck, Y/N.” He sighed, his body weight resting on top of hers. A sheen of sweat and fluid coating their skin and making them stick together. Slowly he pulled out, Y/N shuddering at the feeling. Kirk rolled to the side, arms wrapped around her and pulling her in tight. “Thank you.” 

Y/N smiled, reaching up to push his curls away from his face. Her pale skin was tinted red, the wound on her neck already beginning to bruise, blood dried around the puncture wounds. Her words were barely above a whisper “Let's do that again sometime.” 

[fyrefrostanimus]

Got bored in class and finished up the drawings of Suburbia AU Hunted and Stubborn, probably because finishing Cold left them fresh in my mind.

I did change one thing about Hunted and his dynamic with Beast: instead of Beast only wanting to eat him, she finds chasing him to be entertaining. As long as she has fun stalking and running him down, she'll leave him alive for next time. But Hunted knows that Beast will grow bored eventually, so he has to find a way to get her off his tail before it comes to that. He carries a knife to buy him some time to get away, but nothing seems enough to kill her. She's too smart for him to poison or trap her, too strong for him to fight, and too stealthy to be tracked down unless she wants to be found. So Hunted just has to hope he can leave in a way she won't be able to find him, or that he's able to intimidate her badly enough that she doesn't WANT to find him.

Stubborn is pretty much the same as in game. He likes to fight, but doesn't know where to quit. Adversary is often forced to stop fighting him so he doesn't accidentally kill himself (she has resurrective immortality, Stubborn does not but you would swear he does with the things he's managed to stand back up after; the reason he has so few scars or injuries is that I didn't know where all I wanted to place them). His tendency to injure himself is why him and Adversary are ironically the ones who know how to treat injuries the best while also often having the supplies on hand. They are in no way medical professionals, but at least they get how to at least keep you a little more stable until you do get the proper medical attention.

Hunted and Stubborn really got to know each other after Hunted stumbled onto his doorstep with massive gashes across his back: Beast had gotten bold enough to come after him when the street was empty, and he hadn't gotten inside yet. Needless to say, one of the people in the neighborhood showing up with wounds obviously not inflicted by any normal person (normal is subjective considering we're dealing with bird men and women of varying species) is a bit distressing even if you do fight for fun. I don't have much past this except the fact that these two probably collaborate to try and at least drive off Beast so she leaves everyone alone: which is going a be a lot harder to do than putting bricks on the trash cans since she wants the thrill of chasing down Hunted if it's the last thing she does.

[magicalgirllove92]

My favorite TV shows of 1997

1. South Park (1997-present) One of the best Comedy Central original shows and one of the longest running adult animated shows ever. The show takes places in the fictional town of South Park, Colorado where 4 young foul-mouthed boys got involved in the series of hilariously mature adventures. This cartoon is for adults only. Starring: Trey Parker, Matt Stone, April Stewart, Mona Marshall and Mary Kay Bergen. Distributed by Comedy Partners and Paramount Global

2. King of the Hill (1997-2010/2024-present) Fox Television Network folks is needed another adult animated show besides The Simpsons and Mike Judge arrives and creates one of the best-loved Fox shows ever King of the Hill. The show takes places in the fictional town of Arlen, Texas, chronicling the lives of Propane salesman Hank Hill, his family, and his 3 comical best friends. Starring Mike Judge, Kathy Najimy, Pamela Aldon, Johnny Hardwick and Stephen Root. Distributed by 20th Television Animation and Disney

3. Cow and Chicken (1997-1999) With an success of Cartoon Network's second original show Dexter's Laboratory and 3rd series Johnny Bravo, the all-cartoon TV network has come up with an plan... an new summer TV show that involves 2 funny young kid animals, an devilishly funny villain, an dashing brave weasel and an buffoon baboon. Thus, Cow and Chicken was born on July 15, 1997. This grossly laugh out loud animated comedy about an scrawny 11 year old Chicken, his beefy 7 year old sister Cow and their unconventional weirdest human parents. Cow and Chicken navigating their lives throughout suburbia, encountered hilarious problems not just at school but an evil funny guy with devilishly schemes named Red Guy whose singular intent to make the siblings' lives miserable. Along with Cow and Chicken, the 2nd segment that spun-off an very short-lived show called I Am Weasel. The spin-off that focus on a smart, dashing, intelligent, noble and successful weasel named I.M Weasel and an unintelligent, rude, dumb and stinky baboon named I.R Baboon who is unaware of Weasel's good deeds and acts as his rival and friend, and the mischievous funny devil Red Guy, he often antagonize the two. Starring Charlie Andler, Candi Milo, Dee Bradley Baker and Michael Dorn. Distributed by Cartoon Network Studios, Hanna-Barbera Productions and Warner Bros Television Distribution

3. Stargate SG-1 (1997-2010) An television sequel to an 1994 blockbuster hit movie that started it all. Showtime ordered 6 seasons before Sci-Fi Channel (Syfy) took over from the remainder of the series after successful reruns. An young team of explorers made up of soldiers and scientists travels through a Stargate, an ancient portal to other planets. They use the Stargate to explore new worlds, forge ties with friendly civilizations and protect earth from evil and hostile forces. Starring Richard Dean Anderson, Michael Shanks, Amanda Tapping, Christopher Judge and Ben Browder. Distributed by Metro Goldwyn Mayer Domestic Television, Showtime Networks and Syfy Originals.

4. Disney's Recess (1997-2001) Recess is might be ABC's first original hit show/original Saturday Morning Cartoon show since acquired by Walt Disney Company in 1996. 6 brave 4th graders at the fictional school of Third Street School make it their mission to protect the kids on the playground despite King Bob and his minions who enforce his harshly unwritten law, TJ, Gretchen, Spinelli, Vince, Gus and Mikey seeks a rational balance between conformity an individually. The hit cartoon that spun 4 movies, the underrated 2001 movie Recess: School's Out, an Christmas compilation sequel Recess Christmas: Miracle on Third Street, 2 direct-to-video movies that debuts in 2003, an prequel Recess: All Growed Down and the series finale movie Recess: Taking a 5th Grade. Starring Andrew Lawrence, Ricky D'Shon Collins, Ashley Johnson, Pamela Aldon and Jason Davis. Distributed by Walt Disney Television Animation

5. Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction (1997-2002) Sci-fi/fantasy/mystery fans are need a relief after Unsolved Mysteries suffered from disastrous failure after the show was moving from NBC to CBS, 4 more months before the first ever Murder, She Wrote TV movie and the 1996-1997 season of The X-Files ended with gigantic cliffhanger, so Fox and Dick Clark Production conjure up an summertime experiment to turn the tide until September and that's when Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction? Debuts on May 25th, 1997. Each episodes that has 5 tales, all of them which appear defy logic or some of them are loosely based on actual events. The viewer is up to challenge of determined 5 stories that are true or false, at the end of each episodes, it is revealed to the viewer whether 5 tales were true or fiction. The show was massive popular in Germany, RTL II revives the show with Star Trek actor Jonathan Franks reprise his hosting duties in October 2021. Starring James Brolin and Jonathan Frakes. Distributed by Fox and Dick Clark Productions

[hermithomebase]

dream and George are classic cases of book smart people having little to no street smarts like it's insane how common this is, some of the smartest people I know would not survive 1 week outside of suburbia.

okay well to be fair i think sapnap was overreacting a Little especially for where they were (bougie area of LA) so i don’t think this is a Great example of street smart abilities

[reasoningdaily]

Editor’s note: The following article is an op-ed, and the views expressed are the author’s own. Read more opinions on theGrio.

Crack had a massive impact on the Black community in the 1980s. It would be impossible to do a podcast like “Being Black: The ’80s” and not talk extensively about crack. People smoked it and experienced the most intense high they had ever had, and the chase to feel like that again ruined millions of lives.  

De La Soul is not one of the hip-hop groups that talked a lot about street life. They were proudly suburban at a time when that made them stand out among hip-hop artists. Quick story: I was a suburban kid who loved hip-hop from the first time I heard “Rapper’s Delight,” and I felt deeply connected to hip-hop as I watched the culture grow in the years after that song dropped. Hip-hop was the music I loved most as a kid. It was part of my identity, but then De La came out and I realized that as far as rappers, no one represented me or symbolized me better than De La. If I could rap, they were what I would be. Their suburbanness, their intelligence and their sense of humor all spoke to who I was. They became my favorite group of all time. But I digress. Even though De La was all about everything that rappers weren’t normally about, like so many Black people back in the ’80s, they did have a crack problem in their family. 

Crack was so pervasive in the ’80s that living in suburbia was not enough to insulate you from the crack epidemic. De La’s Posdnous had a brother who was battling a crack addiction, and out of that experience he recorded the best song ever made about being in a family with a crack addict: “My Brother’s A Basehead.” That song is at the center of episode two of “Being Black: The ’80s,” and it leads us into a conversation about the overall impact of crack.

“My Brother’s A Basehead” is one of those songs that spring from the artist’s real life. Posdnous is telling the story of what happened to him and his family because of his brother’s addiction. It wasn’t quite a cry for help because Posdnous himself wasn’t in trouble, but it was perhaps a way of Pos speaking to his brother about hurting the family. Producer Prince Paul, who’s sometimes referred to as a member of De La, comes through in this episode to talk about the making of the song and what really happened to Pos’ brother.

Meanwhile, another major hip-hop group was dealing with having a crack addict in the family in a whole different way. Public Enemy was, in many ways, the exact opposite of De La. Where De La was about having fun and being smart, Public Enemy was overtly political and they were as serious as a heart attack. They positioned themselves as the sons of Malcolm X and the Black Panthers so you knew they were going to decry the crack epidemic as often and as loudly as possible.

Quick aside — one of the hallmarks of “Being Black: The ’80s” is that I generally bring up a second song as a way to help further explain the episode’s central song. In this episode, that second song is Public Enemy’s “Night of the Living Baseheads,” which is Chuck D’s way of sermonizing about the evils of crack and shaming those who used crack. P.E.’s producer Hank Shocklee comes through to explain the origins of the song, which goes back to a movie he saw in his childhood — “Night of the Living Dead.” 

But it was very interesting to hear Public Enemy shame crackheads while there was a crack addict in their musical family. Flavor-Flav battled addiction for years, including while he was in the group. I asked Shocklee if they knew that Flav was doing crack. He said, “Yes and no.”

You’ve gotta hear the whole story of how De La and Public Enemy dealt with crack in their families in very different ways. That, and the impact of crack, is at the heart of episode two of Being Black: the 80s. Available now wherever you get your podcasts.

[domesticatedangel]

I need the desticule’s opinion: in an AU, is Cas the punk and Dean the prep, or Dean the punk and Cas the prep?

[thestagsheadsblog]

Seeing you again (Chapter 2)

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x Reader, Childhood Friends

Word Count: 1.6K

Chapter 1

Read on AO3

Chapter 2

The raucous noise of The Hard Deck faded away and was slowly drowned out by the sound of waves and sea birds the further you walked up the beach. You both held your shoes in your hands and Bob had rolled up the pant legs of his uniform to keep them clean. This late in the evening the sand was cool enough to walk on but still radiated a pleasant heat from the afternoon sun.

"Thanks for playing along back there," you murmured, still quite embarrassed. "Leave it to a sibling to bring up the most cringe memories of your past at the least opportune moment."

"It's okay, you gave middle school me a bit more street cred," he smiled. "As much street cred as a nerdy Catholic school kid in 00’s suburbia could get, anyway."

Back when you last knew each other, you never really thought of him as a ‘nerd’ or anything derogatory. He was smart and fun and yes, maybe a little scrawny and overly invested in the things that interested him but to you he was one of the coolest people you knew. Although, in retrospect, that may not be saying much since you absolutely were a nerd yourself, but just didn’t realize it at the time.

"Now the nerdy Catholic school kid is a fighter pilot...or weapons officer-?"

"Weapon systems officer," he shrugged, humble. "I sit in the backseat. I never had good enough eyesight to be a pilot."

"And here I thought your obsession with planes was just a phase," you nudged him with your shoulder, remembering his childhood bedroom strewn with model planes and every Lego set of an aircraft manufactured to date. You vividly recall climbing trees to retrieve any number of gliders you two got stuck in limbs after an over eager launch. "But I bet being a hotshot aviator gets you even more 'street cred' to your name at our age," you teased.

"Certainly more than making out with middle school girls in basements," he joked.

You busted out laughing. You had forgotten about the easy humor the two of you had when you were younger. You were pleased to note that neither of you had really grown out of your childlike playfulness.

"What is it that you do?" he asked as the water lapped up around your ankles.

"I just finished my PhD," you replied, relishing the impressed hum he gave. "And I just got a job at a start up here in San Diego."

"What was your PhD in?" he asked, legitimately interested. Some men found your accomplishments a bit intimidating, if not a complete turn-off, but Bob seemed to find them a plus.

"Chemical engineering. Not as exciting as being a fighter pilot but it pays the bills and I do actually enjoy it even if most people find the subject dull."

"Chemical engineer," Bob mused. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

"How so?"

"You were all about those science kits where you had to make stuff...usually something gooey that got stuck in the carpet," he laughed. "Or that thing where you make plastic bugs in an Easy Bake Oven..."

"Creepy Crawlers," you exclaimed. "I had completely forgotten about those!"

Bob shook his head with a smile. "Or the time your mom almost had to call poison control because we mixed bleach and ammonia when we were trying to create a 'magic potion'. Luckily the garage door was open otherwise we'd probably be dead."

You both stopped walking you were laughing so hard at your stupid childhood antics. Bob had to remove his glasses to wipe his eyes and you had to resist the urge to help him.

You collected yourselves and continued your walk, close enough that your hands kept brushing against each other's. "So, you go by Dr. Y/L/N then?" he asked with an impressed smirk.

"I suppose so, but not that kind of Doctor," you pointed out. "Don't ask me to save your life if you get sick or injured. You'll be screwed."

"I get it. I'm a Lieutenant in the Navy and I couldn't tie an anchor hitch if my life depended on it."

“Lieutenant Floyd,” you considered the sound of the words on your tongue. “Has a ring to it”

“So does Dr. Y/L/N,” he said right back. “Sounds like names we would have given ourselves while manning the fort.”

You smiled at the memories. “And we’d give Emily the rank of Private.”

“And she’d go crying to your mom,” he laughed.

“Who would make us call her General or something…”

You did a wide turn and started heading back down the beach to The Hard Deck before it gets too dark, updating each other on your respective families and where your lives took you after you moved away. Hearing his story, you were a bit sad that you didn't continue growing up together in the same town. You would have liked to have known teenaged Robbie and the young man who would join the Naval Academy and become known as Bob. Maybe he actually would have been your first kiss – maybe your first everything - had your family stuck around...but that alternate reality hadn’t happened, and you content yourself with meeting this new adult Robbie, an officer in the Navy, at the ripe old age of 29.

On the beach out back of The Hard Deck were sets of Adirondack chairs. You and Bob plopped down into a pair, neither of you particularly interested in going back into the bar which had become increasingly loud as the drunken revelry continued into the night.  After he explained the dynamics of the group of colleagues you had briefly met earlier, you fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the waves and watching the distant lights of shipping freighters coming into San Diego Port.

"I used to say the same thing," Bob said, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Say what?" you asked, not following.

"When some of the kids at my school would taunt me about whether I ever had a girlfriend or whatever," he divulged quietly. "I would tell them about you. Even after you moved. I had this whole thing about how we talked on AIM and went to the same summer camp. You’d write me letters..." he trailed off, embarrassed.

Your heart pounded rapidly at this innocent confession, so like your own secret he had learned earlier. Maybe there had been something there and you had just been too young to see it; a hint of something that could have sprung to life as you both entered adolescence but was cut down by your family's move.

You wondered whether it was too late to pursue it now.

"Robbie-" you began.

"Hey Choir Boy Bobby let's goooo!"

You both whipped around in your chairs to see the blonde pilot (Jake - as Bob had informed you) standing on the bar's deck, clearly intoxicated and clearly ready to call it a night. He was quickly joined by a few of the other pilots and your sister.

"What are you two doing out here?" Emily slurred over the laughter of the pilots wondering the same and voicing various salacious theories. "Forgive me Father for I have sinned!" one yelled in a high-pitched boyish voice to a chorus of even more hilarity.

"I gotta get these idiots back to base," Bob said, turning to you.

"Yeah, I have to get her into a cab too," you said as you watched your sister pulling on Jake's uniform lapels, belting out the lyrics to 'In the Navy'. 

You both ushered the raucous party to the parking lot where Bob tried his best to load as many of his colleagues into his car that would fit. "I'd give you two a ride home, but I'm kind of default DD with these guys-"

"Don't worry about it," you assured him. "We planned on taking a cab anyway."

Emily gave Bob a long drunken hug and began impatiently stumbling to the cab stand in front of The Hard Deck. "I have to get her-" you gave an exasperated sigh and made to follow Emily before she went into moving traffic, "it was so nice seeing you, Robbie!"

"You too. Goodnight, Dr. Y/L/N!" he smiled after you.

"Goodnight, Lt. Floyd!" you called over your shoulder.

You wrangled your sister toward a cab as Bob drove off with a car full of drunken pilots. You smiled to yourself. It wasn't exactly the night you expected to have, but it was so much better.

"You know, I didn't realize it at the time, but now that I think about it, Robbie's dad was a bit of a DILF, wasn't he?" Emily drunkenly mused.

"Get in the cab, Em," you sighed, opening the back door, thanking your lucky stars that Bob wasn't driving you home after all.

On the drive back to your shared apartment, Emily quickly fell asleep slumped against the passenger door. You had time to reminisce on your reunion with Bob. You were kicking yourself for not asking if he wanted to meet up again. You didn't even have his number...

Your phone chimed and you picked it up to see a notification from Messenger. A long dormant profile had sent you a message.

Hey, sorry about the chaos leaving with the guys. Meant to ask you if you want to hang out now that you are in San Diego. No worries if not. It was great seeing you!

You smiled like a 6th grade girl being asked to the dance by her secret crush and replied that you'd love to meet up.

Chapter 3

Tag List

@tipsykeen

@straightforwardly

[haikyuuphilia]

mtl to settle down in the city,suburbia or county side? i love your blog!!

oh interesting!! ranked them city to country and got a little introspective <3

most to least likely to live in the city

→  OIKAWA convinces himself he’s a city guy. he just wants to get away from his rural hometown, so he’d spend the rest of his time in the biggest city he can find. probably posts pictures and tags his location as the city he’s in even though every single photo is in that place.

→  KENMA just can’t imagine himself anywhere but the city. he probably lives in the penthouse suite of a skyscraper with an amazing view and outrageous rent, and he sees at least two rats on the street every week along with dealing with sometimes iffy air quality. still, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

→  SAKUSA doesn’t even think of it as a choice. he chooses the city because he thinks it’s the most logical option, even though he does think about how living in the countryside would be nice, too. he’d live in the new but not overly populated part of town, very expensive but worth it to him.

→  KUROO feels more comfortable in the city. growing up in tokyo made him like the high density and movement of the big city, and he’d find more job opportunities and things he’d want to do there. also makes fun of the country provinces too much to live there.

→  KAGEYAMA wants the greatest opportunities he can afford, and he thinks the city is better geared for that. he wants to be in the center of it all. facilities with the best courts, gyms with the best trainers, and easy access to anything else he can wish for all exist in the city.

→  BOKUTO bounces around from the city to the country but ends up staying in the city. he likes to stay near his family in tokyo, and even though he strays to other towns every now and then, he’ll settle in the city because that’s where his heart and friends (and job) belong.

→  ATSUMU wants to live somewhere urban but might chose to stay in a smaller city. he’s from rural hyogo, but he feels like everything wants to do and the people he wants to meet are in the city. still, he keeps his kansai dialect and is really proud of his hometown, and he sometimes misses the rolling fields and starry skies.

→  TSUKISHIMA could go either way, but he ends up in the wealthy outskirts of the city because that’s where he gravitates towards. he was never the kind of person who wanted nothing more than to leave their hometown, but he eventually drifts off and finds somewhere else he really loves.

→  OSAMU might settle down in the suburbs. it’s a happy medium between the fast pace of the city and the countryside life he’s used to, and it’s the place he can imagine himself living for the rest of his life. he’ll visit home occasionally and visit friends in the city, and life is good.

→  USHIJIMA lives in the suburbs because it’s easy to commute to the city and back home. he’s taking things like mortgage prices and local schools into consideration when making his decision, and it’s a smart choice. probably has a picket fence around his house and lives in a neighborhood with a tennis court, and it’s his ideal life.

→  HINATA wants to be a cool city guy, but he likes the freedom, peace, and nature that living in miyagi gives him. he’ll go back and forth, though when the chance to really settle down is given, he opts for the countryside or suburbs. it’s closer to his roots, and he’s happy to be there.

→  KITA lives in the countryside. he grew up there, he has family there, and he honestly doesn’t understand the appeal of the city. it’s not like he stays exclusively in rural parts of the country, but he makes his living and orients his life there. he’s content that way.

[positivegreenford]

These smart paving slabs were laid as part of an effort to revitalise Greenford's main shopping area. The intention was to hold regular street markets here. After a trial run it was dropped as shopkeepers had argued that the competition from stalls selling similar goods at lower prices was too great. But all that surface water makes them look pretty. #runoff #weather #Greenford #LondonBoroughofEaling #London #UK #February2022 #suburbs #suburban #suburbia #photography

[selfetishizing]

a dog day afternoon

ash lynx was the sort of cool that oozed rum cokes and lemon-lime seltzers. he was the sort of rad that left dum dum wrappers and denim under the soles of his converse wherever he stepped. he was as smart as an apple in the way that he was both street and pillow fluent and that he didn’t need to rely on his trigger fingers to count the days of the week. he was cruel, calculating. always on target. always one shot, one kill. he was ashie on the weekends, aslan jade behind closed doors. he was as bitter as coffee beans, sweet as hershey’s milk chocolate bars once you got to know him physically, emotionally, spiritually. 

to many, ash lynx was a revered gang leader, tortured genius and a stone cold fox.

to eiji okumura, ash lynx was...

what was he to him?

perhaps with one whiff of their room, you’d know exactly who ash lynx really is. eiji looks around him, looks at the floor, scattered, with white tees that may or may not be clean, crushed sodie cans, and sour jeans that seemed to have more rips in them every time ash returns home. if he ever returns home.

(ash is not home. eiji hates that.)

socks with holes at the toes are at the foot of his bed and some are dangling over the headboard, missing their partners. his bedsheets have popped out of two adjacent corners. he has newspaper clippings for blankets and hardcover novels for throw pillows, all tagged with fluorescent pink-yellow-orange-green sticky notes smudged with chicken-scratch. there’s a thrice bitten pizza slice laying on kafka’s the metamorphosis for christ’s sake!

to the ash lynx/eiji okumura compound, ash lynx was a stinky, teenage boy whom eiji masked with fresh linen air freshener. 

but this is about eiji.

who was ash lynx to him?

for one, ash wasn’t cool at all. he'd turn into quite the diva when natto is within a five-meter radius or when october rolls around. he liked buying those math magazines they sold in the newsstands outside of their apartment-- the ones with the “problems of the week” and prize money. (he always won them. was always rewarded handsomely even though they didn’t need the money. eiji thinks he does them to get a ruse out of him.) he did crosswords for fun, read challenging literature under orange lamplight until the crack of dawn. sometimes, he spoke with more-than-three syllabled words as if to remind himself that behind all of the blood and bandages was a conditioned gentleman that was more than this life. more than gunpowder and switchblade fencing.

well, maybe some things were cool. maybe the way ash so effortlessly bantered with him was something to praise, or how he could come up with silly palindromes on the spot for laughs. (”yo, banana boy,” his favorite.) eiji liked his strength, his resolve; his subtle kindness, his back-patting and those mean nicknames that sounded too much like petnames in his silk-smooth voice. eiji liked the freckles of his face and the crescents of his dimples. he liked the scrunch of his nose whenever he was mad at the world and his stubborn blush whenever he apologized for said scrunch. he liked his green eyes, blond lashes; his perfect sitting posture and his lanky limbs that always knew how to hold him just right.

it was hard for eiji to really describe him in a few breaths with all of these facets of ash shining and glittering in the prisms of this resplendent emerald jewel. he was the sugar cubes in his tea, buttered light soaking through the curtains, the soft woolen sweater on his skin and sgt. pepper crooning in his ears. ash was the pain in his chest, the lump in his throat, and the starry tears that’d slink down his face whenever he’s alone at night, faced toward the wall. he was ash lynx, aslan jade, stereotypical suburbia poster boy and indoor dork all at once; both cool and uncool.

whatever ‘everything’ was was exactly who ash lynx was to eiji okumura-- perhaps something more, but definitely nothing less.

[ecrivant]

the station | annie leonhart

(annie leonhart x fem!reader)

that night, one marked by abject sin and rapture: annie’s single, inescapable memory.  she, forever haunted by this painfully raw thought of you.

c.w. – homophobic slurs

word count: 2.2k

a.n. – this is technically a reader insert but it’s honestly just an exploration of annie’s repression and sadness.  also, in general, i’m very wary of assigning gender to the reader, but the lgbt+ themes are important to this story, so annie’s love interest is a fem!reader.  i’m sorry if this excludes anyone, next piece will return to the usual gn!reader.  

very much an au + me experimenting with style.  

At the world’s marge lies a service station—carburant siphoned long ago, insides, bare.  Its skeletal façade abuts a backroad, a display of collapsing substructure succored by gusts of vagrants and drifters, cataracted from history’s view.  At one time, when you entered, the clerk would greet you from the left with a gaze that conveyed a hesitant familiarity—the type of trivial recognition that was unimportant in the moment but retrospectively haunting.  The lights within, garish halogen, were ceaseless, always alight, and only dared to die out once the ceiling caved, and the walls peeled, and the vinyl floor cratered like some artificial topography.  The edifice now no more than a nebulous memory only existing in the minds of those who ever once visited it.  

A memory nonetheless in the mind of the woman who fucks for the first time in a sedan parked behind the station, where the smell of sex and summer air and gasoline is seared into her brain as she breathes hard, lightheaded and high on ecstasy and fear. She feels her own death, a quiet specter which guides the touch of her lover.  Her burning skin; the eroticism of demise, destruction.  The nocturnal breeze gasps with her.

She offers to drive you home.  You—flushed and debauched, breasts exposed.  Eying her intensely.  You refuse.

“I can walk.”

She laughs.  Your name on her lips, a carnal, depraved prayer, “We don’t even know where we are.”

She is corrected. Curt.

“You don’t.”

She is gored, laid open and vulnerable and bare for this stranger who parts without another word. She watches you go, ambling towards the unlit dirt road, swallowed by a beastly darkness.  The vehicle, suffused by an amorous smog, windows opaque.  Her organs all but spill onto the floor, mixing with dust and dog hair and garbage and an old takeaway cup that was always there no matter how many times she threw it away.  

She slinks into the station and asks for a pack of cigarettes.  She pays in coins, a button among them, but the cashier never notices.

At home.

“Mama’s been askin’ ‘bout you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re gonna get an earful tomorrow.”

She’s already halfway up the stairs.  They moan beneath her.  

“She thinks you’ve been spending too much time with that Eren boy.  Is that where you was tonight?”

The stairs sound like you. Everything sounds like you—the gasp of a closing door, the sordid exhale of a creaking bedframe.  The sweat on her face: a lover’s curious tongue.

—

“Pull off here, ya’re low on gas.”

Prick prick pricks of fear smart on her skin.  Mama knows. The station, the unholy consecration. Mama knows.  This car, this place.  Mama knows.  Her brother in the back, resting on the shadow of his sister’s bare figure.  The pop of the fuel door says dyke.  The crack of the gas nozzle trigger says fag. The unseen eyes that bore through her say queer.  She enters the station to pay.  The clerk, a gaze of recognition—the only one who knows of her transgressions.  

—

She is married. Cheers to the happy couple.  She cries on her wedding night, tears staining bedsheets—her own virginal blood.  He touches her, stagnant, pale skin collied by bereft contact.  She only comes when she thinks of the station.

—

She could tell.  She could tell him and free herself, and then the kid’ll wonder why Mommy’s never around and Daddy’s a druggie and a drunk and never leaves the house anymore and the kid’ll make his way through the social services system until he’s beaten and cracked and broken like Mama’s old doll collection smashed against the wall and he puts a bullet in his head before he turns eighteen.  No, she could never tell.

—

Thanksgiving.  She stares at her sister-in-law—a city girl, with heavy lids and blush-dusted cheeks and a pronounced cupid’s bow.  The eyes of a hunter, the lascivious gaze of a she-wolf.  Her husband comments on how well they seem to get along.  

—

A loneliness begotten from her own bones, born from emptiness and the inimitable way she and death caressed all those years ago.  She only has a name to utter, breathless, when thoughts of you tenant her mind.  The first and the only fuck was truly a stranger, all but nameless in memory.  

—

Her mother’s funeral. An apathetic and unfamiliar affair. People she doesn’t know.  Her brother, his wife, their child.  Her husband, her child, her.  She could not be more distant.

Her childhood home smells sweetly of tobacco and cardamom.  

Indifference during the wake mistaken by the others for numbness.  She feels no need to mourn—her mother lived and died uneventfully, and that was it.  

“Mommy, are Grandma’s dolls going away?”

“I don’t know, we’ll see.”

“Do you think I can keep one?”

The boy has his eyes fixed on one in particular, his implicit selection.  The one that has your eyes.  The one whose gaze makes her squirm.  Mama knows.

“I don’t know, we’ll see.”

—

She sneaks away from the house with a pack of her mother’s cigarettes, the box crumpled and stained at the edges and the tubes inside wrinkled and mildewed, emitting a stench that filled her with inexplicable nostalgia.  It brings to mind her unshakable compulsion to eat cigarettes, to feel the flakes of tobacco coat the inside of her mouth like the ground dregs in a cup of cheap coffee.  She lights one instead, pushing the thought aside—if she was to ever eat one, she fears she would not be able to stop.  The low hiss of her inhalations on the ember briefly joins the sonic ambience.  She sits in her car and smokes and occasionally flicks ash outside of her window with shaking hands.  Rancid and familiar aftertaste.  Thick dust clouds kicked up by her car tires coalesce with her hazy exhalations as she drives nowhere.  Not nowhere. She needs gas.

—

The station still stands as it had before, insusceptible to time.  Always seemingly aged.  Covered in an ever-present grime.  She gets out and leans against her car and drags on her cigarette, the virulent inhalations scratching her lungs.  The road on which you disappeared all those years ago looked profoundly unremarkable during the day—just a long, dirt road in a town wholly comprised of long, dirt roads. The heat shimmers above the ground, and the afternoon sun drapes itself across her skin, and the hot breeze drags its fingertips through her hair like a lover you’d meet behind a bar—the same who would abandon that perpetually lit cigarette between her lips in exchange for her mouth on yours.

Her last drag—she drops the butt and crushes it underfoot.  

She sits in her car and smokes the rest of the pack—in her eyes, the final remnants of her mother.

She waits in the parking lot.  As if her presence alone would invoke some bygone wraith.  

Her hand reaches under her dress, between her legs, and she is touching herself to the pervasive miasma of summer breeze and carburant, and the darkness of closed eyes almost feels like the night, and her frantic digital movements are arrant pleasure until they’re not; she stops and is suddenly crying, and her thoughts are occluded by her mother’s pale, dead face, and she realizes that Mama’s death, mundane as it was, represents the furthest she’s been from that singular night years ago which was so verily marked by sin and rapture; the one that has haunted her and will continue to haunt her until she herself dies an uneventful death after an uneventful life, and her child thinks of her passing as she does her own mother’s: a nonevent among nonevents.  

She is met with understanding eyes as she returns to the wake crying.  

—

She moves to the city with husband and child.  Suburbia forgone.  The apartment is small and cramped and reminiscent of her sister-in-law’s.  The adjacent view from the living-room window is an identical high-rise—ten stories of the same brick and dirty-white AC units. She is filled with an ineffable sadness as she stares at the spare greenery in streets below, confined to plots of dry soil surrounded by cracked and potholed pavement.

Her sleeplessness often leads her to the living room long after the apartment falls to silence.  One night, she watches, captivated, as a couple in the adjacent apartment fucks on a couch, curtains wide open and shame forgotten.  The man, hovering above a body obstructed, is suddenly flipped on his back and mounted by his lover, and she swears this woman, breasts bobbing, and face marked by a concentrated intensity and unusually devoid of pleasure, looks like you.  

—

Two years in the city bypass her as if she were already dead.  The tenant who resembled you moved out the year prior.  

—

She sits in a booth sequestered in the corner of a dark and begrimed barroom.  Alone for the night.  Her husband no longer questions her bouts of silence and absences from the house and disdain for intimacy; her child, accustomed to fissure.  

She ignites a cigarette, her lukewarm liquor no longer of interest, and no one stops her.  She is indifferent to the other patrons, who were, at this point in the night, nothing more than hazy and incorporeal forms populating the shadows.

The chime of the door—jarring and tangible—cuts through the muted atmosphere and demands the attention of those there to give it.  Another specter drifts to the bar.  A woman shouldering something—a fact elucidated by a hunched posture and a quiet request for three fingers of scotch.  

And then the woman turns, and Annie sees her face.  

And suddenly she is collapsed on the scum-covered tile of the bar’s bathroom floor, hurling upchuck into the toilet.  That woman had your face—she is not you, at least not anymore, as Annie is no longer the girl who fucked and died in that gas station parking lot years ago.  But that woman had your face.  And she looked at Annie with your eyes, melancholic eyes which held no recognition for her, and turned away in the same movement.  Less than a look—a glance.  But that woman had your face.  And Annie had not seen it again before she hied to the bathroom to regurgitate four drinks and years of accrued and bilious agony.  

The bathroom door swings open.  Groaning hinges.  She knows it’s that woman who has callously co-opted your likeness.

She enters the stall next to her and pisses and flushes the toilet whose water drains slowly and weakly, and the sounds of the sink are harsh and cacophonous against the tile walls. Steps towards the exit suddenly pause. A knock on the stall door.  Your voice asks if she is alright—a voice unheard for decades, last encountered in a low, debauched whisper against her skin.

She heaves, again, but nothing is left to expel; she coughs and spits and does not answer.

“Can I at least help you get home?”

The question looms above her, looped and tied like a noose.  

“I can walk.”

A laugh.  Dry, unfamiliar, never heard.  It’s harsh and barking; a warning.  

She is corrected, curt: “You can barely stand.”

She had long been unacquainted with fear, now more often than not consumed by a vacant numbness, and she admittedly did not miss it.  It was ugly and pervasive and bore deep within her with debilitating potency.  She could do nothing but sit on the disgusting tile floor with body supported on yellowed porcelain and wait.  

She imagines she allows herself to believe this woman is you—you, as you were, unchanged—and opens the door. And you, being unchanged, ask if she would like to come home with you.  And she, apparently the same as well, says yes.  And back at your apartment, cluttered and cramped yet simultaneously vacant, you spare no time backing her into the bedroom, lips tethered to hers in lurid predation.  Touches that are lustful and intimate and familiar only to her.  She cannot bring herself to care that you do not remember her—your breath on her neck and your incursive touch efface all thoughts, good or bad.  She wants you on top of her, around her, within her, and you oblige like some prurient altruist.  Her coming is purgative and cathartic, and the pleasure of that night at the station feels archaic and antiquated in the face of this wholly new gratification, heighted by an immense and prolonged yearning.  And this time, after you are both finished, you do not part and neither does she, and she embraces you in a way that feels intrinsic, and you ask her to stay the night. And she does not think of her husband and child as she says yes.  And she does not think of her husband and child as she agrees to spend the next day with you, as she dances with you in your living room, finally and only feeling held and loved.  Finally, finally, finally.  

—

But Annie says nothing. And the woman—not you, but an apparition—softly and finally knocks on the door with the side of her fist, unfazed, and walks out of the bathroom.  And even now, as she slumps further and shuts her eyes and clutches her head, Annie can only think of that fucking gas station.  

—

hi there!  thank you so much for reading; i hope you enjoyed this piece.  it’s a little different than my other stuff, not drastically so, but still different.  i think i like it, though.

thank you to the anon who suggested I write something for annie, i really appreciate the request.  i have another request in the pipeline for reiner, so expect a piece for him soon. 

as always, feedback and criticism are very much appreciated!  feel free to drop in and request something if you want.

taglist: @flam3bird

[darker-soft-starker]

la dolce vita

6.4k

Warnings: fluff, domesticity, mob boss Tony, blink-and-you’ll-miss mentions of blood and violence, 100% self indulgence

----

It was the protest of his bladder that woke Peter up.

His toes curl and flex under the sheets as consciousness returns to him, a slow drip at first, unaware if the heaviness of his eyelids or the light on the other side of them are just part of his dreams. His body is warm.

It’s almost easy to succumb to the call of sleep, to slip back where left off in his dreams, however an insistent pressure against his lower abdomen tugs him back to the surface in harsh increments.

The markers of the waking world come to his awareness, slowly as the night yawns into dawn. He tries to ignore the titter of small birds on a nearby windowsill, pecking the glass, the gentle tones of the wind chime on their porch, all of which would otherwise lull hum into sleep. The killer is the unconscious jiggling of his leg, god he had to pee, an earnest request for Peter to attend to the needs of his body.

Groaning, Peter turns over in the sheets, shifting closer, burying his nose into the warm junction between his husband's neck and shoulder, hoping the sandman will come back and welcome him. He thinks he gets close, because after a few moments, despite the insistence of his stomach, his limbs feel heavier, like his body were dripped in molasses, slivered and delivered into a kaleidoscope behind his eyelids.

It’s not to be, however, when Tony snores loudly in his ear.

“No,” Peter whispers sadly to himself, clamping his hands over his ears.

It’s no use. He surrenders to the inevitable; wriggling out from under the sheets he tip-toes along the carpet on his to the adjoining ensuite.

Squinting into the darkness of the room, Peter relieves himself quickly, tipping his head back, sighing softly as his body relaxes. After a moment he flushes and washes his hands, and if he’s already here he might as well brush his teeth too, right?

Free of morning breath he makes quick work of crawling back into bed. It’s still warm from where he left it. Perfect. He resumes the same position as before, pressing against Tony’s broad and delightfully sleep-warm body. Even in slumber, the older man guides his arm to cup the low of Peter's waist like before.

But no matter how comfortably he settles, sleep doesn’t come back. The mistake is checking the time on his smart watch.

Six-forty-four in the morning. Too early to be awake on a day off. Not early enough to justify going back to sleep on any other day.

Goddammit.

Gingerly, Peter turns over to his other side to face Tony, helplessly smiling when he emits another loud snore.

Gently as he can muster, he raises trails his finger down the narrow slope of his husband's nose, tracing down the curve of his nostril, following down the path on his worn smile lines. Unable to stop his own smile he leans in, pressing the print of his lips to the corner of Tony’s mouth before retreating back, hoping he has sweet dreams. The unconscious grab at his hip as he slips out of the bed is almost enough to lure him back in.

Almost.

Shivering at the loss of heat, Peter heads to the drawer, near naked, the satin of his boxers the only warmth he is afforded from the cool room as he pads along the soft carpet. He slips on a pair of running shorts, socks and finally fishes the sneakers from under their bed, lacing them up quietly as the snores continue.

“You’re a fucking chainsaw,” he whispers to Tony, embarrassed by his own fondness.

He leans over to kiss his husband lightly on the forehead before he slips out of the house.

Early sunrise paints the sky a mild grey. This far out, there’s still a couple of stars out and the slim curve of the moon beginning to fade as the morning light emerges. He stretches quickly on the porch to warm up a little, the air still cool despite it being a mid-July morning.

Setting off in a light jog as he exits their property, Peter waves to their neighbours as he passes. Music pumping, he picks up a moderate pace, yelling an enthusiastic hello to Mr Moore as he retrieves his newspaper from the lawn, offering the same Mrs Bowen shoo’s her the neighborhood cats away from her flower beds with a broom.

It’s not a particularly busy suburban street. It consists of mostly retirees and their visiting kin, childless couples who drive Toyota four-doors and suburbia-stricken Jeeps and empty nesters.

The rest are Tony’s employees. One of whom shadows Peter as he sprints down the footpath, about as subtle as bull in a china-shop.

Trying his luck, as he does everyday, Peter raises his hand in a friendly welcome to the person  running behind him. He isn’t sure who it is today, doesn’t look back for appearance sake, but the steps are heavy and uniform enough to know it’s no coincidence.

When Peter first started dating Tony, they argued night and day over the detail. From bickering over babying escalating into arguments over agency, slammed doors and ignored texts, ‘breaks’ that weren’t as much breaks as they were breathers. A leash, Peter called it in those early days, of the non-consensual, not-sexy variety.  Not to mention the furious, heated make-up sex that would always come after.

Those were the days.

After six years together they’d come to a happy medium. They had settled on a mutually beneficial compromise. Peter got the house in the suburbs that he’d always envisioned and Tony got his best men armed to the teeth just a yard-sale away.

Perfect.

Nonetheless as Peter finishes his circuit and returns home, he’s glad he put his foot down on not having guards stationed at the entry and exits of their suburban property. They adjusted to one another's needs, that’s what relationships are all about, right? Tony’s men owned four houses in the busy street and their home was jerry-rigged to decimate all unauthorised intruders upon visual confirmation from JARVIS.

But at least Peter got the house in the suburbs. He’s going to convince Tony to get a pet, next.

Back inside, Peter kicks off his sneakers and locks the door behind him. All four of them. The emptiness of the house, evident in the absence of the music that ordinarily fills their home must mean that Tony is still in bed.

“Lazy ass,” Peter mutters, trying to pull back on the reigns of overwhelming fondness so as to not smile at nothing in his own living room. He does it anyway.

It isn’t until minutes later that he’s staring forlornly at their barren pantry and fridge that Tony wanders into the kitchen, snaking his strong arms around Peter's waist from behind, pressing a sleepy, prickly kiss to his jaw.

“Morning, baby,” he croaks, still sleep-warm against Peter’s rapidly cooling body.

“Morning, mister,” Peter tilts his head back, placing a kiss on Tony’s lips, shifting back slightly until their bodies are flushed together, snorting lightly when he feels something hard in Tony’s sweats.

“Oh my,” he gasps, falsely aghast. “Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“It’s a gun,” Tony confirms, the stretch of his smirk palpable on Peter’s skin. “Colt Python, you know the one. But I’m also very happy to see you, don’t fret.”

Tony’s hips hunch forward. True to his word, there are twin sensations against his backside, rutting against his lower body without shame. “See? All for you. You making breakfast?”

“You tell me,” Peter squeezes Tony’s forearms and settles into his hold. He nods towards the lone, sagging tomato in their fridge and the stale, single line of crackers resting in the cupboard. “Got any ideas?”

“I can think of something I’d like to eat.”

Peter squirms, rocking back on his heels as Tony kisses a line up his neck, facial hair prickling his skin. Heat coils pleasantly in his stomach and his toes curl in his sneakers.

“Stop. I’m -- Tony, stop -- I’m sweaty and gross. I stink.”

“Nope, not true,” he noses along the sensitive upside of Peter’s jaw. “You smell great. But if you’re bothered we can shower together. Great idea.”

His stomach growls again, swooping low. “I’m hungry,” Peter rebuts, turning around in Tony’s embrace to pout directly in his face, hoping he looks sad and forlorn. “I’m feeling faint.”

Tony looks unperturbed. “Well, alternatively, there is something I could feed you, if that’s your preference. Straight from the source.”

Peter groans and swats Tony’s chest, frankly unsure of what he expected

“You’re such a lech. Get help.”

“I’ve tried, darling, but it’s no use,” Tony sighs sadly, squeezing his hips. “You’re just too sexy.”

Peter disagrees, walking Tony backwards until his body makes contact with the kitchen bench, trailing a finger up his chest and poking him lightly in the sternum.

“Yeah? That’s not what you said when I made you take out the trash last night.”

“Well, that’s because trash isn’t sexy.”

Peter pokes him again. “And yet I stay married to you.”

“Ouch,” Tony blinks, slapping a hand to his chest. “Wow. That is uncalled for. You’re calling me trash. I’m reduced to garbage now?”

“Yes,” he pecks Tony’s lips, snickering at his offended face. “I guess I’m just not me when I’m hungry. Can we go out for something to eat, please? I’ll be nice.”

“You gonna shower first? You do actually stink, I mean. Like, really bad.”

Prying himself out of the hold, Peter tries to the best of his ability a sense of mock outrage as Tony reels him back in with an apologetic hug, even as a smile tugs at his own lips.

“You gonna brush your teeth?” Peter dips his chin, deepening his voice to mimic his husbands. “Because wow , your morning breath is bad. Rank.”

The older man looks amused, biting his lips and blinking coquettishly like he always does when he’s up to something.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Tony shrugs, still smiling. “Just wondering if you wanted to keep talking - or if you wanted to shut up and let me go down on you in the shower.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering it for a moment.

“Do I have to shut up while you go down on me in the shower?”

Tony’s hand is back on his heart again.

“Absolutely not. I encourage you to be as vocal as possible. Wake the neighbours.”

“Deal.”

---

After thoroughly working up an appetite whilst showering, the call for groceries couldn’t wait any longer.

It’s hardly their favourite domestic activity, but delivery just is not an option. Not only for the obvious security concerns, given Tony’s occupation, but also simply because Peter hates someone else picking out his vegetables. They always give you the bad ones, he thinks, he’s had enough sad zucchinis to know.

Still, the way Tony had sighed and rolled his eyes as Peter packed their canvas bags into the car was rather uncalled for.

Tony did agree to accompany him on one solid condition, however. Breakfast first.

“Okay,” Peter agreed. “Something healthy though.”

“Oh yeah,” Tony had nodded. “Definitely.”

---

Should have known better than to trust a dirty crook.

---

Their breakfast pit-stop, much to Peters dismay, was more grease laden than he’d hoped for. He grumbles as Tony pulls into the nearest car-park, understanding now why Tony insisted on driving.

Don’t get him wrong, he enjoys gooey melted American cheese on a beef patty as much as the next guy, but the taste isn't enough to diminish his mounting disapproval as Tony downs one cheeseburger after another, washing them down with soda and fries.  

“You have a heart condition,” Peter frowns, slapping the bag of fries from his husband's hands as he brings them to his lap. “What are you doing?”

Potato goes flying over the dashboard, smearing oil over the detail in its wake.

Tony blinks.

“Wow. Now that’s just a waste,” he fishes a napkin from the bag and wipes the dashboard with it. “You know this interior is original, right? Vintage, 1973. You do? Just making sure.”

Peter knows. Tony won the car in a poker game against Hammer two years ago. Then he leaked his money laundering to the press. He hasn’t shut up about it since.

Peter fishes out the chicken salad he knows he ordered from the paper bag, flinging it at Tony who catches it easily.

“You promised something healthy. Eat the salad, Tony.”

“Eat the salad, Tony,” his husband mimics, even as he pries open the plastic lid of the leafy meal. “God, look at this thing. It’s miserable,” he spears into it with his plastic fork, shovelling it into his mouth and not looking happy about it. “It looks like clinical depression if it were a meal. Like a metaphor for erectile dysfunction. Pathetic.”

“Are you done bitching?”

Tony feeds himself another mouthful of the limp greens before leaning closer to chew grotesquely in Peter’s ear. “There. Happy, darling?”

Peter winds down the window so the cabin doesn’t reek of red onion.

“Ecstatic.”

—-

Peter is often asked where he and Tony met.

He tells his colleagues and close friends that they met in through their jobs. Look, it’s not a total lie. Except, he says that Tony worked as a consultant to the State-Board for Education and Peter was luckily enough to be invited to some event, somewhere, at some time and at some place where they happened to cross paths and meet. After hitting it off, the rest was history.

Few question it, envious and charmed by their story. A young man meets the man of his dreams, they fall in love, and spend their days happily married, leaving a dreamy white picket fence life.

The fairy-tale ending is real. The reality of how they got it is another story.

Six years ago, rushing to his shift at the grocery store, Peter had accidentally rammed his bicycle into some guys who ran into his path on one cold Sunday, morning in the heart of Flushing, Queens.

At first, Peter hadn’t noticed the gun flying into the mouth of the alley, too busy apologising to hear the clang of metal on concrete. It wasn’t until one of the men, now disarmed, fled the scene that he realised that he’d interrupted Tony’s would-be execution.

A thank-you-coffee was followed by a thank-you-date. Then, Peter got asked on real dates. Real dates led to real kisses that weren’t just a thank you but I like you and then, eventually, I love you.

But it was the I trust you that cemented Peter in Tony’s world.

So maybe Tony wasn’t really a consultant. Maybe Peter fell for Tony, the man, the provider, the person who seemed to have an interest in politics and community as much as he did about the perfect placement of his hair, or ensuring Peter’s comfort and willing consent at any given time.

And he never asked Peter to be a part of the business. Tony’s job was just as important as his own and he always reiterated that.

Which was good, because Peter loves his job. At twenty-six feels, Peter feels like his life is where it’s supposed to be. And maybe he was a local, humble high-school teacher, sure, but he still grew up on the internet. He’d looked into Tony before their first date. You know. Basic database searches like missing persons, most wanted and sex-offender registers. Luckily, Google actually said Tony was a consultant.

He even had his own LinkedIn.

Although further and not-so-legal inspections of encrypted government databases - thanks, Ned - told a different tale.

It was sort of true? Nothing happened in New York without Tony being consulted. Even working remotely he had NYC eating from the palm of his hand.

And Peter?

“I want spaghetti,” Peter decides, reaching for a packet of dried pasta, the plastic wrapping crinkling under his hand as he places it in the shopping cart.

“Spaghetti,” Tony repeats, eyeing Peter dubiously.

“Uh-huh,” Peter nods, eyeing the aisle for an accompanying sauce. “With meatballs. Oh, oh - and parmesan.”

“Spaghetti and meatballs.”

Peter blinks. “Yes. And parmesan. I literally just said that. Oh ohhh, and garlic bread, good thinking,” he says, adding it to his list for when they hit the freezer aisle.

Tony snatches the packet of pasta from the cart and inspects it with evident distaste. “You want spaghetti and meatballs with dry pasta.”

“Oh my god,” Peter groans, snatching the packet back. He throws it back into the cart, swerving it around an older lady eyeing the macaroni. “Stop. I am not having this discussion again. You know how I feel about fresh, c’mon. It tastes weird.”

“Yeah, weirdo,” Tony nods as they round into the next aisle. He takes a couple of diced tomato cans, perusing their label as they talk. “It tastes like how pasta is supposed to taste.”

The man carrying a concealed weapon shadowing their steps some twelve feet away snorts in amusement. He has the good sense to look properly chastened when Peter looks back, unimpressed.

“Are you suggesting my tastes are unrefined?”

“Yes. Profoundly.”

“Yeah, well, your face is unrefined,” Peter deliberately throws a jar of not-fresh parmesan into the cart as he spots it, ignoring Tony’s grimace. “And also, considering you can’t actually cook, and I’m the dumbass that'll be sweating over a stove to cook it for you, maybe shut up?”

“My face is perfect,” Tony sniffs. “You’re rude. You know what? I’m taking my vows back.”

Peter snorts.

“Okay, cool. I hate being tied down anyway.”

“Same,” Tony shakes his head at the man shadowing them. “Can’t wait to be rid of this old ball and chain.

“I know, right? Well, goodbye, I guess.”

“Great. See ya.”

“Hey, you wanna help me clean the fridge when we get back?”

“Okay.”

Maybe their lives don’t mesh well on a surface level - king of the underbelly and a high school teacher - but they each make concessions in their daily lives to make each other happy.

Tony, bless his soul, acknowledges that Peter will never give up his job or make fettuccine from scratch, and Peter realises that there will always be corrupt politicians and black markets that need the guiding hand of a good man. Even if he doesn’t like bloodshed.

Tony never hurt anybody that didn’t deserve it. And no matter how much Peter cares, the underworld is always going to be there. Blackmarkets were always going to run regardless of how much he gave a shit. It was all about management, he'd learned.

Tony was that guy. In fact, if you ask him, couldn’t be a better guy overseeing it. And Peter was there, right behind him. It’s all about balance, you know?

Yeah.

It was never about turning a blind eye. But it kept everyone happy to make small adjustments.

Like when they’re waiting for the number to be called at a deli counter. A short, thin woman cuts in front of the pair just at the moment their number is called, immediately talks over them to get her order in.

Having stood waiting for the better part of ten minutes, his husband audibly had audibly tutted in vexation.

“Anthony,” Peter chides when he hears the sound of the hammer being pulled back in whatever firearm is in Tony’s pocket. “Stop it.”

Tony retrieves his hand from his jacket, raising it in a gesture of innocence. “What?”

“This isn’t the Wild West. You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

“It’s called being courteous. She was rude. Don’t you think she was rude?” he asks one of the men waiting beside them, who only offers a bewildered look in return. Tony huffs, turning his attention back to Peter. “Ridiculous. I’ve flayed for that kind of disrespect.”

Heads whip in their direction, including the woman who had cut in front of them, accompanied by a chorus of scandalised gasps.

“Figuratively, of course,” Tony refers to the crowd, offering a charming grin.

Several shift away from the couple and no one argues when they place their order next.

Peter sighs.

---

Lunch was a truly enormous serving of tomato soup and a veritable tower of stacked grilled cheese, courtesy of Peter’s growling stomach.

After arriving home with the groceries, having foregone breakfast, he was truly beyond hangry by the time everything was unpacked. Canned soup. Single-pack cheese, good god that was the kind of haute cuisine he was hankering for after his morning. Even Tony wolfed it down. However petulant he looked whilst doing so.

“Was lunch okay?” he asked, reaching over and wiping the crumbs from Tony’s beard with his thumb. “Up to your highness' standard?”

“Impeccable, sweetpea,” Tony smiled, setting his spoon into the near empty bowl. “Five stars.”

“Good.”

You’re so unrefined, Peter mimics petulantly in his head, feeling vindicated as Tony scoops up the, quote, ‘sodium cocktail’ with his bread crusts. Although the glare that Tony fixed him as they watched Gordon Ramsay swearing a storm on the TV gave him the impression that Tony knew exactly what he was thinking.

Whatever.

It didn’t stop Peter from sprawling across the length of the sofa to rest his head in Tony’s lap once he’d set his bowl aside, shifting, making himself comfortable. Nor did it stop Tony from unbuttoning his jeans and unzipping his fly, casually, as if to make room for the meal he’d consumed.

Inhaled, more like it, Peter thinks victoriously.

“We should get a cat,” he mumbles, comfortably full. He edges closer to his husband's body, smiling when fingers begin to card through his hair.

“No.”

“Yes. You like cats.”

“We're not getting a cat.”

“Why not,” Peter nuzzles closer to Tony’s crotch, the scent and the heat inexplicably comforting, pressing a kiss just above his groin. A low heat rises in his gut, comfortable and unhurried.

“We are not trading sexual favours for a discussion on pet ownership,” Tony warns, although his voice is soft and the fingers in his hair continue his gentle ministrations. “A discussion you will be losing, by the way.”

No he won’t. He’s going to blow Tony’s mind through his dick.

Or he will in a moment. His body feels heavy, lethargic with satiety, like he’s encased in concrete, sinking, sinking… sinking...

Yeah. He just… needs to rest his eyes first.

“You wanna suck me?” Tony asks softly, brushing his knuckles against Peter’s cheek, his voice low.

“Yeah,” Peter affirms, blinking, eyelids heavy with the impending food coma. But he can do it. “I can,” he mumbles, tongue thick in his mouth, lethargy impeding the eagerness of his hands.

He yawns, snuffling closer to Tony's groin. “I can... do it.”

Tony snorts down at him, thumb gently stroking over his eyebrow. He says something to Peter, like don’t strain yourself , but maybe it was a dream.

So is the case when he falls asleep to the furious swearing of the Scottish chef, fingers raking through his hair, his body conforming to the indents of their old sofa cushions. Sleep comes to him with his legs curled against the backrest, his own breath hot against his face, Mr Marley mowing his lawn a couple of yards over. Tony’s fingers in his hair.

When he wakes an indeterminate length of time later it’s to knuckles stroking his cheek softly and the declining afternoon sun streaming unfiltered through the west-facing windows.

Peter blinks, assessing the man sitting beside him.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says dumbly, brain still foggy. “Are we role playing?”

Tony smiles. “No, baby. Don’t I wish. I gotta go to work.”

Still sleepy, he doesn’t immediately register what Tony has said until a couple of moments pass, and his heart drops to the floor at the announcement. As he does, he tries to resist the involuntary pout at the news, but the effort fails if Tony’s sad smile is anything to go by.

“No,” he says, voice small. “Tony. It’s our weekend off together. You promised.”

“I know, bug, I’m sorry,” the older man leans forward to place a kiss on his forehead before standing up. “It’s not fair. I’m just as mad as you are.”

“Why?”

“Happy called. One of Mayor Ross’s aides is threatening us with the feds. Gotta step in this time and pretend to be the boss. You know, show of authority. Make someone piss their pants.”

“You are the boss,” he yawns, smacking his lips, watching as his husband adjusts his tie above him. “But you owe me.”

“That because you’re the boss of me?”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony nods. “Alright. Name your price.”

Peter smirks, melting back against the cushions and kicking his feet up on the far armrest.

“School fundraiser, June thirtieth. You and me at a table. You’re gonna use that pretty face and charm of yours to help me sell cookies.”

Tony groans, leaning his forearms over the armrest above Peter’s head.

“You do know that you are the devil, right? You’re in the dictionary next to the definition of ‘heinous’.”

Peter grins.

“Clearly you don’t love me,” Tony tries. “I hate school fundraisers. You know this.”

“I do know this,” he says smugly, stretching his arms upwards on a yawn, fingers gripping his husband's tie on the descent. He uses the hold to tug him closer. “Do you know how many papers I set aside for tomorrow to have this day off together? Do you have any idea what I had planned? I’m mad at you. Livid, even.”

“Can I at least buy out the cookies and cake?”

“And get away with abandoning me? Uhh, let me think -- no.”

Tony sighs, shifting above him. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I know. It’s why you married me.”

“One of the reasons why I married you.”

“Uh-huh. Go away. Be home for dinner.”

“Will do,” Tony affirms, allowing himself to be tugged by his tie until he’s dragged into an upside-down kiss. “Wait, one more for luck,” he says after a moment, leaning in and kissing Peter again.

“I hate you,” Peter mumbles against his lips. “I’m making that spaghetti and you’re gonna pretend to like it.”

“Love you too,” Tony whispers, fond, closing his eyes and planting a final wet peck on Peter’s cheek. He whispers, as Peter yawns again. “I’ll see you soon, speed racer. Don’t burn the house down.”

With that Tony leaves, the sound of door closing signalling Peter’s solitude.

If Tony’s previous ‘quick stops’ are of any worthy precedent, Peter’s in for a couple of hours of boredom.

They should really get a pet, Peter thinks, falling back into twitchy micro-sleeps once he’s alone.

With the low-slinging sun still in his eyes, sleep again eludes him for the second time that day and he can no longer drown out the cheer of children next door and the barking dog on the street over, the summer-time squeak of ill-oiled bicycles and the approaching twilight chorus of cicadas.

Retrieving his phone from his pocket, Peter goes down the YouTube rabbit-hole.

---

By the time he drags himself off the couch at least an hour later, Peter’s watched more episodes of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives than he’d like to admit, hypnotised by the food stuck in Guy Fieri’s incredible goatee.

God. Now he wants nacho chicken wings.

Stretching as he stands, Peter makes work of shutting all of the open curtains in the house, switching on the lamps in the living room and hallway lights as he goes. He keeps the kitchen window open and leaves the screen-door as it is to allow the cool evening air to drift through the house.

He does ensure he locks it, however, mindful of how much Tony hates it when the reinforced door behind it isn’t closed as well. Which is stupid. They have a reinforced door. It has six locks on it. Six.

Explaining that at their housewarming was a real trip.

Smiling at the memory, Peter heads to the kitchen. The house is definitely too quiet, he reckons, and switches on the old radio May gave him when he moved out. He turns it up as loud as it can go, tuning it to whatever station doesn’t come out distorted from the dated speakers.

Tonight, that station was the oldies. To Petunia Clark he peruses through the now more abundant trove of food they had to retrieve the necessary ingredients for dinner. Tomatoes, onion, garlic. Fresh basil picked from the pot on the window sill.

Sometimes he can’t believe how his life turned out. When he thinks back to the young kid from Queens who only had his aunt to impress with his cooking, his skills acquired from his time at Neds, Delmars and online tutorials, from that college kid who lived on packet ramen and energy drinks.

Still does, sometimes, when he thinks he can get away with stashing the packets of Mi Goreng where his husband can’t see them.

Tony keeps threatening to refine his palette. He hasn’t succeeded yet, but Peter suspects it's due to lack of trying.

Or hope.

The song changes again, and to the highs and lows of Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline Peter gets the sauce simmering in a pan, dah-dah-dah-ing under his breath, shimmying his hips and using the wooden spoon as a microphone as the music sweeps inside him. By the time the song ends, the stove backsplash is rendered in streaks of burst tomato but it’s fine, he’ll clean it up later.

It’s not until the pasta is near ready that the front-yard sensor light blinks on and the front door creaks open.

It’s a testimony to Tony’s light footwork that Peter doesn’t notice he’s been crept up on until arms wrap around his waist from behind, startling him as he’s draining the pasta.

“Honey, I’m home,” Tony whispers, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

Peter smiles, setting the pasta aside on the bench to grip Tony’s forearms as the older man guides their hips to sway to the music.

“How was work?”

“Absolute murder,” he presses a line of kisses across Peter’s jaw, goatee tickling his skin. “And before you ask, yes that is a gun in my pocket.”

“Does that man you’re not happy to see me?” Peter queries, setting the strainer aside and turning in his husband's arms. Settling his hands on Tony’s hips, his dumb mouth can’t help but echo the other man's fond smile when their eyes meat.

“I’m very happy to see you, always,” Tony pecks his lips, pausing. “I bought apology wine. Château Lafite 1787, you’ll like it. Come, let me get you a glass.”

Before Tony gets too far, Peter tugs him back by the wrist to face him.

“Wait, hang on,” he mumbles. Without looking away he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it. “You’ve got a… thing...”

Bringing his spit-slicked thumb to Tony’s cheek, Peter rubs away at the long smear of blood that he’d spotted moments earlier, deep red and markedly drying in the bristles of Tony’s beard.

“How did that not get on your shirt,” Peter muses, digging the digit in to remove the remaining dried flakes until it’s clear. Satisfied with his work, he steps back and nods. “Okay, Mister-Man, you’re free to go and wash up.”

“Thank you, dear,” Tony says dryly. “You know how messy Barnes gets.”

“I recall. Does Barnes know that it’s a bitch to get arterial spray out of whites?”

“Why do you think he only wears black?”

“The aesthetic.”

Tony snorts, uncorking the wine, leaving Peter to finish plating up their meal.

They take their bowls and drinks over to the sofa, settling close together amongst the cushions. Tony shifts, knocking their elbows together to unmute the nightly news on the TV, leaving the remote lying in the groove between their thighs.

The first few mouthfuls are initially silent, both too ravenous to do more than groan with every slippery slide of noodles into their mouth.

“Mmm,” Tony drops his fork to the bowl with a clang, wiping the stray sauce from his mouth with a tissue from his pocket, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Baby, this is divine. Did you make this sauce from scratch?”

Peter nods, still chewing a bite of meatball. He swallows, twirling his fork into the pasta. “S’it okay? Thought it might offset the pasta taste. I used the basil from the windowsill.”

Tony leans over to press a kiss to Peters lips, his breath against his mouth all rich red-wine and tomato tartness, like all of their good nights before. He chases it with a peck of his own before resuming his attention to his meal.

“It’s amazing. Five stars and I’m not even being facetious. Thanks for cooking, chef.”

“S’ok,” Peter shrugs, a little bashful. With his free hand he picks up the remote and turns up the volume as the news program returns back from the ad break.

“And in breaking news,” the news anchor reads, stony faced and staring directly into the camera, “Paul Morello, aid and confidant to Mayor Ross, has been reported missing since last Wednesday. Close sources to Morello say he was last seen outside of his office getting into his vehicle three days ago. His girlfriend of four weeks says he hasn’t been home since he left that same morning.”

Peter snorts, shovelling another helping of spaghetti into his mouth. God, this would have gone so good with garlic bread, he thinks mournfully, wishing they’d bought a frozen loaf from the store and mentally adding it to his next shopping list.

“Please,” Tony huffs. “We only had Morello since this morning. Two of my girls had him before that. Which was an actual coincidence, believe it or not. Got mouthy when they demanded a condom.”

“Scumbag,” Peter concurs, sipping the wine. It’s pleasantly tart. “Did you give the girls a tip?”

“Sure did,” Tony knocks their glasses together. “Was just gonna cut off a finger at first, but turns out he has a list of buried charges that makes Brock Turner look like a choir boy -- or, well, had a list. Past tense."

“Good riddance,” Peter tilts his head back and downs the rest of his wine.

---

Long after the food is demolished and the food-coma state has passed in a daze, Peter remembers his promise from earlier.

While Tony’s attention is on his phone, scrolling through a Reuters article about himself, Peter takes the opportunity to slink down off the sofa onto his knees and position himself between the older man's  legs. Curling his hands under Tony’s thighs, he kisses his way up from bend at his knee to the junction of his groin where he noses interestedly at the soft mound at the centre.

He mouths at it, peering up through his eyelashes, silently requesting attention at the same time Tony looks down. The man wastes little time in setting his phone aside and cupping Peter’s face with his hands.

“First a world class meal and now this?” Tony sighs, running his fingers through Peter’s hair as his zip is lowered. “I don’t fucking deserve you.”

“Hey, I decide that,,” Peter gently reprimands, tugging down Tony’s slacks, watching reverently as his half-hard length springs from the fabric to rest lazily against Tony’s hip. “And I’m feeling kinda generous, so. Take it or leave it.”

Tony reaches a hand down to caress the lobe of Peter's ear, the corner of his lips quirking sideways. His legs spread further to accommodate the width of Peter’s shoulders.

“Well, if you say so. Guess I better take it.”

Peter licks the tip of his cock, grimacing when his cheek comes into contact with something harder than Tony’s cock.

“Actually, can you just remove the loaded firearm from your pocket, just -- I don’t want it going off in my face? I -- yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”

Tony sighs, fishing out and dropping the weapon on the coffee table.

“Perfect,” Peter nods. “Glock 33. Nice. On second thought, wanna pop that in the safe and I’ll meet you back here pants-down? Cool?”

Tony shakes his head, his cock bobbing as he stands.

“So cool.”

---

Peter sighs softly against the back of Tony’s neck when the sliver of sunlight hits his eyes.

As usual, sleep doesn’t return to him easily once it’s lost, and unlike the previous morning, he doesn’t attempt to fall back under. The humidity of his own breath is uncomfortably warm against his chin. His bladder, full again, presses against his husband's warm body, soft cock against his lower back.

Tony, predictably, continues to snore.

Peter leaves the bed and tiptoes to the adjacent bathroom to pee. When he returns, he closes the curtain, mindful of his nakedness, then returns to the bed.

Deciding to make best use of his time awake, Peter spends the early hours of the morning under the sheets. Shifting down the mattress, he spreads Tony’s cheeks and buries his face between them.

The snores quickly turn into groans.

This is the life. Having his sleeping dragon of a husband kicking out his feet in his sleep, moaning wetly into his pillow as Peter eats him out. He always takes Peter so well, even in sleep. With his face flushed, breathless, it’s no hardship for Peter to tenderly attend to the musky furl of skin, tight again despite their recent loving.

It was magnificent. Even half-asleep, Peter couldn't allow it to go without worship on a Sunday morning.

His jaw is sore by the time Tony comes, his hips driving his release into the sheets. After taking a moment to catch his breath, chest heaving with the aftershock of his orgasm, Tony flips over onto his back, squinting up to the ceiling.

Peter crawls back up, pressing a line of kisses up Tony’s sternum to the hollow of his collarbone. Arms wrap around him tightly until they’re chest-to-chest, sticky with sweat. This close, Peter can feel the rhythmic beating of Tony’s racing heart.

“D’you wan’ me to…?” Tony mumbles, mouth going slack.

“I’m good, go back to sleep.”

“‘Kay. Love you.”

“Love you more,” he whispers.

Later, Peter is going to bring up the idea of adopting a cat again. He’s going to wear Tony down, he knows it.

But that can wait, for now.

Smiling, Peter hooks his leg over Tony's hip, kisses the back of his neck as tenderly as he can muster, and lets the darkness pull him back under. 

[pascalls]

Are We Running Out of Time?

Helen is out of town and Charlie has an idea for a fun night out. Sometimes, the reverend just has to live a little.

{ Charlie x Lovejoy fic }

Playlist:

Running With the Wolves - AURORA

Pools - Glass Animals

despair - leo.

Stranded Lullaby - Miracle Musical

Dinner & Diatribes - Hozier

Tomorrow Never Came - Lana Del Ray/Sean Ono Lennon

Read it beneath the cut!

He felt a little like an opportunist.

Perhaps he was. When he’d heard that Helen was going out of town with her daughter - Jessica, he remembered - Charlie hadn’t wasted much time in formulating a train of thought that would eventually take him right to the reverend’s front door. It was a bold move that he hadn’t done before, especially since he’d been sleeping elsewhere for the last few weeks. Very few and far in between were the nights that he spent underneath Tim’s train table. Maybe that’s why this felt so nerve wracking.

But with Helen gone, what was the harm? She’d never be the wiser, so long as Charlie was smart. And he’d done his homework; made sure he knew exactly when Helen was leaving and bide his time until he was certain she would be long gone, leaving the reverend alone in his large and not-so-humble abode. It was only when the evening sun began to sink beneath the distant horizon that Charlie made his way to the home and gave the front door a knock. He fought the urge to pace while he waited, ears swiveling forward as the sound of footsteps neared. Straightening up, the hybrid did his best to hide any sign that he’d been at all nervous as the door opened and he was met with the less-than-enthused Timothy Lovejoy, decked from head to toe in his ‘conductor’ garb. He’d been interrupted, obviously. But Charlie didn’t let it faze him.

“...You really should be wearing something to hide those,” was all Tim said, pointing at Charlie’s long rabbit ears.

“It’s getting dark out. They’re fine,” Charlie replied without skipping a beat. “I came to get you outta your train hole for a while.”

“What makes you think I want to get out of my…” Lovejoy shook his head. He wasn’t going to dignify train hole with a response.

“Oh c’mon. The wife’s gone and you’re just gonna sit and do what you would’ve been doing anyway? Let’s go out! Go do something that she would pitch a fit about if she was here, huh?” Charlie’s mischievous grin and slight tail waggle gave away his enthusiasm. Internally, he wondered, if Lovejoy would have the gall - or the courage - to take him up on the offer. But he wouldn’t let the man see him doubt.

Tim sighed, glancing from Charlie back into his house and then back out at the giddy hybrid. A ‘no’ lingered on the tip of his tongue, but it was snatched away from him when he looked out, spying a sporty-looking bright red motorcycle sitting out in the middle of his driveway.

“Is that yours?” He asked, not answering Charlie’s invitation, but stepping out onto the porch and venturing out onto the driveway, eyeing the bike with skepticism - and interest.

Charlie fought the urge to lie, shaking his head. “Just borrowing it from a friend. Told him I’d bring it back in one piece, but I wanted to make sure that I’d make you an offer you couldn’t refuse.” The hybrid elbowed the reverend gently in the side, allowing Tim to circle the bike and make up his mind, in the process.

“...Alright, but not a word to anyone. And if you even run a single red light, I’m driving.” It was a reluctant agreement, but one nonetheless, and Charlie did his best to not grin like a fool as Tim retreated back inside to change, donning his usual pink shirt and tie affair. One that Charlie didn’t think altogether appropriate.

As Tim approached, Charlie went right ahead and reached out, tugging the tie off of the reverend and rolling it up gently, shoving it right into his own pocket.

“You’ll get it back at the end of the night, you big square. C’mon.” It was a tease - and a challenge - as Charlie clambered onto the bike and kicked it to life, the deep rumble of the engine sending tingles up his clawed toes. It had been a considerable time since he’d driven anything, but he’d always preferred vehicles of the two-wheeled sort over four. So he had no problem offering a hand to Tim as he awkwardly positioned himself on the back of the bike, embarrassed and bothered, but only huffing once or twice before settling in.

“Where are we going?” He asked, the words nearly choked from his throat as Charlie pulled away from the Lovejoy household and roared steadily down the street. The hybrid didn’t kick into high gear just yet - they needed to get a little further away from suburbia for that. Instead, he pointed to a backpack which hung off the side of the bike, bulging with the weight of its contents.

“First, there’s a helmet in there. Your head needs more protecting than mine,” Charlie called over the sound of the engine, pleased that Tim didn’t seem to argue. The last thing he needed was to cart the reverend home with a head injury. It wasn’t until he’d placed the helmet snuggly over that nicely coiffed hair that Charlie provided him with an answer. “I want you to see the kinds of sights I get to see all the time!”

Lovejoy frowned to himself. He didn’t know what that meant, but he was given precious little time for a verbal back and forth with the hybrid as they flew out of the subdivision and headed for the highway. As the road opened and the traffic flow ebbed with the approach of the night, their speed steadily climbed. It was clear that they were not staying nested within Springfield. And there was no real insulated space for them to have a conversation. All the man could do was hold tight to the hybrid and try not to regret his decision to come along. He wondered, absently, if it had been better to just stay with his train set.

But as he felt the slight flexing of the hybrid’s midsection in his arms, he lost his train of thought.

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

It felt like almost an hour had passed before they slowed again, the feeling of zipping in and out of lanes still making the reverend’s stomach do a few interesting flips as Charlie steered them away from the main roads and down what looked to be a sandy, almost hidden path. The sound of the engine’s roar was quickly replaced by the roar of a different kind, and before too long, Lovejoy’s vision was filled with dark, flowing waves, illuminated only by the light of a sparse assortment of street lights and the glow of the rising moon.

“The beach? Charlie, it’s the middle of May. And it’s night.”

Charlie could only allow himself a little huff of amusement. “Yeah, I got eyes too, Tim.”

The hybrid veered off the path and down onto the sand, though he was careful not to get too close to the water. The tires struggled enough away from the smooth concrete and he was quick to turn the engine off, leaving the ambient sound of the nearby waves as their only soundtrack.

“I really don’t understand what you wanted to do here,” Tim mumbled, a bit sourly, as he stepped away from the bike, removing the helmet and trying to smooth his hair back down with some frustration. Though the salt air would likely not do it much good either; he gave up after a few moments.

“‘Tis not simply enough to see a sight, my friend?” Charlie replied with an overly dramatic flourish. His own hair was already a bit tousled with the breeze, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was never very finally pinned in place to begin with. “Get away from the fluorescents and stained glass once in a while. It’s good for you.” He beckoned Lovejoy over as he drifted down the sandy dune and towards the water, breathing deeply. It had been some time since he’d stepped away from Springfield and towards the ocean. He was a good swimmer… he simply had little opportunity to do so.

Not that he thought that Tim would take him up on a somewhat chilly night time swim.

Tim followed, though he took his time, sighing upon realization that he’d need to figure out how to get the sand out of his shoes before returning home. This all seemed so silly, but he got down the dunes nonetheless, stepping to Charlie’s side and grumpily staring at the hybrid. Like he expected more of an explanation.

“Well? Did you see it?” He asked, impatiently, not bothering to look out at what they’d actually come to see. It took Charlie all of two seconds to shoot back that impatient stare right at him, though it faded into something a little more… sympathetic. Or piteous? What would the hybrid have to pity him for? Lovejoy was almost offended, but the thought was significantly jostled off of its track as Charlie reached up with a scaly hand and gently pushed it against the reverend’s cheek, steering his face out towards the water.

“Look.”

Charlie said nothing else for the moment as Tim allowed his gaze to fix forward and out to the shifting waves. At first, his irritation threatened to return, but as he felt the hand leave his cheek and he took his first deep breath in, his protests remained swallowed. There was a dark and moody beauty to the scene, driven to a relaxing swell as he listened to the water lap against the shore. He almost didn’t notice that Charlie had sidled up right to his side, watching him with a little smile. But the hybrid’s gaze only lingered for a moment before returning out to the sea.

For a time, neither of them said anything. Until the hybrid finally murmured, a bit dreamily, to Lovejoy.

“Y’know. If there is a God up there… who… y’know, made all this- I’d like to believe that he made this for me.”

Blinking, Tim glanced over at the hybrid who didn’t look away from his fixed stare on the waves.

“...The whole ocean?” That was silly. God would have created it for everyone- all of his believers. And Tim had been about to say as such, but he would get no chance.

“Nah. Just this moment.”

There was a ‘that I’m sharing with you’ in there that remained unspoken, but Lovejoy wasn’t stupid enough to miss the implication. Awkwardly, he shifted his feet, though he found himself unable to dispute the belief, even if he felt heat rising in his face.

He always did say that God worked in mysterious ways.

“Hey! Check this out.”

Surprised by Charlie’s sudden shift into his usual, playful self, Lovejoy watched as the hybrid skittered closer to the water, his tail lifted high enough to keep from dragging in the sand. With a little shiver, Charlie dipped a toe into the waves and then another. Lovejoy stared at him strangely. The idiot would freeze if the water was cold enough.

“Charlie, really.” He said dully, but the hybrid was not swayed. Instead, Charlie only went deeper, pausing only to roll up the cuffs of his pants to prevent them from getting soaked entirely. The water was halfway up his shin when he stopped, locking eyes with the reverend as he waggled his tail once again. Like a child, Tim thought.

“Watch.”

With a strange precision that he didn’t think the hybrid was capable of, Charlie sunk the tip of his tail into the waves, and with a quick spin, dragged it in a circular motion. The water swished around him, and where his tail had been, tiny, microscopic beads of light appeared in its place. The water glowed with bioluminescence, illuminating the dark waves with an eerie aura that was also strikingly beautiful. Lovejoy had little to say as he ventured closer to the water, though made certain to keep his shoes from being splashed with the salty waves.

“...That’s not you is it?” The reverend asked, skeptical about the source of the glow and wondering whether or not Charlie had received more ridiculous radiation in Burns’ factory than he thought…

“No!” Charlie replied with a laugh. Dummy. “It’s plankton. They light up at night. Come and see!”

Another temptation - another invitation. Lovejoy seemed to be trapped in a never-ending series of challenges from the hybrid. But his curiosity was piqued. He’d never been able to see something like this before, save for, perhaps, on TV when he stayed up late channel-surfing because he couldn’t sleep. How stupid would he have to be to pass up on something like this? Besides… he could probably frame it in a sermon later on.

Yeah. That was his justification.

Though he huffed in faux-agitation, Lovejoy eventually stepped back and away from the water, removing his shoes and socks, nesting them neatly in the sand nearby and returning to the water’s edge where Charlie waited eagerly. Though there was hesitation in his movements, he was already halfway there. Eventually, he goaded himself into the water, similarly rolling up his pants and staring - with half-hearted annoyance - at Charlie who only returned his look with an excitable grin.

“Go on. Give it a try,” Charlie said, glancing from the water back up to Lovejoy who stood, awkwardly, not wanting to look foolish, and yet…

He sighed.

Reaching down, he dipped his fingertips into the water - then his hand. No light gleamed from beneath the frothy water and he frowned.

“You gotta wake ‘em up a bit.” Charlie’s encouragement was genuine.

It was enough so that Lovejoy didn’t feel… too put out when he gave the water a bit of a swish with his hand. And though the glow that emanated from the creatures within was fairly weak, it was a reaction nonetheless. He stared, a bit wide-eyed, moving his hand a little faster to strike up a better, stronger glow.

“See? Easy.”

“I know how to stir water,” Lovejoy replied, his gaze venturing back up to the hybrid who had carefully plodded over to where he was, glancing down at his plankton-stirring handiwork.

“Do you? Because you seem like you’re having kind of a hard time with it,” the hybrid shot back with a little smirk. Teasing, as he was wont to do.

Tim prickled at the implication, chasing a sudden urge and reaching down into the water. He scooped a bit of it into his hand, shifting his stance a bit so he didn’t sink too far into the sand, and flicked the water at Charlie in a meager splash. It was enough to significantly surprise the hybrid who hopped away in a little shake, droplets splattered onto his glasses as he stared dully back at the reverend.

“You are so rude,” Charlie said, his gaze turning devilish as he lowered his tail back into the water once again, circling Tim mischievously.

“...Okay- look. Now- Don’t go too far with this. This is my good shirt-”

Charlie didn’t wait for Tim to come up with more excuses, his tail lashing against the waves and sending a spray of sea water towards the reverend which the man tried and failed to dodge. Now they were both wet. And the thought seemed to strike both men at once. Now it was a war.

Charlie bolted away from the reverend as the man gave chase, both eagerly trying hard not to face plant into the sand and still spray the other with a considerable splash of seawater to consider it even. Charlie didn’t bother trying to disguise his laughter, amused by the grave expression on Lovejoy’s face, even though he too was trying not to chuckle under his breath. It was only when their back and forth nonsense caused Tim to nearly topple backwards into the waves that their game came to an end, the hybrid reaching out to snag Lovejoy by the wrist and tug him back to his feet. They didn’t need to play chicken with the current.

“Don’t drown on me now,” the hybrid said as he steadied Lovejoy, hands drifting to the man’s hips to keep him rooted in place, though he caught himself quickly, returning his grasp to himself and clearing his throat. “You good?”

Tim, for all of his alarm at the thought of losing his balance, was not thinking about that so much as the press of those hands on his body. Though the water was chilly, he was feeling impossibly warm, his hair wet and plastered to his head in what was undoubtedly a mess. His gaze quickly flitted from Charlie, to Charlie’s scaly hands, and then down to his own feet.

“Uh. Yes. Just fine.”

The water around them was teeming with bright, illuminated creatures, but he was having a hard time focusing on that. Even if it was beautiful.

“Good. I’d really rather not have to call the coast guard out here to rescue you a mile off shore,” Charlie replied with a little smile. Lovejoy stared at him for a moment before reaching up to snag the glasses from the hybrid’s face. Bringing them down, he attempted to wipe them clean with his shirt, but to no avail. His shirt was fairly soaked through. A rare kind gesture, foiled at its inception. Lovejoy frowned a little, moving to return them to the other, but not before he felt a sudden drop of moisture from above.

Were the waves growing?

No. That was rain.

Charlie glanced up to the sky and flinched as another drop of water hit him square in the face.

“...Maybe I should’ve checked the forecast,” he said sheepishly as the clouds above them opened and began to shower them both with light, cool rain that stirred the bioluminescence below and lit the water as far as they could see.

“Probably,” Lovejoy replied with a gentle sigh. Their earlier attempts at keeping the rest of their clothes dry seemed fairly futile now. But at least they weren’t amidst a torrential downpour or anything.

“I’ll pay for your dry cleaning. No worries.” Charlie kept his gaze on the other, a friendly apology in his eyes. The words were reassuring to Tim, in some way. Had he been worried about that at all? He wasn’t sure. He owned a dryer. It wasn’t a big deal, even if he made it out to be. But… Charlie was still concerned nonetheless.

“It’s… fine.”

The word tapered from his lips as he met Charlie’s eyes, the rain coasting along the waves and the light below bathing them both in the ghostly glow. From where he stood, he realized that, without his glasses, the other man’s eyes were…

Interesting.

No, that wasn’t the right word. But he couldn’t find the correct one. And for a moment, he didn’t seem to care, their eyes locked on one another’s as the sound of the water rushed around them and the cool relief of the rain kept Lovejoy’s face from getting too hot for him to handle.

Before he knew what he was doing, his body was moving towards the other, the pair of glasses still in one hand as he closed the distance between them. His other hand reached to find the hybrid’s chin, keeping him in place as he inspected - really looked at Charlie’s eyes. Like he was looking for something… specific.

“...What…?” Charlie asked, his breathing somewhat short as his heart hammered in his chest. He was not… used to being handled this way. And part of him wanted to run. But he stayed put, allowing Tim to do… whatever it was that he needed to do.

There was a stretch of a few long seconds before they both understood. But it was Lovejoy who finally pulled Charlie closer to him, pressing his mouth to Charlie’s in a heated, nearly desperate kiss. His fingers gripped tightly to the glasses in one hand and to Charlie’s wrist in the other. But Charlie needed no rooting to keep him in place. His own hands were free, reaching up to frame the other man’s face and deepen that kiss as though his life depended on it. Truly, he told himself, this had not been his intent. He’d been making progress - convincing himself that there could be nothing - would be nothing - between he and Tim. But this…

He drank it in like he’d been deprived of water for his entire life, his eyes shut tight against the sweeping rain and the mist that it kicked up beneath them. Lovejoy’s chest clenched painfully at the warmth of the kiss; at the obvious days, weeks, months of mutual pining between them. Where would this go? Where could it go? Nowhere but down. Down into the depths like so many microscopic bits of plankton which disappeared when the sun rose once again.

But they had time yet - the moon was still full despite the clouds framing it in a gentle embrace. The rain still shrouded them both as the kiss was broken, only for it to be reconnected once again. More than once, Lovejoy almost dropped the hybrid’s glasses into the waves, but he held tighter onto them each time. He had let Charlie down in so many ways… at the very least, he could keep his damned glasses safe.

Sadly, the hybrid knew that such a tender, sweet moment was only destined for brevity. Despite the aching in his chest and the churning, bubbly discomfort in his stomach when he thought of pulling away, he forced himself to. Even if it was slowly; gently. His hands on Lovejoy’s face remained there briefly before they too fell back to his sides, claws digging slightly into his own palms as he watched the reverend place his glasses back in front of his eyes. Behind the glass, Lovejoy was blurry and spotty. Somehow… out of reach.

As he often was.

But Charlie didn’t let his sadness pierce the veil of the moment, offering Lovejoy a soft, encouraging smile. There was nothing wrong. It was fine. Everything was fine.

“Come on. We should probably get you back home before you get sick.” Concerned, as always, though he knew that the morning would bring the crushing loneliness that he knew stemmed from Lovejoy’s apparent lack of concern from day to day.

It was fine.

Charlie led the way back to the shore, fruitlessly trying to shake the water from his hair and climbing back up the damp dunes, turning to offer his hand to Tim as he followed behind, much more slowly, and seemingly lost in thought. Charlie wouldn’t blame him, patience in his eyes as he allowed Tim to take his time. He arrived at the bike first, pulling the helmet out again and doing his best to shake it free of the rain as the shower tapered into a light drizzle. He offered it to Tim, watching as the reverend distractedly placed it on his head and climbed onto the bike behind the hybrid.

They would drive home more slowly, the sting of the drizzle against Charlie’s face an almost jarring reminder that all he would have to show for his bold night out was memories and wet clothes.

--------

Lost in thought as they drove back to the Lovejoys’, Tim had said nothing as soon as they left the water. Though his grip on Charlie tightened when they increased in speed and he’d - at some point - rested his head against the hybrid’s shoulder, his silence persisted as they returned to the quiet, stifling air of the suburbs. His house loomed ever closer, his fingers gripping the fabric of Charlie’s shirt which clung to his somewhat-skinny frame as if he could slow down time and make the trip last longer. But it was not to be.

The bike turned gently into the reverend’s driveway, the engine quieting to a purr and then silencing altogether as Charlie parked, hopping stiffly off the bike and allowing Lovejoy to follow. Tim peeled off the helmet, unaware and uncaring that his hair had flattened against his head during the ride, setting it down on the seat of the bike and leading the way up to the doorstep. The hybrid followed, albeit with hesitation, not venturing up and onto the porch step, even as Lovejoy opened the front door, greeted with a dark, lonely front hallway.

“Make sure you get dry and warm,” Charlie said from behind him, his voice muted and lacking the earlier eager energy that he’d had when they’d left for the shore. Lovejoy didn’t look back, nodding and opening the door wider, prepared to go in and shut it behind him. Charlie had clearly found places to stay. He didn’t need Tim anymore.

But-

As the door seemed to creak to a close behind the reverend who disappeared into the house, Charlie turned away with a gentle exhale. He’d spent the long drive back preparing himself for the disappointment of pretending as though the night had never happened. Resignation was all he had left as he drifted back over to the bike. Lifting up the helmet, he stared into the visor for a moment, seeing his tired, weary expression staring back at him in the reflection.

You’re a fool, Charlie Dean Walker.

“Wait,” called a voice from behind him. Charlie’s ears twitched with curiosity, turning to see that Lovejoy hadn’t quite shut the door yet. The hybrid blinked, confused.

“...It’s too late for you to be driving around looking like that,” Tim said in his usual chastising tone, though his eyes betrayed his harsh words.

They were pleading. Desperate.

“Come in and let me throw them in the wash. Otherwise they’ll never get clean, knowing you.”

Charlie stood upright, staring at Lovejoy in disbelief. He knew an implication when he heard one. And this time… he really didn’t need to be asked twice. Placing the helmet back on the bike, he pulled the key from the ignition and carried it up with him to the porch. Hesitant, at that first step, he fought the urge to run. But here it was. The invitation that he’d wanted. He knew that Lovejoy would not ask him to stay just to toss him back into the basement.

This was something different.

Something new.

Something… exciting.

Oh, he was still a fool. And he always would be. But Charlie chased his foolhardy desires up those steps, snaking his way into the front hallway of the Lovejoy residence and disappearing behind the door.

What Helen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

[septiembrre]

Physical affection prompts! 21! 25!

Prompt: accidentally knocking your head into someone’s chin + playfully biting someone

Established relationship. Beth and Rio try couples yoga. An injury ensues.

Side note: This is the first time I’ve ever attempted writing from Rio’s POV. Augauahgah!!! I feel like all the straight Mexi-boys I know are mad sappy about the ladies in their lives so… this is Big!Soft. Don’t hate.

On Ao3

A Bit of a Stretch 

It goes like this. 

Three months ago, a yoga mat shows up in the car. It’s purple (her favorite color), and Elizabeth probably thought it inconspicuous, neatly rolled up and tucked away in the back. But Rio’s only gotten to where he is in life because he’s got a meticulous handle on the details. So he notices, and it makes him pause -- the reminder of who he is these days. 

And he likes to think he’s a smart guy, evolved and shit. But, he’s got to admit he likes the thought of it -- his girl, Aphrodite trapped in suburbia (or was it Athena?), rolling up in the Wagon to some bougie yoga studio. Elizabeth would swing ‘round the back to grab her mat, doing that walk she does when she’s feeling herself as the other PTA chicks’ jaws drop. He likes the security of his second pair of keys in her hands, on her keychain. 

What did it say about Elizabeth’s hold on him that he fuckin’ delights in this daydreaming? 

And it’s complicated -- ‘cause on one hand, when did he become this guy? Actually, he knows. Three years, eight months, and two days ago. He’s not overly-obsessed with his relationship or anything, but a counter runs in his mind -- how long he’s been with her. So much so that he’s been thinking of getting the date of when she robbed him (the first time) on the inside of his wrist, a complement to the bracelets she’d bestowed him, to drag out as A Move during sex or to embarrass her in front of her friends. 

And on the other hand, it’s like...  damn, it’s been too long since they fucked in the car. 

They cohabitate now -- them and all their kids. They still had an absurd amount of sex in public places (and shit, since when had that been his kink?). He still takes great delight in pushing all her buttons and getting her to unspool around his cock, on his mouth, and in his arms. 

But, they were a lil’ calmer now, less feral. They had partially domesticated what this was and had fun in doing so. They shared a bed now, were crate-trained as it were. 

She and hers are his family. 

But, fuck, he’d been a strict no-strings-attached, hit-it-and-quit-it type of dude for years -- all of his adult life. It was what came with his job. 

He had tried to do his best by Rhea when he had gotten her knocked up. But, looking back on it, the exercise had been doomed. When Marcus was born, Rio was in his late 20s rocketing to the top of the food chain. It had been a time when all he could do was keep his head down and do the work -- running in the streets, scheming, consolidating power, and ultimately, he had to make a choice. 

Was he going to be a boss, a father, or a husband? To be honest, he only had time for one, but he did his best to make fatherhood fit. 

It’s what it was all for in the end, right? 

And yet, somehow despite all and many odds, here he was toting Elizabeth’s yoga mat around in his car. Mick rolls his eyes when he sees it, and there’s the typical jokes about being pussy-whipped and what not. But, yeah -- he loves her. At this point, he can’t really deny it. So, he laughs along with Mick’s jokes, and then sends him to chauffeur their million kids around, just to make sure he knows what's what.

Anyway, after a few weeks, Rio comes home from the gym and finds her practicing alone in the house, the kids scattered to their other respective households. Elizabeth’s got a video going on her phone, and her back is arched in a way he’s only ever seen in bed and she has to realize is provocative. But, she eyes him, self-conscious and with old defensiveness, as she twists into a few shapes. 

He tries to keep it chill, knows about the residual feelings she carries about her body (and Christ, he can’t believe he’s only had the opportunity to shoot her ex-husband once, he should have taken his own advice and emptied the fucking clip). So he settles close to her with his battered copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology from highschool that he’s been trying to get back into, and steals glances at her over the pages. 

He skims the pages on Athena and then Aphrodite, and he likes the hyperbole of each but neither quite fit. 

He eventually comes back to Artemis. 

And, yeah, maybe.

He looks up at Elizabeth again and admires her form. He admires her strength -- that reedy cord of tenacity he’s admired for so long making itself more visible through the facade of soft as she finds new ways to hold herself up and get herself stronger.  Her hair keeps falling into her face and he itches to crawl on the mat with her and pull it out of her face. 

She’s fucking gorgeous.

As she continues, Elizabeth notices him watching, and she starts to get a little playful. Eventually, he lures her off the mat and onto his lap.

Yoga becomes part of her routine on the days she doesn’t feel like driving into the studio. And he gets it. He’s always turned to grounding himself in his body when he’s needed to work through things. His first love had been basketball, soccer while on family vacations (and only with his cousins from Tamaulipas). In high school, it was track, and he still loves running, but with Detroit winters he’s mostly moved on to boxing and tennis. Never yoga, though. 

And yeah, he has some reservations, and yeah, it makes him feel their differences. He’s a tad judgemental about the white-owned yoga studios gentrifying the fuck out of his city. Blocks he grew up running in Detroit-propper suddenly got white people eyein’ up his tats and clutching their wallets. And shit, when has yoga ever been for guys like him? 

But, life increasingly becomes more complicated. 

He can still like that E’s found something that’s for her and he likes the peace it brings her. He appreciates the way it unknots her shoulders, the particular vibe it gives their day afterward when she’s able to let go of some of that stress she carries. He tries to complement it by eating her out and that special type of really good sex that comes from whatever alchemy is between their bodies. And yeah, he likes the headspace it gets her in, how it shifts the way she approaches their work, and the new depth it adds to the way they touch each other when sex isn’t her only form of therapy. 

So when she gets a water bottle with the yoga studio’s branding, Rio teases her a bit but he encourages her to go for the membership. Naturally, E being E, it don’t take her long to make nice with the owners. And then Elizabeth comes home excited about how she had just committed to doing a run of the studio’s promotional swag at the store. He and Elizabeth end up with a postcard on their fridge, a color photo of the studio’s abstract mural. The other side has text that advertises an event line up at the studio that includes a fucking “gong-bath”. It takes him a week to let it go. 

Actually, he hasn’t. He still brings it up.

But, then a second yoga mat appears -- a green one -- tucked away in the spare bedroom, mostly hidden under some of her crafting materials. He finds it, wonders for a split second why she needs two and has an answering inkling of where this might be going. 

The next day, a lil’ custom print for a “partners” yoga event gets pinned next to the first postcard on the fridge. 

And like... he loves her and all. But, does it really go that deep?

Rio pauses in front of the fridge, sipping his tea and staring at the picture of a white dude balancing presumably his Black girlfriend in a pose above his head. His eyes track to where Elizabeth sits in the other room knitting and watching the latest episode of her British baking show (he has half the mind to submit her name to the American spin-off). Considering what she’s up to, she sits with her back a lil’ too straight (on edge one might say) clearly waiting for a comment or for him to show her some grace.

And…

Nope. He’s not going to make it that easy for her. 

To her credit, after her episode is done, Elizabeth FaceTimes Ruby and asks her first. Then, as if to make a point that she’s rounding out her bases, she calls her sister. And it’s true that Marks’ sisters’ relationship is as close as it's ever been -- their family criming has forced Elizabeth to trust her sister with her life. But, damn, if he knows she don’t trust Annie to do anything remotely acrobatic, much less cartwheel Elizabeth into the air. 

He settles at the island in their kitchen with his tea and his work. She’s got the call on speaker in the other room, when Annie asks, “And gang boo?” 

“What about him?” 

Rio scoffs loud enough to be heard in the other room.  

“Why doesn’t he go with you?” 

E pauses, probably fiddling with the strand of her knitting yarn on the couch behind him. “It just doesn’t really seem like his thing?”

Annie snorts. “Have you asked him?”

“No,” Elizabeth sighs into the phone, as if she isn’t a few paces away, having a very audible conversation. 

“Don’t people usually go with their SO’s to these things? I mean I appreciate that you think I have the upper body strength for this, but you have to know that I will never in my life be able to do a push-up.”

“It was just a thought--” 

Annie continues, stuck mid-rant, “And, like there’s no way I can be your counterweight. You have so much more body than me. We’re like completely different proportions. ” 

“Well, so are me and Christopher.” 

“Yeah, but Christopher actually has body strength. Lots of it. “ Annie retorts. “And he’s going to love you sweaty, and sticking your butt up into the air, bendy and wearing tight clothing--”

He bites at his bottom lip and supposes yeah, he could try it once. 

“Okay, fine! I’ll ask him.”

Rio waits for her to come to him as he tries to make headway on his accounting. But, E doesn’t show. 

Instead, it comes later -- when they’re in bed. She’s being extra-nice, extra-smiley, and charming, cracking jokes and making him laugh. He hates it except he also loves it -- when she thinks she can get the drop on him like her dumb ass ex-husband. Except, unfortunately for Rio, she really does know her target. 

She waits until right after she blows him to ask. 

Elizabeth crawls up his spent, panting body, and pins him with hers. She kisses him hotly with her mouth that tastes like his come and he fucking loves when she does that. Then, she retreats to bite playfully at his chin and asks if he’s seen the flyer on the refrigerator.

And he gives her a little shit about it but…

He admires the strategy

------

The couple's yoga class is on a Saturday morning.

It’s the middle of March, and he’s fucking over winter. Detroit, so far from Mexico and so close to being the fucking North Pole. 

The temperature means he’s got to get bundled up in sweats, put on his damn parka and snow boots, all to take it back off again when he gets there. Apparently, the studio is heated perennially at 90 degrees. He don’t know how Elizabeth handles it, she’s so bothered by heat. He complains to her, and she reminds him that this is just like when he goes to the gym on his own. Except this time, they’re doing something together. And she’s being all shy in a way she usually isn’t any more around him and she’s fuckin’ happy he’s coming with her. 

The night before she had presented the green mat to him. He had said “Thank you” como su mamá lo enseño, and committed to stepping outside of his comfort zone. 

“Show me how this goes, darlin’?” 

Elizabeth had swelled up with the thrill of explaining something to him, and launched into it, “Yoga’s basis is breathing…” 

She had given him the low-down and gotten him started in the basic poses. He liked her hands, soft, and prim and careful, pushing and pulling at him and adjusting his posture. He had ended up fucking her on the mat -- as a proper thank you and to give her a little something to think about in class tomorrow as they contort their bodies in a way she’s adamant is not meant to be sexual. 

And he’s not trying to be a dick or ruin the day for her, but he’s dragging his feet a little bit. He don’t really want to be spending his morning off, kid-less, in a room focusing on his breathing surrounded by crunchy, white gentrifiers. 

And he might be simmering a choice comment about how it’s ironic that she wants him to focus on his breathing after she was the one who fucking shot him in the lung that one time...

But, he knows she’s not thinking of it like that and he knows if he just told it to her she’d get it. But, he don’t want to make it all about him and the struggle... and he’s rich now ain’t he? And Elizabeth’s excited to have him with her while she does her thing, excited to show him off -- and that gives him enough energy to walk through the door, green mat under one arm, and her hand in his. 

Immediately, they’re ensconced in a wave of warmth as they step into the heated studio, and there’s an earthy smell hitting him strong. He zeroes in on the incense lit at the check-in counter and Rio’s nose wrinkles in distaste on its own accord. 

Elizabeth squeezes her hand, in a silent reprimand. Behave. Then, she moves around the counter to hug some of the people hanging out back there.

There’s a flurry of introductions, a Bridgid, a Cassandra, Bryce, Patsy, and Tiffany. Tiffany is Black and he thinks Cassandra could be Latina… He ain’t sure. They’re all revealed to be instructors or staff of some kind and E seems to be chummy with all of them. He knows Tiffany is her favorite and will move heaven and hell (and their fucking drop schedule) to make it to class with her. 

He isn’t sure exactly why so many of them are but apparently, they like to hang out here? His palms itch and he feels the sweat start to drip under his thick jacket. 

E starts to pull off her winter clothes, as she lingers in conversation with Tiffany, asking her about her husband and how Tiffany’s weight training is going. He blinks at his girl and the shit she can pull out of her repertoire.  

“I’m so glad you get to finally meet Christopher.” 

Tiffany turns to smile wide at him. “Beth has made so much progress in the past few months.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” and she’s got a friendly vibe so he tries to dial up the charm. Smiling, and playing the proper beau, “She talks about y’all all the time.” 

Behind them, he clocks that instructor, Brad or Bryce, checking out Elizabeth’s ass when she ain’t looking. And sure he’s about Rio’s height and got some definition on his abs, but his jaw’s too square like it’s never taken a hit, his muscles never used in a fight. 

Rio snags the eyes of some chicks looking at him a little too eager. Damn, it’s Saturday morning and these people need to chill. 

And he rolls his eyes, tsking, then steps closer and loops a hand around Elizabeth’s waist, drops it down to her ass for a moment. He makes a show of leaving a kiss against her temple and then he bounds towards the cubbies, ready to shed some clothes. His jacket is about to kill him. 

As he peels off of the layers, he looks around, and okay -- it’s not as white as he worried it was. There’s other POC settling in for the class, at least one other interracial couple, too. And that Cassandra chick’s sweatshirt says “Chingona AF’ on the back. She’s the same shade of light brown as him, a mid-30s willowy mujer with a queer buzzcut.

He loosens up a bit and settles into the space. This heated shit is nice.

A few moments later, Elizabeth joins him and after they’re done tucking their stuff away, she draws him over to her favorite corner. They roll out their mats -- purple and green -- side-by-side. 

They settle on their respective mats and Rio takes the opportunity to give Elizabeth the same once over that asshole did. Her ass really does look great in those pants and she could fill out any shirt. Her eyes linger over him too, tracing his skin, the bar tattoos peeking out from under his t-shirt that she’s seen a million times and then her eyes meet his and she gives him that small, crooked lil’ smile. 

He’s not one for religion, but every so often he takes his mom to Spanish mass. All the viejitos and pious Catholic types think he’s a banger but his ma’s still excited to show him off. He sits with her in the pew and when the priest asks for the congregation to give thanks to God, he says a prayer for the riches that have come to him, the health and brilliance of his son, the vitality of the other little ones in his life now, and Elizabeth. And when he thinks of her in those moments, he sees her in his mind’s eye with this exact look on her face. 

And to top it all off, the 90-degree heat is already working some kind of magic on the knot he’s been trying to get out of his shoulder for the past two weeks. 

He smiles back at her. 

“This shit is dope.” 

“Yeah?” 

He shrugs, playful. “I like the heat.”

She scoffs, still smiling, “Of course, you do. I thought I was going to pass out the first time I came.” He laughs and tallies a point. He called it. E shakes her head, “I had never sweat so much in my life.”  

And it goes like that. 

Right as class starts, a white guy with dreads and his skinny, blond girlfriend settle in the space next to them. The white dude turns to nod in acknowledgment, but his eyes drop down to take the ink at Rio’s throat. He tries to be subtle about it but he and the girl scoot a few inches away. 

And he ain’t even seen all the old bullet wounds yet. 

Rio turns to look at Beth. She’s also staring at the couple, her mouth settled in a thin line. 

Then she meets his gaze. 

One of the instructors starts calling the group in, welcoming them to class, and Elizabeth takes the last opportunity to gently careen into his side, and kiss him deeply. 

Then she's back on her mat, listening attentively to the instructor like she didn’t just start some shit.  

And yeah-- he and Elizabeth are different. They move through space differently, and she has access to things he never will no matter all the gems, rubies and diamonds, Mercedes and stacks he adds to his hoard of wealth, And Rio has wondered, worried, if there will ever be a day when they look at each other and decide they don’t fit anymore. 

But, damn if she don’t make him feel alive like nothing else. 

So as the instructor has them sit back-to-back and leads them through an opening meditation. It’s corny as shit and formal meditation is not really his thing, always having relied on sports (and fights and hits) as a substitute in the past. 

But, he tries to settle here, in this room warm like a blanket, next to Elizabeth.

The class itself is pretty fun. The instructors are hands-on, demonstrating, and walking them through everything. It’s easy enough to pick up with them (and Elizabeth) giving him adjustments, and he likes the excuse to get his hands on her in a different kind of way. 

He helps Elizabeth through some inversions, smirking down at her with this particular view of her cleavage. She gets a few, sneaky passes at him, and he don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling surrounded by a room of people, and a whole team of instructors circling them. 

In one particularly nice sequence, Rio curls down into the mat in the child’s pose, Elizabeth had shown him as she stretches on top of him, her whole weight settling along him like a cocoon. 

Damn, he’s going to make them take another class like this ain’t he? 

The class eventually shifts into what the teachers call aerials.

He lays on his back and lofting E up into the air over him. It takes a little finagling to fully adjust to the distribution of her weight, she’s obviously top-heavy. He stares up at her -- her gorgeous, sweaty face smiling down at him -- and looks over the particular arc of her cleavage. And despite how much time he spends palming at Elizabeth’s tits, he underestimates how much they must hurt her back.

No wonder she needs this shit.  

‘Course that’s when Bryce or Blake comes over to “check on their form” and is this guy really going to try to check out his girl’s ass again? Right, the fuck now? 

Blake/Bryce pushes at Elizabeth’s shoulders trying to adjust her position and she maintains very apologetic eye contact with Rio. Huh. So, she’s aware. 

Then, It all happens real fast. Her balance shifts and her hand, sweaty with the heat, slips across his palm and out of his grasp. 

The realization hits him--  She’s gonna fall.

And for a brief, terrible moment, her face freezes above him skewed with panic and fear, and then, as if in slow motion, she floats closer, down to earth. 

And he knows better. He fucking knows better from all his fucking years of boxing, the previously-mentioned lifetime of playing sports. But he clenches his damn, fucking jaw just as the crown of her head collides with him.

And there’s a sharp, bolt of pain spearing through his chin.

And in this room, this heated blanket, incense-burning, crunchy, granola room… 

He’s knocked the fuck out.  

-----

Well, then it’s a fucking show. 

In the familiarity of Elizabeth walking into the studio, they hadn’t asked him to sign a liability waiver. Someone procures ice, and he cradles it to his chin as Bryce apologizes and asks if he can call an ambulance. 

For a concussion. 

And he’s pissed the fuck off but it’s still kind of funny? Because the only thing that had ever put him in a hospital had actually been this girl standing next to him (tal pesadilla when she put three slugs in his chest). But, he has to stop laughin’ because it hurts his jaw and they’re all looking at him like he’s nuts. 

Elizabeth grips his free hand like a vice, and he’s nursing a hell of a headache, as he has to swear a million times that he ain’t gonna sue anyone. Then, finally, blessedly, they’re allowed to walk out. 

Elizabeth insists on helping him into the car. Tiffany and Cassandra accompany them, helping Elizabeth carry all of their shit. 

They stand at the curb watching, concern etched on their faces as Elizabeth reverses out of the snowbank and drives off. And Elizabeth drives because he most definitely has a concussion. And she drives them straight to the fucking ER. 

They spend half an hour fighting parked in the lot outside. But, he knows concussions and he knows his limits. 

He convinces her to take him home.

----- 

The first twenty-four hours of the concussion are the most important. He’s not supposed to look at screens, not supposed to work. He knows his shit but Elizabeth reads at least ten internet articles on her phone as she lies in bed curled next to him. 

They spend the childless afternoon with the curtains drawn, lying in their bed, not fucking. 

But, the cuddling is good, too. 

Elizabeth strokes up and down his arm and talks to him about little nothings to keep him company. She periodically gets up to grab him glasses of water and more ice. And this sucks, but all things considered, this might be the nicest concussion he’s ever had. 

Eventually, they wander to the kitchen to figure out food. 

Elizabeth pauses staring vacantly at the fridge. Then her shoulders start to shake, and now he’s wondering if she’s okay. But, her hand raises to unpin the flyer from the fridge and he hears the first snicker.

She turns to him, laughter breaking across her face, pointing to that ridiculous picture. He knows enough now to recognize Tiffany lofted in that showy, stupid af aerial pose. 

He chuckles and then cringes as the pain at his chin flairs.

Elizabeth pouts but is still laughing to herself. She ambles over to him, wraps her arms loosely around his middle, and lays the softest kiss on his chin.

“I’m sorry, Christopher.” 

He shakes his head, just a smidge because movement fucking sucks right now. “It ain’t your fault.” 

“It was my idea.”

“It’s okay.” 

She curls into him, deflating, crumbling the flyer into her fist.  He gingerly rests his head on top of hers. 

“I liked it.” He admits. 

“You did?”

“Yeah.” The smell of her lavender-shampoo drifts into his orbit. “Liked you curled all around me. Liked touching you like that. Gave me some ideas.” 

She nods below him, pulling him tighter. “I liked it, too.” 

“You’ve gotten so strong now, Elizabeth.” He kisses her at her temple. “Maybe next time you should do all the lifting.” 

She pinches him at the ribs. Then, “Next time?”

“I’ll tell you what.” He shifts back to make eye contact with her. “We get to do a whole lot of private practice.” He gives her a look to make it clear exactly what he means -- sex. “Then, we’re gonna go back and make sure Bryce is really sorry, ‘kay? Make sure he knows I’m still around.”

And Elizabeth beams that crooked little smile at him. 

“Okay, but the next time you have to give me your hoodie or something.”

He nods, a smidge but still manages to imbue it with sage, territorial wisdom. “That would help.” 

“Well, I meant more for me to...” She looks at him, eyes darting. “Claim you.”  

I mean he is living for that but he frowns at her. “But, everyone there was a couple.”

Oh. Oh yes. Now he remembers. 

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “And I don’t share.” 

Her hand drifts low on his back, then lower to curl a firm grip on his ass in the privacy of this home that they share.

Unfortunately, despite all this time, Elizabeth still doesn’t know when to quit when she’s ahead. 

“Though, honestly, I don’t know why they kept staring at your butt.” She murmurs, sassing him while he’s down. “There’s nothing here.” 

Esta pinche mujer. She’s lucky he loves her. 

Fuckin’ adores her, really.

Damn.  

[the-story-of-how-we-died]

I’ve been working on a Chicago!AU for mlb recently. I’m gonna make another post detailing all the exact changes, but rn I just wanted to post the first part of the first chapter. I’ve been working on it for a while, and I’ve just gotten into a rut. It the kind of rut where I want to work on it, I just have no ideas. So - and I’ve no idea if this will actually work - I’ve decided to post what I have so far, see what people think and all that. Maybe that’ll help, maybe it wont, who knows! Fic under the read more:

Marinette’s sneakers slammed against the rooftop as she ran across the chicagoan suburbia skyline. The cool dusk air streamed through her hair as she scanned the dimming horizon, looking for her partner. Cat Noir said he’d meet her at dusk, though he of course didn’t say where. She grinned as she jumped from the rooftop of one apartment complex to another, falling into a roll as she landed on the lower asphalt platform. She jumped up before putting her hands on her knees, taking a moment to breathe. She overlooked the interstate, the U of I.C visible just behind it. She watched as the street lights began to flicker on across the city. She was taking in the - honestly - really nice view when her earrings beeped before she heard her partner's voice.

“Sorry, m’lady, I got caught up. Where’d you wanna meet up again?” He said, his voice slightly garbled.

I need to find a better power source for his transmitter, his is too weak if we’re gonna be this far apart a lot. Tomorrow, she thought. “You’re fine, Cat. I’ve been locked up all day studying, I’m happy to just get a moment to get the lead out. I’m overlooking 290, at Van Buren and Aberdeen. Right next to a Target.” She paused for a beat. “Seen any akuma’s of late and just forget to tell me? ‘Cause it’s been pretty quiet over here.”

 “No, I haven’t,” Cat replied. She heard him grunt as he - presumably - landed on a rooftop as he made his way to her. “It concerns me, a little. I don’t trust him to be silent this long and not have something big in the works.”

“I don’t either. He has to be planning something.” She made her way over to the ledge of the building before sitting down. “How was your day though, Cat?” She asked as she watched the cars whiz by.

“It was… eh. School was boring-”

“Oh, tell me about it!”

“Okay, okay, well, not everyone can be a genius, Ladybug. It was boring for someone who’s as smart as a stray tabby,“ He chuckled, “My dad was breathing down my neck as soon as I got home too. Just glad I finally am able to get out from under his oppressive view. I swear, he’s never been a kid. I’m half convinced he just popped into existence, already judgmental. ‘You needn’t take so long in the shower, Cat’, ‘Eat slower, Cat, it’s unsightly’, ‘That movie is for fools and degenerates, Cat, watch something worthwhile or nothing at all’.”

“Wow, he sounds like quite the… personality. We can do this more often if you need to, Cat. And don’t be so hard on yourself! You’re smarter than a stray tabby. I’d say you're at least on par with a golden retriever!” Marinette replied. She didn’t know much about Cat’s father, so all she could think of was an older Cat saying these things. Hard to imagine how different he and his father turned out to be.

Cat laughed. “Okay, okay, you got me there. And no, no, it's fine. Just venting. Besides, I doubt I can sneak away from him any more than I do without being caught. I appreciate the offer, though.” Cat said. “Oh, I see you.”

Marinette turned her head, looking at Cat as he used his staff to launch himself into the air once more before gently landing on the roof. It still amazed her how nimble Cat could be sometimes. She stood up to hug him, dusting the stray gravel from her shorts.

“It’s good to see that you're fine, too, y’know.” She grunted as she was pulled into a tight hug before she pulled back, looking Cat in his eyes. “I’ll track down and beat your dad up if he’s mean to you again. Steal his lunch money.” That was only half a joke. If he got bad enough, Marinette wouldn't just track him down and beat him up, she would end him. She turned to look at the horizon again. “So, I was thinking we could make our way to Jackson’s park, then over to the airport before making our way back. Check out anything that smells funny on our way. That sound funky to you?”

Cat leaned against his staff as he smirked. “Whatever you want, m’lady. Spending time with you is all I care about.”

“Well, good.” She winked at him. “Oh, and just make sure to give me your earrings before we part ways tonight, too. I need to jack up your power supply. Wherever you were when we started talking tonight, they didn’t have enough power to send the message clear enough for my liking. I’d prefer us to always be able to talk to each other, even while on opposite ends of the city.”

“Sure, sure. Bet I can beat you to Jackson’s, though!” Cat shouted as he raced past her, jumping off the edge of the building. He disappeared from view briefly before his staff expanded, launching him back into sight. Marinette grinned as she saw him begin to fall once more. She raced after him, her boots expanding underneath her as she jumped off the edge.