#teenage me drank all her excess coffee from this mug

[nogooddeetz]

seeing the movie made me want to pull out my beloved wicked coffee cup that my dad got me from a trip to london more than a decade ago

can you tell it’s been a beloved souvenir? i swear it used to say “wicked”, now it’s just a tiny adrift elphaba lmao

excuse the snoot, i can’t do anything without it following me

[spacesnail3000]

Brooklyn’s Sweetheart Chapter 17: You’re A Beast, Barnes

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Chapter Summary: All it takes for Bucky is five martinis and three tequila shots and then he’s pulling down his pants in the middle of the bathroom. Steve’s not sure whether to be worried or impressed that he’s not dead yet.

Word Count: 5,653

Warnings: Language, drinking, smut (rimming, blowjobs, public)

Masterlist

Steve awoke early that morning from restless dreams, visions that haunted him inside and outside of sleep. His mother. Peggy. Bucky. His girl.

Their girl.

He hadn’t seen her in days—not since the funeral.

Part of him seethed when he thought about it, muscles tense, fists clenched. Another part of him, however—another part of him felt broken, chest and throat tightening, skin buzzing with pain.

It was a visceral response, either way, but he was more inclined to block out the sadness in favor of rage. He had broken knuckles and a bloody lip to attest to that.

 “Time to wake up, sunshine!” Sam’s voice rang through the small Brooklyn apartment.

Steve sat up and looked around. He realized quickly that he wasn’t in his own bed—he wasn’t in a bed at all, actually, but instead on Sam’s sofa. Sam was in the kitchen, a metallic clang against plastic echoing in the living room as he shook a protein bottle around.

“What time is it?” Steve asked. He went to rub his eyes and flinched when a sharp sting spread through his skin, mixing with the dull ache of a bruise.

“Almost ten,” Sam answered. “Want a protein shake?”

“Sure,” Steve grunted and stood up, stretching out his aching limbs. He was shirtless and he could see more purple mottling on his stomach, around his ribs.

Sam handed him the protein shake and nodded to his injuries. “How ya feeling?”

“Like a truck ran me over,” Steve mumbled. He popped open the protein bottle and took a sip, cringing at the taste of watery vanilla—made with rice milk, no doubt, part of Sam’s new health kick.

Sam chuckled and went back into the kitchen. “Not a truck, no. But Rumlow wasn’t going easy on you last night.”

Steve groaned at the memory. He didn’t know if the throbbing in his head was from his hangover or his concussion.

Sam continued, “Still, man, congrats. Rumlow didn’t make it an easy win, but you managed it!”

The memories from last night flooded his mind. It wasn’t too different a night from the entire past week. There was an underground fight club they frequented in Brownsville, one that Steve participated in every so often. He hadn’t fought much for the past year—not since meeting Peggy—but now with so much built up anger and frustration over everything that had happened in the days leading up to the funeral, he needed to release his emotions somehow.

Fighting worked wonders for his excess energy.

He had fought every night that last week, and he had won every single match. Last night, he fought Brock Rumlow—one of the mobsters from Hydra, whose territory mostly spanned the other side of the Hudson despite their slow encroachment on New York City. Beating Rumlow to a pulp the previous night had not only won Steve ten grand, but it also established the dominance of the Brooklyn Mob over Hydra—informally, at least.

Steve finished off the protein shake and set the bottle on the kitchen counter.

“Feel free to take a shower, man,” Sam said, “You stink like shit and you got blood on my throw pillow.”

He glanced to the couch where his head had been resting, indeed finding dark brown stains of dried blood on the square pillow there. “Right. Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll just—” Steve motioned to the bathroom and got on his way.

“And Buck’s gonna be here in a few. We’re going out to breakfast—wanna come?”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve mumbled, then shut himself behind the bathroom door. As he showered, wincing from the hot water running through the cuts on his face, he readied himself for Bucky’s arrival.

Things were tense between the two men since Y/N had decided to leave. Bucky wasn’t doing well with it—eating his feelings and drinking away the pain at night. He knew Bucky blamed him, and he knew he was falling back into old habits like drinking and partying. Not that Steve was doing much better. He drank just as much, his smoking had doubled, and of course the bruising on his face spoke for itself.

But he didn’t know what to do, or why he felt this way. The past year when he had been staying away from Y/N, focusing instead on the mob and Peggy—that had been fine. He had been fine.

But now…

He ran his hands down his face, rubbing soap into the lacerations until it burned so bad, the pain was all he could think of.

When he got out, he dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that Sam had left out for him before slicking his hair back to the best of his ability and running his knuckles against his jaw. He was getting a little scruffy, not having shaved for a few days, but the hair did a little bit to hide the bruising on his jaw and the cut on his chin from his fight two nights ago with one tough bastard named Wade Wilson.

As he entered the living room, he saw Bucky and Natasha sitting on the couch with Sam.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greeted his friend with a clap on the shoulder, pretending not to notice when he shied away. “Nat. Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Buck stayed at my place last night so he invited me.”

“Oh.” Steve didn’t know what Bucky was up to lately, but now he wondered if he was back with Natasha… But Natasha was with the Maximoff girl… Right?

“You look like shit,” Bucky commented dryly.

“Yeah, Rogers, what happened?” Natasha asked, a smirk playing on her red lips.

When Steve ignored her, Sam answered, “He dragged Brock Rumlow across the ring last night.”

“Brownsville?” Bucky asked, turning in his seat to look at Steve, brows furrowing as he took in Steve’s full appearance, bruises, cuts, and all.

“Yeah,” Steve grunted, putting on his sneakers. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about it—not before a cup of coffee, at least. “Can we go now? I’m starving.”

It didn’t take long to walk to Coulson’s, only a few blocks down. The diner was a staple for them—they had been going there since high school for late night burgers and milkshakes, and Bucky realized that despite all of the stress from the last few weeks, his and Steve’s tumultuous relations with Y/N, some things never change.

He had to admit his annoyance and anger with Steve and how they had handled everything. Bucky didn’t think he himself was blameless—he acknowledged his own part, not supporting their girl enough, not being perceptive enough to realize how she was suffering. He wouldn’t apologize for punishing her when she deserved it, but he was sorry for everything else.

It was driving him crazy. He wished he could tell her this—beg for forgiveness—but he didn’t know how.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake,” Bucky said, looking over the menu. “And a BLT. And fries.”

Sam raised his eyebrows from across the table. “That all?”

“I’ll have a side salad, too. Dressing on the side.”

“You’re a beast, Barnes.”

Steve stayed silent through the exchange, only speaking to order a breakfast spread and a coffee. He remained as such throughout most of breakfast, even as the others made conversation; how Sam’s latest fling with a girl from the Bronx was going, the latest Giants game, and construction for the Manhattan location of the Widow’s Web. Only once Steve had finished his first cup of coffee did he speak at all.

After Natasha mentioned her relationship with Wanda, Steve asked, “She’s still working at the Web?”

Natasha nodded, eyes lighting up with amusement as if she could see where Steve’s train of thought was going. She was always able to see through him like he was made of plastic wrap. “Yeah, but it’s a pain for her to commute now that she moved into their new apartment.”

“Where is their apartment?” he asked, trying to seem nonchalant.

She scoffed, but the smirk on her lips told him she wasn’t annoyed with his query. “I don’t know if I should tell you, Rogers. I’m perfectly aware of how Y/N broke up with you—”

“She didn’t break up with me—”

One of her perfectly groomed eyebrows arched so high Steve thought it might detach from her forehead. “Oh? Well it sure seems like it.”

His voice strained with effort as he resisted the urge to yell at her, or punch something, or flip the table. He was working hard on not making scenes in public. “I’m not asking for the address. Just making conversation.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Right. Well it’s not too far from the university. Wanda said they can walk to class.”

“Classes have started already?” Bucky asked, eager to smooth over the tension still radiating from Steve.

“Yep,” Natasha popped her lips, that sly grin coming back. “And don’t ask me what classes your girl is taking—I have no idea about her.”

Steve rolled his eyes and mumbled into his coffee mug, “She’s not our girl…”

“Not anymore she’s not.”

“Nat.” Bucky sent her a look, not mean, but stern and exasperated as she tried to rile Steve up further. “Knock it off.”

 Steve looked at Bucky then, really looked at him—for probably the first time that entire morning. He took in the tight t-shirt Bucky wore, straining against his chest, the sleeves rolled up on his thick biceps. The man in front of him—the man he had known his entire life, who he had grown up with, who he had seen blossom from an awkward teenager into this beautiful man.

It wasn’t hard for Steve to admit that he missed him.

So things had been tense between them—Steve knew Bucky was mad at him, and Steve’s mood was rarely much better—but Steve missed Bucky. He knew Bucky would come around eventually. Not many things could get between their years of friendship.

Bucky held his gaze, wondering what Steve was thinking—and then Steve’s lips quirked up in a smirk behind his mug, his eyes sparkling with something suddenly.

Oh.

Well, Bucky was still a little pissed off, but he could work with that.

He was never good at holding a grudge, anyways.

Maintaining eye contact still, Bucky picked up his milkshake and wrapped his lips around the straw, taking a long sip and letting Steve observe the pucker of his red lips, the hollow of his cheeks as he sucked.

Steve licked his lips, mouth parted for a moment, entranced at the display, but their attention was diverted as the food arrived.

As Bucky started on his BLT, Natasha asked, “Buck, you coming to the party tonight?”

Bucky nodded, mouth full, and Steve asked, “What party?”

“A rave in East Village. Wanna come?”

Bucky swallowed and looked at Steve again—Steve, who was looking back at Bucky in an almost challenging way.

“Sure,” Steve said, surprising Bucky. “I’ll come.”

“Don’t need to go defend your title in Brownsville?” Bucky asked. Part of him still wanted to be angry at Steve. However, another part was excited for Steve to go tonight. He couldn’t remember the last time they had gone out together—it was before Y/N, maybe even before Peggy. Not that Bucky had been partying much the last few years after he got clean, but he was excited still. They could fool around like they used to, and it would be like old times.

Steve shrugged. “I think I’m done fighting. For now.”

Bucky snorted, but grinned at his friend. “You’re never done fighting, Stevie.”

 It was later that night, almost midnight, when Steve saw Bucky outside of the nightclub in Manhattan, and he almost had an aneurysm at what he was wearing. A skintight silk button down shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, matched with the tightest jeans he owned. His hair was down, long at his shoulders, a piece braided in the front. Red lips slick with spit, skin a little shiny, it was clear that Bucky had already pre-gamed earlier with Natasha.

As they stood behind Natasha, who was whispering to the bouncer, saying some sort of magic words to gain them entry, Bucky slung his arm low around Steve’s waist, swaying on his feet a little.

Steve slid his arm around Bucky to steady him, and his body tingled at the feeling of Bucky’s slimmer frame against him. He had always loved being able to support Bucky like this, hold him up when he was drunk. Steve was always the skinnier one growing up until they finished high school and then somehow he grew taller and filled out.

Bucky always said he loved Steve either way, and he was the only one to love him when he was tiny.

“How much have you had to drink?” Steve murmured to him, voice a soft growl close to Bucky’s ear.

Bucky shuddered, his shoulders vibrating under Steve’s arm. “Maybe one or two martinis at the Widow’s Web.”

“One or two?”

“Or five.” Bucky shrugged. “You know me.”

“Yeah I do. All too well…” Steve trailed off as the bouncer ushered them inside.

It was packed, lights flashing green and blue. Streamers, bubbles, and glitter floated around in the air, giving the sense of being underwater. Go-go dancers stood around the crowd on pedestals, dressed in clamshell bras and tight scaly skirts. Heavy electronic music played, and Natasha led the boys through the throng of dancers up to the bar. She managed to get them drinks relatively quickly—even though the bar was crowded with people, the bartender seemed to recognize her and got her order together pretty quickly.

She got them all shots of tequila. Steve cringed at the taste; it reminded him of the last time he had drank tequila and the bad decisions that had come with it.

After two more tequila shots, Natasha was pulled away by somebody she knew, and then Steve felt Bucky tugging at his waist.

“Come dance, Stevie!”

Steve had no chance to respond before Bucky was pulling him onto the dancefloor, expertly weaving through the crowd and then grinding his ass against Steve.

Well, Steve wasn’t going to protest.

He hadn’t gotten off since before the funeral, and he hadn’t fucked Bucky in much longer, and he was getting that craving again. Bucky was always the perfect sub for him. Something Steve admired about Bucky was his ability to switch between roles so well.

Another thing Steve admired about Bucky was his tight little ass, which Bucky was grinding against Steve’s half-hard cock like he was being paid for it.

Steve’s hands settled on Bucky’s hips, gripping tightly and moving them as he pleased. Bucky’s back was pressed tight to Steve’s chest, and Steve’s lips skimmed his ear, his neck, his jaw, where he nipped harshly at the bone, eliciting a deep groan from Bucky that rumbled through Steve’s chest.

After a few songs, the tequila started to kick in, and Steve felt bolder. His hands wandered up and down Bucky’s sides, his chest, skimming across soft bare skin juxtaposed by coarse black chest hair. He took a handful of Bucky’s pec, squeezing, slipping underneath his soft shirt and pinching at his nipple.

“Missed you, Buck,” Steve groaned in response to Bucky’s breathy whimper.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped as the man behind him brought his other hand to cup Bucky’s growing erection through painfully tight denim. His hands worked Bucky’s chest and cock in tandem until Bucky was shuddering and shaking, turning around to face Steve. “C’mere—” Bucky muttered before crushing his lips to Steve’s.

The kiss was deep and filthy, tongues dragging against tongue and teeth, lips sucking apart with lewd sounds drowned out by the music. Their bodies gyrated against each other to the beat, Steve’s hands gripping Bucky’s ass in a bruising hold, keeping their cocks pressed against each other through two layers of denim. Bucky fisted Steve’s hair, ran his hands down Steve’s neck and back and then tucked up underneath his shirt, lying flat against heated skin, damp with sweat.

Steve sucked a bruise into Bucky’s neck, all teeth and harsh sucks, while Bucky ran his nails down Steve’s shoulders.

“Want you,” Steve breathed into Bucky’s ear.

“Then take me.”

Without any warning, Steve led them to the men’s room, shoving Bucky into a stall and dropping to his knees. His hands worked Bucky’s jeans off quickly, pulling them down his thick thighs.

“No underwear, Buck?” Steve smirked up at him. “Feeling hopeful tonight?”

Bucky snorted. “The way you were eyeing me at the diner earlier told me all I needed to know about how things would go tonight, Rogers. You’re not as slick as you—oh, God—” His insults were cut off as Steve suddenly took Bucky’s entire cock into his mouth, down to the root, nose buried in Bucky’s shaved pubic hair.

Another thing Steve admired about Bucky was that Bucky kept everything so soft and smooth down here. It made giving head a downright joy.

“Oh, Stevie, please, yes—” Bucky gargled, slanting his fingers through Steve’s hair and holding him there.

Steve pulled back and dipped his head down, licking down his long shaft, tonguing the join between his cock and balls, and then running his tongue all over his balls until they were dripping spit. Steve sucked one into his mouth, playing with it with his tongue as Bucky chanted pleas and praise, mind lost at the feeling of Steve’s mouth on his most sensitive area.

Maneuvering their bodies so Bucky was leaning against the stall wall, Steve encouraged Bucky to spread his legs as much as possible with the restraint of his jeans around his thighs, even yanking his pants further down to get Bucky’s legs as wide as they could go in this dirty club bathroom. Then, Steve dove in, starting again at Bucky’s balls, sucking and tonguing them, and then licking back around to Bucky’s taint and burying his face as far as he could between Bucky’s legs to lick at the rosebud between his cheeks.

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky gasped raggedly, holding Steve’s hair with both hands and shoving.

It was an incredibly awkward position for Steve, face shoved into Bucky’s balls, mouth desperately trying to reach his asshole, chin absolutely soaked in saliva. One hand pumped Bucky’s cock and the other gripped his ass cheek, kneading and spreading them.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” Bucky canted his hips forward, trying to get more of Steve’s mouth on him. “More, Stevie, please—more—”

Steve pulled away, grinning at Bucky’s disgruntled whine. After a sharp smack to Bucky’s ass, he shoved at his hips. “Turn around and bend over, baby.” His voice was so rough and gravelly it made Bucky shiver.

Bucky obliged quickly, and Steve wasted no time in spreading Bucky’s ass and placing the width of his tongue over Bucky’s little pink asshole, letting the split that had collected in his mouth drip down his tongue and over Bucky’s rim and down his perineum, coating his balls in slick saliva.

Once Bucky’s hole was wet enough, Steve put his mouth fully over the puckered flesh, sucking at the rim hard. Bucky cried out, shoving his ass back into Steve’s face and reaching down to slowly stroke his own cock.

Next, Steve straightened his tongue and slowly breached Bucky’s entrance, letting Bucky’s flesh tense and relax around him. Meanwhile, Bucky kept up a string of pleas and cries, begging Steve for anything and everything.

“So good, Stevie, so fucking good—God—fuck!” Bucky growled. “Yesyesyes—please, Stevie—more—want your fingers—”

Steve could never deny Bucky.

Retracting his mouth, he sucked one finger into his mouth and covered it until it was dripping wet, then slowly entered Bucky’s hole, glistening with spit in the dim fluorescent light of the bathroom.

“You like that, baby?” Steve asked as he started fucking Bucky with his finger. “You like me licking out this sloppy little hole?”

“Steve—yes—fuck—”

“You like me eating you out on this dirty bathroom floor? You’d let me fuck you anywhere, wouldn’t you, Buck?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“You’re filthy, baby—fucking filthy for me—all for me, right?”

“Yeah, Stevie, only for you—please let me come—”

“Come for me, sweetheart—that’s right—” Steve leaned forward and licked around the finger pumping in and out of Bucky’s ass, reaching his other hand around to play with Bucky’s balls until he could feel them drawing up against his body. Bucky let out a few little moans, breathless and sweet, and then Steve felt the other man’s release dripping down onto his hand.

Bucky leaned against the stall, pressing his face against the cool metal, while Steve took away his finger and gave a few soft licks to Bucky’s rim. Then he stood up and slotted himself behind Bucky, kissing up and down his neck, sweeter and softer than he had any right to be after the depraved words he spoke.

Bucky slowly turned around, a little shaky on his feet and a little awkward with his pants still down. They kissed, sloppy and hot, until Bucky reached for Steve’s erection.

Steve stopped him with his hand that wasn’t covered in come. “I want to take you back home. Wanna come in your ass.”

Bucky groaned low in his throat and nodded, mouthing at Steve’s cheek and jaw. “Want that—yes—please, Steve—”

Steve chuckled and pulled away. He locked eyes with Bucky, keeping eye contact as he brought his hand up and licked the come off his fingers, sucking them into his mouth one at a time. “You always taste so good, Buck.”

He offered some to Bucky, and he took his fingers in between his plump red lips and sucked all of his own cream off, not blinking once as he worked.

Once they were cleaned up, Steve helped Bucky put his pants back on, and then kissed him once more. “Let’s go home.”

Later that night, as they cuddled in Bucky’s bed, Steve’s come still leaking out of Bucky’s ass, Bucky murmured into Steve’s shoulder. “We gotta get her back, Stevie.”

Steve sighed. He had thought the same thing a hundred times in the past week alone. “I know… But how?”

“I don’t know… But we have to figure it out.”

 “Wait, wait—” Wanda grunted in the middle of the stairwell, between the fourth and fifth floors. “Wait! I said wait!”

All the girls around the dresser groaned. Two on one end and two on the other, Kate in the middle doing her best to keep the piece of furniture together, the girls paused their hefting and heaving at Wanda’s demand.

They had found the dresser on the curb two blocks down and had come too far to give up now—especially when dressers this size would usually cost upwards of three hundred dollars, more money than any of them had put together.

But moving furniture was never easy, not when the elevator was broken and they lived on the top floor.

“What?” Kate snapped, poking her knee forward to stop one of the dresser drawers from sliding out and falling through the stair rail and down four and a half floors. “Why are we stopping?”

A petulant whine came from Wanda’s throat. “I need a break!”

“Oh my God!” America moaned, “We’re almost there!”

“We’re only halfway there!” Wanda protested, gently setting the dresser down on the landing. “This thing is fucking heavy!”

“Are you seriously doing this?” Y/N asked, stationed right beside Wanda. She adjusted her grip on the dresser so it wouldn’t fall down and squash Kamala and America.

“I have no endurance, okay?”

“At least she admits it,” America muttered, and the girls huffed a laugh, too out of breath for much else.

Kamala groaned “We need to speed this along! I have a meeting with my advisor in forty minutes.”

“For what?” America asked.

“Changing some classes to fit my major.”

“What’s your major?” Y/N asked. She hadn’t yet gotten to know the other girls very well, only having lived with them for about a week. Classes were about to start and she was nervous enough—she hadn’t even thought about a major yet. It seemed like every time she turned a corner, there was another thing she was behind on.

And the list was mounting—she hadn’t done her FAFSA, hadn’t signed up to the bill sharing website they needed for utilities, hadn’t bought the required textbooks for her classes. She had only picked her classes a few days prior—and the pickings were slim so close to the start of the semester. The four classes she chose included a seminar, a class about ancient history, a chemistry course, and an introductory art class as an elective. While trying to find classes, she realized she knew almost nothing about anything, so she decided to try a well-rounded schedule of courses this semester to try and figure out what exactly she wanted to do with her life.

“I’m film,” Kamala said.

“What about you guys?” Y/N asked.

“I’m doing theater,” America said, “But after I graduate I’m going to law school.”

Kate said, “I’m doing engineering. I’m torn between chemical engineering, electrical engineering, and mechanical engineering.”

Wanda added, “I’m doing business. My dad wants me to take over the liquor business one day, so I guess I’m getting ready for that.”

 Y/N hadn’t even thought about graduation or anything after that. She couldn’t fathom the work that went into engineering, or law, or business, or getting a job, or—

“What about you?” Kate asked her.

“I’m undecided,” she shrugged. “I don’t really know what I want to do yet.”

Wanda smiled at her and nudged her with her knee. “You have plenty of time to figure it out.” She smiled back, but there was a sinking feeling in her stomach, a suspicion that she wasn’t good enough or smart enough, inadequate in so many ways.

Did she even deserve to go to NYU? Was this truly the right place for her?

Or was her purpose in life to serve the mob, as her parents had told her all her life?

Kamala grunted, lifting the dresser again. “Can we get going? I don’t want to be late.”

They all started lifting together, grunting and groaning in turn, when a familiar voice called from the bottom of the stairwell.

“You girls need help?”

“Ouch!” Wanda yelped as Y/N stumbled and almost dropped the dresser on her foot. The blood left her face and she started to sweat—and not from the physical exertion.

Bucky’s face appeared on the other end of the dresser, taking the load off of Kamala and America. “Here, you girls get the sides.”

Y/N remained silent as Bucky directed them up the rest of the stairs, carrying most of the weight of the dresser and helping America position it in her room.

“There ya go,” he breathed, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Thank you so much!” America said, a wide grin on her face. “I mean, we could’ve done it without you, but I probably would’ve ended up punching Wanda in the face with all her whining.”

“Hey!” Wanda frowned, smacking America lightly on the arm.

Bucky chuckled. “Anything for one of Y/N’s friends.”

The three girls who knew nothing of Bucky turned to face Y/N, shocked.

Kate asked, “You know him?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Kamala asked.

Her response was an awkward chuckle. “Well I was trying not to drop the dresser… So…” She hadn’t looked at Bucky once since they got into the apartment, pointedly avoiding eye contact with him now as he stared at her.

It was his first time seeing her in a few weeks, and his heart leapt at the sight—she looked good, really good. Hair shiny, skin glowing, nails painted bright red. She wore high waisted shorts that showed off just the slightest hint of her ass, and a skintight off-the-shoulder top.

Bucky missed her, but he had to admit, if this is how she was dressing now, maybe college was the right decision for her.

“Why don’t you show me around, sweetheart?”

Y/N glared at him; however, he knew she wouldn’t say anything against him—hoped, at least, that there still might be something left of their obedient little doll. Still, she hesitated, worry on her face behind her anger.

Wanda touched her arm. “I’ll keep an ear out.”

She sent Wanda a grateful look and turned to leave the room. As they left, Wanda whispered to the other girls, “He’s her ex-boyfriend. Total asshole.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at that but paid close attention to the girl in front of him as she showed him the living room and kitchen. He noticed they seemed to have no space for anything, boxes all over the place, counters cluttered with pots and pans. That was run of the mill for a Manhattan apartment, but he was sure it was a pain in the ass.

He followed along as she pointed out each bedroom in the hallway. “And this one’s mine,” she said shortly, stopping in front of the closed door at the end. She made no move to open it.

“You gonna show me inside?”

“No.”

He chuckled, delighted at her fiery attitude. He could deal with the brattiness as long as she was actually speaking to him. “C’mon, sweetheart. I swear I won’t try anything. We’ll leave the door open.”

The way he looked at her with eyes so earnest, big and blue and pleading—it weakened her resolve. She considered it for a moment and then looked away from him, chewing on her lip, suddenly a little shy. “It’s really small. Nothing fancy.”

“Darling, I just wanna see it. I don’t care how it looks.” He brushed past her and took hold of the doorknob, letting himself inside.

Small was an understatement. Her queen-sized bed took up half the space, and the rest of it was filled with boxes. The walls were drab—greying white, holes in the drywall everywhere. Clothes littered her bed and the desk chair from her old room that was shoved into a corner between the wall and the bed.

She weaved her way through the boxes and plopped on the bed, leaning back on her hands and staring up at him. “I don’t have room for a dresser. And I don’t have closet space. So…” Her sentence finished with a shrug.

“Aw, honey…” He frowned, surveying the space, mind working with how he could help. “Maybe I can build you some shelves. Hang ‘em up right here, and here,” he pointed to a few spaces on the walls. “I could put hooks or racks in them so you can hang your clothes.”

Her mouth twitched. “You don’t have to do that. Really, it’s fine.”

“I want to. It’s the least I can do, after…”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she asked, “How did you get my address?”

“Natasha told me.” It was a lie, but she didn’t need to know about the extent of his and Steve’s scheming over the past two weeks.

“Why did you come here?”

He pulled his backpack off, and that was when she noticed it wasn’t his backpack, it was hers. It was the one she had packed for the few days before her dad’s funeral, when she was staying at the boys’ apartment. She had left her things there and completely forgotten about it until now.

“You left this stuff at our place. I wanted to return it.”

“…Oh.”

“And I wanted to check on you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Her lips seemed to waver between a smile and a frown, pink and glossy, just like when he first kissed her at her birthday party. He kept his distance, not trusting himself if he was too close to her, and definitely not here, in her room, which smelled like her, like sweet flowers and vanilla.

“When do classes start?”

“Next week.”

“What’s your schedule like?” She hesitated, looking at him with an untrusting, wary expression. He sighed, holding up his hands in innocence. “Just so I know when to come and install the shelves.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, but she relented. “I have classes every day in the mornings and swim practice every afternoon. I’m looking for a job too but I don’t have anything yet. You can come next weekend.”

He smiled at her, that bright, happy grin that lit up her childhood. “Great. I’ll see you then.”

He turned to leave, and before she could stop herself, she scrambled off the bed and grabbed his wrist before he could go. “That was it? That’s all you came for?”

Looking down at her, he nodded, schooling his expression into one of honesty and concern, which was exceptionally difficult when all he felt was hunger for her. “Yeah—what were you thinking?”

Quickly, she let go of his hand. He immediately missed the feeling of her soft skin on his. “I don’t know.”

He smiled again and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. God, how was she so soft? “You seem happy, darling. And I want you to know I’m proud of you for making it here, making it to NYU. You seem to be doing well.”

She paused, then nodded. “I am.”

“Good.”

And with that, he gave her bare shoulder a squeeze and left the room without another word. She stood still, shocked for a moment, focusing entirely on the tingling feeling where his hand touched her shoulder, wondering why her skin was breaking into goosebumps just from a simple, innocent touch. 

[jadekitty777]

Baker’s Dozen, Part 2

Final day, final day, final day!

Day 8: Free Day @taiqrowweek

Rating: K

Words: 1,800

Summary: When a desperate escape from fans leaves Qrow seeking shelter in a nearby restaurant, he expects little of the rundown, failing business that offers him a table. One bite is all it takes to change his mind. [Actor and Chef AU]

Ao3 Link: Part 2

~

Mornings at the Qrow’s Nest were blissfully silent. With opening still hours away and the kitchen completely empty, Taiyang had all the time and space he needed to do the various prep work that would carry the lunch and dinner teams throughout the day. The things like soups, breads and desserts that needed a more delicate and mindful touch that would easily be lost under the hustle and bustle of the rush crowds.

It also gave him plenty of opportunity to experiment. He wasn’t used to the more trend-following patrons his new restaurant tended to draw in, but as head chef, it was his job to decide what went on the menu, while also finding new, exciting things to cycle in every season to stray from a stagnating selection. It was a challenge to imagine up different recipes rather than fall into his old, tried-and-true routines, but he’d never been one to quit when things got difficult and instead jumped headfirst into the work.

Thankfully, his business partner was a rather inspiring muse, with an entire filmography page to pull ideas from. Designing meals around whatever hotshot flick or program Qrow happened to be appearing in worked like a charm for both of them. There was less chance his creativity would tank and it drummed up excitement for the upcoming release.

This Fall would see the premiere of The Grimm Adventure, a dark and gritty fantasy-action flick. Though he wasn’t taking a leading role, Qrow still seemed positively beside himself for it to come out (Tai suspected it had something to do with the fact he got to run around for two-thirds of the film with a sword). From what he understood, the story took place in a dystopian world ruled by shadow creatures and followed the journey of a young maiden tasked with saving her dying world. Qrow would appear in it as her mentor, guiding her during her more difficult trials.

The low-lit sets seen in the trailers belayed a morose, almost gothic aesthetic, and had Tai leaning towards garnishes that matched, such as brisket and black-bean chili, forbidden rice and chicken stir fry, southern pork with a side of black-eyed peas and blackberry cobbler and black forest ham with leafy asparagus and roasted potatoes peppered with black garlic. He was most proud of that last one, as it was meant to match the fire-burnt thickets Qrow would save his apprentice from.

The menu was mostly complete and ready to be revealed. The only thing he had left to decide on was the final dessert.

So, Tai flipped on his old cassette player, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

~

Two hours later found him flourishing on the final touches to the cake he’d crafted while belting out the lyrics to whatever western-inspired ditty was managing to come out of the ancient machine.

“Country roooads, take me hooome, to the place I belooong. West Virginia, mountain llama. Oh take me home, country roads.”

No one was around to hear the lyrics he didn’t quite remember right.

So, of course that was the moment someone decided to walk through the door.

“Mountain llama?”

Tai jumped, completely butchering the strawberry he was trying to cut precisely in half. He swiveled around, greeted by the amused smile of his partner. “God’s almighty Qrow! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

He chuckled, holding up his hands in peaceful surrender. “Sorry ‘bout that. It’s just – llama??”

“Oh put a sock in it.” He turned off his player before reaching for another strawberry. As he chopped down, he said, “Surprised to see you here. I thought you were staying in New Zealand a few more days?”

“The reshoots went better than expected, so I caught an early flight.” Qrow explained. “Though I would kill for some coffee right now.”

“Pot’s on for the taking.”

The offer was graciously accepted, and soon enough the other man had a mug in his hand and a seat on the counter, watching as Tai shaped the strawberry halves into hearts. He took a sip of his coffee – black with barely enough cream to color – and asked, “What are you working on?”  

Focused on getting the cut just right this time, his response was distracted. “Dessert, for you.”

“Ah, you shouldn’t have.” Like the thespian he was, Qrow absolutely played it up, putting a hand to his heart and fluttering his eyelashes like a lovestruck debutante.

“You know, they say the first sign of an actor’s career going south is when they start to overact.” He ‘tsk’ed pityingly. “And you were still so young too.”

“Hm, funny,” There was a clear smirk in Qrow’s voice, “Because the only way ‘south’ I intend to go is with you.”

Tai missed the next cut too. Ears burning red, he shot the other a look. The only response he was offered was one brow raised in challenge as he smugly drank his coffee.

As much as he wanted to give back as good as he was given, nothing decent would form in his mind. So, he just grumbled, “Snake”. He’d have felt defeated, if not for how nice on the ears Qrow’s chuckles were. “If you’re all done with your games, I’d appreciate it if you’d have a taste of this cake.”

“You sure you want my opinion on that? You know I’m not much of a dessert guy.”

“Don’t worry, I made sure to temper the sweetness for your tender palate.” He said as fetched the cake from the adjacent workstation’s display shelf. Beyond its stark black frosting, the two-layered cake did not look like much. The decoration was left simple, only a standard spiral design bordering the top and bottom edges. Even the addition of the strawberry slices in a simple ring on top only added a bare hint of color.

The trick was within.

As Tai sliced through the cake, it revealed the marble design inside. Made with a mixture of chocolate and red velvet, the two batters blended together in a swirl like pattern. The layers were neatly divided by a scarlet-bright raspberry filling, bringing all the dark colors and bright reds together. He might not be the most outstanding baker there was – that honor had gone to his late wife – but he still felt a sense of pride as he held out the slice to his partner.

Qrow whistled as he got a proper gander at it. “You really outdid yourself this time.”

“The truth is in the taste, not the view.” Tai handed him a fork next.

“Beg to differ.” He said, eyes never leaving him even as he dug in. “The view’s pretty nice from where I’m looking.”

The flush was back, spreading like a fever across his cheeks.

When they had first met, he had told Qrow he was no fool, unblinded by the trickery of the successful and silver-tongued. He’d like to maintain that eighteen months later, that was still the case. But the game Qrow was playing now was more devious than his first – and one Tai didn’t entirely mind losing.

He could not say quite when it started, all the flirting that grew bolder by the day and lewd comments that left him redder than a rose. At first, it had overwhelmed him; yet before long, he had found himself trying to return those notions. It had been quite some time since anyone had taken a fancy of him but settling down had not left him entirely rusty. Every time he managed to leave Qrow speechless or shy left a pleasant warmth in his belly, like a fire just starting to burn.

So yes, he absolutely knew where all this hemming and hawing was leading them. He just never fathomed in his wildest dreams he’d be heading there with someone like Qrow. On a surface level, he could never imagine they were even compatible.

Like the cake, the trick was on the inside.

As was typical for a man of his class, Qrow hid a lot to save face and that was what most saw. A successful, rich, socialite who barely had time to look down his nose at the common folk. Yet, Tai had learned the compassion he truly held. The gesture that saved his restaurant was only one act of many. He saw it again, when Qrow quietly requested if Tai would apprentice Lie Ren, the son of his driver who wished for a future in the kitchen. And again, in his visits to the children’s hospital to read them stories whenever he was in town. Once more with the various gift and food donations he’d make around the holidays so fewer homes had to go without.

That isn’t to say the man didn’t have his edges. He could be too caustic at times and if politics was even hinted at as a topic of conversation, Qrow’s voice was louder than anyone’s in just what he thought about their current president’s policies. He liked to drink, sometimes in excess, and when he was in a poor mood he either took to isolating himself or just sulked about like a teenager.

Yet for all his bad, the good still shined through. His smiles and laughter were treasures. He declined to live in excess, finding peace in the quietness of a quaint home. He was strict in never telling lies to those he trusted. He was brilliant, and funny, and hard-working. It was also a plus that Qrow was nicer to gaze upon than any fancy painting in the most prestigious museum.

There was so much Tai had grown to appreciate about the man behind the actor. With it, his feelings were starting to bud, close to blooming. He knew it was much the same for Qrow – though he knew not how precisely he viewed him, he at least could determine with confidence that it was a mutual romance beginning between them.

The real question was, which of them would be the one to make the final play on this game they’d started?

“Mmm, this is really good.” Qrow’s voice broke him from his thoughts, already halfway through the cake. “You’re right, it’s not too sweet.”

“And the berries add that tartness you like.” Tai added.

He chuckled, forking another piece. “You keeping track of my food preferences?”

That was, perhaps, the best hand he was ever gonna get dealt.

“A’course.” He lent his hip against the counter, “How else will I make your favorites when I invite you to dinner?”

Qrow froze, utensil halfway to his mouth as he stared beyond it and right at him. After a heated second of silence, he asked, “Is that a request for a date?”

Tai hid the shake of his hands by crossing his arms. “It is, if you’ll have me for one.”

“Believe me, I’d happily have you for dinner any day of the week.”

“Yeah?” A laugh mixed with embarrassment and pleasure left him. “How ‘bout Thursday then?”

Qrow smiled one of those treasured smiles and blushed one of those gut-warming blushes, and said, “Sounds just perfect.”

[astudyinfreewill]

love is strange

aka: lazy mornings at the barns, smitten teenagers, and old-fashioned love songs; aka (pt. 2): ~3k words of pure, unadulterated adam/ronan fluff inspired by song lyrics, because that’s just what my life is apparently??? aka (pt.3): a reimagining of that one scene from ‘please like me’. yes that one. u kno the one. thank you to @ethicalmadness​ for betaing this last minute!! <3

read on AO3

During the summer, it wasn’t often that Ronan woke up after Adam. He was used to weird sleeping patterns, and Adam was in perpetual sleep debt during the school year, so now he made up for it by sleeping in whenever he didn’t have an early shift at work.

That morning, however, seemed to be one of the exceptions, Ronan making his way downstairs to find Adam sitting at the kitchen table with a book, no doubt trying to get a head start on the coursework for his first semester at Columbia. He stopped for a moment at the foot of the stairs to savor the sight: Adam in loose sweatpants and an old t-shirt, hair still mussed from sleep or from running his hands through it, sitting in Ronan’s home like he belonged there, because he did belong there. Ronan’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, then another two when he realized Adam was wearing one of his old t-shirts (Adam always claimed he just grabbed whatever was closest, but Ronan was certain he did that to him on purpose, the little shit).

“Morning,” he greeted, stepping into the kitchen, making sure to approach Adam from his right side.

Adam looked up, closing his book but keeping one long finger inside to mark his place. “Mornin’,” he replied, his smile as soft as his rolling accent, which always liked to make more of an appearance early in the morning or late at night.

“Sleep well?” Ronan asked, reaching down to mess his hair up even more.

“Mhm. Like the dead. That mattress is a dream.” He paused, tilting his head to one side. “Wait, was it a dream?”

Ronan snorted. They had recently moved to Niall and Aurora’s old bedroom, because as spring rolled into summer and the days turned hotter, it was getting impossible for them to share Ronan’s old twin-size bed without waking up all sticky and sweaty (and not for one of the fun reasons). When Ronan had complained about the excessive heat, Adam had offered to go back to Declan’s room, but Ronan was damned if he was sleeping on his own again. He had had a taste of what it was like to wake up to Adam, and he wasn’t giving it up if he had a choice.

He’d thought it would be weird to sleep in his parents’ room, but somehow, it was better for it to be put to use; it had always felt too empty, a gaping reminder of Niall’s absence first, then Aurora’s. And, to be honest, the mattress was amazing.

“It’s entirely possible. Or it could just be a good fucking mattress. How come you’re up so early, then? Every other morning, it’s like I wake up next to a log.”

Adam raised his eyebrows at him, with a small smirk: “Oh, I’m sure it is.”

“Wow, so clever,” Ronan drawled, sarcastically. He chose to ignore the fact he could feel his cheeks warming up, or the way Adam’s smirk only grew larger in response.

“I know, right,” Adam replied modestly. “Anyway, I woke up because I was thirsty and when I was here… well, food just seemed like a good idea.”

“Imagine that,” Ronan deadpanned benevolently. It was Adam’s turn to blush. His perennial appetite was something of an awe-inspiring thing, but Ronan knew all too well why he was always hungry, and didn’t mind one bit. In fact, he took every available opportunity to feed him.

“Chill out, Parrish. You could use some more meat on that skinny ass anyway,” he teased, making a big show of eyeing him up and down.

Adam leveled him with a look. They both knew exactly how he felt about Adam’s ass. It was just about the same way Adam felt about his.

Ronan cleared his throat. “Want more coffee?”

“God, yes, please,” Adam moaned, dropping the staring contest. (Which may or may not have been exactly what Ronan was after. When trying to distract Adam, coffee was almost always effective.)

As Ronan went to the counter and started making a fresh pot of coffee, he spotted a plate by the sink, covered in pieces of toast. They were arranged in shapes that resembled nothing known to the human eye, but were very clearly intentional nonetheless.

“Opal?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” Adam replied wryly. “You really need to teach her not to play with her food.”

“What makes you think she listens to me?”

“It’s more of a blind hope, really,” Adam sighed. “She’s got to listen to someone.”

“She listens to you, for some reason.”

Adam looked like he wanted to say something, but bit his tongue and reopened the book instead. Ronan was fairly sure he knew what Adam had almost said: I’m not always going to be around. Which was true, but Ronan did not like to think about it, if he could avoid it.

“Where is she, anyway?” he asked, trying to change the topic.

“Out in the fields? I guess? She told me to tell you she wasn’t gonna be around for lunch. Probably gonna eat more sticks or something,” Adam smiled, amused.

Ronan clucked his tongue. “Look at her, all emancipated already. They grow up so fast.”

He moved back to the table, bringing the fresh pot of coffee and some buttered toast for himself (and for Adam, despite the fact Adam had ostensibly eaten already).

“Anyhow, before you decided to make a crass sexual innuendo,” he started, in his best Gansey voice, “I was just saying that you’re very still when you’re asleep. That’s all.”

Adam snorted at the impression. “Yes, well, I’m not used to moving around much in my sleep,” he said, predictably reaching a hand out to steal a corner of Ronan’s toast (to Ronan’s part-smug, part-endeared satisfaction). “Haven’t exactly had the most luxurious beds. If I rolled around too much, chances were I’d be sleeping on the floor.”

Ronan had spent enough nights at St. Agnes, either beside Adam’s bed or inside it, to know that was true; and he’d only been inside Adam’s parents’ trailer once, when he’d helped him move out, but the bed was even smaller there.

“Well, better get used to it, Parrish,” he grinned, reclining back into the chair and crossing his arms behind his head arrogantly. “You’re living the high life now. That good ol’ king-sized bed life.”

Adam looked at him with the same weird hesitance as before, but this time, he actually said the words. “Well, until I leave for college, at least.”

Ronan stopped leaning back into the chair and planted his elbows on the table instead, mock-arrogance and grin both gone. He started tearing a piece of toast apart with glowering concentration, and realized belatedly it was exactly what Opal had done with hers, and what Chainsaw did with anything she could get her beak on. Maybe it ran in the family.

“Ronan,” Adam said quietly, gently.

“Why do you have to say shit like that?” Ronan said, staring at the table.

“Because – it’s the truth? And because I don’t want you to – I don’t know – forget that it’s happening, and then be disappointed when it’s time for me to leave.” Adam sounded genuinely regretful, which did nothing to ease Ronan’s bad mood, because Adam was also, in some ways, completely right. Ronan did try his best to ignore that this newfound bliss was only going to last until the end of the summer. But just because he tried to bask in denial, it didn’t mean he was successful.

“You think I can actually forget that? That I don’t think about it every damn day?” he spit back despondently, but it came out sounding more forlorn than biting, which perhaps was for the best.

“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Adam’s voice was quiet, but earnest. “I just want us to be okay. And I think about it too, you know.”

Ronan looked up at him, with all the skepticism he could muster. “Please. You can’t wait to go to college.”

“Well, yeah,” Adam acknowledged, simply, meeting Ronan’s eyes head on. He had never compromised on that, and never would, and if Ronan was being honest with himself, he loved him for it. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna miss you every day.”

“Smooth-talking bastard,” Ronan replied. He knew Adam knew that was what he needed to hear, but he also knew that Adam meant it, and that was enough to dissipate his bad mood. “Eat your toast.”

“It’s your toast.” Adam poked Ronan’s bare foot with his socked one, a tentative peace offering.

“Then eat my toast,” Ronan drawled. “I’m gonna make more anyway.”

So they ate toast, and they drank coffee, and Ronan told Adam what he had dreamt, and Adam told Ronan what he was reading about. It was all so utterly domestic, it made Ronan’s heart ache in all the best ways. This is it, he thought to himself. Whatever happiness is, this is it.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Chainsaw coming down from her perch to peck at the cold remnants of toast. Ronan got lost in the hypnotic motion of stroking her feathers, like he used to do when she was just a fledgling. When he looked up, Adam was gathering the dishes and mugs and taking them to the sink, but not before Ronan had caught him staring with unabashed fondness at him and Chainsaw.

“What,” he deadpanned.

“I keep telling you,” Adam shrugged, slightly embarrassed at being caught out, “you look like a supervillain petting his familiar. Pretty darn cute.”

“Supervillains aren’t cute, Parrish.”

“Well, I guess you’ll be the first one, then.” And there it was, that cheery smile, all cheeky uncomplicated happiness. Ronan sometimes wondered if his heart would ever stop accelerating when he saw it. So far, the odds weren’t in his favor.

Restless, he got up and joined Adam at the sink.

“You don’t have to do the dishes, you know.”

“I know. I don’t mind.”

“I can do them,” Ronan insisted.

“You made breakfast.”

Ronan rolled his eyes. “I put bread in a toaster.”

“And made coffee.”

“Whatever. You’re supposed to be taking it easy, remember? You’re the one who insisted he still needed to work two jobs through the summer, not me.”

“Well, aren’t you glad you have such an independent lover?” Adam joked.

It was a joke, Ronan knew. They’d only recently gotten used to the idea of referring to each other as boyfriend, and Ronan suspected Adam was riffing on an unfortunate joke Henry had made when they’d moved in together, something about Adam becoming Ronan’s kept mistress, which had resulted in Gansey wincing, Blue making an indignant noise, and Ronan chewing him out furiously (Adam, curiously, had been silent; as he later explained to Ronan, not because he agreed with it, but because for once in his life, he didn’t feel like he had something to prove to anyone, and he had five different Ivy League acceptance letters on his desk to testify for it).

So. It was a joke. Which really did nothing to explain why Ronan’s mouth went dry and his stomach flipped in a funny way at the word lover.

“That what you are, Parrish?” he heard himself say in a small, rough voice before he could stop the words from coming out. Oh God, what. The fuck are you doing.

Adam looked at him curiously, wrist-deep in soapy water. “Um. I guess? Wait.” He looked up at Ronan more closely, eyes slightly narrowed. “Do you… like that?”

Ronan’s cheeks felt very warm. “Uh, no?” he scoffed, disdainfully. Too obvious. Try again.

“Like what?” he shrugged, the motion not at all natural.

Adam turned off the tap. He’d caught on, and there would be no shaking him. “Y’know. That word. Lover.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Parrish,” he said, trying for haughty and missing by a mile or two. His cheeks definitely felt even warmer now, and Ronan could feel, with horror, the blush creeping down to his neck.

“You do,” Adam said, delightedly. “Oh my God.”

“I don’t,” Ronan insisted, then remembered he didn’t lie, huffed, and glowered at the ceiling instead. “So what?”

“Oh, nothing. I just think it’s adorable–”

“Fuck you, Parrish–”

“--and that if I’d known, I would have used it sooner and more often–”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah, but takes one to know one, right?” Adam grinned, unrepentant. Ronan had definitely been a terrible influence on him. Or maybe they’d just always been more similar than he’d been willing to contemplate. He chose to storm out of the kitchen anyway, cursing his fair complexion and ignoring the fact he could definitely still hear Adam chuckling in the kitchen. He could wash a hundred dishes for all Ronan cared.

He threw himself on the couch in a manner he hoped conveyed at once annoyance and superiority, and pretended to be very invested in the latest dream object he’d produced, a small painting of a landscape where the weather conditions changed if you shook it.

After a few minutes of sulking, he saw out of the corner of his eye Adam coming out of the kitchen and heading for the desk where Ronan’s computer was hooked up to the speakers. Ronan almost asked what he was doing, but Adam already knew his password anyway, and to acknowledge him was to give up the moral high ground, so he just shook the painting again, ostensibly very interested in the pictorial representation of hail.

Apparently, Adam had been fiddling with his Spotify account, because moments later, the sound of a guitar riff filled the room, and of course.

Ronan threw the painting down. He had hung out at Boyd’s during Adam’s shift often enough to have gained more than a passing knowledge of classic rock.

“Oh, extremely funny, Parrish. Really, extremely fucking funny.”

Adam evidently thought so too, because he laughed and then started to seriously, honest-to-God lip-sync to the song.

Right, that was the last straw. Ronan got up from the couch, ready to storm out of another room, but Adam quickly caught up with him and grabbed him by the wrist, then ran his fingers along his forearm, and okay, maybe Ronan could stay a couple minutes. Whatever.

“You getting your kicks out of this, Parrish?” he asked, trying to sound as bored as possible.

Adam grinned and casually rested his arms on ronan shoulders.

After you’ve had it, you’re in an awful fix, the song crooned, talking about love. Ronan was inclined to agree with the singing duo, because obviously he was as fucked as them, as evidenced by the way his arms decided of their own accord to snake around Adam’s waist.

Were they– swaying? Was this what high school proms were like?

And really, what the fuck was this morning?

Feeling equal parts surreal, foolish, and contented, he readjusted his loose hold on Adam, letting his hands rest at the small of his back. Adam’s hands, he could feel, were laced behind his neck, making him conscious of every point of contact.

Your sweet loving is better than a kiss, Adam lip-synced, half-humorously– but only half, Ronan couldn’t help but notice. Somehow, he felt much more inclined to forgive him now – and even more so when Adam quickly caught his lips in-between lines, gently tugging at his bottom one.

When you leave me, sweet kisses I’ll miss, the song went, and Ronan swallowed hard, refusing to even pretend-sing that line, but still feeling it in his chest.

They swayed along the next riff, the motion somehow incredibly awkward and oddly satisfying at the same time. He cringed. He knew what was coming next.

Sylvia?, Adam mouthed, directing his flirtiest look at him.

Yes, Mickey, Ronan mouthed back, rolling his eyes as far back in his head as he could to convey his spite.

How d’you call your loverboy? Adam asked, undeterred, doing his best impression of a smooth 50s blues singer, which wasn’t very smooth at all. It was kind of adorable, really.

Come here, loverboy, Ronan relented, getting into it a little more, because really, what kind of boyfriend would he be if he let Adam make a complete fool of himself all on his own?

And if he doesn’t answer? Adam mock-demanded, delighted to see Ronan playing along, eyes lighting up with amusement.

Oh, loverboy...? Ronan mouthed back, smiling and fluttering his eyelashes, because honestly, two could play at this game (and he was reasonably sure Adam had a thing for his eyelashes; he’d brushed his lips over them too many times for it to be a coincidence).

And if he still doesn’t answer? Adam insisted with a smirk, but Ronan was close enough to see his ears go pink, even under the tan.

I simply say–

Without entirely meaning to, Ronan found himself lip-syncing this part with more conviction than the teasing warranted, looking directly at Adam.

Baby, oh, baby

My sweet baby, you’re the one.

It was meant to be just playing along, but Ronan could feel the truth of those words heavy in his chest, the way he always did when he allowed himself to think about his feelings for Adam. To think about how he couldn’t ever imagine being with anyone else, hadn’t ever imagined being with anyone else; how Adam really was the one. He felt exposed, and breathless, and weirdly vulnerable, considering they were still just clumsily swaying in the living room to cheesy 50s rock. Suddenly he wanted very much to be staring at the ground, his ribs feeling too tight for his heart.

But Adam seemed to pick up on it, because he held Ronan’s eyes, stopping him from looking away, and sang the last line out loud. “Baby, oh, baby,” he crooned quietly, slightly off-tune, Southern accent mellowing out every sound, “my sweet baby, you’re the one.”

It could have been a joke – certainly it could be easily passed off as one – but it didn’t feel like one. The final strains of the song died out around them, and they were still swaying a little, arms wrapped around each other.

You’re the one.

Ronan swallowed. “Will you really miss me when you’re away at college?”

“Of course I will, lover.”

“You little shit,” Ronan laughed. Adam’s eyes were shining with amusement and fondness and something else that Ronan was not quite going to name, but felt reverberating in his chest, pounding against his ribcage.

“I’ll miss you too,” he said, instead of those more dangerous words, words better left for the summer nights, when he didn’t have to worry if he was blushing all the way down to his chest.

“I know,” Adam said. “So let’s make the most of the time we have.”

That, like many of Adam’s plans, was a smart idea. Ronan sat down on the couch, tugging on Adam’s hand to make him follow.

“Come here, loverboy,” he called, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Adam laughed, and went.