#the writing is fucking spectacular i cannot press this enough

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Oh my goddd I finally finished @roxilalonde s Love Letters In Digital Ink Rosemary fic and iM GAY, HAVE I MENTIONED IM GAY

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Leave Your Boots By The Bed (SPN x BtVS)

Sam Winchester x Faith Lehane

Word Count: 7350

Warnings: It’s smutty! Samhandling, the jockey is MJ’s favorite sex position, lots of discussions of trust and consent, unprotected sex, rimming, spanking, hair pulling, and dom/sub themes. Wee bit o’ feelings but in a nice way with a happy ending. Mostly just a whole bunch of marathon, athletic, probably-not-OSHA-compliant banging. 

A/N: This is the Sam/Faith side-quest (idk what else to call it) to Big Damn Heroes, but you don���t really need to read that to understand this. You can also read just the scene where these two meet over here. 

This is my entry for @idabbleincrazy and her “What Do You Mean This Is Classic Rock?” Challenge! My prompt was “Girl All The Bad Guys Want,” by Bowling For Soup, which 100% gave me Faith vibes. It’s quoted/referenced a couple times in the story. 

It’s also my (second) entry for @stusbunker’s Jam Basket fic exchange. This one’s for @thoughtslikeaminefield​, who deserves the world on a silver platter. I cannot give her that, so instead I offer Faith smut. Thanks to @mskathywriteswords​ for prodding and lotion-related reality checks, and to @fangirlxwritesx67​ for the read-throughs and for reassuring me that if I ever write Sam smut without a little psychoanalysis thrown in, she will worry about me. 

Title from the Jason Isbell song “Cover Me Up,” which I listened to on repeat while writing certain chunks of this. 

“What’s so funny?” Faith asks, looking at him sideways as they walk. 

“I just told you I come from another universe and your response is ‘cool.’” 

“Am I supposed to be impressed? I like it this way. No chance of you gettin’ all clingy.” 

Sam laughs. “Fair enough.” 

“Monsters, huh? You ever staked a vamp before?” 

“Stakes don’t kill ‘em in my world. But… beheaded a few,” Sam says mildly. 

“Yeah?” Her eyes sparkle. “So if we take the shortcut through the graveyard, you’re not gonna slow me down or get yourself killed?” 

He gives her an unimpressed look. “What do you think?” 

“Let’s go, then,” she challenges, pointing to the cemetery gate up ahead. “Bet I can dust more before we get to the other side.” 

“You’re on.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

“Heads up,” Faith shouts, and tosses him a stake. Sam whirls and punches it through the thing’s ribcage, sending dust swirling just in time to turn and watch Faith launch herself at another vamp. 

“Is this where you take all your dates?” Sam wonders out loud, a little bit enthralled by the cocky grin on her face as she sends the vamp stumbling with one of those showy spin-kicks. 

“This is not a date,” she snaps, between solid punches. The last hit decks the vamp, and she stakes him before he can hit the ground. She struts toward Sam, brushing dust from her skintight jeans with a Cheshire cat smile. “I like my job. Fuckin’ sue me.” 

“Not complaining,” Sam says, sincerely. “Hottest thing I’ve seen in ages.” 

She looks up at him suspiciously, like she thinks he’s making fun of her, and Sam lets her see the heat in his eyes. The grin is back, and she’s grabbing him by the lapels and rocking onto her tiptoes, swaying into him with a little sigh and a lot of confidence. Sam slides both hands into her hair and ducks down to kiss her, sucking on her lower lip and tasting waxy red. 

Breathtakingly competent and moderately bitchy has always sorta been his type. 

“We had a bet,” he points out, before crushing his mouth to hers again. She makes a sound like a purr and wrenches herself away, grabbing him by the wrist and making a beeline for the path. 

“I’m gonna say we both won here,” she says decisively. “Let’s go.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

She grabs him the second the lock slides into place, backing him against the door, already tugging at his belt. He yanks her jacket off her shoulders and she lets it fall, and then he grabs her by the belt loops, reeling her in until she’s pressed against him, hips flush to his as he slouches against the door. He bends to mouth at the long smooth line of her throat. 

“Talk to me,” he says, nipping at her earlobe. She shivers. 

“Fuck that,” she says hoarsely. “Didn’t bring you here to talk.” 

“Don’t worry, I can multitask.” Sam nibbles at the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, working delicate skin between his teeth, and pops the button of her jeans. He slides a hand down, teasing her clit with his fingertips, and repeats: “Tell me what you like.” 

“I like a lot less conversation and a whole lot more nudity,” Faith tosses back, but her voice is ragged, and she tilts her head to the side, baring her neck for his teeth. “I don’t fuckin’ know, dude, are we doing this or not?” 

He bends just enough to scoop her up, and she goes with it, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as he cups her ass with both hands. When he turns them around, slamming her back against the door and rolling his hips, Faith lets out a breathy sound of surprise. 

He drags his open mouth up the side of her throat and repeats, “Talk to me.” 

She pulls him up by the hair, forcing his head back, rough and perfect, and Sam moans against her lips as she kisses him. It’s more like a bite, all teeth and heat. 

“Bedroom’s that way,” she says huskily. 

She’s so strong, rock-solid where she’s wrapped around him, that it��s barely an effort to carry her through the small, spare living space. She’s got her hands in his hair and her teeth scraping his collarbone, and Sam grits his teeth against the sting as he kicks the door shut behind them. 

“Get your fuckin’ clothes off already,” she rasps, tugging at his flannel, and he strips both his shirts off obligingly, leaning back against the wall to balance as he discards them without putting Faith down. 

She lets go of his neck to help him, holding herself up with no support other than her abs and her thighs. Sam’s just as turned on by that casual display of strength as by the sight of bare skin — no bra — when she peels her tank top off. He hoists her a little higher, until he can flick his tongue over one hard pink nipple. He blows a stream of cool air over the sensitive skin and she shivers, thighs squeezing his sides as she arches her back. 

“What do you want?” Sam whispers, and laves his tongue over the other nipple. 

“Fuck, anything, you’re killin’ me here.” 

“Anything?” He scrapes pebbled skin with his teeth, savoring the way she squirms. 

“Want you naked. Now.” She twists out of his grasp like a cat, sliding down his front and landing gracefully on her feet. Gracefully but loudly, that is; she crouches to deal with her big chunky boots, and Sam toes off his own. 

He grins down at her as she tugs on his belt, admiring the way her mouth looks: bright red from his teeth, now, with the last smudges of lipstick smeared down her chin. 

Sam bats her hands away from his zipper. He picks her up before she can argue and tosses her bodily onto the bed, and she bounces on the mattress, her hair spilling across the sheet like a dark glossy halo. She lifts her hips to get her jeans off, her torso bowing up in a long elegant curve. 

Neither of them hide the way they check each other out when the clothes are finally out of the way. Sam kneels on the bed, looking down at her, and she bites her lip, tracking the movement of his hand as he strokes himself lazily. 

“Is this what you want?” he asks. “Ask for it.” 

Her eyes sparkle, mischievous and defiant, and she moves so fast that Sam’s taken by surprise when she grabs him — he can’t remember the last time that happened to him, let alone in bed. She pulls him down on top of her and rolls them over, switching their positions, and Sam laughs breathlessly as she pins his wrists to the pillow on either side of his head. 

“I don’t like takin’ orders,” she says smugly.

“Is that true?” Sam counters. “Or have you just never met anybody who knows how to give orders?” 

She looks startled by that, but instead of responding, she straddles him — sinks down on him wet and tight and perfect — and Sam has to grit his teeth and close his eyes for a moment, adjusting to all that sudden slippery heat around him. 

There’s a gratifyingly breathless note in her voice when she says, “Does it matter? Point is, I can take care of myself.” 

She’s not fucking kidding about that part. 

She arches into a spectacular back-bend, supporting herself with one hand and zero visible effort. Her other hand is between her legs, rubbing her clit hard and fast as she bucks her hips up in little jerky rocking movements — and there’s an image that will (hopefully) be seared into Sam’s memory until the day he dies. For a moment all he can do is watch and try to memorize it. Then he presses the heel of his hand into her lower belly, grinding into her as best he can, and she clenches around him, soaking and squeezing in pulses so intense it almost hurts as she comes with a rough, husky moan. 

“This is gonna be fun,” Sam breathes, and he tugs her upright for one searing kiss before flipping her onto her stomach. 

* * * * * * * * * *  

When Sam offers to wash her hair, she reacts like he just proposed marriage, except instead of an engagement ring, he’d offered her a grenade pin — shock, disbelief, and more than a little fear. 

“Please tell me this is a kinky thing,” she says warily, and Sam laughs, tilting his head back in the spray and sluicing water from his face with both hands. When he looks down at her again, she’s still got her lip curled and her defenses up. 

“It’s not a kinky thing,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

She can’t get far in the shower stall, but she turns her back to him, and Sam’s forcibly reminded of a cat, licking her paws dry after accidentally stepping in a puddle. 

“I can wash my own damn hair. Shit, don’t get all touchy-feely on me.” 

Sam’s had a lifetime of practice at remaining earnest in the face of someone who’s determined to pretend they don’t want his kindness. He knows better than to give up that easily. 

“Come here,” he says, smoothing his hands up her sides. She doesn’t relax, exactly, but she doesn’t shy away. “Faith. Different universe, remember? Not a romantic thing. I just want to touch you.” 

She takes a reluctant half-step back, settling against him without a word. 

Sam squirts a dollop of shampoo into his palm, tilting her chin up so that her head falls back, and he massages her scalp with his fingertips, rubbing in firm circles. 

“Keep your eyes closed for me,” he tells her quietly, maneuvering her into the spray, but he shields her face carefully with one hand as he starts to rinse the lather out, making sure the bubbles don’t go anywhere near the fan of her spiky-wet lashes. “Is this okay?” 

“Yeah,” she croaks, barely audible under the sound of the water. “S’ not so bad.” 

“Speaking of kinky things,” he says casually. “We should talk about that.” 

“Yeah?” 

“What do you like? What’s your safeword?” 

“Safeword?” She snorts, dismissive. “What, you really think you could dish out somethin’ I couldn’t take?” 

Sam clenches his jaw. He’s glad her back is to him so she can’t see the expression on his face right now. 

There are no more bubbles in her hair, but he keeps running his hands through it, just to have something to do as he figures out how to say this. 

“I don’t think there’s much you couldn’t take,” he tells her softly. “I think you might be the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” 

“Damn straight,” she mutters, mollified.

Sam squeezes out some conditioner, finger-combing it through her hair. 

“You don’t trust me,” he says. It’s not a question. 

“Fuck no,” she replies promptly. “Why would I? Trust is something you gotta earn.” 

Sam’s mouth twists into a smile. “Fair enough. But… it’s not about seeing how much you can take. It’s about you trusting me to stop, no questions asked, if you say that word. You want me to take control, I’ll do it. Believe me, I’m down. But not until you trust me. If you think you can do that, all you gotta do is ask. Okay?” 

She takes a breath like she wants to say something, but she seems to think better of it. She lets out a sigh, looking at him — through him — and all he gets is a subdued, “Yeah, okay.” 

Sam tilts her head back gently again, working his fingers through her hair until the little crease of a frown fades from her forehead. He turns her in his arms, cradling her against his chest, and she lets him, resting her cheek over his heart. 

“Poughkeepsie.” 

“Gesundheit.” 

“Cute. It’s a city where I — I was in over my head, one time, and I needed help. That’s my safeword.” 

She pulls back, looking up at him, confusion written all over her face. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I trust you.” 

“Really?” 

Sam shrugs. “If somebody offered you a lot of money to kill me, I’d sure as fuck be watching my back. But… as far as respecting boundaries? Here and now, just you and me? Yeah, I trust you completely.” 

Faith stares, scanning his expression for a hint of a lie, but when she doesn’t find one, her eyes soften. Her lips curl briefly into a pleased little smile.   

“Didn’t really take you for the submissive type.”  

“I’m not.” 

She cocks her head thoughtfully, gaze calculating, and prods, “Go on, then. You’re the one who wants to talk about everything.”

“No bodily fluids.” 

“With you on that one. There’s good freaky fun and then there’s just freaky. What else? Bet you’d look real pretty tied to my bed.” 

“No chains. Ropes, cuffs, that’s fine — no chains. Um.. pain isn’t a big deal. I’d rather you didn’t draw blood, but… as far as pain goes, don’t worry about pushing too far.” 

“Tryna be a tough guy?” 

“No. Just telling you the facts. Temperature play is a hard limit. Ice, especially.” 

“Okay. So… if I wanted to blindfold you, tie you up, and ride your face for a while…” 

“Works for me.” She gets out of the shower without another word, grabbing a towel, all business, and he laughs. “Somebody’s in a hurry.” 

“You’ve got like sixty seconds before the hot water runs out and it gets all end-of-Titanic in there.” She flashes him a grin. “Also, yeah. Let’s go.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

She pretends she’s asleep, for a while, but then she slips out of bed, and her bare feet don’t make a sound as she navigates the apartment in the dark. He hears the toilet flush, water run, then the creak of… something. 

He gives her a minute to herself before he gets up, just as silent as she was, and follows the smell of smoke to the open window. She’s leaning on the sill, silhouetted by the filtered yellow light of street lamps, and when she takes a drag the orange ember flares in the dark. 

“Jesus, fuckin’ scared the shit outta me,” she snaps. The Boston in her voice comes out strong when she’s startled. When she offers him the last bit of the cigarette he takes it, grabbing her wrist with the other hand, and throws it out the window as he pulls her close. 

“Hey, I was smokin’ that,” she protests, voice crackly like there’s a popping fire down in her chest. 

Sam traces the curve of her cheek. He brushes one curled knuckle back and forth over her lower lip and then drags the pad of his thumb over the pillow of it, watching the soft give as he presses down. Her tongue darts out to flicker over his thumb, but otherwise, she’s motionless. 

Faith takes his wrist, holding his hand to her mouth, and swirls her tongue over the pad of his thumb. Then she slides his index and middle fingers into her mouth, sucking on them shamelessly. They slide from her lips with a wet pop. A bolt of heat thuds through Sam’s gut — he’s only human. 

“I like your hands,” she purrs, with one last suggestive lick. 

“Something in particular you want me to do with them?” he asks. 

She hesitates and presses a kiss to the center of his palm before answering: “I bet you have some ideas.” 

“Tell me what you want, Faith.” 

For a second there’s a deer-in-headlights vulnerability in her huge dark eyes, and she can’t hide the slight frown that flickers across her face. 

“Why do you keep asking me that?” she whispers. She’s still holding his wrist. Sam twists to lace his fingers through hers instead, letting their joined hands drop palm-to-palm. 

“Because sex isn’t fun for me unless everybody’s getting what they want. Call me crazy, but…” 

“I brought you here, didn’t I? You know I want it. That’d be good enough, for most guys. Believe me, if you do somethin’ I don’t like, I’ll tell you about it.”  

Sam closes his eyes, thinking of a half-dozen possible answers to that question. He considers telling her about Meg and Gadreel and all the other things that have slithered in over the years and used his body without his permission. He feels a phantom pain in his palm and remembers Lucifer’s taunt — you let me in — and he considers telling her about why he can’t stand the feel of ice or the rattle of chains. 

He settles for the most fundamental answer: “Because you deserve to get what you want. You deserve better than ‘good enough.’”

She digests that silently for a moment, and then she guides his hand firmly to her hip, before grabbing the other and placing it flat on her breastbone. 

“Just… touch me?” she asks, and Sam smiles, shifting closer, running his hands over her skin: fingertips in the dip of her throat, thumb stroking her collarbone, palm sweeping up and down her side, gentle and deliberately innocent. 

“Why does it bother you so much when I ask?” he says softly. 

She grimaces, and for a second it looks like she’ll brush it off, make a joke of it. 

“Not used to it, I guess. Most guys don’t ask. I think guys look at me, they make some assumptions, you know?” 

“Such as?”

She shrugs. “Guess they figure I’m down for anything.” 

“Faith.” 

“Don’t. Anyway, it’s more than that. Most people, they only offer to give you something if they want something in return.” 

“What do you think I want from you?” 

“That’s what’s got me spun out. Figured you just wanted a great lay, but… you’re still here.” She drops her gaze. “Bein’ all sweet and shit.”

Sam tries to hide his smile. “Should I not be?” 

“Can’t figure you out,” Faith mumbles. “You’re different.” 

Sam thinks about that for a moment as he folds to his knees in front of her. He drags his mouth down the center of her chest, tasting salt, and nips at the soft skin under her belly-button. 

“How do you mean?” He looks up at her again, holding eye contact as he traces her hipbone with his tongue. 

“I’m not the kinda chick that sweet guys usually go for, you know?” She slides her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, and Sam hums his approval. “The nice ones know better. I’m the girl all the bad guys want.”

“That seems a bit reductive, don’t you think?” 

“See, shit like that. Your mouth’s an inch away from my pussy and you’re using words like reductive.”

“I just want you. All of you, not just the ‘nice’ parts or the shit you show most guys.” 

“Might not be saying that if — oh. Do that again.” 

“Faith, trust me when I say that whatever you’ve done, I’ve done worse.”

“Jesus, can we talk about this later?” 

“What do you want?” 

“Want you to get your ass back in bed and quit teasing, for starters.” 

“I can do that.”

* * * * * * * * * *  

“The fuck did you find in the fridge?” Faith asks hoarsely. 

“Beer and pickles,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. 

She’s leaning against the frame of the bedroom door, wearing his flannel and nothing else. It’s open, baring a long slice of pale skin, from the dip between her breasts and down her stomach to a neat trail of dark hair. She looks like a centerfold, but rumpled and sleepy-eyed and real, human, in a way that makes it so much hotter. 

“You went out.” She frowns at the front door.

“Are you surprised I came back?” 

“Honestly? Not really.” Sam hides his smile at that answer. “Except that door’s supposed to lock automatically.” 

“It does. I picked the lock.” 

“Anything you can’t do?” Faith comes over and hoists herself up onto the counter next to him, eyeing the pan of bacon eagerly. 

“Never been good at walking in heels.” Sam passes her the extra large to-go cup of dark roast he’d gotten her from the local coffee place, and she grins. 

“Shit, you really know how to spoil a girl.” 

Sam puts a hand on her bare thigh, thumb running back and forth idly as he takes her in, tracing the shape of her body with his eyes. She gives him a raised eyebrow and sips her coffee quietly. There’s none of the wariness or put-on swagger from last night. She just seems comfortable. 

“No bruises,” he says, hand sliding up higher, finding nothing but unblemished skin where he knows he left marks. Every imprint of Sam’s teeth and hands and hipbones has melted away. 

“Slayer healing.” She leans back on her palms, inviting him to touch more. Sam pulls his hand away — pancakes to flip — but he smirks. 

“That’s a shame. They looked good on you.” 

Faith’s eyes go dark. “Yeah?” 

“I’ll just have to leave some more… later. Breakfast is ready.” 

Faith eats with an indecent enthusiasm that reminds him of Dean, but somehow that doesn’t surprise him. Which… speaking of Dean — Sam borrows her cell as they’re finishing breakfast, because apparently other universes aren’t included in his roaming service, and a sleepy female voice picks up. 

“Faith?” 

“Sam, actually. Is my brother around?” 

“Sam? Did you… you and Faith?” Buffy’s voice goes a little squeaky at the end. Then there’s indistinct scuffling. 

Faith swipes her index finger through the maple syrup that’s left on her plate, sucking it clean, hollowing her cheeks in a way that’s pretty fucking distracting. 

“Sammy?” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Hey. You didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?”

“Where are you? Who’s Faith?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says. “Did Charlie fix the thing?”

“Uh, hang on.” There’s a muffled conversation on the other line. 

Faith gets up, walking around the table to pick up Sam’s plate, her movements slinky and deliberate, her hips swaying, showing off tantalizing glimpses of skin as his flannel skims the curves of her body. He twists around to watch her go. Faith sets both plates in the sink and stretches, and the flannel rides up her thighs. 

“Pretty sure Charlie’s not awake yet either,” Dean says. “Late nights all around. Go team. Should we save you some breakfast?” 

“No, I’m busy.” 

Dean is saying something, but Sam’s not really paying attention. Faith is leaning on the table, bent at the waist, the flannel riding up to expose the lower curve of her ass. Sam turns in his chair to raise an eyebrow at her, pointedly adjusting himself in his jeans. She smirks like the cat who got the cream. 

“Just call this number when you need me, Dean,” Sam says abruptly, cutting him off. “See you later.” He hangs up before Dean can get a protest in. 

She bats her eyelashes, sugary-sweet. “Sorry, did I distract you?” 

“Don’t lie. You’re not sorry at all.” Sam shakes his head, mock-scolding, and gives her a light tap, mostly to watch the way her flesh jiggles just right under his hand. 

She grins, wiggling her hips and spreading her legs a little wider. “If you’re gonna do it, do it like you mean it.” 

There’s a long, weighted pause. 

“Are you asking me for —”

“Fuck yes I am.” 

“Faith…” 

She’s quiet but sincere when she says, “I trust you.” 

Sam exhales sharply, and because she looks nervous, now, he quips, “Should’ve known bacon would do the trick.” She laughs at that and relaxes, so he stands up slowly and asks, “Safeword?” 

“Dorchester.” 

Sam smiles — equal parts amused by the word choice and touched by the trust. He runs a hand down her back and then up again, taking the soft fabric with him, rucking it up. He takes his time, drawing it out to watch the way she pouts, positioning himself behind her and flattening a palm between her shoulderblades to push her down. She braces herself on her forearms. 

“Good girl.” 

“Well?” 

“Be patient.” 

“Fucking hit me already,” she says sulkily. 

“You can have anything you want,” he promises her, and he grabs a handful of hair, yanking her head back. “You just have to ask for it. Politely.” 

He hears the way she sucks in a breath, ragged and desperate, and he smiles. 

“Please spank me. Hard.”

“Good girl,” he repeats. He steps back and squeezes before smacking her, nowhere near hard enough to hurt. 

“C’mon, is that the best you’ve got?” she teases, laughing. 

“You know it’s not.” He brings his hand down with a satisfying sound, and Faith groans. 

“Harder,” she grits out. 

The next one makes her cry out, ragged and ecstatic. He hits her again, hard enough that his palm smarts, wrist snapping precisely so that the blows are spaced just right across her ass and her upper thighs. 

By the time he pauses again she’s panting harshly. He takes a second to admire her, the pretty shade of red blossoming on her pale skin and the way she’s arching her back, putting herself on display for him. 

“Fuck, you look good like this.” He kicks her feet farther apart and traces up her center with two callused fingertips. “So wet already, aren’t you?” 

She tries to push back into it, to fuck herself on his fingers as she whimpers, “More?” 

He lets loose, brings his palm down with a vicious crack, and he can see the way her legs start to shake. 

“Shit, do you have any idea what you do to me?” He leans forward, grinding against her, letting her feel how hard he is through his jeans, and when he pulls back again she moans. Her skin is hot to the touch. He runs his fingers over it teasingly before sliding two fingers into her cunt, curling them, pumping and twisting as Faith curses and clenches around him. 

“Need you,” she pants. “More.” 

“Let me hear you,” he says. He pulls his fingers out and spanks her again, and she shudders, head bowed, pussy glistening wet. 

“Please fuck me,” she breathes. He’s reaching for his belt before she gets the word out. 

“Since you asked so nicely.” 

He rubs the head of his cock through her slickness, teasing, and when she tries to push back, his shaft slides between her lips, dragging along her clit. He bites back a groan and plants his left hand solidly at the base of her neck, forcing her to drop down with her cheek to the table, holding her in place. 

“Shit,” she snaps. “Fuckin’ give it to me.” 

“What did I say?” 

“Want to feel that big thick cock, please,” she says. He can hear the wicked edge in her voice. “Want to feel you fillin’ me up when I come. Just fucking wreck me, Sam. Hold me down and make me scream… please.” She pauses and then asks smugly, “Fuckin’ polite enough for you?”

She could recite a grocery list in that ragged, raspy voice and it’d probably turn him on, at this point; as it is, he feels dizzy from sudden lack of bloodflow to his brain. 

“We gotta work on those manners,” he says softly, and pushes into her, just a couple inches, before sliding out again. She whines.

He does it over and over again — one torturously shallow thrust after another — working her open with little rocking motions that are nowhere near enough. She whimpers, and he watches, clocking every shudder that runs up her spine, every involuntary quiver as he fucks into her a little deeper, slick spreading up the flushed-dark length of his cock with each stroke. 

It takes every last shred of his self-control, but he forces himself to move slowly, deliberately, until she’s dripping wet and slamming her fists into the table. 

Finally, she caves, sobbing two syllables like they’re the only words she remembers: “Please — Sam — please — Sam — please —” 

“That’s better,” he sighs, and grabs her by the hips, shifting until he finds the spot that makes her twitch and squirm. She quakes when he hits it dead-on, and he sets an unrelenting pace, fucking her so hard the table hammers against the wall, a rapid-fire counterpoint to her broken, drawn-out cries. 

Faith bucks helplessly as she comes, and Sam lets go a split-second later, half collapsing forward as he grinds into her one last time. He braces himself with both palms flat on the wood, and his knees threaten to give out. 

His first coherent thought is amazement that the table is still standing, and while he’s trying to remember how to speak, Faith mumbles, “Shit, can’t believe we haven’t broken any furniture yet.” Sam laughs so unexpectedly he almost chokes, and maybe it’s contagious, because Faith starts giggling too. 

Sam maneuvers them onto one of the chairs in a messy pretzel of sweat and skin and half-discarded clothes. A surge of pure giddy affection swells in his ribcage, and he wraps his arms around her, squeezing tight, tickling her with his stubble against her neck until she shrieks and twists. 

Faith turns her head at an awkward angle to kiss him. Then she mumbles, “Is there more bacon? I could go for more bacon.” 

“Anything you want.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

Faith stretches extravagantly as she gets up from the opposite end of the couch, and his flannel slips off her shoulders. She lets it fall as she pads over to the fridge. 

“Have I mentioned today how good you look naked?” Sam asks. 

She pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge and strikes a goofy, mock-sexy pose. “No, but go right ahead.” 

“You look really fucking good naked.”

“Not so bad yourself.” She passes him a bottle and sprawls out with her legs draped across his lap. “Why’d you put your clothes back on, anyway?” 

“Hot bacon grease and nudity isn’t a good combo. Trust me.” 

“Sounds like the voice of experience talking there.” 

“Not personal experience,” Sam says with a smirk. “Dean, though…” 

She laughs. He tosses the last bite of bacon at her, and she catches it in her mouth. 

“Not cooking any more though, are you?” she asks archly. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He obliges, though, stripping unceremoniously, and Faith catcalls. She crawls into his lap when he sits back down, leaning in for a kiss that tastes like beer. 

“Much better,” she says quietly, pressing her forehead to his. 

“Really thought I might’ve tired you out there.” 

“Honestly? Yeah, I need a minute,” she confesses, with a laugh. “Just wanted some eye candy.” 

“At your service.” 

She settles a little more comfortably in his lap, straddling him, and they exchange slow, lazy kisses. Sam can’t bring himself to stop kissing her. Her lips are soft and plush, and every brush of her tongue and nip of her teeth feels like a luxury, like something he should treasure, because he knows this intimacy has an expiration date. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, sweet and almost shy. 

Sam offers, “Want to watch a soap opera on mute and make up our own dialogue?”

Her dimples really show when she’s surprised to find herself smiling. She grabs their beers and the remote from the milk crate that serves as her coffee table, raising her bottle in a toast, and then she curls up at Sam’s side, naked and soft and bruised. She fits under his arm like she was meant to be there. 

It’s the happiest Sam can remember being in a long time. 

Normal, he thinks. This is what normal people do — breakfast and kisses on the couch — tenderness and softness and quiet everyday vulnerability. 

Then again, neither of them are normal, not really. Maybe that’s why Sam feels so comfortable with her.

* * * * * * * * * *  

This time, she passes him the shampoo without a word, sighing as he cradles the back of her skull with one hand and smooths the hair back from her forehead with the other. When he’s finished, hazy honey-colored eyes blink up at him slowly, like she’s coming out of a trance. It’s a dizzying change from the last time they did this. 

They haven’t said goodbye yet and he already misses her — misses this — but he knows he’s lucky to have it for a moment, however brief. 

The scalding water feels like heaven on his sore muscles. Sam tilts his head to the side, trying to stretch, and his neck makes a series of popping noises. Faith winces in sympathy. 

“Shit, man,” she chuckles. “You sound like Rice Krispies.” She maneuvers around him in the narrow space, reaching up to dig her knuckles into one of his many knots. Sam groans, exaggeratedly pornographic. 

Her hands are small, but strong, and Sam’s melting under her palms, increasingly loose-limbed and pliant as she works her thumbs in circles down the muscles on either side of his spine. 

“We should get out of here before I forget how to stand up,” he mutters, and Faith laughs. “I think it’s your turn.” 

“I like the sound of that.” 

She lays herself out on the bed, stomach down, and Sam takes a moment to stare. The way she’s put together — sleek muscle and lush curves under creamy skin — is like art. If she was anyone else, Sam might call her delicate, but he knows better; he knows exactly what she can do. She’s a hurricane disguised as a porcelain doll. 

He looks down at his own rough fingers, thickly callused from pencils and triggers and punches, and grabs a bottle of lotion from the dresser before he settles on the bed, straddling her hips. His hands seem massive on her shoulders, and when he drags his palms down, wrapping his fingers around the slim curve of her waist, he marvels at the way she almost fits in the circle of his grasp. 

He loses himself in the pleasure of just touching her — in the glide of silky skin under his fingers — in the soft grunts and hums she lets out when he works his fingers into a particularly tight knot. He sweeps his thumbs down the pretty little dimples at the small of her back and then lower, caressing and kneading. He’s careful to avoid pressing on the dappled purple-red bruises from earlier, but he skims them appreciatively, feather-light.

“Do those hurt?” he whispers. 

“Little bit. I like it.” 

He was already half-hard, aroused in a distant, lazy sort of way, but his dick twitches at that. 

He brushes his fingertips down the outsides of her thighs, then up the insides, watching the way she spreads her legs wider for him, but he stops just short of the apex, tracing out along the creases where her ass meets her legs instead. 

This feels like a form of worship. 

Sam bends to press his mouth to the small of her back, kissing one dimple then the other. He trails sweet open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her ass, lips dragging reverently over velvety skin, licking and sucking along the tops of her thighs, drinking in the way she whimpers and shivers. 

“More?” she murmurs. 

Sam hooks an arm around her, sliding his forearm under her hips to cant them up so he can lick a thick stripe right up her center, swiping his tongue down and up again with a slick slurping noise. The angle isn’t comfortable but it’s fucking hot; it feels like he’s completely surrounded by her, like this, and when he licks deeper, fucks her shallowly with his tongue, the taste of her arousal floods his senses, until the soapy-clean smell of freshly-showered skin is lost under salty-sweet musk and Sam’s mouth and chin are a mess of slick and spit. 

She’s trembling as she repeats, “More.” 

He drags his tongue in one broad swipe from her clit up between her ass cheeks, and she curses, pressing back against his mouth. He twists two fingers into her cunt, feeling her clamp down around his scarred knuckles and shudder under his mouth, a frisson of pleasure that travels all the way up her spine. He curls his tongue against tight muscle and crooks his fingers, circles her swollen clit with his thumb, and she muffles a sharp cry into the pillow as she comes. 

“More — please — Sam?” she gasps, still clenching around him, so wet he can hear the sound of his fingers pumping into her one last time. 

He slides on top of her, blanketing her body with his, kissing the nape of her neck as he presses into her. She reaches back and fists a hand in his hair, making a rough wordless noise that sounds like a question, and her fingers twist until his scalp stings and Sam groans. He sits up, straddling her legs, and his entire body throbs with the pulse of blood in his cock as he fucks her. With her legs together like this, pinned under him, she feels so impossibly tight — velvety-soft and steely all at once — he can barely see straight. 

She’s crying out with every gasping breath: “More — please.” 

Sam wonders what he could do if he could learn her body, learn what she likes, learn how to take her apart in seconds or draw it out until she’s a writhing mess… if he had just a little more time with her. 

* * * * * * * * * *  

Faith is wrecked and gorgeous on top of him, not riding him so much as undulating: deep scooping twists of her hips, rising and falling syrupy-slow like she’s moving underwater. There’s dark sweat-soaked hair clinging to her temples and a hazy-eyed, rosy-cheeked expression of bliss on her face. Sam watches a droplet of sweat trickle down between her breasts.

He’s losing his grip on time and the boundaries that used to sit so decisively between them. They’re both exhausted to the point that everything seems a little surreal, dreamy, right in that sweet spot where they might be too tired to come again but languid, sensual sex still feels amazing. 

“So fucking perfect,” he whispers. “Just like that.” 

Faith tilts forward to kiss him, melting against his chest as she rolls her hips. He wraps her up in his arms and flips them, still inside her, still twined around her. He rocks into her, testing one angle and then another, hitching her leg up higher around his waist, grinding and swiveling until he finds the angle that makes her choke out a curse and clutch at his biceps.

“There,” she whimpers. 

Heat starts to pool low in his gut, building slowly but inevitably. He leans down to kiss her, tasting salt, mouths brushing clumsily between deep ragged breaths. 

“Gorgeous like this.” 

“Sam,” she says helplessly, in the shredded whisper that’s left of her voice. “This — you —“ 

“I’ve got you, it’s okay. I know.” 

Neither of them are particularly coherent, but he knows. 

Gold rays of sun slant through the blinds in stripes, illuminating the amber in her irises and the suspicious shine gathering in the corner of her eyes. She smiles up at him in a way that leaves him breathless. It takes him by surprise, the trust in her expression and the heaviness in the moment, and he knows she can feel it too. 

Sam wants to shy away from it, but he can’t take his eyes off her. 

“Where’s that Al Green soundtrack when you need it, huh?” she manages, and it shocks a breathless laugh out of Sam. Faith giggles too, choked-up and overtired and hoarse. Sam can feel her laugh, feels the rippling clench of wet-hot muscle around him; his body reacts with this gut-punch of arousal, and he snaps his hips, driving in deep. She lets out a rough moan and writhes under him, raking her nails down his back. 

From there it builds fast, wild and uncontrollable and blinding, both of them clawing at each other, moving on pure animalistic instinct, lost in each other — lost in the moment. It’s the sort of orgasm that hits like a blackout, like Sam’s out of his body for a few seconds that might as well be an eternity.

When he comes to, he’s whispering nonsense into the sweat-slick crook of her neck — babbling endearments, calling her baby — saying sweet stupid things she would never accept if she was in her right mind, but she doesn’t argue; he’s grateful. In return, Sam pretends not to notice the tears sparkling in her eyelashes.  

They’re not sad tears, he knows that much. She’s beaming up at him, all this messy pure human happiness shining in her eyes. She’s beautiful. 

Eventually they stop shaking, and Sam whispers, “Nap?” 

“Yeah.” 

She tucks herself under his chin, and he strokes her hair, counting the breaths before she drops off. She’s asleep in ten, and Sam loses count at eleven. 

* * * * * * * * * *  

They’re woken in disorienting darkness by a jangling ringtone, and Sam’s immediate instinct is to grab the gun he keeps under his pillow. There’s no gun, though — just a warm naked girl draped over him, cursing like a sailor as the phone continues to ring — because there’s no need for a gun here. 

Faith answers the phone by growling a suggestion that sounds anatomically improbable, and Sam hears Dean’s gruff baritone on the other end. He snatches the phone out of her hand. 

“S’the middle of the fucking night, Dean,” he grumbles. 

“Dude, it’s nine. When was the last time you were asleep by nine?” 

“Fuck.” He knuckles at his eyes and fights the urge to hang up, turn the phone off, and burrow under the sweat-soaked sheets to sleep until he actually feels rested for once. “Yeah, okay, be there soon.”

Sam is about to apologize for waking Faith, but she sits up too, switching on the lamp, looking around bleary-eyed. 

“Gonna walk with you as far as the graveyard,” she says, through a yawn. “Vamps don’t take a night off.” 

Sam feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck, sore and achy all over, but the exhaustion goes much deeper than that. In spite of it, he’s smiling as they dress. 

They’re quiet, nothing but a soft, “You see my other sock?” interrupting the heavy silence. They don’t touch as they leave the dark apartment and head down the dingy stairwell into the warm California night, and they don’t talk. They’re pulling themselves together — rebuilding the walls that separate them from normal people — putting on the emotional armor that allows them to fight the battles they have to fight.  

They don’t wander away from the path through the cemetery, this time, and the monsters don’t find them. When they reach the gate on the other side, Faith stops. 

“You know how to get back from here?” 

“Yeah.” He pulls her in by her jacket to kiss her, deep and bruising. 

She pulls away enough to mutter, “Fuckin’ figures you’re from another goddamn universe.” 

“If things were different —” 

“They’re not, though,” Faith says, smiling ruefully. “And that’s for the best.” 

“Probably wouldn’t end well, would it? ” 

“We’d never get outta bed, the monsters would take over. Every universe needs its heroes, right?” 

“Right.” Sam cradles her face in his hands to give her another soft kiss and says, “Take care of yourself.”  

Faith steps back. “Always do.”

She turns, pulling a stake out of her jacket as she stalks away, off the path toward the darker corners of the graveyard. Sam watches her go. 

She doesn’t look back, but before she’s out of earshot, she shouts, “Quit starin’ at my ass and go save the world already. You’ve got work to do.” 

Sam laughs, and then he rolls his eyes and starts walking, smiling to himself. She’s not wrong. 

.

.

.

[coconutknightshade]

Hii, I hope this is okay.. I get bullied a lot at school and I was wondering if you could write a fic where Flash is bullying Peter and they get into a fight and Tony gets called to the school? If not that's okay!

I can’t believe I posted this on Ao3 and forgot to post it from my drafts. Forgive me, my salt. (@blondsak - Literally cannot say forgive me these days without finishing it off completely so cheers for that my dude)

A/N:

Okay, not to be a fandom mom here, but as someone who went through it growing up, I can empathize. Which means I can also empathize with how overwhelming it can be. 

Because of this, I want to provide a bit of information about the 24/7 Crisis Text Line. Reaching out to this helpline is completely free (outside of your standard texting fees) and connects you to a trained volunteer/crisis counselor. It's very easy, and aims to be a stress free experience. If it helps, what's going to happen is - After your initial text, there will be a few automated messages before you're connected with a Crisis Counselor. This may take a few minutes, but you will be connected.

This Crisis Text Line isn't limited to any specific subject, and is prepared to assist with issues ranging from bullying to depression to the current pandemic. If you aren't comfortable texting, their site also provides additional resources and helpful information pertaining to several issues.

USA & Canada: Text HOME to 741741 UK: Text HOME to 85258 Ireland: Text HOME to 086 1800 280

/Mom-ing Over. On to the fic! 

***

Shove Off Word Count:  2,960

It's when Peter's face - chin then nose - collides with the floor that, in a haze of sleep, he thinks to himself, "something is very wrong."

Peter Parker does not simply fall out of bed.

With a grunt, he pushes himself from the floor just enough to roll onto his back. The ceiling is… Blurry? That can't be right. Their apartment building is older. The kind of old that means it was built when popcorn ceilings, for God only knows what reason, was stylish. But the thing is, Peter can barely make them out. Even scarier, everything is silent. He can't make out the sound of May rustling around in the other room- Hell, by the distinct absence of her heartbeat, Peter doesn't even know if she's home.

Everything is so quiet, and after nearly a year with enhanced everything, the sudden silence is deafening.

Peter wholeheartedly panics.

He lurches forward into a sitting position, subconsciously pressing his hands all across his chest and abdomen as if to make sure there is no physical harm, all the while glancing around for his phone. The clock reads 7:26, and a high pitch distressed sound leaves him.

"Fuck. May!"

---

It's when he steps into the classroom and sees everyone's eyes on him that he realizes it's going to be a shit day. He's late. Really late. And it's not entirely because he overslept. No. He's truly late because he and May spent twenty minutes trying to track down his old glasses… And another ten minutes fretting over his sudden loss of abilities.

"Hey Peter, I don't know if you've realized, but you're wearing glasses."

Peter groans as he slides into the seat next to Ned, pushing the aforementioned glasses further up his nose and flipping to the appropriate page in the textbook. When he glances up, Ned is staring at him expectantly.

"Yeah, fam, I know." There's no way Ned is going to leave it at that - not that Peter can blame him - and so continues with a pained sigh. "I don't have answers, Ned. I don't even know where to begin. I woke up this way, and I'm pretty sure it has something to do with whatever was in that dude's syringe the other night. Like, a virus or something."

"Holy shit." Ned drops a sympathetic hand to Peter's shoulder. "Do you think it's permanent?"

"I sure as shit hope not. I'm hoping Doctor Strange can take care of it. I just, ya know, need to get in touch with him on the D-L. I feel like I'm moving through the day behind a foggy glass window. It's like my senses are dialed down to almost nothing. I hate it."

"Oh no," Ned's voice is monotone, dry. "You're a pleb like the rest of us now."

Peter playfully rolls his eyes and elbows his best friend. "You know that's not what I meant."

"What did Mr. Stark say?"

Peter side-eyes Ned, already looking contrite.

"What did…? Ned, I can't tell him. I'm an Avenger -"

"No, you aren't."

"Don't get technical, Ned. It wounds me." This time Ned rolls his eyes with a grin. "Anyway. I can't tell Mr. Stark. It's embarrassing, ya know? Spider-Man isn't supposed to have asthma."

"Listen, Peter. You can't not tell Mr. Stark. He's Iron Man. You spend, like, every other weekend with him and sometimes you get to work as like, the B-Team. He'll want to know. Besides, we don't even know if it's permanent."

"Ned, this sucks." He drops his head into his hands.

---

It's when he's walking down the hallway, books held tight against his chest that things get really interesting. Yes, he's had nearly two asthma attacks since History, and for the first time in nearly two years, he's had zero appetite at lunch. But-

He and Ned are talking about how long he can reasonably wait before he absolutely has to tell Mr. Stark when someone bumps into him. Well, not so much bumps into him as shoves their shoulder against his as they pass, harsh enough that he loses his balance. His textbooks spill onto the floor, and he has to close his eyes to keep it together. Fucking Flash Thompson.

"Watch where you're going, Penis." Peter wants to wipe that smirk off his arrogant face. "Or are those glasses just some pathetic attempt at aesthetics?"

"Shove off, Flash. Bullying me won't suddenly make mommy love you."

Something in Flash's eyes spark, and it's as he's closing in on the three, maybe four feet between them, that Peter thinks, shit. He stumbles backwards as Flash firmly places his hands on Peter's chest and shoves. He's furious, and Peter swallows thickly. "You want to try that again, Parker?"

The threat of things turning physical looms just out of reach, and Peter automatically takes a step back. Self-control. As much as the thought of knocking Flash on his ass fills him with unadulterated glee, he can't do it. He knows he can't - That he has to be the bigger person. With his abilities -

Peter sucks in a breath, eyes scanning the crowd for his best friend. Ned, always on the same wavelength, is already wide-eyed and nodding somewhat emphatically. It's the adrenaline of the moment, an opportunity afforded to him that likely won't come around again. While Flash is usually all talk, the two of them have tied up on numerous occasions. From those scuffles, it's only ever Peter who walks away hurt. Because, yeah.

But it's different this time - This time Peter doesn't have an unfair advantage. No, this time he has an opportunity to push back. And, maybe, he can put a stop to it once and for all. It's with that in mind that Peter raises his chin and says, "You heard me."

Flash is still invading his personal bubble when he says, "At least I have a mommy."

This time it's Peter who shoves Flash away from him. "This again? You've got a real hard-on about me being an orphan. Or maybe… you just have a real hard-on for me. Is that it?"

"Fuck off, Parker. You wish! I've got better taste in partners than someone as sad and pathetic as you. A liar- News flash: Jerking off to Tony Stark doesn't make you his personal in-"

Peter's fist connects with Flash's nose, resulting in what has to be the most satisfying crunch he's ever heard in his life. He steps back and shakes his hand, shakes out the pain. It's positively electrifying, but he barely has time to let the euphoria sink in before he's being slammed up against the locker, Flash's hands fisted in his shirt. The blow has his glasses slipping off his face, but he can still see the blood dripping from Flash's nose and the fury in his eyes. He pulls Peter away from the locker and then shoves him back against it, looking satisfied when Peter's head connects with the hard metal.

"You're dead."

Peter doesn't respond, just grips Flash's wrists tightly and headbutts him without thought. It's enough to force Flash into releasing his hold before stumbling back with a surprised yelp, hand flying up to where their heads connected. Peter's ears are ringing, a headache already blossoming from both the headbutt and where it had been slammed into the locker.

"Oh, yeah? I'm shaking," he says through his teeth, crossing the distance between the two.

It's not long before they're rolling around on the ground, wailing on each other in a long-overdue brawl. When finally Peter is being pulled off the ground by Coach, he's got a split lip, a bloody nose, and what promises to be a very spectacular shiner. But God, does he feel good.

---

It's when Peter's sitting in the office with toilet paper up his left nostril and an icepack pressed to his face that the pain really begins to set it. His everything hurts: face, head, ribs. And for once, unless his spidey powers somehow miraculously return overnight, he's going to wear the injuries as a badge of honor. After a few years of letting Flash push him around - sometimes literally - knowing if he fought back, he'd hurt the kid, he finally had the chance to do something about it.

May is going to be pissed.

Except, it's not May that steps into the front office radiating anger, and when Peter spots Tony Stark, he pales, blood running cold. Forget May being pissed…

Peter Parker is fucked.

"Mr. Stark," his voice cracks. Tony won't even look at him, jaw set as he approaches the front desk.

"I'm here for Peter Parker." Tony's voice is as icy as Peter's skin suddenly feels. The receptionist, Sherry, stands frozen in place, mouth opening and closing in surprise. She must sense the tension rolling off him in waves, for she recovers quickly, clearing her throat and looking down at what Peter knows are the suspension forms in front of her.

"Peter was in an altercation with another student, both of whom were left… Well, looking like that." She nods in Peter's direction and finally Tony turns towards him, eyes sharp as he appraises the damage. Peter wilts, pointedly avoiding his mentor's gaze. "Per school policy, they'll face suspension. The length of which is at Principal Morita's discretion. He's currently with Mr. Thompson and his father."

Tony takes the forms handed to him and hesitates for a brief second. "Do you have somewhere private that I can speak with Peter?"

Maybe, if he's lucky, Peter will have a heart attack before Sherry answers. Unfortunately, no such luck. She nods and gestures towards a small conference room attached to the main office. Tony turns towards Peter, narrows his eyes, and jerks his head ever so slightly towards the door. God, Peter wants the floor to open and swallow him whole. Gingerly he crosses the office and into the conference room, not turning towards Tony until the door is shut.

The man is downright angry and, while Peter gets it, he also doesn't? Like, sure. Peter is a superhero. He's supposed to be above all of this, but he's also a teenager. They aren't out there in the streets, there are no Avenger - or even Spider-Man - level threats. So really, Tony hadn't even needed to show up. It's not like the man can be embarrassed by him. Not when he so easily could have circumvented any connection between the two of them by simply sending Happy in his place, or really any other possibility that didn't include his physical presence. It's not like anyone believed the legitimacy of Peter's internship anyway. Though, this definitely isn't his preferred route for validation.

Yeah, Peter thinks, a little self righteously. He's a teenager. And currently, he's a teenager without superpowers, and once Tony realizes that he'll cool off. It's not like the ferry instance- No lives were put at stake. He just needed to explain…

"You've got ten seconds, Kid."

"Listen, I know what you're thinking, but-"

"Ohh," Tony drags out, unimpressed, "I highly doubt that."

"No, I'm serious. But the thing is-"

"There is no thing, Peter! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking-"

"No, Pete, wrong answer. You weren't thinking. If you had been thinking-"

"I thought I had ten seconds!" Peter interrupts angrily, tired of being interrupted himself. Tony's nostrils flare, but he stands straighter and crosses his arms over his chest expectantly.

"I am sick and tired of Flash Thompson walking around this school like he owns the place! He's a bully, Mr. Stark, and-"

"Spider-Man stands up against bullies. I get it Peter, but at school-"

"Ten seconds," Peter interrupts again, anger only deepening. He knows where Tony is going. He's Spider-Man, but at school, he's just Peter Parker- He has to be just Peter Parker. He can't walk around plain as day flexing his abilities and fighting ignorant bullies who don't know when to keep their mouth shut- Not when fighting back risks injuring them disproportionately.

"Your ten seconds are over, the adult is speaking now. I cannot believe-"

"I lost my abilities," Peter whisper-shouts through his teeth. He's not being heard. "I woke up without them, and it sucks, Mr. Stark. Real bad. But I'm not going to pass on the chance to stick up for myself and my friends. I'm done letting Flash Thompson bully me. I'm done letting him shove me around, and I'm done going home with bruises - no matter how temporary - just because I can't de-"

"Hold it," he cuts him off with a finger. The Finger, Peter has dubbed it. The zip it one. Peter holds his breath, waiting for Tony's reaction to this new information. He knows it's irrational, but can't entirely shake the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach when his brain provides him with - When Tony realizes Spider-Man is gone, that you're just a kid without any abilities, it's all over. Without Spider-Man, you're just a bright kid from Queens.

That's the thing with insecurity - Knowing is one thing, but feeling is a whole other matter, usually acting without the brain as a pilot. Therefore, after a half-second preparing for his Doom and Gloom Worst Case Scenario, Peter is caught off guard when Tony merely continues with, "More bruises? Meaning, other fights?"

Peter frowns, confused that that's what Tony's chosen to focus on. He stumbles over his words when he says, "Well, no. I don't fight back- That would be wrong. But since ya know, like I said, I don't have my abilities, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to do something about it."

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "Peter, why didn't you tell me that you were being bullied? We could have done something about it." Again, Tony not immediately acknowledging what Peter feels is the bigger issue here catches him further off guard, and he once again stumbles over his words.

"Because... I didn't think it was relevant?" His brows are furrowed, taking in Tony's agitated expression that doesn't seem to relate at all to the fact that he's lost his abilities. How is this not the more pressing issue? What's Tony's beef here?

"Didn't think it was- How is it not relevant, Kid? I ask you how school is going every time I see you, and you don't tell me you're being bullied? What gives?"

"I don't know? I didn't think you'd-" He cuts off, staring at his feet, feeling utterly stupid now for what he was about to say.

"You didn't think I would care." The hurt in his voice is subtle, but it's there. Peter's head shoots up, eyes wide.

"No! No, it's not that at all, Mr. Stark! It's just, you have so much going on right now, and you're taking care of so many things, ya know? And it makes sense that Spider-Man would fall in line with that, but you just have so much on your plate-"

"You didn't think I would have time for both Spider-Man and Peter Parker." It's a statement, not a question. Peter's gut sinks at the way Tony's voice is now thick with hurt. "Christ, Kid. Do you think I only care about Spider-Man? That I only prioritize Spider-Man?"

Peter purses his lips, eyes narrowing pensively as he searches for an answer that will dig him out of a hole he's unintentionally buried himself in without even knowing how deep of a hole it actually is.

"No?"

Tony drops down heavily into one of the chairs near the conference table. "Listen, Peter. I don't care about Spider-Man. I mean, I do, obviously. But you are my priority. If you decide to give it all up tomorrow, I'll still be here. Nothing would change - I'll still want you over, I'll still want to know how you're doing. And I will definitely want to know if you're being bullied."

"So, you're not mad that I got into a fight because it wouldn't have been a fair fight, you're-"

"I'm pissed because you were in a fight at all, Pete. I realize the irony here, but violence doesn't solve everything. Especially cases like this. I wish you would have talked to me. Or anyone. Even Happy would have been an option."

They sit in silence for a moment, Tony rubbing his forehead and Peter wringing his hands together.

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony sighs, raising his head. He looks exhausted now, and Peter winces, knowing just how deeply wrong he was.

"Yeah, Kid?"

"I'm being bullied," he begins quietly, hesitant almost as he meets Tony's gaze. "By this kid at school. He's been an ass to me for years, but it's gotten worse lately. Sometimes it gets a little physical, but not always. Usually, I'm able to shrug it off- Just Flash being Flash. But it's become harder. Especially when he targets Ned."

Tony eyes him with consideration, corners of his mouth twitching into what could have become a borderline amused, soft grin. He nods, almost as if he's come to some sort of decision, and pulls himself to his feet. "I'll take care of it, Pete."

At that, Peter can't help the slow spread of his own smile, expression now lightened into one of relief. It quickly falls though when Tony stretches an arm out towards him.

"C'mon, kid. Time to face the music." Peter groans as he steps towards Tony, who wraps an arm around his shoulders and guides him to the door. It dawns on him that after all of this, he'll still have to face May.

"And, about the other thing?" he whispers as they cross the threshold back into the office.

Tony stops, turns so that he's facing Peter head-on, hands still gripping his shoulders, when he says, "That one, we'll take care of together."

[janeofcakes]

KYFC..: Chapter 13

Hello, my friends! I hope you are all having/had a lovely Sunday. I apologize for being late with this chapter. I decided to try out a beta and it is definitely a learning process. I hadn’t anticipated the extra time editing would take, or wanting so many “final” read-throughs. Mind you, I truly believe the chapter is better for it. However....for whatever reason, I’m more freaked out about putting this chapter out there than any other so far. Haha. Whatever the case with me, I hope you all enjoy it.

---

My heart burns with feeling, but whoa my mind, it’s cold and reeling. Is this love, baby, or is it just confusion?                                                                        --Jimi Hendrix, Love or Confusion

John stares up at the red roof of the Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum in the late morning sun. It is a fairly small and assuming home, but he cannot help wondering at what secrets it holds. He has bubbled with anticipation since he read the words “..walking into Poe’s Baltimore home is both disturbing and ethereal” on its website at breakfast. He had invited the skaters along, but they all had other plans already. So, here he is, standing before it alone.

He is about to walk up the small wooden staircase at its entrance when he becomes aware of a presence to his right. He turns quickly and comes face to face with a hesitant Sherlock Holmes, shifting his feet and looking at John with a face full of uncertainty.

“Hi,” John grins and Sherlock looks surprised. “I didn’t see you at breakfast. You did eat?”

“I put together something in my room,” Sherlock answers, his expression shifting. “I often request that the kitchenette be stocked with some of the basics.”

“That is a great idea. I’ll have to remember that,” John nods, making a mental note.

There is a moment of silence while he considers the coach’s demeanor curiously. 

“Are you going in or just passing by?” he gestures to the house.

“Oh, going in,” Sherlock clears his throat. “Poe is a favorite author of mine.”

“Mine too,” John remarks. “Want to go through together? We could go for lunch when we’re done.”

John tilts his head and furrows his brow as he watches Sherlock. The taller man looks utterly flummoxed and John has no idea why.

“Erm…well, I rather thought after this morning…after what I did...and said...” he pauses awkwardly, waving his hand in a rather general way as if hoping it will somehow clarify his meaning. John raises his brows in question and Sherlock sighs in frustration. “I know when I’ve been dismissed.”

“What?” John huffs a startled laugh. “No. That isn’t what I meant at all. Look, I know I left abruptly.”

“Quite,” the coach replies curtly.

“Okay, okay,” John responds, his tone growing defensive, “and I didn’t say much.”

“You would have avoided speaking entirely if it were possible,” Sherlock huffed, aggravation pulsing off of him in waves.

“Okay, Sherlock, I get it. I’m sorry,” John murmured. “I was...disappointed.”

Sherlock gives him a pointed look, but one that cannot hide the hurt in his eyes.

“With myself,” John rushes to say and continues in a decisive tone. “Not with you. I didn’t mean to give the impression that I wanted to disassociate myself from you.”

Sherlock’s face adopts an expression that screams ‘Really, John? Really?’. He lowers his narrowed eyes a moment and then gives John a sardonic smile.

“What impression did you think it would give?” Sherlock’s voice drips with annoyance, his whole body radiating anger. 

They stare at one another, their words hanging between them, like a thick smog that leaves no room to breathe. John is no idiot. He gets what Sherlock is saying, but his past was the last thing he had wanted to talk about, especially after such a fucking spectacular night. Still there was no way around it. John had been angry while telling the story, but it had soon faded, leaving him exposed and frustrated. He had wanted only to leave as fast as he could before Sherlock had a chance to properly judge his actions and throw him out. He hadn’t meant to cast any sort of judgment upon Sherlock or make him feel he was being rejected. Christ, he is such a dick.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, hoping his tone conveys the depth of his feeling. He does not want to lose this friendship. He cannot lose it. He watches Sherlock for any sign of forgiveness and, to his relief, he sees the coach’s grey eyes soften and his annoyance fading.

“I should be the one apologizing, John. I am seldom able to deduce you so fully and when I finally could, I got carried away. It was stupid and an obviously very painful part of your past. I’m sorry,” Sherlock says in a rush, his voice flustered. He bites his lower lip and looks at John with nervous eyes.

“You,” John pauses, his mind processing all Sherlock just said. He takes a step forward with a playful and mischievous smirk, “can’t always deduce me? Like you do everyone else?”

“Haven’t I mentioned it before? I’m quite sure I have. You guard your secrets with great care, John,” Sherlock nods his head; half annoyed, half in awe.

“Yeah, but hiding something from you,” John puffs out a breath.

“Is nothing short of miraculous,” Sherlock ventures when John simply pauses. It sounds pompous, but it is exactly what John is thinking. 

The two gaze at each as the taller man takes a small step closer and looks at John with an open, honest expression. John’s heart skips a beat while Sherlock’s next words give him a heart attack:

“You are the most intriguing man I have ever met.”

John is speechless for a full ten seconds. Any longer than that and Sherlock would have thought he had done something wrong. John takes another step closer to buy himself some time while he searches his mind for a reply worthy of Sherlock’s declaration. It is still so hard to believe this wondrous man would ever be interested in John the way he so clearly is.

“But I’m so...ordinary,” John finally laughs, unable to think of anything more articulate. For all his intelligence, Sherlock completely disarms him.

“No, John,” Sherlock is shaking his head before the words are even out, “you are extraordinary.”

John looks at him with nothing less than adoration and gives him a radiant smile. He believes he knows Sherlock better than most, maybe even more than Victor Trevor had, the wanker, but he wants to know more. He wants to know every detail of this man and his life. Every thought and memory, every feeling, every inch of his body. God, his body. John saw so much of him last night and it wasn’t enough. He longs to explore Sherlock’s body again, worship it with his hands and his mouth.

John bites his lower lip and shakes away those thoughts. This is no time to get distracted by desire, especially when John is this confused. What he feels, what he wants is so much more than the physical. John wants Sherlock’s mind and soul. He wants to know everything, feel everything. He wants to share Sherlock’s life. John can already feel Sherlock with him, even when he is nowhere near, like he is a part of him. John feels him down into his bones. It’s like nothing he has ever felt before and it is breath-taking. 

What he has told Sherlock about his romantic life is true. He has devoted no time to dating during his time in the States. He put little effort into it in the UK, to be honest, but had dated off and on in uni and medical school. He really only felt anything for two or three of them and none of those feelings came close to what he feels for Sherlock. It is… What is it? John is so confused, his head spinning. What does it mean when you don’t just want to spend the night with someone, but every day too? To talk to him and learn about him more than you want to sleep with him? 

John looks at Sherlock and is damned if the coach doesn’t look like he knows every thought in John’s head. Sherlock could probably see it all plain as day as it flickered over his features. John huffs to himself in fond exasperation before making a small bow, befitting of Poe himself.

“Shall we?” John gestures toward the brick house before them. 

“Please,” Sherlock replies with a dazzling smile and his own stately bow. 

With the air between them cleared, they enter the house and pay admission. Soon their guide is leading them through a most fascinating tour. Though it is no longer furnished, it is not difficult to imagine what it looked like when Poe lived in it, between their guide’s descriptions and Sherlock’s additions. Not surprisingly, he knows a good many things the guide does not. To her credit, she smiles each time he begins speaking and waits patiently for him to finish. He is courteous as well, not interrupting her canned stories before jumping in. John appreciates it all until he begins to notice how her eyes stray from Sherlock’s face to glide down his body approvingly. Clearly impressed with more than just his knowledge of Poe, she begins flirting with Sherlock in more and more obvious ways as the tour goes on. 

When they stop to view Poe’s portable writing desk and chair, Sherlock moves closer to marvel at it. After the guide is finished with her speech, the coach begins mumbling about Poe’s writing habits and his works. It is truly fascinating how much Sherlock knows and John is more than happy to listen. He would gladly listen to Sherlock for days on end and never tire of it. The man’s voice caresses John’s very soul. Each sound is rich, smooth dark chocolate coating John’s ears with warmth.

Unfortunately, John does not have time to savor Sherlock’s voice or his words. A few sentences in and he notices their guide slowly moving in on Sherlock. Irritation wells up within him and John immediately has the impulse to touch Sherlock. Stake some sort of claim with a touch that is just intimate enough to say ‘Back off. He’s mine.’. Something that will definitely tell her to get the fuck away from Sherlock.

But he doesn’t. Sherlock is not his.

John just presses his lips together into a thin line and grumbles nearly inaudibly. He has no business being jealous. No place warding others away from Sherlock as though he were his. Sure, they spent the night together, that annoying voice in the back of his mind reminds him. They had sex, but that does not mean they are together. It does not mean Sherlock wants to do it again. They are able to step back into their lives and friendship seamlessly. This little jaunt proves it. There is no awkwardness between them, just some initial misunderstanding and then back to their kind of normal. If John is honest with himself, he has never felt so comfortable with anyone in his life. Not even Bill, and that realization strikes him with the force of a bullet.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice finally breaks through his thoughts.

“What?” John shakes himself back to the here and now, only to see both Sherlock and the guide looking at him curiously. He blinks once or twice, trying to devise from Sherlock’s face what might have been said.

“Are you ready to move on?” he asks him, obviously repeating himself.

“What? Oh, yes, yes. Move along,” John marches on with a vigor he doesn’t feel.

The three continue with what remains of the tour and soon the duo bids the guide farewell. None too soon for John, who notices her pressing a bit of paper into Sherlock’s hand under the guise of a friendly handshake. Her number, no doubt. Christ. John huffs and rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. He has largely kept his jealousy to himself. At least, he hopes Sherlock has not picked up on it. He has given no indication, but the git probably noticed the moment the woman began talking.

Sherlock and John step down the small staircase at the front of the house and head for a row of shops and restaurants a few blocks away. They walk in a comfortable silence, each left to his own thoughts. John’s mind wanders to the night before, this morning, the tour, the guide. He had been such a fool to leave Sherlock’s room the way he had. Hurrying from the bedroom and refusing coffee like he was ashamed or angry. Well, truth be told, he was angry about Sherlock’s deductions. He had not wanted him to know about Claire or the supposed baby. But why? John had done nothing wrong. Claire had lied, made up the baby and tried to trap him. He has nothing to be ashamed of, right?

Wrong. John was wrong. He was always wrong in a relationship. He kept himself closed off and his partner at arm’s length every time. Never letting anyone in and never actually giving himself fully to another person. Relationships can only last so long when one half isn’t all in. Claire had simply been the most persistent, but it had not worked either. She could not crack his shell. No one ever had and that was ultimately what John did not want Sherlock to know. If Sherlock saw that there was no hope of John ever loving him, if he saw that John was incapable of it, he would go. That is the truth of it. John really should not try to hide it, even in the interest of prolonging a relationship with Sherlock. It is dishonest and despicable. No better than the lies Claire tried to use to keep John. He will not be that person.

John shakes his head, trying to clear it. Lunch was meant to be a pleasant respite with a friend when he had originally suggested it. There would be plenty of time later, after the bout when John is trying to sleep in his own hotel room to think about his stunted emotions. John huffs. Not emotions plural, just one. John has absolutely no problem getting angry or feeling jovial, sarcasm, friendship - all within easy reach, but love. He loved his parents, of course. Everyone does. He had loved Bill, but not that way. 

Bill.

Could he have saved him? Would it have made any difference or is Sherlock right? Would he be dead too?

John blinks and pushes away the thoughts more forcefully this time. Now is not the time for nightmarish questions that will drive his mind into darkness. If John is going to think about Bill at all and how he fits into who John is today, he has to remain objective. If John had to guess, he would say losing Bill contributed, but he was already doing it before Bill. In fact, Bill seemed to have been the only exception and now Sherlock is too.

Sherlock.

He seems to be the exception to every rule, and he seems to encourage change in John with every passing day. Today’s is more obvious than any John has noticed to date. He simply does not get jealous as a rule. He probably hadn’t cared enough about any partner in the past to get jealous. Yes, he expects loyalty when he and a lover agree to be exclusive, which he and Sherlock have not done. John left Sherlock’s room before they had a chance to even consider it.

Why?

Why had he left like that? People say John is brilliant and Sherlock is very much his intellectual equal, if not more so. His ability to strategize and calculate is amazing, and John still wants to learn more about his mind palace. Surely he deduced John’s inability to love as soon as he learned of Claire. John had told him. He told him he didn’t love her, couldn’t love her. Couple that with the stories of his other relationships and Sherlock would know that a relationship with John is the worst mistake he could ever make. John’s breath leaves him in a rush. He simply cannot bear the thought. He wants to be with Sherlock. He needs to be with him, but...

“Stop it,” the words hit him like a freight train.

John nearly stumbles on the pavement when Sherlock’s deep baritone cuts through his spiraling thoughts. He looks up at his friend, not failing to notice how the wind blows his dark curls into an unruly frame around his face. John narrows his eyes marginally.

“What?” he asks, confusion clear on his face.

“Stop,” Sherlock repeats. “I can hear you thinking. Isn’t that what you said to me? Just stop before you come to some erroneous conclusion.”

“Erroneous conclusion?” John repeats incredulously. “I can reason things out just fine, thank you very much.”

“I was not suggesting that you couldn’t,” Sherlock looks at him evenly. He narrows his eyes. “But you do not have all of the data.”

John resists the urge to snap at him in favor of looking away and straight ahead instead. After a few moments of silence, John sighs and looks down at his feet.

“I should have stayed this morning,” he says quietly, still not turning his head to face the taller man. “We should’ve talked and that’s my fault.”

“Well, we could talk now,” Sherlock suggests, the smile evident in his voice and John finally turns to look at him, still expecting to be mocked somehow. Sherlock does look amused, but John should have known better than to think Sherlock would ridicule him. 

John gives him a small nod as Sherlock gestures to a nearby cafe simply called ‘A Taste of India’. What the name lacks, the air drifting from inside makes up for with warm spices and the scent of freshly baked naan. They are soon seated and indulging in some of the best Indian food John has ever tasted. 

Halfway into the meal, John wets his lips and leans forward in his chair. He glances down at his plate and then meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“Uh, we should,” he clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “We should talk.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up. John watches him, trying not to look nervous and probably failing miserably, judging by Sherlock’s expression. There is nothing John would like more than to change the subject and brush this off as he has done so many times in the past. He has run full-steam in the opposite direction, but Sherlock is so different. John is different too and he just doesn’t understand what any of it means. He has been allowed into this man’s life and knows what a gift it is, he treasures it with everything he has. Sherlock makes John feel  calm and free, whereas he has felt undeniably trapped with every other person he has dated.

John eyes the incredible man across the table as he elegantly slides a fork from between his plush lips and chews. John wonders at the feeling that blooms in his chest, all warmth and comfort.

Then he blinks and shakes his head a little.

“You said I didn’t have all the data?” John clears his throat, trying to get back on track.

“You didn’t,” Sherlock says simply. John huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh as Sherlock leans in. “You are concerned about your past, about what I have learned of it, especially this morning.”

John swallows. Sherlock does not break eye contact or miss a beat.

“You’ve no reason to fear, John. No reason to hide. That is all behind you and has no bearing on us now,” he explains in a very serious tone. “It will not write our future or cloud my view of you. No relationship is exactly like another.”

If John’s brain was functioning properly, he would point out that all of his past relationships have been exactly the same for him. However, his brain has seized because Sherlock used the word relationship. He said it like it is something he wants, like it is already a thing, a real thing. He says it like last night was not a one-off as John had feared. Still with his track record, Sherlock cannot possibly mean that. Maybe he actually hasn’t put everything together yet, in which case it is John’s duty to tell him.

“Sherlock,” he finally says when his mind gets itself together, and it still is not firing on all cylinders, “there’s something you have to know about me.”

“Is there?” he tilts his head. “Please enlighten me.”

“When Claire, her name was Claire. When she told me she was pregnant it was because she wanted me to marry her,” John licks his lips and stares at his water glass like it holds all the answers.

“Yes…” Sherlock prompts him softly.

“I didn’t love her,” John stumbles on, sounding more ridiculous by the minute.

“Right,” an affirmation to continue, not a judgment.

“Sherlock, listen. I…” John stops to wrestle with the panic threatening to burst from his chest. “I didn’t love anyone. I have never loved anyone I’ve been in a relationship with. I can’t guarantee it will be any different if we...if we agreed…”

“To date?” Sherlock ventures. 

“Uh…” John is astounded by his bluntness. His mouth is suddenly dry and he clears his throat again. “Um, yeah, if you’d be interested. Are...are you interested?”

There is a sliver of hope in the words and hangs in the air between them. Sherlock opens his beautiful mouth to respond as the ringtone they both know to be Greg’s sounds. He had insisted on his own specific tone after Sherlock ignored one too many calls, which was not long after the lanky git was hired. John has caught shit on occasion for not forcing him to pick up.

“Damn it,” Sherlock mutters as he produces the offending device. “Greg, hello. Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”

“As long as you’re not having a quickie, I’d say I agree,” Greg laughs. Sherlock closes his eyes in resignation and, as if he can see him, Greg’s chortling ceases. “Oh, shit. You’re not on speaker?”

“No, I’m not on speaker,” Sherlock snaps his eyes open, “but for god sake, Greg.”

“Well, put me on,” Greg ignores his admonishment. “I want to go over the plan for tonight. I assume John is with you.”

“We have already done that,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What do you think we did last night?”

“I don’t know. What did you do last night?” Greg jokes. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he does not answer. Greg’s voice comes over the line again, his tone suspicious. “Sherlock…”

Of course John hears none of Greg’s side of the conversation and can only guess at what he said to elicit Sherlock’s expression of shock. He is about to whisper an inquiry when the coach lays his mobile on the table.

“You’re on speaker now, Greg. You said you want to review the plan,” Sherlock prompts, impatience clear in his voice.

The remainder of lunch is spent talking through everything they spoke of the night before in the hotel bar. Their former conversation pushed aside in favor of discussing the bout plan with Greg, much to John’s chagrin. As much as he likes the GM and knows hashing out the plan with him is the right thing to do, John wants to know what Sherlock was going to say. Hen cannot get it off his mind. 

As they talk with Greg, John holds on to the hope that he and Sherlock can resume their conversation, but it is all in vain. By the time they are finished, John and Sherlock have just enough time to rush back to the hotel for a change of clothes, to collect the ladies and their gear, and hop the bus for the night’s venue. The ladies are scheduled for an extended warm-up before they take the track and Sherlock insists on keeping a schedule once he has made it. For his part, John tries to stay focused, but cannot get Sherlock’s last two words out of his mind.

“To date?”

Had his tone been hopeful, curious, dismayed? John can hear the words exactly, but cannot put an emotion to them. He tries not to talk himself into anything, recalling Sherlock’s assertion that he does not have all the data, but really only succeeds in talking himself out of things. He sighs as he watches warm-ups. It is going to be a long night.

---

Oh, just the idea that you’ll have all read it when you get to this is a relief. What did you think? Quite a different ending from the last two chapters, eh? Haha. Dear Jane took pity and didn’t leave you in the lurch this time. However, y’all need to brace yourselves. John was right when he said it’s going to be a long night. What? Is that foreshadowing, Jane? Da da DAAAAA! Damn you.

I hope this chapter finds you all well and provides a little respite, in spite of my not being able to provide Indian food with it. Mmm. I definitely recommend it though. Love, Jane

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @tooolforthissh--stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa @thetranslucentwallaby @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @francj96

[irelise]

Congrats on your milestone!!! I really loved the fic you and fatcatsarecats started writing with cherik and charpocalypse, based on kianspo's angsty premise. I would LOVE to see a continuation of that, or anything with Charpocalypse if you were so inclined :D (Oh and I don't have a specific prompt in mind; I just love Apoc seducing Charles in some fashion, and I'm fine with Charles already in a relationship being seduced lol...) Thank you!!!!!

follow up to these posts!

Charles/En Sabah Nur, past Charles/Erik, warnings for infidelity and emotional manipulation

En isn’t due back until late that night, and Charles spends the hours vacillating wildly between pacing the length of their shared house and trying to bury himself in his work. He fucked up. He fucked up badly, there’s no getting around that. He’ll tell En the truth, of course, that was never in question – but it doesn’t make the wait any easier to bear.

(And yet… And yet, he can’t shake off the feeling that all of this was a test. But that’s not very fair, is it? Even if En had sent him to Erik as a test, it’s Charles’ own fault for failing that test in such a spectacular manner. It’s really nobody’s fault but his.)

He must have dozed off without realizing it, because the next thing Charles knows, he’s jolting awake to the feeling of a blanket being draped over him. En.

Charles is half-sitting, half-lying on the couch, some of his papers lying scattered on the floor – he must have dropped them in his sleep without realizing. En is standing over him, the downy blanket still partially in his grip. There’s a smile on his face. Charles smiles back, but it comes out weak and strained.

“You’re home.” He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Late.” En’s voice is a low, measured rumble. Dark as molasses, Charles had always thought – the sort of voice he can’t help but want to sink into, wrap himself up in. “We should go to bed.”

Charles is not a saint. He is tired, his heart aching with loss and fear and anger. It’s very tempting to allow En to help him up, pull him into a kiss, and sweep him off to bed. He only has to close his eyes and let it happen.

But he can’t.

“En…” He draws in a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. If he doesn’t tell En now, he never will. “We need to talk.”

En watches him, his eyes dark and fathomless. “It can wait, I’m sure. It’s very late.”

Charles huffs out a noise that isn’t quite a laugh. “You’ve always made it very hard to say no.” He shakes his head. “We really do need to talk, En.”

En chuckles lowly. “And it’s equally hard to say no to you,” he says. He settles on the couch next to Charles, the very picture of quiet confidence. “Talk to me, Charles. What is troubling you?”

Charles had spent all night rehearsing this conversation in his head. It’s almost a relief that the time had finally come to have this confrontation in the real world. He takes another deep breath, willing the calm of absolute focus to fall on him. “I went to Erik earlier today. Things went rather – differently, compared to what I had planned. I’m so sorry. There’s no good way to say this. I wasn’t faithful to you. I deeply regret it, and if you wish to sever all ties with me, I will of course leave right away.”

There is, of course, the temptation to grovel. To beg for forgiveness, for another chance, it will never happen again, I promise. But he’s made his choices. Now he must live with the consequences.

For several long seconds, En is silent. Not angry, no, he’s not someone quick to move to anger, but his expression is stern and forbidding.

“Do you want to leave?” He asks at last.

“No!” The denial bursts from Charles before he can contain himself. He shakes his head, forcing himself to calm. “No.”

“Then you’ll stay with me,” En says firmly. His fingers rest against the underside of Charles’ chin, tilting his head up. “I am disappointed. Very disappointed. But, I confess, your infidelity does not surprise me.”

“What?”

“You and Erik Lehnsherr had the sort of bond that comes once in a lifetime. That much is plain to anyone who knows the two of you. It was inevitable that you would succumb to it, although I had hoped otherwise. Human nature is what it is.”

Now is hardly the time for a philosophical debate, but Charles shakes his head anyway. “No. There’s no excuse for my actions. Human nature or not, I should have been better than that. Erik – Erik was right about me.” And isn’t it ironic, that Erik should be the one to lead him into the very crime he had accused Charles of?

“Erik Lehnsherr was a fool blind to the facts in front of him.” En’s gaze remained locked on his. “If he truly knew you, he would never have believed the accusations levied against you.”

“Erik is…” Charles stops, biting his lip. Even now, his first instinct is to leap to Erik’s defence. Will that ever fade, he wonders? “This isn’t about Erik.”

“It is,” En counters. “But if you would rather not talk about him, I will respect your decision.”

“I just don’t understand how you can be so calm about all of this.” When he compares En’s reaction to Erik’s…

“It is as I said. I am disappointed, but your decisions were not unexpected.” En cups Charles’ head in his hands, bending down to press a kiss against his forehead. His lips are warm. “You love him.”

Charles closes his eyes. “I thought I did.”

“You love him,” En repeats. “But love on its own isn’t enough.”

“…No. It wasn’t.”

En kisses his forehead again. “I think you learnt that tonight, or you would not have returned to me.”

An uneasy chill settles over Charles. He can’t resist giving voice to his earlier suspicions. “You were the one who asked me to talk to Erik. Was it all a test?”

���Charles…” En draws back, looking disappointed. “Do you think so little of me? I urged you to speak with Erik because you needed to find resolution. That, I cannot offer you.”

Chastened, Charles’ gaze drops to the ground, but he can’t quite quell his nagging doubts. “Terribly selfless of you.”

“I do care for you,” En says quietly, grave. “Ours is no fairytale romance, but I find our arrangement enjoyable. I would like to see you flourish, Charles. But only if you can leave the past where it lies.”

He doesn’t know if he believes in En, but Charles relents for now, too tired and heartsick to argue any further. “I won’t go back to him again, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s over.”

It’s been over since the night Erik threw him out. Charles had simply failed to accept it until tonight. He doesn’t protest as En gathers him close again, pressing a final kiss to his lips.

“Let’s go to bed.”

[paradisobound]

Behind Hazel Eyes: Part 1

Summary: Dan’s known Lucas since college and he’s never been so convinced that two people are meant to be together. He loves Lucas more than anything. But when news report of a serial killer striking around the town, Dan begins to notice signs in Lucas that leave him nervous. With the help of his newfound friend Phil, Dan pieces together the parts of Lucas that he somehow missed before anyone else loses their lives--and before Dan loses his own. 

Warnings: serial killer, blood mentions, horror, disturbing content. Please heed all warnings

Word Count: 3.9k this part

**Read on Ao3**

A/N: Welcome to my version of Spookyweek where I’m posting a new installment of this fic every day until Halloween! First part is today, second is tomorrow, and third part is Halloween! This is a dark fic, and it takes some dark turns so please heed all warnings! I had a lot of fun writing this and it was something totally out of my comfort zone but I think I really executed it well. Hope you all enjoy if this is what you’re into!

“The News is sad to report tonight that the infamous Western Valley Serial Killer has appeared to strike again at an apartment complex in downtown Rockwell. 22 year old Ashton Johnson has been identified as the next victim in this horrific string of violence. We have no other details at this time. The police are still asking the public to help identify the killer by calling in any leads you may have. A sketch of the killer has been released the police are asking for anyone to come forward if you think you know who they are…” 

The sound of the news droned on in the background as Dan laid in bed, his body covered by the soft throw. It was a warmer early spring night, and while his apartment was cooled by an air conditioner, the air still held enough moisture to make his skin sticky and damp. If it wasn’t for his knack of only being able to fall asleep with a blanket on, he’d be well better off. 

He turns onto his side and reaches for the TV remote just in time to hear the front door open and shut with the distinctive creak that Dan has been asking his landlord to fix since he moved in. Footsteps become louder and louder and Dan looks up just in time to see his boyfriend stood in the doorway and his lips curl up in a smile. 

“You’re still awake?” 

Dan scoffs at Lucas and turns onto his back, reaching over and tugging at the chord of the bedside light and finding the switch to turn it on. The dull yellow light floods the room and Dan sees the way Lucas’s brown hair falls a bit flat on top, much different to how he styled it before he left to go out that night. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Dan asks, maneuvering himself so he’s not sitting up, the throw coiled on his lap. 

“Hm?” Lucas hums, walking over to the bed and sitting down. He places his hand on Dan’s arm and rubs up and down. “Well, it’s well after midnight and you have to work in the morning.” 

“I can still get up at eight.” Dan says. “You seem to forget that I used to be up until 4 in the morning pacing the floors of my dorm and I’d still make it to class at eight thirty.” 

“Barely.” Lucas says. He leans over and presses a soft and gentle kiss to Dan’s cheek. “I need to go and shower but try and fall asleep before I’m out?” 

Dan finds himself nodding and Lucas leans down and kisses his forehead. As he backs up off from the bed and stands up, he turns around and Dan sees the way he stops and watches the TV for a moment. 

“Police are now saying this is the work of the Western Valley Serial Killer. The victim tonight had the same carved inscription on the inside of their thigh as the other three young males who met the same fate. Police are continuing to ask the public…” 

“I can’t believe they haven’t caught him yet.” 

Dan looks up at Lucas. Lucas turns to him and pushes his brown leather jacket off from his arms, leaving just a white teeshirt underneath. “Who? That guy?” 

Lucas nods. “Sick fucking dude.” 

Dan nods and quickly reaches over and grabs the remote, turning off the TV. He didn’t like hearing about it and he didn’t feel like talking about it. The idea of someone being out there doing these heinous crimes made Dan feel a bit paranoid about his own safety. 

Lucas undresses the rest of the way and leaves his clothes in a pile at the end of their bed as he walks to their ensuite bathroom and closes the door behind him. Dan lays down in bed, pulling the soft throw over his body once more. 

When he reaches over and shuts the light off, the sound of the shower running in the bathroom keeps him a bit calmer. According to the news reports, the killer has been striking at apartment buildings and manipulating his way into young men’s apartments, only to sexually assault them and then kill them before they can get away. Every time the news reports that another victim was found, Dan feels a bit more sick inside. But he has Lucas to protect him. He knows that. But he still doesn’t fall asleep until long in the night, after Lucas has already climbed into bed and wrapped his body around his own. 

When he wakes up in the morning, his eyes have telltale dark circles underneath and he feels way too drowsy to drive. But he gets in his car and heads off to the library anyway to begin his shift. 

He’s greeted by Mary, the kind older woman who shouldn’t still be working at the library but Dan knows that she means well. It’s not her fault that sometimes she stamps the wrong part of their forms for library loans or she writes the date as something way off. He knows that she loves the library more than her own life and that’s okay with him to work with her. 

“We have a new applicant for the summer position.” Mary tells him, her voice a bit shaky as she moves a stack of books delicately from one end of the counter to the other. “He seems well and like he’d be a good fit while I’m out.” 

Dan has already been through probably thirty applications for Mary’s position while she’s out of work to visit her family in Florida for three months. But none of the applications were anything spectacular. Dan would read one after another and see the same candidate in each one: a young teenager who just wants a summer job to have a reason to make money. And although Dan isn’t opposed to actually hiring someone like that―he’d been a teenager once as well―he would still rather work with someone who is serious about the position. 

“What is their name?” He asks, already moving to the computer to look at the email for the library. 

“Philip, I believe.” She says. She picks up the stack of books she had just moved and sets them down on a cart on the other side of the counter. “I’m going to go and put these away now.” 

Dan nods in her direction and pulls up the email with the application. He looks it over and is immediately stricken at the fact the fact that this guy was 28 and applying for this position. Dan was 25 himself and he would much rather work with someone who was 28 than someone who was 16. As he read the application, he found that Phil, as his application asked him to be called, actually had a library science certification and was a recent employee for a public library downstate. The fact that the guy had experience and was also rightfully certified for the position was extremely intriguing to Dan and he quickly took note of his number by writing it on a sticky note. 

He minimized the application and walked down the counter to the phone that sat on the end. He picked up the receiver and dialed Phil’s number. It rang a few times and just as Dan thought someone was going to answer, the line cut off and Phil’s voicemail began. When it beeped, Dan let out a sigh and then began his message. 

“Hello, this is Daniel Howell calling from Western Valley Public Library. I have looked at your application and I would love for you to come in for an interview if possible. You can call me back at 347-222-9736. Thank you.” 

Dan puts the receiver down and sucks in a breath. He really hopes that Phil calls them back because even though he wouldn’t mind hiring 17 year old Heather, he’d much rather hire Phil who is actually qualified. 

Dan spends the rest of his morning looking through the list of loans that other libraries have requested from their collection and he spends most of his time taking note of each title and then finding it on their shelves, most containing a thin layer of dust. He’s busy dusting them off and sticking a label in the inside of what school or library it’s going to when the phone rings beside him and he quickly stands up from his stool and rushes over. 

“Western Valley Public Library, how may I help you?” 

“Hi. This is Phil. You called earlier about an interview but I was busy and didn’t make your call. Is it okay to still schedule an interview?” 

Dan feels his lips curl into a smile and he quickly rushes over and grabs a pad of sticky notes and a pen before he settles down, resting his elbows on the counter. 

“When can you come in?” 

They decide on an interview the end of this week and Dan finds it quite strange that he already cannot wait to conduct it. He doesn’t know if he’s excited because he gets to do it himself this time or that he’s just eager to meet someone new after just working with Mary these last three years with no one else around. 

When Dan was first hired here, it was by total accident. He was fresh out of college with nothing more than a philosophy degree and he felt lost. He didn’t know what to do or where to go but Lucas helped him. Lucas knew his great-aunt worked for the public library system and he managed to get Dan a job here a the library. There had been many other workers in the library years prior but budget cuts left them with just enough money to pay both Mary and himself. It was a miracle that this library is even open. Dan hardly sees anyone ever actually come here. 

By lunch time, the library is getting ready to close at two today and he’s gearing up to take his lunch to the meeting room and eat when he realizes he didn’t even have it with him. He must have never grabbed it from the fridge at home before he left. 

He’ll beat himself up for it later, but right now, he’s stood at the counter, looking at the empty library as Mary stands around and dusts off shelves, not even bothered. He’s pretty sure she didn’t even hear him when he told her Phil was coming in for an interview this week. 

Dan takes a seat on the stool and scribbles a bit on his sticky notes when the door to the library opens and he looks up to see that all too familiar brown leather jacket. His lips pull up in a big smile and he walks around the counter to meet Lucas half-way. 

“What are you doing here?” Dan asks. “Shouldn’t you be at college?” 

“You forgot your lunch so I thought I’d bring it to you here before I went to my seminar.” Lucas leans forwards and presses his lips lightly against Dan’s. “I would never get through my criminal offenses seminar knowing I never brought my hubby his food.” 

Dan feels his cheeks blush as he looks between them at the brown paper bag in Lucas’s hand that contains his half-assed made PB and J sandwich and a Tupperware container of fruit. It’s an embarrassing meal, but it’s all he has time to make and really, it’s all he can afford to make being the only one to make money between him and Lucas. 

But Lucas was studying to pass the Bar exam in just six months time and Dan didn’t want to impose on that. Not when Lucas has been studying for this moment for as long as Dan has known him. 

“You didn’t have to do this.” 

“But I wanted to.” Lucas pressed, his arm coming up and snaking it’s way around Dan’s waist. “I have to get going if I want to get a parking spot and make it to seminar in time but I’ll see you at home later. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

They kiss one last time as Dan takes hold of his paper bag lunch from Lucas and then waves goodbye as he walks back out the door. 

“Was that Frances, Dan?” Mary called from the counter as she set her cleaning supplies down. 

“His name is Lucas, Mary. Remember?” He asks with a laugh. 

Mary waves it off and Dan snickers a bit more as he tells her he’s going to take his lunch and he retreats to the meeting room. 

Dan gets home from the library at around three and he finds himself trying to tidy up some of the mess that Lucas had left behind that morning. There were random files and notes thrown all over their coffee table and Dan even found some torn out textbook pages under the couch. He puts them all into a neat little pile and puts them off to the side just in time to sit down and rest his feet. 

He grabs the remote for their TV in the living room and turns it on to see that the channel was on the news station. Dan rolled his eyes, because he didn’t feel like watching the news but the story caught his eye. 

The sketch of the Western Valley Serial Killer was on his screen and he was staring at it. Underneath the sketch was a description of them and Dan reads off the bullet points in his head. 

6 Foot tall

Roughly 200 pounds 

Dark brown hair and dark eyes 

Slight stubble around chin 

Athletic build 

Dan reaches for the remote and switches the channel as fast he can, trying to get the image out of his head of this guy walking around and preying on innocent people. His stomach tightens into a knot and he finds it hard to not think about anything but that as he eventually finds an episode of Fixer Upper to try and clear his thoughts. 

He watches a few episodes of Chip and Joanna before he hears the telltale signs of keys in the front door and the door pushes open to reveal Lucas on the other side. He has a plastic bag full of what looks like Chinese food and Dan’s stomach gives a hungry growl. 

“Hope you don’t mind that I picked up Chinese for dinner.” Lucas says, setting the bag on their kitchen counter. 

Dan stands up from the couch and walks over to him, leaning his hands onto the counter. “What did you get me?” 

“Sesame Chicken with Lo Mein.” Lucas says, pulling it out the bag and setting the foil container onto the counter. 

“You know me so well.” Dan comments with a laugh as he leans forward and kisses his cheek. Lucas stiffens for a second, and Dan pulled back a bit quicker than he wanted to. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help but see the way Lucas’s demeanor shifted at the kiss. 

But he didn’t say anything about it. And neither did Lucas. 

“You’ve only ever ordered the same thing since freshman year.” Lucas says, pulling out his food next and crumbling the bag, throwing it into the garbage can. 

Dan nods curtly and forces a smile as he grabs the hot container and takes it to their table where he sits down with a plastic fork and opens up the top, digging into it. 

They eat mostly in silence but that’s more common than Dan would like to admit. Normally its because they’re both so busy eating, they just forget to speak. But other times it’s just because they have nothing to say to the other. Dan sadly feels like it’s the latter tonight. 

When they’re done, Dan helps Lucas pick up everything and then he goes to the living room and pulls out his laptop to scroll social media while Lucas grabs at the pile that Dan had picked up and begins to paw through it again. 

“How was your day?” Dan asks. 

“Stressful.” Lucas says without any hesitation. “I’m so ready to take this fucking exam and be done with it. At this point, I don’t even feel like I can pass it.” 

“You’ll do fine.” Dan says, turning himself to face Lucas. “You’re smart and more than capable of passing the exam.” 

Lucas lets out a breath. “Sometimes I wonder why I’m even doing this.” 

“You want to be a lawyer.” Dan says. “You told me that it’s something you’ve dreamed of doing since you knew what a lawyer was. Don’t give up on that dream just because times are getting rough.” 

Lucas sighs and runs his hands through his hair, brushing it back onto his head before it falls back to it’s normal quiff-like position. “I’m sorry if I’m being cynical.” He says. “I just never anticipated everything to be this difficult.” 

“But you got this.” Dan says, putting his laptop down onto the coffee table and moving closer to Lucas. “You’ve got it in you to pass this exam and you’re going to make the best damn defense attorney that has ever lived.” 

Lucas turns his head and his lips are curled up into a slight smirk. “You’re the most amazing person.” He says, his hand coming out and resting on Dan’s jaw. “I’ll never understand how I got so lucky.” 

“I can say the same for myself.” 

Lucas leans forward and kisses Dan, his lips drawing the breath from Dan’s lungs. Dan whimpers and reaches out, pressing his hand against Lucas’s bicep to steady himself as Lucas deepens the kiss. 

They take it to the bedroom and Dan is soon on his back with Lucas between his legs and he’ll never get over how amazing sex is with Lucas. How caring and gentle he is but also how rough he is when he wants to be. His fingertips leave bruises on Dan’s hips but the slight tingle left in their aftermath only makes Dan enjoy them more. 

When Lucas stands up to use the restroom, Dan notices red marks on his back and while he didn’t think he’d dug his nails into Lucas’s back, he still finds himself looking at the tops of his fingers for any burrs on them. 

Lucas climbs back into bed beside Dan a few moments later but Dan is far too tired to comment on the scratches so he doesn’t. He just closes his eyes and falls asleep for a short time before waking up at just before midnight and realizing he’s fucked his sleep schedule once again. 

Dan can’t fall back asleep and it burdens him as he gets up at just half past midnight and walks out of their bedroom, Lucas still asleep on the bed. He makes his way into the kitchen and opens their fridge thinking that maybe a midnight snack might make him feel a bit better. 

When nothing seems to grab his attention, he moves to their freezer and opens it up to search inside. He finds a half-empty pint of Ben and Jerry’s and pulls it out, opening the lid to make sure it wasn’t frost bit. He sets the lid off to the side on the counter and opens their silverware drawer and pulls out a spoon. 

He meanders his way back into the living room and plops down onto the couch again, reaching out to grab at the remote for the TV and turn it on. He presses the power button and just as the TV comes to life, the same local news station is highlighting the screen and Dan feels his heart race. 

“Western Valley Police will be holding a press conference this morning at 9am regarding the Western Valley Serial Killer. Police say that they have some new information that they are withholding from releasing until the press conference tomorrow. Police are still encouraging anyone to come forward with any…” 

“You’re still watching this shit?” 

Dan jumps, his shoulders rising up as he gasps and drops his unused spoon onto the floor by his feet. He quickly turns his head and sees Lucas standing behind him, a pair of tight boxer briefs covering his hips and his arms folded over his chest. His hair was slightly mussed up and Dan felt it hard to not feel a bit jolted at seeing him standing there. 

“It was just what was on when I turned the TV on.” Dan mumbles, reaching for the remote again. 

“It’s such a sad, pathetic thing.” Lucas comments, moving around the side of the couch and sitting down beside Dan. “Like what heartless fucking monster would do that?” 

Dan shrugs. “A pretty bad one.” 

Lucas scoffs. “Turn the channel, babe.” He says, his voice harsh. “I don’t want to watch this shit right now.” 

Dan turns the channel as fast as he can and they eventually end up on Adult Swim, watching some episode of Rick and Morty. His pint of Ben and Jerry’s remains long forgotten, melted on the coffee table next to the soiled spoon. Sometime about an hour later, he finds himself curled onto Lucas’s bare chest, his eyes falling closed. 

When he wakes up to Lucas leaving before the sun even comes up, he doesn’t question it. He just closes his eyes, and falls asleep again on the couch, curled up in a blanket that he didn’t put on himself. 

[peaceisadirtyword]

Secrets IX (Modern!Ivar/Reader)

A/N: You probably hate me, and if you don’t you’ll do it after reading this lol. 

I’m sorry, I had exams and a trip to Lapland (which was amazing) and I couldn't post this before. I was going to do it last night, but as I edited it, I thought about one scene that I had written down a while ago and I added it. As I took forever to post this, it’s longer than usual (much longer lol). I really hope you like it, thanks for reading💞

Btw, mor means mum in danish, a friend (who is danish lol) told me and I thought it would be cute to use it 💕

Warnings: Smut, mentions of alcohol and violence, Ivar I love you but sometimes I’d kill you, Freydis, angst, my heart broke while writing this. Things are getting darker.

Words: 4300 lol

Inspiration: Griffenholm Confessionals by @akamaiden @laketaj24 @ivarsshieldmadien @ivarswickedqueen​

Catch up here

Gif belongs to @heathenarmyimagines

"Are you sure, Ivar?" Ubbe didn't seem too convinced about what his brother proposed "You know what happened last time"

Ivar rolled his eyes. Since he told his brothers he had invited you to spend the holidays at their home, Ubbe had been worried and had tried to make him think about it twice before making a decision. And even now, when they were all relaxing on his and Hvitserk's room, he had to keep pestering him.

"Y/N is not Freydis, Ubbe" Hvitserk rolled his eyes at his brother's comment "She's nicer, and in my opinion, prettier... Have you told mor, Ivar?"

He sighed, knowing he should have called his mother sooner, but... Aslaug had been too over protective with him all his life, but since Freydis she had been paranoid, afraid someone would dare hurt her precious boy.

"I haven't yet"

"Well maybe you should mention it to her before an unknown girl appears in front of her door asking where is her little boy's bedroom"

"I will" Ivar sighed, annoyed "I just don't want her going all crazy"

"She's gonna go all crazy anyway... What if she decides she doesn't want her at home?" Sigurd raised an eyebrow. 

"I will just take her to the apartment then" Ivar shrugged "I understand mother, I really do, but I'm old enough to have a girlfriend without her babying me, you know"

"She's worried about you" Ubbe defended her "As am I, look, Y/N looks like an amazing girl, but you don't really know her, Ivar..."

"I'm bored of this conversation, Ubbe"

His older brother sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly while Ivar lit up a cigarette looking through the window. 

"I'm gonna go" Hvitserk stood up from his bed, yawning before kneeling beside his bed and taking out some weed from under his mattress "I have to meet some guy to give him this... Ubbe, are you coming?" 

"Yes" he quickly got up from Ivar's bed, where he had been sitting "Let's go... Sigurd?"

For once, Sigurd wasn't playing the guitar, so he just nodded and walked to the door. 

Ivar sighed, looking at his phone. He should really call his mother. He had told you she already knew and cannot wait to meet you because you were scared in case she didn't want you to go to her home. 

Before he could stop himself, he picked up his phone and unlocked it, entering his contacts and calling Aslaug. 

He took a drag of his cigarette, knowing she would be busy and probably wouldn't pick up her phone. 

But, of course, she did. 

"Hello Ivar" her motherly tone and sweet voice made him smile. He loved his mother more than anyone else.

"Hi mor" he answered "Are you busy?"

"No, no, I just got off the phone with your father" she sighed "To tell him to come home for Christmas... Why?" 

"Nothing, it's just... I wanted to talk to you for a bit, and tell you something..."

"Oh" she sounded surprised, but happy "Of course, my love, what do you want to talk about?" 

"It's... Nothing important" he sighed "Just that... Well, maybe Ubbe has already told you but... I met someone"

Both of them stayed silent for almost a minute. Ivar could only hear the fast beating of his heart, and that annoyed him. Why was he so nervous? His mother's opinion was the most important one, yes but... It wasn't a big deal.

"Ivar..." She sounded concerned, and a part of him cursed himself for making her worry "Honey, don't you think it's too soon...?"

"It's not, I met someone I like and... Well, I think I'm dating her" he bit his lip, taking another drag of his cigarette "She's not like Freydis, mor"

"Ivar I don't want to see you hurt again"

"Why is everyone saying that? I'm not a child, mother, I know I made a mistake trusting her, but I won't make that mistake again, Y/N doesn't have a place to stay during holidays, so I offered her to stay at our house, but if you don't want her there I'll just go with her to the apartment" 

Aslaug sighed, knowing he would do whatever he wanted to anyway. 

"No, bring her home, it's okay, I'd like to meet her if she means that much for you" Ivar could even hear the smile on her lips, and felt bad for talking to her in that way. 

"Okay, thank you" he sighed "You'll like her, I promise" he smiled softly "I know you will"

___________________________________

You stumbled across the hall, trying to stay on your feet and not fall down. Maybe you shouldn't have drank that last vodka shot... Or the other ten.

Somehow, Elise had convinced you to ask Hvitserk for some alcohol, and he had gladly given you a bottle for free, as he was the only one who would ever be able to sneak alcohol in the school. He had laughed when you went to see him, blushing while asking for a bottle. He had thought you were cute. And of course gave you the bottle without asking. 

You'd left Elise flirting with some boy you didn't know, and you had actually left because this boy's friend seemed to like you, and he was very... Persistent. 

Your feet took you to the room 994. You didn't even realize where were you until you looked at the familiar door and frowned. You really hoped that Ivar or Hvitserk were in the room and hadn't decided to go and have a little party at the house. 

You knocked softly, not wanting to make much noise but probably failing as you didn't really hear anything except for a strong ringing in your ears. 

You were going to have a hell of a hangover. 

The door opened, and you couldn't help but sigh when you saw Ivar, dressed on the basic white t-shirt and the black sweatpants he used as pajamas, with a scowl on his face and an eyebrow raised. 

"Good night" you whispered, giggling "Are you awake?" You asked before realizing what you had just said and bursting in laughter.

Ivar looked amused, and almost smirked while answering you. 

"Yes I am... And you're drunk" 

"I'm not" you shook your head, trying to put on a serious face but failing miserably. 

"How the hell did you get drunk?" 

"With alcohol" you shrugged, making him roll his eyes "Is Hvitserk here?"

"Why are you looking for my brother?" Ivar almost growled.

"I'm not, I just wanted to know if he's sleeping, I wouldn't like to wake him up" you tried to sound seductive, but as you tried to lean onto the door to look sexier, you tripped over yourself and almost fell down. Ivar's free arm caught you, and you immediately pressed your body against his. The worst thing of being in a secret relationship (because you were in a relationship... right?) was not being able to hug and kiss him whenever you wanted to. 

"Can I stay with you?" You muttered with your lips hovering over his ear, making him shiver and tense up "I don't want to go back to my room, Elise is probably fucking with that boy" you whined.

"Yes, come on, I want to see your face tomorrow when you wake up with the most spectacular hangover in history"

He closed the door after you, and put his crutch next to the bed, leaned onto the wall, while he looked at you snuggling into his bed. He honestly thought you would fell asleep immediately, so you startled him when you hugged him as he was still getting into the bed. 

"Gods, Y/N, you're freezing" he frowned, trying to get as far away from you as possible.

You pouted, grabbing his shirt to try and pull him closer to you.

"And you're warm" you muttered "Warm me up"

He chuckled when one of your hands traveled between his legs to touch him over his clothes.

"Hasn't the vodka warmed you up enough?" He pushed your hand away softly, making you pout again. 

"How do you know it was vodka?" You tilted your head, and Ivar found adorable the way your doe eyes looked at him, lit up in confusion. 

"Because you smell like a fucking vodka distillery, Y/N" he rolled his eyes, making you giggle "Now, go to sleep or I'll kick you out of my room"

He closed his eyes, trying to go back to sleep and ignoring the way you curled up against him, sighing happily.

But when he opened his eyes a few minutes later, he found you awake, looking at him with a serious expression.

"What? Y/N, go to sleep now or..."

"Ivar, do you think I'm pretty?" 

Your question left him speechless for a few seconds. He honestly didn't expect that.

"What?" He repeated, furrowing his brows in confusion.

"Do you like me?"

He blinked a few times and then looked away, scoffing.

"I don't usually make out or fuck with people I consider ugly, Y/N" he answered sarcastically "And I already answered that question"

"Do you love me?" You asked softly, looking at him with your heart beating faster and faster.

That morning, you had had breakfast with a girl who sat next to you in Literature, who was really happy because that day was her third anniversary with her boyfriend. She had told you that it wasn't easy, that sometimes they would fight and tell each other things they didn't mean, but then she explained how she felt every time she saw him, how her heart would beat faster and her cheeks would blush. How she couldn't control herself around him and how she melted whenever he smiled or kissed her. 

And you had realized you felt the same with Ivar.

You didn't want to tell him, too shy and afraid that he would say he didn't feel the same. What would you do if he said that? Or worse, what would you do if he didn't say anything? Like now.

Ivar wasn't looking at you anymore, hoping you would fell asleep before he had to answer and forget about it the next morning. 

"I do love you" you admitted, biting you lip and holding back your tears. 

Don't try and make Ivar talk about his feelings, that only happened once and it went wrong for him, Ubbe had told you a few days ago. 

He was right then. 

Ivar didn't answer you, he stayed silent, looking at the dark ceiling and with his heart beating faster and faster. The fact that you just said you loved him should have made him smile, but he couldn't stop thinking about the last time someone said that to him, and how it felt completely different. 

He couldn't tell you he loved you because he wasn't sure he did. 

No he didn't love you, not yet at least. 

Ivar felt your tears wetting his shirt, but he still didn't look at you as you moved to turn around and get away from him, curling up at the other side of the bed while trying to hid your sobs. 

You shouldn't have said anything.

If you were Freydis, maybe he would have kissed you while telling you he loved you too.He would have smiled at you, looking at you with that look that Ubbe had tried to describe to you. Maybe he would have made love to you. 

But you weren't Freydis, and never would be. You knew where you were getting into, anyway, everyone had warned you about it, even his brothers. Ivar had only loved one woman in his life, and she would be probably the last one. 

The worst thing was that even knowing that your relationship with him would probably be like that; with you loving him and he just caring about you, you were more than willing to stay with him. 

_______________________________________

Ivar couldn't help but smile when he saw her. She was on the couch, reading a book with the TV on, playing with her own hair and with her beautiful eyes wide open, surprised and excited about something she was reading on the book. 

He sighed, putting the keys into one of the pockets of his coat and leaving it inside the wardrobe next to the door. It had been an awful day, and he wasn't able to go back home before dinner, as he promised her. Floki had discovered one of Aelle's boys trying to get information about the Ragnarsson's last movements around the city, and he had had to take care of him before going back. 

He still remembered the screams and pleas of the poor boy. He was merely a kid, but his death would send a message to Aelle and Ecbert. Stop trying to fuck with us. 

"You're late"

Her sweet voice, adorned with a pretended annoyance that only made her even more irresistible, made him smile again. When was the last time he had smiled that much in a few minutes? 

"I'm sorry, love, I had to take care of something"

She pouted, standing up and walking over to him. She was wearing one of the white shirts he had on his wardrobe. It suited her. 

Her beautiful blonde hair was loose, framing her angelic face in a way that nearly made Ivar's heart stop. Her blue eyes fixed on his as she approached him. 

When her lips touched his, he groaned. They had just seen each other a few hours ago, but he had missed her so much...

"I made dinner" she whispered with a giggle, caressing his cheek "It must be cold by now, but I wanted to eat with you"

"Just let me change this clothes" he looked at her in awe, not understanding how he was lucky enough to have her. 

"Do you need help?" She smiled to him while kissing his cheek. 

Ivar shook his head, kissing her forehead before getting away from her, walking down the hall to the giant bedroom. 

He left his crutches next to the bed and sat down, groaning when he finally got to sit down and relax his legs.

Gods, they had given him a rough time that day.

He was just taking off his shirt when he heard her entering the room. She got onto the bed and crawled to him. He was already smiling again when she hugged him. 

"Freydis" he sighed, even if he wanted it as much as she did "We need to eat first" he cleared his throat when her lips traveled down his neck "We'll have time for this after dinner"

"But I want to help you to relax" she practically moaned into his ear "Every meal tastes better after sex, Ivar"

The way she whispered his name, at the same time her hands roamed over his body, made him give up. 

Sex with her was always amazing. She made him feel like a God, praising him and telling him how much she loved him, caressing his skin and even kissing his legs before her tongue licked his hard cock, making him curse and moan out loud.

"I want to take care of you" she had whispered on his ear, straddling him before kissing him again. 

Both of them forgot about the cold dinner waiting for them in the kitchen, as Ivar felt he didn't need anything more than her to live. It sounded cheesy, but he had everything he needed in that bed with him, riding him. 

They fell asleep together, limbs intertwined and a smile on their lips. Ivar whispered an I love you before falling asleep, and he never heard her answer. He just assumed she felt the same, how could she not, after sharing that moment with him?

Well, he was wrong. 

_____________________________________

Ivar woke up hearing some strange noises. Coughing and panting, and then some shooting words and someone... Throwing up?

He quickly sat down on the bed and took his crutches, cursing when he got up and felt the strong pain on his legs again. Great, it was one of those days. 

He ignored the pain as he walked to the bathroom, opening the door to find you kneeling beside the toilet, with tears falling down your cheeks and coughing. Hvitserk was kneeled next to you, holding back you hair and caressing your back softly with one hand. 

"Hey" his brother looked at him with a small smile "I found her here, sleeping on the floor... She's been throwing up for a while now"

Ivar frowned, looking at you in concern. Why hadn't you woke him up it you weren't feeling good?

Then he remembered.

I do love you.

Yeah, it was probably because of that.

"It's your fault, why did you give her that bottle?"

"Hey, she asked me to, I wasn't going to deny some fun to the poor girl" Hvitserk shrugged "Now come here and hold her hair back, I'm gonna get some water and a clean towel"

Ivar sat down next to you, taking your hair on his hands and caressing your head softly. His mother used to do that when he was feeling pain, and it always calmed him down. He hoped you felt the same. 

Your body relaxed against his, you breathed deeply and even smiled a bit. You remembered what had happened the night before, but decided to ignore it as it only would hurt you.

"Are you okay?" He whispered, not only referring to your current state. He may not love you yet, but he couldn't stand hurting you. 

You managed to nod your head before starting coughing again, this time leaning more into the toilet to throw up again. 

Ivar sighed, his hand on your back, trying to calm you down while Hvitserk came back, kneeling next to you.

"Here" he offered you the towel, which you accepted with a weak thank you that made Ivar's heart sink. 

When you had cleaned your mouth, Hvitserk gave you the water. 

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, smiling softly at you.

"Yes" you said with a weak voice, and then groaned "I'm not drinking anymore in my life"

That made the brothers chuckle, remembering all those times they said the same. 

"You should get some sleep" said Ivar while Hvitserk helped you to get up.

"Elise is probably with that guy" you sighed.

"Stay here, then" Ivar growled while getting up "I have to go to class, but you can stay"

You nodded weakly, walking over his bed and almost moaning when your sore body touched the soft mattress. 

Hvitserk looked at his brother as if he knew something had happened, but didn't say anything and went to his wardrobe to get his uniform and get dressed. He had spent the night with Margrethe and Ubbe, and had a shower in the morning with Margrethe, knowing that Ivar probably would have company. What he didn't expect was to find that company on the bathroom floor, crying and throwing up. 

He wouldn't ask his brother about it with you present, but he would eventually do it.

_______________________________

Ivar couldn't concentrate in class. He actually missed you sitting next to him and pretending you hated him as his fingers played with the hem of your skirt. 

He felt guilty, for dreaming about Freydis and thinking about her while being with you, but it wasn't like he could control that, right? 

But when he was about to get up and go to his room, where he hoped you still were, someone sat next to him. 

He was about to yell at the person who dared to sit next to him when he obviously didn't want company, glaring at them when he noticed who he was. 

"Alfred" his voice sounded even angrier than he actually felt. Why was this little brat bothering him now? Gods how he wished he had killed him when he had the chance.

"Ivar" he smiled politely at him, which made Ivar clench his jaw.

"What do you want? I'm busy" he scoffed. 

"The teacher is coming now, I'm afraid your business will have to wait until the class is over"

He groaned. Alfred should be thankful Ivar didn't have an axe with him because probably it would end up buried into his head.

"Where is Y/N?"

Ivar's brows raised when he heard him. 

"Why should I know?"

"She didn't go down to have breakfast, and has missed all her classes, I know Elise and her had a little party with some friends last night, but she's not in her room either, so I supposed she was with you, but you're here so..."

"Why would she be with me?"

Alfred chuckled.

"Ivar, you can stop pretending, Y/N is not very subtle when she sees you" 

He tensed up. He didn't care if you told your friends, or if some other student caught the both of you having sex in one classroom, as had happened a few days before, but he didn't want Alfred knowing. Not Ecbert's grandson. 

"So, where's she?"

"Why do you care?"

"She happens to be my friend, and I know you, Ivar, I'm worried about her"

Ivar smiled, looking away before glaring at him again.

"If you think I would hurt her, you don't know me"

"I do" Alfred was now serious, his lips pressed together "I just want to know where is she, if she's okay, it's dangerous being with you"

"She's fine" he finally replied "She just has a hangover, leave her rest"

Alfred sighed.

"Don't hurt her"

And then he left, leaving a fuming Ivar alone and wishing he could beat him to death.

________________________

You woke up for the third time that day when you heard the door closing. You had gotten up before to wash your teeth with one of the new toothbrushes Ivar and Hvitserk had in the bathroom which you were going to keep and to eat a few cookies Hvitserk had hidden under his bed. Then you had had fallen asleep again, but this time Ivar was there too, and he looked angry.

"Hey" he said, frowning when he saw you awake "Sorry, I didn't want to wake you up"

"It's fine" you smiled softly at him "What happened?"

Ivar sighed, sitting on the bed next to you.

"Alfred knows it" 

You furrowed your brows. You hadn't told anyone, not even Elise... How had he found out?

"I didn't..."

"I know, it's okay"

You bit your lip, not knowing if you should go or stay. Maybe he wanted some time alone. 

He didn't move as you got out of bed, shivering when you felt the cool air on your naked skin. You had got ridden of your clothes while in bed, sleeping only with your underwear, and now you regretted it. 

"Where are you going?" He looked at you as you tried to find your skirt. 

"I... Thought you..." You sighed, feeling stupid. Why were you being so cautious with him? "I thought you would like me to go"

"I don't" he just answered, and grabbed your arm to get you into the bed again "Stay with me, Y/N" he whispered. 

You complied happily, getting under the warm covers again and snuggling against him. 

In less than two minutes, he had you beneath him, with your legs around him, kissing you roughly and with his cold hands roaming all over your body. You kissed him back, tangling your hands on his hair and moving your hips against his. 

When his fingers caressed your sex, you opened your eyes to look at him. His movements were slower and softer than usually, but he still pinned you down to the mattress while pushing two of his fingers inside you. 

You bit your lip to hold back a loud moan and panted, closing your eyes again. His thumb pressed on your clit, sending waves of pleasure to your belly, where you felt a familiar tension. 

"Ivar" you moaned, incapable of holding back. He growled and rewarded you adding another finger, stretching your walls even more. You almost screamed, grabbing his arm and feeling his muscles contract as he thrusted his fingers into you. 

"Fuck" you cursed, throwing your head back as you bucked your hips up "Ivar" you couldn't help but moan his name, loudly and with your legs shaking. 

He could have came just by seeing you scream his name in pleasure, but he managed to control himself, kissing you harshly as he helped you ride your orgasm until you pushed his hand away, too sensitive. 

He let you unbuckle his pants and take his hardened cock in your hand, biting your lip. 

"Fuck me" you begged, biting his earlobe as you pumped him in your hand. Ivar moaned, pushing your hand away and leaning to one side to get a condom from his bedside table. 

When he thrusted into you, both of you moaned at the unison. It was like you had been made to accommodate him. He filled you completely, and you took him so well. 

Ivar hid his face on the crook of your neck, grunting and moaning, smirking when you moaned his name, and rewarding you with extra-hard thrusts. 

You couldn't help yourself and told him again, moaning next to his ear and with your nails digging into his back while you had your second orgasm. 

"I love you, Ivar"

He didn't stop until he came too, moaning and panting in pleasure. He couldn't say it back to you, no matter how hard he tried to. 

"I'm sorry, Y/N, for what I did, for what I'm doing and for what I'll do"

Alfred was right, he was dangerous and he would hurt you eventually, if he hadn't done that yet.

Tags: @mblaqgi @alicedopey @cbouvier23 @lol-haha-joke @hallowed-heathen @ivarslittlebadgirl @naaladareia @tephi101 @captstefanbrandt @love-hate-love @titty-teetee @thisisparadisemylove @readsalot73 @moondustmemories @memememememe1-blog @dreamtherapy @rravenss @vikingalexthedane @thevikingsheaux @therealcalicali @thehanneloner @fuckthatfeeling @drowninginyoureyes95 @chimera4plums @mrstheorossix3 @blushingskywalker @succatababe @imcreepininyourheartbabe @austenkingmylady @timber3 @unacceptabletatertots @awkwardfangirl02 @shipping-not-sailing @athroatfullofglass 

I hope you liked it💞 

Btw, I really hope Hirst do not use this Ivar and Freydis’ storyline too, because I'd be pissed. My baby deserves love. Freydis I warned you. 

[another-bryk-in-the-wall]

Thank you so much for all your wondeful writing,

>:)Warnings: smut, squirting, public sex, breeding kink#GregDontInteract 

You had agreedto go out for a drink. A single drink, nothing spectacular, and then going homewith a fuzzy mind. Wil was always by your side, not liking the kind of sluttyoutfit you had chosen to wear, but hey, it was not his decision. Mini skirt,crop top and heels, you showed off your body, proud of yourself. The two of youwere standing at the bar when Wil excused himself to go to the toilet. 

The moment Wilturned his back to you, a stranger was all over you. He placed his hand on yourthigh, dangerously close to your core. “Don’t you think he’s creepy?”, heasked, squeezing your thigh. You frowned and shook your head, tried to explainthat Wil was your date. But before you could answer, the man moved his hand toyour ass, giving it a good, hard squeeze. “I can show you a whole new world ofpleasure.”, he whispered into your ear. 

“Get yourdirty fucking hands off my girl!”, it was Wil, screaming from a bit away. Theman jumped back, letting go of your ass in the process. Wil stormed over,pushing you out of the way. Mere seconds later, the stranger was on the floor,Wil’s handprint on his cheek. “If I see your sorry ass flirting with a takenwoman one more time, I will put your bitch ass self into hell!”, Wil yelled atthe man. You had never seen Wil this angry, and for some reason it turned youon. Wil turned around to face you, his eyes narrowed and his face red in anger.“Let’s go.”, he said, placed a few dollars on the counter before dragging yououtside of the bar.

“You andyour fucking slutty outfit.”, Wil cursed under his breath, pulling you to hiscar. You stayed silent, knowing not to argue with Wil when he was on 180. Then,Wil stopped walking, looked over to you. “Y’know what, darling? I will show themyou are mine.”, he said, and dragged you into the alley close by. He pushed youbehind a paper bank, your back against the cold wall. His hands were on yourthighs, gripping them so hard, they’d probably have bruises by the time youwere done. 

“Youshouldn’t dress like this, princess. Gives other men the wrong idea…you aremine, darling, only mine. A princess in the streets, but a damn whore in bed.”,Will muttered while pushing your tiny skirt up. Barely big enough to cover yourass. His hand moved to your panties, forcing your legs apart as he started torub your clit through the fabric. But, knowing Wil, he became bored of thisvanilla stuff soon, and pulled your soaking wet panties down. “You are so wetalready…my little slut.”, he muttered as they hit the ground. Before you couldprotest, he pushed two fingers inside of you, rubbing them against you g-spot.You gasped out, holding onto Wil so you wouldn’t collapse. His lips found theirspot on your neck, sucking hickeys onto it as he fingerfucked you. His pace wasslow at first, until he realized how needy you were. How your legs wereshaking, how your wetness dripped down on the ground and down his arm. “Hm, youcannot wait to have my cock inside of you, don’t you? Ah, needy bitch, ofcourse that’s what you want.”, and all you managed was a moan. Cause damn, hewas right, and you needed his cock on the spot. 

Wil pulledhis fingers out of your pussy, holding them up to your mouth. “Suck”, heordered, and you took them into your mouth, tasting yourself as your headstarted to spin. You needed him, now! Wil let you suck a bit more beforepulling them out of your mouth. He leaned in, pressed a quick kiss on your lipsbefore he grabbed your hips, forcing you up. You wrapped your legs around hiships, your back against the wall. 

Wilquickly undid his jeans and boxers, droppingthem down. His cock was rock hard and leaking pre cum already, showing hisneed. Wil positioned you above his cock, letting you sick down on it with aloud moan. “Fuck, babygirl, you are so tight!”, he groaned, needed a fewseconds before he started to fuck you. His pace was fast and hard from the verystart, you two needing a quick release. 

“Fuck, fuck, you want me? Take…Take itall, you little slut.”, Wil muttered, his eyes squeezed shut as he rubbed yourclit with one hand, having the other one around your waist. All you could dowas moan, taken aback from the pleasure. “You want me to cum inside of you?”,Wil suddenly asked, twitching inside of your pussy. “Wanna take all my cum?Should I knock you up?” 

“Yes yesyes!”, you panted out, so close to cuming yourself. “You want me to knock youup? Want to be round ‘n heavy with my baby? Fuck, everyone will see who fuckedyou so good.”, Wil moaned out, and a few moments later, he came deep inside ofyou, filling you up with his cum. The feeling triggered your own climax, andyou came, squirting onto him. Your juices dropped down on the ground, forming apuddle of your arousal while Wil – hopefully – knocked you up. Wil groanedas he pulled out of you, his clothes soaked in your squirt. “Fuck, baby, lookat this.”, he grinned as he put his jeans back on. “That’s calling for somepunishment, don’tcha think so, babygirl?”

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Making an Omelette

Sometimes you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelette.

Or: Hardy and Miller’s first fight as a couple leads to a surprising confession.  Based on this prompt.

Warnings: colorful language, non-explicit smut/fade to black.

AO3

It started, as most fights did, over something small.

“Fuck.”  Hardy hobbled the rest of the way to the bed, sinking onto it and rubbing at his foot.

“What happened?”  Ellie didn’t turn from the bathroom mirror, busy applying makeup to her face.

He glared at the shoes he had half-tripped over.  They were high-heeled and sparkly, and he’d been plenty happy with them the night before when they did wonderful things for her arse; now, in the light of dawn, they were ridiculous hazards.  “I stubbed my toe on your fucking shoes.”

“You all right?”

“No.  Can’t you put the bloody things away?  I’ve seen larger prison cells than this room, there’s no space to just leave things lying about.”  That had been one of the hardest things to adjust to, since they started this semblance of a relationship - adjusting to how messy she was.  Hardy was one for order – while a house didn’t need to look like no one lived there, it did require tidiness and organization.  A place for everything and everything in its place.

To his dismay, Ellie was perfectly content to leave things where she dropped them until needed again, with the occasional burst of irritability sparking a half-decent attempt to clean everything up.  So far, he thought the record of keeping the house neat was approximately two hours.  And they’d been the only ones there.

“As I keep telling you, I don’t have time,” she said a bit crossly.  “If they bother you so much, why don’t you put them away?  If you’ll recall, I was a bit busy on my knees last night to worry about where they landed.”

“How can you be so organized and on top of things at work, and yet live in this… mess?”  He almost said pigsty, but held himself back as he picked the heels up by the straps and tossed them more in the direction of her overflowing closet.

Shutting off the bathroom light she reentered the bedroom, frowning at him.  “What’s gotten into you?”

“I can’t live like this,” Hardy blurted, letting himself see the piles of clothes and shoes and things he’d mostly been able to avoid.  Now, though, it was like the first time, and he was both overwhelmed and horrified by the chaos.

Ellie’s spine stiffened, scowl deepening as she pushed past him to put her shoes on.  “Is that so?”

“You don’t make the bed, you leave things lying about, you change the toilet tissue roll when there’s still plenty left, half your closet’s on the floor, and I genuinely have no idea what color the carpet is!”

Crossing her arms, she turned to face him over the bed where they glared at each other.  “I told you when we started this, that I don’t have time.  I am a single mother to two boys, one of whom is in frequent trouble.  My ‘helpful’ father spends most of his time eating my food, watching my telly, and criticizing my parenting skills.  I cannot do it all.  My priorities are my job, and my boys – so if that means the laundry’s only done every other week, or sometimes we have cereal for dinner, then so be it.  I’d rather help them with their homework than pick up toys that will just be out again tomorrow.  I’m only human.”

“I just think-”

“And,” she steamrollered over him, “at work, every ‘i’ is dotted and ‘t’ crossed because my boss has a giant stick up his arse, and will throw a fit and call me unprofessional if the slightest thing is wrong or I don’t have a random detail memorized!  I work ten hour days on a good day.  An easy day.  When I come home I want to see my kids!  I want to relax.  And because I thought he was worth it, because I thought he could be a partner, I decided to sacrifice some of that little, precious time for a bloke!  One who does nothing but ask more of me, before criticizing my every move.  Well, maybe I was wrong.  Maybe he’s not worth it.”

Her angry words reverberated through the room, Hardy’s eyes going wide.  “Hang on-”

“We’re late,” she cut him off, spinning on her heel.  “Let’s go.”

Hardy trailed after her, shellshocked at how quickly things had spiraled out of control.  For hours after, her final words circled in his mind.

He’s not worth it.  It’s not worth it.  You’re not worth it.

By midmorning Ellie’s temper had cooled, and she was almost sorry for what she’d said.  It hadn’t been an unreasonable request, for her to put the shoes away – but what she’d said was true.  This new relationship thing they were trying, it took up a lot of her time.  He liked to take her out to dinner, to spend time with her, and while she enjoyed his company, attention, and attempts at charm, it still drained what little of that precious resource she had.  A meal eaten with him was one less with her boys, and she was all too aware of how soon Tom would be out of the house and off at uni, an expense she was entirely unprepared for.

Yet, he was worth it.  And he did help.  He spent time with her boys with and without her, giving them attention and gentle guidance, would listen to Fred talk for hours giving her a break and time alone.  She enjoyed having him in her home, in her bed.  He’d made dinner twice a week in the six weeks they’d been… whatever they were.  Didn’t hesitate to pitch in with dishes.  Made the bed.

Rationally she knew he hadn’t meant it, not really.  That he’d been upset from stubbing his toe, that they were both sleep deprived.  (Not that she could remember the last time she wasn’t sleep deprived.  The life of a parent.)  That what he ranted about probably did bother him, but not enough to matter.  Not enough to make him question their relationship – or so she hoped.

Eyes darting towards his office she saw him slumped in his desk chair, chin cradled in his palm as he stared at the computer screen.  He looked as miserable as she felt, and she groaned softly.

I suppose I am the one who started shouting… she lamented, pushing back from her desk and going to his office before she could change her mind again.  Tapping on the door, she waited until he nodded to enter.

“Hi.”

“‘Lo.”  He was watching her with careful eyes, a dejected expression on his face, and she gave him a tentative half grin.

“Can we talk?”

Hardy glanced out the window behind her, grimacing.  “Take a walk with me?”

She nodded, waiting until they were outside to speak.  “How’s your morning?”

He gave her an incredulous look as they started around the quay, naturally falling into step and heading for the cliffs near his house.  “Bloody spectacular, of course.  You?”

Stepping closer she bumped his shoulder with hers, discreetly taking his hand.  “I’m sorry I yelled.”

Glancing around nervously but finding them unobserved, he laced their fingers together and squeezed.  “You don’t need to apologize.  You were right, I suppose.  I’m sorry.”

Content to let that be all in possible range of others, and not at all certain the shouting was done, she stayed silent until they started up the path to the cliffs.  “Our first fight.”

Hardy scoffed, rubbing his thumb along her own as they walked.  “Hardly.  We fight all the bloody time.  We were fighting five seconds before our first kiss.”

“I know that, I meant as a couple.  I’m honestly surprised it’s taken us this long.  Though God knows it won’t be out last.”

“It won’t?”

He sounded so genuinely shocked that she stopped dead, turning to stare at him.  “What?  No!  I mean- Do you want to- What?”

They stared at each other in surprise and confusion, the only sounds the whistle of wind and the waves crashing on the beach below.  No one was around, they were entirely alone, something she usually liked; he was at his most genuine when they were, had let more slip about himself, his thoughts and hopes and dreams and past, in the secrecy of her bed over the past six weeks than in the six years prior.  Now, though, she felt as if they needed a referee present, to keep them on the same page.

“I figured you’d write me off as a bad investment,” Hardy finally sighed, turning to stare out at the ocean he professed to hate.  “That you were done with me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“‘Is that what I want’?” he repeated, incredulous.  “Of course not.  For fuck’s sake, I’ve been in love with you for six bloody years, and you think after six weeks and one fight I’d be through?  Really?”

Either the wind picked up drastically then or her heart was about to beat itself out of her chest, but all she could hear was a roaring in her ears as she gaped at him.  “You’re in love with me?”

After a moment Hardy winced, then shrugged.  “Aye.”

“You’ve been in love with me for six years?”

He gave her his patented keep up, Miller eye roll, and she suddenly felt lightheaded.

“I need to sit down.”  She sank to the grass below her feet, staring out at the ocean as she tried to contain the storm inside her.

He was in love with her.  He’d been in love with her for six years; for as long as they’d known each other, or thereabouts.  That meant he’d loved her when he went home, after Joe’s trial.  He’d loved her through the three years of radio silence.  That this, what they had, was real for him.  It wasn’t impulsive, or just convenient, or a lark.  It was something he’d wanted for a very long time.  Alec Hardy was in love with her.

“Ellie?”

She blinked, coming back to herself to find him crouched in front of her, watching carefully.

“All right?”

“You’re in love with me.”

“Yes.  Is that okay?”

Crouched down but still above her, he was backlit by the sun with a beautiful blue sky behind him.  She could see it, see his love for her in his eyes, realized that he’d looked at her that way for as long as she could remember.  The look wasn’t new, it just finally had a name, and she had an epiphany of her own.

“Yes.  Because I love you too.”  Fisting his tie she pulled him down to her, leaning back until they were tangled together in the grass, hips pressed tight against each other even as Hardy propped his torso up with his forearms to see her.

“D’you really?”

Ellie smiled, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, heart overwhelmed with love.  “Very much so.”

Hardy smiled, a brilliant beam that was terribly rare but lit his face, making him look ten years younger and incredibly handsome.  “Good.  That’s… that’s good.”

“We had a fight,” she laughed softly, tracing the contours of his face with a single fingertip, “and we’ll have plenty more.  Including this one, because I doubt it’s over.  But that doesn’t matter, because we love each other, and… and we’re committed.  Right?”

“Aye,” he said emphatically, dipping his head to brush kisses over her nose and cheeks.  “Whatever comes our way, we’ll see it through together.”

They kissed then, a gentle press of lips quickly turning passionate as they nipped at each other.

“Make love to me,” she whispered, and he paused with his lips on her jaw.

“Here?  Now?”

“Yes.”  Conceding to the outdoor conditions, she skipped his shirt to go right for his belt buckle, copping a feel before undoing the belt.

“You know my house is a three minute walk that way.”

“Mhmm.”  Zip open, she wormed her hand into his pants and found him half-hard already.

“My house with… with a bed,” he struggled to continue, keeping himself propped above her with one hand while fumbling at her trouser button with the other.  “Or a sofa.  Just… indoors.”

Ellie sucked at his adam’s apple, bringing her free hand to help him with her trousers.  “Have you ever made love by the ocean?”

“No.”  Hardy’s eyes fluttered shut, hips rocking into her fist.

“Me neither.  Shall we give it a try?”

In the end they agreed it was a spectacular experience – even when it started to rain halfway through.

And when they were home with terrible colds two days later, well, they suffered together.

In love.

[nerdylittoyvoid]

Half light - Banners (Connor x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of mental illness, Angst

Synopsis: Connor just wants to know both sides on Y/N 

Heyoooo the warning is up there for all those who may want them, feel free to ignore them (you rebel, I like you) or listen to them (you warning abiding human, I also like you). So, this fic is for @spectacular-spiderboy‘s 600 follower writing challenge! I hope you enjoy! 

“it makes me feel nervous, you have that look in your eye”

 Connor’s LED blinked yellow, his face showing pure concern while seeing her like this.

You were sitting alone at your desk, the clock displaying 12:46 AM. It was another late night at the DPD filling out what seemed to be endless paperwork. Your hands shook as you tried to complete another file, your erratic breathing evident. Shakily running a hand through the hair that had fallen out of your braid, you looked pale. Too pale.

Connor could tell that your heartrate had accelerated. He’d seen you too many times like this before, taking care of everything else but yourself. You tried to put up a ‘strong woman’ front with everybody in the office, trying to be seen as a super woman of sorts. Able to accomplish everything, not letting anything get to you. But Connor, he could tell that you were deteriorating. Scanning you, he saw that you were severely fatigued and dehydrated. The girl he became deviant for was so focused on everything that she needed to do that she forgot to sleep.

He hated seeing you like this. As a human, you were so fragile. Any need not being met would put your health (or worst-case scenario, your life) at risk.

Yet, you were adamant that nothing was wrong. It was almost as if you had forgotten that Connor could do a full scan of your body to ensure your health needs were met. You’d put on a smile and build a brick wall towards everybody else. He never had the honor or the pleasure of knowing who that real Y/N was. The Y/N when she was sad, anxious, upset, vulnerable. It was at the point that he didn’t know if the happy, bubbly, sarcastic girl was really you.

“When you’re in the half light it is not you I see

And you’ll live a half life

You only show half to me”

Y/N grew up in a troubled home. Her parents divorced in the middle of her childhood. Everyone she loved all grieved over so many losses, so many personal troubles. She has learned that it was best to not bother anyone with her own problems. After all, everybody else already had so much on their plate.

She did have a therapist who she visited frequently, along with a doctor who prescribed her depression and anxiety management medications. It wasn’t that she was trying to avoid getting better, she just didn’t want anyone else knowing what she was battling. She was doing pretty well for herself, too. She had cut down on her drinking, went out for walks more often, tried her best to take time for herself. But what good is any of that when you can’t even get out of bed in the morning.

Sensing an anxiety attack coming on, Y/N grabbed her sedatives from her bag.

“Take two when experiencing beginning symptoms of an anxiety attack or as needed. DO NOT OPERATE ANY VEHICLES WHILE UNDER THE EFFECTS OF THIS MEDICATION. MAY CAUSE DIZZINESS OR DROWZINESS.”

Sighing, Y/N took her water bottle out, and followed the directions on the bottle. She noticed her bottle was still full. She had forgotten to drink anything today. “Shit.” She thought to herself.

Y/N sat back in her chair, taking a couple minutes to let the medication do its magic. It was too late in the night to take public transit, she’d be stuck taking a taxi or walking. Most likely the latter, she couldn’t handle interacting with anybody else right now. Any type of exposure would lead to a full-on meltdown, which is never good when in a stranger’s car.

“Sometimes I join you

Let you wash over me

When we’re in the darkness

Only the blind can see”

 Slowly, but loudly enough not to startle Y/N, Connor walked back into the main office to approach her desk. Quickly, Connor analyzed the bottles in her hand. Venlafaxine XR 150 milligrams: a potent, short lasting Serotonin and Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitor, and Clonazepam 2 milligrams: a strong sedative in the benzodiazepine family. Both psychotropic medications.  

Connor cleared his throat, hoping to gently catch your attention. After seeing you trying to hide a panic attack at the DPD, he read that using slow, quiet and gentle approaches work best for someone in distress.

“All you all right, Y/N?” Connor asked gently, purely out of care and concern.

Y/N’s head shot up as her eyes widened. “Shit,” she thought, “I thought I was alone.”

“Of course, I just have a headache. Not ideal when you have a case load bigger than a house, with a porch and a fence.” Y/N chuckled, trying to sound as convincing as possible.

“I am not sure if you are in the best space for me to be blunt with you right now-“

Y/N cut Connor off. “Fire away.” She leaned back in her office chair, placing her palm over her forehead.

“Although a headache may very well be present, your symptoms point more strongly towards an oncoming anxiety attack. I’m really worried for you Y/N.” When he got no response, he sighed, grabbing an office chair from another desk. “Can I sit with you?” He asked politely.

“Be my guest” Y/N gave him a weak smile, attempting to show appreciation for his caring acts.

 “Can you shake it off for me?”

 Connor sat down beside her. Turning to her he asked another question, “Is there anything you need that I can do for you?”.

Y/N stopped for a moment. She hadn’t been asked that question in so long. She wasn’t being pressed to talk about what she was feeling, it was an open offer. She let out a long sigh that somehow turned into a chuckle. Damn it, his actions started making her choke up.

“I really just need a hug if that’s not too much to ask.” She said, somehow defeated. All of those years she spent building that guard up, miraculously seemed to vanish, and she was left in a vulnerable state.

“Anything to make you truly happy.” Connor stood up, gently holding Y/N’s arms to guide her up. To him, in this moment, she seemed so fragile. Like any sudden movement would cause her to break. Slowly, he pulled her in, resting his chin on the top of her head.

Like a pin poking a balloon, Y/N just let everything go. She began to sob, muttering little comments on how everything was becoming too much. Heavily sobbing, she noticed this meltdown felt different. It felt like a release, like weight had been lifted off her chest. For the first time, she wasn’t alone.

As if Connor had read her mind, he whispered softly, “You are never alone in this world. Nobody is.”

Stifling through her sniffles, she choked out one witty comment. “How could anyone be with all these damned security cameras. The government surveys all.”

Connor let out a chuckle. Hearing her make a humorous joke regardless or the bad situation proved to him that his Y/N was still there. “Conspiracy time is not now.”

“Every time is conspiracy time.”

Connor tried to sound as robotic as possible. “I have been programmed by cyberlife and the government to politely disagree with you.” For the first time in the past couple days, Y/N let out a laugh. A real one.

“Words cannot express how much I appreciate you. Truly.”

In that moment they looked into each other’s eyes. That feeling, the urge to kiss was there. But, Connor refrained, not wanting to take advantage of the distressed girl. Smiling softly, he kissed the top of her head, in a romantic but still somewhat friendly manner.

“I’m always here for you, it doesn’t matter what time of day or night it is. It’s not like I sleep, anyways.” Connor reassured, while squeezing her shoulders with one arm, rubbing her back with his free hand. “Let’s take you home, you’ve had a late night.” Connor decided.

Taking Y/N out of the building, Connor led her to the car that Hank had help him buy. Opening the passenger side door for her, she climbed in. Soon enough, he was in the driver’s seat, and they headed back to Y/N’s house.

Arriving at their destination, Y/N climbed out of the car with Connor following suit after shutting off the engine. Y/N unlocked her front door, greeting her cat as she walked in.

“I think you should get to bed, maybe call in sick tomorrow morning.” Connor suggested.

“I think that sounds fucking lovely right now.” Y/N signed, as she walked over to her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed.

“I’ll let you get changed.” Connor closed the door, waiting patiently on the other side. When Y/N gave the all-clear, he headed in to see her curled up under her duvet.

“Stay with me tonight, please. If it’s not too much to ask, I don’t want to be alone. I have some baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt you could borrow.”

Hesitantly, Connor agreed. Taking the clothes and going to the bathroom to change, he came out soon after and crawled into bed with her. Taking her into his arms, he felt his thirium pump beat in a way it never did before. After much thought, he decided that this is what love felt like. He loved Y/N.

“Thank you, Connor. I don’t know what I could do to repay you for this.” Y/N whispered, appreciatively.

“Just let me get to know the other half of Y/N.”

“It’s a deal.”

With that, Y/N dozed off. That night, she slept better than she had in months.

[corcordiumheartofhearts]

My favorite parts of the movie, Call Me by Your Name

This is INSANELY long (so obviously an insane amount of spoilers), jumbled, and in order of when I thought of each item (except for the Montaigne stuff) As long as this post is, there are tons of other moments that stick out, but one has to make choices! I tried to keep comparison to the book at a minimum as one can judge adaptations on their adherence/truthfulness to the source material or completely as its own thing (both are valid), and it’s easier to do the latter in this case. I’ve also kept it mostly positive, though as I’ve mentioned previously, I did have a few issues with the film (feel free to ask any questions you might have about that or anything else CMBYN related). Also, I need to see it again. As soon as possible.

*When Elio has the nosebleed (no footsie though ugh), he goes inside and sits on the floor and Oliver comes looking for him. The way Elio asks Oliver to sit with him breaks my heart. Just a subtle hint of plea. Everything that happens during that sit-down also fucked my life. It’s burned into my very being. Every look, kiss, touch, word.

* There’s this wonderful housefly that, throughout the movie, shows up occasionally to hang out with Elio when he’s thinking about Oliver. I could probably write a paper on what I think the significance of the fly is, and my feelings about the fly, but really, it was just a fly- a nice touch by either Luca or Ivory.

* The desperation in Elio’s kiss after he breaks down crying during the peach scene. How is Timothée not actually feeling that at that moment? Talk about acting. It was spectacular. Everything about his reaction was spectacular. The crying, the sad embarrassment for crying, the clutching at Oliver. (Aside:Oliver not eating the peach was unacceptable and Elio’s reaction being switched from being overwhelmed that someone felt something for him so strongly that they would do such a thing to being upset that Oliver is leaving soon was annoying.)

* The hilarious lunch conversation with the extremely talkative, not very polite, guests. This conversation needs to be witnessed and experienced, because it’s so funny. At some point they start insulting each other- someone gets called an “asshole” I think, but the expressions and tones of voice of everyone involved stay exactly the same, so it’s hard to even tell who’s being called an asshole, etc. Like this is just everyday conversation.

* After Elio says goodbye to Oliver at the train station, he sits around for a bit trying to process and calm down and then, because what else to do in this lovely family?, he calls his mom. As he asks her to come pick him up, he breaks down (I did, too). The shot is perfect. He’s in the phone booth and we’re outside and a bit away. He starts off the call facing us, but during the emotional bits, he turns his back. He’s hiding his crying from the world (including the viewer), but not from his mother, who can hear him losing it. This is a lovely private family moment, one of many that we’re privy to throughout the film.

* On Elio and Oliver’s trip, there’s a shot of Oliver’s face as Elio sleeps, looking completely at peace. Oliver is sitting on the bed, looking wrecked, and remorseful, and like he wants to stop what’s about to happen. The next scene is their goodbye hug at the train station. I wonder if Oliver sitting there that night knows that very soon he’s going to break Elio’s heart. Not just by leaving, but in telling him that he’s getting married (Over the phone? Really Oliver?) I’ve never been totally sure just how “on and off” Oliver and his future wife actually were. We never really get to know much about Oliver. In both the book and the movie, he’s more a mirror of Elio than a separate character. We only know him through and via Elio. So, in that way, is Oliver’s “on and off” relationship the same as Elio’s “on and off” relationship with Marzia? Where they hang out and fuck, but Elio holds back everything important? I don’t know.

* On the phone call when Oliver tells Elio he’s getting married, Oliver asks, “Do you mind?” A perfect, though strange, bit from the book to carry over- those are the words someone uses when asking permission to do something. What if Elio had said yes? Was Oliver seeking an admission that Elio loved him and wanted to be with him? Was he looking for an ego boost? Was he just asking an awkward question? Oliver is such a mystery to me.

*Anytime Armie/Oliver danced, I laughed. Man, that was some awful, but adorable dancing. The only time I didn’t laugh was when Elio got up on the dance floor and danced with Marzia right next to where Oliver was dancing. That time, I held my breath.

*The morning after they have sex (make love?) for the first time and Elio goes after Oliver into town. They walk a bit to have some privacy and while walking, for a few seconds they “hold hands” with just a finger or two tangled. So insanely lovely.

*After Oliver and Elio talk about how open Oliver is about showing his Judaism by wearing his Star of David, the next image is of Elio coming up for air while swimming in the lake, his Star of David around his neck. It’s a rebirth via water being symbolized, so a baptism of sorts. Oliver, simply by being Oliver, allowed so many hidden parts of Elio, parts Elio felt ashamed of, to be reborn into things that were not shameful, that were beautiful, things to be celebrated and nurtured.

*After Elio receives the note that they’ll meet at midnight and subsequently becomes seriously obsessed with his watch, they’re sitting outside, Oliver, Elio, and Elio’s mother. Elio gets up to leave the table and Oliver, so nonchalantly, asks Elio for the time. It’s such a sexy and funny way of Oliver reminding Elio what’s going to happen that night. And ratcheting up their respective anticipation.

*Sufjan. Sufjan. Sufjan. I can’t even.

*The way Elio says Oliver’s name. So often he says it as if he’s asking for everything he’s ever desired. There’s so much longing and affection.

*The sight and the sound of Oliver eagerly removing his belt the first night that he and Elio sleep together is super sexy. He’s kneeling over Elio, who’s lying between Oliver’s legs and they both look desperate. The sound and look of the leather as it’s being pulled quickly through Oliver’s belt loops is the perfect symbol for that desperation.

*It was completely genius, whoever’s decision it was, to have Elio constantly pressing himself against Oliver, whether it’s Elio’s head against Oliver’s chest or Elio’s whole body as he’s, literally, climbing Oliver, jumping into his arms, pulling Oliver against him as Elio leans back against a wall, etc. It’s like Elio is trying to absorb Oliver into himself. Like he can’t possibly ever get close enough. Like he wants to crawl inside Oliver and make himself a little home in his tummy or in his chest, by his heart- maybe take a nap surrounded by Oliver. Like he simply cannot get enough of this man.

*Elio’s hairstyle at the end of the movie & every single time Elio did his slide dance move. What glory was that?

*That one lovely shot of snow before the last scene. Foreshadowing the cooling off of Elio and Oliver’s relationship, and letting the viewer know that their summer, which was, vicariously, ours, is officially over. Also, snow is just beautiful.

*The night that Elio confesses his feelings to Oliver, Oliver comes back late. Elio, thinking that Oliver has been out with someone else, is restless in bed, and mutters, “Traitor,” as Oliver uses their adjoining bathroom. Then when Oliver closes the bathroom door without acknowledging Elio, Elio rolls over again says, sadly, “Traitor.” The word enlarges Elio’s desire- makes it so much more than just lust. He’s saying that they have something important together, something that can be betrayed. The fact that he doesn’t consider his actions with Marzia to be traitorous makes perfect sense to me. He knows his own feelings, that Oliver is, for whatever reason, infinitely more important to him than Marzia. But what Oliver feels is, at that time a mystery.

*Elio tells Oliver that they have to sit in the backseat of the car because Anchise usually drives as Elio’s father navigates. Then Elio’s father comes along and tells Anchise that he doesn’t need to drive and then invites Oliver into the front seat to be navigator. Elio is adorably upset that he doesn’t get to ride shotgun (understandably!). But also probably a bit unpleased that he doesn’t get to share that small backseat with Oliver. Ha.

*This part right here, when Elio asks for a truce and Oliver offers the hand of the statue. It should have been funny, but it was actually just very sweet and hurt my heart a bit.

*As Oliver and Elio leave on their trip, Chiara rides up on her bicycle. She’s late, though, and they’re already on the bus which is pulling away. The borderline sarcastic wave that Oliver gives her is pretty funny and Elio’s mother inviting Chiara to dinner with a thrown in, “Bring Marzia with you” is just ouch. But the look on Elio’s face as Oliver sits beside him, like this is everything. He’s sitting here with Oliver, going away with Oliver (!!!) and he seems so joyful, but also overwhelmed by that joy, and like he’s seconds away from crying. Lovely lovely acting by Tim.

* Elio’s father is pretty much perfect at fathering fatherly. And Michael Stuhlbarg is magnificent in this film. His final speech to Elio about Oliver, and love, and life is spectacular, both in the book and the film. The line that always makes me cry, whether reading, listening, or watching is:

We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new.

I’ve had one of those lives where this would have really been nice to hear when I was younger. But since I kind of want to rip out every memory I have of this book/movie, to cure myself of too many feelings, it might not have mattered.

* Also in Elio’s father speech is my favorite quote about love. I was ecstatic that it was in the book so having it in the movie made me doubly ecstatic. The quote, by Montaigne about his platonic male friend, is untranslated in the book (& I don’t know if anyone bothers to look that stuff up), while in the movie, there are subtitles (the translation in the movie is different than my preferred which is below, but whatevs). Below is a larger portion of the quote, the part in bold is the bit in the book/movie:

Si on me presse, continue-t-il, de dire pourquoi je l'aimais, je sens que cela ne se peut exprimer qu'en répondant: parce que c'était lui; parce que c'était moi.

If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than it was because he was he, and because I was I.

From the book:

“You’re too smart not to know how rare, how special, what you two had was.” “Oliver was Oliver,” I said, as if that summed things up. “Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi,” my father added, quoting Montaigne’s all-encompassing explanation for his friendship with Etienne de la Boétie.”

I can’t explain why I’ve loved particular people most in my life- we were just the kind of people who would love each other. We spoke to something in the other. I’ve always appreciated the joyful, but also, almost resigned (potentially tragic) quality of such an acknowledgement. “We were meant to love each other” alongside “I couldn’t have stopped it even if I’d tried.” It’s perfect for Elio and Oliver.

[magg0t-bible]

Top 20 Favourite Alt-J Songs

The title is pretty self explanatory so I’m just gonna jump right in

(Also I’ll be briefly explaining what I like about each one, so another long post. Feel free to skip through if you just want to know the songs)

20. Left Hand Free

Generally a really nice bop. It is arguably their most poppy song, and quite different from most of their other music, but it’s still recognisably them, which is what I love. Honestly all I have to hear is the guitar intro and I’m already dancing like an idiot

ALSO there’s a really cute interview/live performance that the band did on KEXP  (I’ll insert the link at the end if I can be bothered) where they’re playing this song and in the bit where it goes back to “ain’t shady baby I’m hot”, Gus starts clapping to the beat and makes Joe laugh so much that he can’t even sing it properly and it’s v cute

(Also the little “speakeasy” about halfway through is sexy ngl)

19. Interlude 3 ❦

Strange choice I know, but hear me out. I love the simplicity of this interlude, because it’s literally just 58 seconds of piano and quiet vocalising over the top, but it WORKS SO WELL. Plus it’s placed between a heavier song and a more gentle song on the album, so it’s an interesting way of transitioning.

18. Taro

I have such good memories of the first time I heard Taro. I associate it with getting up early in the morning and going for a walk, as cheesy as that sounds - it just generally fills me with so much happiness. I think it’s very well composed, and that INSTRUMENTAL!! I love it!!!

Not to mention the lyrics about the two war photographers (Robert Capa and Gerda Taro) are very interesting. In general I just really love the different topics that Alt-J write about in their songs.

17. Arrival In Nara

This is such a beautiful, peaceful and gentle song. The piano in the first half sets the song up so nicely, and it’s complemented well with the really light vocals. Especially when Joe and Gus harmonise for the “though I cannot see I can hear her smile as she sings”....I’m dead

16. Intro (This Is All Yours version)

 Even though this song does take some time to build up, I’d definitely say it’s worth the wait. The layers are built up so gradually and effectively, and by the time the drums come in, it’s just....it’s just amazing. Wow.

15. Ms

I actually used to skip this song when I first listened to An Awesome Wave, not because I didn’t like it, just because it didn’t really stand out to me that much. WELL. 

You know that meme that’s been recreated a million times that says “when you listen to that one song on the album you always skip and it’s actually fire”? Yeah, that’s Ms. The lyrics are beautiful, the a cappella on “the dark seeks dark” works so nicely, and the instrumental after “the nights of all my youth pressed into one glass of water/the shadow burns across like embers tide paper” is so incredibly relaxing.

14. 3WW

I remember one day early in 2017, I said to myself, “it’d be really nice to see Alt-J live, but they haven’t made any music in like, three years. Oh well.” 

THE. LITERAL. NEXT. DAY. My friend texted me saying that they’d released a teaser for a new song. So after running round my house hyperventilating and whisper-screaming (don’t worry, I was home alone), I went onto YouTube and listened to the 30-second teaser of 3WW. 

AND MY MIND WAS BLOWN. Even more so when I listened to the full song. Gus’ vocals in the beginning are AMAZING - so glad he finally got a solo. Ellie Rowsell’s vocals halfway through are so perfectly placed, and she was definitely the right woman for the job. The instrumentation is absolutely beautiful. Overall the song is just a masterpiece.

13. Hunger Of The Pine

The first song I ever heard from This Is All Yours. I love the way it begins, with Joe singing without any accompaniment apart from that repeating note. It’s another song that builds up nicely, especially by the time the drums come in, and that Miley Cyrus sample?! I had no idea it was her, it just blends in so well.

This is definitely the sort of song you should listen to with headphones on, preferably also with your eyes closed. It’s such an experience and it really takes me places.

(Also shoutout to Gus and his awesome French skills towards the end)

12. The Gospel Of John Hurt

This song is quite similar to HOTP, in the way that it focuses on layers and starts in a very simplistic way before building up. I really like the drums in the second verse and chorus, and the tempo change right after that. I also thought it was cool that the first time Joe sings “Jeremiah” it’s kind of gentle and airy, but then the second time it’s more like “JeremiAHHHHHH” idk it’s cool

And every chorus after the tempo change just makes me feel like my soul has been awoken because W O W

11. Dissolve Me

The first few months of 2017 were a bit difficult for me, and An Awesome Wave as a whole really helped me through them. However, Dissolve Me stood out because of the line “she makes the sound, the sound the sea makes, to calm me down”. My difficulties were to do with my anxiety, and listening to this song helped me to relax like you wouldn’t believe. So it holds a special place in my heart for that reason.

My favourite part has to be the ending when Joe and Gus are harmonising with the “ohhh” and then the chords from the intro come back, and they take it in turns to sing “she makes the sound the sea makes, knee deep in the north”. Absolutely spectacular, even more so live.

10. Something Good

This song definitely lives up to its title. As far is I’m concerned, if you tell me that you can listen to the drums in the intro and not want to dance, you’re a liar. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.

The vocals in the verses are honestly so groovy, and the choruses are somewhat gentle, but they still make me want to get up and dance. The drums throughout the whole song also give it a really nice vibe.

9. Interlude 1/The Ripe & Ruin ❦

I have a surprisingly strong connection with this song, and I’ll explain why. The lyrics are generally about finding balance in your life, but they more specifically describe a woman who constantly counts her steps while walking and makes sure to “abide by the law that she herself has set”. One of my idiosyncrasies has always been pretty much exactly this, and I’ve always thought I was weird for doing it, so this interlude makes me feel lot less alone. Plus the lack of music makes it feel much more intimate.

8. In Cold Blood

AN ACTUAL BANGER. That’s pretty much all I need to say.

The way it instantly begins. The fact that the numbers in the beginning are backwards binary code for ∆, meaning it’s the world’s most cryptic name drop. The line “all above crowd around so fucking loud”. The brass in the chorus. The way the music at the end of the chorus just instantly stops, Joe sings “in cold blood”, and then the music comes right back. I LOVE IT ALL.

7. Tessellate 

Tessellate was the song that led me to discover Alt-J, thanks to my extreme obsession with the Ellie Goulding cover that spent a long time being my favourite song ever. I will admit that my younger, unappreciative self wasn’t huge fan of the original song initially, partially because I saw some of the dodgy looking people in the music video lip syncing to the song and naturally thought they were the band. But over time, I decided to give Alt-J another go, and it was probably one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. And I obviously LOVE Tessellate now.

6. Adeline

I’m pretty sad I didn’t get to see this song live, but listening to it at home with headphones is a magical enough experience. It has such powerful lyrics, the way everything gradually builds up is just so beautiful (yes I say that a lot, but they do it a lot okay), it’s just incredible. Especially that end bit where Gus is singing “ohhhhh my Adeline” and you hear the “YAAA YAAA YAAA” over the top. MIND=BLOWN.

5. Matilda

I can honestly say that it was love at first listen with Matilda. Given that I’d been introduced to Alt-J with Breezeblocks and Tessellate, it was nice to listen to something that was a little more light and gentle (in my opinion). I love the way the song references the film Léon, and the drum beat right at the start of the first verse is so peaceful and nice to listen to.

4. Fitzpleasure

When I first got into Alt-J and I’d only heard An Awesome Wave, Fitzpleasure was actually my number 1 favourite song of theirs. I obviously still love it, given that it’s now number 4. The bass line (and guitar in general) is so COOL!! It’s such a groovy sounding song and I love the way it switches between Joe singing a cappella and heavy bass. 10/10.

(P.S. yes I know what the song is about, and no, we are not discussing that today.)

3. Pleader

My favourite Relaxer song, the music video for which has made me cry on multiple occasions. The introductory violins, the way everything is layered, the vocals, the lyrics, basically this song just makes me feel every single emotion at once and it gives me goosebumps and it’s AMAZING. What a killer song to end an album with.

2. Bloodflood

This may come as a surprise, but I actually took ages to listen to this song. I didn’t actually listen to An Awesome Wave from start to finish, I kinda just put it on my laptop and listened to each song gradually, which I now realise was not the best idea. But HOLY MOLY. BLOODFLOOD.

I don’t think I need to say much about this song, because every Alt-J fan knows why it’s amazing. However, it is only number 2, because in terms of personal connections and meaning, there is only one song that can top it.

And that song is......

*drumroll*

1. Nara

WOW. Where to even start. The first time I listened to This Is All Yours (actually from start to finish this time), Nara just stuck out to me for some reason. I have always been a huge supporter of the LGBT+ community, and hearing a song about a gay relationship is just really nice for me. It’s incredibly powerful due to its description of how difficult it is to be gay in a situation where that isn’t truly accepted. 

As well as that, the repetition of “hallelujah, Bovay, Alabama” at the end always hits me right in the feels. It’s such a simple motif, yet it works so well as an outro, especially if you understand why they chose those specific words.

So there you go, my top 20 favourite Alt-J songs. Congratulations if you made it this far.

Honourable Mentions

(aka songs that could’ve been on the list but I only thought of them after I’d finished writing the list and I couldn’t be bothered changing it so here they are)

Breezeblocks

Bloodflood pt. II

Deadcrush

Every Other Freckle

Intro (An Awesome Wave version)

Last Year

Portrait

353

Ok I promise I’m done now

[Here’s the interview if you’re interested, Left Hand Free is at 7:14]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrqIws8Q7H4&t=441s

[deepdarkwaters]

Kingsman: The Golden Circle

Got back from the Kingsman double bill a bit ago and am trying to put my brain into words even though I'm very tired and a bit numb and I smuggled five hours' worth of gin into the cinema in an Evian bottle so I'm as drunk as Harry at breakfast time.

OBVIOUSLY THERE ARE SPOILERS BELOW

Watching them back to back like this was interesting because it highlighted so clearly how much better the first one is than this fumbly ridiculous sequel. Not saying it's not good or not worth watching or whatever because it absolutely is worth watching for several reasons I will babble after another teacup of gin, but holy god is this really the best they could come up with? REALLY? A 100% true fact that I believe with my entire heart: YOU reading this, you are a better writer than people being paid obscene money to write films. I could easily name thirty fic writers off the top of my head right now who have an infinitely better grasp on pacing and plot and characterisation and dialogue than the people responsible for this stuff. I've not read any press or fan reviews but I imagine there's going to be a hell of a lot of backlash over so much in this from every angle because it's just so incredibly lazy and sometimes ugly and absolutely cannot stand up to its own hype.

Really good things:

* SPECTACULAR, EH!

* Eggsy/Harry and Eggsy/Merlin shippers, goddamn we have a lot of new stuff to work with. Chemistry through the roof, especially Eggsy/Harry (including possibly the best clingy desperate hug I have ever seen on film in my entire life WE HAVE WAITED SO LONG AND IT'S HERE AND IT'S BEAUTIFUL). That was the heart and backbone of the first film, I'm so relieved that it's not only survived but evolved into something fiercer and often messier. So so good to watch. Pretty sure I've got Harry/Merlin written down the inside of my heart like the words in a stick of rock, and though it's not romantic you get much more of a sense of their friendship here and it's all just a bit shattering and gorgeous.

* Pretty much everything to do with Harry's memory loss and Eggsy and Merlin trying to shock him into remembering was great, Y E S  P L E A S E. And Harry's matter of fact comments about his loneliness, fuckkk. Angst writers, go forth with all this new information and break my heart some more! Fluff writers, fix him!

* Lots of beautiful intricate fight choreography which is literally all I need in my action films, so even if I did think the rest was complete balls (which I don't entirely) then I'd still be happy. Nothing comes near the vivid glorious gutpunch of the church scene as a standalone set piece, BUT there's so much Harry & Eggsy teamwork and please just inject this directly into my veins, it's amazing. Prepare for several years of me writing many more elaborate fight scenes than I already do.

* Part B to the above: Whiskey is a lot of fun and his fighting style is full on hardcore pornography to me.

* Merlin in a flawless Kingsman suit, RIP me.

* One of my Bespoke WIPs is about Merlin and Eggsy getting into the habit of going to the pub together sometimes and rolling home completely drunk with a kebab in each hand then trying to get in the house really quietly because Harry's asleep but they end up waking him because they think it'll be really nice to cook him breakfast in bed and Harry comes stomping downstairs in his dressing gown like "it's four o'fucking clock, put those frying pans away and drink some water!" while Merlin and Eggsy side eye each other and try not to giggle. So maudlin singing drunk Merlin was very nice to see :P

* Eggsy and Roxy bromance. There’s such lovely chemistry between them as well, it feels so natural and real, and it’s so good (and miserably rare) to see platonic friendships that aren’t shoehorned into some shitty boring love triangle.

* Eggsy and Tilde were seriously adorable. It ended up not at all satisfying as a romance plot arc because it was like CUTE - fight - marriage, it needed so much more screen time. Like all the important stuff was there, but it was just so abrupt. Include a satisfying romance or don't include one at all, fuck your lazy bullet points. But it started so well and I hope there's a ton of fic that treats them better than the script did. I appreciate the anti-Bond-ness of it all, that Eggsy's genuinely in love and wants to settle and is figuring out how that and his job can possibly fit together, especially with the complications of marrying into royalty. Interested to see where they take that if there's another film. Until then, soo much scope for fic.

* I'm shipping Harry/Elton like burning.

* Poppy was terrifying in a vaguely Umbridge-ish way. That sort of characterisation is always freaky, Julianne was great. So glossy and cheerful but absolutely dead in the eyes. And I'm ambivalent on Charlie, but I ABSOLUTELY want lots of brutal older woman villain/pathetic younger male minion smut. Please provide asap.

* T H E   M Y T H I C A L  B R E A K F A S T   S C E N E   I S   R E A L

Really bad things: well where the merry fuck do I start haha.

* I will never ever understand why they thought it was a good idea to wipe out all the locations and almost all the existing characters at the very beginning. It's lazy shitty writing. If you feel like you need to shake up your fictional world you don't just knock it all down and start over. It's cheap and very shallow angst.

* I only have two middle fingers but I need about seventeen million to even begin to profess my disgust at them killing Roxy. I knew it was going to happen, it was the only spoiler I asked someone for ahead of time and it was not at all a surprise to find out for sure. Still utterly infuriating. The way people responded so positively to her in the first one is a real indication of how ridiculously low the bar is for female characters in action films ("good at something" and "not the hero's love interest" are literally the only two requirements), and JG/MV didn't even think enough of her to follow through on the absolute base level achievement they made before. Fuck everyarse involved in this decision.

* Absolutely revolting honeypot mission scene. Not really the fact that it exists, just the entire way it was handled and shot - so predictably male-gazey and laddishly "waheyyy!" that it kind of turned my stomach. Horrible and completely unnecessary.

* A million new characters and not enough time spent on any of them to care. Tequila was barely more than a cameo. Champ and Ginger hardly had anything to do. All the Statesmen (except Whiskey) were completely two dimensional and it's such a jarring contrast to the obvious care taken over Eggsy, Merlin, and Harry. It's not even because we already know them, I don't think? It's weird to try and explain. The Statesman characters just feel so rushed and shallow, there's no substance to any of them. Kill off Roxy and replace her with paper cut-outs, ok that makes loads of sense!!! Whiskey’s a level up from the others because he gets loads more screen time and some beautiful fight scenes, but his ~emotional plot twist fell completely flat. I don’t know what it was, the pacing or a boring cliche backstory or what. It was just dull as fuck. WE HAVE HEARD THIS EXACT STORY FIVE MILLION TIMES.

A bad thing that's somehow not really a bad thing even though I'm fucking numb and want a hug:

* I've been raving for ages to people about Roxy being killed off and trying to figure out a way to satisfactorily explain how I feel about a character dying for a reason and a character dying because a writer is a lazy bastard who wants some quick angst. Merlin's death was an A+ wonderful death along the lines of my dear fictional boyfrends Quincey Morris and Lee Scoresby and a million others. Maybe it comes from all the swashbuckly historical adventure stories I grew up loving, but I'm a desperate sucker for a good noble death. Characters brave and self-aware enough to look at the bigger picture of an impossible situation and realise that their death means a better outcome for the people they love? This is ABSOLUTE CATNIP to me. Characters who go down fighting to the very end. If a character I love with my entire soul has to die, this is how I want it to happen. Give them some agency and a proper goodbye.

I mean I fully expect him to be magically resurrected with fancy prosthetic legs if there's another film because we saw those wedding set photos of him in the nice neon green cgi stockings, so really I should be saying "death". I totally reject this one. (I reject Roxy and JB's deaths as well, but the big difference is I really can't see the filmmakers bringing them back. Eyeroll.) Maybe that's what's making it easier to deal with? A not-real noble courageous self-sacrificing death. That's about as good as it gets. All three of them get Oscars for this whole sequence.

Anyway the tl;dr of it is:

This film is a very beautiful, very patchy mess. The good stuff is absolutely gloriously perfectly incredibly wonderful. Most of said good stuff is the interaction between Eggsy, Merlin, and Harry, which is written and performed with real care and heart. Nearly everything else is relatively lacklustre filler, misogyny, and shitty nonsensical decisions. These people cannot write women.

I liked it? I will definitely see it 900 more times, mainly for wet terrified Harry and gorgeous fight scenes. But ffs, how can it possibly be this difficult to pinpoint the reasons why people loved your extremely successful creation and consider including them in future plans?

I'm feeling fairly zen about everything. I kind of trained myself ages ago to think of sequels as just another bit of fanfic, so it's going to make absolutely no difference to the cheerful fluff porn and fight scenes I like to write. What I'm annoyed about isn't so much to do with ~new canon~ limiting what we're allowed to create for ourselves now, because that's just silly. It's more about being pissed off at the shoddy state of action films, particularly women in action films, when it seems like it should be SO EASY to take these astronomical budgets and create something groundbreaking. I'm so tired of this unimaginative lazy narrow-minded bullshit.

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: IX (I / II / III / IV / V / VI / VII / VIII / X / XI / XII / XIII) Characters: Dr. Leonard Church | Director, Church | Alpha, David Church | Agent Washington | Recovery One, Micheal Caboose | Agent California | Micheal-210, F.I.L.S.S | Xi Summary: He was all sorts fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

Name: Michael Caboose Age: 21 Service ID: Michael-210 Project Freelancer ID: California Record Notes:

               Member of Class II of the SPARTAN-II Program on loan to Project Freelancer.                Assigned to Omega Squad under Florida.                Reported MIA to SPARTAN-II Program following failed implantation of ALPHA.                Dr. Halsey provided additional information.                Noted family within the Project; designations Four-Seven-Niner and Maine. See attached files.

Leonard pursed his lips. The failure of the ALPHA implantation still rubbed him rather raw; in part because of the damage it did to California and Alpha both, and in part because he needed Halsey’s help in essentially removing California from the SPARTAN-II Program. The discovery of California’s relation to Maine and Four-Seven-Niner was an unprecedented surprise, and one that Leonard worked hard to hide. There was no telling how they’d react to California being their brother, given the SPARTAN Program’s tendency to kidnap children and replace them with flash clones.

Name: Kaikaina Grif Age: 24 Service ID: 00215-85769-KG Project Freelancer ID: Kansas Record Notes:

               Fast-tracked into Freelancer due to impeccable service record.                Paired to Agent Florida for complimentary skills.                Highly trained Infiltration Specialist with additional undercover training.                Disruptive behavior noted.                Noted family within the Project; Private Dexter Grif acquired from UNSC Military after medical discharge. See attached files.

Kansas was an interesting member of Project Freelancer. Leonard frowned lightly; Florida picked her up almost instantly and practically begged Leonard to let her be a part of his little sub team of infiltration specialists. Given how Kansas could seemingly shift the type of personality she put out Leonard wasn’t too hard pressed to give in to Florida’s request. Her brother, on the other hand, had an impeccable service record. If only the resulting trauma from his time in the military hadn’t ruined him he would’ve made a great agent himself.

Name: Franklin Delano Donut Age: 28 Service ID: 08295-64381-FD Project Freelancer ID: Hawaii Record Notes:

               Arms Specialist reassigned to Freelancer per request.                Specific training as Grenadier. Assigned to Beta Squad as rear support.                Reassigned to Omega Squad per Florida’s request.                Questionable comments from Agent noted.                Counselor refuses to handle Agent.

Leonard snorted. He could remember Hawaii. He could remember the way Price left the room after Hawaii with such a constipated look on his face. Leonard found Hawaii amusing and a bit of a breath of fresh air. He’d watched the man turn heads with innuendo and how perfectly placed it was. He flipped the file and then frowned when he reached Montana.

Name: Jacob Jenkins. Age: 27 Service ID: 97165-32850-JJ Project Freelancer ID: Montana Record Notes:

               Infiltration Specialist assigned to Omega Squad under Florida.                Talented at information gathering.                Acquired from outside UNSC Military and Navy per request.                Prior history of criminal activity noted. See attached.

Montana, one of the KIA’s on the list supposedly noted to Agent Maine. Leonard closed his eyes and flipped the page. The last name on the list was Oregon.

Name: Cornelius Thromwell Andersmith Age: 29 Service ID: 55314-06289-CA Project Freelancer ID: Oregon Record Notes:

               Acclaimed sniper; long range communications specialist.                Acquired from Insurrectionist movement on abandoned colony planet Chorus.                Concerning theories surrounding the loss of the Chorus colony.                Assigned to Omega Squad under Florida.

Andersmith—Oregon—wasn’t even noted on the list of potentially missing or killed agents. It left Leonard curious as to why. With a sigh Leonard leaned back and folded his hands in front of his lips. The list was extensive, and almost all members at one point or another worked under Florida. Leonard had no doubt that Florida chose the “reinforcements” and “replacements” with care and purpose. Combine this ecclesiastic group of recruits with the ecclesiastic group of Sim Troopers and it made for a nice pretty picture.

It certainly fit the mimicry of the Desert Gulch troopers well, Leonard mused, but that wasn’t the important part. The important part was realizing that he’d missed this Agents and no one brought it to his attention. Leonard frowned and pulled the folders up side-by-side. He swiped away Montana’s—the agent was dead, there was nothing to be done there—and then swiped away California’s—that man was already far too attached to Alpha as it was.

Hawaii, Leonard noted, was actually on loan to the UNSC Ambassadorial team that Lavernius Tucker was assigned. Leonard tossed that file aside as well. That left Kansas—and Leonard grimaced at the thought. Kansas was a trip and a half, and what’s worse is that she’d have an attachment because her brother was on the Blood Gulch Red Team, despite her assignation to Blue Team Command. Plus Leonard couldn’t quite count on how she’d react to him pulling her back into the Freelancer mess with Alpha, Maine, and Washington.

Considering Agent Maine’s track record and that Kansas’ brother might be placed into the line of fire with her participation, Leonard paused the thought to contact her. That left, out of everyone, Oregon. Leonard pressed his lips together. Oregon was interesting, out of the group, although everyone Florida hand picked were, at their core, interesting. Out of everything there wasn’t much known about Oregon. His status as a former Insurrectionist was kept from everyone—although Florida unearthed it as Florida always did—but that wasn’t even the kicker, really. The fact that Oregon supposedly came from the Chorus colony, a colony that the UNSC had long listed as abandoned and lost due to unknown factors, but he’d had interesting tales to tell about the Chorus colony.

Leonard hummed and tapped on Oregon’s file.

“Xi, dear?”

Xi popped up. “Yes grandfather?”

“Contact Agent Oregon,” Leonard said. “I have a job for him.”

Xi flickered, and then said brightly, “Of course, grandfather!”

Leonard browsed the list again, and then mused, “And leave the surviving members as MIA. It would not due to alert any…specific parties to their true status. Or information. Use a backup of Gamma to assist you.”

“I don’t like Gamma,” Xi pouted.

“He’s a devious liar who will make the changes to their service records more believable,” Leonard pointed out logically. “If it makes you feel any better he cannot leave the containment unit.”

“Very well,” Xi relented and disappeared.

Leonard sighed. While frustrating that V.I.C. called all of Omega Squad following the reported death of Florida—by aspirin of all things—it was ultimately understandable. Leonard doubted that the death of Florida was a mere accident. The man was more than aware of his own weaknesses and paranoid to boot; it made him the perfect partner for V.I.C. in Blood Gulch. Still, the entirety of Omega Squad…Leonard frowned.

“Should have terminated that damn program,” Leonard grumbled. “Overreacting as always.” There was no real heat in the words though, merely exasperation, and honestly in the end that overreaction was perhaps the one reason why Alpha survived as long as he had. Leonard couldn’t’ fault V.I.C. his insane paranoia, given everything. Leonard found himself fairly paranoid now, even.

“Xi, end secure,” Leonard called out. He’d secluded himself away for long enough. Fairly quickly the data that Leonard viewed vanished, replaced with mundane information. F.I.L.S.S. popped back up on the screen, a waveform in the shape of an eye.

“Done, Director,” F.I.L.S.S. intoned.

“Thank you, F.I.L.S.S.,” Leonard sighed. “Thank you.”

They landed on Rhodam with little fanfare and were supplied a jeep much to Agent Washington’s consternation. Church caught something about fucking cars but decided not to press considering his own rather short fuse. He’d been strung like a wire ever since the call from the Director and prone to lash out at those around him. It reached the point that even Caboose started to avoid him if only because Church was so prickly right now.

When they finally did get into the jeep and drive away everything made sense.

“Where did you learn to drive?!” Church shrieked.

“I didn’t! Taught myself!” Wash shot back, pulled the jeep around a curve way too fast and Church gripped his seat tightly. In the back Caboose hollered like he was on some sort of rollercoaster ride. Church wanted to grab him, shake him, let him know their very lives were on the line here—when the jeep rolled over and came to a rather spectacular crash with them still inside.

“SONNOVABITCH!” Church screamed. He could hear a dangerous sort of rattle, then the sound of something cracking, and then there was smoke as the jeep rolled over the edge of a cliff. “YOU FUCKIIIIING DIIIIIIICK!” They rolled over and over—and Church swore Caboose started to moan in the way that meant he was going to be sick—before they came to a sickening crunch upside down.

For a moment they hung there, upside down, and then Church flailed as the reality sunk in. “Caboose? Caboose?!” he shouted.

“Ow,” Caboose said. “I think I do not like this ride, Church.”

“You and me both,” Church grumbled. He heard the faint sound of something like power armor scrambling for a buckle and with a start Church snapped, “Caboose don’t—” and then there came a definite click and Church grimaced at the followed thunk and then Caboose’s faint, “Ow.”

“We’re upside down, dumbass,” Church grumbled. “You better not have hurt your damn head any more than it already is.”

“I feel a bit sick,” Caboose said plainly.

“Don’t throw up!” Church shrieked, flailed, and scrambled for his own seatbelt.

“I think I smell fire, too,” Caboose said just as Church got his own seatbelt unbuckled and crashed down onto the roof of the jeep. “Yes, I smell fire. Church. Is the engine supposed to be on fire?”

“What?” Church pushed himself up, and then paled at the sight of flames on the front of the jeep. “How the fuck did he—”

“Uhm, Church,” Caboose continued, “I think we should leave. Soon. Fire is bad, right?”

“Right!” Church jolted into action. “Fire is very bad!” Church scrambled to get Washington unbuckled, grimaced at the sight of the man completely unmoving, and grunted when he eventually fell down onto Church.

Caboose scrambled out of the jeep, and then over to the side where he pried the door open and hauled both Church and Washington away from the wreckage with one under each arm. He ran fast, because Caboose was fast, in some random direction and only stopped when he heard the loud boom of the jeep completely, illogically, exploding. Only then did Caboose set Church down, and carefully set down Agent Washington.

“That should not have been possible,” Church grumbled and yanked off his helmet. He was never more thankful that Agent Washington insisted they wear full power armor in the jeeps even if he found the idea illogical at first. “Caboose, helmet off,” Church snapped out as he knelt down next to Agent Washington.

“Yes, Church,” Caboose replied and carefully pried his helmet off. Church worked on removing Washington’s helmet as well, and then bit back a curse when he saw the bleeding cut on the Freelancer’s head.

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Church murmured consoling to himself. “They bleed a lot, he’s okay.” Carefully Church shifted Agent Washington to check at the neural implant interface in the back of his neck, and sighed in relief to see it fairly intact. “Probably concussion, but okay.”

Caboose dropped down beside Agent Washington, and Church moved to him next. He checked the back of Caboose’s neck and relaxed when he didn’t see anything damaged from the drop. Then Church moved in front of Caboose and began to check his reflexes. “Follow my finger,” Church said and then dragged his finger across Caboose’s vision. His eyes were off, Church noted. Sluggish, slow, and pupils oddly dilated. One looked larger than the other, and Church grimaced. “Definite concussion.”

“Bad?” Caboose asked.

“Yeah, Caboose, bad,” Church agreed tiredly. “Stay right here, watch him, and don’t fall asleep. I’m going to go and grab enough twigs to start a fire.” Church glanced up at the sky. “It’ll be getting dark soon.” Church was just thankful that Agent Washington crashed them right into a forest.

Wash groaned and rolled his head over something rather soft. He could smell dirt and trees and his head felt like someone jammed it with a hammer or ten. He could hear Church say something, and the smell of vomit, and then Caboose really loud. Wash flinched and squeezed open his eyes. Something bright nearly blinded him and he felt his stomach rebel angrily.

“What th’ fuck?” Wash rolled to his side and tried to push himself up.

“Slow down!”

Suddenly there were arms around him; they helped him up and carefully leaned him back against a tree and Wash winced. Who was—the face was blurred. He blinked and squinted and tried to parse what his brain saw.

“Dad?” Wash mumbled tiredly.

“Guess again, fuckface,” dad said and Wash listed slightly to the side. “Oh my fucking god, stay still. Drink some water. Here. Slowly.”

“Yer ‘n ass,” Wash mumbled while dad shoved a glass into his hands and helped him tip it back to drink. “Fuckin’ basterd.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure your old man is a complete asshole,” dad grumbled. “Follow my finger.” He dragged a finger in front of Wash’s face and Wash tried to follow but he couldn’t quite. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“Is Washingchurch okay?” Caboose asked and Wash felt a smile to his face. He kind of liked Caboose. The larger man reminded him a little bit of Maine in being a large, gentle giant. Well before Sigma, at least.

“No, Caboose, he really isn’t.” Dad scrubbed a hand down his face. “Fuck. I’m not a goddamn medic I can’t…fuck.”

“Why d’ ya cer?” Wash slurred. He listed to the side again, but dad grabbed him and straightened him up.

“I get it, daddy never cared for you, but fuck Washington I’m not your dad.”

Wash blinked, squinted, and tried to parse just what dad said.

“Bu’ ma…s’d…”

“God fuckin’ dammit, Washington, you picked me up from High Ground. I’m barely twenty-two!” dad shrieked.

Wash winced and squinted and then rasped, “Private…Church?”

“Finally,” Church threw his hands up into the air. “What do you remember?”

Wash grimaced and listed to the side. Church caught him with a soft curse. “Dun’…car?”

Church hissed between his teeth. “Yeah, there was a car. You were driving. We crashed. What the fuck.”

Wash listed to the other side and Church quickly grabbed him again. He prompted Wash to drink and Wash did so, except he felt really tired. All of this was just too much. Dad and Church and his head hurt and he couldn’t see straight and he wanted his ma something fierce. “M’sorry.”

“Goddammit Wash don’t you fall asleep—Wash—David! David you stay the fuck awake!”

Wash listed to the side, his eyes slipped shut, and he fell back into unconsciousness.

[haphazardlyparked]

bring the world to heel

a continuation of my fill for the superhero AU prompt: We’ve been reincarnated for centuries to battle it out as hero and villain but someone fucked up and now we’ve swapped 

Richard Keller wakes up to the trill of his alarm, three successive beeps, pause, three more. It is disgustingly mundane. Rolling over onto his side, Keller flicks out his wrist, tugs at the alarm clock on the nightstand, and frowns when nothing happens.

He doesn’t know why he expected otherwise. A bone-deep emptiness in his chest says nothing will ever happen again, even if he doesn’t know what that nothing is, so he gropes blindly for the clock and shuts it down. Then he begins the achingly tedious process of getting ready for the first day of school.

It’s rough, being a high school English teacher, because literally nothing has changed despite the long summer and his life is endlessly normal and thus horrendously boring. His new ninth grade class is full of new chirpy little shits; Gabriela, the Latin teacher and track coach, still fucking hates his guts (honestly, Keller cannot remember for the life of him why – had they slept together and he forgot?); and Headmaster Cormorant is still breathing down his neck because they both know Keller will deviate from the standard reading list sometime this year in a spectacular fashion that will bring angry parents down on Cormorant’s head.

About the only thing that’s changed is how someone replaced his blackboard with some technological monstrosity called a “smart board” over the summer. He ignores the thing entirely and hands out printed syllabi to his first class; Bates will probably bitch him out later for still not being “paperless”, but Keller honestly does not give a shit.

In the first period after lunch, which Keller has free – thank fuck for a double lunch break – Keller calls Jones, who has also been blessed by the scheduling gods, and meets the chemistry/computer science teacher outside the science building. Keller’s been banned from Jones’ labs for a few years now, and he respects the ban because otherwise Jones won’t share the moonshine he brews in his lab, and Thanskgiving break without Jones’ moonshine is just hell on earth.  

“I need help with my smart board,” Keller admits when Jones shows up. He glares down a gaggle of sophomores with a free period, who’ve slowed on their way back to their dorms in an attempt to overhear their teachers’ conversation; they scamper off guiltily.

“I’m a computer science teacher,” Jones snaps. “Not the support for an ass too lazy to attend the media sessions over the summer.”

“They mounted it over my blackboard,” Keller gripes. “Now I have nothing to write on.”

Entirely unsympathetic, Jones dismisses Keller with a, “Go talk to the new librarian.”

"Why – um, Oscar?” Keller can’t remember the new librarian’s name. Frankly, he’s annoyed they have a new one; the old librarian kept gin in her desk and loved to share, and she also never yelled at him when he habitually forgot to return his inter-library loan books.  

“Isaac,” Jones corrects. “And he’s also the new media specialist.”

With that, he disappears back into his safe-haven. Keller heads to the library to hunt down this Isaac person. 

The man is not hard to find; he’s sitting alone at the small circulation desk as soon as Keller steps through the door. There’s something familiar about the tall, somewhat thin new librarian, or maybe he’s just got one of those forgettable faces framed by forgettable glasses and forgettable dark hair.

“Can I help you, Mr. Keller?” Isaac the librarian asks, barely looking up from his computer when Keller leans across the circulation desk to get a better look at him.

“So this is how you’ve brought the world to heel?” Keller says. The words are out of his mouth before he can even think about them, and when he hears what he says, he wants to think what the hell? but instead it just sounds like exactly what he’s supposed to say. “Big fucking waste, if you ask me.”

Isaac looks up from his computer. He pushes away from the desk, flips open the hinge on the counter and joins Keller on the other side of the circulation desk, leaning against it by his side like they’re a pair of old friends. “After all the cycles we’ve been through, I did wonder if it was going to work on you,” he says like Keller will understand what he’s talking about. Keller doesn’t. “You’re always ruining things, Kalna.”

And oh – that name sings beneath Keller’s skin, sure and right, and everything clicks into place.

“Iska,” Kalna frowns, glancing around the empty high school library as if seeing it for the first time. 

“Seriously, this is the fucking worst. Ninth grade English teacher? You sure know how to pick your torture.”

Iska shrugs. They’re standing close enough that Kalna feels the motion of it against his side. “I find it rather nice.”

“Of course you do, you get to be a librarian. But that still doesn’t explain all of this.” Kalna waves vaguely at the air. “It’s all disgustingly normal.”

“That’s the point, Kalna,” Iska says sharply. “We’re all normal. We can’t do any harm like this.”

“I dunno about that. Gabriela’ll probably still try to stab me next faculty meeting. Oh god - faculty meeting. Why would you do this to us?”

“We can’t do any harm like this,” Iska repeats flatly, but Kalna fixates on the we. Iska and Kalna. But Iska continues. “Think about it. Whenever any of us superpowered people fight, Kalna, we put thousands of people at risk. Hundreds of thousands. Remember that time you razed an entire city? There were millions of people, then.”

“And you had that – whatsherface, with the containment fields. Captured all of my work in time-containment and unraveled it. Nobody died – well, not those millions, anyway.”

“That was very nearly luck.” Kalna sees Iska’s grimace out of the corner of his eye. “And I can’t always be lucky. Don’t deny it: when we’re pitted against each other, we raise the stakes beyond what’s natural.”

“Ever heard of nuclear weapons?”

“We’re worse. And we get worse every time. Each new cycle we get tangled up in new and ever-more terrible possibilities. One day we’re going to destroy the entire world. We might even – hell, we might even break these cycles. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Kalna kind of sees Iska’s point. It’s funny, because it’s only now that he’s spent years of this cycle trying to stop Iska and then losing so badly that he understands what Iska is so afraid of. And he has thought about it, once or twice or more than that; has thought about how his lives might go a little bit easier if Iska didn’t come back with him. Right now, in this cycle, Kalna’s gut twists painfully with shame and horror at the thought. 

“Okay,” he says, straightening from his slouch against the circulation desk. He turns to stare at Iska, but Iska doesn’t look back at him. Kalna settles for scrutinizing the side of Iska’s face. “So let’s stop.”

“What?”

“Let’s stop,” Kalna says again. “Fighting, or whatever. But god, just don’t make me teach high school.”

“Kalna.” Somehow, Iska manages to pack surprise and doubt and something like hope into Kalna’s name. “You and I could agree to a ceasefire, but there are still other superheroes and super villains out there.”

Iska might be endlessly practical, but Kalna has arrogance enough for the both of them. “Not like us,” he asserts smugly. “There’s no one else like us. We could be like, the superpolice of superpowered people.”

That startles a laugh out of Iska. Then he pauses thoughtfully. “Superpolice sounds ridiculous. But… perhaps we could, ah, monitor the others. ”

When Kalna said it, he’d been joking; when Iska says it, though, Kalna kind of sort of believes that they could do it. Monitor the damage the rest of them do, and everything. And when he gives it moment’s more thought, Kalna decides he likes the idea of Iska, who’s so, so damnably good at following the rules – he likes the idea of Iska making those rules. As long as Kalna doesn’t have to be a fucking ninth grade teacher.

Kalna thinks about all the cycles that live under his skin, thinks about the lives upon lives he’s spent spinning his wheels, trying so hard to do this or that only to find sharp-eyed Iska, tirelessly dutiful but always so weary, barring his path. Fuck that.

“Let’s do it,” Kalna says firmly. He grins. “Seriously, Iska, let’s do it.”

Iska looks to the side, drawn by Kalna’s decisiveness and – fuck it, Kalna thinks, and leans forward. When he presses his lips against Iska’s, it’s probably the most chaste kiss Kalna has ever been involved in. Iska’s lips are dry, almost chapped, and part in surprise. And when Iska sighs against Kalna’s mouth – it feels like home.

Slipping an arm around Iska and tugging him closer, Kalna doesn’t notice how the world melts around them.

When she opens her eyes, she’s laid out on the cold concrete floor, no longer bound to the railing – Gazelle, she thinks when her heart leaps into her throat. I’m Gazelle. Not a track coach and Latin teacher mooning after Headmaster Cormorant – oh. Well shit.

But Gazelle doesn’t have time for that now.

Pushing herself to her feet, she staggers slightly, bracing herself against the circular platform in Darkwell’s shitty secret lair. Uncharacteristically slow, she follows the curve of the platform holding the Doomsday Device, heading towards the shift and sighs of someone waking that she hears on the other side. 

When she gets to the other side, she sees that someone is actually two someones, and that they are quite awake.

“What the fuck, Quickdraw,” Gazelle says bitterly, and it feels like an echo from forever ago. He’s stretched beneath Darkwell’s thin form, laying on top of the pieces of a discarded straight jacket, and they’re really going at it when Gazelle interrupts. They jerk away from each other, but they don’t go very far; Darkwell pushes himself back onto his knees, still straddling Quickdraw’s hips.

“You were in league this whole time,” she accuses flatly.

“It’s called seduction, Gazelle,” Quickdraw snaps. He props himself up onto his elbows so he can lock eyes with her and glare. “And I’m saving the goddamn world with it, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Darkwell frowns mildly at Gazelle’s supposed teammate. “Language, Kalna,” he says, then looks over at Gazelle. “But I’m afraid he’s correct,” the supervillain tells her blandly. “The promise of dirty, bed-breaking sex has caused me to reconsider my plans.”

Beneath him, Darkwell twitches and makes a choked sound.

Gazelle feels laughter burbling in her throat. It’s probably hysteria. What the fuck.

“Oh yeah, about those plans,” Quickdraw says, clearing his throat as if he only now remembers the absolute shitstorm Darkwell has brought down on them all. He sits up fully, putting Darkwell off balance and then tugging him into his lap with one arm. Quickdraw stretches out his other arm, and when he curls his fingers into his palms, Gazelle hears the screech of inner wires punching through the dark metal shell of Darkwell’s doomsday device; in mere seconds, the thing is entirely gutted. 

Darkwell winces, but to Gazelle’s surprise, he doesn’t seem otherwise upset by the destruction of his creation. 

“Can you take the open-source whatever off the dark web, or wherever you uploaded them?” Quickdraw asks.

Darkwell suddenly looks sheepish. “I already did–” 

“–You’re a terrible supervillain–” 

”–Though a handful of people managed to download them before I took them offline.“

Gazelle suddenly feels like she’s punched in the gut. She wheezes. Quickdraw glances at her with concern, but the ass knows better than to coddle her. 

"Well, you and I,” and Gazelle is sure Quickdraw means him and Darkwell, not him and Gazelle, "will just have to go visit them. I’ll eviscerate–”

“–their machines,” Darkwell interrupts firmly.

“Sure, Iska.” Quickdraw sounds entirely too cheerful. “I’ll eviscerate their machines.”

Gazelle is having difficulty remembering who’s supposed to be her superhero teammate and who’s supposed to be the world-destroying supervillain. Distracted, she doesn’t notice how Quickdraw has twisted his fingers again until it’s too late. She looks down at the needle she finds buried in her thigh. Where the fuck had he pulled that from?

Wherever it’s from, or whatever it is, it’s quick-acting. The edges of Gazelle’s vision are already going blurry, and Quickdraw’s mocking voice is a little fuzzy when he says, “Tell the headmaster I’m quitting, thanks Gabriela.”

What a dick, Gazelle thinks, and then everything goes dark.

[theawkwardterrier]

Fic roundup 2016

Buffyverse All Work The Closing Distance To Question, Squirrels and Books

Gilmore Girls Heads, Hands

Harry Potter (Enough Misadventures) To Last A Lifetime The Biting Yesterdays In the Neighbourhood As Yourself

Leverage Sanctuary Space In the Gray Light

MCU The Madcap Underground Withdraw Their Shining The Job At Hand This Bright Future Homemakers Stand Together Burdens Had The Question At Hand All the Days Woman Borne With Gentleness and Time Duty Bound Like Gravity

The Newsroom A Rousing Debate

Veronica Mars Untitled celebrity/fan AU The Blown Job

1. Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted?: Considering I didn’t write a damn word for nearly half the year, much much more. I was super surprised when I did a “last 20 fics” thing in October-ish, and found that they were all in 2016. And I also feel like I actually got a decent balance between longer oneshots, little snippets, and at least one decently sized (for me) chapter fic. It also helped that I got less anxious about asking for prompts, and people were nice enough to step up and give them to me.

2. What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January?: I never ever would have expected Steve/Peggy and the MCU to take over my life and my writing as completely as it did. I have literally no concrete memory of how it happened, but suddenly they were just there, and I’ve found them honestly delightful to both read and write.

3. What’s your own favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest? Homemakers. Homemakers. All day, every day. It’s just the right level of fluff, sounds authentic enough, flowed nicely, has humor and sweetness and a solid relationship and a plot but also a bit of a “glimpse into the life” thing. One hundred percent. Homemakers.

4. Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? Started writing Woman Borne even though The Ninety-Nine Percent had burned me out so badly. Finished writing Woman Borne even as I realized that I likely wasn’t equipped to do so. On the one hand, I’m proud of the way I handled the act of writing and posting it- I remembered to finish the whole thing ahead of time, I had it read over at an early stage to see if I should keep going and then had it read when it was complete by someone lovely and knowledgeable, I looked over each chapter before posting and made edits if they felt necessary rather than feeling that what I’d written had to dictate the way it would go- but I don’t think I would write something so heavy and controversial and out of my personal experience like that in the near future. Although the readers were overall lovely, it was stressful as heck.

5. Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the New Year? Just, keep writing. If I could finish a few of my WIPs, that would be nice (especially the Very Large Cameron/Chase one) but I’m pretty satisfied to take things as they come. I think my experience with The Blown Job this year was actually really helpful to me- it was a fairly old WIP, one that I’d put down as a goal to finish this year, and without even pushing myself to do it, I just picked it up and chipped away at it until it was done. It just needed to rest in my folder and in my brain for a while, and when it was ready to be done, I finished it.

6. From my past year of writing, what was… Story Most Underappreciated by the Universe: I think that things mostly got noticed in proportion to how they deserved to be noticed- Woman Borne is long so it got more, Homemakers is actually pretty good so it got props even though it was shorter- but some of my smaller fics sort of sank without a ripple. Part of it is my fault because I’m terrible at self-promo, so they were posted once on tumblr, and maybe on AO3, but I feel awkward trying to be noticed, which means that they weren’t. I’m tempted to say Head, Hands, which was my first Rory/Logan story in a while; or either of my Parker/Hardison attempts, but in the end I think I have to go with Like Gravity, which was my last fic of the year and my Steggy Secret Santa story. I don’t know if it was weird tumblr stuff or if the unevenness really put people off, but I didn’t think it was a bad story and it just seemed to go gently into the fanfic ether.

Most Fun: I think The Job At Hand. Homemakers came out so smoothly and I really liked writing all the showgirls in Stand Together, but there’s just something about the hilarious frustration of trying to keep Steve Rogers under control.

Most Disappointing: Maybe In the Neighbourhood, which was my first Ron/Hermione story. I think the characterization was okay but nothing stellar, the writing wasn’t spectacular, and the situation was a little basic. Overall, it was serviceable but lacked any kind of sparkle.

Actually, I take it back. As Yourself, one of my Lily/James fics. The idea is good and even the individual elements are good. I’m really proud of the title, too: it refers both to the quote “love your neighbor as yourself” and the theme of presenting yourself honestly. But the pacing is all wrong. I rushed it, and it shows.

Most Sexy: Oh good gosh. For years I have been answering these questions and I have never succeeded in this one. I know that there’s a lot of ways to be sexy. I write fluff and angst and everything in between. But my sexy is like “do the characters make physical contact at any point?” I’d say This Bright Future, most likely.

Hardest to Write: Woman Borne is probably the easiest answer, but although it took several months to write and had a LOT of big things tangled in it, it didn’t feel that hard in the scheme of my chapter fic experiences. I struggled with getting through The Closing Distance- I’ve had trouble with Buffy/Angel stuff for several years- but I was really surprised by how hard Like Gravity was. It was the only Steve/Peggy fic I had a particularly hard time writing, which was especially strange considering it wasn’t an extraordinarily complicated AU.

Most Unintentionally Telling: Maybe the fact that I like Homemakers so much and have reread it so many times. Although is it a reveal if my love for fluff is well known and publicized? As is my frustration re: bread-making. And that part was written with full and vocal intention, so...not sure

Choice Lines:

Harry (so normal; James’s dad would have loved that) looks around, pulling on a gray t-shirt. “What’s happening?” he says eyeing the cauldron, his mother, and James eyeing him.

“Your dad had a little incident,” Lily says. She hands Harry a muffin, shrugging when he looks from it to her. “Pre-incident baking.”

“Alright,” Harry says easily. He takes a bite. “‘M going to Ron’s for Quidditch.” He sticks the rest of the muffin in his mouth and leaves the room as Lily pours some of the cooled teal potion into a glass and sets it in front of James, who doesn’t move for a moment.

“Woah. Didn’t mean to step into the morning after.”

“Well you did, and now you’ve got it all over your shoe.”

“That’s fucking bullshit.” Steve considered adding ‘with all due respect, sir,’ but he didn’t think it would have mattered at that point, and he also didn't think it would be honest.

...Peggy Carter is controlled and capable and brilliant, but the only thing that’s stone about her is the strength of her right hook.

Steve thinks of courts martial and the way Peggy's uniform fits her so easily. His chest feels splayed open. “I'd love to come with you,” he says, the words breathing out of him.

He wants to hug her, to hold her against him, calculated and risky and stunning. Instead he finds her hand where it lies in the sand between them and presses it delicately…

...Steve, eyes downcast, gifts Peggy with a drawing- simple charcoal on lovely, thick paper- of what she recognizes with some surprise as her own hands. One is in a fist, the other spread wide like a shield.

She buys a frame for it and hangs it in her office the next day.

“Shut up,” she says, fierce and polite, and swings him around and kisses him. He’s stunned still for only a moment.

He is, in fact, a frankly lovely kisser.

When she pulls away after a few moments, he stands there dazed, and then mumbles something that sounds like, “Seniority.”

“Oh good God,” Peggy says, and kisses him again. When she’s satisfied he’ll be quiet, she says, “Phillips is ancient and crotchety and hasn’t changed his textbook in twenty-five years. You, meanwhile, let them look at naked art and stand up to their parents and are bloody gorgeous. And even if you were useless, you’ll shut up and take it. I’ve earned this.”

“You really have,” he says, and kisses her this time, his hands smiling on her back. And then, long minutes later, “By the way. Who’s the HR/PR Disaster now?” His voice is glancingly smug, which cannot be allowed.

“That was four dollars worth of ingredients,” Steve says dazedly several hours later. He is coated lightly in flour as if he has forgotten to come out of the snow.

Peggy eyes the lumpy dough creature and says, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoot it.”

They are two highly capable, mostly rational people. They have wedding rings and work and dinner dates and outings with friends and occasional couple’s espionage. They can cook nearly anything else by this point. There is no reason to be frustrated that they cannot conquer bread.

The next batch comes out of the oven looking perfect. It tastes only and exactly of yeast.

They host Thanksgiving because Bucky’s family wanted Christmas.

There are neat pieces of sushi as appetizers, a huge bowl of excellent mashed potatoes, and three perfect kinds of bread.

The turkey is half raw.

Bucky laughs ‘til he cries.

The girls are leaving first, so Steve stays with them while they pack up, the familiar trappings of the Star Spangled Show disappearing into crates, the familiar faces blurring beneath coats and hats.

The chaperone, Miss Lindon, is staring something fierce at him. (They’d almost driven off a cliff one midnight on a twisty road in California. Everyone else was squeezing hands and praying. Miss Lindon, firm and tidy in tweed, just turned the page of her book with a careful finger.)

He knows that Peggy is ninety-two years old. He knows that she just moved into a new nursing home last week. He knows that she is standing right in front of him, no more than a few years older than when he went into the ice. Dark hair, dark lipstick, dark jumpsuit, and his shield on her back.

Later, watching this Peggy, a shade away from what he knows, he realizes that she reminds him of no one as much as himself, shielding himself from the familiar and the unfamiliar and the memories most of all.

Having someone who understands is a very difficult sort of wonderful.

Natasha is the most off-put by how well Peggy knows them. Her stories have come slowly to Steve, each one a trust-gift. Peggy has her own collection, but for Natasha they are weapons held by someone she does not know.

No one could identify with the loneliness of waking up after the ice like Peggy could, the futile anger of knowing that everyone was gone and it was only him, surviving and surviving and surviving.

The next time Steve sees Thompson, he has fading bruises on either side of his jaw, and actually avoids Steve. As if Steve would hit him if he was just minding his own business.

“-And she said I needed to cut out half my footnotes, even though so much of the good stuff is there, and who doesn’t like extra footnotes? They’re like little knowledge presents!“ Willow finished, turning off the overhead light and enjoying the sound of her slippers shuffling against the carpet. Buffy was still out; she had a midterm the next day and Giles was quizzing her. She held the phone against her shoulder and pulled the covers down.

“Did you check for antennae? She might be a footnote hating alien.” It was the first time Oz had spoken in a while and she could hear the noise of the party the other Dingoes were having, but Willow never worried that he was getting distracted when she talked. The tone he used now was equilibrious as always, but the kind that curved upward a little in her mind and meant he was smiling.

She woke one morning with Steve’s voice, warm and content and loving, full of wonder, still settled over her like a shroud.

There were things that Peggy had not even known she could miss: slicing apples, newspapers, the moon and rain, handshakes, calendars.

There was a tenement sort of grimness to his voice that spoke of gritting teeth through long winters.

He had become less formal in her presence, knees and elbows expanding outward as he sat in a way that made him look somehow smaller, or at least softer.

She gripped at her tea. The all-purpose English remedy, she and Monty used to joke. Apply liberally to anything from gunshot wounds to heartbreak. It didn’t seem to be working.

Peggy reminded herself that she had quite handily survived a world war, and that there was no reason to behave swoonily just because Steve was being very visibly attractive in front of her.

Peggy tried to forget that the world war hadn’t prevented just the same thing the first time around.

“‘‘Twas I who chopped down the cherry tree’ and all that?” It sounded accidentally Shakespearean in her accent despite her wry tone.

Steve grinned in a way that was startlingly unrestrained, making Peggy realize just how much it had all been weighing on him. She hadn’t seen that grin since early 1945, and it was shameful for it to have been hidden so long.

“Fine,” he said, the way he did when things were not fine. It wasn’t that he was lying, but that he hadn’t yet realized that something was wrong.

Steve ran the miles home. The idea of cars felt condensed and awful.

She saw Barton farther down the street, half sitting, half sunbathing on top of one of the fire trucks.

In the bleary dark: “Why have you done so much to help us?”

A pause. “Because I can’t remember a time when I wished someone would help me.”

“Well, Evans, the thing about that man you married- and I love him like a brother and would kill anyone else who said this- is that he’s not very bright and sometimes exists with his head firmly hidden up his arse.”

“Hey, man, respect the skills of others. Maybe I can’t do any of that either, but I laugh in the face of the blue screen of death.”

There’s a feeling in her chest that reminds her of seeing Michael in his uniform for the first time, a ragged beat swallowing her thoughts for just a blank moment, whispering how much it would hurt to lose him.

He tells Peggy this after they’re adjourned for the day. She does not try to build him up or placate him. “They used to bury suspected vampires with stakes in their chests and bricks in their jaws even after they’d died,” she says instead, tilting her chin up at him.

She has the feeling that he’s from the type of family where handshake lessons were given on Monday from 2:30 to 4.

This woman sounds like she could buy and sell him a couple of times over, and he’s not entirely sure if he means literally or metaphorically.

“It’s good. I like it,” and somehow that’s worth paragraphs and paragraphs. It settles around her heart.

But Angel has had a few centuries to get used to how quickly things shift. He has no more lamentations for the eyeblinks that mean a change. Killing a young girl, seeing one on sunlit school steps; these things took seconds and changed everything.

His voice is hoarse and he speaks slowly, but his Russian is perfect, as if the language is something he stored in an attic chest, one he just creaked open to find it pristine.

Because although she has more responsibility than anyone he’s ever known, the weight of lives and lives, she also has her own, and it is such a young one. He wants to be sure that she doesn’t look with regret on these months spent with him, the cliffside love with someone whose life is endlessly futureless.

She’s been missing him all these months, she hasn’t even been tempted, never in all that time, and she’s not totally hideous, so there were some people trying to tempt. But she’s been waiting, it hasn’t even been a question, and he’s apparently been questioning all over the place if he was going to break his word, the last thing he said to her.

She goes Bronzing with the gang. She spends a couple nights hanging and talking with Will, where they dissect Oz’s latest three words, and try once again to figure out Cordelia and Xander, and don’t talk at all about Angel or about how this feels worse than the entire last year because they finally got to choose and they both chose to be apart. She gets a B+ on her English quiz.

Despite herself, Veronica is disappointed. She had wanted the rush from figuring out a puzzle, from outthinking a group of criminals with rap sheets long enough to ride the big roller coasters without a parent. Now she’s facing a woman who’s pulling the criminal equivalent of faking cramps to get out of gym.