#there was a thread about if only showering a couple times a week is gross

[theradicalace]

there are very few chronically online things more satisfying than a good reddit ratio

[watermelonlipstick]

The Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo

This is a request for anon, who asked: 

i don’t know if your requests are open, but if they are, could you do one where the reader has tattoos that dean doesn’t know about and then he sees them when he has to stitch them up after a hunt? (maybe like season 1 or 2 dean) thank you!!!

And then wrote to me privately that they have a dragon tattoo on one shoulder.

It was a lot of fun to write; tons of opportunities to slip in some good classic rock references! I miss in the super early seasons when Sam and Dean seemed to rag on each other pretty much constantly. I hope this is what you were thinking of!

Title: The Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 2589 

Summary: Dean is surprised to discover the reader has tattoos.

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence/mention of blood, swearing, fluff!!

           Sam moves to the middle of the front bench to shuck off his coat as Dean is getting out of the car, and gives it to you with a long arm over the leather. “Can you hand me that blue jacket?”

           You have to over-rotate to use your other hand to grab it, keeping your grip tight on your own shirt in the most bastardized version of a sling. Sam, of course, notices.

           “You think it’s broken or dislocated?”

           A hard chuckle blows out of your nose. “Really hope it’s just dislocated, I’ll tell you that.”

           He gives you a sympathetic smile as he throws on the blue jacket and zips it all the way up to his neck. It looks like he’s covering something up and naturally, he is, thin hoodie and t shirt underneath drenched with enough werewolf blood that it’s clinging to his chest almost pornographically. But his face is untouched and he has use of both his arms which is more than can be said for you or Werewolf Shiner Winchester, making him the only reasonable choice to send for gauze and ACE bandages at the closest pharmacy.

           Dean stops his grimace-covered stretching just outside the car and opens your door with an outstretched hand as Sam slides into the driver’s seat. “You coming?”

           Taking his hand with your good one, you let Dean close the door behind you without any of the normal grumbling about treating you like you’re made of porcelain, in an effort to keep your face neutral around the jolts of pain through your shoulder. Sam pulls out of the motel parking lot ultra-gently like it’s his first day with a learner’s permit the way he does when he knows Dean is watching. It makes you smile to yourself as exhaust dissipates across the cracked blacktop.

           Crossing the asphalt with tired strides Dean opens the motel door for you too, and you walk in before him. “Is that yours?” he asks, dropping his coat on the cheap couch and wincing through the removal of his flannel. In the light of the room you’re better able to see his black eye and realize it’s going to take weeks for that to go away, not relishing another inevitable conversation about makeup to sell a G-man cover story. It makes it so much easier for the families of victims to believe you’re legit when none of you look like you’ve been in a bar fight, but getting Dean to believe cover-up is in the name of the greater good is an uphill battle on the best of days.

           “Is what mine?”

           “The blood you’re covered in like nacho cheese. Dude, if that’s all over the car—”

           He deserves credit for trying not to smile as you try to look over your shoulder like a puppy chasing its tail, but he does guide you over to the mirror on the wall to see. He’s right, blood has seeped all down your coat, sticky and shiny like syrup. It’s far too wet to be from near 30 minutes ago when you got in the car. “Fuck, I really like this jacket.”

           “You have like 5 just like it taking up space in my trunk; you’ll live. Here, take that off, I’ll stitch you up.” Dean starts rifling through his bag for supplies, rolling some kinks out of his neck.

           “It doesn’t even hurt, I just need you to pop my shoulder back in so I can take a shower.”

           “I don’t give a shit what hurts, slugger. You’re going to pass out in the tub if you keep up the stuck pig act.”

           You roll your eyes and reluctantly try to slide your arms out of the jacket, wincing when you jostle the dislocated arm. Dean takes the sopping coat from you and tosses it into the kitchenette sink from where he stands, the concern coloring his face when you look back at him not reassuring you at all. He puts the floss-threaded needle he’d had in his hand between his teeth and starts pulling on your collar.

           “Shoulder first,” you insist, done wiggling and writhing out of clothes before your shoulder is where it belongs.

           Dean’s mouth tightens into a firm line but he backs up to give himself enough room to shove, an exasperated hand beckoning you. “Okay, you ready?” he says around the needle, looking like a farmer field medic with a piece of hay.

           “Yeah just let me—FUCK,” you grunt when he catches you off guard without any preamble, clutching at the shoulder for a moment until you could take a deep breath. You do a test rotation and are happy at the relative lack of pain, trying not to be frustrated that Dean didn’t warn you so you wouldn’t tense up.

           “Shirt off.” Dean’s tone is firm and precise, no room for discussion, as he gets out a lighter and watches intently to heat up the needle.

           “Wow, you sure know how to make someone feel special,” you hum, feeling much looser without the shooting pain from your shoulder. The buttons of the flannel come undone relatively easy, but the fabric makes a sickly wet thwack as you snap it down to rest around your elbows.

           From his spot at your side, you see Dean’s face contort in surprise and watch as he reflexively reaches out a thumb to rub the skin of your shoulder.

           “Ow, what the hell?” you flinch.

           “Has this always been here?” he asks, partly amazed but mostly incredulous as his eyes trace the inky lines of the dragons where they wind around your skin.

           “I wasn’t born with them if that’s what you mean.” You can tell he’s truly shocked because he doesn’t even react to the jab, just hovers a gentle fingertip over the tattoo. “Earth to Dean? I thought you were all scared about me bleeding out.”

           He gulps and clears his throat before covering with a smile that’s a combination of cheeky and shy. “Right, yeah, sorry. Just didn’t realize I was in the presence of The Tattooed Wonder.”

           “Hardly, I only have a few. Now start stitching before I change my mind and wait for Sam; his are way neater than yours anyway.”

           “Few? Where are the other ones? Girls on the back of your leg that hula when you walk?”

           “Nice try.”

           He bites his lip before shifting the strap of your tank top off and sponging the back of your shoulder with a wet towel. When he unceremoniously pours a slug of whiskey over the wound you feel it for the first time and hiss, adrenaline and distraction of the joint pain worn off.

           “Sorry,” he murmurs, already dragging floss tight on a stitch with his teeth and moving on to the next as quickly as he can, half-humming that old Queen song, “gonna get me on the track, got a dragon on my back.”

           You weren’t lying earlier when you’d said that Sam’s stitches were usually cleaner, but Dean is being very careful in a way he usually isn’t—Chicks dig scars, Sammy! Stopped the bleeding, didn’t it?—and you tip your head back to check his work. The extra time he’s taking is to match up the back of one of the dragons, ripped open by a werewolf claw and currently held together by the delicate pinch of Dean’s index and thumb.

           It’s tough, but you manage to grab the reins on a smirk. Dean doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to keep the damage to your tattoo at a minimum. The gesture and the concentration are impossibly sweet, even though you’d long accepted that ink injury was inevitable with your lifestyle.

           When he’s done, callused fingertips tugging the last knot in place, Dean grabs the whiskey again. “Hold still,” he breathes, close enough you can feel it dance across the skin of your neck, and you hope he can’t see the goosebumps trailing down your arms like ivy. “That should do it. You can grab the first shower, but it’s big enough that some gauze on top for a few days wouldn’t hurt.”

           “Thanks,” you answer, startled and annoyed at your own voice when it creaks a touch. The flannel feels gross and heavy with blood, so you pull your arms out entirely and reach to drop it in the wastebasket.

           “I can deal with that if you want,” he offers, ruffling the velvet-short hair at the back of his neck. “The coat too. Not the first time getting blood out of clothes.”

           “Oh, okay. Uh, thanks. That would be really nice.”

           Dean only meets your eyes for the most fleeting moment when he takes it before biting his lip again and nodding to himself. You get to your feet and gingerly slip the displaced straps back over your shoulder, feeling the shift in energy in the room and not knowing what to do with it. Settling for a jocular little punch to Dean’s bicep, you grin at him. “Thanks for putting me back together, doc.”

           Sam comes back a couple minutes after you’ve closed the bathroom door with a translucent plastic bag full of first aid supplies. “In the shower?”

           Dean looks up from where he’s sitting on the couch and hands Sam the beer he’d already gotten out of the fridge in anticipation, his leg bouncing rapidly. “Yeah. They have everything?”

           His younger brother nods and accepts the bottle, taking a sip before laying out his haul on the coffee table and tossing the bag. “You okay?”

           He glances up with a quirked eyebrow. “Just tired, man.”

           Sam waits a silent beat, giving Dean a chance to spill whatever it is.

           “Did you, ah—did you know Y/N’s all inked up like a friggin’ sailor?”

           Sam chuckles and runs his tongue over his teeth. “A sailor? Y/N’s only got a few tattoos, dude.”

           “You knew?”

           “Of course I knew, some people like to learn things about their friends. That’s why you’re acting weird?”

           Dean scowls over the glass lip of his beer before taking a long pull. “Not acting weird, sue me for being surprised we’re working with the goddamn Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo.” His voice is low and surly like a kid on the edge of a tantrum even he knows isn’t worth it.

           “Y/N can do whatever they want, Dean. It doesn’t matter if you like the tattoos, you’re not their dad.” Sam’s barely keeping the giggle out of his voice, enjoying Dean’s frustration the way only a little brother could.

           “No, I don’t—it’s not that I don’t like them,” Dean stammers, the end of the statement fading off as a flush starts rising in his cheeks. He knows he’s said too much and Sam jumps on it.

           “Wait—you do like them, don’t you?” He crashes onto the couch, long limbs just enough in Dean’s space to be irritating. “I bet you loooooove knowing about those tattoos—I bet you’re dying to see them.”

           “Shut the fuck up,” Dean growls, kicking Sam in the thigh with a socked foot. Sam blocks him and starts laughing hard enough it makes him rattle all over like he’s on a rickety rollercoaster. When he finally catches his breath Dean is still pouting to whatever syndicated sitcom he’d thrown on. Over the tinny TV speakers they hear the shower turn off.

           “You know, if you’re feeling shy I could say something for you.” Sam’s grin is ten steps past cheeky, firmly planted in devilish, and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively over top of dimples perfectly sliced into his cheeks.

           Dean’s eyes widen like a cartoon and his voice is a gravelly hiss as he grabs a tight handful of Sam’s t-shirt, now crisp with dried blood. “Sam, I fucking swear to God—” but the threat is ineffectual, sheepish panic clear as anything on his face. The glint in Sam’s eye brightens and he twists out of his brother’s grip before he can react, crossing the room in a few huge steps so he’s nearly face to face with you when you open the bathroom door, Dean leaping off of the couch to chase him and slamming into Sam’s back when he stops short.

           “Whoa, Jesus—you scared the shit out of me,” you breathe, one hand on top of your fresh t-shirt to still your racing heartbeat, fistful of dirty laundry in the other.

           “Just need that second shower, didn’t mean to freak you out!” Sam smiles, warm and light and genuine. “Thanks! Gauze is on the table if you want it.” he says as he slips past you with a friendly and familiar kiss on the cheek, wink that you can’t see to Dean over your shoulder as he closes the bathroom door fast enough that the mirror next to the frame barely even steams.

           “Hey, could you—” you start.

           “Hey, do you—” Dean says at the exact same time. You both chuckle, and you can’t tell if you’re annoyed or not that the little charge in the room didn’t dissolve while the dried blood on you had rinsed down the shower drain. Dean holds up an open palm to indicate that you should go first.

           “Could you cover those stitches for me? The skin is kind of catching on my shirt.”

           “Uh, yeah. Definitely.”

           Shaking your hair loose and hanging the towel it was in on the back of a kitchenette chair, you sit on the edge of the bed to tug the collar of your t-shirt as far onto your shoulder as you can. Dean snatches some medical tape and a couple 4x4s from the table and sits down next to you, the heat coming off of him soothing the chill of the few remaining drops of water cooling on your skin. “I’m gonna need more slack than that,” he says, trying to be matter-of-fact but not quite covering the gooey softness around the edges that are making his voice more sultry than gruff. You try to pull harder on the collar but it’s already digging into your neck. The hand holding the gauze floats down to Dean’s lap while he rubs his jaw with the other. “Do you—could you just take it off?”

           You roll your eyes at him.

           “Or live with it, see if I care.” He holds your gaze, and that stubbornness you recognize.

           Reluctantly, you move your arm inside the shirt and slip it out from under the bottom hem, squirming in a way that covers your chest while exposing your shoulder. When he sweeps the shirt back you reflexively jolt away from him like you’ve been shocked. “Not being fresh, just don’t want to tape it in,” he murmurs.

           “I noticed you put the lines together really straight; thanks for that.”

           “Only took an extra second.” He rips another piece of tape off a roll with his teeth and is being so deliberate that now you’re sure he’s stalling for another few seconds to keep touching you but you don’t care; the feeling of his fingertips on your skin is tender and delicious.

           “If I knew you were going to be that careful, I would’ve been letting you do my stitches this whole time.”

           “Guess I’m just a regular damn seamstress,” he smiles, finally smoothing the last tape and only surreptitiously glancing out of the corner of his eye as you tuck your arm back into its sleeve. “So seriously, what’re the other tattoos?”

           “I’m sure you’ll see them soon enough,” you whisper as you stand up, committing to memory the way it makes Dean’s pupils flare as you ease under the scratchy motel sheets on the opposite bed.

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

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[beskarberry]

Krayt’s Teeth

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 3 (The Mandalorian x f!reader)

The sound of crashing and shouting was hot on your tail, the other hunters had followed you and were gaining fast. You saw a light rapidly approaching ahead of you, and the two of you burst out into the brilliant daylight to the worst possible place: a dead fucking end.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 6.7k

Content warnings: Canon typical violence, killing in self defense, headcanon angst, FLUFF, sensory deprivation, body worship, oral sex (f receiving).

A/N: These are my headcanons regarding Mandalorian culture in terms of sex, I didn’t find much lore on it so whether it’s accurate or not idk but I like them and that’s all that matters! Enjoy~

<-Previous Next->

You could have slept forever, even on that horrible little cot you were so comfortable that you could have been out for days, but the only one on it was you. You did’t know when Mando got up from the tiny space you both shared through the night, or how he managed to get out from your tangled bodies without waking you up. You opened your eyes to tiny green baby hands tugging at your fingers. 

“Hey booger, is it time for breakfast? Where’s your papa?” You started to sit up, but the horrible sticky mess underneath you made you reluctant to move, a mix of passion and pain from the day before. “Yikes. I’m gonna run all his water out if I have to keep using the fresher. Come on, let’s get scrubbed up.” The baby gibbered excitedly at you, though you weren’t sure how much of what you said he actually understood. You scooped him into your arms without looking back at the sad little cot and all its stains. “You’re water proof, right?”

The ship’s engines were rumbling away, so you guessed tin man was up in the cockpit flying you towards your next bounty. Or Nevarro. You would have to find Mr. Mystery later, the grossness that was you had to be dealt with. Between you and the child your shower took forever, the two of you getting water and soap bubbles from top to bottom. You didn’t care. You had been on Tatooine for months without having a real shower, being consigned to the sonic freshers that vibrated the sand off of the moisture farmer’s bodies; and this was the second real shower you’d gotten to have in twice as many days. You spent a good deal of time trying to get your chatty friend to hold still long enough to be dried off, the little fart squealing with joy every time you went for him with the towel.

An ordeal later you were both fresh and presentable, but your host was still nowhere to be seen, though the ugly sheets had thankfully disappeared from view. The ship was quiet now, without the engine running you knew you had to be back on the ground, and you could hear a distinct hum of activity coming through the walls. Space port? He flew us into town? The thought was replaced immediately with a rich, savory smell coming through the air vents: FOOD! Your gut grumbled loud enough to resonate through the cabin and earn you a confused look from the baby. When was the last time you really ate? You’d been living on ration packs for the last couple of days. That was going to change right now.

“Ya hungry buddy? Me too! Maybe that’s where your dad is, hmm?” Grabbing your old backpack and hooking the baby under your arm you started punching buttons on the wall to get the door open, sending walls sliding and cabinets opening before you got one of the access ramps open. Bright double sunlight nearly blinded you, and on reflex you covered the baby’s giant googly eyes. It took a moment for your own to adjust to the radiant light of the Tatooine morning, and the smell of cooking food hit you like a ton of bricks, making your mouth water. As your eyes adjusted you were able to take in your surroundings: though it was bright outside you were parked low inside a maintenance bay, the walls of which soared high above you; littered with engine parts and humming with droid activity. Sound was the last input your hungry brain could process, but when it did you didn’t like what you heard. The sounds of an argument echoed around the hangar, high and shrill.

“I already told you, you can’t park here! You’re bad for business!”

“I just need to park here long enough to get supplies.”

“Well you’re gonna have to pay up, Mando! I’m not running a charity here! You got credits for supplies you got credits for parking! Up front this time!”

Oh no.

Of all the mechanics and docking hangars in Mos Eisley he had to pick this one. The fireball of a woman barely came up to your partner’s chest, but she made up for it with unbridled fury; and the giant cooked animal leg she was swinging around like a club between bites made her look even more formidable. She noticed you coming down the ramp and stopped grilling your comrade long enough to glare daggers through your skull.

“Oh NO! No nope nuh uh! You can turn right back around and get back on that ship, missy! I knew it! I knew you were bad for business, Mando! What’re you doing running around with her? I hope she’s your bounty because she’s your problem!”

“Peli.” Your words were cold as ice, but the squirming baby in your arms took all the malice out of your stance. He wiggled until you set him down, and he ran towards the mechanic with open arms.

“Baby! You can stay but your dad’s gotta take the mean lady somewhere else! She cheats at sabacc!”

“You lost fair and square, Peli! Try playing a better hand next time!”

“Ladies please!”  Mando cut through your bickering, holding his arms up between the two of you like he was trying to corner a pair of wild blurgs. “If I let the child stay with you for the day, will you let me park the Razor Crest here? Just for a couple hours?”

Peli bounced the child on her hip, offering him a bite of her breakfast. The baby squealed happily while he sank his little teeth into the mighty snack, though the size of it comically dwarfed his itty bitty hands. “I’ll tell you what, you let me keep him and then maybe I’ll let you park here in a week.” Mando cocked his helmet at her with disdain and she huffed loudly, “Well if you put it that way, I guess you can park here, but you gotta put five hundred credits down, and not a cent less!”

Mando reeled, stabbing his hands to his hips with indignation. “Five hund- absolutely not! What am I going to buy our-” You interrupted his tirade with a hand on his shoulder, waving a slew of credits in front of his eyes. Peli snatched them out of your hand, fanning them out like cards to count them.

“Who’d you cheat these outta?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You leaned casually against your metal man, eyeing Peli with a smug look on your face. “Let’s go, Mando. Bye baby green bean, have fun with Auntie Cheats-at-Sabacc!” You spun him around by the hand and dragged him towards the exit, ignoring the insults being slung at your back. “We are getting breakfast and that’s final!”

The Mandalorian allowed you to pull him along a few feet before grinding his heels into the sand, shaking his head. “You have to stay here.”

Now it was your turn for sassy head tilts. “I just paid for your parking, buckethead, that makes me in charge and I’m hungry! I’ll buy you breakfast too if you want.” He didn’t budge, fixing you with that intense stare of his and grabbing you by the shoulders.

“You are still being hunted. Mos Eisley isn’t safe for you.”

Ah.

You knew you could look after yourself, and he himself had compared you to a ferocious rancor just yesterday. You groaned loudly, “Shit balls of hell. But dad, I’m huuunngry!” The man bristled at your paternal harassment, sighing heavily and letting his helmeted head fall to the side like the world was ending. He glanced around the hangar exit, his shiny beskar snapping to each object of interest until he located a protocol droid corpse that was missing everything from the waist down. He strode over to it and held it down with one boot, yanking it by the head until it popped off. He began prying the droid’s vocorder apart at the mouth, pulling it wide until the droids face plate broke off with a snap! Tossing the rest of the logic processing unit to the ground, he held the face plate up to the light, inspecting the clarity of its photo receptor casings. He bent back down to the junk pile and fished out a stray wire to thread through the ruined audio processors, then tossed the finished creation to you.

“Put that on.”

You turned the makeshift mask over in your hands to check for sharp edges before you pressed it to your face. The bug eyes on the front were dirty, but you could see well enough. Before you could clean them more thoroughly you felt the weight of fabric on your head, his cloak now worn as your own. The thought of how you must look made you giggle. “You make me take my clothes off, now you want me to put clothes on. It never ends with you, Mando. Next you’ll be forging me beskar. Now can we eat something, please?” Without a word the armored man turned on his heel and walked out the hangar exit. I’ll take that as a yes.

Mos Eisley buzzed with life, people and animals and things you couldn’t explain made their way up and down the bustling streets. The smell of food led you to a vendor selling something that could have been a root vegetable, covered in herbs and spices and grilled to perfection. You couldn't wait, all thoughts of self-preservation went out the window as you hauled ass to the stand, waving two fingers in the air. When you had both of your prizes in hand you stuffed the savory veggie under your mask, sighing contentedly at the taste of real honest-to-Maker food. “Hey tin man, I hope you like... whatever this-” You turned to offer your partner something to eat, but he had disappeared from the crowd. “Alright... more for me.”

Taking a newspaper from the vendor you wrapped the extra snack up tight and threw it in your pack for later, continuing to chow down on your own. You would find Mando eventually, and you had credits to spend. You had held onto your hush-money for months to avoid suspicion, but now it was burning a hole in your pocket. Wandering the streets of Mos Eisley from merchant to merchant you began accumulating a small hoard of supplies, ranging from bacta to hand tools, and food. Whatever you could get your hands on that would survive hyperspace when you inevitably left this fucking dirtball for good; though you still weren’t convinced that you wouldn’t be making that flight in carbonite. You picked out new clothes and underwear, a much-needed bedroll, and some soft bantha-wool blankets. Something further down the marketplace caught your eye, and you made your way to the fancier items that glittered in the double daylight. You didn’t wear jewelry yourself, a poor choice of attire for a hunter, but the way the trinkets caught the light still made you wistful. Your hidden eyes danced over the glittering treasures; jewels and geodes that had been found deep in the sands and polished to a radiant shine.

You spotted something opalescent at the end of one table and found a pair of krayt teeth, each about the size of your palm. They had been sanded to a smooth, flat finish and carved with intricate desert patterns. The backs of them had tiny fittings that could be sewn on as buttons, or pulled off to reveal magnets. Something about their shape seemed familiar, though you couldn’t imagine why in that moment. You purchased the unique pieces anyway, something to remind you that even the harshest of places could hold hidden beauty. After a while you had so much junk piled in your arms that you could barely see over it, and tin man was nowhere to be found. You spotted a courier droid and paid for it to deliver your treasures back to Hanger 3-5, though you kept the pricey teeth in your pockets. With your arms free you started looking for your missing comrade.

The streets were busy with people, you would have to get somewhere out of the way in order to scan the crowds. Your eyes went from shimmer to shimmer, looking for his reflective chrome dome. “Big jerk,” you mused to yourself “‘Mos Eisley’s not saaafe...’ If he’s so worried then where the hell is he? Bah!” The scratched-up photoreceptor casings of your mask made it a challenge to see through the crowd, and you took a moment to adjust the iris apertures so you wouldn’t have to keep squinting into the double sunshine when you felt a hand on your back. Finally. “Mando, where have you-”

“Mando? Whos’sis man-do? Nah sssweetheart, I think you got me confused wi’ sssomeone elssse.” The slithering voice in your ear made your blood run cold. Not Mando! You rocketed your elbow backwards, connecting with the gut of the stranger on your back with an -oof! The hand let go long enough for you to make a run for it, and you tore off down the streets of the busy spaceport, smashing into bystanders in your wake. You cast a quick look behind you to see a large reptilian body flying after you, brownish scales catching the reflection of the noonday suns. Though you had your blaster, the risk of hitting a civilian was too great, so running would have to do. You were thankful for the courier droid that had freed your hands just minutes before as you barreled down the busy streets.

Market stalls flew past you, your boots kicking up sand and dust. The mask on your face, as dirty as it was, kept the debris from your eyes as you raced through the sunburnt city. You had to lose this fucker and fast. You turned down an alley, left, right, another right, leaping over supply crates and low fences like a lothcat. You turned to see if you had lost your chaser, breath heaving and heart pounding. Behind you was clear, but you took your eyes off your path for just a second too long, and were taken by surprise when a heavy weight fell on you from above.

The Trandoshan had gone over the low sandstone roofs, chasing you easily through the alleyways of Mos Eisley while you were none the wiser. He pinned you under him quickly, ripping your blaster off your hip and pointing your own barrel in your face. “Tha’ss enough, princesss! Nice n’ quietlike now. You gonna make me a pretty penny you are.” The lizard’s words dripped with metaphorical venom, though you were sure by the look of those fangs that real venom was probably right behind. “Ahm gonna cart yer arse right back to th’ Guild’n I’ll become th’ most famous hunter in th’ galax -urk!”  With a sickening gag the hunter above you grew a shiny new fang in the back of his throat before falling down dead on top of you, a vibroblade protruding from back of his skull.

“Took you long enough!” You hollered at your chrome companion, who was stepping forward to kick the carcass off of you. “Where the fuck have you been? Getting your rifle polished?” He pulled you to your feet, handing you your blaster while readjusting the mask on your face. You swatted at his fussing hands, but when you looked at him you were shocked to see not one but three blinking bounty fobs dangling from his belt. On the ground by the dead lizard was a fourth, flashing rapidly in the sand.

“I told you you weren’t safe! We need to leave right now.”  You were barely able to grab the remaining bounty fob while you were being tugged away by your allied hunter. He had a death grip on your hand, pulling you along behind him towards what you hoped was the docking hangar. You would have to cross the main street to get there, and as the pair of you plowed across the dusty, busy road there came shouts from either side. More hunters, fucking Guild! You didn’t have a single second to assess them before you were lead through an alley on the other side of the street. These were darker than the ones you had run through on the west side of town, and shady bodies moved quickly out of the way of your living locomotive.

At the end of a narrow alley you both burst through a door leading into an abandoned building. The darkness was almost worse than the blinding sunlight, you would need time for your eyes to adjust but the Mandalorian had enough sensory detection equipment that he ghosted through the ruinous building with ease; never once letting go of your hand as you tripped and stumbled through the dark. The sound of crashing and shouting was hot on your tail, the other hunters had followed you and were gaining fast. You saw a light rapidly approaching ahead, and the two of you burst out into the brilliant daylight to the worst possible place: a dead fucking end.

“There! Get down!” Mando pointed at a pile of rubble, probably big enough to hide behind, but that’s not how you handled business.

“Fuck you! I’m not going down without a fight!” You pulled your blaster out and aimed at the incoming assailants. He growled at you and stepped closer, putting his body in between you and the door. The reptilian hunters burst from the darkness of the warehouse, firing rapid shots of blaster charges that bounced off of Mando’s beskar. You fired over his protective arm, taking out the first one and tripping up the second, who fell over his cohorts limp body. Mando took shot after shot to the chest, reeling with each impact. His other arm cocked back and shot out, sending a wall of fire into the last of the Guild’s hired guns.

Both of you were panting, shaking and sweating from flying through Mos Eisley, but the sound of blaster fire would draw attention and you knew there was no time to waste. You stepped over the incinerated corpse, making sure the fob it carried was melted, the second body still squirmed in the dirt, and you weren’t going to let it get a second chance, firing your blaster through it’s scaly skull. You picked the remaining two fobs and stuffed them in your pockets, making a run for it back through the building with Mando right behind, the blaze of his flamethrower lighting your way.

You took a different door out of the building and were relieved to see the words ‘HANGAR 3-5′ painted in bright blue Basic straight ahead. You skittered through the entrance, rounding the corner and dropping down behind the edges of the hangar doorway. Mando did the same on the other side, both of you pointing your blasters back towards Mos Eisley’s dark heart. Bootsteps behind you made you snap around, and you nearly shot your mechanically inclined host.

“You kids have fun out there?” Peli stood over where you were hunched, and you lowered your blaster to the ground. At her feet your little buddy was holding onto her pant leg, making big puppy dog eyes at you. You looked over to Mando to make sure there weren’t any more coming, but he still held his blaster out ahead. After a few tense seconds he lowered it down until it was back in its’ holster, then pulled himself to his feet.

“We can’t stay any longer, we’re putting you in danger. Time to go, kiddo.” His charred beskar still shimmered when he bent down to pick up his adopted son, who chirped with delight. “Thank you for watching him.”

“He can stay any time! Oh and thanks for all the snacks you made that droid bring me!” Peli called after the three of you as your party quickly boarded the Razor, making you turn around and stick your tongue out at her. She happily flipped you off and started closing the ground entrance to the bay, letting you board the ship uninterrupted. Fortunately, the courier droid’s delivery had made it to the ship, though you couldn't help but notice a few of your most carefully picked snacks had been taken as collateral. Fucking Peli. As much as she infuriated you, there wasn’t another person on all of Tatooine that you would rather play sabacc with.

The old rust bucket rumbled to life, taking off into the midafternoon sky and pointed towards the stars. Finally! Bye motherfucker. The hazy atmosphere of the outer rim planet fell away below you until the light of the bright yellow world illuminated the Crest’s stern. The pre-Imperial scrapheap started howling with noise, and you were almost thrown to the deck when it blasted into the safety of hyper space.

Your heart was still racing and you struggled to catch your breath. Once you had yourself in order you started busying yourself with putting the supplies away, filling the food larder to capacity. The child was contentedly telling you about his day with his auntie in his cute baby gibberish, and you picked him up off the ground to give him a much needed hug, pushing your stolen identity onto the top of your head to give him kisses. You almost wanted to ignore the sound of heavy armored boots hitting the floor panel under the ladder, their wearer opting to jump down from the cockpit rather than climb. You could feel the fury coming off of him as he stalked over to where you were sorting your treasures.

“You could have been hurt! I knew it was a bad idea to let you go wandering around, even with your face covered. What if they’d caught you? I picked three of them off before you even saw one!”

“I had it under control, Mando! I’m not some princess that needs you coming to her rescue at every sign of a struggle. And you don’t get to let me do anything, you don’t own me!” The man under your scrutiny paced the cabin on stiff legs with his hands on his hips, helmet snapping with rage.

“I know you can handle yourself, but I need to protect you.” He said with a huff, “And that lizard was... he had you pinned down, had his filthy, scaly claws on you... Nobody should touch you like that! What if.. what if he... I- I- didn’t like that he was...” Listening to the sound of the gears jamming in his head made you realize the ridiculous thing he was trying to say.

“Are you.. Mando are you jealous?”

“No! I- I’m.. Cyar’ika I... ”

Oh no, you don’t get to be cute right now. “I don’t know what that means, Mando! What is that, some kind of sexy little pet name you use on all the girls you take underneath of you?”

“NO! I didn’t- I would nev- I’ve never had... There’s never been- no!” Oh how you wished you could see his face, watching him flail trying to defend himself from your accusation, he was probably white as a sheet under all that armor.

“Never what, Mandalorian?”

“I’ve never had anyone in this ship before!” The Mandalorian’s confession lost steam halfway through as embarrassment and fear crept into his throat, threatening to choke him with his own secrets.

“Wait.. wait wait. Never? You’ve never had anyone in this ship or...” You started approaching him, analyzing his visor for hints of meaning. “Or you’ve never had anyone at all?” The Mandalorian stopped his pacing, but his shoulders looked like they were carrying the weight of the galaxy. His silence told you everything, and the last piece of his puzzle fell into place. “Mando...was I your first?”

“Y-yes.” His visor tilted up to you, hands fidgeting at his sides. His voice was faint and sheepish, a stark contrast to the thunderstorm you were arguing with a moment ago.  Your eyes were full of questions, all racing through your mind so quickly none of them made it to your mouth. The metal man answered them all for you in one singular motion, raising his fist to knock a couple times against his beskar helmet. His creed.

“So, what, you guys aren’t allowed to have sex?”

He sighed his heavy, trademarked sigh and plopped down on the nearest supply crate with a defeated thud, cradling his head in his hands. “No it’s not that. Not... not exactly. In Mando’a the word we use is me'dinuir. It means ‘to give’, specifically to give yourself to another. And... when you give yourself away to someone-“ He turned the black gloss of his single eye up to you, “-you belong to them. That is The Way.”

The weight of his words made your blood cold. He was jealous, but not just because that other hunter had put his scaly hands on you. Everything about his attitude around you suddenly made sense, the way he had looked at you when you were presenting yourself to him that first day, why he never threw you in carbonite when he probably should have, and how he had stayed with you through the night after you nearly died hunting his bounty. His mysterious way of life decreed that giving his body to you meant that he had also given you his soul, and that made you just as important to protect as his foundling.

Mando reached out to pat the fuzzy green head of the baby you were still holding, who gibbered sleepily up at his armor plated papa. “I’m sorry to put that on you, and I’m sorry for how I acted. You’re not my bounty anymore, and I shouldn’t try to control you. I understand if you don’t want to continue with me to the next bounty. You can take whatever you want from the armory when we land next. I’m.. I’m so sorry.” The monolithic man looked so tiny now, sitting on the edge of the crate with his shoulders hunched. He reached his arms out to take his infant son from you, hugging him to his blast-burnt chest and smoothing his massive ears. "I didn’t get to thank you for washing him earlier, he smells really good.”

You desperately needed to know more, though the sight of him fawning over his sleepy son made your heart swell. “I kinda got the feeling that you were rusty when we met, but that was actually your first time? And what does that mean ‘you belong to them’? How can you belong to me? I don’t even know your name.”

"It means that I’m now sworn to protect the one that carries my soul. I’m not asking you to do the same, you’re not Mandalorian.”

His words made you feel sick, ashamed that you had taken something so sacred from him without a second thought, but how could you have known? He could have stopped at any time, you were the one in cuffs that day, not him. No, out of trillions and trillions of sentient beings in the galaxy he chose to give himself to you, knowing full well what his heritage decreed. Why you? Arms crossed, you dug deeper. “You’ve never seen another naked body than your own?”

He shook his head. “Just... holo-vids...”

You were going to have to ask him about those later. “Nothing? You’ve at least kissed someone before though, right?”

“Kissed?”

Maker fucking help you. “Yeah you know, kissing? The thing you do with your... oh, right." You reached up and tapped him twice on the beskar. “You need your face to do it.”

He cocked his helmet at you. “Can you show me?”

The innocence of his question made you melt. Fuck you, tin can, you’re not supposed to be cute when you’re in trouble. You reached your hand out, demanding he give you his, and shyly he obeyed. You pulled his hand to your lips, unsure of how much he could actually feel through his thick leather gloves. You pressed his hand to your lips and watched his whole body snap straight. “Kiss, like that.”

He was staring at his hand like he’d never seen it before, and after a moment he pulled your locked fingers to his head, tapping his forehead with the back of your hand. “Kov’nynir, But we do it with our helmets.”  At this rate you’ll be speaking Mando’a in no time. He still held your hand gently, running his thumb over your fingers. “I think I like your way better. Could... Could you do that again?”

So polite, maybe having him stuck with you wouldn’t be so bad. You pulled his hand back to you, giving him another soft kiss on the side of his thumb, and you heard the sound of his breath catching in his modulator. Your lips pressed to each of his knuckles, and then you turned his wrist to kiss his palm. “How’s that?”

“That’s amazing.”

“You like that? Watch this.” Addressing the bantha in the room would have to wait. You tugged his glove off, revealing the warm bronze skin underneath and kissed him again. The hitched breaths coming out of his modulator were honey to your ears, and you turned his wrist over to kiss his bare palm again, hunting for more sweet sounds. His body was so stiff, so tightly wound you thought he might snap. “Are you ok? Do I need to stop?”

“I- I- want to... Can... Can I try?” You nodded, your heart jumping to your throat at the thought of him removing his helmet in front of you, but instead he gently reached up to the busted droid face you still wore on your head. With a twist of a knob the armatures inside of the eye casings coiled shut, and when he slid the mask down into place you were thrown into total darkness. “Can you see?” You shook your head. “Promise?”

You sighed, long and frustrated. “I promise, dark as a sarlacc’s backside.” You were met with only silence. Then, after what felt like an eternity you heard the sliding sound of metal as the child’s pram shield slid closed, then the shuffle of armor being removed, and lastly the dull thunk of something heavy being set down on the crates. His hand found yours again, and he pressed his lips against your skin. They were hotter than you were expecting, and soft, almost plush. You understood right away why he was so rigid when you were doing the same, it was amazing. Gentle kisses made their way over the back of your hand and made heat flood through your veins. He moved slowly over each joint, following the same pattern you had shown him, then turned your hand over and kissed at your fingertips. Something fuzzy brushed along with his lips, and you imagined that he might have a mustache. The shivers that crept their way up from your captured hand knocked all the strangeness of your conversation out of your mind, but when he reached your wrist he stopped.

“Where else do you kiss at?” You nearly fainted at the sound of his unfiltered voice, a rich baritone that dripped with dark intentions and stole all the words from your mouth. You could only point with your other hand at the forearm attached to the hand he held. Again you felt his lips on your wrist, then slowly, inch by agonizing inch he made his way up your arm, each kiss slower than the last until your toes were curling in their boots. When he reached the edge of the tunic’s sleeve that hung at your elbow he paused again. “Where else?”

“Everywhere.”  Your tormentor hummed at your consenting words and let go of your hand to run his palms down your clothed thighs. When he reached your knees he pulled on their joints, bidding you to bring your legs up over his lap. When you were seated on him he resumed his trek up your arm, kissing at the crease of your elbow and then upwards over your tunic until he reached your shoulder. When he got to your neck you almost buckled over, but his hands were at your back in an instant, wrapping heavily around your waist. Your own hands made their way to the nape of his neck, and your fingers found the edge of his hairline that you had felt before. To your delight you felt that the tousled curls went all the way up, and you tangled your fingers in them, exploring their softness while he explored you.

His journey led him up your neck to the base of your jaw where he nipped gently at the sensitive skin like you had done to him last night, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps from your head to your toes. When his nose bumped the edge of your mask you were suddenly aware of how silly you might look with your big bug eyes. “Can I take this thing off?” you asked in a whisper. “I won’t look.”

“I have a better Idea. Hold on tight.” You dug your hands into his shoulders and felt his arms wrap under your legs as he stood up, lifting you with such ease that you wondered if he felt your weight at all. His boots echoed through the cabin until he stopped at the other end. You hung on for dear life while he climbed the ladder with you still wrapped around his front. When you both reached the top you let yourself unwind from him and scooted on your butt over the floor, listening to the sound of him pulling himself all the way up. You remained seated as your host fussed around the flight deck, the noise of buttons pressing and switches being thrown the only input to your deprived senses.

You were only unattended for a moment, then his hands found your waist, fishing for the edge of your shirt. The tunic was pulled up and over your head, taking your mask with it, and you squeezed your eyes shut to protect his modesty; unsure of what his unconventional oath to you included in the fine print. Your diligence was rewarded with a kiss on your forehead, then down to kiss both of your closed eyes, and then lastly to your lips. The searing heat of his mouth on yours threatened to throw your eyes open, but when they fluttered all you saw was darkness. The transperisteel’s blast shielding had been closed, and the only light in the cockpit came from a handful of illuminated buttons on the dash.

He was lying over top of you on the metal floor, one arm wrapped under your neck for support. The cold decking under you was uncomfortable, but you couldn’t be bothered to care, letting yourself be consumed by his kisses and becoming drunk on the scent of leather and adrenaline. The soft fuzz of his facial hair tickled slightly as he pressed into your lips, and you couldn’t help but smile. Your hands went to his face, running your thumbs over his cheeks and feeling what you weren’t allowed to see. His face was scruffy but not unkempt, and the bristles went all the way from his jaw up to the bottom of the defined nose that bumped against your own. You felt the creases on the corners of his eyes, wishing you could see his smile lines and all the stories they would tell.

You kissed him back, letting your tongue glide over his plush lips and making him inhale sharply. You licked into him again, and this time you were met with his tongue as well, just the faintest touch of its tip. He hummed in your mouth, and the sound of him so close made your belly pool with heat and your kisses bolder, sending your tongue deeper into his mouth until he was almost vibrating with the sensation of you exploring something as forbidden as his human body. He mirrored you as best he could, rolling the smooth muscle over your lips and the edges of your teeth until you were both lost in each other’s taste. He pushed his forehead against yours, pulling his mouth away with frantic breaths that spread fire over your skin. “Everywhere?”

You pushed your lips against his again, giving him an ambitions ‘Mmhmm’ as an answer. His growl made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you realized where his goal was. He kissed and nipped his way down your throat, letting his tongue glide over your skin. He made his way to your breast, taking its’ tender tip between his teeth and making you gasp. He sucked at it gently, rolling his tongue around it while it grew harder for his efforts. The hand not under you groped at your free breast so it wouldn’t be ignored.

"Beep!”

An urgent chime echoed in the tiny space, the hyperdrive indicator was flashing its countdown warning: 10 minutes remain.

The Mandalorian’s growl on your breast made your blood turn to ice and your core flush with heat at the same time. He wanted to devour you, taste every single inch of your exposed skin, but time was not on your side; and he became a man on a mission to prove himself worthy of you. Bristles dragged over your skin as he slid down your belly until he hit the edge of your pants. They were yanked off so fast you briefly worried about the krayt teeth that were still in their pockets, but you didn’t have long to think before Mando was poised over the apex of your thighs, kissing at each leg to make his intentions known. Those must be some good holo-vids you’re watching, tinman. You let him push your legs apart with his chin, receiving a soft kiss on each one once they were far enough apart for him to stuff his face in between.

Your back arched, hard, followed by the most ragged moan you‘d ever heard escape your throat. The grip on your thighs kept you in place as he lapped at your clit, sucking and teasing in an experimental way. His inexperience didn’t seem to matter, his hunger for you fueling his efforts and making you squirm in delight. Your hands sought desperately for something to grab onto to keep yourself grounded, finding his lovely curls to bury your fingers in deep. It was all you could do to hold on for dear life, tangling in his hair and struggling to breathe as he worked you into a frenzy.

The noises coming from below your waist were heavenly, wet and greedy in between his hums of contentment. It took you a while to realize they weren’t hums at all, but alien words of worship being prayed at your sinful altar; but the blood pounding in your ears and the gasps from your throat were too loud for you to hear his devotion.

“Beep beep!”  Five minutes remain. Fuck.

The Mandalorian’s efforts doubled, running his tongue almost too quickly in his attempt to eat you alive. You let your hips grind into his mouth, begging him to bring you your release, and it wasn’t long before he succeeded. Stars flashed behind your eyes as you came into his hot open mouth, but he refused to leave until he had drank his fill of you. Eventually he pulled his face away from your spent heat with agonizing slowness, as if he would rather drown than address the impending drop from hyperspace. He kissed at your shaky thighs, your soft belly, and each breast before pressing his lips into your panting mouth, pushing the taste of you onto your own tongue. His breath was ragged, and you could feel the sweat of his brow where it was pushed against your face. 

He lifted away from you, and the weight of the handmade mask was draped over your face, making you groan with the displeasure of your passion being cut short. However, once it was in place, it was almost immediately pushed under by strong fingers to lift its edge, and you were given one last kiss to swear his promise of return to you.

“Din. My name is Din.”

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[generalfoolish]

Feel The Heat

Part Two: Something More

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OC Juniper Collins

Rating: 18+ (b/c minors shouldn't lurk, it is illegal and not polite.) But this is big fluff, just more exposition and pining and world building. I do curse, so there's that.

Word Count: 4k+

Summary: June and Frankie are big idiots, and they keep bumping into each other in the wildest of places. Again, and I can't overstate this: they’re both MASSIVE idiots.

A/N: Hey babes! This is going a little slower bc I want to give more with each update, I normally keep around 1K and these are little beasts. But I'm excited with the story, some threads are exposing themselves, and there will be more Frankie X OC time in the next part. For now, enjoy this little taste of yearning and pining and overthinking and general angst over meeting a cute new somebody. 💕

Masterlist | Part One | Part Three

June checked her phone as she stirred the pot, and groaned at the email count. More than half were parents who “couldn’t” make the conference, and the rest were from her principal wanting to reiterate the importance of those meetings. She dropped the phone back to the counter, and focused on her pot. She had googled what to do with Brandywines, and had decided on a slowly simmered tomato sauce. It paired beautifully with the fresh garlic and basil she had picked up, and the whole house smelled like an Italian restaurant.

This was her favorite way to use up produce in the summer. She spent hours simmering and canning, and got to enjoy the fruits of her labor in the dead of winter. She knew she could easily gift the sauce made from those beautiful tomatoes, and she had every intention of doing so.

Sundays passed so quickly, she hardly had time to dwell on the farmer, but when she caught a whiff of her stove she had to find something to do. She worked through the emails, sending reminders that the conferences were mandatory, and that if the parents couldn’t make it during the week before or after school, she was available to meet online. She fought the temptation to open her weekends. She was working on work boundaries with her therapist.

June had an easier time fighting off thoughts of the farmer as the day waned on, and she thought, foolishly, that she could just forget the brown eyed grump she had met.

--

Frankie was having a hard time focusing on anything. Liv was a bundle of energy, and he tried not to snap at her. He had her come help him in the garden, but he ended up sending her to dig for worms after she trampled another vine.

“Ew! Worms are gross.” She argued.

“I know, but didn’t you want to go fishing? Fish eat worms, it’s how we can get them out of the water.” He explained, carefully. She considered him, then bounded off, calling out to the worms. He chuckled watching her, and went back to pulling weeds. With a moment of quiet, his mind flitted back to the woman. He couldn’t help it. He had dreamt of her. She was lounging in the back of his mind, waiting for him to stumble into the memory. Liv was a good distraction, but she only held the woman at bay for so long. He grumbled and wiped his brow. He decided to give it up for now, the woman and the weeding.

“Princess, I think we have some hotdogs. Let’s try those.” He called over to Liv, who excitedly left behind her freshly dug hole.

“Daddy, Mrs. Becka wanted me to remind you about the school stuff.” Liv told him, grabbing his hand as they walked. He exhaled sharply. He had forgotten the meetings. He pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through Becka’s texts. She had sent him the teacher’s number at some point, he knew, the trouble was finding it. Finally, he clicked the blue hyper-linked number and called it. Liv ran inside ahead of him, looking for the hot dogs, and he waited at the door as the phone rang.

“Hello?” Ms. Collins answered breathlessly, and he cleared his throat.

“Ms. Collins? It’s Olivia Morales’ dad, calling about the meeting?” He heard something clatter on the other end. “Is now an okay time?”

“Yes, sorry, Mr. Morales, I was just...it doesn’t matter. My schedule is a little tight, when did you have in mind?”

“Something early, maybe before drop-off?”

“Sure, uhm, let me check my calendar,” She sounded distant, he thought, probably on speaker. “Yeah, Tuesday morning? I know that’s quick, it is all I have though.”

“Yeah, I can be there. Like 7am?”

“Yes, that’s great. See you then.” The line disconnected and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d heard her voice before. He rolled his eyes at himself, of course he had. She was his daughter’s teacher. As if on cue, Liv ran out with a hot dog. He smiled brightly and ruffled her hair.

“‘Kay, kiddo, let’s go catch some fish.” She grinned at him brightly, showing off the hole her first lost tooth had made. His heart caught as he realized she was growing up so fast.

--

“Monday’s really are the worst.” June laughed. She had her mom on the phone, connected through Bluetooth. “I’m just leaving the school now!”

“I just don’t see why you’re having to set these meetings up now. The kids have hardly been in school for a couple of weeks.” June sighed as she merged on the highway to head home.

“I know, it's just something my district does. The hard part is wrangling parents.”

“Well, if you had any children, you’d know how much they require of you.” June rolled her eyes and exhaled through her nose. Her mom was always quick to bring up her lack of a partner and children. Not that June didn’t want those things, they just haven't panned out for her yet.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m sure you’re right.” She acquiesced, knowing the argument wasn’t worth the effort.

“Have you met anyone? You’re only getting older, you know.”

“Thanks Mom. Uh, I have a date tomorrow night, actually.”

“Well, what’s his name, do I know him? What does he do for work?” June rolled her eyes, and wondered why she had answered the call.

“I don’t know anything about him. It’s a blind date.”

“Not even a name?” June bit her lip, debating telling her Mom the nickname.

“He’s ex-Army, goes by Fish. That’s all I know. Oh, and he’s single. A new teacher sat it up for me.” June explained, hoping her Mom wouldn’t have much to say.

“Fish? Oh, wow. Terrence really messed you up, huh.”

“I’m getting a call from a parent, I’ll talk to you later.” June lied, ending the call. Terrence had really messed her up. Not that that was of any importance to her dating life, or this blind date’s name. She sighed hard as she pulled into her driveway.

“Monday’s really are the worst.” She told the empty space of her car. She grabbed her bag and hurried inside. It had been a long day, and she was ready to polish off her bottle of wine from the night before. She walked in and let her bag drop to the floor, and crossed to the staircase. She groaned as she climbed the stairs. She was exhausted and still had a ton left to do.

June stripped quickly and threw on her yard work clothes. She stopped by the kitchen and poured some wine into a cup with a lid, before making her way outside. The day before she had started a small garden, and she was determined to make something grow out of it. She had no idea what she was doing, though. The wine wasn’t really helping either.

She had been short with a few parents while she was tending the fragile plants. It was a little late in the season to try and start anything, but she had picked up some discount plants that she wanted to help limp along for a little longer. She hoped she hadn’t put any of the parents off, and tried to remember who all had called.

June wiped her forehead with her gloved hand and tried to sort them out. Steven’s mom, Cynthia, was meeting her during lunch. That would be short, thankfully. Steven was a good kid, quiet. Graham and Ginger’s grandma was coming Wednesday afternoon, the parents were out of the country for something. Mia’s dad was going to call during the planning period. Ashley’s mom was coming Tuesday afternoon. And Olivia’s dad was coming Tuesday morning. June felt her shoulders sag, and she drained her wine. That wasn’t even half of the parents left.

She gave up on the garden and stalked inside. She wanted to scare up something for dinner, but didn’t really feel like making anything. She gave in and called the local Indian place. They knew her order, and said they’d be there soon. She grimaced, wondering how much money she had spent on Vindaloo over the years, and decided not to think about it. She had enough time to slip in the shower to wash the sweat off, before the delivery guy knocked on her door. She tipped him generously, and sat down on the couch.

June clicked the tv on and scrolled through her watch list. She settled on some mind-numbing detective show, and ate half of the curry. She put the rest away, and grabbed her bag by the door. The bag was a mess, but she managed to find her red pen and the papers that needed grading, and she settled back in.

Soon, the mindless task paired with a full stomach and the wine had her falling into a deep sleep.

--

Frankie was pissed. He was giving up the best time of the day for harvesting to meet with Liv’s teacher, and Ms. Collins couldn’t be bothered to show up. His thoughts went back to the phone call the day before, and he gritted his teeth as he realized she had put him off twice. Over something she had wanted to set up. He’d gotten the bundles of paper she had sent home on it. Yet, here he was, and she was nowhere to be found. He pulled his phone out, and considered punching in her number, but stopped himself.

Frankie had to exhale deeply four times before he could lay his phone down. He had gotten here a little early, and it was just now 7 am, and he didn’t have a set schedule. Liv was with Ashley, Becka had insisted on taking them to drop off so he could have plenty of time with Ms. Collins. Not that it mattered now, he thought, dryly. At ten past, he pulled his phone back out, and brought her name up. He was angry again, and had every intention of calling. But before he could press her name, the door swung open, and his heart dropped.

~~

June woke with a start. The birds were singing outside, the light was all wrong, and she was on the couch. Shit, she thought, jumping up. Shit, shit, shit. She had overslept. She hurried up the stairs and threw on something presentable, and didn’t even check herself in the mirror. She could do her makeup in the class. She grabbed up the half graded papers and shoved them in her bag, and ran out the door. She dumped everything in the passenger seat and drove much faster than usual. She was about halfway to the school when she realized she was meeting a student’s parent this morning. She hadn’t had any coffee, and her brain was starting to slow down from the adrenaline of being late, and she could not remember who she was meeting. She parked, and popped her vanity mirror down and grimaced. She looked like she was having a bad morning. She decided to throw her hair up in a messy bun, and grabbed the mess up from her passenger seat.

She basically ran into the building, her flats ricocheting sound off the concrete walls. She swung her door open, apologies already falling from her lips, when she looked at the parent. The apologies died on her lips, and her mouth fell open.

“You?” She asked, dumbly. “Frankie?” He looked like he had seen a ghost, a bitchy ghost, she grimaced.

“You?” He stood now, and started to move to her.

“Uhm, you can’t be here. I’m meeting a student’s parent, and how’d you even know where to find me?” She started rambling, but when the words were out she realized how stupid they were. “Oh my god, you’re the parent?” She barked out a laugh, and dumped her bag on her desk. He grinned, and wiped the back of his neck.

“Liv’s dad. I’m Frankie Morales.” He told her, faltering from shaking her hand.

“Perfect. I’m Juniper Collins, you can call me June, or Ms. Collins, whatever you prefer. I’m sorry I’m late, I...I started a garden yesterday and wore myself out. That’s what I was doing when we spoke on the phone,” She told him, laughing. June had only tried gardening because she wanted a common foot with him. She didn’t want to tell him that yet, though. “Anyway, let’s get to Liv. Liv is a great girl, Mr. Morales.”

“Frankie.” He interrupted, with a small smile.

“Okay, Frankie. Look, Liv is great, she really is. She struggles in class sometimes, though. She is smart as hell, but she seems to struggle. I wanted to give you some information about ADD or ADHD. It presents differently in girls, and is often overlooked. I haven’t known her long, obviously, but I actually was diagnosed much later in life, and I remember doing some of the things she’s doing. Would you be interested in some info on that?” June asked carefully, their relationship was rocky and weird, and she didn’t want to overstep. This was her job, though. It was a little bit not her job, actually. But she always wanted to look out for her girls, especially when they were as smart and incredible as Liv.

“Oh, wow. I had no idea she was struggling.” Frankie muttered, and removed his cap. June sucked in a sharp breath at his light brown, bouncy curls as they spilled out. He was beautiful. She distracted herself by moving behind her desk and grabbing a folder she had laid out for Liv, for this exact reason, and she thanked her past self for being put together. Then she went and sat beside him at the small activity table. She felt comical sitting next to him in the small chairs, he was spilling over his own. She laid down the folder and put a hand on his arm.

“Look, it isn’t a struggle that she notices yet. It’s her recall, her attention span, and her ability to focus. That sounds like a lot, I know, but there’s a simple test, and there are effective alternatives to stimulants. I’m on one, and it really helped me. Life is only going to get harder for her, if she has it and it remains untreated, but she has no idea. She isn’t “different” yet, and she’s doing so, so well in class. She is a model student. I just want to help, that’s all.” She watched his face as she spoke, and by the end, he seemed defeated.

“I should have noticed. I’m her dad. I...I’ve been worried I’m not around enough, and now you drop this on me.” He laughed dryly. She patted his arm.

“Liv talks about you all the time. She loves you, Frankie. She tells us all the time about her pilot dad.” June said it before she had time to think, before she connected “Liv’s Dad” with Frankie, the man before her. And then, her big mouth spit out something she wanted to take back immediately. “But you’re a farmer, right?” He looked up into her eyes, and his face was hard.

“Anything else you wanted to tell me about Liv?” His words were right, but the tone was too harsh. June flinched back from him, and dropped her gaze from his suddenly hard face.

“Liv is a great girl. She’s great to have in class. I have nothing else for you.” June told him monotonically, going on autopilot so as not to cry. She had spent the whole weekend thinking about him, then she had planted a stupid garden to have more in common with him, and then fate brought them back together, and she screwed it up again. She decided it was done, then. Frankie Morales was not in the cards for her. Sure, she might see him again because she taught his daughter, but she was through thinking of him like that.

“Good. I have to get going, next time try to be on time.” He scolded, as he stood abruptly and left without another word. Slowly, June followed and shut the door behind him. Alone, at last, she started crying.

~~~

“Idiot. You fucking idiot.” Frankie berated himself in his truck. He couldn’t believe it when she swept into the room. He had found her. Not her, he thought with a grimace, Juniper. The name felt so appropriate. It was an old name, but it suited her so perfectly. He exhaled roughly and tried to rewrite the scene. She was looking out for Liv. She wanted Liv to be happy and succeed. This woman cared more about his daughter than Liv’s own mother. And as soon as she tried to get to know him, he bit her head off and made her feel bad for being late. Jesus, what a dick. He had found her, and in a single moment, he had managed to ruin it again.

He put the truck in drive and headed home. Nothing left to do here, he thought bitterly. He was pulling up the driveway when he remembered that she had started a garden. It wasn’t a coincidence, he realized. She had started a garden because of him. He parked the truck and laid his head against the steering wheel. He had pushed her away at every turn. The market, the bar, and now at the school. He had seen her face before he left, and knew it was done. He had pushed too far, too fast. Of course, she would want nothing more to do with him. He had done nothing but treat her like shit.

He got out of the truck and threw his hat. It didn’t do much except get his cap dirty, but it was all he could do. He pulled his phone out, and pulled her name up. He typed a long message, and erased it. Then he tried again, and erased it again. His pride was getting in the way. He couldn’t tell her about his piloting years. The army, spec ops, Colombia, the coke, or any of it. She could just hate him, and then he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

~~~~

June paced up and down her classroom. Her face was puffy, still, and she had been struggling to focus all day. She couldn’t meet anyone new for dinner; she wasn’t in the right headspace for a date. Let alone one where she would have to leave a lasting impression. She chewed her thumb nail before heading down the hall.

Samantha's classroom was pretty close to her own, and June was glad for it. If she had had to walk further she would have lost her nerve. June knocked tentatively on the door, before pulling it open. Samantha looked up and grinned.

"Hey girl! Are you excited for your big date tonight?" June’s own smile fell from her face.

"Actually, that's why I'm here. I want to cancel." Samantha's smile pulled down quickly.

"Why?"

"I'm having kind of a bad day for impressions," June told her flatly.

"Well, I couldn't if I wanted to. Santiago is out of town, no reception. I don't have the friend's number." June groaned.

"Okay, alright. Ugh, probably for the best. Do you know anything else about him? I’ve had kind of a rough day. You said, ex-military right?”

“Yeah, Santi doesn’t really talk about that time, and I haven’t pushed it. I met him a while back, Fish. He’s sweet. I think he’ll be your type. You like tan brunettes?” June nodded, laughing and thinking about Frankie Morales again.

“He’ll be perfect. Doesn’t say much and likes beer, that’s all I know.” Samantha gave a small shrug.

“Alright, thanks. I’ll let you finish eating.” June said, excusing herself.

She left feeling defeated. A parent was going to be late this afternoon, she had gotten the email after the Frankie disaster. Which meant that she was going to be late to dinner. She wasn't killing it in the men department so she hoped that despite a military background he wouldn't mind her tardiness. She couldn't handle another horrible scene like the one from this morning.

The rest of the day was uneventful, which she was glad for. Her nerves were on the edge. She tried to ignore how much Liv favored her dad, and how she loudly told the class about their upcoming camping trip. She found herself listening intently, despite herself. And even chuckled at the girl’s memories of the last trip. June’s mood improved with the day, too. She even played a little music in the background while the kids worked on their worksheets.

By the time she had hauled herself into her car, the last thing she wanted to do was go to dinner. But she swiped on her favorite lipstick and drove to the restaurant. If she broke the speed limit, she would only be about five minutes late, and she pushed it. She wanted to drink some wine, and forget about Frankie Morales. Another tan brunette in her life would do her good, she thought happily. She was tired, but she wanted to make the most of it.

---

Frankie was looking back and forth between the menu and his watch. He couldn't believe that another woman was about to be late on him. He was trying hard to get June out of his mind, and his blind date wasn't making it easy on him. He chuckled when he realized what he was doing. Just meeting a total stranger for dinner. He didn't have much choice in the matter, he thought, remembering how Pope had basically told him where and when, without asking if Frankie was even interested.

She had good taste, he conceded. This was his favorite spot. They made amazing, fresh pasta. He was eyeing the cocktail menu, when she rushed in. He couldn't believe he was running into her again.

It was June, because of course it was. She was flushed, probably late again, he huffed, but she had put on a bright red lipstick that made his heart stutter. He lowered his gaze back to the menu. He hoped she wouldn't see him out on a date, even if he saw her. The hope was short lived because she made her way to him, her eyes glinting with an emotion he couldn't place, and she exhaled deeply.

"Let me guess, your call sign is Fish, right?" His eyes snapped to hers and she laughed while nodding. It was her. He had found her again. The waiter walked over and she told him to bring a bottle of red, and a beer for him. He told the waiter his brand, and raked his eyes over her.

"Sorry I'm late, I had a crazy day." She mused once she had taken two deep sips of her wine.

"Yeah? What is it you do?" He asked, hoping beyond hope that this was their start over. Their fourth, or so, start over.

"Teacher. Yeah, I teach. Most days it's easy, but some days there are parents." She told him, her cheeks flushed.

"Hopefully, no jerks?" He asked, quickly taking a sip of his beer. She held her head to the side before she sighed.

"I don't know what's going on here, Frankie. It's kind of exhausting. I think you're pretty handsome, you grow amazing food, you have a beautiful daughter, but I think we just keep messing up. How about, just for now, we enjoy this meal and the company, and tomorrow we can talk about what it means that we can't keep away from each other?" He searched her eyes. She was tired, he could tell, but she was so sincere. He wanted desperately to know why she sat down instead of just leaving. He wanted to know why they were seemingly so connected. He wanted to know if he'd been on her mind too.

"I'm thinking the carbonara." He answered, and she smiled before looking the menu over herself. The rest could wait. He had found her again.”

[phykios]

honesty and promise me, part 4 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

 July twelfth dawns like any other day, Annabeth wrapped up in Percy’s sheets. She’s spent significantly more nights in his bed than she’s spent in her own apartment over the last two months, but who could blame her? This bed is literally to die for. Therapeutic mattress for the fucking win.

 Percy, to her greatest confusion and chagrin, is a morning person. Well, actually, what he is is someone who runs on very little sleep for three weeks at a time, before crashing headfirst into his bed for thirteen hours. It is a decidedly unhealthy way to live, but it means that Annabeth is used to waking up alone. The nights where she gets to wake up with Percy are the nicer ones, sure, but his presence is suffused in every corner of the room, his smell wafting from every piece of sweaty clothing tossed haphazardly about the floor, so much so that she never feels like she is truly waking up alone.

 Gross? A little. But the smell is oddly sexy, too, especially after he’s just come home from a run, all wet and glistening and flushed, panting hard--

 Ahem.

 The point is, when Annabeth rolls out of bed in one of Percy’s shirts (the one that says “Do You Even Lift, Bro?” with an image of a male dancer raising his partner, courtesy of one Jason Grace) and stumbles into the kitchen for one of Percy’s patented brunch specials, it’s a pretty normal morning. What catches her off guard is the spread: eggs and bacon, obviously, with fruit and granola and yogurt, but also an enormous tray of delicious, flaky croissants, perfectly crescent shaped, with little bowls of every condiment imaginable, multiple flavors of jams and preserves and Nutellas.

 “Bounjour, mademoiselle!” Percy says cheerfully from the oven, perfectly accented, bending over to take out a tray. “Ça va bien?”

 “Um… bonjour…” She pokes a croissant experimentally, and is equally delighted and dismayed to find that it is just as flaky as advertised.

 “Take a seat, these ones just need to cool for a bit and then we can get started.”

 Spring in his step, he opens the refrigerator, taking out the most beautiful cake Annabeth has ever seen in her entire life. Perfectly round, paper white, with little blue borders piped around the edge, but it’s got Annabeth feeling like she’s just been doused in cold water. “How the hell did you know it was my birthday?”

 Immediately, she knows it was the exact wrong thing to say. His eyes go wide as the saucers on the table, mouth open in shock. “It’s your birthday?”

 Goddammit. “Um.”

 “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 Because birthdays were inherently a dumb concept? Because her father had to be reminded of her birthday more often than not? Because her mother had stopped sending her birthday cards after she turned thirteen, calling them a waste of money and resources? “I don’t know,” she shrugs, dipping her finger into the strawberry jam. “I guess I just didn’t think it was a big deal. Ooh, does this have rosemary in it?”

 “Annabeeeeth,” he whines, plopping the cake onto the kitchen island. “I can’t believe you! I love birthdays.”

 “Well,” she flounders, attempting to duck his sudden attention, “what were you originally celebrating? I don’t usually think of cake as a brunch option.”

 He raises an eyebrow, not at all impressed with her attempts to change the topic, but he answers dutifully, “Originally, we were celebrating me being one month cig-free--”

 “Percy!” Annabeth gasps, clapping her hands delightedly, and a little exaggeratedly. “That’s great!”

 “But,” he continues, “now we’re definitely celebrating your birthday instead.”

 “Oh, come on!”

 “Nuh uh,” he chides, grabbing his phone and beginning to type something, “I am asking Nico to pick you up a birthday card as we speak.”

 Oh. “Nico’s coming?”

 “Well, this is his apartment. Part of the deal is that I make him breakfast. I think he’s bringing his boyfriend.”

 “Is… anyone else coming?”

 “Just a couple of people, my friends Frank, Grover, Rachel… I invited Hazel and Thalia, too, but I think Hazel told me she was busy, and you know Thalia. If it’s not at a crappy dive bar then the odds of her showing up are virtually none.” Percy pauses in his text, fixing her with an odd look. “You really don’t want anyone to know, do you?”

 How easily he reads her is a little disconcerting, and also a thought that she just can’t handle right now. “I just don’t like people making a big deal out of it. You know, it’s just another day. I’d much rather celebrate you quitting.”

 He holds her gaze for a beat, before smiling, finishing typing out whatever he was doing on his phone. “Yes, I am officially quitting. Cigarettes are terrible for you, and I do not have the money to keep up the habit. So, I swear,” he holds up a hand, “No cigarettes, no weed, no vaping. Not that I ever vaped before.”

 “Oh, never?” Annabeth teases.

 “Not ever.” He leans in, grinning that devastating grin that is seriously detrimental to her health. “You could not pay me enough.”

 “Good.” She goes to meet him, pressing her mouth to his, sweetly and chastely, but swiftly turning deeper, almost against their higher brain functions, like they only exist to be here in this moment, lips against lips, tongue and tongue. She’s always hated the taste of cigarettes, she prefers edibles to blunts, and anyone who vapes is automatically dropped from her list of potential partners… but she’s never minded the taste of ash on Percy’s tongue. It was just another part of him, another facet of the whole sexy package.

 Now, though, she has the full taste of him, unfettered and unfiltered, his morning coffee and his morning breath. It is disgusting, but again, oddly thrilling. This is Percy, stripped down and divested of all the trappings of blue lipstick and tight pants. She wonders what he thinks when he sees her like this, messy haired, face and ears empty of metal, last night’s mascara smudged all around her eyes. Given the way that he deliberately threads her hair through his fingers, winding the frizzy curls around him, pulling her close enough that the pristine cake is in danger from some serious smushing, she thinks he likes it just as much.

 Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on which perspective, either Percy’s, Annabeth’s, Nico’s, or the cake’s, their little impromptu makeout session has cold water dumped on it before they can end up doing it on the kitchen island. The sound of someone unlocking the front door is almost comically loud, and they break apart, equally red and flushing.

 “Gross,” says Nico di Angelo. “No heterosexuality allowed in my kitchen.”

 “Take that back, you biphobic ass,” Percy says. “I have never been heterosexual in my life.”

 “I’m not biphobic, I just don’t want to see you getting it on on my marble countertops.”

 “Speak for yourself,” chimes in Will, setting down a grocery bag right on the spot which would have been ground zero. “Hi, Annabeth.”

 “Hey, Will.”

 “Nice of you to join us today,” he says, as though he doesn’t see her here all the time.

 She offers her assistance in cooking or setting up, knowing full well that she will be firmly rebuffed--domestics are not her strong suit, by any stretch of the imagination--and is sent away with an iced coffee that Will has so thoughtfully bought for her instead of the birthday card she was dreading.

 Soon after, the party is in full swing.

 Well, she uses the term party loosely. It is fairly intimate, even with Nico’s enormous apartment making everything smaller. They have assembled an odd amalgamation of people: “You already know Nico,” Percy says, indicating the goth prince next to, “and Will,” his boyfriend, the perpetually cheery med student, next to, “and this is Frank,” a large, physically imposing man with a shy smile, next to, “Rachel,” a red-headed girl who looked like she just walked out of a paint shower, all making space for, “and my buddy Grover,” the guy in crutches who had immediately dropped into the single, out-of-decor, but extremely comfortable-looking loveseat Nico had placed nearest to the bathroom. All told, they look like the brochure for a community college who really, really wants to publicize how diverse their student body is, but with a kind of natural chemistry and camaraderie that those kids on that brochure could only dream of. “Everyone, this is Annabeth.”

 They greet her, each giving a limp wave.

 Then Percy leaves to attend to his brunch spread, but not before giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She can feel all eyes on them, hot and burning.

 Silence.

 “So,” Annabeth says, as awkward as a freshman in an orientation mixer. “What’s up?”

 “Your hair is amazing,” says Rachel.

 Hers is crusted with paint, a deep red that turns pink against the orange in the light, a close cousin to Annabeth’s, which is in dire need of a touchup, curls thrown in disarray by Percy’s grasping fingers. “Thanks, I--”

 “So how do you two know each other?”

 Annabeth blinks. “Friend of Thalia’s,” she says. “You?”

 “Used to do ballet together,” Rachel says, brusque, efficient. “Frank, too.”

 Frank waves again.

 A beat passes.

 Annabeth looks to Grover, who watches, bemused. “You, too, I take it?”

 Another second. Then he laughs, weird, but hearty, a joyful bleat. “Oh, sure,” he says. “I’m a regular Baryshnikov.”

 She can almost feel the room relaxing, heaving a sigh after holding its breath.

 “Are you with NYCB, too?” she turns to Frank, shoving her hands in her pockets, fingers curling around the fabric there.

 Shaking his head, he swallows his orange juice. “I mostly do modern and hip hop, now, music videos and stuff.”

 Objectively, she knows that you don’t have to be skinny as a rake or bodybuilding champion to dance, but Frank is neither of these, a huge, sweet-faced guy with a healthy layer of fat around his face and torso--a strict counterpart to Percy, who could give the Belvedere Apollo a run for its money. “Have I seen you in anything?” Not that she really watches music videos, but she figures it’s the polite thing to ask.

 “Um, maybe,” he shrugs, embarrassed. “I’ve been lucky enough to work with some really big people.” Though he offers no further details.

 “Working on anything cool?” She asks, doing her best not to cajole.

 He nods. “Percy and I have a thing coming out probably in the next month or so, with--ah, well. Can’t say.”

 “Tease,” Rachel grumbles, tossing back her mimosa. “I’ve been trying to get the secret out of him for months.”

 Frank smiles, secretive and a little smug. “Sorry. You’ll find out along with everyone else.”

 “Do you work together a lot?” Annabeth asks. She had thought that Percy was strictly ballet--though, she supposes dancers do crossover work more often these days, if only for the money.

 “Not as much as we used to, sadly,” he replies. “We actually lived together in Paris for a few years while he was contracted with the opera before I decided to come back home. Vancouver,” he adds at her unspoken question.

 “Bit of a hike, from Vancouver to New York,” says Grover.

 Frank shrugs. “I was in town anyway, and I haven’t seen Percy in about a year.”

 Annabeth frowns, doing some mental math. If Frank hadn’t seen him in two years, then that meant… that Percy had been alone in Paris all that time. The man thrives off of friendship and social interaction; no wonder he was jonesing to come back to America.

 “Remind me again how long you two were together?” Rachel asks, red hair bouncing as she cocks her head. A jolt goes down Annabeth’s spine, appraising Frank in an entirely new light.

 “On and off for about two years,” says Frank, thoughtful. “But I just lived with him to save money. The rent in Paris sucks.”

 “And you were the best roommate I ever had,” Percy says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Clean, good cook, better kisser--”

 Frank shoves him away.

 “You’ve only ever had one other roommate, other than Nico or your mom,” Grover points out. “That one guy when you first moved overseas--Frodo? Fedora?”

 “Fyodor,” Percy corrects. “He was terrible. I didn’t know any Russian, he didn’t know any English, and our French wasn’t good enough to actually hash it out, so he just gave me a permanent cold shoulder.”

 “Kind of a low bar, don’t you think?”

 “And there was my roommate in Boston.”

 Sharply, she turns her head. “You lived in Boston?”

 “Yeah, for like a year. I told you I was with Boston Ballet for a little bit, didn’t I?”

 Pretty sure he didn’t. She almost opens her mouth to retort, to ask when and compare notes, to mention that she lived in Boston, too, before remembering who she is with, swallowing her words.

 “Fyodor hated you,” Frank hums, reentering the circle. He’d wandered away and returned with a croissant, dipped in chocolate.

 “Trust, me, the feeling was mutual.”

 “It must have been,” Frank says, “because I saw your new apartment after he kicked you out--that place made a shoebox look luxurious.”

 Something in Percy’s face almost falls when Frank says that. Annabeth is sure there is a story there.

 But Rachel laughs. “Annabeth, you have no idea. It was a      Chambre de bonne    ,” she says, exaggerating the accent, “which might sound super fancy and French and cool, but trust me, it wasn’t at all. It was this size.” She slaps the kitchen island, a little too hard, her third mimosa making her loose-limbed and loud. “When I visited for Thanksgiving that year      I     had to pay for the heating bill, because Percy basically refused.”

 “It was cozy,” Percy mutters, suddenly very preoccupied with the half a croissant on his plate.

 “It was not.” Rachel says. “It was sad and cold and small.”

 Nico looks interested, but not nearly as boisterous as Rachel or Frank, “Was that the place…”

 “Ye,” Percy cuts him off, “Yes it was.” He smiles, Stepford-strained. “But, then Frank came to town, and so did his grandmother’s money.” He slaps Frank on the back. “And I got a bathtub.”

 “I still can’t believe that a ballet dancer lived anywhere for two years without a place to soak,” Frank says, shuddering.

 “I can’t believe you waited until Frank got to Paris to get yourself a sugar daddy,” Grover quips. Percy throws a grape at him. Grover, to her immense surprise, manages to catch it in his mouth.

 Annabeth can’t really be impressed. This is the second time someone has brought up Percy and Frank having a history. Something hot and angry curls in her stomach. But Percy is laughing.

 Rachel laughs too. “Oh, he didn’t wait,” she says. “He had a bevy of sugar mommies for trips to Ibiza and Moscow and Beijing.”

 “It was Tokyo,” Percy says, “and they weren’t my Sugar Mamas.” He turns to Annabeth, sheepish, but not actually shameful. “They weren’t. Honestly.”

 “Uh huh.”

 “They were mostly Kym’s friends, and sometimes we’d go out when they were in town, and if we had fun, they’d invite me wherever they were going next. And if I didn’t have to work, I’d go with.”

 “I have heard rumors,” Will says, popping his head in, Nico attached to his hip, “of Percy Jackson, boy toy of the rich and famous of Europe. Is it true?”

 “Yes,” Grover and Rachel say at once.

 “Do you want to hear about that, Will?” Percy asks, “Or would you rather hear about the summer Nico came to stay with me and Frank before he started college, and slept with every single dancer in Europe except Frank?”

 Nico waves him off. “Only because you were already sleeping with him, cause he was your sugar daddy. Not like I needed the money.”

 “It wasn’t like that.” Frank says.

 “And now that we’ve aired all of my dirty laundry,” says Percy, “I need to borrow Annabeth for a second.” Gently, but with force, he tugs her arm, his other hand around her waist, directing her where to go like she’s one of his dance partners. Usually, she minds--a lot. She’s not about to let anyone, let alone a man, tell her where to go--but, you know, it’s Percy. Alone time with him is never a bad thing.

 He pulls her into the hallway, shoving his hand into his pocket. “What’s up?” she asks.

 “So.” Mouth open, he pauses for a moment, just… looking at her. His eyes are soft, warm like the first day of spring.

 “What?”

 “Uh, nothing,” he shakes himself a little, pulling his hand out. “Sorry, I just--I know you said you didn’t want anyone making a big deal out of your birthday…”

 Oh, no. She braces herself for the worst.

 Uncurling his fingers, he reveals his present for her.

 “It’s… a pin?”

 “Yeah,” he smiles. “Remember when I took my sister to the Met a few weeks ago? They were having that thing on Egyptian jewelry? Well, of course we had to stop in the gift shop, and I saw this and just--you know, thought of you.”

 It is a pin--one of those lapel pins that more often than not are added to a collection usually displayed on a backpack. This pin is a silhouette she recognizes instantly: the Parthenon, its columns and angles rendered in sterling silver, little grooves dug into the metal in an approximation of the fluting.

 “Wow,” she breathes. “Thank you.”

 “It was nothing.” His ears are pink. “Happy birthday.”

 And then he hugs her.

 After a moment, she hugs him back.

 It’s amazing how she can have had sex with someone so many times, but feel so awkward giving them a hug.

 “I didn’t, um, tell anyone else,” he says, pulling back. His hands linger on her shoulders, thumb tapping at the base of her neck. “But, I kept meaning to give this to you, so, you know, now was as good a time as any, yeah?”

 “I love it,” she says, honestly. Which surprises her. “Thank you.”

 She slips it into her own pocket, not even minding the sharp corners.

 When they return, Nico has already cut into the cake. “You were taking too long,” he snips.

 It really is delicious. Much, much later, Percy sends her home with a sweet, soft kiss, and one of the last remaining slices, rather than staying for dinner.

 Percy is the kind of boy who goes to his mother’s for dinner every week. She had been invited, but also threatened with the promise of another cake, and his ten year old sister, who would “love to make you a present.”

 It sounded nice, but Annabeth knew when she wasn’t really wanted, and so she demurred, citing a need for some solo downtime.

 She hasn’t heard from Thalia in, like, four days, which meant she had probably gotten a short-term gig. (“You’re lucky, she’s had Jason paying for her phone the whole time you’ve known her. Before that, she was almost impossible to get ahold of.”) Piper would take her out to dinner tomorrow, “just because.” But they would both know it wasn’t true.

 So, to refresh and relax after a long, harrowing day of socializing, Annabeth goes home.

 Or at least to her apartment.

 It doesn’t have a doorman, or the views, or the room, like Nico’s place. Nor does it have any of the people, the energy, the joy. Her furniture doesn’t fill it up. The most appetizing thing in her kitchen are the granola bars Percy had made the week before, or maybe the brownies he made four days ago. She sets her to-go bag of cake and croissants down next to them, a smorgasboard of Percy’s culinary prowess.

 Despite the long hours, her clothes still smell a little like last night’s bar, and her skin has a faint patina of dried sex sweat, and smudged makeup.

 She doesn’t want to start leaving things at Percy’s place--don’t want him to get the wrong idea--but she also occasionally needs to be able to touch up her eyeliner. She’s either going to have to find a bag that isn’t embarrassing to carry, or surreptitiously shove some eyeliner and lipstick next to the condoms in Percy’s nightstand next time they have a sleepover. Or raid Nico’s bathroom.

 Regardless, she needs a wash something bad.

 As she scrubs down, she does her best to focus on the lemon scent of her body wash, and not Percy’s perfect form, dripping with water. She tries to visualize her last trip to Sephora, not blowing him under the hot water.

 It doesn’t really work, so she gets herself clean and gets herself off and considers just spending the rest of the day naked, in case the mood strikes her again. But it's only 5PM, and she doesn’t have Percy to cook her some dinner tonight, so she sucks it up and puts on some pants.

 When she had visited Boston for work a couple of months back, Alex had insisted on taking her shopping, complaining that her sister and her friend Mallory didn’t understand Versace quite like Annabeth did, and that Blitz sucked all the fun out of fashion, anyway. Then, she had bullied Annabeth into buying a set of sweats, claiming it was because of the Grecian patterns, but probably because she thought Annabeth in that much purple would be funny.

 But eventually, she had wheedled, cajoled, and threatened Annabeth into buying a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. After deciding to forgo a bra, because that is just one more area she has always fallen short in, she shoves on a School of Architecture underneath them. The crimson clashes terribly with the lavender and seafoam, but she kind of likes it. Piper would call it “artfully nauseating,” or something.

 Besides, no one is going to see her but her delivery guy. And if someone did see her, someone like Thalia or Percy, well, the clashing colors would be the least of her worries.

 She is folded into her couch, wedged into the corner, very much      not     looking up Paris Ballet clips from the past few years, trying to spot Percy in the background, when there is a knock on her door.

 Not for the first time, she curses her lack of doorman--and then frowns. Who even knows where she lives?

 Piper and Leo? Magnus and Alex?

 Has she already ordered food and just forgotten?

 Is memory loss a side effect of a SK-II mask no one had warned her about?

 Tentatively, she creeps towards the door, opening it slowly. If this were a horror movie, the door would creak open, revealing the villain cast in the shadows of the hallway, holding his weapon of choice.

 She sighs.

 The man is only a few inches taller than her, and dressed impeccably in a t-shirt and jeans that probably cost half a year of her rent-- a big critique coming from her, since she wears a month of her own rent as sweats. His blond hair is impeccably combed, his tennis shoes impeccably white, and his smile the most charming thing you can find this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

 “Happy birthday, girly,” he says, giving her an awkward, one-armed hug, trying to avoid getting any of her facemask on his shirt.

 “What are you doing here?”

 “It's your birthday,” he reminds her, holding up the bag. “I told you I’d stop by last week.”

 Had he? Maybe, and she’d just been too drunk or hung over to really process it. But maybe he’d also meant to, and then failed to follow through. Luke has a bit of a nasty habit of treating his intentions as the same as his actions. His intentions are good, usually, but it means that he often ignored the actual actions. Like how his intention was to support his mother in the best nursing home in the northeast, but his action was to work with Saturn, a very shady hedge fund, to facilitate it. Or how his intention was to have someone at a stuffy party to talk to, but his action was dressing up Annabeth as his arm candy because none of Piper’s models would call him back anymore. He hasn’t asked her to do that since, like, February though, thankfully.

 “Sorry,” Annabeth says. “I just… you know I don’t like my birthday.”

 He also has a bit of a habit of ignoring her distaste in a really blatant way.

 He’s a little like Percy that way, actually.

 She’d only ever told Luke about her birthday back in those embarrassing freshman days, when she’d thought he looked as good on paper as any Harvard MBA student possibly could, with a devastating smile to match. She’d been so convinced that he would be the right boyfriend that might finally get her mother’s approval, and she figured that her future husband should know her birthday.

 “Come in,” she says, reaching for the bag, but he shakes his head and brushes past her, dumping his black back on the coffee table. Graciously, he doesn’t look at her as he starts to empty out its contents, giving her an opportunity to dart back to her bathroom and peel off her facemask. Luke would forgive designer sweats, but they aren't at the “just chilling in a facemask” level of a relationship.

 When she returns, there is a small assembly line arranged on her coffee table: a stack of paper plates, a carton of Haagen Daas, forks and spoons, and a Milk Bar cake, all wrapped in its box.

 “Is Milk Bar still the ‘it’ thing?” she asks. “With locations all over the country, I figured it would be passé by now.”

 “I know it’s your favorite,” Luke says. “I don’t always have to choose the most popular thing.”

 Milk Bar had been her favorite, that is true, right up until she’d started fucking Percy Jackson, and eating his food.

 “Thanks,” she says, cutting herself a slice, and scooping herself some ice cream.

 “That’s all you’re going to get?” he asks, cutting himself a sliver.

 “I have had so much cake today,” she says. Milk Bar really isn’t as good as Percy's, but it reminds her of birthdays in high school, waiting for her mother to visit, sneaking out when she inevitably didn’t, convincing the local bad boy to buy her some alcohol. She eats it, eagerly.

 Luke’s jaw drops. “You had a birthday cake? By choice? On your birthday?”

 She shakes her head, swallowing. “No, I was at a party with some friends. They didn’t even know it was my birthday,” Until she had stupidly revealed it. Whatever. She just has to make sure he’s been excised from her life by this time next year. And maybe freeze some of his baked goods beforehand.

 Luke doesn’t let her go through with her evening plans, which consisted basically of watching      Legally Blonde     for the gazillionth time while she slurped down some pierogies, but he capitulates to      Roman Holiday    , helping her put away the leftover cake and ice cream. “Thanks,” she says, when the movie was done. “I’m glad you came over. “

 No one ever comes over. Thalia is her best friend, but Thalia would have questions about how she could afford the place, Piper never understood why she’d moved out here at all, and Percy… Percy was irrelevant. There is no reason for him to come here.

 “I always like to see my best girl.” He smiles at her, charming and rogueish.

 “If all those models you keep trying to date know that your best girl is an architect who lives in Brooklyn who you actually feed, that’s probably why they don’t want to date you back.”

 Luke laughs, leaning over and knocking his shoulder against her own. “None of those girls could hold a candle to you.”

 “God, you must be a terrible boyfriend.”

 “Probably,” he agrees, sitting up and stretching, before reaching back to the bag he brought the cake in. “After all, you are the one I bring all the nice presents. But I think I’m a pretty good friend.”

 He takes out a box, burnt orange, a black ribbon wrapped around it, because Luke is nothing if not predictable.

 Annabeth sighs internally, quietly reminding herself that money is how Luke shows his love. And that she is wearing Versace sweats.

 “Herm  é  s,” she says, pulling off the ribbon. “This box looks too small for a Birkin.”

 “Do you want a Birkin?” he asks. “I can get you a Birkin.”

 “I probably don’t need a Birkin,” she admits. Though maybe it would be nice to have one in her closet, if her mom ever calls her up for lunch again. She could show up with a Birkin and an eyebrow ring. Sweet revenge.

 Luke waves a hand. “It doesn't matter if you need one, just if you want one.”

 Inside the box is a scarf, the silk soft and smooth between her fingers, a pleasing gradient of oranges and reds and pinks and corals. When she unfolds it, laying it out before her, she finds a sharp, geometric design, columns stacked together like skyscrapers. Luke obviously had her in mind when he picked it out.

 “Thanks,” she says. It’s pretty--perfect for an ambitious young architect with two degrees from Harvard who had moved to New York City with an offer from one of the best architecture firms in the world. And Annabeth has no idea where she could possibly want or need to wear it.

 “Hey,” Luke says, suddenly soft, “don’t cry.”

 Shocked, she reaches her hand up to her face. It’s wet.

 Luke is probably the only person she will let herself cry in front of. She’d spent three years doing that in college. He’d seen her through heartbreak and hangovers, guiding her through it all like an aloof big brother.

 “I’m okay,” she hiccups, wiping her nose.

 He hands her a napkin.

 Annabeth blows her nose, wet and gross. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m alright.”

 “You sure?” He sounds sincere, but she catches him glancing down at his wrist.

 “Do you have a date?”

 “I…” At least he has the decency to look sheepish. “Just some guys at work. You can come, if you want.”

 It could be fun. Hanging out with Luke can be fun. Get a little lit, take a business bro home, screw his brains out, send him on his way. But there’s an unspoken dress code to these things, and Annabeth just doesn’t wear Louboutins anymore. And the idea of fucking a business bro just… doesn’t hold any appeal right now.

 “No thanks,” she nods, using the clean edge of the napkin to wipe her eyes. “I am going to watch      The Search For Elle Woods    , and you're going to strike out with some models, and everyone is going to be happy.”

 “You really are so mean to me.” Luke complains, as she walks him to the door, before giving her another hug. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

 “I am.” She is different and new, but Luke is still her friend. She had survived. It would be okay.

 “Well, call me if you need something.” He kisses her cheek, sweetly, without any heat. Perfectly platonic. “I love you very much. Happy birthday.”

 “Thanks,” she says, “I’ll see you around.”

 “Always.” And he is gone.

 She folds the scarf, going to put it in the dresser in her room, shoving it among a handful of accessories, gathering dust. She realizes, with a start, that she’s left a week’s worth of clothes all over her room on the way to the shower, and, with a sigh of adulthood, and the knowledge that if she doesn’t follow the ADHD gods and pick them up now, they’ll be there for weeks, languishing on her floor and stinking up the place, she goes to at least move them into her hamper. She rifles through ripped jeans and band t-shirts and black socks as she goes, checking each for anything like discarded change or a bus pass she doesn’t want to wash.

 She shakes out the pants she’d worn out the night before, and therefore the entire day until she’d gotten home. There is a rather unfortunate stain on the knee that she can’t quite parse--ketchup? Chocolate?

 Then she reaches into the pockets, touching metal, and she suddenly remembers her other birthday present for the day.

 Pulling out the pin, she feels strange, hot in the face, funny in the belly, tossing the jeans haphazardly in with the dirty laundry. It's small and shiny, cheap metal for mass market production, and yet, she walks it over to the dresser, laying it down on the silk scarf like it's the diamond broach her aunt gave her for her sixteenth birthday.

 She really is beyond Hermès scarves now. But that pin? Well, you never really can get more Annabeth--the middle school know-it-all, teenage debutante, college perfectionist, New York yuppy, or barfly and punk princess--than one of the greatest architectural achievements in human history.

 She is still a little shocked by how much she loves it. How much it means to her that Percy saw that it was perfect for her.

 And like so many times when she is confronted with an emotion she doesn’t like, she slams the door closed, and goes and watches a favorite movie from high school.

 She does order dinner, eventually, setting out her meal in between texting Piper about brunch tomorrow. It's a whole thing, pretending that they’re not going out for her birthday, but eventually they agree on a time and a place, and she can eat her sausage and watch everyone practice the Bend and Snap in peace.  

 So she is very annoyed when her phone buzzes again.

 Maybe the reservation fell through. Or maybe she doesn’t want Annabeth to show up in ripped fishnets, even though that only happened once.

 Her stomach sinks when she checks her phone. It isn’t Piper.

Hello Dear, Happy Birthday. We miss you. Please call anytime. Love Dad, Mary, and the boys.  

 Below the text is a link, leading to a gift certificate for $200 to Sephora, which has Mary’s name written all over it. Aunt Natalie would have suggested Bergdorf Goodman.

 Her hand clenches, momentarily overcome with the urge to hurl her phone against the wall. But there is no one around, so there wouldn’t be any point to it.

 She stabs at a pierogi with a chopstick, and watches the girls dance on screen, humming along.

 She passes out on the couch after midnight.

 Her mother never called.

[klove0511]

Titans Remembered

Title: Titans Remembered  Artist: Midnight Silver  Author: Klove0511 Rating: T Warnings/Spoilers: Brief, non-graphic attempted bestiality; referenced animal sacrifice, hurt Dean Summary: Following a string of missing people and livestock mutilations, Sam and Dean stumble on a case where the monster has a personal beef with them. When Dean gets himself in trouble trying to do everything himself, Sam must come to the rescue and remind him that they're better as a team.

A/N: Written for the 2020 Wincest Reverse Bang, and inspired by the wonderful art of Midnight Silver Go check out the art post and give them some love!

Art: Tumblr  Story: on Ao3

Dean glanced at the clock for the fifth time in two minutes. He was bored, and he wished he'd pushed harder to go with Sam to interview the witnesses. Their interview styles complemented each other, and sometimes that got them more information than they would get alone. Besides, it got him out of research. He sighed and clicked open a new browser window. Something wasn't sitting right about this case, but he couldn’t figure out what. He’d learned to trust his instincts, though. He mentally reviewed what they knew from the news articles that had brought them here and away from their research on the Darkness. Four missing people in the last two weeks, with multiple more over the last three years, unrelated and having nothing obvious in common. A rash of livestock mutilations in the same time period that included a wide variety of animals from the usual cows to pigs and sheep. Their working theory was a demon, but Dean's gut said they were on the wrong track there. There weren't enough other demonic omens, and while cattle mutilations were a common sign, other types of livestock were usually left alone. It was possible that the animals were unconnected, but he doubted it. Rubbing his hands down his face, he groaned and mentally ran through the list of monsters they knew about. No bodies, no full moon and no missing hearts said it probably wasn't a werewolf. No reports of seeing double or people suddenly acting weird, so not a shifter. No throats torn open, not a vamp. Just missing people and dead animals.

He clenched his jaw and bounced his knee in frustration. The information he had to work with was too vague. Lots of things took people. Ghosts—not likely because as far as they could tell the victims hadn’t gone to a common location, demons—still possible, though Dean thought it unlikely, and even just...people. He hoped it wasn't people. Remembering finding Sam locked up in a cage was a bad memory he had no desire to relive any time soon. In any case, the missing people were an angle that he felt wasn't going to give him any leads in the motel room since they’d already scoured the police reports for useful information. Maybe Sam would turn something up in his interviews. Instead, Dean turned his attention to the animals. He flipped through photos of the dead livestock and shuddered. He may not be a fan of animals in general, but nothing deserved to die like that. Nothing obvious in the photos to point to a bad guy though. Next he ran through the police reports. Huh. No farmers had reported missing animals. That was interesting, and he was surprised Sam hadn't mentioned it when he'd been selling Dean on the case.

They had been all found out in the woods, by hikers. But, if no livestock had gone missing, then where did the animals come from? What the hell were a couple pigs and a sheep doing in the forest? Twenty minutes of digging later, and he had a sick feeling that he knew what had happened to the missing people. He always hated learning they were too late to save the victims; it was the only possible upside to missing persons cases, the hope that maybe they weren't too late for a rescue. At least they could end whatever did this and prevent anyone else from being first transformed and then eviscerated.

He ran through the list of monsters again. The numbers of things that could shapeshift themselves was disappointingly large, but the number of things that could transform others was a lot smaller. Witches, if they were powerful enough, though they weren’t seeing any other signs of witchcraft. Possibly some varieties of Fae, but the lore was pretty sketchy on them. And finally, gods. Mythologies were rife with gods that turned people into anything from a spider to a flower, and Dean was pretty sure he was still just in the Greek pantheon. The question was: which god? And, maybe more importantly, why these people? What earned them a spot on the sacrificial altar? If he could answer that, then he might have a leg up in figuring out which god was behind this.

Two hours later, Dean rubbed at his tired eyes. He really hated research. But he had an answer. A horrible, no good, very bad answer. Sam was in danger. They both were.

Sam loosened his tie and wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. It was humid and uncomfortably warm for an early April day, even this far south. He thought of Dean in the motel air conditioning, probably day drinking and enjoying the Magic Fingers instead of actually researching, and he had to fight an unjustified flare of resentment. It had been Sam's idea to split up, and he'd been the one to offer to go out in the heat and interview people. Sure, he'd expected Dean to fight him on it—either to go together or to switch and get himself out of research duties—but he hadn't, and Sam was stuck with a miserable job. He was wearing his Fed suit, and the cheap material didn't breathe at all, trapping body heat and sweat alike, which combined with the heat and humidity left the suit drenched, hanging heavy on his tall frame. He longed for a shower, and he didn't even care that Dean would try to join him. The heat always made Dean horny, and if it got Sam out of his suit sooner rather than later, then he was on board no matter how gross he felt.

Besides, unless Dean had gotten a lead there wasn't much else they could do today. Tomorrow they'd hit up the morgue and local farmers, follow the animal angle and see if it led anywhere. The families of the victims had been frustratingly unhelpful. Everyone had been perfectly polite and happy to talk, but no one had said anything that seemed remotely useful, just things like Jeremy loved to go rock climbing, or Rebecca had been spending a lot of time at the gym lately. Boring trivia about their lives that probably wasn’t relevant. Not that he hadn't paid attention, because the stupid trivia had a nasty habit of becoming relevant as soon as you stopped paying attention to it. Still, he wasn’t seeing a common thread among the victims yet, which meant they were stuck on this angle.

Sam was hit with a wave of heat as he opened the Impala’s door. The car was sweltering, and Sam winced as he tried touching the steering wheel. It burned, and he grit his teeth before turning on the car and driving back to the motel, hoping he’d manage to not drown in his own sweat before he got there.

He blamed the truly excessive heat for the fact that he didn't immediately notice something was wrong when he opened the door. Instead, he tossed the keys on the small kitchenette counter and shrugged off his suitcoat, slinging it over the back of a chair. He noticed Dean wasn't on the laptop but that there were enough notes and general chaos to indicate he'd actually been working. Sam assumed he'd stopped for a nap or a shower or a session with the Magic Fingers, and his gaze traveled to the bed, looking for Dean. He found a lion instead.

An actual, honest to God, much bigger than Sam, African male lion. Napping on the bed. Sam froze, wondering if he should go for his gun. Then he wondered how a lion had gotten into the locked motel room and what the hell had happened to Dean. He was debating his options for not getting eaten by an apex predator when the lion blinked awake, and Sam's heart jumped into his throat. Given their line of work, he was not a man easily scared, but seeing a big cat not ten feet away brought new meaning to the word intimidating. Except... the lion had startling, unnatural green eyes. Familiar eyes. In a flash of horror, everything clicked into place--the lion, Dean's apparent absence, the animal mutilations and missing people. He managed to keep the panic out of his voice when he breathed, "Dean?"

Dean watched his brother eyeing him warily. Sam was on the couch with his laptop, relaxed enough to have removed his tie in addition to the suitcoat, but the tension in his shoulders told Dean he was far from relaxed. It was fair, he supposed. Sam had no way to know if he really was Dean or if he was just a remarkably calm lion, and Dean had no way to tell him. In between guarded glances, Dean was pretty sure Sam was still researching the case, probably trying to retrace Dean’s search history to figure out where he would have had a run in with the monster of the week.

He watched his brother work from his place on the bed. He’d adapted well enough to walking with four legs, but in the small motel room his bulk was a hindrance. He wasn’t going to admit it, but he was missing a lot of the grace he’d learned to associate with cats. So, he stayed put. No need to let Sam see him faceplant off the side of the bed because he got tangled in the comforter. Again. That said, he was going to have to figure something out soon. The only reason he’d gone into the woods alone in the first place was so he could deal with the monster without putting Sam at risk. Now that he was a freaking lion, Sam was left to try to figure out the whole case on his own, definitely putting himself at risk. Dean’s plan had backfired, and what he really wanted to do now was load Sam into the car, turn tail, and run.  

It wasn’t something they did, abandoning cases. But Sam had just recovered from his near miss in Idaho, and they had just moved things between them to the next level. When Dean thought of those pictures of animal entrails, he felt sick imagining them belonging to Sam. So he was going to do his older brother duty and make sure they got their asses out of here before they both got killed.

Maybe he could distract Sam into forgetting about the research. It would be a temporary fix, but it could buy him some time. And Sam did look pretty hot in his Fed suit, with just the top few buttons left open. There was a trickle of sweat that had made its home in the hollow of his throat, and Dean decided that he really didn’t care if he was a lion or not. He was going to go for it.

Getting up and very carefully hopping off the bed, he crossed the short distance to Sam, not caring that he knocked over a lamp in the process (seriously, just how long was his damn tail anyway?) He nosed at the laptop briefly before pressing his huge paw in and shutting the damn thing. Not wanting to crush Sam, he moved the paw to the side, steadying himself against the couch as he leaned in, roughly licking up the sweat from Sam’s neck.

Sam didn’t react at all until Dean started nuzzling significantly lower, at which point he squawked indignantly and shoved Dean’s nose away from his pants. “What the hell, dude?” he yelled, using the laptop as a shield. “For a second, I thought you were going to eat me.”

Dean gave Sam his best leer, trying to communicate silently that “eating” had definitely been part of the plan. It must have worked because Sam responded with disgusted outrage.

“At least I know it’s really you,” Sam said.

Sam frowned at his brother, then at the closed laptop. He didn't understand how Dean could behave this way. Well, no, he did. It was Dean. But still. Sam was trying to help, to turn him back before he got killed or before he couldn't BE turned back. That was the last thing he'd managed to read before Dean had closed the laptop and decided that he wanted to give inter-species sex a try. Shape shifting spells almost always had a time limit, and they were never long. And at the end of the time limit, your carriage didn't turn back into a pumpkin. He needed information. What had turned Dean? What the hell were they hunting? And how long did he have before he needed to consider whether or not he had any latent furry kinks he wasn't aware of? Because not being with Dean wasn't really an option. He needed to fix this, soon.

The internet history had been confusing at best. Mythologies and animal mutilations, which told Sam that Dean clearly thought they were dealing with a god of some sort. But the websites had been across a dozen pantheons, and he hadn't spotted any that contained a god that liked to kidnap people. All of them liked animal sacrifices, so that was equally unhelpful. Then again, he was still working from the theory that the people had been taken, and the animals had been sacrificed, and it was all separate but related. His eyes landed on his brother, in all his lion glory, and Sam knew exactly what Dean had been looking for.

The problem was that there were still dozens of possibilities. He scanned the reports of the animal killings again. Their throats had been slit, and the entrails removed and scattered. Ritualistic sacrifice. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before. Then he reviewed the missing persons reports and his own notes. There had to be something here that linked everyone, that pointed him to the deity behind this. If he cross-referenced missing people and animal mutilations over the last three years, they had almost a dozen victims, more or less evenly split by gender. Age wise they clustered in their 20s and 30s, and the ones he’d gotten information on today were all fairly active. His notes indicated at least two had enjoyed hiking. So, possibly they had all gone hiking in the woods where the animals had been found, encountered this pagan god, and then been transformed and killed.

He yelped when Dean nuzzled his feet. The lion just blinked innocently at him, but he knew better. Dean was being distracting on purpose, and he knew Sam had ticklish feet. "Why are you like this?" he asked, frustration coloring his voice. He loved Dean, but sometimes the pull of being an annoying older brother seemed to overshadow everything else, and the new dynamic to their relationship hadn’t helped. "You do realize you could be stuck like this. Forever."

An impassive stare met him.

Sam sighed. "I'm trying to save you. Save civilians. Just because you're out of commission for research at the moment doesn't mean this monster is going to stop, and it's our case. It's our job to stop it. I know you know that. So, what the hell? Why are trying to keep me from working this?"

Nothing, of course. Sam wasn't sure what he was expecting, because obviously Dean couldn't answer him. He'd just hoped for...something. Any sort of reaction. Maybe it was time to make an alphabet out of pieces of paper and see if Dean could still read.

He shook his head. "I'm going to work this case, and I'm going to figure out how to change you back. And you can be as distracting as you want, but it's not going to change my mind." He picked at his fingernails. "I realize you're probably just worried that I'm going to get transformed too and then we'll both get killed. But give me some credit. We've faced off with a lot of scary things before, and we're still here."

Dean was torn between rolling his eyes and giving in to the urge to whip out sad kitten eyes and see how they affected Sam. That speech had been so sappy. So Sam. His stubbornness was going to get them both killed someday. He huffed a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes, probably a beat too late to seem natural. Sam knew they were hunting a god, but he hadn't figured out they were hunting a god with a personal vendetta against them. Dean had only suspected when he'd gone into the woods, but his first meeting with her had proven him unfortunately right.

Dean consulted his map and drew his gun. He had to be getting close to the first site where the animals had been found. It had been months ago, so he didn't expect there to be any evidence remaining, but at least he knew it was a hunting site for their monster. His prime suspect was Hera. She had a hard-on for turning people into animals, and she was known for being particularly nasty when she was mad. And Dean suspected that she'd been mad ever since Zeus had died two years ago, which lined up well with when the killings had started. It was admittedly thin evidence, but they'd gone into hunts with less.

He heard a stick break to his left, and he froze, eyes searching for movement in the trees. Everything was quiet and still, eerie in its silence. Like the world was holding its breath. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he knew he was screwed.

"Dear Hunter. You will make such a tasty meal," a woman's voice breathed into his ear. She sounded amused, pleased to have found him.

"Don't do this," he said, pitching his voice low and threatening to cover the fear eating at his guts.

"But why not, little Hunter? You and yours killed my husband. I will enjoy making you pay. Your goddess cannot protect you from my wrath."

He laughed with false bravado. "Do you even know who I am?"

She laughed in turn, a light, lilting sound. "Of course I do, Dean Winchester. And I know you killed my husband." The lightness of her tone dropped a stone of fear deep into his stomach. He was so screwed.

Warm magic wrapped around his mind, and then his body was in agony. He screamed as his bones rearranged themselves, and it came out as a mangled roar. He fell, writhing to the forest floor as he grew, stretching and gaining muscle mass until he felt massive, heavy and powerful. The fur growing in everywhere itched, but he couldn't do anything about it because he just hurt too much.

But he had to move. Hera was coming for him, and he couldn't let her. She knew who he was, so she would definitely be going after Sam next. Groaning, he pried open his eyes, searching the forest for the matriarch of the Greek Pantheon. He found her, but he wasn't expecting the look of horror on her face. As he struggled to his feet, she turned and ran, vanishing among the trees.

It made no sense, but he was grateful for the reprieve, especially since he felt himself losing the battle with consciousness.

She was still out there, and she was hunting them. Dean didn't know or care why she hadn't finished him off when she could, but he wasn't about to let the opportunity to make a clean getaway slip by.

But deep down, he knew it was a futile effort. They weren't made to run away. It wasn't in the Winchester blood to run from a dangerous situation, and that had been true not only of them and their dad, but even their grandfather. Sam wasn't going to leave. So, Dean was going to have to figure out how to keep him safe. Which, considering he was a feline of unusual size might not actually be that difficult.

Sam watched Dean process his words, and he swore he could see the thought process happening. First derision, then fondness, and finally acceptance. Good. He pulled out some scrap paper and started making letters. "Now that we're on the same page, can you please tell me what the hell we're hunting?"

It took longer than it should have, because apparently, despite having good eyesight, being a lion hampered Dean enough that reading was difficult unless the letters were very big. Which was how Sam ended up surrounded by pieces of paper and a lion squinting comically at each one before picking up four and handed them over one at a time. H-E-R-A. Immediate recognition of the name made Sam curse and turn on Dean. "You tried to take on Hera by yourself? What the hell were you thinking, Dean?" He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed. "According to the lore, even Zeus was scared of her when she was pissed."

If it was possible for a lion to shrug, that's what Dean did. At least his obnoxious behavior made more sense now.

"Dude, I love you, but you cannot keep doing shit like this. I'm not broken. And if you want us to pass on a case because the monster might, I don't know, have a personal vendetta against us, then I'd appreciate it if you actually talked to me about it. Like the adult you supposedly are."

Dean had the decency to look properly chagrined.

Sam moved to the bed and settled himself against the headboard. "At least now I have a place to start." He gave Dean a serious look. "I'm going to fix this. I promise."

Dean had been napping pressed against Sam's legs for an hour when Sam finally struck gold. His shout woke Dean, who was just as scary when startled in lion form as he was in human form. At least he couldn't use a gun like this. "So, get this, a number of the Greek gods are reportedly weak to the things they consider sacred. Basically, they treat the thing with so much respect that it becomes lethal to them if used as a weapon. In Hera's case, most of those things are not especially useful unless we’re poisoning her, like apples and pomegranates. We can probably get our hands on some willow to use as stakes, but the real kicker is this: while she's mostly associated with cows and peacocks, she is also sometimes associated with lions."

Dean's still sleepy, confused eyes met Sam's, and they stared at each other for a moment before Dean's eyes widened in understanding.

"Yeah. We just need to get you close," Sam said, grinning.

A grumble from Dean made Sam look up from his laptop again a minute or two later. Dean's face looked concerned, and it took a while for Sam to figure it out.

He was quiet but confident when he said, "I'm still working on that part, but you aren't going to be a lion forever. You'll get to drive your Baby again, I swear." He laughed at Dean's disgruntled huff. "I can't wait to find out how you fit in the backseat, though. And no bitching about the fur later. It's your fur."

Dean produced more angry rumbles, but Sam swore he looked amused too as he dropped his head onto his massive paws. It was still astonishing just how big he was like this. Sam wasn't used to being the small one in their relationship, but lion Dean dwarfed him with a body over seven feet long, not including his tail. Frankly, it was a miracle the crappy motel bed was able to withstand the combined weight of both of them. The amount of muscle packed on his feline frame was ridiculous, and Sam figured he must weigh over 500 pounds. He certainly wasn't going to bet against his brother in the upcoming fight.

In the end, they were forced to go with their usual plan of “kill the monster and hope for the best” to try to turn Dean back. It wasn’t ideal, but Sam hadn’t been able to find any lore about undoing a transformation, and he wasn’t willing to wait anymore. When they loaded up, Dean fit in the backseat, barely, and he growled the entire trip out to the woods where Hera had been killing people and where they hoped she would still be.

"You realize this is your own fault, right? If you hadn't decided to try to hunt a literal Greek god by yourself, then you could've driven," Sam said, tone dry even as he laughed in his head at Dean's grumpy face.

Dean didn't dignify that quip with a response, which took more self-control than Sam would have usually given him. When he was human again, he was going to make sure Sam knew that he'd chosen to be the bigger brother. Literally, for once. He smirked and chuckled at his own joke, which came out as more of an annoyed growl. Whatever. Maybe Sam would stop giving him a hard time about running off on his own if he thought Dean was pissed.

The woods were dark and hopefully deserted other than their target. The last thing they wanted was to stumble across a pair of horny teenagers using the woods to get some privacy. They stuck to the path at first, which helped them avoid making extra noise from the dry underbrush but left them open and visible in a way that Dean did not appreciate. However, he was loving his new super-powered eyes that let him see in the almost pitch-black forest. Sam had insisted on taking point with a flashlight, but Dean could see into the dim areas on each side of the path almost as well as he had in the daylight. His nose told him that there were nocturnal animals out and about, but he couldn't see movement. Either they were close, or the opossums and foxes all recognized him as a predator that could eat them if he really wanted to. Not that he was sure he could catch anything like this.

He'd adapted well enough to running and walking on four legs. It was just how this body moved best. But anything more coordinated was going to be interesting. He hadn’t done too badly once he’d gotten out of the motel room, but he’d been trying to project confidence for Sam's sake. Besides, he needed to believe in his ability to do this or else he was going to get them both killed. Sam wasn't defenseless, but he didn't have the mass and raw power that an oversized lion or a god did. He did, however, have a willow stake and a familiarity with how his body was supposed to move that Dean was currently lacking.

They crept along as silently as Sam could manage, which to Dean seemed excessively loud, until Dean heard leaves shifting in the distance. He gently bit the bottom of Sam's jacket and tugged backward, a signal Sam had decided they should use on the ride over. Sam immediately froze and killed the flashlight. Dean strained his ears for any sounds, easier now that Sam wasn't drowning everything out just by walking. There was definitely something in the woods ahead of them and to their left. Bigger than the rodents he heard scurrying through the underbrush. He moved around Sam, crouching lower to the ground on instinct as he prowled, leaving the path behind him. He didn't see movement ahead yet, but the noise was still distant, farther than he could see through the foliage.

He paused and made a soft noise to signal Sam to follow, then continued on. While he'd felt clumsy in the motel, he didn't feel that way now. Even though lions were made for the open plains, he felt comfortable moving through the trees silently, closing in on his prey. He heard Sam click the light back on, knew his brother couldn't navigate the undergrowth safely without it. Luckily, Sam was intelligent enough to hang back enough that Hera might not see him coming even if Sam alerted her to their presence. They continued on that way for several minutes, Dean's pace slowing as they approached.

Finally, he stopped completely, crouching in the low bushes and watching Hera move around a small clearing, brightly lit by the moonlight that hadn't been able to filter through the trees. She had a pair of goats in front of her, tied up on a simple stone altar. Sam and Dean hadn't found any teenagers, but it looked like maybe Hera had. Slowly she circled them, monologuing like a James Bond villain. She seemed unaware that she might have company.

"--filthy teenage boy! He isn't even faithful to you; did you know that?" She spat the words at the pair, shaking her head in disgust. "And you just let him do as he pleases. You are both disgusting. May your sacrifice to the goddess Hera cleanse and purify you both." With that, she pulled a wicked looking knife from thin air and raised it in preparation to slit the first goat's throat.

Dean, already tensed to pounce, leapt from the undergrowth and tackled Hera to the ground, claws and teeth swiping furiously at the goddess. She screamed in pain but fought back, throwing Dean across the clearing. He flew into a tree trunk with a sickening thud and felt something crack. He growled as he picked himself up, whimpering when he put weight on his front left leg. She had managed to get him with that knife after all. Hera was facing him, giving him all of her attention. Good. At least the kids weren't in immediate danger now. There was movement behind her that caught Dean's eye, and he spotted Sam creeping across the clearing, willow stake in hand and poised to strike. He frowned when he saw Dean limp closer to Hera, but then his face set in determination and he gripped the stake tighter. Dean just needed to keep her attention on himself, and he'd give Sam the opening he needed. Easy.

He growled, quiet at first as he tested it, lowering the pitch just a touch to be more threatening, and then he let it grow in intensity and volume until the noise filled the clearing. The goats on the altar struggled against their bonds frantically, and even Hera's eyes widened slightly in fear. Lowering his head, he stalked toward her, ignoring the pain in his leg and keeping his gait as steady as he could. It only took a couple steps to get to within striking distance, and Sam was close, almost close enough to make his move. Dean tensed and leapt at her, catching another swipe from her blade as she tried to fend him off. The pain just made him roar, mouth wide and baring his teeth as he lunged for her neck. He landed with his paws on her shoulders, but she didn't go down. Not that he'd planned on that. Instead of pushing her away and down, he pulled her to him, exposing her back to Sam's stake.

Sam stabbed her, and Dean watched her eyes go wide in surprise, then soften with just a touch of grudging respect. And then she was gone. Nothing happened for a moment after her limp body slid out of Dean's grip and they both landed hard on the ground. Then Dean's world exploded in pain once more.

Sam watched helplessly as Dean writhed and his body shifted back to human form. Hera was dead, and the curse was broken. They had done it. He hated seeing Dean in pain, but that didn’t stop the relief he felt. He got to have his brother back.

Twin groans of pain from the altar drew his attention to the newly transformed teenagers tied up there. He freed them and giving them a brief explanation of what had happened. They were scared and confused, but they at least seemed to believe him when he said it was over and they’d be ok.

With the victims relatively dealt with, he turned back to his brother. Dean was human again, laying on the ground, thankfully fully clothed. He was panting, which didn't surprise Sam. The transformation process looked like it hurt, and besides that, Dean had taken a few good hits in the fight. It was a normal reaction to pain, and he reminded himself of that as he jogged across the clearing. Of course, that did little to quell the worry blooming in his chest as Dean continued to lay on the ground without trying to get up.

Sam slid into a kneel beside his brother and immediately spotted the blood that hadn't been visible during the transformation process but was now coloring Dean's arm a dark red. "Dean?" he said, reaching out to turn Dean onto his back. That's when he saw the second knife wound, a deep cut in Dean's abdomen that had already turned his shirt into a sticky mess. "Shit." Sam shucked his flannel overshirt quickly and pressed it to the wound, pressing Dean's hands over it. "Hold pressure there, ok? We're going to get you to a hospital, and you're going to be fine." He could hear the panic lacing his voice, but he hoped Dean couldn't. At least they weren’t far from civilization this time. Hera had set up shop deep in the woods, but thanks to a proliferation of parking lots in the state park, they were only about half a mile from the car.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

Dean nodded, shaky. The lack of smartass remarks worried Sam, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He pulled Dean to his feet and together they trudged to the Impala. Sam made good time installing Dean in the back seat and driving to the hospital, a story about how they'd been mugged at knifepoint ready for when they arrived at the emergency room.

Hours later, Dean blinked awake in a hospital bed, wrapped in a comfortable pain medication haze. Sam was in the chair next to him, passed out and snoring. Dean smiled softly as he eyed Sam, looking for signs that he'd been hurt too. His little brother looked intact, at least, and Dean felt sore but not like he'd been on the brink of death for once.

They ended up releasing him from the hospital that afternoon with a prescription for the good painkillers and strict instructions to rest. He would, while they drove. Holding his hand out for the keys, he smirked when Sam shot him a bitchface.

"You just got out of the hospital. No. I'm driving," Sam said.

"Oh, come on, Sammy. It's barely a scratch. I can drive," he said, even as he grinned wide and dropped his hand, moving to the passenger side without Sam having to make another argument. It had been for show anyhow; he was still exhausted and was looking forward to a nap. He caught Sam's worried face and felt his smile softening into something fond. "Seriously, Sam. I'm ok. You did good last night."

Sam's face contorted briefly until it was a mask, hiding the concern that Dean knew was still there, but he nodded at Dean and got in the car. Mentally, Dean groaned. Sam was going to mother hen him to death for the next few days, he just knew it. If he was lucky, he might still get to have some “thank God you’re alive sex” when they stopped for the night. So long as he played his cards right.  Dean settled into his seat, smiling as Sam turned on the car and pulled them out of the lot. Sam might be on the wrong side of the car, but this was how things were supposed to be. Him, Sam, and the Impala, driving off into the sunset.

[chorusofravenousangels]

Tagged for D/s and hypnokink

You make an announcement. Aloud. Speech is good. It keeps you going in a direction when the internals start looping. In your powerful voice, you announce, you portend:

“My sleep schedule is fucked. But! I’m getting somewhere. So that’s killer.”

“Because academia is like that, in my limited experience. Academia is the eternal balancing, it’s tearing up the boards of the steamship and using them for fuel to make harbour. That’s where I am now. I’ve got this plan. And it’s impossible. But it’s not, somehow.”

“In a week, I’ll have the paper done. Complete! Forever. And then I can sleep.”

“Aaand yeeet, I cannot conceive of existing, with a paper done, a week from now! What I can conceive of, just barely, is drinking enough coffee, and getting enough sleep, to read through thirteen articles and one introduction of a group of collected essays on the cognitive science behind the perception of colour, and make helpful notes to reference later. Not only that, I’m fuckin jazzed about it. The coffee is helping with that, but this late in the game, I can see progress. I am Achieving Concrete Goals besides one book a day, which is a shitty but necessary goal.”

“And that is why! I! Am! Powering myself up in the mirror! Baby!”

“What is up, Rosalie! I am up! At noon! Which is plenty of time to read! So! Great! Job! Okay.”

“And then! After that! I will even shave my damn ass legs!”

“Whoof. hello gay Rosalie. It is but a day in Shakespeare’s garden, and Shakespeare hast bitten thee on thine... leg, or something. Ugh. Bad job Rosalie, minus three points. Run a lap.”

You lean on the counter.

“It.”

That’s a start. Direction.

“Would be good to have the time for this nonsense. But I don’t. I don’t. As much as I have feelings, I do not.”

“What I do have is awareness of O’Connor’s principles of, fuckin, white balance and microtint, and there are the theories around ultraviolet, which, I know. I am actually aware of that stuff, and I have notes. So four days is, yes, less than I wanted, but. Cry me a river and all, I can’t do anything else tonight, so I have to either try to sleep, or try to... do work, sooo...”

You play with the taps for a few seconds pointlessly, on and off in both hands, the way that fucks with the inner workings over time. Reading, writing, the entire scope of the project, sleep, shower, gender, the impossible chasm of the future, the weakness of your frame. You’re looping, you’ve been silent for too long.

“So. Fuck it. Okay. What can I even do right now. I can. Take a shower, and chill for a second, and decide.”

Shower cap. Water on, wait for it to get hot. Bathroom fan. The habits, the ritual of the shower makes it hard to talk. Narrating your thoughts interrupts your half-thought actions. You try a couple of times.

“So. After this, um... maaaybe food? Have I eaten? I kinda had a meal... maybe should I order Indian?...”

You drop back into musing silently, though, and your body does the things it needs to do. Razor, shaving cream, warm your stomach under the hot water before you shave below. Your wandering mind tells you it’s glad you’ve got these little affirming rituals, at least, and you resolve to order food and give up on figuring things out for now.

Lavender soap on the shelf as you shave. A lovely birthday purchase, a luxury that makes you smile every time you see it. Little floral touches for Rose-a-lee.

Hey, you’re smiling! Great work, you! And then food, probably! Oh, oops, stopped shaving, next step. Shoulders. Does everyone have to shave their shoulders? You hear about shaving your back, but shoulders seem uncommon. You should ask Miranda.

You mean, later, obviously. That’s decided.

Rinse, hot, soap, loofah. Scrub through the normal bodily paths that loop like a jumpsuit over and around your feet and then back up the backs of your thighs, the lower back and the places you can’t quite reach alone. Rinse.

Just for a second, your hands and face press the cold shower wall. Just thirty seconds, feeling something between sexual energy from the ridiculous fuck-me pose and exhaustion held behind your eyes in strained pouches, letting the cool and the hot bathe you, germs be fucked. Just a bit, listening to the music of the shower.

Oh, it’s music now! That’s where you am in the sleep cycle. White noise becoming snatches of music. Sometimes it’s radio voices announcing car commercials or football games, but you like the music best.

A little moment of beauty.

Your ear gets lost following hundreds of little threads, reminded of dozens of songs, drifting on the overwhelming soft wash of noise like ghosts in fogbanks.

You realize you’ve been listening to (imagining you’re listening to) an old Jason Mraz song for what feels like half a chorus, and cackle at the absurdity as you warm your face in one last wash of hot water.

“It’s the remedy, baby! Fuck yeah! It’s the experience! It is extremely a very dangerous liaison!”

Your love of your own stupid, bold, confident voice fills the tiny, misty room, and you can’t help laughing again. “Yeah fuckerman! I’m back! Indian food and probably even a fuckin book after. I eat books for breakfast! And Indian for dinner!”

And like that, you’re balancing again, not like the steamship captain weighing fuel against structural integrity. Like a bicyclist at full speed on a narrow path.

“The only trick is not stopping, right?”

You stare into the mirror. Your eyes are wide, your skin is filthy. So close.

You’re forgetting to breathe. You gasp air.

This is al

“most certainly because I haven’t stopped.” Mumbling is not great. Feeling oily is bad. So.

“Gotta shower. Edit shape. I will be in it, and also, in the shower. Hell yes. Rosalie, baby, you done did it.” Pants off, clothes following, messy pile. “So close.”

Socks, underwear. “Full pot of coffee maaay have been too much. No. Relevant. Necessary. I am very smart.” You giggle a bit. Keep yourself talking. Give yourself direction before you wander off. Shower! Filthy. Wake you up, get yourself a shave! “Hell yes.”

“Hell. *Yes*.”

Shower cap, glasses on. “Babe, I’m tryin,” you murmur. Left a sock on, fix that. More coffee? “No. Shower time, baby girl. Gotta get in there.”

“Listen,” you slur. You do better, speechwise, stepping into the heat. “Listen, schweetheaht.” That was on purpose so it’s okay. “We both know you’re barely holdin’ it togethah. So. Fine. Soap an’ stuff, and maybe... a nap? Nooo, nap is a bad idea. Mmph, need to ed-dit. So. So.”

You are staring blankly at the razor. You don’t have time for the razor. You don’t have attention for the razor. You can raze later. You’ll call a TV station and hold a fund-razor.

Oooh this is bad. Soap. Soap face. Habit begins. “Yesss. Lavender.” Soap across you in silence, my brain hardly holding onto anything.

It’s a bit foggy, actually. Oh, yeah, glasses still on. For razor. You grumble and toss them onto the laundry heap. You miss and they clatter across the hard tiles but they’re fine. Fuck. Soap. More soap. Not using the loofah. You groan in frustration, but hell, you’re almost done now and at least this will get the academic sweat smell of the all nighter off of you.

“Too many coffee times.”

There. Rinsing clean. Front...

Back.

Front again, listening, because something. Is that the Carpenters? Or someone covering the Carpenters. No, now it’s “Lovefool”. Which is the Cardigans, not the Carpenters, but close. Oh, and now it’s that orchestral bit from the Beatles, the one song. With the yellow matter custard gross bit?

You surprise yourself with the press of the cold corner of the shower stall against your back and ass. Losing your balance is also bad, but a determined part of you knows you can’t go to sleep yet. Standing here might be as much as you can manage for a minute or two.

Don’t slip.

The music is still there with you, though, and you don’t want to talk or snap yourself out of this half-daze in case it goes away, because it’s beautiful today. Strings arpeggiate thick, beautiful chords. Shadow voices hum and cross over and back again in loops, open into luxurious, unafraid vowels, shimmer as they become brass sections that move in soppy, overdramatic unison, no oom-pahs here. Everywhere you direct your attention there is something, so you don’t, you let it wash you as the water washes you.

You think to yourself, Is this dying? Am I dying?

You think to yourself, If I am, it’s beautiful, and you don’t move.

The throb of the music is like crystals shaking together, like wind chimes strung together into nature’s gamelan, and you wish you had the brain to understand any of it, and then that’s swept away in wonder too with the hum of what is both radio static and impossibly a terribly beautiful sequence of chords buzzing fruit scents and lightning into the air sweet April mornings bright grandfather clocks the sound is become all senses black and yellow spinning glorious disco ball spearmint moan and soft, soft thunder until in an instant you have seen her and before you know it it stops

You do not know how long it takes you to come back into your mind, but you dimly register that by the time it happens, she has straightened and is facing you. You hardly know how you know she is she, because she is a dimly curling shape in the shower-fog, slim shoulders and hair that drifts to one side, the suggestion of eyes where drops patter off or through her and glimmer. Then you remember you heard it through the music.

You wish you had your glasses, but you’re not moving. It’s you and her, and the music has stopped, and you know what that means because you’ve heard enough of her song.

The shower hisses and splats without her voice, and you miss it achingly already. Deeply. You’re speaking.

“Please don’t go. Please stay.”

The woman in front of you... you don’t have your glasses you wish you could read her expression, but in fog and myopia she is a double suggestion, and so you don’t realize she has come closer until you feel

something

on your ear, thrilling like a drop of ice cold water as your nerves try to understand, and then

close to you

she sings.

You awaken--

No.

You come to in the computer chair, three-quarters through your editing, dressed in fresh clothes, and somehow it feels impossible to stop, which makes sense, after all you’re on a roll, and then the thing is done and it’s only 1PM, plenty of time to go drop it off and head back home, and you’re on the bus, and you’re home, and you’ve done it, your stomach is full of lunch, and it’s time to sleep, but first, you walk into the bathroom and stare into the mirror, not quite believing it happened, that you did it all, that

you never

do your makeup

when you go out.

Gingerly you close the bathroom door. You remove your clean clothes reverentially, fold them, place them on top of the laundry pile (you are not leaving the bathroom now, not on the cusp of this). Your hand moves to the water-stained steel shower faucet, badly cleaned four months ago, and hesitates. But you’ve always needed to know answers to terrible questions, and so, Rosalie, you turn the faucet on and leave the bathroom fan off, like you did this morning, and you steel yourself, and you step into the shower.

A minute passes, and there is no music. Your chest grows heavy with the heartbreak of it, with one beautiful hallucination ardently believed. Sleep deprivation has made a fool of you, and the pouches behind your eyes start to hurt with the power of your own deception.

But of course you can’t give up here, and so you open your mouth to say,

That is--

You want to say,

...something, but nothing comes out;

and as you think back over the course of the day, you can’t remember speaking to keep yourself on track. You remember direction, and doing what was necessary; you remember being at peace and powerful.

You can’t remember speaking at all since this morning, and when the music returns, behind you, close in your ear, a part of you in the thrill recognizes a new member of the spectral choir, before you are gently washed clean of thought and the thrill is all that is left.

[errantknightess]

Practice makes perfect

Pairing: Noctis/Prompto

Word count: 2,790

Summary: It’s only natural for best friends to share things, like a bowl of popcorn, or their most personal thoughts... or even their first kiss.

[Read on AO3]

The popcorn has lost all flavor half an hour ago. Noctis is pretty sure his taste buds are dried up and dead at this point. His tongue has gone numb with the stale taste of salt. But he still shoves another handful into his mouth and munches on it without conviction, because if he doesn’t, he’s bound to fall asleep. The movie is just that bad. It’s some new action flick, but the action is barely there to speak of and hard to see through the stormy darkness shrouding the conspicuous CGI. He stopped making sense of it after the first explosion. On his left, Prompto’s head drops onto his shoulder like he’s about to bow out too, even though he sounds lively as ever and only stops chattering long enough for breath.

“Seriously? You’re just gonna follow this guy? Dude, he’s obviously shady! Who the hell wears a coat like that at the beach?”

His running commentary doesn’t really help to keep track of the plot, but at least makes it bearable. It’s more fun than the movie itself, so Noct tunes out the cheesy dialogues and tunes in to Prompto’s groans and indignant outcries instead.

“That’s not how you hold a gun! You’ll smash your teeth out with the recoil! You were a soldier, you should know that!”

It’s almost amazing how he still has the energy to get worked up over this dumb movie. His shoulder bumps into Noct’s as he gestures at the screen, shaking his head in frustration. His hair is floppy after the shower, falling over his forehead and eyes. They seem even more blue now in the low light from the screen. If he looks really closely, Noctis can see the reflections flickering in his pupils. If he looks even closer, he thinks he could almost watch the movie like that. Except then Prompto turns, and all Noct can see now is his own shadow.

“Noct? You okay?” The shadow wavers as Prompto looks him over, eyebrows pinched in concern. “You’re kinda spacing out here. We don’t have to watch this if you’d rather go to sleep.”

Noct leans his head back onto the cushions. They’re so soft underneath him. The blanket is a warm weight across his legs, holding him like a fish caught in the net. Prompto’s an even warmer weight, with his curled up knees resting against Noct’s thigh. Noct chews on his popcorn, cheeks burning up from all this warmth.

“No,” he mutters quickly. “It’s fine. Let’s finish it.”

He feels Prompto sink into the sofa beside him, and makes a valiant attempt to focus back on the movie. On the screen, the hero pulls the heroine up from the crumbling ledge of a cliff. She quips at him for the effort, he quips back, and then they’re kissing so vigorously it’s a wonder they don’t tumble down again.

“Ugh.” Prompto’s knee digs into Noct’s ribs as he reaches for the popcorn bowl in his lap. “Why do they always have to cram romance into every movie?”

Noctis doesn’t usually care one way or the other, but right now, he agrees with that sentiment. It’s embarrassing to keep his eyes glued to the screen so intently, but he thinks it would be even more awkward to glance at Prompto. He’s not sure where to look. Nowhere is safe.

“Yeah. It’s so forced,” he says, at last settling his gaze on the popcorn. “They’ve known each other for what, three days? That’s just unrealistic.”

Prompto lets out a pained sigh and rolls his eyes.

“I know, right? Man, I could kill to get someone to fall for me that quickly.”

“That’s… not what I meant.” Noctis frowns, closely inspecting an unpopped kernel. “I just… Don’t people usually need more time before they…” He gestures helplessly to the screen, where judging from the sounds the couple is still at it.

Prompto elbows him lightly in the arm, and Noct can feel his teasing smile before he hears it in his voice.

“What, you’re telling me our very own Prince Charming doesn’t believe in love at first sight? Way to ruin the fairytales, dude.” He grabs a handful of popcorn, catching Noct’s thumb in it. Noct pulls free and jabs him in the knuckles – playfully, but hard enough to make him drop a few kernels.

“Fairytales aren’t exactly right about being a prince. Or about anything else.” But what about the movies? Are they any more accurate? Prompto has been pointing out stupid mistakes since the title screen, but he doesn’t see anything wrong with this. So maybe that’s how it really goes. What does Noctis know about romance, anyway? Not a whole lot. But it doesn’t sit right with him the way they do it in movies. Like all this kissing stuff – it always seems rushed and weird. Not that he thinks kissing in general is weird. Seems like it could even be nice, probably. Apparently. But he can’t imagine himself doing it with a random person he’s just met. Maybe if it was someone he was really comfortable with, someone who clicked with him instantly? Like with Prompto. They hit it off right away, so maybe it can happen after all?

He feels there’s a gap in his reasoning somewhere, like a crack in a cup; he can’t see it, but he knows it’s leaking and his thoughts are spilling all around. He mentally puts a hand over it for now, stuffs his face full of popcorn and turns his eyes back to the TV. The couple on the screen is still making out, so he didn’t miss much. They’re in some kind of a camper, and the guy has lost his shirt between then and now. So maybe he did miss a little.

“Must be nice being an actor,” Prompto says dreamily. “You get to kiss all those pretty ladies… Maybe even multiple times for retakes! And you get paid for it. Like, a lot.”

Noct feels his stomach lurch.

“That’s pretty gross.” He doesn’t like the thought of Prompto kissing random people, either. Maybe it’s just really not his idea of fun. “You don’t even know them. And you don’t even get the choice.”

“But at least you get the chance.” Prompto’s voice all but melts with longing. “It makes things so easy! Come on, we’re almost out of high school and I still haven’t ever kissed anyone.”

“Anyone? So you don’t care who it is?” Noct frowns; the crack in the cup keeps trickling. “I thought the first kiss was supposed to be some one of a kind experience with the right person?”

In fact, he’s never actually thought about it. That’s just what he heard, last week or so, from a heated discussion among the girls in their class. But maybe it’s different for guys. He doesn’t know. Guys in their class don’t really talk about kissing.

Except him and Prompto, apparently.

“I dunno, man,” Prompto says with a shrug. “Sure, it would be great to nail it on the first try. But what if you meet this right person and then blow it because you have no idea what you’re doing?”

“Guess you have a point.” He still can’t find that crack, but it’s just a matter of time now, because his thoughts are starting to overflow. “So what, you’re saying you want to kiss someone just to practice?”

“Well, you know…” Prompto picks at a loose thread in the blanket, flashing a smile that tries to be cheeky and gets maybe halfway there. “A bit of training wouldn’t hurt.”

Noct swats him on the shoulder.

“You sound like Gladio.”

“That’s wrong?” Prompto jabs him in the armpit out of duty. “I’d listen to him on that one. Man, I bet he gets to train on the regular, I mean, you’ve seen the guy—”

“Let’s try,” Noct says quickly, cutting him off before he can gush any more. He doesn’t want to hear that. It’s the same uncomfortable itch as before, when he thought about kissing strangers. About Prompto kissing strangers. Only now for some reason he’s starting to think about Prompto kissing Gladio and it’s not better at all. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach that only gets worse when he realizes Prompto is staring at him with open mouth.

“Try…?”

“You wanted to practice, right?” It takes Noct some effort to meet those wide blue eyes. “And you said you don’t care who it’s with. So. I can practice with you.”

The crack bursts, and it’s so obvious now.

“Dude, are you serious?” Prompto still gapes at him like an anak caught in the headlights. Noct frowns.

“Yeah. Why would I joke about this?”

“Wow.” Prompto’s mouth twitches into a grin, but at least he’s cool enough not to laugh at him. “What happened to the right person and one of a kind experience?”

Noct shrugs. He’s not sure how to explain that Prompto is just about the only person he could consider kissing at this point.

“You’re good enough.”

“Oh.” Prompto’s grin turns into a tight line. He clears his throat, sits up a little straighter. “Right. Okay. So… how are we gonna do this?”

“I don’t know,” Noct admits. It feels like he forgot to bring his part for a group homework. “How do people normally do this?”

“I guess they just… do.” Prompto doesn’t look too sure, and maybe that’s a good thing. In a weird way, it’s reassuring that they’re both clueless. Whatever they do, at least neither of them will know how badly they mess up.

“So let’s just do it,” Noct decides, and it’s final. A royal decree.

He twists on the sofa until they’re facing each other. Their knees touch. Their knees touch all the time, though. He wonders why he’s so aware of that now all of a sudden. Prompto seems to notice it too, because he’s shifting – but doesn’t pull away. He moves even closer, then pauses, as if waiting for something. For him, Noct realizes. He leans in too, and a hard edge digs into his stomach.

“Hold on.” Noct picks up the popcorn bowl and puts it safely on the floor. It’s not that he’s stalling. He wants this. But he wants it to be good. Because for some reason that matters.

When he looks up again, Prompto’s face is right in front of his. If not for the dim light, Noct could count all his freckles. Maybe he still can; he knows them so well. He can’t remember ever seeing them this close, though.

“Are you sure about this?” Prompto asks, so softly that Noct feels it more than hears. He nods, bumping his nose into Prompto’s. His throat is scratchy and tight all of a sudden. Like when he’s just starting to warp, and it’s a long, long way, and he’s never made it that far before.

Then Prompto closes his eyes and puts his lips over Noct’s.

The light pressure catches him off-guard. It’s not entirely unfamiliar – like drinking from a cup of steaming tea, only instead of the hard porcelain edge it’s soft, pliant skin. It lingers, and Noct wonders idly if that’s all there is to it. He kind of wishes he’d paid more attention to the movie. Maybe he could’ve gotten some last minute tips. But it’s too late and he’s doing it now, and it feels pretty nice, so maybe he’s doing fine. He closes his eyes too and tries to do the same as Prompto, leans his head forward a little and

oh.

Yeah, there’s definitely more to it, and it definitely feels nice. He leans in closer. He’s not sure how he can possibly get any closer than this, but he does. His nose is smushed against Prompto’s, and maybe that’s why it’s a little hard to breathe. It comes out with a whimper, stifled and weirdly pitched. Prompto snorts at that – a puff of air that sweeps between them and tickles his cheek. He’s smiling against Noct’s lips, and Noct starts to feel warm, so warm, with embarrassment flushing his face and with Prompto’s breath on his mouth.

It’s too much, and somehow still not enough.

His head spins. He sucks in another breath, loud and shaky. He doesn’t want to stop, but his chest is throbbing so hard it threatens to explode if he keeps going. It’s throbbing so hard that maybe even Prompto can feel it, because he draws back – slowly, but still too suddenly.

“Something wrong?” Prompto’s eyes are wide and worried and so, so blue. Noct stares deep into them until he’s not sure if he’s looking at Prompto or at his own reflection in the blown pupils.

“It’s nothing.” He shakes his head, but that does nothing to clear it.

Prompto is still looking at him, with an anxious gaze that Noct knows all too well. “You… didn’t like it?”

He did like it. He thinks that’s the problem. He liked it maybe a bit too much. Too much for something that was supposed to be just for practice. Way too much for something that’s not going to happen again.

“It was fine,” he says at last. “You tasted like popcorn.”

Prompto’s smile twitches, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Is that a compliment, or a complaint?”

“A bit of both.” Noct returns the smile with ease. “You might want to work on that.”

“Yeah? Well, you might want to work on your noises.” Prompto pokes him in the arm with his finger. “You sounded like a baby chocobo. Not like that’s a bad thing! Baby chocobos are cute,” he adds quickly.

Noct pokes him right back. “Thanks. Glad to know I didn’t ruin your first kiss with my animal impressions.”

“Nah, dude.” Prompto bites down on his smile. “You didn’t ruin anything. You were… It was a good first. I’m glad we did it.”

He keeps chewing on his lips, and Noct can’t stop looking at them.

“Want to practice some more?” he blurts out.

Prompto looks at him with surprise. His mouth hangs open, skin worried pink on the bottom. Then he looks away.

“No.” It’s quiet and hoarse, and a little guilty.

Noct swallows the disappointment. It sinks to the bottom of his stomach like a chunk of ice. He’s used to hearing that – but not from Prompto. Was it wrong of him to expect he’d agree? Would it be wrong to ask why he didn’t? He wants to, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry and numb and tingling with salt. And then, Prompto takes a breath and beats him to it.

“Can we do it for real now?”

Noctis stares, his head swimming as if he spun around too fast.

“You… want to kiss me?” he asks, which is pretty stupid considering they just did.

“Only every day since I met you.” Prompto’s voice is light, but it frays on the edges. “Sorry. Forget that. I shouldn’t—”

His lips are still moving against Noct’s, but the rest of his words melts into a muffled groan. Noct can feel it trembling through him, settling at the base of his spine like a buzzing nest of bees. Then Prompto finally stops talking and starts kissing back.

The difference between practice and the real thing is – everything, really. The real thing is just so much more. It would be completely overwhelming if Noctis didn’t already know what to expect. It still makes him dizzy even now. Prompto’s mouth is almost scalding, and he’s pressing into him like he needs it to breathe. Like he’s afraid Noct might change his mind any second. That’s a conversation they’ll need to have later, but for now it can wait. For now, Noct just holds onto Prompto’s shoulders and pulls him closer. That’s enough. Under his touch, Prompto’s muscles lose some of the tension. His hand wanders up, to cup the back of Noct’s head, hesitant fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s like a rush of electricity. Noct lets out a rough breath; when his lips part, he thinks he catches just the slightest brush of Prompto’s tongue – just the tip, but oh gods, even that is a lot to take in. He tightens his grip, and Prompto obliges eagerly, crawls into his lap until they’re pushed flush chest to chest. And even further, until they tip over.

The room sways and turns around them. In the corner of his eye, Noct sees the credits rolling on the dark TV screen. Then his vision fills with spots, golden and familiar.

He closes his eyes and kisses Prompto with tingling lips until that’s all he can feel.

[themadamelibrarian]

Breakdown - Part 2 of Mechanics of Love

Written By: @themadamelibrarian & @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell​ Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lucifer/Dean Winchester Characters: Lucifer (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Michael (Supernatural) Additional Tags: Alcohol Abuse, Break Up, Make Up, mentions of prior abuse, Bad Anniversaries, fight, depressive state, Age Difference, Lucifer is 30, dean is 18, Confessions of love, self harm tw, Bad Communication, Miscommunication, Domestic dispute, Reconciliation, Mentions of suicide, Mentions of Suicidal ideation, twink!dean, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Summary: It's been a year since Lucifer started dating Dean, and a personal issue

Notes: Here's part 2 of Mechanics in Love! Madamelibrarian and I hope that you enjoy it! Kind of a doozy, this one is.

LINK ON AO3

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Lucifer took a long pull from his bottle and rested his head in his hands.

Today had been a shit day.

It was the anniversary of Mark’s death, Mark’s mother called and screamed at him, and he had lost two more customers because of his bad temper.

So now, he was sitting home, drinking with the intent on getting drunk, and waiting for Dean to come over.

The only good thing in his life, besides the shop that he can barely keep afloat.

He doesn’t know why Dean was still with him, a year later. He was a grumpy old man with a near failing business; Dean was a handsome young man who should have men lining up. Men that were better for him.

He took another pull of his whiskey. Maybe he should let Dean go.

He drank again. No, he should. Dean has a future. He doesn’t.

But I... I love him.

You can’t love. Dammit, Mark. He drank again, trying to force the demon of his past away. Dean will learn that in time. You can’t love. If you couldn’t love me, it just means you can’t love.

He loved Dean. And that’s why he was going to let him go.

Liar, liar, house on fire, Mark taunted from his memories

“Lucy, I’m home!!” Dean called out happily in his worst Ricky Ricardo impression. The sound of a book bag thumping against the cabinets as he sat it on the floor. Not immediately seeing Lucifer, Dean called out again and started looking around. “You home?”

“Living room,” Lucifer called, his voice slightly slurred as he got up and started walking around. Mark’s voice was still in his head, taunting him just like he used to when they were together.

Dean rounded the corner, smiling but looking tired from a day of long classes and exams. “Celebrating the end of my semester early?” He asked as he kissed Lucifer’s cheek. “I hope it’s not tequila.”

“Gross,” Lucifer said, kissing Dean’s cheek back and holding up the now almost empty bottle of whiskey. He blinked at it, almost confused but shook it away, also trying to get Mark’s voice out of his head. “Had a rough day at the shop. Lost two customers,” he offered by way of explanation.

“That sucks,” Dean replied, not really knowing what to say considering that Lucifer regularly complained about losing customers. “You’ll get more customers or they’ll come back. You’re good at your job. You just need to brush up on the customer service part.”

Lucifer grunted and nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he said. He took another pull from the bottle before offering it to Dean. “When do you find out your grades?”

“In about a week. They only give us a two-week break between semesters, so they have to move fast.” Dean reached out for the bottle with the intention of taking a little nip before he went to take a shower.

“Makes sense,” Lucifer said, relinquishing the bottle.

“I’ll be glad when it’s done. I hate chemistry.” Dean took a long pull from the bottle, draining it of the last swallow. Shuddering at the burning in his throat, he sat the bottle between them.

Lucifer chuckled and gave a nod. “You going to shower before we binge Star Wars?” he asked.

Dean nodded and leaned over, kissing his cheek before saying playfully like he’d done a hundred times before, “We could watch Jeopardy instead. I hear it’s all the rage with people turning 31 and heading toward 40.”

Lucifer clenched his jaw. “That your way of saying you want to be with someone your age?” he asked in a clipped tone. For some reason, the age struck home with him. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the day. Maybe it was Mark. For all he knew, it was all three.

“What?” Dean was surprised by how quickly the conversation had turned and sat back, “I was only joking, Luc’. You know, like I always do.”

Lucifer nodded. “Yeah, but oftentimes jokes have truth behind them.” Oh, that was something he learned with Mark. He looked away and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“Are you trying to tell me that you think I’m screwing you until I find someone else?” Dean asked incredulously, “That’s fucking nuts. I don’t play head games like that.”

“I don’t know what to think, Dean,” Lucifer said, looking at Dean. “All I know is that there’s a handsome young man with a bright future in my living room who is with an old man like me who has no future.”

Dean let out a sigh and started to stand up, “It’s an Associates in Science, not a Ph.D. And I happen to like the ‘old guy’ in this living room.”

“Oh, why?” Lucifer asked in a disparaging tone. “An inner kink of getting near pedophiles like me and getting your own rocks off?”

“Excuse me?” Dean rounded on Lucifer and stared at him with wide eyes, “Did you just equate our relationship to a Pedo?”

“Nearly was that, wasn’t it, considering I fuckin’ popped your cherry on your eighteenth birthday,” Lucifer snarked. He turned away. “You should leave me.”

Dean’s heart clenched in his chest as he watched Lucifer tear their relationship apart one thread at a time. Thankfully, Dean wasn’t willing to give up that easily and was willing to call his bluff and simply said, “No.”

“Get out, Dean,” Lucifer said in a low voice, staring at the wall. His heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t want to do this. But it was what is best for Dean.

“You don’t want me anymore, is that it? Then be a fucking man about it and say so. Tell me to my face, that you don’t care and that you never want to see me again.” Dean said, his voice shaking slightly as he fought back the urge to scream and rail against the unfairness of this. It was sudden and unexpected and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

Lucifer turned and stared at Dean, taking a deep breath. “Leave. Before I destroy your future.” His voice was low and dark.

“That’s martyrdom,” Dean said, taking a step closer. “Say it, Lucifer. Because I’m not breaking up with you over something imagined.”

“GET OUT!” Lucifer roared. “NOW!” He couldn’t take it, couldn’t take Dean’s eagerness to fix this. “Forget about me, Dean. I’m poison.”

Dean couldn’t help but stumble back a step when Lucifer yelled at him, his bottom lip quivering the slightest bit as he refused to cry now. So he did the only thing he had left to do; leave. “Fuck you, Lucifer Alighieri and damn you to hell,” Dean hissed before storming out of the house, snatching his bag on the way and slamming the door hard enough to knock a framed picture off the wall.

.oOo.

“Dean, Lucifer’s missing.”

Michael didn’t want to call Dean. He knew about the breakup, from Lucifer calling him two days later crying about how he screwed up his life. He visited his younger brother every day to try to get him to call Dean, explain everything, but he couldn’t make Lucifer do a damn thing.

And now, Lucifer was missing.

Dean was the only person he could think of. The police weren’t helping, and Gabriel had no clue that Dean even existed.

“I wouldn’t call,” Michael said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “But he’s been missing for two days and when I last talked to him, he was beating himself up over breaking up with you. Please. I understand if you never want to hear from him again, but I just want to get Lucifer the help he needs. And I can’t do that if he’s missing.” He was desperate.

Reluctant wouldn’t be the exact word Dean would use to describe what he was feeling. After he’d left Lucifer’s he’d expected a call within a couple of days. At least an apology for the verbal lashing he’d received even if he never got to see the man again. When he didn’t hear from Lucifer, it crushed Dean. This had been Dean’s first real relationship, or at least it felt like it to him. And now, here was Michael begging him to help a man who’d torn his heart apart. “Have you checked the garage?” Dean asked quietly, cradling his phone against his cheek.

“Four times, I have my own key,” Michael said. “I tore that shop apart. No sign of him and his voicemail reroutes. Says he’s taken sick and won’t be in.” He took a deep breath. “Dean. I want you to know that if you don’t want to help find him, I understand. You’re just my last option because of what happened. But for the record, Lucifer is sorry. He’s just shit at saying it. Something about not deserving anything you give him after this and that sorry won’t make it better. I’ve been trying to get him to at least call you. But, I understand if you don’t want to even hear his name again.”

“A brother saying sorry isn’t the same thing.” Dean looked at the clock and sighed, “Have you tried calling the phone company and having his phone tracked?”

“Yes,” Michael sighed. “Twice now. They keep saying their servers are down or some bullshit. And I know it’s not, but I still felt it was important for you to know.”

Against his better judgment, Dean grabbed his keys and wallet, “Meet me at Ray’s diner and bring Lucifer’s social security number, birthday. I’ll get his location out of the company.”

“I’ll see you in ten,” Michael said before hanging up. Grabbing his wallet and jacket, he ran out of the house and out.”

.oOo.

Lucifer laid curled up on the grass in the quad, stroking the grass softly. He couldn’t help it, the past three months had been Hell. He’d call Dean to apologize and beg for forgiveness but always hung up before he could connect. Drove by the community college to talk to him after class but always chickened out.

“Is this what you wanted, Mark?” he whispered numbly. His voice was rough and hoarse. “For me to be as alone as I made you? For me to feel the same way as you when you stuck the barrel of that gun in your mouth?”

He shivered and curled in tighter on himself.

“There!” Michael said, pointing to where Lucifer was curled in a ball. He leaned back in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, recognizing where Lucifer was and he sighed. “Luka,” he whispered. “Why do you torture yourself like this?”

Dean followed Michael and shut his eyes against the sight of Lucifer laying in the grass. Steeling himself against the surge of emotion at seeing the man he loved like this and stooped down to pick him up in his arms. It was startling to Dean at how much lighter Lucifer felt. “Let’s get him home. Then you can talk all you want.”

Michael nodded and lead them back to the Impala, shaking his head as he did so.

.oOo.

Michael opened the door and got Lucifer and Dean inside, tossing Dean a blanket to put around his quivering older brother before going into the kitchen to grab food for Lucifer. Something light.

The fridge was empty.

Fuck. He went to check the cupboards.

So are the cupboards.

He and Dean pooled some money together and he volunteered to go out to get groceries.

Lucifer was curled up in his armchair and picking at the blanket Michael had put around his shoulders, almost looking like he was expecting to get royally bitched out. He couldn’t believe that Dean was here in his living room, jaw clenched and ready to speak but not sure of the words. He watched Dean carefully, ready for the shitstorm.

Left alone with Lucifer, Dean went to the couch and sat down, not sure how to start at first and then the words just fell out like a confession, “I can’t sleep. Got to used to you calling me. I just lay there all night waiting for a call, but it never comes.”

Lucifer nodded in understanding, before withdrawing his phone and tapping on it before handing it to Dean. It showed that there were so many times that at night, Lucifer would hit the call button but hang up before it connected to Dean’s phone. Several times a night, too. He returned to picking his blanket, never meeting Dean’s eyes.

Dean looked at it silently and stood up suddenly, not wanting to show how much he’s been hurt and to keep his temper, “I tried to date too. But if I actually went out with anyone I’d be miserable. They were too tall, too short, too serious, too soft... I felt like fucking Goldilocks and the three fucking bears. I haven’t even touched myself. Not even a morning jerk to relieve stress. Didn’t seem worth the effort.”

Lucifer flinched when Dean stood up and listened to him, nodding along in agreement. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Dean, knowing how much he’d hurt the younger man and also feeling ashamed at himself. What was he supposed to say, anyway? Like apologizing would work.

“And the sad goddamned thing of it all is that…” Dean stared down at the windowsill he was standing in front of, clutching the edge tightly, “I realized that I love you and you couldn’t even find the balls to love me back. So fuck you, Lucifer. Fuck you for making me love someone that I can’t ever have.”

Lucifer jerked his head up at Dean’s confession, finally finding Dean’s eyes. His own were sunken in and dull, wide in surprise. He clung to himself and looked away when Dean’s gaze turned to intense, inhaling sharply and obviously in distress.

A tear slid down Dean’s cheek and he nodded as if Lucifer’s silence was the answer. His feelings really weren’t reciprocated. Pushing away from the window, Dean gathered up his jacket,  “Michael’ll be back soon. I’ve said my piece and I’ll leave you to yours. Thanks for showing this dumb kid a thing or two. It was educational.”

Lucifer got out of his chair and grabbed Dean by the arm and jerked him back and close to him. “I was scared, Dean,” he said. His voice was hoarse. It was obvious that he hadn’t spoken much in the past three months. “I was so fucking scared. I let the best thing that’s ever happened to me walk out of my life and why? Because I was drunk and had a bad day at work. Surely, I thought, there was someone out there better for you. Yes, I had been thinking that I should let you go, but I thought that you didn’t want to be tied to some old man who can barely keep his own shop open because he’s too brash. I haven’t eaten; I haven’t slept. I can barely go through the motions because everything I do reminds me of you. And I fell hard and fast for you, Dean. I think I fell in love with you the moment you walked up to me in the club.” He gave a hollow laugh. “But who could love me? I thought I was a foolish man.” He let go of Dean’s arm, showing he hadn’t even grabbed Dean that hard- he couldn’t. “If you want to leave, I’ll understand. You deserve far better than me.”

Dean was quiet for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke. His voice sounded rough like he was fighting every emotion he had inside him. “Do you want me to stay? Not because you need a nursemaid but because you want me.”

“I need you, because I want you,” Lucifer said. “Please... stay. I need you. I need the stability, the care, the warmth you gave me. I need your smile and I need your simplicity. I need you to hold me and just... just...” He ducked his head down and away, coughing violently. “Be here because you actually give a fuck about me.”

“Then apologize,” Dean said quietly, “You hurt me, Lucifer. More than anyone. Just… say you’re sorry.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Lucifer whispered, tears filling his eyes. “Fuck, you have no idea how sorry I am.”

Dean stepped closer to Lucifer and gently took his hand for a moment before pulling him into a hug, “Don’t ever do this to me again. Or I’ll kick your ‘Matlock’ watching ass.”

Lucifer gave a watery laugh and buried himself into Dean’s arms, shaking slightly. “I won’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t say it enough.”

“You already have, baby. It’ll take time but we can get back to where we were.” Dean said as he rubbed a hand over his back.

Lucifer coughed again, hugging Dean tightly as he refused to meet Dean’s eyes again. He whispered the apology again, unable to help himself. Tears started trailing down his cheeks, but he was too tired to brush them away.

“Alright. We’re both beat to hell and you need some sleep,” Dean brushed the tears from Lucifer’s face, “Let’s get you in bed, then I’ll make you some soup when Mike gets back. Then I’m going home and you’re going to sleep yourself out.”

Lucifer whimpered very quietly at Dean mentioning leaving, but he nodded all the same, keeping his eyes lowered. “Okay,” he whispered quietly. He was feeling needy, clingy, but he couldn’t be. He shouldn’t be. Dean needed his space after everything that’s happened.

“But by the time Mike gets back and I cook, I doubt I could drive in a straight line,” Dean sighed, “Mind if I crash on your sofa bed?”

Lucifer shook his head, relieved Dean would stay. “No, you can crash here,” he whispered softly. “Let me go get the sheets and blankets from the linen closet.” Slowly, he began to withdraw from Dean’s embrace, still not looking him in the eyes.

“Luc’,” Dean said gently yet firmly, reaching up to cup his cheek, “I’m upset but it doesn’t change something very important.”

Lucifer looked up at the firm voice, looking more like he was Dean’s age at that moment. “What?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“I love you,” Dean stated simply.

“I love you too,” Lucifer whispered back. “I really do, Dean.” He gave a small smile, the first one since Dean left three months ago before slowly making his way to the linen closet.

As promised, after they made up the sofa bed for Dean, he sat Lucifer in his favorite chair while Dean changed the sheets on Lucifer’s bed and threw the offending linens in the washing machine. When Michael returned with the groceries, he stayed long enough to see them put away and to make sure that Lucifer was going to be alright. Satisfied that the couple wasn’t going to fight any more that night, he went home and left them to the rest of their night. After feeding Lucifer and, as silly as it felt, tucked him into bed, Dean curled up on the sofa and listened to the rain that had started to fall until he drifted off to sleep.

Around four in the morning, Lucifer tiptoed out to the living room and saw that Dean was asleep. Biting his lip, he hesitantly moved towards the lumpy, highly uncomfortable sofa. He rested a hand on the arm, watching Dean sleep. He should go back to his own bed, he really should. But he couldn’t sleep. He needed... he needed to feel Dean’s arms wrapped around him again, or at the very least near him.

Quietly, intent on not disturbing him, Lucifer slid onto the smallest sliver of bed he could, holding his breath. Once he was curled up in his corner, he allowed himself to close his eyes. He just hoped that Dean wouldn’t wake up until the morning. He didn’t want to make Dean even more upset, which was why he hadn’t asked for this earlier.

“What are you doing over there?” Dean grumbled sleepily. He’d half been expecting Lucifer to do this very thing. He’d always been the cuddly type, especially after being upset. He freed the corner of the blankets from under Lucifer and held them open, “Come here.”

Lucifer’s eyes flew open and when Dean extended the invitation, he slid under the covers and into Dean’s personal space, being careful not to disturb him too much. He opened his mouth to apologize, only to find Dean’s finger over his lips.

“No talking until coffee is in my hand and the sun is up,” Dean yawned and wrapped his arm around his waist, wiggling and tugging until they were nestled together like spoons. “Get some sleep. You can’t torture customers half asleep.”

Lucifer nodded and closed his eyes again, falling asleep quickly once he felt Dean nestle back in.

.oOo.

When his phone went off that morning with his alarm, Lucifer groaned and grabbed his phone to turn it off. Yawning, he stretched in Dean’s arms before getting up and padding into the kitchen to make coffee. He slid on one of his sweatshirts as he waited for the coffee to brew, staring out the window. He coughed, loudly, and he scowled at himself as if to scold himself for attempting to wake Dean.

He knew he should get on with his day- go get dressed, make his bed, brush his teeth, make breakfast, but he couldn’t bring himself to fall into the routine again. He hadn’t been able to for a while now. The only good thing about Dean leaving was he didn’t talk. It was too much effort. He did what his customers wanted and only talked to them about cars. There were no insults or anything. A couple of his regulars had noticed how sad he was, but he waved them off with a polite smile and went to back inside Diabolical Motors to do more work and invoices. But everything had reminded him of Dean- watching Dean work on cars, handle people, be polite. The sex they’ve had over his Impala and over Lucifer’s Firebird. Everything hurt, and Lucifer hurt with it.

“Mornin’,” Dean grumbled as he stepped into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” Lucifer said, breaking his gaze away from the window before reaching into the cupboards for Dean’s favorite mug. Pouring the coffee in, he handed it to Dean with a small, hesitant smile.

Humming appreciatively, he leaned against the counter and took a deep sip. Dean didn’t speak until he was halfway through the mug and turned to the pot to freshen it up. During the silence, he’d had time to observe Lucifer move around the kitchen like a zombie. There was no thought behind the movements, just automatic reactions to his morning ritual. He could understand why Lucifer was depressed and Dean wasn’t under any delusions that their talk last night would magically cure it, but he could help bring him back to the land of the living.

“I was thinking,” Dean said as he topped up his mug and added a dash of milk, “you should shut down the shop for the day. Take a mini-vacation while we figure things out.”

Lucifer nodded. “I could do that,” he said, “no one is picking anything up today.” He reached for his phone and dialed the shop’s voicemail so he could reroute it, taking a sip of his coffee before it clicked for him to record. “This is Lucifer Alighieri, I am unavailable today. If this is an emergency, give me a call on my personal phone, which would be listed on the business card or the shop window. Thank you for understanding.” Hanging up, he returned to his coffee and almost blank staring out the window.

“Luc,” Dean started quietly as he set his mug on the counter and wrapped his arms around him, “go take a shower. I’ll make breakfast.”

“No, I can do it,” Lucifer said softly, resting in Dean’s arms. “It’s no big deal.” He had to prove that he did love Dean, he had to prove that he was going to be good to him.

“You look wiped out still. Let me do breakfast and you can do supper if you’re up to it.” Dean offered with a pat to his stomach, “Besides. You’re kinda stinky.”

Lucifer gave a light blush and nodded. “Okay,” he whispered softly. Slowly withdrawing from Dean, he shuffled down to the bathroom to shower, rubbing at his eyes to get the sleep crumbles out from the corners.

Lucifer came out of the shower about thirty minutes later, scrubbed pink and wearing low rise striped pajama bottoms and a thin white tank top. He smelled breakfast and felt his stomach give a little rumble. He hadn’t eaten much beyond an apple or two a day in three months, with the occasional sandwich or pizza when he felt hungry, and he walked out into the kitchen, still running his fingers through his wet hair and found an absolute spread of food. Eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, and a new fresh cup of coffee.

“This looks good,” he said shyly. “Thank you.” His eyes looked a little less sunken and dull when he met Dean’s.

“Bacon cures cancer,” Dean said with a hint of a smile as he flipped the last of the strips frying in the pan, “Dig in. I’ll be finished in just a second.”

Lucifer nodded and slid into his seat, piling his plate with small portions of everything. He knew he had essentially been starving himself, and he didn’t want to overwhelm his system with too much food. He started eating, taking his time to chew his food and drink plenty of coffee in between bites.

Dean joined him with the finished bacon and loaded up a plate of his own, “Why the quad?” he asked without beating about the bush.

Lucifer’s fork clattered to his plate and he hastily picked it up, hoping Dean wouldn’t notice as he took a large mouthful of eggs so he wouldn’t have to answer right away.

His eyes flicked up from his plate in time for Dean to see Lucifer shoving food into his mouth. Shaking his head, Dean drowned his bacon and pancakes in syrup. “You don’t have to tell me. Just seemed an odd place to find you is all.”

Lucifer swallowed his food and sighed, setting his utensils down and drinking a lot of coffee. “You have a right to know,” he said softly. He held his mug close to him, choosing his words carefully. “Do you know why I make a big deal about consent?” he asked softly. “Or why last night when you made a sudden movement, I flinched?”

“I noticed,” Dean said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“The last time I was in a relationship it... wasn’t healthy,” Lucifer admitted. “Final year of college. I was close to graduating, and nearly didn’t because I couldn’t get to my internship on time because of him. Finally, my boss helped me out of the relationship, but the torture persisted until graduation.” He took a deep breath. “The quad was where he shot himself, claiming that he may’ve been holding the gun, but it was my inability to love him that made him pull the trigger.” Biting his lip, he sighed heavily. “Three months ago was the anniversary and... I got a call from his mother. And she said she wished she could have me put in prison, because, well...” he gave a soft laugh, “because I couldn’t love, and that’s why her son was dead.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s been ten years and not a year goes by that I wish that it didn’t end like this. That I’m not in a foul mood or drunk on what is supposed to be the happiest day.”

“So the line about me finding someone my own age was bullshit?” Dean asked quietly, his fork poised over his untouched and cooling food. The more Lucifer told him the less appetite he had.

“Dean, you of all people should’ve known I don’t give a rat’s ass about age unless they’re not legal,” Lucifer chuckled. “I sabotaged us, Dean, and there’s no amount of apologies that I can give that’ll make it right.” He looked down and away, biting his lip. “I don’t want you to go. I didn’t want you to go then, either but I- I...” he felt his voice get caught in his throat and he swallowed.

Laying down his fork, Dean pushed his plate back a few inches and leaned back in his chair to stare at Lucifer. “I don’t want to rehash everything we said. What you said. But if we’re going to make this work you have to realize I am not your ex and I’m not going to live with a drunk. We’ve got too much work to do for you to fall in a damned whiskey bottle.”

“I’m only truly drunk on that day,” Lucifer said honestly, “And I make damn sure of that. I don’t even keep alcohol at home unless you’re coming over, and you know that. I haven’t even gone down to visit Mikey at the bar in three months.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I know you’re not my ex, Dean. God knows I know that. And I’m so thankful every day that you’re not like him.”

“Good,” Dean nodded slowly, “I don’t like being lashed out for something I didn’t have anything to do with.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, “I swear that if he were still alive I’d kick his ass just on principle. He was full of shit.”  Dean stood up from his chair and rounded the table, pushing Lucifer’s chair back then sitting in his lap. “You are very loveable and even though you didn’t say it, you’re loving. Otherwise, you’d have hit it and quit it with me a year ago.”

Lucifer buried his face into Dean’s chest, trying to hide the onslaught of tears and emotions that welled up within him from Dean’s little speech. He hiccupped and coughed, still not used to using his voice, and he took a deep breath, trying to right himself as he held Dean close.

“You remember how I was having a hard time figuring out how to tell mom about you?” Dean asked as he pressed his cheek to the top of Lucifer’s head, “Well, I told her after you kicked me out that night and she told me something that stuck with me.”

“Wha’s tha’?” Lucifer asked thickly, his voice obviously tear-stained.

“He’s a fucking idiot and if he hasn’t burned out his last brain cell, he’ll realize what he’s done and come back.” Dean quoted, then laughed, “I’ve never heard her drop the ‘f’ bomb outside of traffic.”

Lucifer gave a watery chuckle and nodded. “Yeah, that’s accurate. Me, the fucking idiot who tried to get rid of the best thing that’s ever happened to him.” He gave a quiet sniffle. “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

“I accept the apology but it might take a little while to forgive you completely, but you know what?” Dean said, sitting back and brushing the hair away from Lucifer’s face.

“What?” Lucifer asked softly, looking up at Dean, gnawing on his lower lip. Tears streaked down his face and it was obvious he was hating himself for what he had done.

“I still love you,” a smirk broke out on Dean’s face as he finished, “Old Scratch.”

Lucifer gave a warm smile and he sniffled. “I love you, too,” he whispered. He looked down, then back up at Dean again, his body relaxing a little bit. It was obvious that he wanted to ask Dean something, but was nervous to from the way he bit his lower lip, a bad habit of his.

Dean noticed the way Lucifer was trying to bite back something, so using his thumb Dean tugged his lip free and gave it a quick kiss, “Spit it out, Luc’.”

Lucifer blinked at the quick kiss and looked up at Dean. “Can... can I kiss you? Please?” he asked softly, licking his lips.

“A proper kiss?” Dean asked as he bumped his nose against Lucifer’s.

Lucifer nodded, bumping his nose against Dean’s back. “Please,” he whispered.

“I’d be really disappointed if you didn’t at some point,” Dean whispered back.

Lucifer leaned in and kissed Dean softly, and his entire body sagged in relief as he gave Dean a chance to reciprocate or draw away.

Circling his arms around Lucifer’s neck, Dean kissed him back tenderly and with a touch of passion.

Lucifer ran his hands up Dean’s sides as he kept kissing him, finally feeling a bit like his old self again, now that he knew that Dean’ wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Dean was content to continue kissing but his stomach had other ideas. It grumbled loudly in protest of being so close to food and not receiving any. Breaking away, Dean genuinely smiled for the first time. “I guess I should eat before my stomach thinks my throat's been slit.”

Lucifer smiled and gave a soft laugh. “Yours and mine both,” he said, giving another quick kiss.

“Then eat your breakfast and stop beating yourself up for five minutes,” Dean said as he slipped out of Lucifer’s hold and went back to his chair.

Lucifer flushed and tucked himself back into his breakfast. “Am I that obvious?” he asked.

“Painfully,” Dean shoved a forkful of pancake into his mouth and winked at the older man. He wasn’t kidding when he said it might take time to get over this bump in the road, but at least Dean felt like they were on the right path for the first time in months.

[thestoryofme13]

Fireworks

A/N: So I wrote this fic about a year ago for the lovely @nyxwordsmith for their birthday. This was based on a dream they had and so I made it a thing. 

Summary: Roman and Patton are back together for the summer but something gets in the way, so when they do get time together after a schedule change they take advantage of it.

Warnings: Minor anxiety, Showering scene (is safe for work but a little odd), crying, kissing, non-sexual nudity, swearing

Pairing: Royality

Part of Two Hearts Beat as One AU: Part 1

Finally, summer break was upon them, which meant Roman and Patton would be together without interruption. They had both decided to opt out of summer classes, their normal semesters were stressful enough. Summer was a much-needed break from the school work and never-ending hours of other obligations.

The summer thus far had been relatively slow which neither of them minded. Roman had taken up a part-time job at an ice cream shop, while Patton had decided to work at the hospital as an externship.

Roman and Patton had tried to keep their schedule as similar to each other as possible but sometimes it didn’t work out. The past two weeks were a very good representation of the best-laid plans often going awry. Patton had been given the overnight shifts because the usual intern that worked was on vacation and he was incapable of saying no.

Telling Roman that he had taken the overnight shifts for a couple of weeks had gone better than he thought but it still was one of his least favorite conversations.

~Flashback~

Patton had planned on meeting Roman after they both got off work, actually, he planned on picking his boyfriend up from the ice cream shop, Sweet Divine. He pulled up to the curb and smiled as he saw Roman.

Roman got into the car and immediately noticed that Patton was more fidgety than usual, “Baby, what’s the matter.”

Patton sighed and laughed a little, “Sometimes I wish you weren’t as observant as you are.” He took a breath, “I--um...don’t be mad.”

Roman’s breathing increased and his hands got sweaty, it was rare for him to see Patton looking so nervous and scared to say something, which meant it must be important, “Pat...100% honesty remember?”

Patton turned the key and shut off the engine of the car, then shifted to face Roman, “The intern who usually works nights...well they are on vacation. Soitooktheshift…’m sorry.

“Baby...you had me worried. I know we wanted to keep our schedules as similar as possible but this isn’t the end of the world. What times do you work now?”  Roman let out the breath he was holding.

Patton looked away, “11 at night to 11 in the morning….”

Roman sighed, “Okay yeah that fucking sucks considering I work 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.”

“I ruined it….”  Patton said as he scrubbed at his eyes now realizing that tears were falling.

Roman gently reached out his hand to Patton’s, “I’m not angry, baby. It is frustrating but you want to help always and I know that. Someone said they needed help and in a very you fashion became their knight in shining armor, just like you are mine.”

Patton giggled, “Ro….that was sappy!!!” His voice whiny and giggly.

Roman laughed, “Of course it was sappy. I am your soulmate. It would take a lot more for me to be angry than for my plans to be a little skewed.”

Patton smiled and leaned over the armrest to kiss Roman quickly before driving back to the apartment.

It had been a long shift and all Patton wanted now was to go home and sleep. At this point, he wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was.  Just that he needed to get back to the apartment. It was at this moment he was very thankful for living in an apartment rather than in the dorms still.     

Patton had wanted the college experience for his first year but once that was over he was more than ready to live off campus and not share a room with someone. He and his roommate, Logan, had gotten along enough that they decided to share a two-bedroom apartment off campus after freshman year ended. Which worked out great because when Roman came back from Julliard he could live with them, Patton had checked with Logan to make sure it was okay first.

He pulled into his parking spot noticing that Roman’s motorcycle was still home, but didn’t think much of it. Sometimes Roman walked to work or caught a ride with someone else and Patton was aware that his boyfriend was never home when he got home so that didn’t even cross his mind. The only things on his mind currently were getting out of his scrubs, a hot shower, and his bed. Oh and his day off tomorrow since the overnight intern, Remy, would be back.

He put the car in park and got out heading toward the complex and up to the apartment. It was a battle to keep his eyes open but Patton felt gross and was in dire need of a shower. He opened the door to his apartment and headed straight for the bathroom.

Roman was watching TV on the couch when he saw Patton walk in the door, his boyfriend looked tired beyond words. He followed Patton and entered the bathroom after the shower had started. He sat himself on the lid of the toilet, “Hey baby.”

 “Roman what the hell! I could’ve died,” Patton screamed and pulled the curtain back slightly.

Roman rolled his eyes, “And you say I’m dramatic….I missed you.”

Patton stuck his tongue out at his boyfriend,  “I missed you too, but why are you home?”

Roman looked confused, “You have no idea what day it is, do you?”

Patton blushed, “I think it is June 30?”

“Baby...you didn’t even get the month right, it is July 4th,” Roman shook his head and laughed.

Patton’s eyes went wide, “Oh! That’s why you’re home! The shop is closed for the holiday!” He moved back under the water to get the shampoo out since he had been distracted by his boyfriend’s existence, “Oh, Ro?”

Roman just laughed as it set in just how exhausted his boyfriend was,  “Yes, my love?”

Patton was now spreading the soap over his body, trying to finish his shower quickly. His boyfriend being home giving him new energy, “I have my old shift back. Remy is back starting tonight.”

Roman squealed and jumped in the shower wanting to hug his boyfriend and completely forgetting he had clothes on and that he would get soaked, “That means you get to enjoy the holiday and we get to hang out again!”

Patton squeaked as he felt Roman’s arms wrap around him, “Roman!!! You are dressed!!! I am in the shower!!! What is happening!”

Roman laughed and blushed hard, “I got excited okay! I missed you. Going to sleep without you these past two weeks have sucked, it was like being back at school and I am not ready for that yet.” He moved towards the back of the shower letting Patton go begrudgingly.

Patton smiled as he finished washing off, then turned the water off, leaning to kiss Roman, “I love you and you’re so adorable.” There was no point in trying to keep Roman from getting wet considering he was already drenched. He wrapped his arms around Roman’s neck pulling him in close for a slow kiss.

Roman immediately melted against his boyfriend, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around Patton’s wet waist. He sighed happily against Patton’s lips, leaning against the back wall of the shower.

Patton pulled away with a smirk, “I need to dry off and you need to either undress and shower or get changed. I will put you in the dryer!”

Roman made a noise of offense, “Patton you would not dare put me in there...again!”

Patton smiled and kissed Roman softly, “I did not put you in it last time! You decided to see if you could fit and I closed the door.”

Roman playfully batted at Patton’s arm, “You’re awful. Why do I put up with you?”

Patton laughed, “Because you’re mad--ly in love with me.”

Roman groaned and smacked him lightly, “That was awful. Get out of here!”

“Did you literally tell me to get out of the shower? Excuse you! I was in here first and actually showering,” Patton said with a smile and shaking his head.

Roman laughed, “Okay fine. Counterproposal, we both get out and get dressed.”

Patton laughed and interlaced his fingers with Roman’s “Okay fine but you are coming with me. I missed you, Ro.”

They both got out of the shower. Patton grabbing his towel as Roman peeled his wet clothes off and grabbed another towel. Then the pair headed to the bedroom to change into some dry clothes.

Once dressed Patton flopped on the bed, his second burst of energy having passed. His eyes fluttering closed until he felt the bed dip and saw Roman.

Roman smiled at his tired boyfriend, “I think a nap is in order, baby.”

Patton whined and curled in on himself, “‘m not tired.”

Roman laughed and shook his head, “Uh-huh. If you’re not tired then I’m the queen of England.”

Patton laughed a little, “I don’t wanna sleep, Ro.”

Roman moved Patton so that he was on his side of the bed and his legs weren’t hanging off the edge. He wrapped his arms around Patton’s waist as he laid back with his boyfriend on his chest.

After a couple minutes and some more whining from Patton, Roman gave up and decided to use his ‘off switch’, “I’m sorry, baby, but you are tired. I’ll wake you up later.” He slowly moved one hand so it threaded through Patton’s hair. After repeating this action four or five times, Patton was asleep. Roman felt himself drifting off soon after, completely content to spend the entire day with Patton asleep in his arms.

Patton woke up first. He opened his eyes and released a content sigh against Roman’s chest. Letting himself adjust to the room, he rolled over and looked out the window, it was dark. How long had they been asleep? He moved and grabbed his phone from the bedside table, checking to see the time, it was 8:30 p.m. They had both been asleep for nearly seven hours.

He moved back into Roman’s arms, looking up at his boyfriend and tracing his jawline with sweet innocent kisses. Once Patton came to kiss Roman’s chin, he was met with his boyfriend’s lips instead. Patton hummed happily into the kiss, “You’re awake, babe.”

Roman smiled and tightened his grip around Patton’s waist, “Well you found a great way to wake me up, dearheart.”

“Babe....You know that one makes me all flustered,” Patton managed to squeak out, hiding his face against Roman’s neck.

Roman laughed, “Exactly why I used it. I love you, Patton.”

Patton removed his head from Roman’s neck and looked down at him, “I love you too, re mio.”

“We should get up, watch the fireworks,” Roman suggested as he tried to fight off the blush spreading across his face.

Patton frowned, “Ro, neither of us even like fireworks. They are too loud.”

Roman sighed, “Ah yes, but they are so pretty.” He moved Patton a little and sat up some more, “We could probably see the ones downtown from your balcony.”

Patton smiled, “Then it wouldn’t be so loud. They are going to start soon though babe, let’s get up.”

After much moaning and groaning from both of the boys, they got up and moved towards the balcony, deciding that dinner could wait until after. Neither of them really big fans of eating immediately after waking up.

Patton opened the glass door and allowed Roman to step out first. They leaned against the railing shoulder to shoulder for a few moments taking in the warm and humid night air.

Roman wrapped an arm around Patton’s waist knowing that the fireworks would be starting soon and that the contact would help keep both of them grounded.

The fireworks started soon after they walked out onto the balcony. The dark night sky painted with so many different colors: red, blue, purple, and white amongst others. The designs ranging from simple spirals to intricate flower shapes.

Patton tried focusing on the fireworks but each time his mind would wander to the beautiful man standing next to him. He found himself staring at Roman more than the fireworks, not that he truly minded.

“You’re missing the show, baby,” Roman said teasingly when he felt Patton’s eyes on him.

Patton blushed at having been caught but quickly recovered, “You are my show, Roman.”

Roman tore his eyes away from the display and looked at Patton, “W--what?”

Patton smiled, flustering his boyfriend didn’t happen often but when it did it was so cute, “The fireworks are beautiful and I know that I don’t see them often but Roman… You’re so much more interesting. The way your eyes light up when you see one that is particularly pretty or the face you pull when they should’ve built up the dramatic effect for the larger displays.”

Roman blushed, “You’ve been watching me this entire time?”

Patton leaned in and kissed Roman’s nose, “Of course I have. My boyfriend is far more interesting than some fireworks display. Roman, you are the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. You know how I can never get anything done when we video chat?”

Roman nodded prompting Patton to continue, “I get so lost in all the faces you make when you are working on things. Or when you try new dance moves your eyes light up when you get them correct or if you mess up you get this look of determination that says you’ll repeat this until you get it right.”

Roman wiped at the tears on his face, “I didn’t know that you were that observant.”

“I am always watching you because you are so interesting. You are similar to me but not, in so many ways. I want to be able to remember everything you do for when we have to go back to school, back to long distance. While I know we have our entire lives ahead of us to be together, I like to take advantage of the time we spend together whether in person or video chat,” Patton said as he smiled looking into Roman’s eyes like he was the only person on Earth.

Roman was full on sobbing, “You are not allowed to be this sappy, Pat!”

Patton took Roman into his arms, “You do this to me all the time! With surprise gifts and displays of affection! Let me have this!”

“Fine. You can have this but only if you kiss me,” Roman retorted the words coming out mixed with laughter. Then he moved his face away from his boyfriend’s chest slightly, looking up at the other man.

Patton laughed and smiled, “Deal.” With that Patton placed his hand under Roman’s chin bringing his lips to meet his own in a slow drawn out kiss. The fireworks around them having been long forgotten. At this moment the only thing that mattered was each other and how their lips felt against the other.

General Tag List: @fandomsandanythingelse @sugarblob0 @theonlyjelly-iwillput-inmybelly​ @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2​ @ilovemygaydad​ @justanotherpurplebutterfly​ @watergirl13​

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@evilmuffin​

Royality Tag List: @fandersfic-royality​

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[o-hybridity]

Castoffs

My professor for Forms challenged us to write and debut a story on r/nosleep and see how it performs. I also don’t post nearly enough of my fiction here, partly because I don’t finish enough and partly because I don’t want to condemn any writing I’m really attached to to a publication form that I can’t get paid for. So I’m gonna repost my story under the cut, and I think I’m gonna try and get in the habit of putting together more short, loose work to shake the rust off and keep things more active around here. Like having a sketchblog, but for prose, I guess.

Anyhoo, here’s Castoffs! It’s gross! Go check out this link to the reddit page and upvote it if you want and also have a reddit, for whatever reason!

I’ve grown my hair out since I turned eleven, mostly because it pissed off my dad and I wanted to make the most of it before I go bald. I’m coming up on thirty now and until about two months ago I was still wearing it past shoulder-length, where it kinda plateaued. I also shed a lot; I figure I lose about five or six long strands in the shower every morning, on average—enough that I have to kind of carefully manage where it goes so I don’t clog the drain. And of course periodically I wind up finding stray hairs in odd places around the house.

Then, sometime this past August, that stopped. I didn’t really notice until I went to empty out the bathroom trash and realized that there wasn’t a single hair in the bin. That, in fact, while the bathroom was still plenty grubby, there was no sign that I’d shed at all. No dustbunnies in the corners, no threads clinging to the walls, not even the dusting around the sink that should have been there from the last time I shaved.

I’m not a great housekeeper. I haven’t stayed in close touch with my family much anymore after the election back in 2008 and I prefer to keep my regular social life out of doors, or at least out of mine, so I’ve got nobody to disappoint really if I slob it up some. I do a deep clean every year, usually around Christmas break, when I’ve got time and I’ve realized that the state of the house is veering into being too much to bear.

I say this to make clear that my bathroom absolutely should not have looked as clean as it did. Obviously this made me antsy.

I struggled to come up with an explanation that didn’t seem ridiculous. After spending about a half-hour stressing out, pondering the possibility that my home had been raided by an extremely meticulous home invader and hair fetishist, I realized I wouldn’t get anywhere stressing out about it and reminded myself that life is fundamentally pretty weird, and let myself worry about a problem I could solve, like stopping the air conditioner from chugging.

About a week later, after I’d let myself mostly forget about the problem, I got a call from my dad around two in the morning.

“We’ve been robbed,” he told me.

I figured there was more to it than that if he’d felt the need to call me. Dad at the very least liked to think about himself like he was a pretty tough guy, somebody who wouldn’t need to dump his anxieties out on his adult child.

“Jeez, Dad,” I remember saying to him. Very specifically “Jeez.” Like I was still a kid and he’d whup me for not mincing the Lord’s name. I asked what’d been stolen.

“You know that little ceramic jar we got in Cozumel?” he said. “The one we kept all your baby teeth in?”

I had to soak in that a little.

I told him yeah, I did.

“Gone,” he said. “Nothing else. Just the teeth. Didn’t even keep the jar. It’s still on the floor. In bits.”

He sounded rough all of a sudden.

“We heard Gabby start barking in the middle of the night, and then the jar shattered, and then we heard her yelp and not finish, like she’d been hurt bad. We found her with her throat torn out. She only died a couple of hours ago.” My dad wasn’t a guy with a lot of love to go around, but he loved that fucking dog, and at that moment I couldn’t hold it against him. I felt seasick, like the floor had gone wobbly under me for days and I just hadn’t noticed until now. I hung up and walked to the easy chair in my living room, keeping myself braced against the wall. I curled up there for a few hours. I have an old, old habit of biting my nails, and I’d put it away years ago, but I couldn’t stop myself. I felt something twitch in my mouth. When I spat the nail into my hand, it squirmed.

Like a maggot.

And then it leapt out of my palm and skittered through the hairline crack between the front door and the frame. I heard the bushes in front of the house rustle, and saw first one, then three, then eight dark, long-limbed shapes boil out of them, pressing themselves to the windows. They pawed at the glass and ground the teeth they had to go around together. More, papa, they said, their voices raspy and wet, like they were being strangled as they spoke.

[insomniac-arrest]

Kissing the Pacific

story based off of @rasec-wizzlbang ‘s post here

summary: Josh is kind of still in school and mostly trying to make it as a nothing beach bum in Honolulu, he thought his first love was the waves and the second costco free samples- then he’s challenged to a fight at sundown during surf competition season

It doesn’t end how he expects.

tl:dr- an Australian and Californian surfer fall in love

The sun was going down next to a rising bonfire and down on the choppy surf, the water blazed against the paradise view and Josh can only put his hands up loosely.

“Look, man, I have like 68 cents in change and like, I totally don’t know how to convert that,” Josh reached for his empty pockets and realized they were just swim shorts with holes in them, “sorry dude.” The other surfer had sun speckled skin and a good couple inches on him, he squared his shoulders, “I said, pound-town.” He emphasized with his fists up, “not pounds. Square up derro.”

Josh threaded his fingers through his hair and pushed his bangs back, “okay, cool cool, fighting. I thought you wanted money.” Lucas, the guy who came in third at the tournament yesterday was widening his stance and Josh was looking past the palm trees to the little series of houses lighting up one by one.

“Oi, come on, eyes forward, I’m about to take the piss out of you.” He pushed on his shoulder roughly and Josh’s mouth fell open. “We’ll do it fair.”

“I’m sure,” He raised his hands higher, “but we could like get an interventionist or like, I think I could find a stick to talk with? I didn’t even medal today soooo I don’t see…the issue?” He rubbed the back of his neck and more hair fell out of his pony tail.

“Don’t give me that yank, I heard loud and clear you were aiming for a lick, well I’m here.” His nostrils flared and Josh raised his eyebrows.

“Who said I want to lick what?”

Lucas leaned back a little, “they said you thought I was an arse with a bad taste in guys. Said you wanted to square up.”

“Uh,” Josh looked at his broad chest and scuffed his feet in the sand, “I guess we could fight if you want, but no ankle shots, I gotta ride on these bad boys.” Lucas raised both eyebrows and put his fists down, “you really didn’t call my sister a slag?” Josh frowned, “I don’t think I even know what that is.” Lucas let out a full-bellied laugh and slapped him on the back, “I see, Debby is a fuckin’ liar, you don’t seem like the fighting type then.” Josh was feeling slight whiplash, but it wasn’t as bad as when he took the Route 27 home at rush hour so that was fair, “oh damn, no way. Do you know how many fights I can afford? I can’t even afford normal beef right now.” Lucas gave another delighted laugh.

“You aren’t bad yank.” “Yank?” He snorts, “I’m from California.”

He smiles back at him, “Let me buy you a drink, no hard feelings.” Josh lifts his chin, “Righteous.”

Lucas pushed him by the shoulders to the nearest bar, “you see those 10 footers today?” “That is why I come down here, oh man.” He passes some girls in grass skirts and a series of five open-roof jeeps. Lucas pats him roughly on the back again, “come out with me tomorrow morning.” Josh shifted from foot to foot, “right on. Sun rises at 6 here, we can get out before then.” They enter the open-air pub, “if you can get up tomorrow at 6 after you drink with me mate, then I’ll buy you rounds for the whole week.” Josh turned around with a lopsided grin, “don’t think I’m not going to keep up guy. Sons of Cali go hard too.” Lucas just gave him a sideways look, “oh ho ho, well I guess we’ll see.” He taps on the wood of the bar surface.

“Yeah,” he tied his hair back properly again, “I rushed with beta phi.” Lucas shook his head, “I’ll pay you five bucks when you regret this.” He rolled his eyes and Lucas bought him his first locally brewed Hawaiian lager, it was like Freshman rush but he couldn’t look at the dude’s face too much. He didn’t like being blinded much and couldn’t do much but take another drink from the guy. He laughs about something he doesn’t remember until it hurts and sips down more rounds than he could properly count.

“To the waves,” Josh cheers at his tenth drink and having Lucas hold him up.

“To gangly pacifist sons of Cali,” Lucas winks down, “and not puking on my shoes.”

Josh shook his head, “to us then man.” They push back another, he’d run with the best of them.

——–

Josh thinks his hangover has a hangover.

He barely remembers the walk over as he staggers through the empty streets to Lucas’s hotel at the crack of dawn. Maybe he couldn’t feel his teeth and had twelve mysterious bruises, but some things like spite and proving a point came first. A painful first.

He stumbles to the motel front desk and asks for Lucas Lee three times with varying degrees of success. She manages to ring the room, but the place seemed to be empty.

The other surfer comes down a second later with two coffees and the look of someone who had showered and maintained a proper amount of stubble from the day before. Josh just groans.

“What’s shaking gorgeous.”

“A lot of Advil,” he tries to chuckle.

“I’ll be honest, didn’t think I’d see you today mate.” He hands him the other coffee, “knew you were a true surfer.” Josh just rubs at his eyes, “you bet your down under ass I am.” He sways in place, “you owe me another round tonight that means.” Lucas cajole’s him toward the door, “how ‘bout a round of waters this time. And get some food in you.” He agrees fully. Josh isn’t entirely sure how they make it to the beach, but Lucas tells him stories about his roommate doing keg stands and his head clears up a little bit. The surf is like a beautiful quilted cup of blue when they arrive, a mesh of fading and arriving colors, Josh almost cries when he sees it.

Then he lies down in the sand and presses his palms to his eye sockets, “Ugh.” Lucas snickers at him and they let another group of surfers go on ahead of them.

Josh briefly squints open his eyes, Lucas was already shirtless and in a pair of professional wet shorts. “Go on,” Josh waves weakly, “I’m a dead man crawling. I think I owe you five bucks or something.” Lucas nudges him, “nah, deal was I owe you five bucks for regret and being cocky.” He sits down next to him, “cute cocky, no worries.” “Gross cocky now.” He taps him with his foot, “I’ll take you on the water when you feel a little better.” He makes him drink water and tells him about the coral reefs in Sydney, the undertow and eels he caught, the bleaching of the flora and the second year of his enviro major.

Josh briefly talks about his finance classes before making a gagging motion and Lucas laughs with the sun.

The waves are calm that day, shallow and easy, Lucas just lets him straddle his board and push off into the deep sea. They just float for the day, talking and leaning back on the one long board.

He drags his feet through the water and lets the spray wash his face, they float.

———

“So, it was drinks for the week, right?” Josh says the next day with his shades on and better cologne on then ‘the morning after rank,’ “‘cause I wasn’t kidding about that 68 cents thing dude.” Lucas leans back on the wall of the breakfast nook they met at, “how are you even surviving here? Honolulu isn’t known for being cheap.” Josh had been floating around Honolulu for a month now.

Josh taps the side of his nose, “Let’s just say I play a mean street guitar.”

Lucas leans forward and chuckles, “of course you do.” “Hey man, I totally do!” He shows him his almost-just-as-good air guitar moves.

“No, I mean, I’d like to see that.” Lucas was smiling a 100-watt environmentally friendly solar panel powered smile and Josh has to look at his feet and scratch his hand.

“K, right, cool.” He runs to get his guitar.

He unironically plays Wonderwall and gets a couple extra bucks from the corner store lesbian couple when he plays All You Need is Love followed by I Want to Hold Your Hand. He may or may not look Lucas in the eye when he hesitantly glances up.

He gets another dollar.

He’d done more embarrassing things for less money, but the Beatles were coming through for him again.

———-

It was a fast two weeks, a week of impromptu challenges and soccer games, of beach sand castles and hanging out until dawn.

It was a quick two weeks.

Lucas was apparently leaving on the 25th, Josh had a pretty poor sense of time and a second tournament to finish up. He finally medals that day, but he wasn’t really here for the gold, he was here to go with the flow and maybe catch a ten footer.

And now maybe something else.

Josh shouldn’t feel like he was getting his first wipe out on a beautiful day, with his stomach twisting and a sense of bruising on the inside like a soft peach, it was pretty uncool.

He would take out another joint and try to quiet the humming but his dealer had cut him off until he agreed to play halo with him like he promised (“you’re spending all your time with that Aussie flake”).

Maybe he’d switch to vaping.

The 25th crept up like a bad dream and Josh actually remembered to plug his phone in the night before so he could text as much as possible the next day. He was doing one more ‘Sunshine Hawaii’ friendly competition and then Lucas had his own tournament. Josh runs down half the island it feels like to get there.

“Lame, lame, lame,” he stubs his toe on the way and skids past five and a half flustered looking tourists as he sprints toward Waimea beach.

He makes it in time to see Lucas do you a bottom turn and a spectacular roundhouse cutback, the water under his board parting in a clean blitz as he hit the lip of the wave. “Woo!”

Josh ran down the beach and gave him a thumbs up before he even finishes the foam climb and eases back down.

“Damn Lucas, damn!” He bounces on his heels and wishes for once his best shirt wasn’t a faded coca cola tee. He bounces again, Lucas was coming in.

There is a scratching of pens at a table nearby and Josh isn’t even looking, he never really did anyway.

Lucas waves both hands as he paddles back in, “Pretty good, right?” He mouths.

“Fuckin’ sweet!” He shouts and doesn’t care at the crowd flashing him bent looks.

Lucas came in at the next tide and Josh expected him to go give a play-nice smile to the judges, he makes a beeline toward him instead.

“Man, I am totally going to miss you when you go dude,” Josh cups his mouth and yells, “I want to see that like ten more times.”

Lucas was fast walking, “don’t remind me I’m leaving.” He calls back loudly.

“Nah, you’re leaving man,” he says with a slight dip in his stomach, “but like, on a high note, can’t believe-” “Not yet,” Lucas grabs Josh’s shoulders, “you run all the way here from Waimea?”

He just pulls his hair back and grins, “yeah.”

“Good Lord,” He blinks, “is that a ‘kiss me now’ gesture or should I just think guys from Cali are crazy.”

“Yeah.”

Lucas leans forward tentatively and Josh upswings into a solid kiss, crowd be damned and sexuality be wavy at best.

It tastes like salt and feels like a gliding through the barrel on a board, which is exactly how he wanted all his kisses to taste and every high to feel like. It melts like a sunset and dawns in his belly like a sweet starburst, the whole world is slow and he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

He could live in that moment and not time zones or countries ever again.

They come up with a visiting schedule and download the Avocado couples app.

[cooperjones2020]

Come lay your bones on the alabaster stones

A second one-shot inspired by the 1x13 deleted scene. Alice and Jughead have a late night heart-to-heart.

ao3—> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11758992

(also because i like continuity and cross-referencing, here’s the first one-shot)

It takes a week before he’s comfortable enough in the Cooper house to wander around without Betty, which makes it awkward in the moments he’s home and she isn’t. He winds up penned in whatever room he’s in when someone comes in. Sometimes, it’s his room which is nice because he basically has the run of the basement and there’s a TV down there, but which also makes him feel guilty, like he should be trying harder to assimilate with the Coopers as a unit. But if Jughead’s in the kitchen or the living room, he winds up stuck in that room, trying his hardest to make small talk and seem normal. Once, he spent forty-five minutes talking to Hal about car engines. He knows nothing about car engines. He had to check with Betty later to make sure he hadn’t said anything stupid.

He’s getting over that though, slowly but surely, his curiosity overtaking his social awkwardness. Because he’s discovered that he’s the only one ever awake at 2 am, and so it’s prime snooping time. He discovered it by accident, one night coming out of his writing trance dying of thirst. He filled a glass from the chute in the refrigerator door and wandered the ground floor in the dark, peering into picture frames. The wall below the stairs is a visual timeline of Polly and Betty, from photos of them in their hospital blankets right down to a photo of Polly at prom last year and one of Betty with Toni Morrison’s arm around her.

Now it’s become a bit of a nightly ritual. He’s moved on from picture frames to picture albums. Mundane residua that exist as testament to the Coopers’ deep love for one other. He knows his father loves him. But their life has never encompassed either the leisure time or the inclination for an activity such as scrapbooking.

Tonight he eases his way up the stairs, avoiding the creak he’s discovered in the second step from the top. He’s had a breakthrough on how to wrap up a dangling plot thread, and is ready to sleep knowing he’s earned the night’s rest. But not before he makes it through “Polly and Betty 2011-2012.”

At first, he doesn’t notice the under cabinet lights are on in the kitchen, because at least one usually is. A courtesy night light for any late night prowlers, ie, him. But tonight they’re all on, and Alice is sitting at the table, wrapped up in an oversized sweater, both hands around a steaming mug of tea. He stops in the doorway.

“Jughead, what are you doing up? Couldn’t sleep?”

“I’m always up now, Mrs. C.” He cups the back of his neck with his hand and ruffles his hair. “I actually haven’t been to bed yet.”

“You’re a night owl. And you’ve been up night after night alone?”

“I don’t mind. Betty’s tried to stay up with me a few times, but she always falls asleep.”

Alice’s face moves as if she’s smiling, her eyes crinkle warmly, though her lips stay motionless. “I suppose we’ll all have to make some adjustments. That will be good for us.”

He gets his water and takes a seat across from her at the table. “Listen, Mrs. Cooper. I just want to thank you again. I don’t know how to tell you how much I appreciate your and Mr. Cooper’s letting me stay with you.”

“Jughead, I’ve told you, if you’re going to be living here, I want you to call me Alice.” She pauses to take a sip of her tea. “Are you settling in alright?”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” It is, but he can’t quite articulate to Alice what he means by that. He’s still adjusting to things in the Cooper household. They’re quieter than he’s used to. People move more softly. They say please and thank you and they offer to refill each others’ drinks when they go into the kitchen. He’s not suffering from any delusions, he knows they’re all crazy, even him, but still it’s nice.

There’s a soothing regularity to being warm when he falls asleep and when he wakes up, to knowing where his next meal is coming from and that all the USDA-mandated food groups will be covered. He loves Archie and Fred, they’re his family, but he doesn’t think it ever occurred to either of them that an air mattress on a cold wooden floor doesn’t the warmest of beds make. Especially in November in an old house. Plus, with a few more consecutive meals of frozen pizza, he’s pretty sure he’d have gotten scurvy. Especially because the Andrews men always opt for ‘Meatzza.’ And it’s been a long time since FP was capable of getting a family dinner on the table.

He feels guilty even having these thoughts. But Betty’s stopped brushing his under eye bags with her fingers the way she’d taken to in the last few weeks when she got so preoccupied worrying about him she stopped being self conscious. So yeah, it’s nice.

“What are you drinking? It smells good.”

Alice’s fingers tighten on the mug. “Oh, an herbal tea blend I use sometimes when I’m having trouble sleeping. Mostly chamomile, but it’s got some other herbs in it. Lemon balm, valerian root, catnip. I can make you a cup.” It’s a sentence but her intonation tells him she means it as a question.

He doesn’t know how to say no, he doesn’t drink tea, especially not tea with catnip in it, so he says, “Sure.” Apparently he doesn’t know how to talk to Alice Cooper at all. The Coopers are middle class in a way even the Andrews aren’t, in a way that goes beyond their gross yearly income. He’s known Betty since they were four and yet he hadn’t expected catnip tea and kale salads and the whole set of all-natural shower and shave products that had been waiting for him in the bathroom on the day he moved in. He’s been dying for days to make a joke about how bougie they all are. But of Archie and Betty, only Betty would get it, and he doesn’t want to give her another thing to feel self-conscious about. He knows she already worries about the class differential between them, that she still feels guilty about not knowing he was homeless.

Alice bustles around the darkened kitchen, switching on the electric kettle, scooping what to Jughead look like dried spices into a little metal ball she sets in a mug and then in front of him. Are tea bags not good enough for these people?

When she pours the water in, the smell, now much closer to his face, is overwhelmingly floral. Almost like perfume. But he lifts the mug and inhales deeply anyway, thankful that for the moment it’s still too hot to drink.

“Betty said you used to work at the Twilight.”

“Yeah, til it closed.”

She nods, as if Jughead, who had been the only one in the sophomore class with a paying job, is normal. “I want you to focus on school. And on being a teenager. But I’m sure it must be hard to lose that extra bit of autonomy that money can give. So if you wanted to find another job, for after school a couple nights a week, Hal and I could help.”

He doesn’t want to seem to eager, so he stares at the snow falling in the window behind her before answering, “That’d be great.”

“Not at the Register, though. You and Betty need at least one place you’re not together. Everyone needs somewhere to escape to. That took me five years of marriage to learn and I’m offering it to you for free.” Alice emphasizes her words of wisdom by pointing at him. “And no garages either.” Then she looks at him like he’s supposed to know what that means. Surely she knows Betty’s the one who belongs in a garage.

Then, horror of horrors, his stomach rumbles. Loudly. Alice smirks.

“How about some lasagna to go with that tea?”

“I never turn down food.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Jughead’s coasted on his reputation as a human garbage disposal for many years. It’s assumed that he’ll want seconds, that he’ll finish other people’s leftovers. Betty has made more than one comment about his unfair-teenage-boy metabolism. But a prickle on the back of Jughead’s neck tells him that’s not what Alice means. She pops a large square of lasagna in the microwave then comes back to face him, a new glint in her eyes.

“I remember what it feels like to go to bed hungry.” She doesn’t direct it to him necessarily, it’s not accusatory. But almost, conspiratorial? As if she’s charting out neutral waters where they can meet.

“I grew up in Sunnyside, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that, Mrs. C—” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Alice. I didn’t know that, Alice.”

Her smile is warm. “I did. Until I was 17 and moved in with an aunt who’d gotten out and had an apartment over the hair salon on Fifth. It was almost too late though. They didn’t let girls in the gang officially then, but I was around enough to get into some stuff I had no business being a part of.”

Jughead chokes on his catnip tea. “You were a Southside Serpent?”

“Mhm. I’m surprised your dad didn’t mention it when you and Betty started dating. Every day I expected her to come home and throw it in my face.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that so he waits while she retrieves his plate from the microwave, setting it in front of him with a fork and a folded napkin.

“But you’re not a Serpent now?”

“Of course not. I put enough distance between us and I didn’t know anything really dangerous so eventually they let me go. Plus I started dating Hal that summer and things got serious between us pretty fast. And his dad was the mayor, so they couldn’t get too close to me anyway.”

To say Jughead is stunned would be an understatement. Alice Cooper, pastel spokeswoman for suburban perfection, grew up in a trailer park and ran with a gang as a teenager — ran with his father’s gang. It’s almost like she’s trying to tell him they’re the same. He wonders, uncomfortably, if they are. And it gives a new shade of meaning to the dream he’d had once of Betty in a poodle skirt and Archie with a knife in his back. He’ll have to untangle the resonance of that one later.

But now she’s revealed something of herself and, in the calculus of interpersonal relationships, Jughead knows it’s his turn. “I was surprised when you guys offered to let me live here. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful. But, to be honest with you, I didn’t think Mr. Cooper liked me all that much.”

Alice sighs. “Hal is a good man. He’s a good father. But he has the privilege of seeing the world as black and white in a way that you and I can’t.” She looks up from her mug of tea and meets Jughead’s eyes. “He’s always been that way. So clear about right and wrong. I’ve tried for most of our lives to mimic that. I was so sure he was right.” She trails off for a moment and the silence settles like a blanket of snow. “All I’ve ever wanted was to do what’s best for my children, all my children. And I’ve made a lot of mistakes in pursuit of that. Some of them irreparable. But some…I have a lot to atone for.”

Jughead swallows. She seems to need to speak, and he wants to hold that door open for her. “I don’t know about Polly, but Betty does knows that. She knows how much you love her. You’re a good person too.”

She nods, but looks as if she’s not really paying attention.

“Good people in bad circumstances still do bad things.” It’s a truth Jughead is intimately acquainted with, and, yet, in Alice’s mouth the words seem heavier, more personal even. Maybe because he knows about her son. Maybe because he knows that, like the hand of God, she’s plucked him off his father’s path and deposited him on her own.

“You’re here because Betty loves you and because you’re a good kid. You deserve better than what you’ve been given. It’s hard, almost impossible to climb out of that hole. Someone gave me a hand once. Now I’m passing on the favor.” She twists her empty mug from hand to hand. “Your dad’s always meant well, always done his best in his own way. He doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him. If the situation was reversed, I like to think he’d do the same for my daughters.”

“You talk like you know him.”

“We were close, once. People don’t change that much.”

Jughead thinks about the baby Serpents he’d met at Southside High. “Can I ask—Betty never mentions any family—do you still know anyone, have anyone left on the South Side?”

“No, they’re all gone now.”

He reaches an arm halfway across the table then lets it fall. “I’m sorry,” then, catching himself in time, “Alice. I know this is lame, but if there’s anything I can do.”

She smiles at him as she pushes back her chair and stands up. “You know what you can do? You can make good. And rinse that plate before you put it in the dishwasher.” She takes both their mugs to the sink. His is still three quarters full. Jughead’s ears feel hot. She shakes the contents of the little metal ball into the compost bucket beneath the sink, then loads everything into the dishwasher. When she turns back she says, “Liking tea isn’t a pre-requisite for being a Cooper.”

“Noted.”

“Sweet dreams, Jughead.”

“G‘night, Alice.” This time he doesn’t trip over her name.

A few minutes later, Betty appears in the doorway Alice has just vacated, her face a mask of sleep and concern. “Juggie? What’s going on? I got up to go to the bathroom and I heard my parents’ door close.”

“Me and your mom were just talking. She fed me lasagna.”

Betty stumbles over and curls up on the chair next to him, her head on his shoulder.

“Here, baby.”  He holds a forkful of food up to her mouth. Once she takes it, she sighs and snuggles deeper into him.

“What’d you guys talk about? Was she nice?”

“Just stuff. I’ll tell you in the morning when you’re not asleep. And yeah, she was.”

He sees her frown in his peripheral vision. “I’m not asleep. I’m just not a night owl like you.”

“Okay, Betts.” But by the time he’s finished eating, she’s fully asleep, making quiet snuffling noises.  He lifts her head off his shoulder and guides her as she melts onto the table. He turns and rinses his plate and fork before placing them in the dishwasher.

Then he lifts her back up and slings one of her arms across his shoulders. “Come on, early bird. Time for bed.” He presses a kiss against her hair, and together they stumble back toward the stairs.

[scootsaboot]

Rhysothy, with some gardening?

no warnings apply just Tim and Rhys being nerds!!

–

The early morning sun beat down on the green, manicuredlawn, shining against the dew that still clung to the grass. The neighborhoodwas quiet and still, save for the cheerful birdsong that came from the trees.Even Aubrey Langdon across the street hadn’t gotten up to turn on that hideousfountain in her front yard yet. Rhys narrowed his eyes at the fountain through thekitchen window; he’d love to take a sledge hammer to that monstrosity someday. Hebrought his mug to his lips and sipped his tea.

Seven AM on a Saturday was an ungodly time to be awake. Rhyswas grumpy. Irritated. All those other adjectives that were beyond his thinkingcapacity at seven in the goddamnmorning on a Saturday. Rhys didn’tsleep in during the week. He didn’t sleepduring the week; there was always too much to do at the office. He stayed late,he worked on projects that should have been finished weeks ago, he held boringmeetings with their sister company in the UK—sometimes he didn’t come homeuntil well into the next morning.

Rhys turned away from the kitchen window, half-tempted toclimb back into his king-sized bed and his probably still-warm Egyptian cotton1000 thread count sheets. The glass sliding door that lead to the backyard wasslightly ajar, letting the smell of wet grass and dirt waft into the house. Hestared at the door, looked back toward the bedroom—and let out a long-sufferingsigh. He’d never fall back sleep anyway.

He shrugged off the comforter he’d stolen from bed and threwit over the couch. The cat made an unhappy noise and wriggled out from beneathit, shooting Rhys a pointed look, tail straight in the air, before disappearinginto the hallway. Rhys paid her no mind—she’d come running back to him when hegot the can opener out later. She always did. Instead, he grabbed a champaignglass from the cabinet and the half-empty carton orange juice from the fridge.

Rhys tugged at the hem of the oversized shirt he’d stolen;it stopped just barely above his mid-thigh, and he wondered if maybe he shouldgo put some pants on before stepping outside in nothing but Tim’s shirt and apair of underwear. He looked down at his legs, wiggled his toes against thehardwood flooring, sipped his mimosa.

Forget it. If anyone was awake at this hour and wanted topeek over their wall, they could get an eyeful. Rhys grabbed a pair ofsunglasses from the table and slipped them on before stepping out into thebackyard. The stone patio tiles were cool beneath his bare feet and he walkedpast their outdoor furniture and the little walkway that led to the pool. Therewere bags of fertilizer scattered across the yard; some were by the ceramicplanters that lined the pool while others rested against the wall thatsurrounded the yard.

Tim was on his hands and knees by the back wall, shirt offand tanned skin at the mercy of the sun. He was leaning forward, practicallyelbow-deep in the ground, arms covered in wet soil. He wasn’t even wearinggloves. Rhys came to a stop behind him, eyeing the curve of his back, the pressof his spine against his skin, the freckles splattered across his shoulderslike a child’s painting. It looked like he’d managed to put the foundationtogether, if the wooden slats pressed together in a gentle arc were anything togo by. Not that Rhys knew anything about laying the groundwork for a garden.

Rhys watched him work, watched Tim’s muscles tightening inhis arms as he moved soil around, watched the way the dimples in his lower backbecome more prominent. He took another sip of his mimosa and smacked his lips. Rhyslifted one foot and pressed it against Tim’s lower back—and quickly pulled itaway when he felt just how sweaty Timwas. How long had he been out herealready?

“Hey.” Timsnapped, turning to look at Rhys. He was smiling though, bright and cheerful—andfrankly, kind of offensive for how early it was. “Sorry.” Tim wiped his handstogether and sat back on his knees. “Did I wake you up?”

“No.” Yes. Rhyshad woken up as soon as Tim rolled out of bed. Rhys sniffed and peered down atTim through his shades. “Why are you digging around in the yard this early? Ona Saturday?”

“Because it’s not as hot.” Tim got to his feet, bodyprotesting with a series of cracks from almost every joint. “Oof,” Tim rolledhis neck with a wince. Now that he was facing him, Rhys could see the soil hadn’tjust gotten on his arms but was clinging to his chest as well, and there wereeven a couple smudges on his cheeks. Tim reached for him, leaning in for a goodmorning kiss.

“Uh, no,” Rhys scowled, leaning back and holding his drinkup as if Tim might knock it out of his hands. “You’re gross. You can have akiss after you take a shower.”

“Oh come on, Rhys, it’s just fertilizer.”

“It’s dirt, Tim. And poop. And get your hands away from me—“

Tim fisted his hands in the stolen shirt and leaned in topress the loudest, most obnoxious kiss against Rhys’ cheek. Rhys scowled andglowered at Tim when he pulled back; he wiped away the dirt on his shirt withhis free hand.

“I hate to break this to you, but you’re not intimidatingwith the whole bed hair and wearing myshirt getup.” Tim said. “You are cute though.”

“Shut up,” Rhys grumbled, his face warming. He pressed hisglass to his bottom lip.

“Are you drinking? This early?”

“It’s my weekend, I’ll do what I want.” Rhys huffed and tooka large gulp of his drink, finishing it off. He licked his lips. “Come insideand make breakfast for me.”

Tim laughed. “Give me like, another hour. I’m almost done, Iswear.” He ran a dirty hand through his hair, pushing it away from hisforehead; he smiled widely, the lines around his mouth deepening from it. “Youwanna help?”

Rhys snorted, gently shoving Tim away before turning on hisheel and heading back into the house. When he returned a few minutes later withone of the patio chairs, Tim was already back on the ground and working on thesmall garden again. Rhys set the chair down in the grass beside him and took aseat, leaning back as far as he could and letting his shoulders slump. Hetapped Tim’s arm with the bottom of a cold bottle of water.

“I’m here to supervise.” Rhys said when Tim took the waterand twisted the cap off. He watched Tim take a long drink, his Adam’s applebopping when he swallowed. “And when you’re done…well, you got me all dirty, so I guess we’ll have to shower together before breakfast. To savewater.”

“Sure. To save water.”

“That’s what I said.”

Tim shook his head with a small smile and got back to hiswork. Rhys crossed his legs and enjoyed the view. Honestly, he didn’t know whyTim insisted on doing this himself; Rhys had tried to get a landscaper out hereto do this for them but Tim had insisted. Something about making thehouse their own, with their own hands. Rhys didn’t get it. They bought it, so it was already theirhouse. Far be it from him to keep Tim from working outside with his shirt off,though.

The hour passed slowly, and Rhys quickly grew bored. He uncrossedhis legs and pressed his feet against Tim’s back, his legs, his sides, pokingand prodding him with his toes. Tim had gotten unfortunately good at ignoringRhys when he was being purposefully annoying, and he only looked up from thegarden a few times to stick his tongue out. Eventually, though, he wrapped hishand around Rhys’ ankle and dug his fingers into the sole of his foot.

Rhys yelped and tried to tug his foot away from thetickling, squirming back in his chair. Tim smiled at him, something evil just behind his eyes, and hecrawled over Rhys, trapping him in the chair.

“Do not,” Rhyswarned, sunglasses sliding down his nose.

Tim’s hands found his ribs. Rhys shrieked, kicking his legsout and slipping further down the chair as he tried to squirm away from Tim’shands. Tim just laughed and ran his fingers up and down Rhys’ sides again.

“You!” Rhys shouted between breathless laughter, “can’t dothis to me! I’m the CEO of! A multi-bi—billion-dollar company!”

When Tim let up, he settled his hands on the armrests, hissmiling face only inches from Rhys’. Rhys struggled for breath, chest heaving,and he glared up at Tim, who closed the small space between them to kiss him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Tim said when he pulled away. “Showertime.” He sat up and tugged Rhys with him. Tim slipped his arms beneath Rhys—

“Wait, what are you doing—“

He stood up and hauled Rhys up in his arms with a grunt.Rhys clung to him, arms tight around Tim’s neck, shouting when Tim’s kneesnearly buckled beneath them.

“Oh, jeez,” Tim said with a strained laugh. “Remind me notto do that again.” He straightened himself out and headed toward the kitchen.

“I do, and you doit anyway!” Rhys said as Tim brought him into the house. “That’s why we’ve beento the chiropractor three times this year already! Do not drop me!”

[wxldchxld]

10 random headcanons

what do they sleep in? pj’s, normal clothes, nothing?

It depends. I’ve pointed out that Beck travels with a minimal amount of clothing. In most verses that is comprised of a few shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a set of shifter’s robes. The robes are the softest of which… but they’re odd. They’re long sleeved but the ends of the sleeves, from the elbow down, are wrapped. It’s one long continual piece of cloth to wind around her forearm down into the crook of her hand, so that only her thumb and fingers are exposed. The pants are the same from the knee down, and there’s a cape that is affixed to one of the shoulders that can be removed but is a pain. As a consequence she only wears them when she’s very cold, usually under a normal shirt, using the cape as a pillow and then ducking under a blanket.

If she’s hot, she just starts taking off layers until she’s comfortable. 

When she’s staying in verses like the one with Ros, she probably just sleeps in her jeans or whatever until Ros undoubtedly finds out and harps on her for not having any actual clothes.

Beck would be super into pajama sets if they were practical. The flannel plaid kind in the winter or just those sets that say something stupid on the shirt and the pants have a matching pattern. Unfortunately looking cute isn’t worth lugging extra clothes around when you travel 24/7. Her most common sleeping outfit is whatever the fuck she was wearing that day.

how many blankets / pillows do they like to have on their bed?

Ummmmm normally that’s a grand total of zero as she doesn’t have a bed. Bunched up clothes are her go-to pillow. She does have a special blanket that has a temperature regulating charm on it. The blanket is rather large but she keeps it because if her dogs so much as stick a paw under it (and they usually cuddle on cold nights anyway), they’ll all be suitably warmed. Likewise in the summer, laying on top of the blanket will lower her temperature if it needs to be lowered. 

Cora wove the blanket and enchanted it herself and if it were to go missing or be damaged in any way she would but VERY distressed. It is made of blues and greys with little orange foxes and grey owls alternating in a pattern around the edge.

Again in domestic situations Beck most likely has a pillow. It probably takes some time to adjust to. She isn’t picky about how many, and for the first few weeks she can probably still be found with her jacket bunched up under her cheek. I feel like if she were in this situation for a long period of time she’d come to want LOTS of pillows to cuddle into because Beck likes to be snug.

do they have social media? do they like it or hate it? obsess over it?

Heeeeell nooooo. Beck doesn’t own a phone, a computer, or anything that she can be tracked by. In fact in more domestic scenarios Beck will actively protest having a phone for a very long time. If she ever breaks and decides to carry one, it will be used to call or text like one or two people, and frequently allowed to die/be left somewhere. Beck sure as fuck doesn’t put her name/face out there. She wouldn’t even be comfortable using a fake name for twitter. No. No to all of it.

what are their phobias? do they have any at all?

Being caged/locked up is one of her big ones. She can handle it for a short period of time, and then as hours and days go on she will become increasingly hostile and eventually violent. At this point she has generally reverted into one of her animal forms and is dangerous to interact with.

Needles is another big one. And it’s a lot less about the needle and more about she doesn’t trust anyone injecting anything into her or even taking anything out. In fact getting Beck to use any sort of traditional medicine at all, even a couple of cold pills, is an incredible pain. She will not give blood for charity or even medical testing. If you want to stick her, you’re gonna have to hold her down tight.

Tryhophobia too. For those of you unaware it is the fear of holes. Pictures of those flowers with the small clusters of holes and shit really gross her out and she’ll get really pissed really fast if she’s forced to look at them. I do not know why, I just know it bugs her.

do they like living alone or with another person / other people?

I think Beck, ideally, would like to live with one other person. She has no desire to live in a large communal family. She would be happy with one person, and having close family members not too far away, but also not up in her business. Unfortunately her insatiable desire to travel often overpowers her desire for company. Many of Beck’s relationships end because Beck just can’t stay in one place for very long. Her lovers/friends have to come to accept that they either go with her (which Beck would love) or they patiently await her return. She doesn’t think this is fair, and has broken up with multiple partners because of this.

The fox in her usually lets her be totally content on her own and she’s spent the majority of her adult years in scarce or fleeting company. Holidays are hard, as well as birthdays, but she doesn’t generally crave attention

where do they see themselves in 2 / 5 / 10 years?

Off in the wild, doing the same thing she’s doing now. Even in verses where she’s in one place, like the one with Ros, Beck doesn’t expect to stay there. I’m not saying that won’t change in time, but that is currently where she is in her life.

are they possessive over their things? or over other people? both?

Yes and no??? Beck has a few things that mean a lot to her. For instance Cora’s blanket and her father’s music box would be defended tooth and nail. She has a few other magical items that she doesn’t give up but that’s basically because she doesn’t want them in the wrong hands, it’s not a possession thing.

When it comes to people Beck is… complicated. Beck doesn’t share lovers. She’s cool with them flirting with other people, because she does, because that’s just how she communicates, she is not cool with anything beyond that. She is much more likely to get her feelings hurt if her significant other is say, constantly hanging out with some other chick. She’s insecure in her relationships because a lot of them have fallen through and over all she just doesn’t have great luck staying with other human beings in lasting relationships (romantic or otherwise). So I don’t think that’s really jealousy.

She is possessive in the way that those are her people though. It takes a long time to get this level of loyalty from Beck, because Beck is NOT a self-sacrificing kinda gal, but she will protect what is hers to the death if it comes down to it. She’s also very emotionally protective of her people. Actually Beck has an almost compulsive need to protect most people emotionally. Beck constantly wants to comfort people, even strangers. She doesn’t like seeing anyone sad or scared or in pain, and she’ll go out of her way to stop this. (That was a major mókus moment, and had nothing to do with the prompt but whatever).

what do they never, ever want to speak of, ever?

Beck doesn’t like to talk about her abuse. Especially the abuse she suffered at the hands of her brother. But she does want to tell someone, she wants someone she can put that trust into, she wants someone in her life that understands. She is way too scared to do so unless her back is against the wall for fear that people won’t understand. Beck doesn’t demonize or even dislike her brother. She loves him deeply and worries for him and wishes every day they could go back to being childhood BFFs getting into shit and driving her Aunt B nuts… but they can’t. She knows that no matter how good things might be for a little while, Fen is a sick man and she has an inescapable wanderlust. Eventually if she went back, things would get bad again. But it hurts her. She doesn’t think anyone else would understand this, so she doesn’t say anything about it.

do they have a short temper? what’s most likely to set it off?

Not at all. You’re much more likely to upset her/make her cry than you are to piss her off. Luckily the former doesn’t happen that often either. I don’t think Beck has ever actually lost her temper on this account. I have one thread where she got pissed because she’d been locked up for days, but I count that more as a response to stress than really just getting pissed at someone.

Beck is nonviolent AF and her response to frustration is generally to just leave when someone is getting on her nerves. Occasionally she’s stuck in a situation where she can’t get away from people that get on her nerves/she doesn’t like. And she fox in her says that is her cue to make their lives absolutely miserable. Harry from our Foxy Ladies verse would fit into this perfectly. And Ros should thank god that Adam isn’t there anymore because Beck would have NO patience for him. But she’s not really... mad. Or losing her temper. She just thinks it is fair. They make her miserable and she can’t get away, so she’s going to annoy the piss out of them. Fair is fair.

do they take baths or showers? do they prefer one over the other?

Beck wants to know if getting rained on constitutes as a shower? She’s pretty sure it does. Because sometimes the weather man calls them showers.

Normally, in most verses, Beck will bathe in creeks or truck stops or those places hikers can stop for supplies and shit. It’s maybe like twice a week, sometimes less in the winter, sometimes more in the summer. 

If given the choice Beck likes baths. She dislikes things spraying in her face, and she doesn’t like the tiny holes that make up shower heads. They gross her out to look at. But she doesn’t like to soak too long. And daily bathing is something she has to readjust to in more domestic verses.

[ddcjas]

nas and 'loma for the ship meme 🙃

Send in two (or more) names and I’ll fill all this out about the ship!

paloma & nasir—

General:

How long will they last?: TIL THEY LIKE, SIXTY.

How quickly did/will they fall in love?: “i feel like i’ve known you my entire life” headass nasir prbly fell in love within the first six months of meeting loma, paloma fell in love within a year or a year & a half.

How was their first kiss?: [looks back at the thread] :~) pretty nice. very beautiful. 10/10 how i wish my first kiss went.

Wedding:

Who proposed?: we both know that it was nasir, in the most headass way possible.

Who is the best man/men?: his friends and jae richards :-)

Who is the braid’s maid(s)?: her sister/her friends. all five of them.

Who did the most planning?: ...........paiden.

Who stressed the most?: paloma.

How fancy was the ceremony?: Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding?: paloma’s mother

Sex (LOLOLOL):

Who is on top?: it’s 50/50 in the future. 

Who is the one to instigate things?: lol nasir, sometimes loma if she feeling freak nasty.

How healthy is their sex life?: Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they?: Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last?: i keep imagining that paloma’s first time is super long but oNLY BECAUSE ITS JUST A BUNCH OF AWKWARD SHIT LIKE BUMPING FOREHEADS AND HER FEELING REALLY GROSSED OUT. otherwise idk, however long normal sex lasts bitch i wouldnt know

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms?: of course!!!

How rough are they in bed?: Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 because paloma’s a pussy | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do?: No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally?: NASLOMA TWINS COMING BY THE END OF THE MONTH, STAY TUNED.

How many children will they adopt?: prbly none but the future is bright.

Who gets stuck with the most diapers?: nasir.

Who is the stricter parent?: paloma???

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school?: pALOMA

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)?: paloma.

Who is the more loved parent?: both bc they’re saps.

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings?: nasir makes paloma go bc he cannot deal.

Who cried the most at graduation?: paloma.

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law?: nasir would make them pinky promise not to tell mom then take em to waffle house at 3am.

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking?: LOL, PALOMA OBVIOUSLY.

Who is the most picky in their food choice?: paloma sometimes. sometimes nasir says fuck it and gets boxed mac & cheese.

Who does the grocery shopping?: both, but mostly nasir since he can’t do shit else.

How often do they bake desserts?: hella.

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater?: both?????

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner?: nasir except most of it is burnt. :’)

Who is more likely to suggest going out?: nasir.

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking?: NASIR STONE.

Chores:

Who cleans the room?: paloma.

Who is really against chores?: nasir.

Who cleans up after the pets?: paloma.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug?: nasir.

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over?: paloma.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning?: nasir.

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths?: paloma.

Who takes the dog out for a walk?: both.

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays?: they’re headasses.

What are their goals for the relationship?: they both dumb so idk.

Who is most likely to sleep till noon?: paloma if she been taking mad trips, but nasir.

Who plays the most pranks?: nasir.