#trying to fix a poster on the wall above my bed. fixed it! rolled over thinking i was safe

[owen-not-carvour]

i was Going to rewatch the last 15 mins of the last episode of s2 of good omens….

but just as i hit start i almost broke my nose!!

so uhhh if that’s not a sign to Not do that idk what is lol

[wheeier]

no taking back

summary: it was only fun and games. but steve had other plans.

warnings: modern au, tooth-rotting fluff i guess, little but of swearing

+ olivia rodrigo’s sour album (stream besties), the movie tangled at the end because it just radiates as a comfort movie

yes a modern au !!! i just saw this on tiktok (the sour part, but the rest was my idea!) and thought it was so cute so it gave me an idea to make it as a fic, enjoy !!!

steve harrington x fem!reader

olivia rodrigo’s new album just released and you were thrilled to listen to it and stream it the whole day.

when you finally got to listen to it, you asked your friends—robin, nancy, and the party, if they listened to it and which ones were their favorites.

robin told you that her top three were hope ur ok, jealousy, jealousy, and brutal.

nancy said she really loved favorite crime.

max said hers was also brutal.

el told you that she played good 4 u and traitor on repeat that hopper had to go into her room to turn it down.

when mike comes over to the cabin he can assure that el does indeed play them on repeat and get pissy about it (but he secretly loves the album, but he wouldn’t let her or anyone know that).

and lastly lucas and dustin are fans of deja vu and 1 step forward 3 steps back. max even told you that they would sing the bridge of deja vu on the top of their lungs.

you slightly laughed at the memory of them telling you about it.

however, there’s one more person that you haven’t talked to about it yet.

steve.

your smile faltered and faded when he came across in your mind.

your feelings for him had deepened over the time and listening to the sour album made it feel like you two had broken up, which in fact, is not true because you were never together in the first place.

suddenly, an idea popped in your head. instead of being sad about steve, you thought about texting him, although it’s almost 1AM, you knew he’d still be up.

Sailor Man

You: hey

You: u up?

Sailor Man: duh

Sailor Man: this has been our nightly routine u always bother me when i’m about to go to sleep

You: fuck off

You: don’t pretend that you’re not binge watching outer banks until 4am

Sailor Man: i’m not?!?

You: yeah right

You: anyways

You: can u do me a favor

Sailor Man: will i get free pizza afterwards

You: no

Sailor Man: k

You: what the fuck

You: fine

Sailor Man: hehe

Sailor Man: what’s the favor ;)

You: dont get me started with that winky face i swear ure so dead when i see you at the wheeler’s house tomorrow

You: have you listened to olivia rodrigo’s new album

Sailor Man: ohh the bitter album?

You: ITS SOUR DUMBASS

Sailor Man: I DONT KNOW?!?

You: I CANT DO THIS HJAGSK

Sailor Man: shut up

Sailor Man: i’ve heard some of the songs but i haven’t fully listened to them

Sailor Man: why

You: can you like

You: ask me to be ur girlfriend then break up with me right after so i can experience and actually feel the whole sour album

Sailor Man: what

You: just do it !!

Sailor Man: you’re so funny (y/n/n)

Sailor Man: okay

Sailor Man: will you be my girlfriend?

You: yes !!!

You: ...

You: hello

You: dont tell me u fell asleep

Sailor Man: i’m not doing the last part you might as well forget about it

You: wjat

Sailor Man: :D

You: wtf

You: okay steve cut it out i’m not doing this anymore u’re not funny

Sailor Man: nope

Sailor Man: go to sleep we’re dating now that’s how this works

Sailor Man: okay i dont know if you’re still reading this now and i am terrified to say this to you in person like TERRIFIED. might piss my pants if i did. so (y/n/n), my favorite dumbass, my favorite person to talk to at night even if it interrupts my binge watching marathon, you make me so happy to the point that even when i sleep you’re still in my dreams. i like you. i have like the biggest fattest crush on you. and thank you for doing that sour album thing or whatever, because of that i get to finally ask you out

you rolled on your back after you read the message, facing the ceiling as your mind processed what just happened. was he playing with you? was he actually serious about asking you out?

Incoming video call...

Sailor Man

you took a deep breath before tapping the green button and placing it back down on the bed.

“hey,” you can tell that he was tired based on his voice. “can you show your face, please? i miss you.”

ignoring the butterflies in your stomach, you hesitantly lifted the phone and shifted your position to lay on your side. “hey.”

“hey yourself.” steve grins. that stupid grin that makes your stomach turn, that grin you always want to see everyday.

“what’s..up?” you avoided looking at him and started to admire your surroundings and the posters placed on your wall. this was the only time you were glad you weren’t with him in person.

“i just wanted to see if you’re okay.” of course he will ask that. he's steve. he cares about other more than himself.

“i am, thanks.” you showed a smile that doesn't reach your ears and steve knew something was bothering you. “hey, look. i'm sorry about my confession- if it made you uncomfortable i'm sorry-”

“no,” you cut him off, looking back at his face on the screen. “i’m fine, really. you don't have to apologize. i was just, surprised.”

there was silence between the two of you for a few seconds, before you spoke again. “did you mean it?” you voice was only above whisper but steve managed to hear them. “of course,” he answered almost too quick, without any hesitation. “i've been trying to find the perfect opportunity and had been asking god for signs because i can't make a move myself-”

“asking god?” you chuckled and steve smiled hearing them, glad that he somehow lightened the mood. “well, more like begging.” he continues and you giggled.

once your laughter died you both fell into silence again. you still couldn’t believe that out of a fun joke, it would turn into a whole another situation. “so, um.. just so you know, i’m not mad, or upset, or anything. i really was just surprised. it felt like a dream because i didn’t know that you like me back and all i did was just supposed to be a fun joke but—”

“hold on, back?”

“what?”

“like you back. you said i like you back.” steve sat up on his bed and fixed his hair as his eyes widened. “i did...” you said slowly, not catching up.

“does that mean you..”

then it hit you. “oh, right. yeah. i- i like you..too.” you waited for his reaction and once you saw him smile you couldn’t stop yourself from doing the same.

“i knew it. and well, i guess that confirms it. we’re dating now. no taking back.” he smirks then laughs when your rolled your eyes. “don’t flatter yourself, harrington. i did not say shit.” you pointed your index finger on the screen, barely containing your giggles.

“based on your beautiful smile i think you don’t need to say it. i like you, and you like me. we’re dating.” steve gives you a teasing smile. you tried keeping your serious face but it won’t last longer so you finally smiled again. “alright, fine. no taking backs. we’re dating.” you said then laughed as he whisper-yelled ‘yes!’ while fist pumping the air.

he soon joined your laughter and you stayed like that until your jaw was pretty much in pain because of your smiles. when it was all quiet again, you both just admired each other’s presence through the screens of your phones. “i wish i was there with you.” he mumbles. “yeah, me too.” you hugged your cold pillow beside you, closing your eyes for a moment and imagining it as steve.

“are your parents home?”

you snorted at his random question. “i’m actually alone right now, they’re out because dad got promoted at his work so he and mom and i think a few friends went out to celebrate. they should be home by an hour or two. why?”

“nothing.” was all he said before hanging up. you were left confused but then he’s your best friend after all, so you knew right then and there that he’ll do something stupid. after you turned your phone off you suddenly felt watching a movie so you went to the kitchen to make some popcorn.

when it was finished and had been put in a bowl, that’s when you heard your doorbell rang—in a pattern which you recognize, and only one person does that.

you let out a quiet laugh when you realized who it was and set the bowl on the counter before opening the door.

“hi!” steve greeted you with a smile. “uh, hi?” you laughed nervously and stepped aside for him to go in. “i smell popcorn, are we having a movie night?” he says as he steps inside and shrugged off his jacket. “actually yeah, i’m planning on watching—”

“tangled.” he finishes off, you subconsciously smiled upon hearing your favorite movie. “how’d you know?”

steve snatches a few popcorns from the bowl as you both arrived in the kitchen. “(y/n), you have watched that movie 7 times this week and always gush to me about it.”

“well, you’re the only one that is around my age that i can talk to with that movie. robin and nancy aren’t that into it.” you replied, grabbing the bowl and making your way back to your bedroom, steve following your heels. “and you think i’m the best option to talk to about that?” he asks, plopping down on your bed and resting his back on the headboard.

“you’re not complaining.” you shrugged as you grabbed your laptop and sat beside steve.

“yeah, probably because i like you.” it came out of his mouth casually. you froze in place and felt your cheeks heat up, finally nodding your head slowly, “..probably.” as you typed in the movie in your laptop you felt steve scoot closer, making your breath hitch.

you were both in a comfortable silence while watching the movie, except for a few jokes and comments that steve makes and him explaining how similar he was to flynn rider.

“you know, since i’m eugene, you could be rapunzel.” he suddenly says. you eyes were still on the screen but your eyebrows furrowed. “why? i’m nothing like her.”

finally looking at steve, you almost screamed how he was already looking at you. “oh, you are so rapunzel. you may not have the longest hair in the world, but you are pretty much similar.” he replies, smiling and not taking his eyes off of you.

you paused the movie and shifted your body towards him, intrigued by his explaination. “how so?”

“well, first off,” steve starts, resting his hands on the soft mattress. “you’re both sweet, you’re both a huge ray of sunshine, have gorgeous eyes and smile, and eugene is head over heels over you — and since he doesn’t exist in real life, i’d like to be the substitute.” he finished with a confident smile.

after about three seconds, you burst out of laughter. you laughed. as much as he loves the sound of your laugh, he can’t help but pout. “(y/n), i’m trying to be sweet here!”

“i’m sorry!- it’s just- i can’t help but laugh at your flirting.” you managed to say between your laughs. you know he’s kidding but he looked at you like he was offended.

your laughter died down and held steve’s face. “it’s cute, sorry.” you mumble with a little laugh. when he finally smiled you turned to your laptop and continued the movie.

steve gazes at you for a few more seconds before watching the movie with you again. “thank you.” you whisper, glancing at him.

“you’re very much welcome, my rapunzel.” he says smiling before he slides a bit down on the bed so his head could reach your shoulder and rests it there.

you giggled as you heard him whisper,

“thank you, olivia rodrigo.”

[escapewithbts]

They Find Out About Your Original Bias - Hyung Line

——————————————

Namjoon: It was the first time your boyfriend had come over to your place. The relationship was relatively new so you were pretty nervous to have him there; showing someone your personal space opened up a whole new level of vulnerability. But you felt ready to show Namjoon, and it was actually going very well so far.

“And this is my bedroom.” You stated as you walked in and let him enter ahead of you.

He strolled around slowly with his hands behind his back, taking in every detail; his eagerness to learn everything there was to know about you evident.

“It’s cozy in here,” he said looking back at you with a dimpled smile, “I like it a lot.”

You blushed and thanked him quietly. He then sauntered over to your large bookshelf full of all different genres. He ran his long finger along their spines, occasionally picking one up to inspect it.

“May I borrow this?” He questioned, holding up a particularly good one.

You nodded and leaned against the doorframe.

“Of course. You can borrow any of them.”

He nodded and tucked it under his arm, then went back to investigating.

You smiled, admiring the way his eyebrows furrowed while searching all the titles and how wide his eyes got when he found one that sparked his interest. You were so glad you found someone who loved to read as much as you did.

Suddenly, he burst out laughing, but you couldn’t see why since he had turned his back toward you.

“What about this one?” he asked, “Can I borrow it, too?”

To your horror, when he turned around he was holding up a notebook you had put together before you had met; a colorful notebook covered in pictures of your old bias.

“‘All the Reasons I Love Min Yoongi’,” he read out loud, “This sounds like a really great read!”

Your face turned beet red as you rushed over to him.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I forgot all about that!”

You attempted to grab the notebook from his grasp but he quickly held it up high, his height taking the upper hand.

“I’m serious, (y/n), I really want to read it! Maybe it will give me some inspiration!” he joked, grinning down at you as you tried to jump and take it from him.

“Joonie, nooo, oh my god, please give it back!” You demanded in between giggles.

Finally he lowered it down and you snatched it from him while you had the chance, holding it tightly against your chest. Namjoon couldn’t stop laughing.

“I-I really did forget about it...” you smiled, looking down at the ground shyly, “I’m sorry, Namjoon, I would have thrown it away...”

He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him, tilting your chin up to look him in the eyes.

“Please don’t throw it away, (y/n),” he said, “It’s so cute. I love that you were a fan of ours before we met... even if you did have poor taste.”

You chuckled and rolled your eyes.

“Besides,” he went on, “I know for a fact I’m your favorite Bangtan rapper now.”

You smiled wide at him and ran a hand through his soft hair.

“Of course you are, Joonie.”

Then you stood on your tip toes and put your lips to his in a tender kiss.

~~~

Seokjin: You had spent the day showing your boyfriend Jin around your hometown, ending at the house you grew up in where your parents still lived. He had followed you through the whole tour of the home, listening to the all the anecdotes and memories you had of the things you experienced there. He loved getting a glimpse into the childhood that had shaped you into who you are as an adult. It made you two feel closer than ever.

“So that concludes the tour!” You exclaimed, throwing you hands up and entering the foyer where the tour had started. Jin looked at you quizzically and pointed at the staircase.

“But you didn’t even show me your old bedroom. Can’t I see it?”

You shook your head. “No, no that’s not interesting. It’s just a bedroom... you know, there’s a bed, dresser, desk... normal stuff.”

You waved your hands in protest, trying to convince Jin it wasn’t worth seeing. He cocked his head and squinted his eyes at you suspiciously.

“Hmm, no, I’d actually really like to see your old room,(y/n)-ah.”

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

“Fine.”

You headed up the stairs, Jin folllowing close behind you, your heart beating faster with every step. You stopped outside the bedroom door and turned to him.

“Jinnie, I love you, you know that right?”

“Yes of course. Why are you being so weird? What is in there?”

You put your hand on his arm in reassurance.

“Just remember, I haven’t been in this room in 5 years... A lot has changed since then, okay?”

Jin knitted his eyebrows and nodded hesitantly.

Finally, you took a deep breath and opened the door. You switched the overhead light on to reveal what had made you warn Seokjin before entering; all the walls were covered in pictures and posters of your old BTS bias, none other than Kim Taehyung. You bit your lip and glanced at your boyfriend. His wide eyes scanned the whole room, his mouth open in shock.

“Oh my...” he trailed off.

Suddenly he burst out laughing his infamous windshield wiper laugh, wrinkles forming around his eyes. He brought his hand up to his mouth and slapped his knee with the other.

“Jin-ah! Stop laughing!” You demanded with a smile, hiding your embarrassed face in your hands.

He couldn’t stop. You noticed tears falling down his cheeks from laughing so hard.

“Oh my god, I have to take a picture for V-ssi!” he said, pulling out his phone from his pocket.

You quickly snatched the phone from his hand.

“Oh no absolutely not! No one is ever seeing this room ever! I’m-I’m taking all this down!”

Jin finally began to catch his breath and held up his hands. “Don’t take it down, (y/n), please,” he said, stepping toward you and pulling you into a hug, the chuckles still escaping from his chest making you shake against him, “It’s okay, it’s okay. You just found a different BTS Kim to love!”

~~~

Yoongi: You sat on the couch flipping between channels when your boyfriend walked in the living room. He had come from his studio down the hall where he had been working on music.

“Hey (y/n)?”

You glanced over at him and noticed an annoyed look on his face.

“Yes, Yoongs?”

He sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

“Can I borrow your laptop? My computer is completely fucking up and I can’t seem to fix it.”

You smiled sympathetically at him.

“Of course you can, it’s in the bedroom at the desk.”

He turned away then came back a couple minutes later holding your computer and a pair of his headphones. He plopped down next to you and propped his feet up on the coffee table before opening the laptop and recovering the files he had been working on. You let him do his thing, happy that now with a portable computer he was able to be next to you while he worked.

Some time passed when suddenly out of nowhere Yoongi burst into a fit of giggles, leaning his body away from you slightly.

“What, what? What’s so funny?” You asked, smiling at his outburst and cute gummy smile.

He waved his hand at you while still staring at the screen.

“Nothing nothing.” He snickered.

You turned your body toward him and nudged his arm.

“Come onnn Yoongi, show me.”

He covered his large grin with his hand and slowly turned the laptop so you could see it.

There on the screen, to your horror, was a file folder with the title “WWH Jin”, full of pictures of your old bias Kim Seokjin. Your face turned hot and red, and you went to close the laptop. Yoongi’s hand stopped it.

“Don’t shut it, I want to look!”

He was still laughing.

You put your head in your hands and whined through a smile, “Yoongi-ahhhh, you weren’t ever supposed to see that, I meant to delete it!”

He scrolled through the pictures while you just peaked through your fingers in shame.

“Damn, (y/n), I knew Jin was your favorite but I didn’t think you would have a whole folder dedicated to him.”

You shrugged. “It was a long time ago.... can we stop looking at it now please?”

Yoongi rubbed your shoulder.

“Sure, sure, but I’m emailing the whole folder over to Jin hyung.”

Your eyes got wide and you quickly grabbed the laptop from his grasp.

“Oh no you are not Min Yoongi!”

You closed it swiftly and put it on the coffee table in front of you. Yoongi laughed and pulled you by the shoulders until you fell into his warm chest, his arms holding you close to him.

“I’m just kidding jagiya, I would never do that to you.”

He kissed the top of your head and you looked up into his dark brown eyes.

“Just maybe make a ‘Min Suga’ folder, too, hmm?”

You laughed and snuggled more into him.

“Okay, I can do that Yoongi-ah.”

~~~

Hoseok: You were preparing dinner for you and Hoseok when you suddenly heard your Twitter notifications going off like crazy. You got mentioned a lot being in a public relationship with an idol, but this seemed excessive. You wiped your hands on the kitchen towel and unlocked your phone to see what all the fuss was about.

Your eyes widened in shock when you scrolled through the tweets about you... someone had found your old Tumblr where you had written stories about your old bias, Park Jimin. How they figured out it was you you had no idea, but you did know fans could be quite detective.

“Hobi!” You called to him, rushing into the living room where he was sitting on the couch, “Please tell me you haven’t read any of the tweets about-“ you stopped when you saw him looking at you with the biggest mischievous grin on his face.

He raised his eyebrows at you suggestively. You groaned, hiding your embarrassed face in your hands.

“‘I closed my eyes and felt Jimin’s soft plump lips on mine as he kissed me passionately...’” Jhope read out loud from the app on his phone.

You leapt towards him.

“Hobi-ah, noooo!”

He moved the phone away from your reach.

“Ohh Jimin, yes, I love your 6 pack and plump lips, ohh you’re so sexy Jimin-ah!” He teased.

You laughed and rolled your eyes, attempting to take his phone so he couldn’t read anymore. He held the phone above his head and laid back on the couch, using his other arm to pull you down on top of him.

You squealed, falling into his chest.

“So you liked Jimin-ah, huh?”

You tugged at his shirt gently, not meeting his gaze.

“Yes...” you mumbled, “I honestly totally forgot about that site and those stories.”

Hoseok kissed your nose and ran his hand through your hair.

“I think it’s cute, Jagi.”

You cocked you head at him.

“You do?”

He smiled.

“Yeah! And it just confirms my suspicions about you having a thing for dancers.” He said with a wink.

*

Masterlist

[percival-c-mcleach]

Haunted Not By Ghosts- a McLeach fic.

The atmosphere was as heavy and thick as smog, stuck in time. The house, the barn and the ramshackle sheds were worn down from years of neglect, the barn having been particularly hard hit by time, half of its body rotted and given way to mushrooms.

The house's exterior had once been blue, now stripped almost completely to its wood and brick, with speckles of paint the only indication of what it might had been. The windows were cracked, rusted with dust. Weeds had forced themselves up between the boards of the porch, nearly obscuring the wood. Hidden among the vegetation was a dog bowl, a bright firetruck red that had now faded to a dull pink in the blistering sun, the faintest of childish block writing had faded too much to be read.

Taking a shaky breath, McLeach surveyed his childhood home. For forty years, it had laid abandoned, but it felt just as forboding now as it did back then, if not worse. Anxiety roiled in the man's stomach as he forced himself up the sunken steps, feeling the wood groan beneath him.

Joanna followed her master's footsteps almost exactly, not trusting the structural integrity of the building. She watched as McLeach hesitated with the doorknob, as if it would suddenly come to life and bite him. He gave a gentle twist of the knob- no luck.

"Aw hell.." McLeach huffed, twisting the knob harder. He jiggled the door, but the ancient wood refused to give. He crouched to examine the old doggie door-one he used as his personal entrance to the house-but he was now too old and too round for such an endeavor. Joanna looked between him and the door, noticing his pointed look. She shook her head hurriedly-no way would she be able to fit through there, and she was not looking to get splinters in her sides. Letting loose a curse, McLeach kicked the door-and it popped open nearly effortlessly. Quickly shaking off his surprise, he shouldered the heavy oak the rest of the way open, coughing as a wave of musty air washed over them both.

Once natural sunlight fell over the place, McLeach felt his breath catch in his throat- sans a thick coating of dust, the hallway looked almost exactly as he remembered it being. It was as if the other three McLeaches hadn't left the house; most of the decor still hung in place, with the addition of cobwebs. The coat rack still held his father's old bag, four pairs of slippers lined up beneath the side table, waiting for owners who would never return.

The house felt haunted. Not in the way most people came to think of haunted houses, brimming with ghosts; haunted in the sense that you could feel everything that had happened in this place. The anxiety only grew stronger, the further the pair ventured in. The carpet had faded from direct sunlight, but the patches in the shade of the furniture still remained its dark green color. Dust rose in clouds as man and lizard ventured carefully down the hall, with Joanna trying her best to hold in her coughing.

The family portrait was still there, hanging above a boarded-up fireplace. McLeach didn't blame anyone for leaving it, it wasn't something you'd want to have in your house. The sepia-colored photograph was dust-covered, but the man could still feel the cold, hard glare of his father through it. He raised his hand to wipe away the dust. The first to emerge was his mother. Thin-faced and tired, with her dark hair pulled up in an untidy bun. In one arm she cradled the newly-born Casey in his thick wool blanket, the other dangled down, gently squeezing the hand of a seven-year-old Percival. He had been small back then, missing two of his front teeth and a head full of hair like his mother's, dark and messy. Rubbing away the rest of the dust, Mr. McLeach soon followed. Towering over his wife and children, not even the shadow from the brim of his hat could have hid the starkness of his unnaturally light eyes. His large hand had a rough grip on Percival's shoulder then, the man grimaced at the memory. He couldn't bring himself to look longer at his father than was necessary. Even in photographs, he seemed to be glaring directly at his eldest.

Feeling claws on his leg, McLeach glanced down to see Joanna attempting to raise herself higher, she wanted a view too. He scooped her up as one would a toddler, though with some difficulty given her hefty weight. "Ay, you know who that is?" McLeach smiled, pointing to his mother. Joanna tilted her head quizzically- the human woman looked very distinctively familiar, even though she knew they had never met. "That's your namesake," McLeach continued, "My mama, Joanna. I promised that I'd name my firstborn daughter after her...and well, you count, I guess." Joanna wasn't able to understand just how important that was, but she felt it was very, very important. She waggled her tail happily, inching her snout closer to the frame. She clearly recognized the young Percival, and let out a rasp that sounded much like a wheezing laugh. "Go ahead, you looked weird when you were a kid too." McLeach rolled his eyes. His arms had started to ache, and he set her back down. He continued down the hall, and froze for a brief moment when he came to the wall opposite the sitting room's entrance. Beneath a framed picture of Casey with his model airplane, a round hole was at shoulder-height, the impact having shredded and burnt the faded yellow wallpaper. "..Damn idiot didn't bother to get it fixed after I left, eh?" He scoffed, "You see this, Joanna? You can tell I didn't get my marksmanship from Pops. He couldn't hit the broad-side of a barn." A slightly alarmed chirrup arose from Joanna's throat as she realized what that hole was, but McLeach didn't seem bothered by it. He breezed past the bullet-hole and past the sitting room, after taking a quick glance inside and finding that the armchair and couch were overrun with a brackish mold.

The kitchen was small, and had once been cozy. The kitchen window had broken, and one of his mother's prized climbing rosebushes had wormed its way in, leaving a layer of generations of rotting petals over the linoleum. Nevertheless, the rosebush itself was thriving, its creamy white petals shining in the golden sunlight. Reaching out to touch, McLeach couldn't help but to pluck one of the roses off, holding it in his palm. He had forgotten how silky-soft the petals felt, and how sweet it smelled; he closed his eyes and inhaled, feeling a sharp pang in his middle. A sharp pang of an emotion he couldn't quite describe. It was happiness and sadness rolled into one, and it left an ache. The smell reminded him of sitting outside with his mother, tending to the rosebushes together; if a blossom had just fallen, his mother would pluck apart the petals and keep them in a jar, preserved in the icebox until she got around to making soap and hand-cream. McLeach opened his eyes. The strange emotion only grew. He dropped the rose onto the floor, to join the rest of the fallen flowers.

Joanna had gotten braver, and went ahead of the poacher. She still felt intimidated by the house; she seen that her owner was as well. It was odd, to see him so on edge in a place that was so familiar to him. Maybe if she showed she was brave, he'd feel better. Crawling up a set of stairs, she gazed down the dim hallway. Four doors, only one of them was left ajar. Curiosity got the better of her, and the goanna went to take a peek.

The bedroom looked as if its occupant had left in a hurry. She could still see old toys and picture books on the shelves, a small, rickety wooden bed with moth-eaten blankets neatly made, with a shapeless lump that at one point had been a teddy bear sitting atop the covers. The walls were wallpapered, though it was difficult to tell what color they had been, for it was now all a dull grey. The posters on the walls were faded yellow, with vague shapes of rubberhose cartoon characters etched onto them.

Hearing McLeach wheeze his way to the top of the stairs, Joanna looked over her shoulder, and sat outside the door until McLeach could join her. He leant in the doorway of his old bedroom, soaking in the scene. After what seemed like minutes, he finally walked into the room, slow and quiet.

The thing of interest for McLeach were the picture albums on one of his shelves. The ones left exposed to the sun were faded-but maybe these were saved. He grabbed on and flipped it open, feeling a large lump rise in his throat when he seen that they were untouched. Smelled a little mildewy, but were still visible. He choked down the lump, flipping through each page slowly, wanting to savor every picture. His baby brother in his bassinet, wearing a goofy-looking baby bonnet. Flip. Their old dog, Blueberry, sleeping on the rug in the sitting room, a chewbone lolling out of his mouth. Flip. A photo of his parents on their wedding day, both looking much younger and happier than he had ever remembered them seeing; Mr. McLeach had looked kinder then, gazing at his bride with all the love and adoration that a husband was supposed to have for his life partner. Flip. His childhood friend, Ruby, sitting with the nine-year-old Percy on the river's rocks, holding baby ducklings. Flip. Flip. Flip.

These were happy memories; why did his heart ache so much looking at them? He shouldn't feel like this, looking back on what were the happier years of his life. Flip. Flip.

Percival's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach.

Of course there had to be pictures of Mr. Wells in here; back then, the McLeaches considered him as good as family. A tall, scrawny, unassuming man with shoulder-length brown hair, who had kindly and selflessly looked after Joanna and the boys while Mr. McLeach was away in the army- a second father figure, the reliant one, one who wouldn't yell and scream at the smallest of slights. After spending the summer with Mr. Wells as a boy, Percival wished he had stayed home. At least his father didn't play mind games with him, and when he hurt him, it was out of rage, and not premeditated. Not passed off as accidents that were all Percival's own fault. Not passed off as something he deserved, for something he couldn't even recall doing. The picture seemed so innocent. Just a kindly man with the boy he called his honorary son, on the back of a old mule at the fair. Percival knew better; he knew that under his child self's sweater was a nasty deep bruise, a bruise that hurt for weeks. Mr. Wells had claimed it had been an accident, that he hadn't meant to swing the shovel so hard into him. It was Percival's fault, for sneaking up on him like that.

'You'll be hurting for a while, Percy..' He could still hear that soft voice, too soft to note any real remorse, 'You frightened me something awful...I guess we learned our lesson on sneaking up on people, didn't we?'

We. As if it was a lesson they both learnt. As if it wasn't just one of the many thinly-veiled excuses used to hurt him. As if he didn't do worse, as if he did not permanently scar him physically and mentally. As if he didn't one day stop giving his excuses, once Percival had gotten too old to fall for them. As if it was the both of them having a knife held to the soft skin of their throat. As if it were the both of them who had to endure a full day and night in the skinning shed, surrounded by the dead, staring eyes of hogs. As if it were the both of them who had to endure nightmares, long after the torment had stopped.

It had always been 'We'. Never a 'I'm sorry.' It was always 'You.'

He had been brave only once. Brave enough to go to his father for help. How foolish of Percival to believe that his father would have stood up for his son. He never did such a thing before. The entire ordeal had been Percival's fault-his fault for being too stubborn, too much of a brat. If he had behaved better, Wells wouldn't have resorted to harsher punishments-it had been his fault he was treated so poorly.

For once, Percival stood up for himself.

Mrs. McLeach had tried to deescalate the fight. Mr. McLeach found himself with a broken nose, as Percival helped Joanna off the floor and out of the room. He only heard the safety click off before he had dove down the hall, sprinting from the door and into the night. "DON'T YOU EVER COME HOME!" For forty years he stayed away.

The strangled scream had terrified Joanna spitless. The goanna had been nosing around underneath McLeach's old bed, when her master emitted a sound so animalistic, that for a moment she feared that a big-cat had been hiding somewhere in the room. She immediately balled herself against the corner as the photo album was flung into the desk hard enough to shatter the frail wooden handle. The lump was back in McLeach's throat again, tighter and more painful than before, forcing tears to swell and blur his vision. His breathing came in ragged gasps, trying to keep the deep pain in his middle from winning. He crouched where he had stood, clenching his hands so tight that he felt as though they may break. He shouldn't be getting upset over this. He shouldn't be getting this upset over a goddamn picture.

It had been forty years. Why does it still hurt so bad? Why does it still feel so fresh?

The sudden warm weight crawling onto his lap tore him back into the present. Joanna scrambled as far up on him as she could. Percival hugged her as tight as he could, until his heart rate slowed back to normal, until he could breathe without choking. "Thanks." His voice was barely more than a croak. He took his bandana to dry his eyes with, "I'm sorry..I just.." he couldn't explain what had happened. Joanna understood though. She gently headbutted his shoulder, before slithering off of him and towards the photo album, picking it up in her jaws. McLeach took it from her, holding it in his lap. He'd tear out the pictures he wanted to keep, and leave the rest to rot in this forsaken house. The sun had just started to set as they made their way back to the truck, parked in the barren field next to the rotting barn. McLeach didn't even bother to give the house one last look before they drove off. Maybe now hadn't been the right time to come back. Maybe there never would be a 'right time.' Eventually, something had to be done about the place. Maybe he'd torch that haunted house to the ground. A house haunted, not by ghosts.

[bellygunnr]

Blown Lightbulb

A commission piece for @poisonheadcrabsalesman featuring Thomas Lasky/Sarah Palmer. 

---

The house is cold. It hasn’t changed at all since you’ve last been here, some twenty odd years ago. You hadn’t been a kid then-- just a pilot, home on leave despite not really wanting to be. It had been tense then. It was the same now, even if your mother wasn’t even here, and you were laying bare the contents of your past to the two people you loved the most and considered the most important in your life. You hesitate to look at them, not quite fearful of what they’re thinking but definitely reluctant, like any of this is your fault and something to be ashamed of.

You know no one can really blame you for wanting some modicum of closure, but you’ve always been conscious of starting losing battles. Your mother isn’t even here, for one. A toneless holo-message is all she’s left you, detailing that an emergency at work brought her in and she’ll be back sometime in the evening. Maybe you and your colleagues could meet her at this location, even, and upon further investigation, that location is a startling high-profile restaurant of considerable Martian renown.

So much for flying close to the surface. You’d be in the air for all to see, just for a chance to reconcile with what little remains of your family. But that wasn’t for several hours yet, so you content yourself with poking around the giant empty house and listening to Sarah and Roland banter between each other.

“No offense, but this feels kind of like a museum exhibit,” Sarah says. “It’s not even dusty. I’d prefer it if it was.”

“You’d prefer it? There are stock photos of kids up here-- unless the Lasky family is way bigger than records suggest,” Roland answers.

You look at the picture frames Roland is pointing out. Amid the pictures of your brother Cadmon, there are photos of a foreign family, conspicuously only featuring a father figure. You run your fingers through your hair, nostrils flaring with a barely-restrained sigh.

“We didn’t take many family pictures,” you say, as if that explains anything. “I’m going to check out the upstairs.”

You tug on the back of your head, pulling at the recently shaved strands in a fit of anxiety. You don’t want to go upstairs. You’re afraid of what you’ll find there. Cadmon’s room was practically a shrine twenty years ago. The stairs don’t even creak as you step up them and you’re not sure why you expect them to. They look and feel and sound like wood, but you know them to be special composites that just didn’t degrade.

Your grip lingers on the railing as you take the final step. The door you know that leads to your mother’s room is closed. The keypad lock to it is bright red. You wonder if the keycode has changed at all, but testing it probably isn’t worth the risk. Across from her room is Cadmon’s, but that door is also, as you expected, closed.

And the one you recognize as your own is ajar. You let your hand find Sarah’s, squeezing it so tightly that she squeezes back, thumb rolling over your knuckles in a decidingly tender way.

“You know you don’t have to do this, Tom,” she says gently.

“But I want to,” you say. “I know I don’t need to.”

“Well, that’s something.”

It is. You offer her a braver smile than you feel and let her follow you to your room. There are more picture frames up here, covering the walls in even intervals. You can only ignore them because you know Roland is looking at them. You nudge open the door with your foot and, again, hesitate at the threshold.

Was everything in this house going to be difficult?

You shut your eyes and take in a shuddering breath. You can feel Sarah at your back, her presence radiating warmth. If you wobble, you feel her sturdy body against yours, so you let yourself lean into the partial embrace of her arms. She squeezes your shoulders, just as ice trickles down your spine.

Roland’s presence bleeds into your mind like condensation forming on the outside of a glass. It’s not enough for his thoughts or feelings to be tangible, but it’s so distinctly him that you smile and relax, easing the tension in your balled-up fists and opening your eyes. The room ahead is dark, but all you need to do is step inside for the lights to wake up and--

It’s not exactly the same as you left it, but it’s close. Your eyes roam the room, picking out all the various effects of teenaged you. There are posters on the wall, though some of the pixels have gone dark in their paper-thin construction, and models on the shelves, thick with dust. Your bed is perfectly made, the pillows hidden beneath a dark red blanket. Inevitably, your eyes roam over to a box bolted seamlessly into the wall, just above your nightstand. 

“Ah,” you breathe, staring at the box. “I see.”

“Is that…?” Sarah starts, but trails off, uncertain.

You can feel Roland’s curiosity curling up in the back of your mind. If you strain, you can even see his glittery-gold essence creeping out toward the box, but that gives you a migraine the harder you try.

You open your mouth to try and explain what it is, despite what it is being obvious. It’s a physical control panel for a domestic-grade Dumb AI. His name is still plainly depicted in the form of colorful stickers-- Admiral Hart. He hadn’t been active last time, but he hadn’t been gone either, so at least the sick hope flickering in your belly isn’t fully misplaced.

Still, is it worth trying to activate him?

“Roland,” you say, feeling quite outside yourself. “You can investigate it, if you want. Um, if he’s in there, could you…?”

“Of course, Captain,” Roland says.

Roland’s projection hovers in mid-air, thrown there by the custom commpad he was currently residing in. He smiles brilliantly at you and Sarah before bringing up what must be the digital counterpart of the control panel, his gestures as grandiose as ever, his expression just visible behind the transparent boxes. You hate it, but you distract yourself by leaning into Sarah’s space and kissing the bottom of her chin, staying there until Roland pipes up again.

“He’s in there, Captain. Says here he hasn’t been activated since… 2549. Very long service life, this one.”

Oh, that wasn’t too bad. Still, nearly ten years, completely shut down.

“...I don’t know if I’m ready to see him yet,” you say in one long rush of breath, the realization making you feel ill. “I do miss him, though.”

“There are also several other AI matrices in here,” Roland adds. “Why so many, if I may ask?”

“They were my teachers, when I was doing homeschooling. I’m surprised they’re still here.”

Dumb AI were very limited in their fixed personalities, but you swear they’re more sentient than they let on. One didn’t befriend several all at once and not experience some inexplicable variances, but dwelling on it was starting to make you feel hot behind the eyes. You shake your head, exasperated.

“Sorry, this is-- a lot more than I thought it’d be.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Sarah says lightly. “Want to go back downstairs?”

“Mind if I hang out in your house’s network for a little while?” Roland asks. “I won’t touch anything.”

“Go for it,” you say with a smile.

Roland winks and smiles before gathering up the tendrils of himself, more visible now that he was letting his essence ooze out between commpad, neural interfaces, and nearby network ports. Smart AI were remarkably fluid, or even gaseous, automatically filling in the void spaces around them, not because they wanted to be big as possible-- they were just that big. Still, you rub the back of your neck the same time as Sarah does, acutely conscious of the absence.

“Downstairs, then,” Sarah says. “Think there’s anything in the fridge?”

“I have no idea. Are you hungry?”

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday. To keep the motion sickness down, you know.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Her moving ahead of you prevents you from lingering too long upstairs, anxious as you are to keep up with her long strides. You have no idea where either of you are going to get clothes nice enough to go to a restaurant. Neither of you are dressed for it, let alone packed. Roland had suggested dressing as casually as possible to take the edge off, and well, maybe that was going to backfire. 

“I can feel you thinking too hard,” Sarah says.

She’s in your space the second you leave the stairs. But it’s gentle and unintrusive despite her taking up your whole line of sight. She’s teasing you, even as her brow is bent in concern.

“What am I thinking too hard about?” you ask.

“Hmmm. Something about your mom, like that stupid message she left us. Seriously, talk about a neutral location.” 

You laugh before you can stop yourself. 

“Got it in one,” you say. “I don’t know what she’s thinking.”

“Guess poor mother Lasky is going to have to come home after all,” Sarah says. “Isn’t that sad?”

She bumps your hip with the back of her fist, a playful nudge that, surprisingly, doesn’t send you stumbling. You punch her shoulder in return, silently following her into the next room, where the kitchen is. You watch Sarah go for the fridge and open it, head disappearing inside to scope out the contents. She retreats a moment later to throw something green and limp into your arms.

You catch it more out of surprise than anything, but you feel nauseous just holding it.

“What the hell is this?”

“Nutritional smoothie paste!” Sarah says, like she’s struck gold. “Used to eat this shit when I was a baby Spartan. They put it in Mjolnir on long-haul ops.”

“And that’s…. Is it good?” You ask, instantly skeptical.

“Hell, no. But I’m too polite to eat the meal plan stuff she has in there. So, drink up.”

Well, you couldn’t fault her there. You set the plastic tube of paste down on the faux-granite countertop, deciding that you’d rather let Sarah just drink both of them. You can’t stifle a smile as she immediately scoops it up, tearing open both of them at once and drinking them down in a truly disgusting fashion. But she doesn’t spill a drop, so... 

“I see you’ve gotten better at that,” you say.

“Roland made me promise not to make a mess if I’m going to be carrying the commpad,” she admits, looking exasperated for all of a split-second. “So.”

She tosses the spent bags onto the countertop, despite the trash can being directly underhand. You shrug that off in favor of grabbing her by the collar of her tank top and pulling her down, kissing her flat on the mouth. Her answering hum is felt in your bones and you both relax into each other, your anxious tension sapped by her solid core. She curls an arm around your waist and holds you in place, like she’s been waiting to do that.

“Relax a little,” she murmurs. “We can worry about her when she gets here.”

Not you, we. You feel a little weak in the knees at the distinction and let yourself hang onto her arms, certain that you’re looking at her with a dopey smile.

“But we probably shouldn’t do this in the kitchen,” she adds.

Before you can pull away, Sarah effortlessly hauls you into her arms, supporting you by grabbing a fistful of your ass and waiting until you wrap your arms around her neck. She squeezes your rear a couple times before moving, gait so smooth that you don’t even feel it when she turns on her heel to dump you on the couch with a flourish. 

You sink into the couch cushions, but wrap your arms around hers so that you don’t disappear completely. Her face is so close to yours that you count each individual scar and freckles, including the faint lines of surgical augmentations that only show up in the right light. You snake your hand up to the back of her neck, mindful not to grab ahold of the enlarged neural implant.

“Anyone ever told you you’re handsome, Tom?” Sarah murmurs.

“Mmm, I can think of a few…”

Her laughter is felt on your skin as warm puffs. She kisses you, her lips rough with bitten and half-healed skin that you nip at, chasing them when she tries to pull away. The plasticine fabric squeaks as she carefully, carefully lowers her weight over yours and straddles you, her thighs big enough to keep you in place. 

“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“I will,” you promise.

You want to say that you know she won’t, but she always looks so earnest when she asks that this time, you don’t. Because she has before-- there’s a biological differential between the two of you that you never stop thinking about. You work your hand further up to pull her hair out of its ponytail, working your fingers into the coarse locks and kissing her more intently, eyes fluttering shut. I love you, you want to say. I trust you, which is just as hard.

Her hands roam across your shirt and pluck open several buttons so that she can follow the edge of your collarbone and the slope of your shoulders. Her warm, slightly sweaty palms are a sharp contrast to the cool air, and the shock of physical contact has goosebumps lifting on your arms. You lick at her lips and fist some of her hair, mumbling indistinctly as you pull her down closer.

There’s no smart quip or knowing look to make light of your neediness. She finally lets her weight drop onto your lap completely and the kiss moves on, her teeth and lips tracking across the edge of your jaw to just underneath your ear. Instead of letting your hands hover, you start to follow the hard curves of her body, groping at the bunching muscles and admiring the power coiled there. 

Then she snaps into rigid attention, face turned toward the front door, her lips drawn back in a snarl. You vaguely notice that she has a chipped tooth before you hear the door opening and Sarah is still poised over you and she’s kissing you again, hard, and you kind of moan into it--

“Well, then,” an all-too-familiar voice says. “Thomas, care to… introduce me?”

Finally, Sarah climbs off of you, but not before buttoning your shirt and kissing your forehead. Your brain already hurts from the mental whiplash of the situation.

“Um, mother,” you start. “This is Sarah Palmer. My partner.”

Your mother is shorter than you remember. Her hair, once a brownish-black, is in faded tones and grey at the roots. A scar that wasn’t there twenty years ago lurks just by her eye and she looks exhausted. Stress and worry lines make canyons of her face, ones that twist your heart to look at.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Sarah says stiffly.

She does not look amused. She doesn’t look much of anything except terribly stern and suspicious of the scene before her. You almost can’t blame her. Almost.

“You know, I was hoping you’d be here when we got here,” you say. “But it seems you’re still working.”

“Of course. Duty still calls, you know.”

You watch her as she shrugs off her jacket and hangs it up on the coat rack in the anteroom. Both nothing and everything has changed about her and it makes something in your throat tighten.

“Oh, I know that more than anybody,” you breathe. “Yeah.”

“I do appreciate you coming home, Tom,” Audrey says, not looking at you. “It means a lot. I thought I’d have to see you when the Infinity opened her doors to the public. That is still happening-- right?”

“Sure, it’s happening,” Sarah says. “Look, Tom, do you want me to…?”

You shake your head.

“Yes, but I won’t be back on Mars until then. Working nonstop has its benefits-- like a lot of vacation time.”

“That sounds like a dream, to be able to use it,” Audrey replies calmly. “I need to know if we’re having dinner tonight.”

You and Sarah share a look.

“I was thinking we could share a bottle of wine and shoot the shit instead,” Sarah says. “Or some scotch, if you have it.”

At that, Audrey looks amused.

“I never took you for a scotch man, Tom,” Audrey chuckles.

You don’t say anything as she leaves the room, no doubt seeking out the desired glasses and alcohol. The sun is going down outside, plunging the room in a deep red. This was going better than expected. You want to break open the window and run. You want to do anything but sit back down and draw out the table and sit in a semi-circle and “shoot the shit.” But you’re already sitting down and the bottle is open and you haven’t ate anything-- neither has Sarah, even, but with her augmentations drinking on an empty stomach is probably beneficial and--

“Good news, everybody! I took the liberty of ordering us some, what do you humans call it? Party food? You know, for all the drinking we’re about to do. You’re welcome!”

You choke on your own spit and your mother nearly drops the glass she’s pouring. Sarah, for her part, is taking the bottle and stealing a sip directly, if only to conceal a smug smile.

Roland is hovering inches above the faux-wooden table, drawn up to his full height with chest puffed out and expression gleeful. He flicks one hand out in a casual salute toward Audrey before trotting aside and sitting down, legs crossed.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Hi, Roland,” Sarah greets.

You had completely forgotten about Roland. Oops.

“Thomas, I do hate to ask,” Audrey says, peering down at Roland with a pinched expression, “but why is there an AI?”

“Oh, you know,” you say vaguely, waving a hand. “It’s classified.”

“I’m Captain Lasky’s boss,” Roland says, grinning. “So I’m allowed to be here, you see.”

“Are you my boss, Roland?” Sarah asks.

“No, ma’am.”

Audrey’s eyebrows shoot up. She takes a sip from her glass, shifting in her seat uncomfortably.

“Well, I’m Audrey Lasky,” she says finally. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of the night goes painfully.

[marvel-movies-bucky-barnes]

Moving Forward

Summary: You are Tony’s sister and in love with Bucky, but Tony still doesn’t trust Bucky post-Winter Soldier

Pairing: Bucky x Laela (reader)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Bruce Banner, Sam Wilson, Thor Odinson, Wanda Maximoff,

Warnings: Fluff, some kissing, light spoilers up until Captain America: Civil War, angst, self-doubts, mentions of brainwashing, comforting

Word count: 3,346

Author’s note: This is really my first fic I’ve ever written and posted. Please be kind and enjoy! I am in the process of going through the Marvel movies chronologically for the first time, so I HAVE NOT FINISHED THE MOVIES YET! Please don’t comment spoilers past Spiderman: Homecoming in Marvel’s chronology! I appreciate reposts and comments!

Requests: OPEN

*NOT MY GIF, CREDIT TO OWNER*

You would think that a man who had nothing left to lose would be ready to throw himself to the fire. You would think that a simple retrieval mission would be as routine as putting on your shoes before you walk out the door. You would think that spending ten years living under the protection of a hotheaded brother with an egocentric mind would warrant the basic privilege of a release from the iron-fisted grip on your whereabouts.  

According to Natasha, all this thinking is what gets me into trouble with Tony in the first place.

“I don’t understand.” Grabbing Tony’s arm, halfway lifted to the coffee mug balancing precariously on the edge of the counter, I spun him toward me. I knew full well that he could have dug his feet in his tracks if he had wanted to, yet he yielded. “Why will you take me and not him?”

“You know why. And if you weren’t so naïve, maybe you would wake up from this daydream you’re living in and realize that I’m right.” A shadow must have crossed my face—one all too familiar to the team who was lounging against pristine furniture a room over, feigning ignorance to our conversation. As I glanced over my shoulder, a dozen pairs of eyes darted around, immediately finding innate fascination in the stitching of the carpet and the chandelier gently swinging above the banister.  

“Laela—,” Avoiding eye contact, he slid his fingers into the iron hand of his suit, hissing when the cold metal bit into his skin. As if he hadn’t worn it enough times to have the basic instinct of turning on the heater first. Cool granite hit my skin as I hoisted myself up onto the counter. The silence was deafening, or maybe it was the blood roaring through my ears—hot-headed, the only way the Stark family knows—until he finally dropped his head in defeat. “One.”

One pin drop could be heard; one collective breath was held by the rest of the team; one last nerve of his that I was getting on? The possibilities were endless. Biting my tongue, I waited as patiently as could be expected as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he pinched the bridge of his nose.  

“One mission,” he relented, swearing lightly as if he were battling against conscious. “You have one hour to get him ready. Starting now.”

I saw those dozen pairs of eyes burning holes in the back of Tony’s head, mouths hung open like fish out of water. When I glanced past Tony and made eye contact with Steve, his eyebrows shot to his hairline and he motioned me quickly toward the door before Tony could change his mind.  

“One hour!” Tony hollered after me as I backpedaled out of the room, tripping over the leg of Thor’s chair on the way.  

My feet had a mind of their own as they carried me up two flights of stairs and three different hallways before I knocked gently on the heavy oak door next to my own. I had originally picked my room at the far end of the mansion for the view of the coast, the endless stretch of ocean providing a comforting hum of white noise while I slept.  

I like to think Bucky had picked his for the sounds of the ocean as well, though I imagine the rush of the waves works to calm more than his insomnia.

When he didn’t answer, I let myself in. I was shocked, in the beginning, at the stark contrast between his room and the other bedrooms in the house. The walls—completely bare save for the navy paint coating—were shockingly distinct from my own, which were covered in photos and haphazardly hung posters. Walking into his room now, I see how calming the blankness of the walls can be for Bucky, especially if it mirrors what he’d like to feel inside his own mind. A clean slate in his room; peaceful, blank walls. Stillness. The hope that these can be replicated onto himself.  

I can’t help but think back to one of the first nights we shared in this room.  

I had woken up in the middle of the night to a cold bed. Frantically grabbing at the sheets for the familiar touch of a warm hand or even the cold bite of the metal on his arm was futile, and I shot up ramrod straight in our bed to see him leaning against the railing of the balcony, fingers digging into the wood and unclenching, repeatedly.  

It was a sight I had come to be familiar with.  

As it was happening in this moment, I had done nothing more than walk over to him and lean my elbows against the railing and watch the waves, knowing that this was something that I couldn’t fix—something that he hadn’t wanted me to fix. I had made it clear that there was nothing in him that needed to be fixed, but I gave him the space to work through the storm clouds surrounding his head.  

That was all the other needed at times, I believe; someone there to ground us as we battled against our own demons clawing at our heads.  

Tonight, Bucky’s elbows leaned into the railing, the metal biting into the splintering wood. He didn’t seem to notice. His shoulders eased a fraction of an inch as he heard me approach, something that had taken him months to be able to do around anyone.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“HYDRA. Winter Soldier Operative.” A short, clipped response. Unspoken words hung heavy in the balance; thoughts I knew he wouldn’t breach right now. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence—it never was with me and him. Though a hundred questions came bubbling to the surface, I held back. Sparing him a sidelong glance, he shook his head lightly.  

He didn’t want to talk about it. And that was all right.

“I was thinking,” I mused, reaching over to take Bucky’s arm in my hand and tracing the grooves of the metal. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get away? Somewhere the Winter Soldier won’t follow?”

It was naïve thinking, I realized almost immediately. Just as Tony had said (not that I would ever admit to this truth). Naïve to believe that we could escape the mission, if only for a few moments; naïve to believe that Bucky could take himself out of world he had formed through escapism.

“I can’t change the past, doll.” He focused on one point across the ocean while I centered on the dips and divots of the vibranium.  

“No one’s asking you to. But you don’t need to let it define you.” Reaching up, I tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It had been blowing in his face for God knows how long; I knew he wouldn’t have bothered to fix it himself any time soon.  

“The Winter Soldier is in the past. HYDRA can’t get to you anymore. This Bucky,” tapping my finger against his heart, I looked up at him, “this James—he’s the man I fell in love with.”

His withering stare finally softened as his shoulders relaxed all the way. Something clicked in him when he heard James—something he only hears from me.

“You’re here because Tony finally released his grip on you, is that it?” he quipped, softening his words by pressing his lips to the top of my head. “I could hear Tony yelling from downstairs, so I had asked JARVIS for the mission update before you came up.”  

“You don’t have to go. You know that; no one would hold it against you.” As he opened his mouth to protest (most likely about how Tony would hold it against him if he had so much as buttered his toast wrong), I gently cut him off with a squeeze of his hand. “I do think it might help get things back on track with Tony, though, Buck.”

“He still doesn’t trust me.” Bucky’s eyes hardened, turning back toward the ocean.

“Prove him wrong.”  

His silence held more than he knew, and he seemed to realize this as he gave a brisk nod and pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek before turning to change into his gear.  

_______________________________________________________________________

On the plane, as luck would have it, I had scored the seat between Bucky and Tony, Bucky being across the aisle from Steve, Bruce and Sam as well. He kept up quiet, polite conversation with Bruce and Sam on the way, his hand resting on my knee and his voice soft. While he was distracted, I took the opportunity to nudge Tony in the right direction.

“Talk to him,” I encouraged, pressing on when Tony narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know the first thing about him.”

At his bark of indignation, I cut him a look sharp as glass.  

“You have misjudged him since the moment you met him,” I snapped, fingers curling into a fist. “We are a team. You want me, you get him, too. That’s how this works.”  

Though I had pitched my voice low to avoid the others overhearing, Tony stiffened, and I could sense Wanda attempting to shift the energy of the plane as the rest of the team began stumbling over their words to affect cluelessness about the situation. Five metal fingers tightened lightly over my knee and I laid my hand atop his without breaking eye contact with Tony.  

“Bucky didn’t kill our parents.” A sharp intake—whether from Bucky or from Wanda, I couldn’t be sure—sounded throughout the aircraft. “The Winter Soldier did. HYDRA did. Since coming back, Bucky’s done nothing but try to beg for your forgiveness, your understanding, and you’ve been a brick wall—to him, to Steve, to me. And deep down, I think you’re just scared to admit that you could have been wrong about something.”

My breathing rattled in my lungs.

The metal of Bucky’s fingers clicked together as they pressed into my knee.

A quiet rustle of Thor’s cloak and Natasha spinning a dagger between gloved fingers.

The soft tap of Steve’s shield against the seat of the plane.

One

Two

Three beats of  

A b s o l u t e l y   n o t h i n g.

As I turned back toward Bucky, his metal fingers tapping lightly into the fabric of my jeans, one-two-three, one-two—a grounding tactic he told me he once used at HYDRA’s base—I shook my head, willing to accept that there was nothing I could do for Tony to put his ego aside and take in what I was saying when—

“You’re right.” Tony let out a breath I knew he had probably been holding around Bucky since the Winter Soldier operative. Low enough for only me and Bucky to hear—though he directed his words at me—two words I never thought Bucky would hear from him (whether indirectly or not) fell past his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“James is—Bucky’s —not the Winter Soldier. He’s not the man you’ve painted him out to be. I love him for who he is, not what he has or hasn’t done. He’s done more for this team and for me than you care to notice. Maybe if you’d put your enormous ego aside and have a conversation with him, you would see that.”

Tony’s eyes darted between mine for five—six—seven beats, his lips pressed into a fine line. Five metal fingers continued tapping a pattern onto my thigh. One breath.

“I know you love him.”  

A dozen pairs of eyes bore through Tony with a steel gaze, unabashedly pinning him in place with a single look.  

“Let’s see what he’s got.”

_______________________________________________________________________

I’d normally call a successful mission any time our team made it out alive, though I knew Tony didn’t see it the same way. Today was different—while half the team victory was winning the battle against a terrorist organization set to infiltrate the city, I would say that Bucky and I found our own victory in our small interaction with Tony on the plane.

“I’ve been thinking, Laela,” Bucky murmured from where we lazed across the chair on the veranda. I waited for him to continue and looked up at him, but his gaze wasn’t on me—it was trained on the ocean once more. I knew he was sifting through his thoughts, tangled in a knot from the last twenty-four hours—likely from before then, even. “I’ve been thinking about 1942.”

“The war?” I twisted a strand of his hair that had fallen into his eyes, not wanting to press too much on a sensitive subject. Tucking the strand behind his ear, I met his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Laying my head back down on his chest, I counted five heartbeats before he finally let out a breath.

“Yes. But not now.” His plated fingers brushed against my knee. His fingers tapped a rhythm against my knee—one-two-three, one-two. Grounding himself in reality. “I remember everything detail. About the war, about the HYDRA operative. Going under. Every moment.”

I knew as much, though he rarely talked about it openly like this.  

“Tony stopped me when we came home from the mission.” The tension in his arms wrapped around me vanished on that word—home. “After you had gone up to bed, and I told you I would meet you up there. We started talking—one of the first real conversations I think we’ve ever had. He asked me—”

I waited for him to finish, knowing that whatever he had to say must have been as difficult then as it was now.  

“He asked me about HYDRA. About the Winter Soldier.” As my body tried to jerk toward his, he gently pushed my shoulders back to lay against his chest. “It’s fine. I told him I didn’t want to talk about it, and he didn’t press—shocking as that is.”  

“Did he ask about anything else?”

“He asked about you,” he admitted. At my baffled expression, he snorted and added, “Relax. He didn’t threaten to murder me and hide my body, if that’s what you’re wondering. He asked about what you said on the plane.”

Racking my brain, I remembered how heated I was toward Tony in the moment.  

“You hadn’t told him that before, had you? That you loved me.”

It wasn’t an accusation, just a question. A statement, really. Still, I felt a flush creep up my neck as I tried to find a point on the horizon to focus on. Bucky knew that I loved him but didn’t always understand why. I hadn’t heard the same from him, and it was fine—honestly.  

I would break off pieces of my own soul to give him, bit by bit, if it would give him some peace, just to let him know how loved he is.  

“Have I ever told you the first memory I have of you? At the HYDRA base, when you and Steve had come to break me out?” Without waiting for an answer, a shaky laugh fell past his lips as he lifted his hand from my shoulder to comb his hair back.  

“You had barreled through the door, right on Steve’s heels. HYDRA had been poking around in my brain, and I didn’t have control of what I was doing. But I was aware of what was going on around me.” His eyes met mine then, and my breath caught in my throat. “Tony was screaming from the sidelines for you to get the hell out of there when those HYDRA agents were about to storm the base. But you grabbed my hand and insisted that you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

His eyes glazed over, shifting his reality to that moment. My fingers tightened against his hands, both flesh and vibranium, letting him know that I wouldn’t leave him behind in this moment, either. Showing what I couldn’t put into words.  

“I hadn’t done anything to prove to you that I could be trusted, and you were willing to lay your life on the line for me. You were the first one to speak to me after returning to the house. Other than Steve, you were the first one to make any effort to get to know me—the real me. James, not Bucky or The Winter Soldier.” His lips curved up in a genuine smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and scrunched his nose and brought a pinch of color to his cheeks. Something that he didn’t show a lot. “You were the first one to call me out on my shit. Everyone else was too scared to even approach me.”  

The room was silent now, but a comforting silence, one that wrapped itself around us as we gazed out toward the ocean.

“I know I have a lot to make up for. Not just to Tony and the team, but to you.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he silenced me by pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this kind of love before I met you. The team—I've noticed most of them coming around, too. The other week, Clint was going on a supply run, and he asked me to come with him. I don’t think he had spoken to me more than a handful of times before that.”

“That was all you, Buck. The others are finally starting to see who you are in here,” I brought his vibranium hand in mine to tap against his heart. “Something they should have begun to do a long time ago.”

He settled into the chair on the veranda and pulled me tighter against his chest, his hair brushing against my cheek. I didn’t push it away. We sat like that, wound together in a comfortable silence, until the ocean breeze started to send a chill up my arm.  

“It’s nice,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “Feeling like I’m starting to belong somewhere. Like I have something to live for. Everyone from my past live, back in 1942—they're gone. Aside from Steve. I felt lost, for such a long time. Now it feels like the pieces are starting to fit together again—like I have people who love me in this life. Like I have a family.”

“You do have a family. We will always be there for you, whether you see it or not. And, though they may not say it, they love you. Almost as much as I do.” Laying my hand against his cheek, I gently turned his face to look at me, to recognize my words. I tapped against his heart—one-two-three, one-two. Grounding ourselves.  “I love you, James. For what’s in here. I always will.”

I take it he hadn’t heard those words enough; his eyes lit up, brighter than I had ever seen, and a soft smile slowly spread across his lips.  

“I love you, Laela.”

I’m not sure how long we laid in that chair, watching the tide crash against the rocks, my fingers tracing the grooves of his hand. All I remember is two arms, one flesh, one metal, hook under my legs and back and walk us back to the bed. I remember those same arms encircling me just moments later. I remember Bucky’s breathing slowing to a gentle brush against my neck as his snores softly echoed throughout the room.

I remember waking up before him the next morning and studying every line of his face, every divot of his vibranium arm, taking in every snore that escaped past his lips. I remember feeling love—his for me, and mine for him—all-encompassing in the quiet moments we had shared together.

Looking at him, finally comfortable in his own skin, relaxed in a way I knew he had never felt before, I knew I wouldn’t trade this for the world.

[plush-rabbit]

Twenty Minutes

Word Count: 2.4K

A/N: Honestly, yall,, never stop giving me Tenko requests,  I love him so much (also like if the current series wasn't going to happen, there was gonna be a tenko series but I felt like it added too much character to the reader but then I started thinking about it another way and ahh, too much talking, ill stop, okay enjoy!!)

Tenko is anxious. He can feel his skin crawl and he's desperately trying not to pick at it with nails fisted over a newly folded blanket, the chilly air from outside coming in from an open window to let any lingering smells dilute or fan out. The candle that you got him for his birthday is lit, the sweet scent of peach filling the room and fading before it can get too strong and overwhelm him. The flames flicker in and out, wisping against the gentle wind that enters through his window and coming to a still along with the leaves on the tree that stands outside his window.

Everything in his room is clean and in an orderly fashion. Figurines in place, posters straightened, sheets made and any lingering smells have been dealt with fresh air and the power of a candle. Everything is clean and tidy for when you arrive.

He shuts the window with a sigh. He turns and leans against the wall, a hand rubbing mindlessly over the gloves that cover his ring and pinky finger and wraps around his thumb. He stares at the floor, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and he runs over his mental checklist, desperate to find something else to fix so he isn’t alone with his thoughts.

"You're going to ruin your lips if you keep doing that," a sweet voice says and he startles, peeling himself off of the wall, a smile on his lips, only to fall when he sees that it isn't you.

He rolls his eyes and pulls out his chair, letting it roll as he comes to sit on it. "Aren't you and the rest supposed to be gone by now?"

Hana gasps, a look of offense written over her face. "Here I am doing you a favor by taking the family out of the house and you're going to rush me? Oh Tenko, and here I thought we were family."

He sighs and stands up from the chair, walking to the door and gently shoving his sister out. "You know family doesn't mean shit in this house," he states in a flippant tone. "Can you hurry up? I don't want them to think I want to introduce them to my family."

He hears her sigh but she doesn’t respond to his statements, choosing to walk in silence as they descend down the steps. 

"We're already in the car, I just came to say bye." Her hand is placed on his shoulder in a comforting gesture and his face burns, the corner of his lip twitching. "We should be back in a few hours. I'll message you before we do, okay?" Her tone is sisterly, caring and fretting over him as if she’s the mother, gentle and eyes that crease with too much worry and it makes him sick. He gives her a look as they stand by the front door, the sound of a honking horn interrupting the quiet atmosphere. "So you can get them out and not have them meet us," she says with a slight laugh. There's another honk and Hana groans. "All right, I'll see you later. Be good," she says in a sing-song tone, letting the front door close with a soft click.

He sits on the couch, phone pulled out of his pocket to wait for your message that you're arriving. He rereads the messages you sent confirming today's plans. As much as he wanted to cancel, he also wanted to spend time with you and he's been looking forward to this ever since you offered the idea and he might owe Hana a lot after this but it'll be worth it.

His foot taps nervously on the floor and he's just so nervous waiting for you to arrive. Realistically he knows you wouldn't cancel on him but he can't help the awful, twisting feeling that he'll wait for hours for you to never show. His face already burns with the thought of you not showing up, humiliation settling in deep within, his neck aches and fingers twitch, crawling up his body to pull taut against his neck. He hisses, tears springing in his eyes as red lines begin to mark him.

There's a knock on his door and he startles. His hand falls from his neck and immediately the palm rubs over in a soothing motion, his rough hand irritating at the skin. He stands and takes a look at his phone, an unread message from you stating that you'll be over in five minutes and true to your word, it's been five minutes since that message.

He pats at his skin and runs a hand down his hair, twirling at a dark strand and letting it unfurl from around his finger. He sucks in a deep breath and opens the door with a lazy smile.

You stand in front of him, backpack in hand and he can smell the fruity scent of your perfume on you. He clears his throat and offers a breathless hello, scrambling to move over to the side and welcome you in. He can feel heat pool around his body, face burning with sudden self-consciousness, as he failed to spray himself in cologne.

You give him a soft smile as you enter, taking your shoes off and placing them beside the door. "No hug, Ten?" You ask with a fake pout, lips turning into a smile before too long. He sees your eyes flicker to his neck, the slightest fraction of your eyes opening as you take notice of the welting spots.

He stiffens and looks away from you, eyes narrowed and red dusting at his cheeks. "I'll get you slippers," he murmurs and flinches when you grab at his wrist, coming to a still.

"Tenko," you say softly, "relax. It's just me." You let his wrist go and he stands in place, sucking in a deep breath through his nose, your hand coming to hold into the back of his shirt. "Let's just go study in your room."

He swallows his anxiety and turns to face you, your hand falling from his shirt and back to your side. You give him an encouraging smile and he steps close to you, wrapping his arms around your body, head buried into the curve of your neck where the perfume smells stronger. It's a hug that lasts for less than minute but one where you return it with the same intensity as you always have, arms tight around him, humming into him, as you press yourself close to his body, the brush of your lips ghosting above his skin and he’s left breathless, pulling away too soon for his liking, grabbing you gently by the hand and leading you through to his room.

His eyes widen when he sees that he left the candle on, hurriedly scrambling to blow it out, blinking and wincing when the smoke floats to his eyes. He turns to see you give him a knowing smile, eyes flashing back and forth between the candle and he gives you a halfhearted shrug.

“Smells nice,” he mumbles, clearing his throat. “Thanks for it.”

“I’m just glad that you used it,” you chirp, holding the straps of your backpack and teetering between on your soles before rocking back to the front. Your socks are printed with fruit, a soft gray with red cherries printed all over. “If I had to be honest, I was afraid you weren’t going to use it.” He gives you a raise of his thin brows, coming to grab at his chair, offering the seat to you. “You just didn’t seem like the type to light up candles, is all.” You take the seat with a thankful smile and pull out a book, flipping through the pages flippantly. “I felt like it would’ve been better if I had given you one of those car pine trees.”

He snorts and grabs at his own book bag, pulling out a matching book. “Funny. Car things are more of Takami’s style.” He hears you chuckle and he thinks it's enough to end the conversation there.

“Where are you sitting?” You look at him with your book in your lap, your head tilted as you look around as if waiting for another chair to pop up.

“Huh?” he says gracelessly.

You give him a tired smile. “Where are you sitting?” He blinks at you and you laugh this time, rich and filling his room with pure joy. “Do you have another chair? I don’t want you sitting on the floor- doesn’t seem becoming of an up and coming hero. Unless,” you give him a coy smile and his face burns, “you want me to sit on your lap? Or you on mine?” He chokes on his spit and you laugh louder, wheezing between breaths and clutching the book until your knuckles turn white. “Shit Ten, I’m sorry,” you say through a fit of giggles. “But seriously,” a burst of laughter breaks your sentence, “where are you sitting?”

He hadn’t thought about that. He could go get Hana’s chair but that would require too much effort and it would be awkward to have you see him struggle to fit a chair through his door. He can’t risk letting you see him as a stumbling and awkward person. He turns to his bed and he knows that it’s a dumb idea- horrible, really- and the chance of you two actually studying is low but it’s already low and- well fuck, he clears his throat and sits on the edge of his bed.

“Let’s just study on my bed.” He ignores the way your smile grows into something less of teasing and more genuine, filled with excitement as your lips curl. “It’s more comfortable-” he looks away from you and onto a pillow that was recently fluffed- “and we can share notes and-”

“You’re okay with having me on your bed?” He turns to look at you and your smile is softer now, excitement contained at the seams. You rise from where you sit and stand in front of him, hand gripping the book in front of your chest and he stares at the book, unable to meet your eyes. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Tenko.”

Hearing his name leave your lips always makes his heart skip, a light squeeze around the organ and he nods. “You never make me feel uncomfortable,” he mutters.

He assumes it must have been the correct thing to say from the way you kiss the crown of his head and sit beside him, head on his shoulder and he nods his head against yours, letting his eyes close for just a moment while you twi sit in silence, your hand coming to hold his and he wishes that he didn’t need the gloves, he wants to hold your hand fully in his, no fabric in between, just skin against skin.

“Then let’s get studying,” you whisper and he nods.

The bed creaks as the both of you fix into a comfortable position, shoulder against shoulder, sticky notes plastered against the textbook, pages turned in synchronization as he reads the text and you write down his examples. Black hair accessorized with bunny themed clips keeping the bangs away from his vision. He lays next to you, books outstretched and your head buried into the space between your crossed arms, your eyes blinking slowly, trying desperately to stay awake. He calls your name and you answer with a hum, your eyes slowly falling to a close. The room lingers with a light peach scent, mixed in with your own fruity scent and he risks a glance towards you. Your book lays open on a page that you both have long passed, pencil in between the pages and your eyes on his hands.

“Tenko,” you murmur, stretching your legs, your socks hitting against his calf and he gives you a grunt of acknowledgement. “I’m tired.” You yawn as if to emphasize your words, your hand leaving from under your arm, indents from your clothes printed onto it, and you reach over to hold his hand, interlacing his hand with yours. “Can we take a nap together?”

“We have a test on Monday,” he whispers, staring at the interlaced hands.

“And you’ll do great on it,” you yawn, stretching out the last word. “Just a twenty minute one.” You close your book, a space where the pencil keeps your page opened. “I’ll play with your hair,” you tempt, grabbing his pencil and mimicking your book, pencil placed between the pages and closing it, shoving it towards the pillows.

“You’ll fall asleep before you do,” he retorts, slipping his hand away from you, turning on his side and opening his arms, the corner of his lips twitching as you bury your face into his chest. “You’re going to fail if you don’t take this seriously,” he warns, pressing his lips against your temple.

“And then I can get you as a tutor.” He bunches the back of your shirt as you press your lips against his chest, right over his heart, feeling it quicken its beat under the thin fabric.

“And I thought I sucked at school,” he says under his breath, his arm bending to rest his head against, eyes slowly coming to a close.

“You’re smart,” your words start to slur, softening and pausing in between, “you just turn in things late.” He opens his mouth to retort, bitterness laced into the unspoken words, already leaving an aftertaste in his mouth, throat feeling as if it’s on fire. “I don’t like it when you start saying mean things about yourself. You’re smart Ten, you just find the work boring.” Your legs come between his, knotting them together, your hand reaching to the back of his head and lightly pulling against the dark tufts. “Twenty minutes and then we can wake up,” you murmur, your hands already slowing down their movements, starting up again in short intervals where you stroke quickly only to slow.

He lays next to you, keeping you wrapped up in his arms, your face squished against his chest, hands coming to a final slow as they part through the ends and fingertips brushing gently against the back of his neck, and grifting to his back. He’s covered in goosebumps, eyes half lidded as he strokes your back and plays with the end of your hair, nose buried against your head as he lays staring at the candle that you bought him.

“Twenty minutes, huh?” He says to himself, taking a peek at your still frame, and soft murmurs of your sleep. “I guess this isn’t so bad.” He swallows the lump in his throat, kissing the top of your head and resting against you.

[clonecaptains]

CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS | vampire!oberyn martell x reader

rating: e - for typical oberyn smut & this is a vampire story so there’s some blood and some suspenseful moments! 

word count: 3.7k 

summary: You’re on a tour of the medieval prince Oberyn’s castle. You take a wrong turn during the tour and end up somewhere you don’t expect. Maybe this castle really is haunted. 

masterlist

a/n: this is an attempt at some horror-esque writing and im really excited to share this w/ yall! feedback is much appreciated and as always thank you to my partner in crime @pascalispedro for your help w/ this!!!

Closed for Renovations

Travelling the world alone is a mistake. That’s what your family and friends told you. Maybe they were right. But you needed a time of self-reflection and to do what you wanted to do. No agenda. No time restraints. Other than when tours started, or transportation would leave. You could do what you want and when you wanted.

This week you’re in Spain. You’d seen an advertisement for ancient Spanish castles, and you wanted to hit as many as you could.

It’s a sunny day when the bus drops you and other tourists off at your next castle. You’d leaned against the glass window of the bus on the way in, completely in awe of the sheer size of the estate. The stone showing its age but still standing strong. The sunlight shining on the towers and sturdy walls.

The air is fresh when you step outside the bus. A groundskeeper nearby is mowing the lush grass. There’s a clamor of excitement from the tourists with you. You hear whispers about this castle being haunted.

You don’t believe in ghosts, but there’s still a chill that goes up your spine when you look up. The walls are steep from the ground. And is that? A face you see in the window?

“Everyone gather round for the tour!” the tour guide’s voice distracts you for a moment, but that chill still lingers. You shake your head; you’re letting the whispers get to you.

The tour group shuffles inside and you’re in the middle. You cross the threshold into the main entrance, and you gasp. It’s a gorgeous room, it’s massive. Every wall and floor are dark stone, ancient bricks still mortared together after all these years. Black and red tapestries and velvet carpets and ropes line the walls and floors. Chandeliers and candles line the walls and ceilings. The old fixtures remain but are dark – the more modern fixtures illuminate the space with electricity. Many fixed with fake electric candles to look as if the lights are flickering.

The tour guide is speaking, but you’re only half listening as your eyes are drawn to a large portrait on the back wall. It’s difficult to see in the lighting. Though there are small windows, there’s a shadow cast over the dark painting. The reds and blacks match the rest of the space around it.

The man is handsome. Tall. There’s a glint in his eye, a mischievous look. His robes are exquisite. Black, with dark grey suns sewn in the fabric. A deep red tunic is under the robes, and an expensive necklace hangs low on his neck. Many rings are on his fingers. And the tan skin of his chest is on full display. He’s on the stone steps, hand on the banister. Glancing down you see the spot where this portrait was painted.

“Prince Oberyn Martell, known as ‘The Red Viper,’” the guide points to the painting. “This was his estate. It was given to him by his father the king. Oberyn was due to inherit the throne but was murdered on these very grounds in mysterious circumstances.” The tour guide makes his voice try to sound ‘spooky,’ but you can’t help but roll your eyes at his weak attempt.

“How did he die?” someone in the group asks.

“No one knows how the prince was killed. All that is known is his untimely death came in the south tower. It’s where his body was recovered, and he was buried.”

“Is the south tower on the tour?” another voice asks.

“It’s unfortunately closed due to renovations; however, the north tower is identical and Oberyn’s tomb has been recreated there!” This seemed to satisfy the crowd, but you heard someone behind you whisper about how people mysteriously go missing in the south tower.

“They had to cancel tours because someone always went missing.”

You feel that chill again looking up to the painting of the prince. Was it smiling like that before?

You really need to get some sleep.

The next room you’re led to off the entrance is the dining hall. A long table stretches the length of the room. The tour guide mentions notable guests that would have dined at this table during the life of the prince.

Another portrait of him is above the fireplace.

“This guy was vain wasn’t he,” someone snickers.

“In fact,” the tour guide laughs, “he was indeed. While known for his generosity to his kingdom, he was known for being promiscuous and a host of wild parties. There are dozens of stories of his famous orgies and the lovers he’s taken. There’s a speculation he was murdered for the secrets he knew.”

As the tour continues, you find yourself hoping to find a new portrait in each room. Each one he looks the same. Same strong jawline, same handsome features. The only difference is his pose and the background behind him. Each painting resides in the room where it was painted. And each one is perfectly placed in the room, so a shadow is cast over it. He’s never fully in the light.

It’s disappointing to discover so many parts of the castle are roped off due to renovations. You’d hoped to see the library, or his old bedroom – but both are closed.

“Last part of the tour ladies and gentlemen! The north tower! As I said before, the south tower is closed – so this tower is an extra replica!”

The guide leads the group up a steep spiral stone staircase into the top room of the tower. Immediately upon entering, you notice there’s no portrait of him in here. There’s a fireplace, a few books scattered, and most noticeably, in the center of the room is a stone coffin.

Across the top, is a statue of Oberyn laying on his back. You examine the stone seeing him in further detail in better lighting. He has a crooked nose, and a thin line of hair growing along his jaw. The artistry is beautiful, the craftsman worked hard on the detail. The very stitches of his robes are etched in the stone.

You pause at his neck, there seems to be a small scar. Two in fact. You lean in to touch the stone when the tour guide gasps, “don’t touch!”

The exclamation startles you and you topple backwards. You catch yourself on your hands, but the abrasive stone scrapes the palm of your hand. Frazzled, you part from the tour to look for the bathroom you saw on the way in.

The lights in the bathroom are harsh and unforgiving in comparison to the dimly light halls of this castle. It’s strange to be in a modern room in the middle of something so ancient.

Hissing in pain, you approach the sink sticking your hand in the warm water. There’s more blood that you originally thought, and it smears on your hand making you feel squeamish. You splash cold water on your face and feeling dizzy still – you enter an empty stall to sit down for a moment. To breathe.

There’s something in the air in here. You feel a thickness in the air, a weight on your lungs. It’s hot and sticky, but there’s a chill running up your spine and goosebumps on your arms. You can’t get those shadowy eyes out of your head.

It’s just ghost stories.

You’d read about how scary stories affect the body. It activates your fight or flight instinct, puts you on high alert. It’s perfectly reasonable to be a little spooked in a centuries old castle where there was a sinister murder.

Feeling silly, you shake your head at yourself and get a fresh paper towel to clean off your hand. Tossing it in the trash, you start to make your way back to the tour. It’ll be over soon, and the castle will be closed to the public.

You’d run into the bathroom in such a hurry you don’t remember which way you came in. Suddenly you’re down a hall you don’t remember seeing. It’s a long hall of portraits. Not of Oberyn though. You’re in shock at how gorgeous they all are. Each painting is massive – the bottom of the frame touches the floor, and the top of the frame touches the ceiling. Each portrait is of someone different, elegantly dressed with an even more extravagant room behind them – none of which you recognize.

You know now you’re in one of the closed off hallways.

You won’t stay long, just enough to see the Oberyn portrait down at the end.

You vaguely hear the announcement for the castle closure, but you want just one peek at this painting. Then you’ll leave.

This one is the most beautiful so far of Oberyn. It’s still in a shadow, but you step right up to it to look at it. Behind him is what you can only assume is his bedroom. A fireplace is in the corner and a large four poster bed in the center. He’s in the same red and black robes that you’ve seen all afternoon. The detail on this one is intricate. All the others have been mounted high on the walls – too far away for your eyes to see the tiny details.

Leaning in you look at his neck, to see if there’s a scar like on the stone coffin. You get closer and closer-

“Are you lost miss?” you hear a voice behind you, and you gasp.

“You scared me!” you laugh, turning expecting to see a worker from the castle museum behind you. Only, you don’t see anyone. “Hello?”

Your heart starts pounding. Are you hearing things? Or is this place really haunted?

You turn back around to the Oberyn painting but instead of the painting – it’s the man himself. You scream and turn to run back down the hall, only to your horror to see all of the ‘paintings’ come to life. Each portrait subject takes a step out of the wall – they were never paintings. They were only standing still – a trick of the light allowing you to believe they were paintings.

At first you think it’s a prank, until you see their eyes turn black and fangs in their mouth catch the light.

“Are you lost my dove?” Oberyn’s voice comes as a devilish whisper on your neck. His hand coming to grasp your arm to keep you from running, or perhaps to keep them from getting to you.

“Virgin blood is the sweetest blood,” a man nearby hisses, and you try to pull away from Oberyn.

“Aye,” Oberyn hums bringing your hand up to his lips. He tenderly brushes a kiss to your injured palm. “You had one last month,” he tuts at the man. “Leave her alone!” he speaks out to the long hallway. Most of them turn around and retreat to their rooms. You see that now; the frames were only the doorframes.

The rest of them leave the hallway to move about the castle. It’s well after dark now.

You’re alone with the prince now.

“Are you lost little dove?” he repeats. His voice is thick and smooth like honey. The rich accent coats the air.

“Is this a prank?” you start to cry, “I promise I’ll leave.”

“It is no prank sweet one.”

“Are you real? I thought you died?”

He chuckles, then looks up at you – showing you his four fangs and black eyes. You gasp, and quick as a blink he looks back to normal.

“Are you going to kill me?” the tears still falling from your eyes.

“No,” he shushes, wiping your tears with a long warm finger.

“But he said something about virgin blood,” you sniffle. Your entire world just came crashing down realizing that these creatures do in fact exist and that’s all you can think to say.

“My subjects partake in the pleasurable taste of human blood. It’s like a drug to them.” He’s stalking around you in a circle now, observing you. “I however,” he brings your hand up to his lips, pressing them to the back of your hand, “prefer to partake in the pleasure of, well – pleasure.” His smile is wicked, and you can see his fangs peek out from under his lips.

He pulls you to him, his other hand coming to rest on your hip. His lips part from your hand, hovering above your neck. You tremble in his arms and you wince when he opens his mouth.

This is it, you think. You’re going to die here in some castle in Spain and never see your family again.

Your body tenses, ready for the bite, but instead his lips press on your skin in a gentle kiss.

“I mean no harm,” he purrs. “I cannot say the same for my subjects. For your own safety you may dine with me tonight as my guest and you’ll be free to leave in the morning. If you choose to leave now, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

He offers his hand to you, waiting for you to take it.

Weighing your options – you figure why not? And take his hand.

His slender fingers weave with yours as if you were familiar lovers. He brings your hand up to his lips again to kiss your knuckles. He guides you, leading you out of the long hallway and into the main entrance, speaking softly as you go.

“How did you sustain this injury?” he asks, thumb brushing over the torn skin on your palm.

“I fell. In the north tower.”

“Ah yes, the false rendering of my tomb in the south tower.”

The night continues to get stranger – the electric lights in the main entrance have gone out. The space is illuminated now with the real candle fixtures on the walls.

“Is that how you really died?” you ask. You look at him and look for the scars on his neck but see none.

“It is,” he replies. “But when I was reborn the scars healed.”

He walks you through the entire castle, telling you its secrets. There’s a party going on in every room, men and women’s bodies tangled with each other. Food and wine are everywhere. Oberyn walks casually with you on his arm.

“Does this shock you?” he asks seeing you turn your eyes away from a group of people pleasuring each other.

“It’s – not how I thought this day was going to go,” you laugh.

“Let me take you somewhere quieter?” he offers and leads you back down the ‘portrait’ hall into his ‘painting.’

There’s a tray of food on a table, and your stomach growls. It dawns on you that you’ve not eaten in hours.

“Please,” he motions towards the tray and you hungrily grab a piece of bread.

Hunger gets the better of you, but you’re still suspicious.

“How do I know that you’re not just feeding me so that you can feed off me?” you ask him. “I don’t want to be eaten.”

He chuckles at your frankness and takes a step towards you.  

“The only part of you I wish to eat,” he steps closer. You freeze and drop the bread in your fingers. “Is that sweetness between your thighs,” he purrs his body now pressing up against yours. His hand cupping your sex through your jeans. “I only need permission.”

You shudder, but you can feel the electricity through his fingers. It’s strong, it’s a magnetic pull. You have no other option but to say yes.

The moment the word exits your lips, the lights in the room dim. The roaring fire quiets down.

His hands reach for your shoulders and he begins to kiss your neck again. This time opening his mouth a little. You can feel the graze of his fangs on your neck – but they do not break the skin.

“Wait,” you gasp and pull back. “Does the door have to be open?” you ask motioning towards the door leading to that hallway.

Oberyn smirks, his left eyebrow lifting.

“The rooms have no doors; it’s so my lovers can pour in and out of whatever room they wish.”

You look down at your feet, not enjoying the idea of being seen by others. You’ve only just barely agreed to be seen by him.

“Fear not,” he coos and hooks a finger under your chin. He snaps his fingers and you hear a slam of a door behind you. Turning to look, you see a door has appeared. You don’t question it. This is already a weirder night than possibly imagined.

Oberyn pulls your attention back to him, and he shrugs his outer robe. Leaving him in the tunic underneath. For a moment you wonder if he’ll have issue taking off your sweatshirt and jeans, but then you think – he must have been doing this for years.

“Why me?” you ask, trying to calm yourself down as he kisses along your neck and under your jaw.

“I smelled you when you first walked in, knew I wanted to taste you,” he licks your neck and you shudder again. He pulls on your sweatshirt – tugging it off you. Your shirt comes next, then your jeans.

When you’re left exposed in your underwear, he licks his lips – he sucks on his teeth making a sharp sound.

“You look ravishing,” he hums – tracing his finger along your shoulders and down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

He shrugs his tunic then, leaving him in pants only. That chain and rings also remain on his tan skin.

The trembling never stops. His intoxicating presence is clouding your judgement, the alarm bells in your mind are being muted. It was only just a few hours ago that you were learning about this man, and now he’s unhooking your bra with swift fingers.

“Here sweet one,” he coos and guides you to the bed for you to lie down, “your knees shake.”

You lay back and he comes to lay down next to you. He props up on his elbow, and his other hand comes to grasp at your breast. Fingertips trace around your nipple, he chuckles when it perks for him. He pinches your nipple then with two fingers and you jolt. He does the same to your other breast, and his mouth comes to rest on the other. His lips sucking, his fangs ever so slightly grazing. It’s hot in the room, stifling. That chill up your spine is no longer a chill, but deep arousal. It’s not in the back of you neck anymore, it’s pooling between your legs.

When he’s satisfied that you’re satisfied, he slithers off the bed and kneels between your legs dangling off the bed. Those quick fingers dance along your panties and he looks to you for permission, which you give with a sigh. He tugs them down and parts your legs with his hands before you can close them in your shyness.

It doesn’t scare you to have his dangerous mouth so close to you. In fact, the first touch of his tongue almost kills you from pleasure, not from fear. His fingers tease your opening and slide as far as they can go. You gasp roughly when you feel a cold ring pressing against your slick wet entrance.

His lips suck on your sex while his fingers move inside. The combination of the two has you toppling over the edge in no time.

No one at home will believe this.

As you come down, he stands to rid himself of the rest of his clothes. He pushes you back further on the bed so that you’re resting on a pillow. You look around for a moment, taking in the scene. From this angle, you can see the closed door, if it were open, you’d have a view of the entire hall. There are no windows in this room, only paintings and tapestries. Oberyn comes into your sight then, very tan in the orange glow from the fire, and very naked. The flames catch his necklace and rings, they shine even in the dull light.

You blush to see him so naked, but it arouses you all the same.

“Are you alright my dove?” He purrs laying down on top of you.

You nod, growing to like this pet name he’s given you. You have no thoughts in your head about what tomorrow will bring, only that you feel the tip of him at your entrance. His skin burns like a furnace, you thought he’d be cold. But it’s quiet the opposite.

He kisses your lips hungrily when he pushes inside. Your hips rise up to meet his and his hands wrap around your body to hold you to him. He swallows your cries and your body tingles and burns with the intense heat and pleasure he’s giving you. His thrusts are sure, slow, and heated at times, but fast and harsh in others. It’s as if he knows exactly what your body needs to reach that delicious high that you’re chasing.

His lips move down to your neck when your orgasm closes in. He’s pushing, thrusting hard and fast on that spot that has you seeing stars. Your body shakes, pulses, quivers. He bites on your neck when you come undone, the pleasure pounding in your veins. You’ve never felt like this before, never felt this good. Your entire body thrums from the nerves and exhilaration of having been taken to bed for the first time. The pleasure is blinding.

The rest of the night is a blur to you, your orgasm so strong.

The next thing you remember that’s clear – is you wake in the morning in the bathroom. A worker comes in to find you on the floor.

“Are you alright?” she asks, panic in her voice at finding a person so early in the morning.

“I think I must have passed out,” you laugh. But you don’t remember anything. The last thing you remember was scraping your hand and coming here to clean it off.

She laughs politely, but then turns to leave quickly. You shrug it off and try to remember what happened last night. Now it’s last night that is a blur.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel a sharp pain in your neck. You gasp to touch the wound to feel four holes. The memories all flooding back.

You turn to look in the mirror to get a better look at your neck. The pain is getting worse, it’s white hot.

You gasp then when you see – you have no reflection.

[the-fiction-witch]

Below

MOVIE MAZE RUNNER  COUPLE NEWT X READER  RATING SWEET AF

I ran as fast as my little feet would carry me, hurrying my feet through the circular tunnels I did my best to stay as quiet as I possibly could hearing the little sounds of the water dripping down from cracks in the stone above me. The stone still here but much of it dirty and broken, the mortar between each black with mold and age, the walls standing with only the frames of advertisement the posters within them rotted to nothing. I froze as I heard steps thought the tunnels.

I grabbed my knife holding it close to me turning my lamp down as low as It would go I staied low and quiet listening only to the sounds of my breath. 

"What are you doin' down here Love?" His voice spoke in the darkness 

"Who are you? What do you want?" I whispered before a bright white light shined across the tunnel making me cover my eyes 

"Love. It's me" he sighed I looked up and saw the familiar sight Newt. Stood at the end of the tunnel with his white light torch, his boots against the stone, his tattered old cargo pants loose from him held up with half broken and half repaired suspenders over his shoulders and the belt that held his knife. His old torn red vest tight to his skinny skin his arms thick with mud and blood, tires covering him in odd places, his helmet sat on his head 

"What are you doing down here?"

"Looking' for you, the damn hell you think I'm doin' down here having a tea party?" 

"You didn't need to come looking for me" I sighed getting up putting my knife away and walking towards him 

"Yes I did." He sighed grabbing something out his back pocket and throwing it to me, I caught it and had a look it was my map "you always leave without it. One of these days-"

"What? You think I'll get lost?" 

".... Just. Don't forget it Love" he sighed turning to head back out the tunnel 

"What makes you think I'm so incapable of looking after myself?" I complained hurrying after him 

"The fact you went tunnel claimin' with no map, no food, no water, no walkie usin' only the lantern. Makes me think you can't take care if yourself" 

"I was fine"

"You wouldn't have been. I hadn't found you" 

"I don't need you to protect me."

"You don't. But you still need my help" he said "come on I'll take you back"

"I know the way back" I pouted hitching my thighs and heading down the left passage

"And I see you wanna drown?" He laughs

"What?"

"Your headin' down, that's been flooded two years now. I'll lead then." He rolled his eyes heading down the right passge 

"I knew that" I groaned following him though the passages the rounded tunnels and stairwells before getting to a long since abandoned place it had been left to rot even before all this happened or so I had heard. Newt jumped down first and offered his hands but I jumped down myself 

"Only tryin' to help," he says as we walked between the large metal down into the darkness he clicked on his white light making me hiss a little "you really hate it don't you?"

"It stings that's all" I said 

"It will. You're a below baby." He laughs 

"A old one"

"Well old is irrelevant, you're still born below. You've never seen light up there… real light. Only ever known the darkness down here" he said as we arrived at the little train he unlocked the door and climbed inside helping me up with him into the hoard of junk he called a home. Little things where everywhere, his bed unmade, a lantern on in the window, some food in odd places half eaten, his clothes scattered about a line across a section with laundry hanging "when did you last eat somethin'" he asks 

"I'm not hungry"

"I didn't ask that" 

"Two days"

"Here" he sighed fixing me some porridge handing me the bowl and a spoon, I rolled my eyes taking it having a seat on the old train seats he had for a bed moving his blankets away as he stood fixing himself a coffee I began to tuck in forcing the tasteless food down "Y/n?"

"What Newt?' I sighed knowing I was getting a talking too he only calls me that when he does he was silent a moment holding his cup in his hands pondering something in his head before putting the coffee down slipping his helmet off letting loose his blonde locks 

"You heard about angel?"

"The place or the person"

"Person" he says sipping his coffee 

"Yeah, I heard"

"That's the forth one now"

"I know, second generation of below"

"I suddenly feel really old"

"You are old, so am I"

"You're not as old as you think you are. Your first gen below Love. Your still young" 

"Last of the above born" 

"Don't call me that"

"You are. I hate admitted what I am but you remind me. Sometimes I have to remind you too" 

"I know." He said a small smile cracking his lip 

"You ever gonna? You know?"

"Why bother. More important things to do" he said "and… down here doesn't need another mouth to feed. We got enough problems feeding ourselves" 

"True. But still"

"No. Bigger problems"

"Never?"

"Never."

"How old are you now?"

"Old enough to know better."

"Fine. Be like that" I sighed handing back the now empty bowl and spoon "why did you come find me?"

"You left your map and I knew you'd took your-"

"Newt. Why did you come find me?"

"... I missed you" he says rubbing his arm "I'm allowed to get worried about you alright?" He says "and I do. Worry about you I mean when you go off on your own"

"I can handle myself"

"I know you can. But if somethin' happened. I'd rather be with you" 

"Fine. Sorry Newt"

"For what?"

"Worrying you"

"You always worry me Y/n" he smiled to me "could you… tonight?" He asked carefully 

I nodded patting the space beside me he nodded and went across to behind his hanging clothes I got up going to the side getting some clean water warming it enough to make sure it was clean but letting it cool enough it wouldn't burn to the touch he returned sitting on the bed shirtless his suspenders gone too I clean my hands before I took the bowl going to sit beside him getting my little cloth I pushed back some of his blonde locks until I found the heavy still red scar, his stitches still there where they would never truly heal it was a large gash that almost split his head it hurt him daily and had to be cleaned to prevent infection even if parts had been removed before from rot and infection I carefully cleaned it doing my best not to hurt him even if he would often squeeze on my other wrist when I pressed to hard or whenever he felt a strong pain I did my best making sure it was alright before fixing his hair back so it became unnoticeable, I pressed a little kiss to his hair where the scar laid before getting up to put the water back 

"Thanks Love"

"Your welcome. I need to go anyway long walk home" I said 

"I know" he nodded fixing his hair a little to hide his scar better he stood and I went to the door he loomed over me a moment 

"Yes?"

"Did you want me to walk you home?" He asks putting a hand on his helmet

"No. You stay here I'll see you around Newt" I told him he nods so I climbed down out the old train giving him a wave as I headed down the old tracks.

I followed the old tracks as far as they would go passing places once known as platforms and stations all of them build up inhabited by those of us who live below I walked until the last platform climbing up and going through the tunnels up to that various lines and stations few still remained on the boards the bulbs behind them long burnt out, I saw the remains of lines of red and blue worlds like Covent, holburn, leister still remained but little else. I hurried thought the long corridors these still had light the bulbs connected by wires people had built in to light the ways even if they flickered and fluctuated often. The long circular corridors and steps seemed endless until I arrived home it was busy as it always way people having built there homes into what little space they could lines of washing went from wall to wall people busy with the work of trying to survive. I headed to the back to my little house formed into what was once at a time a shop but for what I didn't know. I threw my things to the side and washed up a little from the walk before going out to see people who had gathered as they did most nights the ones younger then me all sat listening to him 

"It was a fair time of yes it was. The sky was blue and bright and the shon down on all things. Until the day… the signal came" 

I wanted to ignore it I had heard it a thousand times before but still I listened and imagined what it must have been like on that day 

'everyone did as always they worked, and shopped, and exploded the world was pleasent, accepting and sweet. That morning at a quarter to ten then clocks l stopped, the chimes from the great bell could be heard ringing across the city, every bell began ringing with it and the signal came from leaders that we should go down to stay safe, people packed there things and went down as instructed into the underground. People staied in there bunkers for a time waiting but as people grew and needed more space and food people spread far and wide making there homes to sit and wait until the signal comes again and we can all go back up there' he explained 

I hurried into my house shutting it up I did want to listen anymore. Most of those who where born above, they barely remember the world up there. Not that it mattered to me. 

I had never been up there I had lived my life down here never known the world above, I was as they often called a dark child. I was made and born in the darkness raised always below having never once been above. I was one of the first most children before me didn't survive, and even now angel a freind of mine from the east she was a born below too and now she had her own child a second generation to never see above, those who where born above always look down on us even if few of them remember much of above itself all being too young to remember much and honestly there was few of them left after the incident, but still they looked down on anyone born below, and those who lived above who worked and had children above where on pedestals even if many didn't understand where they where or who they even where anymore but people looked up to them, to those who knew above the best. I laughed at the thought a little of Newt, he was a child of above old enough to remember it but young enough not to have been held in any regard then again not that he would want it anyway, it always made me laugh to remember how much older then me he was. Newt was nine years my senior I believe it might be more but he didn't like talking much about before we all moved down here even less so since the incident.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

A little broken

Over a year after defeating Thanos and almost losing Tony, Peter is still haunted by the final battle. In an attempt to outrun the memories, he starts college far from New York.

It takes a visit from his mentor and an ill-timed flu bug that brings them both to their knees until Peter realises that he doesn’t have to take on the whole world alone.

Some Irondad hurt/comfort for everyone who’s quarantining at home (and those of you who have to work. Stay safe!) This is my @marveltrumpshate​ fic for Heyriel. Great thanks to @whumphoarder​ for doing so much more than beta reading. I hope you enjoy.

______________________________

The first time they meet, Peter isn’t sure what to make of Tony Stark. 

The man shows up unannounced to Peter’s apartment, chewing on May’s date loaf and walking around Peter’s room as if he owns the place—talking as if he owns the whole world. Peter is both awed and appalled, May’s occasional comments about greedy billionaires ringing in his ears. But then Peter starts talking about his motivation for doing what he does, and for a moment something in the older man’s face seems to break. That’s when Peter knows that there’s more to him than what makes the tabloids. 

Germany is both a thrilling adventure and an unparalleled disaster. Peter watches the group of heroes he’s looked up to since childhood break apart before his very eyes. The fight is grueling, taking more out of Peter than he knew was possible. He is lying there on the ground, trying to catch his breath, when Tony bends over him. And for a moment, there it is again: the broken facade on his face—below it, pure panic. The way Tony looks at him with thinly masked worry reminds him of Ben’s expression whenever Peter was little and having an asthma attack, and it does something to his insides that he can’t really explain. 

Then, a few months later, Peter inevitably screws up and slices a ferry in half. The two of them are standing high above the city when Tony takes his suit away, and Peter feels tears pricking at his eyes. He cries later in his room, alone, because it’s so much more than just the suit; he feels that by disappointing Tony he’s lost his chance at something so much bigger. 

It’s a miracle he manages to fix this one.

After Siberia, Tony is darker and quieter and indisputably older—like he’s finally grown up. Peter is sad for him, but it’s not all bad either. This new Tony starts taking more of an interest in Peter’s training—starts acting like a real mentor to him. There are afternoons spent together in the lab, dinners at the tower with Tony and Mr. Rhodes, and even the occasional low-stakes mission. Slowly, Tony’s world starts to feel like a place where Peter might one day belong.

But then, the universe gets ripped in two and somewhere on a red and war-torn planet, Peter clings to Tony in desperation, feeling first his body, then his thoughts slip away from him. 

When he wakes again, there’s another battle to fight, but this time there’s no thrill to it. It’s his personal horror film come true.

He can hear the moment when Tony’s heart stops. Peter cries openly this time.  

*

In the end, Tony makes it through. He loses an arm and much of his physical strength, but he’s stubborn as hell and fights his way through recovery. But somehow the day of the battle never fades from Peter’s brain like memories should. 

When he finishes school, May proposes NYU, Tony naturally wants MIT, but Peter chooses Culver University. It might be good for him to get out of New York, is what he says. It might be good for him not to be in a place that has Tony’s legacy lurking around every corner, is what he thinks. And maybe moving away will make things easier when he returns. 

Three months into Peter’s first semester at Culver, Tony accepts a guest speaking gig at the university and decides to stay at a nearby hotel to spend the weekend with Peter.

And that’s when it all goes to hell. 

*

“Hello? Earth to Peter.” Tony waves a hand in his face. “Who are you daydreaming about?”

“Huh?” Peter looks up at Tony, then down at his half-finished iced tea. “Nothing,” he evades. “Nobody, I mean. Sorry, I’m just—just tired. And I have a lot of work left this weekend.”

“Mh-hmm.” Tony looks as if he isn’t quite believing it. “You want more spring rolls?” 

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll wait for the main dish.” 

Peter hasn’t eaten much today, but he’s not quite hungry either. He’s nursing a headache and the tiredness is not just an excuse. As happy as Peter is to see his mentor, Tony’s timing in showing up the week before midterms really could’ve been better. Peter feels like he might fall asleep right here at the restaurant table, but he already knows that he’s going to have to stay up until late to finish his readings. 

“You’re doing it again,” Tony points out. “You’re being awfully quiet, kid. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing, seriously.” Peter manages to hold eye contact for a few seconds and then takes another sip of his iced tea. “So, you said we could fix the suit while you’re here?”

Tony takes the bait (or maybe just lets it drop intentionally) and the talk quickly turns technical. 

After a few minutes, they’re interrupted by the waitress—a student Peter thinks he recognises from his Python lab—who stares at Tony for a moment, her gaze lingering on the scars decorating his right cheek and ear before dropping down to his bionic arm. Then she catches herself and asks for their order.

When their food arrives, Peter observes Tony take out a box of different coloured pills and swallow a couple of them dry. 

“I know, not sexy,” Tony remarks, noticing his look, “but sort of necessary if I want to keep this baby ticking.” He taps his hand over his chest with a wan smile. 

Peter grins half-heartedly in return, even while he can feel his insides clench. The comment reminds him of the time Tony’s heart actually did stop, of the battlefield with the dust of Thanos’ army still hanging in the air, of the utter helplessness he felt when Tony snapped, of― 

“Uhm, excuse me?” It’s the waitress again, her voice shy, cheeks blushing. She extends a piece of paper toward Tony. “Could I, uhm, could you, maybe give me an autograph for my sister? She’s a big fan. I mean, we all are, of course, but she’s got her room decorated with posters of you and all that…”

Tony looks her up and down with a raised eyebrow and a smirk playing around his lips. “What’s your sister’s name?” he asks finally, making a show of producing an integrated pen from his bionic arm. The waitress is visibly impressed, and Peter resists the temptation to roll his eyes―it’s far from the first time he’s seen this trick. If Tony was famous before, it’s nothing compared to the status he earned since dusting Thanos and saving the universe. 

Tony gives the waitress an easy smile along with the paper he passes back, and then turns back to Peter with a smirk. “Fangirls,” he whispers. “Gotta love ‘em. Did I tell you about the kid who offered me all of his allowance for a hoofprint from Gerald?”

*

Because Tony is Tony, it takes a long time before he has caught Peter up on anecdotes of Morgan, Happy, and Gerald’s newest misadventures, and by the time Peter gets back home, it is already late evening. His studio apartment is small and rather old, with walls that have turned grey over time and windows that don’t fully close anymore, but it’s got its own kitchen and bathroom, which is much better than a dorm room―especially since Peter wouldn’t know how to explain the odd hours he keeps or the regular blood stains in the shower to any of his fellow students. 

Peter’s head has been throbbing painfully for the better part of an hour, and the lights from the screen when he pulls out his laptop don’t make it any better. All his body seems to want is sleep, but if he’s going to spend the next two days upgrading his suit with Tony’s help, he really needs to get these chemistry readings finished. 

He tries for several hours, but the words don’t seem to want to stick in his mind and it takes longer than expected until he feels that he has understood the chapter. Peter drops into bed around 3:30 in the morning, too tired to even change out of his jeans, and falls asleep immediately.

*

Peter is woken up by someone knocking on his apartment door to the beat of “We Will Rock You”, and it’s all he can do to stifle a groan. He drags himself out of bed and over to the door.

“Finally,” Tony sighs when Peter lets him in, shoving a reusable thermal to-go cup in the kid’s face and causing him to flinch backwards. “I thought I’d have to actually start singing.” Then he gives Peter a once-over and his face falls. “What happened to you?”

“I think I’m sick,” Peter replies, realising it is true the same moment the words leave his mouth. His head is hurting even more than the night before and his throat feels raw and painful, but the worst is the utter weakness in his body and the chills running down his back that tell him he has a fever. 

“What kind of sick?” Tony asks suspiciously. To Peter’s surprise, instead of turning on his heel and leaving the surely germ-infested apartment, Tony steps over the threshold and raises a hand to cup to Peter’s forehead.

“Dunno.” Peter shrugs. “Just feel like garbage. Flu was going around the school last week―it’s probably that.”

“Aw, kid,” Tony sighs, something like compassion in his voice. “Yeah, you feel really warm.” 

“Sorry about the suit,” Peter says, moving back to sit down on his bed heavily. “I guess you can just go back to New York early then.” 

“What? You think I’m coldhearted enough to leave my former intern alone on his deathbed somewhere in the Virginian wilderness?” 

“Culver’s not that bad,” Peter defends. “And I’m not alone either.”

“So that means you have someone here to take care of you?” Tony raises a sceptical eyebrow.

Peter hesitates. “I… May’s a nurse,” he evades. “I can call her.” 

Truth is, there actually isn’t anybody. He hasn’t really made friends yet―at least certainly not the kind he would consider asking to take care of him while he’s down with the flu. He calls May twice a week, skypes with Ned—and occasionally still with MJ—on the weekends, and he’s friendly enough with his classmates when they’re working together in classes. But his downtime is mostly spent studying on his own and patrolling the city at night.

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening.” Tony looks him over appraisingly, then seems to make a decision and presses the cup of hot chocolate into Peter’s hand. “Guess I’ll stick around for a bit. Here, drink that.” 

“I don’t really feel like it.” Peter is definitely queasy, bordering on nauseous, and the thought of drinking something as rich as hot chocolate almost makes his stomach turn. He shifts on the bed so that he can lean against the headboard, feeling too tired to hold his body up without support.

“Well, you need to have something. Super metabolism and all that.” Tony strides over to the small, definitely not tidy kitchenette and starts opening cupboards, most of which are empty. He comes up with a few packets of shrimp-flavoured instant noodles and a box of Coco Puffs. “Really, kid?”

“I was gonna get groceries today,” Peter says defensively. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna do that now,” Tony states. “What do you say to buttered noodles? That’s all Morgan ever wants when she’s sick.” 

“Yeah, that’s...that’s fine,” Peter says, dumbfounded at the idea of Tony Stark going to the supermarket and making pasta for him. 

“Good. Glad that you agree, since that’s about as far as my cooking skills go.” He zips up his jacket and grabs Peter’s keys from the table. “Don’t do anything stupid till I’m back.” With that, he’s out of the door. 

Peter doesn’t feel like he’d be able to do anything stupid even if he wanted to. He can’t remember the last time he felt this bad, and with his Spider-Manning lifestyle, that really says something. He’s thirsty, but his throat hurts in a way that doesn’t make him want to swallow anything. There’s an ugly taste in his mouth and he really wants to brush his teeth, but the bathroom could just as well be a hundred miles away. 

If May were here, she would have set him up on the sofa with Star Trek: TOS playing on the TV while changing his sheets and airing out the room, he thinks. And suddenly the homesickness hits him like a train. He misses May. He misses New York and his friends and even the busy schedule that high school provided him with, but mostly he misses coming home to an apartment that’s not empty, having someone to eat breakfast with in the mornings and share his day with in the evenings over burnt teriyaki chicken. Just the thought of May’s disastrous cooking skills almost brings tears to his eyes. 

He stays like this for an indefinite amount of time, feeling miserable and blinking back tears, until Tony eventually returns. He sets down the shopping bag on the table and closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge between them with his fingers, the telltale sign that he has a headache. 

“You okay?” Peter asks hoarsely.

“Yeah. You live in a village, kid. Took forever to find a parking spot and then everyone and their mother wanted an autograph. Basically fought my way out of there. Might have to give my lawyer a heads up, actually.” 

Peter can’t even bring himself to force a laugh. A part of him wants to tell Tony to just go home already; the other part of him really, really doesn’t want to be alone right now. He sniffs hard and swallows to keep his nose from dripping.

“Hey,” Tony’s expression sobers as he sits down next to him on the mattress. “Did I miss something?”

“I just―” Peter rubs a sleeve over his watery eyes, feeling embarrassed. He thinks for an excuse and suddenly remembers the very real problems of college. “Ah, crap.” 

“Huh?” Tony asks.

“I have two tests next week,” Peter admits miserably. “I haven’t done anything for them yet―I was going to study this weekend in the evenings―”

“That’s fine, kid, we can deal with that. We saved the universe, remember? Schoolwork is nothing compared to Thanos, trust me.”

“I know,” Peter sniffs. Then, before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “I‘m just missing home.” 

“Ah,” Tony says. He lays his bionic hand on Peter’s shoulder and rubs it. “Yeah, that makes more sense.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter goes on, “I didn’t mean, I’m just―” 

“You’re just sick and tired and emotional,” Tony assesses, but there’s no judgement in his voice. “Come on.” He gestures for Peter to lie down and pulls the blanket up to his neck. “Go to sleep, kid.” His tone is almost soft. “I’ll be here.”

Peter falls into a feverish, exhausted sleep. He’s dimly aware of an icy cold gripping him and chills wracking his body, and then of Tony putting an extra blanket on him. At some point Tony offers food, but Peter’s too tired to even fully open his eyes. He mumbles something that he hopes Tony understands and turns over to the other side. 

The next time he fully surfaces, it’s from Tony gently shaking him awake. “Hey Pete, I know you’re tired, but you really need to eat something.” 

“Don’ wanna,” he mutters, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“Peter. Come on, kid.” 

He blinks himself awake. The apartment is dark now; it must be evening already. The faint smell of food lingers in the air. “D’ I sleep all day?” he asks, confused. 

“Almost. You can still catch Saturday Night Live.” 

“Hmm.” Peter sits up slowly. He feels woozy and weak and his head is still hurting, which is ridiculous considering how long he slept for. 

“Just let me check your temperature.” Tony takes off his smartwatch and presses it against Peter’s neck, just under his chin. The cold metal sends shivers down his spine. 

“102.6,” Tony reports. “Yeah, that’s not great. A pity that fever reducers don’t work on you.” Tony’s voice sounds rough. Peter squints up at him just as the man turns his head into his shoulder to cough. He looks tired—really tired—and, as far as Peter can make out in the dim light of the bedside lamp, his face is kind of flushed. 

“Are you okay?” Peter croaks. 

“Uhm...” For a moment it looks like Tony wants to lie, but then he falters. “Not really. Guess I caught the same bug you did.”

“Shit,” Peter says. This sucks big time. 

“I already texted May—she’ll probably be up here tomorrow. As soon as you’d had something to eat and drink, I’ll go back to the hotel and get out of your hair. You don’t need an old sick man around.”

“What? No!” Peter blurts before he can stop himself. He feels his breath speeding up, horrified at both the idea of Tony leaving him here alone, and of Tony being on his own in some hotel room feeling as miserable as Peter does now. “Please don’t go.”

Tony looks taken aback. “Pete, I don’t think I’m going to be much help soon.” 

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” Peter feels himself blushing. “It’s nice not to be alone,” he admits in a small voice. 

Tony gives him a long look. “Okay, fine,” he agrees eventually. “But that means you have to listen to me. And the first rule is: eat your dinner, kid.”

They eat quietly. Tony is visibly making an effort not to let on just how bad he’s feeling, but Peter has learned to read the signs during his mentor’s long period of recovery from the snap. Tony is rubbing his shoulder whenever he thinks that Peter isn’t looking, which means that his prosthesis is hurting him. His shoulders are slumped, showing how tired he is, he’s nursing a headache, and then there is the fairly obvious sign of him hardly having eaten anything except for two spoons of pasta and his medication.

After dinner, Tony calls Pepper while Peter calls May. She gives him a run-down of the usual flu advice―“Stay hydrated, try and rest, and for god’s sake, don’t pile every blanket you own on yourself like that time you had strep, Peter—keep the curtains on the windows”—and promises to drive up tomorrow if she can get her shift covered. Then she asks to talk to Tony. Meanwhile, Peter uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth and changes into pyjamas. Observing himself in the mirror, he realises just how run-down he looks. He splashes some water on his face, which does nothing except make him shiver. 

“She asked whether you built that Lego ship she got you for your birthday,” Tony announces when Peter returns. 

“Oh.” Peter hasn’t, of course. He’s neither had the time nor the motivation to do so without Ned.

Tony makes a show of looking around the room. “This place is less personal than an airbnb. I told her there’s not even a poster on your wall.”

“So what?” Peter sighs. He feels the need to defend himself, but he’s too sick to come up with anything.  

Tony doesn’t press it, luckily. He borrows a pair of sweatpants, which end up being a bit short around his ankles and make it look like he’s outgrown them. It almost makes Peter smile. They pull out the sofa-sleeper that May insisted on him getting, but which he’s had no opportunity to use until now. When everything is set up, Peter is almost dizzy from being on his feet for so long. He’s both sweating and shivering and very glad to lie back down under the covers.

Tony turns on the TV, but neither of them is really paying attention. Peter is half asleep a few minutes into the news and Tony seems visibly uncomfortable, shifting around every few minutes on the couch. 

“Do you want to switch to the bed?” Peter asks him, secretly hoping for the answer to be no―he really doesn’t want to get up again. Tony shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together. Then he gets to his feet faster than Peter would have thought possible for someone in his condition and bolts to the bathroom. 

Peter hears nothing for a while. Then there’s a few weak coughs, followed by a retch and the sound of splashing. Peter cringes, his own stomach twisting in sympathy. The small size of the apartment and his enhanced hearing make it impossible to tune out the sounds as Tony continues to be sick into the toilet for the next ten minutes. When the retching tapers off, Peter shakily gets to his feet and fills a glass of water from the kitchenette. 

He knocks on the bathroom door, then leans heavily against the frame. “I got you some water,” he calls, hearing Tony’s ragged breathing inside. “Can I come in?”

“Just go to sleep, kid,” Tony croaks. 

“Yeah, sure,” Peter mumbles under his breath. After a few moments, he hears the sound of the flush and then the door opens. Tony is covered in sweat and looking about as bad as Peter feels, plus there’s a greenish tinge to his face. The smell of vomit wafts out and hits Peter’s nostrils, turning his own stomach. 

“Thanks, Pete,” Tony croaks says hoarsely and takes the water from his hand. His metal fingers feel cold against Peter’s burning skin when they brush the back of his hand. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

“‘S okay,” Peter mumbles. He suddenly has a hard time focusing on Tony. His head feels so heavy that he has to rest it against the doorframe as well. 

“Jeez, kid,” Tony comments. Then his face drains even more of colour and he presses his knuckles against his lips, swallowing thickly. “Go lie down, okay? I’ll be out in a bit.” With that, he turns and disappears back into the bathroom. 

For once, Peter listens to him, unsure whether he will be able to keep standing much longer anyway. After a moment of consideration, he curls up on the couch, leaving the softer bed for the older man. He drifts there for a while, trying to tune out the sounds of sickness coming from the bathroom. 

Eventually, he is dimly aware of someone entering the room and switching off the lights. There’s cold metal touching his neck as someone takes his temperature and tsks, then softly brushes back his hair and lays a cold washcloth on his forehead. It feels amazing against Peter’s burning skin.

“Thanks, May,” he mumbles.

*

Waking up feels like resurfacing after diving into a deep pool of water. Peter’s eyelids are sticky with sleep and his brain feels like it’s been through a potato masher. He’s disoriented, so it takes a bit until he realises that it was Tony’s voice that woke him. “Pete,” he hears him calling again weakly. Something about it shakes him out of his half-awake state. 

“Tony?” he asks, sitting up. There’s a rustling sound and a thump from the bathroom, confirming his worry. A quick glance at his phone on the bedside table tells him that it’s just after 4am. Definitely not the time to take a shower.

Peter’s head swims when he gets up from the couch. He takes a few unsteady steps towards the bathroom and then stops to lean against the wall until his vision clears and he can open the door.

Tony is on the ground next to the toilet, wrenched in between the bowl and the shower, looking about ten times worse than earlier. His face is almost grey except for the scars on his right cheek, which are flushed in an angry red. His dark eyes are glassy and deeply exhausted. Sweat sticks to his hair and t-shirt, the prosthesis off and one sleeve dangling empty. The smell of vomit hangs thickly in the air, much stronger than before.

Tony slowly lifts his head when Peter steps in. “Hey,” he croaks, attempting a smile and giving up somewhere halfway. “Sorry for waking you. ‘S just that I could use some help.”

“With what exactly?” 

“Getting up?” Tony asks sheepishly. “I tried and almost took down your shower curtain.”

Peter blinks. “Well, shit.”

“You said it, kid.” 

Peter extends a hand and Tony grabs it gratefully, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Peter closes the toilet lid and Tony sits down on it with a heavy sigh. He shudders convulsively, then closes his eyes and swallows rapidly a few times, as if trying to stop himself from being sick again. 

“How long have you been in here?” Peter asks while checking Tony’s temperature on his smart watch. He finds it to be at a worrying 103.6.

“Uhm,” Tony makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Midnight, maybe? Kinda lost track of time.” Peter frowns. “Sorry for waking you up, kid,” Tony says again, taking his expression the wrong way. “That’s kind of why I didn’t want to stay.”

“You should have called me earlier.” Peter fills a glass of water from the tap. “And yeah, really reassuring to think of you spending the night on the bathroom floor of your hotel because you can’t get up on your own.”

Tony mumbles something that sounds a lot like, “Not like I haven’t done that before.” When Peter hands him the glass, the man’s hands are trembling so much that half of the water spills out onto his shirt. 

“Shit,” Tony mutters. “All my spares are at the hotel.” 

“I can give you one of mine,” Peter offers. 

“Yeah, that... that would be great,” Tony says earnestly. Peter wonders whether he’s maybe a bit delirious. “This shit didn’t use to happen before the snap, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter says, surprised at the admission. He fetches a clean sweatshirt from the dresser and hands it to the older man. His mentor’s whole body is shaking violently with chills. While Tony changes, Peter notices that the scar pattern around his shoulder stump is an angry red. It looks painful, but Tony doesn’t seem to care too much. 

Something twists within Peter. It reminds him too much of the time just after the snap when he saw Tony in the hospital, weak with fever from the infected limb.

“Ready for bed?” Peter asks, shaking the thoughts from his head.

“Yeah,” Tony says, although he doesn’t look too sure. Peter pulls him upright and almost staggers under the man’s weight and his own weakness. Tony doesn’t comment, and when Peter turns towards him, he sees that he is biting his lips, eyes largely unfocused. 

“This really hit you hard, huh?” Peter asks when they have made it to the bed, sitting down next to Tony. His mentor is bending forward, head in his hands, panting and shaking like he just finished a mission in the suit. That’s not the only thing, though. With his advanced hearing, Peter can pick up Tony’s heartbeat, which is slightly arrhythmic. 

“Tony?” he asks suspiciously. “What’s wrong with your heart?”

“Yeah, about that…” The other man raises his head, but avoids Peter’s gaze.

“What?” Peter can feel his own heart rate speeding up in worry.

“I, uh...remember my heart medication?” Tony says casually. “I threw up the last dose. It’s not dangerous, don’t worry,” he adds when Peter stares at him, alarmed, “Or, well, at least not yet. Just sort of increases the nausea and dizziness.”

“Can’t you take another dose?” he asks. 

“I don’t think I can keep anything down right now,” Tony admits. “But I’ll try in the morning.”

“Hmm.” This doesn’t really do anything to make Peter feel better. 

“Don’ worry, kid” Tony adds with a tired slur to his words, which only achieves the opposite. With a lot of effort, he pulls his legs up to the bed and then lies down under the blankets. “Let’s both sleep for a bit and things will look brighter in the morning.”

Peter gets himself a glass of water and then curls back up on the couch. He hears Tony’s breaths turn heavy and even out before long, but although he feels exhausted, he has a hard time going back to sleep. The sofa feels like rocks under his achy body, and he keeps turning around, unable to find a comfortable position. His head doesn’t fare any better. With his brain cloudy from fever, it’s even harder than usual to stave off the memories from the battlefield. 

His eyes finally fall shut and back he goes, right into the middle of dust and blood and death looming around every corner. He knows that there should be screams and shouts everywhere, but it’s silent, dead silent, except for the underlying thump-thump-thump of Tony’s heartbeat, becoming ever quieter. 

Peter rounds a heap of rubble and almost stumbles over Tony, who is lying on the ground, half his body eaten away by the radiation. The beating gets weaker even as Peter falls onto his knees and tears stream down his cheeks. He’s been here a hundred times, unable to save the man who saved him, and he knows exactly how this is going to end. 

A beat, almost indiscernible. A breath leaves Tony’s lips for the last time. 

Silence. 

*

He wakes to the feeling that everything in the world that possibly could be wrong, is wrong. His whole body is hot and he feels nauseous, almost as if he will throw up. Sick, he remembers. He’s sick. Tony’s― 

Peter forces himself to take a deep breath that comes out more like a choked sob. He sits up dizzily, and is surprised by the light streaming through the windows. His eyes immediately wander to Tony’s still form on the bed, covered by blankets. Peter can make out his slightly ragged breathing, but he’s way past the point where he would feel calmed by this. 

Unsteadily, he makes his way over to the bed and sits down on the floor next to it, shivering uncontrollably from the coldness of the tile, but not wanting to wake Tony up. He tries to calm himself, but his heart won’t stop racing. Everything feels kind of surreal and he can’t shake the image of Tony’s body on the ground, so still and lifeless. There are tears burning in his eyes. He shoves his knuckles in his mouth to keep himself from sobbing loudly. 

“Kid?” Tony’s groggy voice asks. “What ‘appened?”

“S-Sorry,” Peter manages. “G-Go back to sleep.”

“Hey.” Tony rubs his eyes and tries to push himself up, only partially succeeding. Looking at Peter, his face takes on an alarmed expression. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Peter whispers, feeling infinitely stupid. “J-Just had a nightmare.” He bites his lip, but with the admission, a dam seems to break. He can feel his eyes overflowing. 

“Hey, kid, hey,” Tony says softly. “It’s alright.”

Peter just shakes his head, tears dripping down his cheeks onto the floor. Tony extends a trembling hand to wipe them away. “Do these nightmares happen often?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” Peter evades. He wonders why he doesn’t just tell the truth. That there’s rarely a night when he doesn’t go back to the battle against Thanos, or the dust on Titan, or even the Vulture in flames―an enemy that seems ridiculous now compared to the ones they’ve fought since, but sometimes still makes it into Peter’s dreams. 

“It’s gotten worse again, hasn’t it?” Tony asks. “Since you moved here.” His hand drops down to Peter’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly. 

“‘S okay,” he lies. “I’m fine. Jus’... just the fever.”

“Mmh-hmm, sure. Come here.” Tony nods his head towards himself, weakly lifting an arm, and Peter lets himself get pulled into the hug. “Woah, kid. You’re on fire.” 

“Hmm,” Peter mumbles. “You too.” 

It’s true; Tony’s body feels even hotter than his. The sweatshirt Peter had given him is already damp with sweat. And, most concerningly, his heart is still beating out of rhythm. It reminds Peter way too much of his dream for him to ignore it. 

“You need to have some water,” Tony says, ignorant to Peter’s thoughts. “And eat something. It’s been a while.”

Peter’s queasiness increases at the thought. “Stomach’s not feeling great,” he admits. “How are you doing?” he asks then, into the older man’s chest. “And don’t lie.” 

He feels Tony grimacing. “Like a clock someone forgot to wind up.” His remaining arm lets go of Peter as he brings it to his chest to massage the area around his heart. “But hey, don’t worry. I’m gonna try my pills and some water and then I’ll be back on my bullshit before you know it.” 

But he isn’t. Half an hour later, Peter has to support Tony to the toilet to once again throw up the medication and the few sips of water he’s just managed to get down. He stops trying to reassure Peter after the second bout of painful dry heaves wrack his body and doesn’t even resist when Peter wipes down his grey face with a wet cloth. On their way back, halfway across the bedroom, they almost lose balance when Tony’s legs suddenly give out. Peter just manages to stabilise him before they can faceplant all the way. 

“That’s it. You need to go to the ER,” Peter decides after all-but carrying Tony back to the bed and sitting him down. Peter’s own body feels heavy with exhaustion. Tony weakly shakes his head and opens his mouth to object. “Please, Tony.”

There must have been something in his voice that gave away his desperation because Tony shuts up mid-inhale. He gives Peter a deep look and then nods shakily. ”But only if you eat something first.”

“Okay.” He checks Tony’s temperature, which has climbed even higher, to 103.8. Peter’s own is hardly any better at 103.2, but at least he can still stand―kind of, he realises when he has to sit down to be able to concentrate on his phone screen long enough to call a cab. 

The walk to the kitchen feels like it’s a mile long. Peter surveys the meagre food choices and decides that cold pasta with salt looks like the best option. After the first few bites, his queasiness abides a bit and he manages to finish his small plate, suddenly realising how hungry he was. He drinks two glasses of water with it and finally feels a little less lightheaded. Then he goes to the bathroom and, on a whim, swallows a small handful of painkillers from the bottle of Advil Tony has sitting beside his pill box. They will hardly do anything for him, but hopefully they’ll keep him upright until they reach the hospital.

When Peter comes back, he expects Tony to be lying where he left him and is already wondering how he’s going to maneuver him down the stairs from the second floor with the man's balance shot and his own legs feeling like noodles. But Tony is sitting up and in the process of putting on his shoes. His determination, however, falters a bit when it comes to actually standing up. 

“Just go slow,” Peter directs, supporting Tony to the door and taking on most of the man’s weight. “One step at a time.”

They make it down the first staircase before Tony holds up a hand. “Just need a minute,” he exhales, sitting down with a sigh and leaning against the wall, his eyelids fluttering shut. His breathing is ragged. Peter looks at him worriedly, the unsteady thump of the man’s heartbeat loud in his ears. Tony, as if feeling the gaze, opens one eye to squint at him. “Not dead yet, kid. Come on, let’s get downstairs.” 

Maybe it’s the fact that the painkillers are wearing off faster than expected or that Peter’s anxiety is finally getting the better of him, but the cab ride is kind of a blur. He just remembers Tony sitting with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, looking deathly exhausted, and at some point grabbing the older man’s hand and holding on. 

Peter only lets go of it when he has to fill in the forms once they reach the hospital. The ER nurse takes one look at Tony’s scarred face and missing arm and then directs them to a private room. Peter’s hand is shaking so hard that Tony’s name on the form looks like a child’s scrawl. Behind him, his mentor is already being connected to a heart monitor, while another nurse is bringing an IV stand.

He hands the form to the elderly nurse and then has to steady himself against the wall when he stumbles a bit. 

Her brow furrows. “Are you alright?” she asks. 

“Y-Yes,” Peter answers quickly. 

“Bullshit. He’s got the flu too,” Tony mutters from the bed behind them. 

“I’m fine,” Peter insists, feeling his heart rate spike. They’ve done a great deal to keep his secret identity, well, secret while he’s at Culver, and he’s not about to let his powers be discovered just because of a flu bug. “Really, I’m okay. Not a big deal.”

“Honey, you can’t be here as a visitor if you’re sick,” the nurse says, her tone kind, but firm. “You’ll risk infecting the other patients.”

Peter looks up, taking a moment to understand the implications. “What? No, please don’t make me go!” 

The nurse eyes him critically, then sighs and relents. “If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to be inside this room at all times. I can’t have you walking around spreading germs.”

“That’s okay,” Peter agrees immediately. It’s not like he was planning to walk the halls anyway; his legs feel like they might go on strike any moment. When the nurse turns around to start working on Tony, Peter wobbles over to an uncomfortable chair in the corner and collapses into it.

He feels like the next time he takes an actual breath is once Tony is hooked up to painkillers, antiemetics, and something for his heart, the fluids dripping steadily into his arm through an IV and the heart monitor finally—finally—reverts back to a steady rhythm of beeps. Tony isn’t conscious anymore to notice; after spending the better part of the last 24 hours on Peter’s bathroom floor, his exhaustion has finally gotten the upper hand. He drifts off as soon as the meds start kicking in. 

Once the nurses leave, Peter drags his chair over next to the bed. Tony looks—there is no other way to describe it—frail. Like he might fall apart any minute if Peter stops watching. His fever is still much too high at 103.3 and he is sleeping fitfully, as if the dreams are haunting him as well. Peter can still see images from the nightmare in his mind. Not clear, but looming, like he might find himself on the battlefield any time he turns around. 

He doesn’t want to fall asleep, but he’s dead tired. Now with the adrenaline fading, it feels like his body weighs a thousand pounds. He suddenly doesn’t even feel able to keep his head up, and instead lets himself slump forward, crossing his arms and resting his head on top. His cold hands are a sharp contrast to his burning face. 

His mind feels oddly detached from his body, like he’s floating, and he has no idea how much time has passed when suddenly the nurse shakes him awake from where he’s slidden down onto the edge of Tony’s mattress. “Can you just move for a second, hon?” she asks gently. “I need to hook up some more fluids."

"Oh yeah, sure, of course..." Peter nods groggily and goes to stand up a little too quickly. The moment he is on his feet, he can practically feel the blood rushing away from his head, and a wave of darkness rolls over him. Peter grabs for something to hold on to but comes up empty. He feels himself sway into the nurse, who grabs his shoulders and just about manages to keep him from face planting on the hospital floor.

“You’re really warm, dear,” she observes after helping him sit back down on the chair. "You really can't be here if you're not a patient. Let me call someone to get you a bed."

“But I—” Peter feels panic swelling in his chest. He doesn’t want to leave Tony alone, especially when he can’t be sure that the man’s heart won’t stop again, but he can’t let anyone find out about Spider-Man either―

"Peter, it's fine,” he hears a thin voice. Tony, just woken up, is shifting wearily under the blanket, turning his head towards them. “They'll sign NDAs and no one will know. Just do what she says and get in the bed, alright?"

So Peter does. The nurse calls her colleague, who sets up a bed next to Tony’s and takes Peter’s vitals. After Peter groggily explains that fever reducers won’t do anything to bring down his 103.5 degree temperature, the nurse hooks him up to fluids to counteract the dehydration.

The world goes blurry again and he is half asleep when he sees Tony slip something into the elderly nurse’s hand on her way out the door.  

When she’s gone, Peter gives Tony a confused look. “You bribed her to let me stay in the room?” 

“What are you talking about?” Tony scoffs lightly. “I just asked nicely and told her you took part in saving the world―that was more than enough.” He shrugs a bit. “And I might’ve signed an autograph for her son.” 

Peter would have rolled his eyes if his head wasn’t hurting so much. “Still a bribe,” he mumbles.

“Go to sleep, kid,” Tony says warmly.

He closes his eyes but then opens them again to see Tony watching him. “You’ll be okay, right?” Peter asks. 

“Of course,” Tony replies. “I’m always okay.”

*

When Peter wakes up again in the early evening, it’s to May lightly stroking his curls out of his face. A tension he didn’t even know he was holding seems to fall off his shoulders.

“Hey, baby,” she says softly when he hugs her. “Rough weekend, huh?” 

It is decided that neither of them has to spend the night at the hospital―Tony has to fight to be discharged, but they eventually let him go after making him promise to rest, take his medicine, and tell May if his heart acts up again. In turn, Tony collects each of the staff members’ contact details to have his lawyers send NDAs later. 

The drive back to the flat is quiet. Tony attempts small talk for the first five minutes, but is still too out of it from the combined force of illness and drugs, and quickly gives up again. Peter is just relieved that May is there. 

Once they’re home, May makes both of them eat some toast and then ushers them off to bed. Peter feels like he hasn’t slept since he moved to Virginia, and maybe that’s true in a way. But now with Tony and May both there, he finally feels like it’s safe to let himself go. 

*

He wakes up to May opening the windows to let in the chilly morning air.

“C’n I have some water?” he mumbles. 

May hands him the glass. “Your fever has come down a bit overnight. Feeling any better?” she asks. 

“Hmm.” He’s still weary and headachey, but the chills are gone and the world seems much less frightening now. “How’s Tony?” he asks.

“Still asleep. We talked a little last night—he didn’t get much rest, I’m afraid. But you should wake him up and tell him it’s time for food and medicine.”

Peter sits up and is rewarded with a lack of dizziness. He goes to the toilet and washes his face before trudging over to the bed and sitting down carefully on the mattress next to his mentor’s sleeping form. Tony’s eyes are moving rapidly behind his closed eyelids as if he’s in the middle of a dream. His hair is a greasy mess, the scars as red and angry as before and his cheeks still flushed with fever, but the rest of his face isn’t as pale as it was the previous day, and, when he listens carefully, Peter can make out his regular heartbeat.

“Tony?” Peter whispers, gently touching his flesh shoulder. 

Tony grunts and rolls himself over. “Pep?” he asks in a muffled voice. 

“Not exactly.” Tony blinks awake and squints up at Peter. “How are you feeling?”

“Ugh…I want my hospital drugs back,” Tony half-jokes. “But not on the verge of cardiac failure anymore, so that’s a plus.”

“Hmm.” Peter reaches for his hand to check the smart watch. “Your temperature’s down.” Tony’s is at 101.5, whereas Peter’s is at 100.7. Tony gives first the numbers and then Peter a critical once-over before closing his eyes again. 

“Don’t go back to sleep,” Peter warns. “May said you need to take your medicine and eat something.”

Tony groans audibly. “Nurses never let you have any fun...” 

*

The first time they met, Peter wasn’t sure what to make of Tony Stark. 

Times have changed, Peter thinks, as he surveys the scene in his apartment. 

After a painfully slow shuffle to the bathroom and back, Tony decides that he doesn’t feel up to walking around just yet, so they all eat breakfast in bed, assembled on various pillows and blankets, while Star Trek plays on the TV in the background. With his appetite returning and worries temporarily lifted, Peter devours two pieces of toast with chocolate spread and a glass of orange juice while Tony sticks to saltines, tea, and the pills he swallows under May’s watchful eye. 

When they’re done, May announces that she’s heading out for groceries. “No crime-fighting until I’m back,” she orders with a smile. “And I want each of you to finish the water bottles on the table.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Tony salutes sarcastically. The moment May shuts the door, he sets down his half-finished cup of tea and slumps visibly into his pillows. 

“You alright?” Peter asks immediately. 

“Jeez, kid, you’re worse than Morgan,” Tony comments, not without affection. “I know last night was scary for you, but honestly, this is not even in my top 20 for life-threatening events I’ve experienced in the last few decades.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Peter retorts. “Because it really doesn’t.”

He must have come across less playful than intended, because Tony’s expression sobers. He regards Peter with the deep look that always gives him the feeling of being x-rayed. 

“I know,” Tony says. “But that’s kind of the point. I’ve been through so much shit in my life that I know pretty much exactly how you feel.” 

He drags himself a bit more upright and lays a warm hand on Peter’s forearm. “I know how it is when your thoughts circle back to the same moment over and over again and the nightmares won’t let you rest. I know how easy it is to isolate yourself because the memories are eating you up and you feel like nobody can help you.”

He pauses for a moment and rubs a hand over his forehead. Peter remembers the darkness on Tony’s face the first time they met and wonders whether that’s what Tony sees on his now. 

“What I’m trying to say is,” Tony continues, “you don’t have to pretend to be fine if you’re not. At least not in front of me or May.” 

The irony of it almost makes Peter smile, despite the lump forming in his throat. Tony just spent the last 36 hours trying to downplay the pain he was in. “You are one to talk,” he remarks.

Tony chuckles quietly. “Still learning, kid.” He picks up his tea cup and takes another sip before continuing in a softer voice. “Just trust me, it‘s okay to be a little broken, even when you’re not sick. And you don’t have to hide it. I know what loneliness looks like. I’ve been through all of it and it took me years to understand that the only thing that can help is to let other people in―the right kind of people.”

The thoughts are running a marathon in Peter’s head and he’s dimly aware that he’s trembling. He swallows hard before speaking. “It’s just… sometimes I don’t even want to remember. It’s just so hard to start talking. About”―he takes a deep breath―“the battle. And the dreams. And everything else.”

“Yeah, it is. I never said it would be easy.” Tony seems to hesitate for a moment, but then he pulls Peter toward him one-handedly so that they can lie side by side. He covers both of them with his blanket. Peter turns his head into Tony’s shoulder and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths. “And we don’t have to start today. But I’ll be there whenever you’re ready.”

________________

If you liked this, you might also enjoy my other post-Endgame fic (in which Tony is obviously still alive): What We Lose in the Fire We Gain in the Flood

All my fics

Taglist: @toomuchtoread33  @yepokokfine

[calypsoff]

Twenty Five. Part 3

Robyn moaned into my mouth as I stepped between her spread thighs, gripping her hips and lifted her up and plopped her down on the vanity dresser a few feet away from where we stood. My knees buckled when Robyn reached down and gripped me firmly in her hands, fisting me tightly before leading me to her opening. We both locked eyes as I slid into her with ease. Her wet walls griping me tightly. Robyn spread her legs wide as I held her hands against the mirror above her head, thrusting in and out of her at lightning speed, the dresser making a thumping rhythm as it beat against the wall “damn” I moaned, beads of sweat beginning to trickle down my forehead. Robyn arched her hips out, meeting me with each hard thrust. Her legs tied around my waist, pushing me in closer “yes, Chris .. Deeeee-” Robyn gasped out tilting her head back. I let go of her hands and placed one of my hands on her lower back. Robyn clung to me, her body falling weak with pleasure. Loud gasps and moans filled the room. Her muscles involuntarily clenching around me as I hit her with one powerful stroke after another. “Fuck yes, Chris, just... ahhhh.. Yes” Robyn bit into her bottom lip, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

I gripped her neck, pulling her head back and placing kisses to her neck, licking my way around her neck, I sucked on her sensitive spot before biting down on her neck hard. I knew a mark would be left, I am obsessed with her neck on my life I am “uhhh poppa” Robyn cried out, her eyes wide with pleasure “baby” I growled huskily, my hips rotating wildly. Still pounding into her, feeling myself coming close. Robyn shuddered and her mouth fell open but only a gentle coo left her lips, her finger pressing down into my forearms as I still rocketed into her. I continued to pound into her, my face screwed up in determination as I fucked her as hard as I could, only coming minutes later, pouring all I had to offer deep inside of her. We both stopped our movements all together. Remaining still as we allowed what just took place to sink in. My hand around the back of Robyn’ neck, pulling her forward as I licked the side of her face “I love you” she mine, and she knows that. This is why she mute as fuck right now.

Feel like a brand new person, I really do. I am a new man, lifting my head up with the biggest smile on my face. Robyn and I really fell asleep holding hands, and I woke up with our hands still connecting, that is love. I adore her so much, pressing a kiss to her cheek. I think Robyn is going to be knocked out asleep for a while now, I think she’s done enough riding my dick. She’s been putting it in a lot of work and now she is just there, not even moving an inch when I kissed her cheek. Lifting my arm up and tried to shake off Robyn’ hand but it still firmly connected to mine, and still yet she sleeps peacefully. I need to go and pee, this mouth breather refuses to let me go. I call her mouth breather because she sleeps with her mouth full wide, like ma’am you are taking the whole air in but she’s cute. I think our hands are sticky from the sweat, so this is why we are so connected “Robyn, let my hand go please” shaking her hand again “don’t” frowning at her “let me go” pressing kisses to her cheek but then she let out a sob “aye” I said furrowing my eyebrows “that was random” I said confused as she let my hand go, she let my hand go but yet was kind of crying, my poor baby. Was it a bad dream, let’s hope not. Let me go and pee and get some breakfast, after all that sex I am so fucking hungry right now. I’ve had other women before, I am not even joking about Robyn, but her pussy is just immaculate, she tastes good, she feels good. Her pussy be having my dick hard forever, like that don’t be going down. She is just the best and I am happy, I’m happy we had sex. It brings us closer together, I love her so much and I will suck her toes forever. Her feet is bomb, that ain’t even a joke either. I can’t believe a goofy ass nigga like me got with Robyn, it even the fact it’s Rihanna but she is beautiful, and she is with me.

Heart shaped pancakes is too much, I think it is but I requested it and the hotel did it for me. Robyn is awake too so I’m just waiting on her to come down, see my twin. I missed my baby’ face so much, and I just saw her in the bed. Crazy, I love her too much. I grinned so wide seeing Robyn come down in a robe “my whole world is here” clasping my hands together smirking “whole world now? You made me sore, your world is sore” I grinned wide watching Robyn, she came over to me and pressed a kiss to my forehead “forehead kisses now? Oh we in love” I chuckled, licking my lips fixing myself in the seat “we are doing breakfast, and a heart shape!?” Robyn spat “that my heart, now you can’t eat it” Robyn rolled her eyes “I will be eating it, forget that. I am hungry as fuck” clearing my throat “so how was last night, oh by the way. You were emotional asleep? Like you started sobbing?” I asked, it was odd “I did? Out loud, I was having a bad dream actually I am just shocked I was doing that out loud, you know” pulling a face “having a bad dream and I was close to you, tell me. I am listening” picking my fork to eat my eggs “I was dreaming of a baby, I know you don’t want to hear it but I was dreaming of being pregnant and having a baby, something that I am currently craving, you know? So yeah. I was having a horrible dream about that” letting out an oh “what was happening in that dream?” that is not nice “just weird, like I couldn’t see the faces but all I know is that I was holding a baby and happy and then the baby is gone, like not there. Maybe it’s me thinking about it but yeah, ignore me” shaking my head “don’t say that baby you are thinking about it. I think you need to let it go with the flow. Shit will happen eventually; you always have these?” I mean it can’t be a one off, maybe it is “I have had another baby dream before. It was again, losing my baby. But I can’t believe I was sobbing out like that” nodding my head, I am sad for her.

Let me change the subject, things have become a little awkward between us now “so the tour, are you excited? What is the tour called?” I mean I should know this “oh you not seen my tour posters huh? You know what, I said to Mel watch Chris not take notice, but the tour is called Diamonds World Tour, because you’re my diamond and uhm, I am pretty excited. I feel like it will take my mind off things, like when I was rehearsing things left my mind about things, and I did enjoy it but the first date is in Buffalo, you going to be there for me?” she said in the cutest voice ever “uhm, I am busy on the day” I lied “asshole, I never even mentioned a date. You better stop that but anyways, will you be there for my first. And then maybe my second until I go Canada? Well three dates and then Canada? Please?” I hate touring shit, I really do but then it kind of hit me that she may be singing that song “of course I will, are you going to be singing that song?” I asked, I hope not but I think she will be “yep” she sighed out saying which made me sad that she was “I got you, you know that. But I will be there, I will come and see you on random dates, I will look at them” I laughed, I am so slow. I should know these things about my girl, where she is going and stuff. Robyn grinned wide, that has made her smile so much “but what is my man going to do without me around huh?” Robyn questioned “find another girl?” I mean that is what she wants to hear “nah, you mine now. Sucking my toes like your life depended on it, nigga bye. Actually poppa, why don’t you housesit for me, Rorrey was going too but he mentioned he wanted to come on the tour, you want too? Would be a great help?” sitting back in the seat, housesitting “uhmmm, can’t you get like someone else? I will be in Texas with my second girlfriend” Robyn pulled a face “California will be good for your work? Fine don’t then” she waved me off “I will, I will stay there for you ok? Just that place is big as fuck, might be a little lonely” I shrugged “and you have NBA players, singers and shit being around, make friends” she has a point I guess.

Robyn climbed onto the bed across from me “I bought son, son over” moving my phone back from my face “that is cute, what is up” locking my phone, something seems to be up because she had a phone call and now she seems to be quiet “just girl thing, you know” Robyn shrugged it off “come on, lay down with me and you can tell me” Robyn crawled over to me “thank you poppa, I am going to leave son, son with you in California” taking the bear from her smiling “sure, I don’t mind it” placing it on the pillow next to me “nothing bad, just that I love Mel I do. And we have been through everything together but recently Mel has been feigning for a relationship and like now she called me and said I was ignoring her when I told her I am with you; I am trying to spend time with you but she is feeling lonely. I think she dislikes I am taken and in love and I don’t give her the attention. I just don’t get it, so yeah she rang and said I was ignoring her, and I goes uh no, I was spending time with my man and then she goes oh but who has been there for you, chile. I am like has your period started, it’s annoying. What the fuck. So yeah, just stressing. Like I have another partner, I hate that she’s lonely” oh here we go “that is her problem” I mumbled “but it is mine too Chris” clearing my throat “how about Barry and Mel? Yeah, good. Now let’s just talk about us” Robyn got up from me smiling “what are you like but I want you to be at home, when you’re in Cali. It is your home” nodding my head “but tell Mel I will give her number to him, so no stressing. I want you to be stress free, I want you to be my country bumpkin” Robyn scoffed “and I want you to be my island boy” Robyn pecked my lips “baby, you going to massage my feet” here she goes “stop it, I don’t have a foot fetish now” I think I do “but I have a neck fetish, your neck and my teeth always meet” Robyn’ neck looks good, full of hickeys.

[steveusesfaberge]

Ice Cream and Cassettes

 Pairing: Steve Harrington x Byers!Reader

Request: Hey, could I have a Steve Harrington x reader where the reader is a Byers. They’re hanging out in her room and all but Joyce comes home so he as to try to sneak out of her room through the window like the “ninja” he is. Lmao. Jonathon spots him, doesn’t say anything, but does talk to Joyce/the reader. But then Steve and the reader meet up at scoops the next day. She tells him and he tries to make it up to her in a cute and cheesy way. Can’t wait to see what you write. Thanks!

Summary: Hanging out with your boyfriend isn’t a crime...yet, when he’s sneaking out your window in the evening - and your big brother catches it...yeah...that about sums up where Y/N is now. Steve’s stealth isn’t as flawless as he thinks it is...luckily, ice cream fixes every problem! Or...at least the cute sailor boy serving it can!

Type/Style: Requested, Imagine, female pronouns

Warning(s): Fluff, fluff, fluff, fluff...A bit of angst, overprotective Jonathan, bad dance moves, and a fluffy lil’ sailor boy...

Word Count: 6,400-ish

a/n: I had an absolute blast writing this! I got to jam to 80s hits while writing?? Heck yeah!! <3 I hope this request was to your liking!! This was sooo cute to write! :) 

I hope you like my take on the request! <3

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The music was deafening - Queen was blasting through the small room; the noise pulsing through the walls and silencing anything that wasn’t Under Pressure for the time being. Band posters hung all around the bedroom, accompanied by hundreds of Polaroids...(she was the kid-sister of Byers...what did you expect?), and enough stuffed animals that made Steve want to cuddle Y/N until her face turned blue (or red from embarrassment; he wasn’t gonna be picky). He was wearing his black shades (despite being inside - and the sun having gone down a few hours ago), Steve’s hair was messy and out of place as he danced across the carpeted space, yet The Hair Harrington couldn’t truly bring himself to care. He’d pop his collar ever now and then (like the cool kid he was), slick back his hair dramatically, pull a goofy-face, and portray the most unruly of choreographies...

Y/N wasn’t better off - she had her hair held up in a limp bun, y/c/h hair strands sticking to her forehead from a light sweat she’d worked up from dancing for the past hour or so... She had an oversized striped boyfriend shirt on (ironically, it was actually Steve’s...authentically branding it as a boyfriend shirt), a random graphic tee to match, and her blue jeans rolled just above her ankles. She had a pair of sunglasses on as well - though hers carried a quirky pattern of colorful geometric configurations. With every move that Harrington busted, Y/N had an even better (worse) one to counter.

There were photos littering the floor with a promise of I’ll pick them up later, and laughter was the only thing able to outdo the cassette player. Their shoes had been forgotten in the mix long ago, thrown to the side as they continued their party (only having Steve grin like a madman because Y/N’s socks were adorably mismatched, raising mid-calf, hiding beneath the fabric of her pants). Steve was bent over, hands rested on his knees for just a moment, catching his breath as he watched his girlfriend scurry across the room to the tapes, replacing it for a new one. He smiled at her state of bliss his eyes flickering to the cassettes - feeling proud to have been the one to buy at least, one-fourth of the large collection (Jonathan being the main source; he was the one to get her into keeping a collection as it was. Steve only fueled her addiction).

“What’s next, babygirl? Hit me with it!” He cheered, making a loud whooping sound, pumping his fist in the air. Y/N giggled breathlessly, a wide grin on her lips as she spun on her heels to face him, just as the music began to play (mind you, she was being careful when using it...it was not hers - she’d snuck the player from Jon’s room while he was out with Nancy...it wasn’t like he was using it...and while she had one, it was a portable; being much smaller, not as loud - and totally not apt for their jam session).

As the beginning of the song rolled in, Steve had the brightest smile on his face (God, she’d kill to just kiss him right now...but they did have a dance party on the line...it’d have to wait, she supposed).

She shimmed over to him, Steve grabbing her by her thin waist, pulling Y/N into him. She was pressed to a half-way dressed torso, his pink button-up having all the said buttons - undone, due to him getting rather hot in the small room - not that Y/N was complaining.

She comfortably placed her hands on his bare chest, tracing a heart on the exposed skin, right above where his actual one was. Steve hummed in response, winking at her with that dreamy Harrington suave style of his. Tapping his foot to the fast-paced song, readying his throat to scream the lyrics.

“If I--,” He began while leaving one arm wound around Y/N’s hips, the other coming up to point to himself. She laughed, filling in the rest of the lyric,”--I get to know your name!” Steve snickered at the way she lifted a hand, using her finger to write Steve in the air, then pursing her lips - crossing her eyes at him.

“Well if I, could trace your private number, babyyyyy,” he added, his tune off-key, and his words way too loud; dipping, at least, five octaves trailing off. Though Y/N could only see how perfectly straight his teeth were - admiring the way his lips articulated each syllable and how sexy his voice could be.

He held a “phone” up to his face, using the hand-gesture with a little shake, then blew a kiss to Y/N, while she dramatically spun out of his arms - reaching to catch the kiss.

“All I know is that to me!” Y/N sung while clutching her hands to her chest, throwing her head back in the process. Steve was bobbing his head to the music, his arms thrown out, his legs kicking out every once in a while (representing a flamingo on skates rather than someone attempting to dance, in L/N’a opinion).

“You look like you’re lots of fun—,” Steve proclaimed, pointing in her direction, chuckling as Y/N made her sunglasses wiggle on her face - pulling an adorable fish-face that shot an urge through his whole body to seize her and pepper her face and neck with kisses.

As the chorus trickled in, Steve was quickly grabbing for her hands. He began to spin her (a bit violently, but he was just really into the song), shouting the words as if she couldn’t hear them herself,” You spin me rightttt round, baby! Right round like a record, baby!--” In between her laughter, she joined him; the chorus being vocalized by the two in...a...harmony only perfect to their ears (and their ears alone).

Steve loved days like these; where there wasn’t a care in the world - the only thing to keep in mind being; what song to play next? He loved the way Y/N just let it all go - unraveling to reveal the goofball he’d fallen in love with oh-so-long ago... Of course, it’d taken some convincing for her to be his goofball - she’d known him throughout his...unmentionable phase...and her oldest brother, Jonathan, hadn’t always been his biggest fan. Though, after she got to know him, his Senior Year onward - they found out how much they had in common (along with the fact that Steve confirmed to be a complete dork).

Harrington was spinning her around as the song came to a close, and when the cassette stopped playing - a slight hiccup in its sound - they both landed on her mattress. Y/N rested atop him while she buried her face there; laughing. Steve was out of breath, but nonetheless, he laughed with her. Peals of their hilarity better than any song he’d ever heard.

“You’re so weird,” Y/N huffed after taking some time to collect herself. Her hands folded across his uncovered chest, her chin resting on the flimsy bridge her fingers built, entwined together to keep her head up. Steve fake pouted, using his arms as support for his own head, poking his tongue out at Y/N while she rested between his legs, half off the bed.

“Says you! You suck ass at dancing, babes,” he teased while reaching out to boop her nose. Only having her retract with a half-grin, half-grimace appearing on her lips - producing a soft noise in response to the cute look on her face.

Y/N sighed, unfolding her arms, pulling them around him, resting the side of her face on his chest - causing Y/N to look squashed against him. “It’s ‘kay, Stevers...we can suck ass together, ‘cause we both could use some dance lessons.”

Harrington grinned, lifting a hand to undo Y/N’s sloppy bun - her y/c/h hair falling down in a now deformed bunch. “What about that Jazzercise place at Starcourt?” he suggested with a growing smirk, seeing his girlfriend hold back a scoff.

“Pfft, so you can just stare at my ass all day? Yeah -- sure, buddy,” Y/N tittered while shaking her head.

Steve rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, running his hands through her tangled hair (Y/N had tied it up for almost the entire day, so the feeling of his fingers combing through her scalp was heavenly...darling Steve, knew this too). 

“You’d be winning too, hun...I mean...it’s not like my ass is going anywhere. It’s like a win-win situation!” That only earned him an uproar of giggles.

Steve hummed happily at her fit, and wrapped his legs around her waist, keeping her in place. The squeal she objected, only egging him on.

“Steeveee! Let go!” Y/N demanded while trying to wriggle from his hold (she cursed his time playing basketball, his legs were unmoving...). By now, his hand had fallen away from her (somewhat) untangled hair and he only shook his head - keeping her still, clamped between his long limbs - holding her face up with one hand. He squeezed her cheeks together and she only sulked.

“Wet me goh, Steeev!” He gave Y/N a smirk, raising a dark brow at her cute attempt of: Let me go, Steve!

“Sorry, honey - I don’t speak gibberish.” Y/N groaned at his statement, whacking his hand away from her. “Steve Harrington! -- If you don’t let me go, this ins--,” her words and Steve’s chuckling was cut off when the sound of a car pulling up could be heard.

“Joyce?” Steve asked promptly, releasing Y/N, the girl slipping to sit on the floor as her boyfriend scrambled to get his things together. “Probably,” she replied, collecting his shoes for him while he clumsily buttoned his shirt up (he didn’t need it to look bad if he got caught).

Steve was now striding over, slipping his sneakers on with his usual awkward struggle; walking at the same time, towards her window (he regularly snuck in and out in when the situation called for it...this being one of them) - which wasn’t the best idea for a clumsy guy like him... “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N/N! Come see me at work?” He rushed out questioning her while pushing the pane up, his body turned to her as he stuck a leg out the opening.

Y/N shuffled to him and elevated his face - sharing a soft kiss before he departed. “Mhmm! Will probably wants to hang out there, anyways - heard him mention it this morning,” she explained while holding his bicep as he swung his other leg over (Harrington wasn’t known for his perfect balance after all).

Waving him off - she shut the window (though leaving it unlocked, as Steve often liked to come back - even when he really shouldn’t). As she watched his figure disappear from sight, she pretended she didn’t see Steve trip over his own two feet and she ignored the muffled curse of dissatisfaction he exhibited. Y/N then took the liberty to collect all the developed Polaroids from the floor - they were still scattered across her carpet, and she bent down to compile them.

Holding one between her fingers, she smiled at it - deciding to keep it by her bedside (maybe buy a simple frame to match) - as it was quite cute. Steve had his left arm around her shoulders, his right arm holding up a peace sign, as he smiled brilliantly at the camera. His shirt was unbuttoned only at the top, and Y/N had her head resting there by his collarbone. One hand holding the camera, the other wrapped around his waist.

Admiring the picture - Y/N drew it to her chest, sighing in content. Lost in her own little world; she examined and accumulated all the photographs for the next few minutes.

Most of the pictures she hung up, were either of her family, the kids, or Steve. She cherished all of them though, and they were fastened to the wall with some clear tape and the occasional thumbtack. It was Jonathan who had gotten her into photography - he’d take her to the darkroom in school after hours one day, and showed her how to develop the photos, how to turn negatives to positives, etc.

Eventually, he got her a small camera of her own - to go around taking photos as she pleased (Y/N kept it on top of her dresser for easy access). It was actually Steve who got her the Polaroid camera - his argumentation had been; what’s the point in doing all that other shit when this little baby does it all for you? The pictures ready in like...a minute and you’re done! He’d given it to Y/N as a present for their three month anniversary - in return, she had gotten him a necklace (which, Steve refuses to take off - he holds the silver chain like the secrets to the universe; precious and miraculous).

Y/N was neatly organizing the stack of newly made memories when her mother’s voice echoed down the hall. “Y/N? Sweetie? Could you please come here, and help me with the groceries?” Placing the stash of photos on her nightstand, Y/N answered while walking to the doorway. “Yeah! I’ll be right there, mom!”

Entering the kitchen, Joyce was already unpacking. “Hey, sweetie! How was your day?” Y/N was about to answer when someone beat her to it.

“Oh, I’m sure her day was fine - in fact, I just saw a ninja leaving the house!” Both women turned to see Jonathan leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Y/N placed the cartoon of eggs away and rolled her eyes. “Ninja? I think you’re delusional, Jonny.”

Jonathan only huffed, tossing something down on the countertop between mother and daughter. Y/N’s y/c/e eyes widened. It was one of her and Steve’s Polaroids from this afternoon... This one, in particular, was of Steve pressing a kiss to her temple. He’d taken the photo, she knew by memory, and by the fact that it was a bit blurry (Harrington had never been a steady-hand).

“Look familiar?” Jon asked while carrying the orange juice to place in the fridge.

Joyce leaned over, examining the photo - not really seeing anything wrong with it (maybe questioning the brunette’s undone shirt - but the sunglasses they both flashed, had her think it was simply for aesthetic), even thinking it was cute. “What’s wrong with it?” Y/N asked while crossing her arms.

“You know, I’m not sure what the big deal is either - it’s just a photo, Jonathan,” Joyce added while trying to decide what to do with a few canned fruits.

The boy sighed. “The point is -- Steve was here, and he wasn’t supposed to be. He thinks he’s so sneaky leaving - but I watched him trip over nothing on his way out...”

Y/N tried not to imagine Harrington’s reaction to being caught - probably an uncomfortable cough and a side-glance away from her brother. Oh, hey man...just going for a walk...um...past your uh...house... probably on the tip of his tongue.

“How do you know that’s not an old photo, anyway?” Y/N pushed while walking to the wooden cabinets to put the cereal boxes in their proper spots.

“Y/N...I watched Steve drop this one on his way out,” Jonathan hissed,” And what didn’t you get about my comment on your day? Ninja, huh?” Joyce looked to her son, giving him the okay....cool your jets, bud. I’m the mother, remember? look.

“Is that true, sweetie? Did you have Steve over? You know I don’t mind, but we talked about having boys over when no one’s around.” Joyce reminded in that gentle way of hers.

Jonathan seemed to be rather smug and clearly sided with his mother’s easy scolding - Y/N shot him a glare.

“I mean...we didn’t do anything,” she defended weakly. Joyce bit her cheek, knowing that to sustain proper order in the Byers’ household, she’d have to distribute punishment evenly...

“Well, Y/N/N...you know the rules,” her mother stated shortly, placing a few apples in a large wooden basket, leaving room for oranges, and bananas.

The girl groaned and scratched her head. “I’m serious! All we did was listen to music and dance! I can prove it too - the cassette player’s in my room still, and you can call Steve - not like he’ll lie!” Jonathan pursed his lips at the last bit, ever the protective older brother. His eyebrows then knitted together.

“Cassette player? I thought you kept that in the ca--,” “We used yours because it’s louder than mine.” She quickly resolved.

“Oh - so not only did you break the ‘no boys/girls allowed when home alone’ rule -- but you went through my room as well?” Jonathan snorted.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed at the accusation, she placed down the lettuce that was to be used in tonight’s dinner. “It was sitting on your desk! I wasn’t going through anyone’s room! I figured - since all we did - was listen to music, it’d be okay! I’m sorry, I guess I was wrong!” Their voices were slowly climbing and Joyce had a hand up, silently telling them both to drop it... Neither heeded their mother’s warning though.

“Yeah, you did guess wrong,” Jon growled lowly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry -- cut the crap by the way, I know this isn’t about your cassette player...you’re just sour I had Steve over!” Y/N scoffed.

“So you admit it!” Jonathan stabbed while slapping his hand on the countertop.

“Okay, kids -- kids -- listen to your mother when she talks to you,” Joyce informed sternly, two heads turning in her direction slowly.

“Jonathan, you don’t need to talk to your sister like that,” her eyes dodging to her daughter,” And you -- you know the rules.” Y/N only held back a groan - as the rule implied things that Steve and she hadn’t done... “Okay, I’m sorry...I know it was wrong of me to take things into my own hands - but we seriously didn’t do anything, mom.”

Joyce believed her, she did (in her opinion, after meeting Steve; he was a charming young man with a good head on his shoulders...good head of hair, too) - but as a mother, she had to keep both children happy.

“I accept your apology.” Y/N relaxed at that. “But you broke the rules, sweetie...meaning--,” “I’m grounded, I know.” With that, she shot a glare to Jonathan and stormed off.

There had been plenty of times she could’ve snitched on him (she wasn’t an idiot when Jon said they needed him late after work...bullshit - Nancy needed him late after work). Y/N couldn’t believe Jonathan would throw her under the bus like that. Yet, that wasn’t even the half of it...it hurt to think Jon didn’t trust her.

They’d been through so much together, and he’d always had her back. The best big brother any girl could ask for... But...the second, she and Steve got together - it was like she was twelve-years-old again. Y/N felt like Jonathan was her father and not her eighteen-year-old brother...mind him, she was seventeen and completely capable of taking care of herself.

Hadn’t she proved that while fighting off demodogs in some far off junkyard? Or when she helped set up a trap for the Demogorgon? Or what about the time she punched Billy Hargrove in the face for cat-calling her and getting in her personal space? Jonathan treated her like...a kid.

It felt like Jon forgot all the things Steve had done for her, too... He saved her life when she’d been jumped by a stray demodog - if Harrington hadn’t been there, she’d have died. Y/N was sure he’d saved her life more than just that single point in time (Y/N only remembered it so prominently because it had been then, that she realized she loved him)... Or, all the times Steve offered to drive her home so she didn’t have to walk. Even when he put a drunk in his place after trying to drag Y/N off at a party (which Nancy had invited both Byers to...if anything, that one was Jon’s fault).

Steve had proved himself to be a good person with good intentions and a kind heart - and yet Jonathan was the most overprotective person she’d ever met. It was frustrating...she didn’t question Jon when he “snuck out”, or when he left randomly to go aid Nancy or attend to whatever was on his mind... Ugh.

She’d fallen asleep while flipping through the loose photos, planning to hang them up sometime tomorrow. Praying that things would get better by morning - though she knew that Jonathan would always be a bit...tentative after their fights. Along with the remainder of her childish lockdown, she wasn’t very pleased as she slipped into darkness.

“Y/N? Can you take me to the mall?” Lifting her head, the said girl looked away from the tape and pile of Polaroids scattered on her bed. “Where’s Jonathan?” She asked while turning back to find free space on her walls for the pictures.

“He already went to work,” Will replied while standing in her doorway watching as she (quite aggressively) tore a piece of tape from its roll.

“Mom?” “She left like...four hours ago,” Will answered, crossing his arms as he waited for her to agree.

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair, which was a bit greasy - as she had gone to bed upset and hadn’t taken the time to shower, nor even wash her face (Steve would always tell her the secret to great hair, was shelf-life...he’d go three or so days without washing it...it seemed to work for him...not so much for her).

“I would, but I’m grounded, right now, Will,” she explained with a bitter tone.

“Just tell mom you’re taking me to the mall,” he said while shrugging.

Y/N snorted. “She won’t let me leave the house - thanks to Jonathan.”

“What did he do?” Will asked while moving to hand her another piece of tape as she struggled to reach for it while keeping the photo in place.

“He’s being a hypocritical ass, that’s what he’s doing,” she seethed. “He...he caught Steve leaving yesterday and instead of just trusting me and letting it go - he told mom and then argued with me about it...”

“Well...I need to go to the mall - everyone’s waiting for me...you’re the only one who can drive...and technically, I can’t be alone... and you are the only available driver - who else better to watch me than my sister?” Will raised an eyebrow, Y/N narrowing her eyes at him - a small smile playing on her lips.

“I mean...being forced to the mall when you’re trying to be grounded like the good daughter you are - is a pretty harsh sentence. You’ll just have to watch six kids which is probably worse than sitting here - abusing tape.”

“Will The Wise...you never seem to fail me,” she smirked. The younger boy only laughed and shook his head, smiling as Y/N grabbed her keys, tossing them into the air to catch; ushering him out the door.

“Ahoy, stranger! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I’ll be your captain...I’m Steve Harrington.” Of course, he had to greet his girlfriend like so...it was employee policy after all.

“Hey, Steve,” she offered while plopping herself at the nearest table, not even having to tell him that she wanted to try the newest ice cream, or that she was in a bad mood. He just knew.

“Here,” he said after a few seconds of getting her a small cone of rocky road and caramel dream - his brown eyes fixing on her irked state. “On the house, cutie,” he added while pulling the chair out across from Y/N. Steve flipped it to be backward (an unpleasant squeak to follow), and tugged off his dumb hat, straightening its edges in his hands as he leaned forward. His chestnut hair was falling into his view and his slight frown only had him look like an adorable chocolate lab.

“Thanks,” she mumbled while taking the cone, their fingers brushing (Steve used to flush like a manic back before they’d gotten together - he occasionally still did, and it only had her love him more).

He rested one arm around the rim of his chair holding his hat, the other having his elbow rested on the table, his palm cradling his chin as he looked at her in question.

“You wanna tell me what’s wrong?” He tested while cocking a brow, only having an intimation of the truth.

Y/N admired the marbled coloring of the custard before answering him. “Jonathan’s just being a jerk.” She expressed while sighing, taking a mouthful of ice cream as an attempt to cool her temper.

Steve’s eyes widened - realizing what she must be talking about. He rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as everything washed back from yesterday... He had been turning the corner of the house - having waited a few minutes for Joyce to be out of sight - when Byers pulled up in his own car. They’d locked eyes and Steve had stammered an excuse. Oh, hey - I was uh..I-I um, your sister...I was just...with her...keeping her company -- I mean, we didn’t do anything, or like...yeah. Just came over...c-cause she was bored...wait...I mean-- The brother hadn’t said anything, only crossed his arms and waited for Harrington to leave. Once Steve did - he could only pray that he didn’t make himself to be a bigger fool than he already was...he was certain that his grand speech was useless.

“Shit -- this is my fault, isn’t it? -- I’m sorry, babes -- I didn’t even hear him pull up. If you want I can talk to hi--,” She cut him off, taking his hand in hers. Giving a small smile. This was why she loved this dorky man so much...he tried his best even when the odds were stacked against him (heavily...as Jonathan didn’t quite like the idea of his little sister with an ex-heartbreaker).

“It’s okay. He’ll get over it, I need to apologize anyway...I know he’s just trying to protect me...but...it’s just a little irritating,” she said.

“Besides - I came here to keep an eye on the kids, I’m supposed to be grounded, you know,” she giggled,” I think sitting in an ice cream parlor with Captain Steve Harrington and his sailor outfit, is a fine enough suffering.”

Steve was glad she’d lightened up - while he nodded, he did make a mental note to grab Jonathan on his own... The brunette then smirked, of course - watching the kids was a pretty terrible punishment, indeed.

He clicked his tongue with a scoff,” Hey -- at least you’re not wearing it.” Steve pulled at the red tie around his neck and ran a hand through his hair, standing up as a customer walked in. He placed his hat back on and made a face.

“All hands on deck, Cap’in,” Y/N snickered, Steve only saluting her and rolling his eyes. It amazed her every time - how simply his presence and hearing his voice made everything one-hundred times better...

Throughout Steve’s shift, he tried to keep Y/N happy, smiling, and entertained. When he couldn’t - Robin was his stand-in. Both good friends as it was, so it wasn’t hard to do so. The kids even came in after some time of wandering around; ending with all nine of them surrounding the cash register and taste-testing the flavors with their eyes closed.

“Um, that weird cherry one?” Lucas hesitated while licking his lips, eyes squeezed tightly.

“I need a name, dingus,” Robin told while tapping her dry erase marker on her whiteboard (which had previously been used to mark Steve’s losing streak).

Max had her fingers crossed and was snickering with El - hoping that her boyfriend wouldn’t be able to produce a proper name. They’d split into teams; Lucas, Dustin, Mike, and Will...versus Steve, Y/N, Max, and El (Robin being their “host” choosing flavors and keeping score; along with making the difficult decisions of...if the answer was close enough or not).

“Dude -- how do you not remember this?” Dustin hissed while rubbing his face.

Mike only nodded vigorously, sighing loudly,” You tried this two days ago! You literally had to say the name to order it!”

“Just think about it, Lucas,” Will encouraged while Robin tapped her invisible watch - telling the three boys that if Sinclair wasn’t quick - they’d lose the point.

“Uh--,” “You have five seconds, kid.” “Uh-- Cherry...um” “Three” “Chocolate cherry? -- No wait, vanill--,” “TIMES UP!” Robin laughed while half the small crowd groaned, smacking Lucas on the head or expressing their disappointment verbally.

“What was it?” He asked while walking to the glass showcase.

El and Max were gloating, taunting the other team - to which Dustin claimed they were cheating; Steve works here! He probably eats this shit every day! To which Harrington denies, flicking Henderson’s face.

Actually, dipshit -- I have to, y’know, keep in shape... The curly-haired boy only gave a fake laugh and a glare. For who? Hargrove? Y/N? Bullshit!

The kids started bickering amongst themselves, and Robin clapped her hands to get their attention (everyone but herself and Y/N had been accusing one another... and sadly, Steve’s child-like mentality fell into that category of bickering children).

“Hey! Dinguses! You’re tied - it’s time for the final round, so shut up.” She rolled her eyes,” Steve may work here, but he’s a probably a handicap if anything - he doesn’t even know all the flavors we serve.”

Y/N snorted at that, fist-bumping her friend while her boyfriend floundered to defend himself. “What? I know the menu, thank you, Robin - we have chocolate, vanilla, uh, strawberry...that thing that Lucas just ate - oh, rocky road and caramel dream! I know that ‘cause it’s the special today--,” his girlfriend cut him off by scooting him out of the way. “Alright hotshot, take a seat to cool off. I’m about to win this for us.”

Steve only chuckled, rubbing his neck as his blush ran down his face; ears tinted a shade darker. Mike was whispering to the boys about how whipped Harrington was -- and the older boy had overheard, flipping them off when Y/N turned her back to them.

“Oh, we’re so gonna win! Guess we’ll be watching Sixteen Candles, losers!” Max quipped - high-fiving El. The boys all collectively moaned (all except for Steve who actually kinda liked Sixteen Candles...another reason they all made fun of him). The teams had been split purposefully - as movie nights were Fridays - and if Y/N wasn’t grounded, they were all planning on going to Harrington’s house (as per usual) to watch something together. Of course, they could never agree...always split one way, two ways, or three...heck - once there were five different ideas thrown out, and no one wanted to compromise...(Steve being the loving mother he was...gave in and everyone ended up sleeping over as had to go through five different movies...).

This week’s split was between Sixteen Candles and Return of the Jedi (even though everyone had seen the Return of the Jedi on multiple occasions. The boys just didn’t want to watch such a ‘girly movie’ which Steve defended in being pretty good). Last week they’d watched The Neverending Story, and since then, the boys wanted to watch one of their favorite movies for the nth time... But Harrington was bored of those teddy-bear things, El didn’t quite understand the whole Star Wars universe, Max wasn’t interested in it, and Y/N was tired of listening to Will gush about it at home... That, sealing their conflicting sides.

“Robin choose a hard one!” Lucas requested while glaring at his girlfriend.

“Oh, do -- this one,” Dustin whispered.

“No that’s too easy - Y/N’s tried like...all of them,” Mike cut in while scanning the flavors for himself.

“I mean...Sixteen Candles isn’t that bad,” Will mumbled - only getting glared at by his friends (if he sided now, then they’d be forced to watch the said movie without a fighting chance as that was the rule...with these stupid challenges if someone ended giving in - the other team automatically won...).

Y/N rolled her eyes before placing her hands over them and silently going over the list of ice creams she scanned almost every day (the menus suddenly spotting in and out, the list a bit foggy as she tried harder to remember them all).

The air was tense and everyone was on edge (luckily, the mall was closing soon so not much foot traffic was provided to interrupt this distinctive moment in Movie Night Fridays). Max and El were biting their lips, mumbling c’mon, c’mon - while the boys were all pointing in silent rage to the ice cream they thought Robin should choose.

There was a soft wave of whispers. A few outbursts - then silence like someone had calmed the storm...she wondered what was going on, questioning if she was going to be handed the small spoon or not...

“Guys? Robin? Y--,” the touch of soft, warm lips froze her words in her throat. Y/N immediately felt her cheeks flame. Her hands slipped away from her still closed eyes, and she wrapped her arms around a familiar figure.

Ews could be heard, along with a shut up, it’s cute. Steve cupped her cheek, keeping her face close while she played with the nape of his neck. Y/N could only focus on how he was smirking into the liplock like the little dork he was...

“Okay, that’s enough now,” Robin teased while capping her marker.

Steve pulled away, nevertheless holding Y/N’s body close to his own. He swept his thumb across her pink cheekbones and smiled with a toothy grin.

“I won’t be able to burn that from my mind,” Lucas gagged - earning a smack from Max.

“I’ll say... --that’s my sister,” Will grimaced. Mike only nodded in agreement, yet with El’s arms hugging him, he wasn’t quick to criticize.

“That’s my idol,” Dustin mumbled while scrunching his nose up.

Y/N stuck her tongue out at the children - and giggled when Steve rolled his eyes at them - waving them off. “Oh, please. I just schooled you all in how to treat your girlfriend.” His arms tightly wound around her waist.

The deal he’d made with them was you can all stay over at my house and watch all the movies you want - I’ll even by you whatever snacks you want - if you let me do this. They agreed, in the name of Harrington being a push-over and for all good junk food he’d blow his money on.

Robin left a shortly after (a plan to hang out with Y/N sometime next week) - leaving Steve to lock up and it left the eight of them to exit the mall together. Hand in hand with Steve, Y/N sighed in content. Sure...her mom would probably have something to say when she got home so late (though reassured by Will’s promise to stand up for her - taking her side), but it was impossible for her to feel anything negative while listening to Steve’s breathy, lasting laugh.

“Thanks, Steves,” she mumbled, using the simple nickname affectionately.

He smiled down at her, letting her hand go to wrap his arm around her, then reaching to place his hat on her own head (rewarded with a giggle).

“Oh? How come?” He asked while swinging his car keys on his index.

Y/N leaned into him, watching the kids walking ahead of them talk amongst themselves, in their loud, troublesome manner. “You made me feel better,” she clarified,” You always do.”

Steve wore a proud look - his (slightly flattened) hair still looking as perfect as ever. “Aw shucks, that’s real sweet of you, babes.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and then watched her for a second longer.

“I’ll talk to Jonathan -,” continuing even with Y/n’s eyes flashing protest,”- Maybe we’ll grab a coffee or something, and I’ll talk to him like an adult. Because I know I don’t deserve you, but I’ll love you anyway - and if it takes me manning up and downright asking for your brother’s approval...I’ll beg until I get it because I can’t live without you, Y/N,” he admitted sweetly.

El had overheard and awed, resulting in a blushing Harrington (he hadn’t thought he was that loud). Mike, Lucas, and Dustin were mocking him, professing their love to one another (eventually stopping because Max’s glares were not that welcoming).

“Don’t worry, Steve. You already have my blessing! So...that’s one brother down!” Will said while walking backward to talk. “My mom likes you - and she doesn’t really care as long as Y/N/N’s happy. And Jonathan just needs to realize you’re serious about her -- then you’re golden!” The kid’s words reassured his raging nerves (even with his cool facade, he had been fretting that because of the rift between himself and the eldest Byers...Steve wouldn’t be able to hold Y/N in his arms any longer...).

“Will The Wise...you’ve done it again,” Y/N smiled, laughing lightly at her brother’s kind support. Steve only tightened his grip on Y/N, confidence finding him as they stepped into the cool night. He understood why Jonathan was so worried...Steve may not be her brother - but he was her boyfriend, and would be just as worried if someone posed as a danger to his beloved.

“Alright, dickheads - who am I driving home?” He asked, clearing his throat.

When all the boys (minus Will) raised their hands - Harrington groaned. Pleading to trade for El and Max... while Y/N shook her head, claiming he shouldn’t have offered himself up like that.

“Stop by tomorrow, sailor,” Y/N told while pressing a goodbye kiss to his lips. “Jonathan gets home early on Wednesdays. You can talk to him then til your heart’s content.”

He smiled, pulling her into a crushing embrace. “Sounds good to me, babes...you think he’d want to join our dance parties? Or...no?”

----

a/n footer: gahh! That was pretty cute to write! I hope it’s okay! <3

Part 2 of Sunsets Back Home should be out soon! (hopefully, tonight/tomorrow morning because I stay up late writing...whoops)

Side Note: @novaddictx​ I’m sorry Tumblr is being mean to you XD I hope you get this tag...bahaha, give ‘em a piece of your mind XD <3 I’m glad you’re enjoying my writing as much as I enjoy well..writing it for you all!

Tagged List: @billyhargrovescigarette@novaddictx @mairalynn416 @krystalane@wefracturedmotivation@truthdaze @xxcxrolinexx @savingprivatecass @emmalbg @timeladygallifrey@the-first-breath-of-autumn-air 

Feel free to message me or comment if I forgot to tag you or you’d like to be tagged in future posts! :)

[zambie-trashart]

Dark Cupid: Rewritten Series

This one was the one where I slammed my head into my desk and almost gave up writing (I’ve only been a fanfic writer for like a week now) but I helped myself to think about the episode differently. I think I’m going to like how this turns out.

Read the whole series

Summary: Jon writes valentine for Chat Noir that Adrien picks up after class and thinks is for Adrien not Chat. Marinette plans to tell Damian how she feels but gets held up when Dark Cupid attacks people in love, good thing she hates Robin.

...............................

Adrien kept looking over his shoulder and past everyone else to Jon who had his face stuck in a piece of paper. When the bell rang, he tossed it in the trash and Adrien picked it up. He then remembered what Robin had told him: as long as you ask him out you can keep seeing him, stop this game of cat and mouse, either ask him out or don’t.

Plagg looked at the paper. “Gross, looks like he’s got a crush on Adrien kid,” Plagg said before throwing some cheese down his black hole that was where his mouth should be.

“Your hair shines like the sun, your eyes are gorgeous green. I look at you and wonder your innermost thoughts and dreams. Your valentine I hope to be, our love could be so true, my heart belongs to you,” Adrien read off smiling.

“Jon never showed any interest in you before though,” Plagg said thoughtfully.

“Way to boost my ego Plagg but, who else could he have been talking about?”

...............................

Jon sat in Marinette’s room trying to calm down his cousin.

“You said it yourself, Damian Wayne doesn’t do Valentine’s Day! If I give him a Valentine then... I’ll be rejected for sure!” Alya walked up the stairs.

“Damian isn’t that cruel, God he’s not Robin Mari,” Jon said hugging his cousin and waving at Alya over her shoulder. “I sort of have my own thing to do today though so I’m just going to...” Jon pointed to the trap door and walked down the stairs.

...............................

Chloe was walking down the bridge and saw Kim waiting for her. She didn’t have time for this, she had to get her poster signed by Superboy finished and in her gold frame. 

He asked her out and it was a cold rejection. Kim was heartbroken and was akumatized into Dark Cupid. He saw Jon Kent walking down the street on his phone and realized that this was the boy that loved everyone. “He has too much love in his heart, now he’ll hate everyone!” Dark Cupid yelled shooting Jon with an arrow.

Adrien was walking down the street saying random things to respond to Jon’s poem.

“Aw is someone upset that they can’t finish their poem for their sweetheart with glasses?” Plagg asked eating more cheese.

“I don’t need to write a poem if I can just say it right to his face, Jon, I love you,” Adrien said dreamily. Adrien was pushed over a second later by a random person and saw a man in the sky. “That’s not good.”

...............................

Marinette stood outside of the Lahiffe’s and knocked on the door. Nino answered the door. “Hey what’s up dude?” 

“Um, is Damian here?” Marinette asked secretly hoping that he would say no. The longer she stood at the door the less she wanted to do this.

“He’s actually out, you just missed him. He said he was headed over to your place to talk to Jon about something,” Nino shrugged.

“Thanks Nino,” Marinette said before grabbing Alya and dragging her down the street and then her friend was shot.

“Alya!”

“Damian will never love you, he’s going to laugh at your lame attempt at romance!” Alya said laughing before running away. Marinette looked up into the sky and saw someone flying and shooting arrows.

Marinette transformed and ran toward the akumatized person and saw Robin dodging arrows and slicing them with his sword.

“Friend of yours Robin?” Ladybug asked and Robin stared at her and an arrow came flying at him. She ran over and pushed him out of the way, getting hit for him. Her lips turned black. Robin looked down and saw Chat chasing after Jon who seemed to be changed too.

At least someone was looking after him. He remembered something that they were learning earlier in class about true love.

“Oh. God. No,” Damian said to himself. Ladybug had gotten up and was now running after Chat who was running after Jon. Damian took a second to laugh at the irony, normally Jon wouldn’t run from a blonde boy and now he was running from not only a blonde but the blonde that he loved.

Robin got up and threw small throwing knives at Dark Cupid who turned around and sicked Ladybug on him.

“I hate you!” she yelled and Damian started running knowing that she would chase him. They ended up in front of a fountain.

Ladybug went to kick Damian but he grabbed her leg and threw her to the ground. “Trust me, I’m not looking forward to this either,” Damian said grabbing her wrists and pulling her up. He held one arm and his other hand cupped her face before kissing her.

He pulled away fast and she looked around confused. “What happened?” Ladybug asked wide eyed.

“We’ll talk later, right now we have to stop Dark Cupid. Position... right you’re not Superboy. You take right I’ll go in from above,” Damian said rolling his eyes.

“Whatever bird boy,” Ladybug said laughing. Damian pounced on Dark Cupid and held him down as they destroyed the pendant. Ladybug held out her fist for a fist bump. “Oh right, you’re not Chat,” she said winking.

...............................

During all of that, Chat and Jon were still on a wild chase. Chat had Jon pinned with his foot against a wall.

“Let me go you mangy stray!” Jon yelled. Chat thought for a moment on how to fix Jon. True love’s kiss, but Robin would kill him cause... “I hate you!” Jon yelled. Chat grabbed Jon by the waist and neck and kissed him. Half a second later, the ladybugs fixed everything and Jon opened his eyes and saw Chat and felt Chat and... oh Rao. 

Jon pushed Chat back and looked up at him. 

“Sorry, I kind of had to do that to fix you, I’m just gonna go,” Chat said before jumping up onto a roof and running away. Jon was still standing there five minutes later.

“God damn blondes,” Jon muttered and walked back to Marinette’s house.

...............................

“So, did you do it Mari?” Jon asked. Marinette sat in her chair with her head pounding against her desk. “I guess not then,” Jon said laughing.

“Jon, dear, you have a valentine in the mail!” Sabine called from the entrance to Marinette’s room.

“Thanks Aunt Sabine,” Jon said taking the black paper. Jon started for the balcony.

“Aren’t you going to let me read it too?” Marinette asked and Tikki was by her side laughing at his embarrassment.

“Never,” Jon said flying up to the overhang. He opened the card and there was light green writing on the paper. “Your hair as dark as night, your pretty sapphire eyes. I wonder who you are beneath that strong disguise, every day we see each other and I’m glad that you’ll be mine. Together our love will be so true, of course I’ll be your Valentine.” Jon was freaking out. “It isn’t signed.”

“It’s a sweet poem though,” Marinette said behind Jon making him jump a little. “How is it that you have super hearing but you can always get scared when anyone sneaks up behind you?” Marinette asked before a small meow was heard. 

A black cat walked across the balcony. “You don’t think...” Marinette started but Jon was too far gone to care now.

“He loves me,” Jon said staring off into space.

“You really are a blonde lover,” Marinette said making Jon chase after her.

...............................

“Do you think he got your letter?” Plagg asked. There were footsteps behind him and Robin was standing there.

“The card that you didn’t sign? Jon thinks that he got a card from Chat Noir but it wasn’t signed so he can’t be sure,” Robin said smirking at Adrien.

“Well, you made out with Ladybug,” Adrien accused.

“To save her, I know she doesn’t like me so I can take the rejection. You on the other hand better not screw this up,” Robin said before disappearing.

“You really forgot to sign the card?” Plagg asked.

“Well, now I know that even without signing it, he loves me. Plus it was a long day,” Adrien said before falling back on his bed. “He loves me.”

...............................

hope that was enjoyable cause that took forever to work out!

@loveswifi @ash-amg @mochegato @wannajointhecrabcult

[meowdymista]

v. we might be dead by tomorrow

Part of the Devil’s Backbone project - Masterlist

“My God, is that Sadie Adler?”

Turning around, the woman’s mouth drops open. “Arthur motherfuckin’ Morgan!” she squeals, throwing her arms up and hugging him tight. “Oh my god! I thought you were dead! Am I dreaming? Is it really you?"

"It's me, alright." He groans as he squeezes her close, both of them laughing as he finally releases her and holds her at arm's length. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Bounty huntin' mostly." She slaps his arm looking him up and down, her eyes still sparkling with disbelief. "What about you? What have you been doin' all these years that you couldn't drop by to say hi to your good friend Sadie?"

"Avoidin' Pinkertons mostly." He nods at the bartender who promptly pours two double shots of whisky. They toast and only Arthur pulls a face. "Been travellin' around with Jack and Abigail, tryna get them settled someplace."

"You're still with them?" She nods appreciatively. "Does that mean you and Abigail…?" He gives her a blank stare. “Are you two… together?”

“Oh! Nah, o’course not. She’s always been in love with Marston.”

“Well, John’s been dead goin’ on eight years now.”

“So’s Jake. Have you met someone?”

Sliding another dollar to the bartender, she blows a long raspberry. “Have I hell. I think that was it for me. I’m not exactly meeting the best of suitors in my line of work.”

Arthur shrugs, accepting the beer she pushes into his hand. “Well, there you have it.”

“Oh no, you ain’t getting off that easy! You can’t be tellin’ me you ain’t ever slept together?”

“The women we travelled with were working girls, Sadie, with the exception of you. I mean, even Molly was startin’ that way ‘til Dutch picked her up.”

“I meant since I last saw y’all.” She laughs at the colour creeping up Arthur’s neck. “I knew it!”

“It ain’t like that, Sadie-”

“Well what’s it like then?” she teases with a big smile.

“It’s- y’know what it’s like. Some nights are more lonely than others.” His gaze is fixed on his fingers as they pick at the label,

“So you’ve only done it once or twice?” The heat starts burning in the cartilage of his ears. “Or once or twice this week?”

“We ain’t done it this week!” Arthur sits up a little taller, his cheeks still burning.

“No sexual activity at all?” He glances at her, his faltering voice making her laugh. “Arthur Morgan, how I’ve missed you!”

“Shurrup!” he growls, shoving her gently and draining the rest of his beer in one. “Don’t you have some work to be gettin’ on with?”

“Why? You sick of me already?” Her hand squeezes his shoulder until he meets her gaze. “Listen. I’m happy for you. You deserve to have a loving family.”

“You got the wrong end of the stick. I’m just helping ‘em get settled. We bought some land and built a ranch on it. When it’s paid for itself and they got a foot on this farming shit, I’ll leave ‘em to it.”

“How old is the ranch now?”

“About a year or more.”

“And you’re set on movin’?”

He shrugs. “I ain’t gonna outstay my welcome. Just wanna make sure they’ll be alright.”

Shaking her head, she heaves a deep breath. “What’s Abigail say about that?”

“We ain’t really talked about it-”

“So you’re sleepin’ together, runnin’ a ranch and helpin’ with her boy… but you’re still intending to leave?”

“Shit, Sadie, it won’t be for a while yet. Another year or more... it depends. I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

Quiet blankets the conversation. They each accept another beer, drinking wordlessly.

“Pearson runs the shop out in Rhodes now,” she states calmly.

“Really? Good for him!”

“Got himself a wife too - Esther.” Her sideways glance is enough to tickle him. “She’s got him as whipped as his Aunt Cathy!”

“Well, it weren’t for lack of suitors!” He laughs remembering their first trip into Rhodes. “Damn, Mrs Adler. Where does the time go?”

“Speak for yourself, old man! Them grey hairs had to come from somewhere.”

He scratches the stubble on his jaw self consciously. “Shurrup. I’m retired.”

“Didn’t know reprobates could retire.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head as he stands up. “Me neither, but it’s nice to try.”

“Well if you ever want any work, you know where I am. Most towns have bounty posters up and around. If you need money for the ranch, or if you’re serious about leaving ‘em to it…”

“Huh, maybe. I used to pick some up back in the day. You got an address, or an alias if I wanna write?”

“Nothin’ particular. Send it to wherever you hear from me last. No alias - this is legal work I’m doin’ now, so Mrs Adler is just fine. Yourself?”

“Beecher’s Hope, West Elizabeth.”

“Near Blackwater?”

“That’s the one.”

“I heard there’s some rough folk thataway.”

“The Skinner Brothers? Yeah, they can be pretty nasty.”

She hesitates. “I guess I can see why you want to stick around a bit longer… To make sure they’re safe.”

He agrees without much commitment - that reason is as good as any. “You should drop by if you’re in the area. I’m sure Abigail and Jack would love to see you and how well you’re doing for yourself.”

“I’ll definitely think about it.” She offers her hand, but he knocks it aside and pulls her into another hug.

“I’ll see you again, Mrs Adler.”

“Another time, Mr Morgan!” She tips her hat as Arthur waves back.

*****

Rufus gallops across the ranch as Arthur rides in trying not to jostle his arm. “Go away, boy,” he hisses. “Where’s Jack? Go play with Jack.” He swears as the dog begins to bark at him. His horse is too used to his grumpy antics to be moved by the aging pup.

He nudges his horse to the barn doors, using the bottom of his bow to prod them open ahead of the mare. Inside, he swings himself down, not caring if there is a steaming pile of manure where he lands. He's fortunate to land on the concrete with little more than a hiss at the jostle. Moving to the nearest stall to light a lamp, he finds Jack reading besides his favourite calf.

"Hey, Uncle Arthur."

"What are you doing out here at this hour?" he growls, snatching the book out of his hands and marking the page with a feather from his hat. "Get inside!"

"Y-yes sir." The boy is clearly taken aback. Arthur rarely exposes his fierce side nowadays - mostly he is calm, quietly cheerful, and appreciative of even the smallest conveniences. He scrambles to his feet, reaching out for the book when his eyes are drawn to the wound with a horrified gasp. "Uncle Arthur!"

He grimaces, still trying to usher him outside. "Shurrup! You want to wake everyone?"

"You're hurt!" It is more of a question than an exclamation, but his stuttering doesn't expect an answer. "What happened? Are we in danger? Is it Pinkertons? What do we do?"

"Shit, Jack! Breathe!" He squeezes the boy's shoulder, staring him in the eye. "It's nothing you need to worry about. No one's coming here, no one is coming to hurt us, alrigh'? Take a breath before you pass out or somethin'."

"Then what happened to your arm?" Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. "It looks pretty deep. Did a bear get you?"

"Sure."

"Do we need to get the animals in? What if it comes onto the ranch? What were you doing out so late anyway?"

"Boah!" Gritting his teeth, he closes his eyes to help keep his composure. "Get to bed or God help me, I ain't above knocking you out to get some peace!"

When he opens his eyes he expects the boy to be moving away, but instead he's leaning in to look at the wound.

"You need me to bring Ma? You look like you need stitches."

"No!" He grips his arm tight enough to make him whimper. "Do not breathe a word of this to your mother. This is between you an' me, a'right?"

"You need help-"

"I can take care of myself." He releases him and steps back, beginning to get supplies from his saddle bags. "Don't you go breathin' a word about this to anyone, y'hear? Nobody."

Jack watches tentatively as the man begins to remove his jacket and shirt. Seeing the ripped flesh makes his stomach churn. "What can I do?"

"I told yer-"

"Let me help." Jack nods once, his small soft face gripped with determination. "What do you need? I- I know where Ma keeps her sewing kit. An' I'm sure there'll be some boiled water left over for drinkin'. Will salt help?"

Arthur sighs, his body sagging as he deliberates. He has never been good at accepting help. The only reason he accepted any help in the past was because of Grimshaw's steadfast stubbornness or he was outnumbered. All those years of being strong… standing tall… and now he can't even scare a boy out of a barn.

"Fine. Bring me a clean union suit too. I think I saw my blue one knocking about somewhere. An' a pair of pliers - the small ones. Should be under the sink or up in the loft with Uncle."

The boy runs off leaving Arthur to reflect. For a boy without his father, he was growing up strong. He was lucky to have his mother's lust for learning, but somehow his father's gait had survived, especially when he ran. Sometimes Arthur would catch himself watching him and remembering the crap John got into at his age. If John was a coyote, Jack was a fox. He had a good head on his shoulders, and always assessed the risks rather than blundering in blindly like his father did. It was just a shame that the recklessness had been completely swallowed by such delicate hesitation - some things were best learned by jumping in the deep end.

The door creaks as Jack slips back inside breathless, his cheeks rosy from the exertion.

"I was quick as I could. Nobody saw me I don't think."

"Good." Arthur pulls the cork from an open bottle of whiskey with his teeth, spitting it against the wall before chugging its contents. “C’mere. Best we get to by the light if you’re gonna do this.”

Jack gulps as Arthur sits himself on the milking stool, wincing as he inspects the wound. “D’you got the pliers?”

“Right here, sir.”

“OK, now I’m gonna need you to take a look in the wound. I’m sure one of ‘em got me with an arrow before the bastard sliced me.”

“An arrow?” repeats the boy, swallowing his stomach as he eyes the mess of flesh. “You said it was a bear?”

He scoffs. “I’ve said many things in my life, Jack Marston, not all of them honest.”

The boy doesn’t reply. He’s trying to breathe through his mouth but the iron in the air still caresses his tastebuds. “I can’t see anything, Uncle Arthur.”

“Alright. Grab a shirt from Gwyn and bring over the salt water. We gotta get this clean before you sew it up.”

“I ain’t done much sewin’ before.”

Arthur grunts. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

The boy is obedient. He tries to be as careful as possible, but despite his ginger pats, a hiss still seeps out between his teeth. Arthur leans his head back against the barn wall to keep himself steady.

“I saw Sadie Adler when I went out Valentine way. D’you remember her?”

Jack thinks back as he wrings the shirt out. “Maybe?”

“Well, she’s doin’ well. Bounty huntin’. Said it’s good money.” He exhales sharply. “I been doin’ some here and there. Mostly fraudsters or petty thieves. None with any fight or any weapons or shit.”

“Why?”

He tilts his head to review the boy’s reaction. The whiskey and blood loss has loosened his tongue. “I want to help you and your ma buy this place outright. Eight dollars a day is plenty to keep y’all fed and clothed but the bank likes to charge more the longer it takes you to pay it back.”

“Ma will kill you if she finds out.”

“Don’t tell her.” He grips the boy’s wrist with his good arm. “Please? This- this was foolishness. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it.”

“So why did you?”

“I used to be a good shot. A few years back I could have taken ‘em out without any bother, but either I’m gettin’ slow or they’ve got faster.” He glances at his arm and scoffs. “Maybe both,” he grunts as he takes another deep swig of liquor.

“OK, well, it looks clean. Still doesn’t look to be anything much in there.”

“A’right. Bring a needle an’ thread over. Next bit is easy, ok?”

After Jack overcomes his squeamishness, Arthur is sewn up in no time. The boy helps him clean the smaller cuts and injuries, including a bullet in his leg that hadn’t gone too deep. By the time he’s finished, Arthur is dozing, slumped against one of the beams. He wakes him with a gentle shake and heaves him to his feet.

“Hol’ up a minute.” Arthur staggers to the horse and begins to pull at the saddle. Seeing what he’s trying to do with limited mobility, Jack quickly unfastens the clasps and helps set it aside. “Thanks, son.” He ruffles his hair fondly. “Y’know, you look like your father did at your age?”

“Really?” Jack pulls his arm over his shoulder, leading him in the direction of the house. Colour is beginning to light the sky. It must be near three in the morning.

“Yeah. I didn’t care much for him then.” He snorts laughing. “Your Uncle Hosea wasn’t best pleased with me.”

****

Arthur grunts as a hammering brings him back to consciousness. His body is stiff, his mouth dry, his head thumping without the noise. Squinting in the morning light, Jack is sticking his head through the door.

“Uncle Arthur? Are you ok?”

“Never better,” he growls sarcastically. “What’s up?”

“Mrs Adler - the lady you spoke about last night? She’s outside.”

[pynkhues]

can i in like, a very chill, no pressure kinda way ask about when you think you'll update any fics? all the bts talk that you do (im embarrassed to say how often i check your 'my fic' tag) had me super excited about all fics you're working on!!!

Hi! Thank you! You’re totally making me blush, haha, and it’s no pressure at all. It’s always so nice to hear people want to read my writing! :-) I have four things at the moment which are literally so close to being finished it’s ridiculous, but I keep bouncing between them, so they’re all just inching forwards instead of actually, y’know. Getting done, haha. Those are Two Shoes (S3! Beth and Rio do some undercover dancing!), Blue Moon (my very late prompt-a-thon fill about Ruby), Stupid Cupid (C&C Valentines fic) annnnd the first chapter of What the Sea Wants, the Sea Will Have aka the pirate!AU. 

Slightly less close (but also close!) are the last parts of Cross Your Fingers and the second part of See You in the Light. 

I’m hoping to get one or two of these up over the next few days? But I feel like I’ve been saying that for a couple of weeks at this point, haha, so yes. Something will be up soon, but I’m just not quite sure how soon ‘soon’ is unfortunately. 

In the mean time, if you like, you can have the first scene of the pirate!AU? 

(It’s p long, so I’ve popped it behind a cut :-) )

-

Lady Elizabeth Boland is of half a mind to retire to her chambers, despite the early hour, when she notices her grandmother’s vase is missing from the buffet in the receiving hall.

It’s enough to make her pause, tilt her head to the side, her hand dropping to her waist as she walks towards the thing, letting her gaze cover every conspicuous inch of it. She takes in the lace runner and the baluster brass candle sticks, the curved crystal regulator clock and the pink glass oil lamp bottle, but alas.

Not so much as a fractured shard of her grandmother’s vase.

“Benjamin,” she calls, her eyes fixed still on the buffet, willing any annoyance away. She really shouldn’t distract her sweet nephew from his studies, but the fact of the matter is that this is not an isolated incident.

Two weeks ago, it had been her grandfather’s cufflinks she’d intended for Kenneth, disappeared from her jewellery box, and then only the other evening it had been the cradle gifted to her upon the birth of her first daughter from an associate of her lord husband’s. The latter, she hoped at least, would not be missed, for with four children already tucked upstairs in their beds, Beth prayed nightly her anticipating days were over.

“Benja - - !”

A blond head pops out over the bannister above her, and Beth jumps only briefly, dropping her hand to her chest.

“Oh, there you are! You startled me!”

“Sorry, Aunt Beth,” he hums, looking curiously down at her from the second floor. He’s still dressed in his smart little suit from school – a pressed, blue slack with a woollen vest, his brogues neatly polished and sticking out to overhang her through the bannister rails. “Are you okay?”

Making a small noise of affirmation, Beth gestures with her free hand to the buffet in front of her, hoping Benjamin can see well enough from above.

“Your great grandmother’s vase is gone. You wouldn’t happen to know if Kenneth or Daniel had anything to do with it, would you?”

“Are you asking me to inform on my cousins, aunty?” Benjamin asks with a grin, and Beth can’t help but smile back, trying to school her look into something a little more innocent.

“Never. I’m simply asking my favourite nephew a question.”

“I’m your only nephew,” he replies wryly, before shrugging up above her. “Besides, if they did, they probably deserve to get away with it. I hadn’t seen either of them before supper. Kenneth was out at Lord Milson’s until then, and Daniel and Miss Emma were practicing the duet they’re performing at your lord husband’s salon next month. I could hear them the whole while, even through the wall.”

Beth turns the thought over in her head. Jane hadn’t been out of her sight the entire afternoon either, so it couldn’t have been her youngest. She bites the inside of her cheek, training her ear just enough she hears the cook maid packing away the crockery in the kitchen, the clip of trotting horses and the gristly roll of carriage wheels on the road outside of here, but no other footsteps above her, nor any hint that her children lay awake and conspiring. She drops her hands to her hips, glancing back up at Benjamin above her.    

“Is your mother home?”

He shakes his head no.

“She went out with Mr. Brown a few hours ago. She said they had to pick something up.”

And right, Beth thinks, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She knows exactly what that means. As if her sister hadn’t disgraced the Marks’ already slighted name enough with having Benjamin out of wedlock (a bastard – the fact of it had practically killed their mother – not that their mother had exactly been a model of virtue either, but still), she insisted on making a mockery of the Boland name too by engaging in such indiscretions beneath Beth’s very own roof.

She huffs out a breath.

“Well, I guess the matter will have to wait until morning, won’t it?”

Benjamin nods in agreement, but waits until Beth’s formal dismissal to disappear back into his bedroom, and well. It’s not long until Beth’s moving to her own, up the stairs and down the hall, ringing the bell for the maid to attend her in the process.

It likely has been broken, she thinks. The vase.

If not through the children, then through Annie, or perhaps one of the servants. Likely a simple accident – a knock against the buffet, enough to wobble it and leave it shattered against the floor of the receiving hall, but - -

The cufflinks, she reminds herself.

And the cradle.

Beth frowns, stepping into her bedroom and sitting down at her dresser. She removes her delicate golden earrings, her treasured pearl necklace, the pins that fasten her hair up in its curls, laying them each gently in the hollow of her jewellery box – the small, carved rosewood chest being one of the few things she’d brought with her when Dean had wed her near twenty years ago. It had been a blessing, that much she’d known even then, or rather, not so much a blessing, but a mutually beneficial match.

The Boland’s had been new money after all – Mr. Boland Sr. having thrived in the business of horse carriages, custom designing some of such quality and innovation, he had risen social ranks with unheard of haste, and it hadn’t been long before talk flooded town of the eligibility of his tall, strong and handsome son. He’d had some uncouthness of course, everyone knew that, but the promise was that that could be trained out of him with the right wife, and a good, old family, and - - well.

The Marks’ had been a family in decline, hadn’t they? Their wealth so whittled away by bad investments and her father’s penchant for gambling, although one still – at the time at least – of strong social standing and honour. When Mr. Boland Sr. had spotted Beth, still just sixteen, at a soiree at Lady Hazel’s, and proposed the match, her father had insisted they could do better, but her mother, bitter even then, had known they couldn’t hope to.

Beth glances down at her gaudy wedding ring, twisting it on her finger, wondering if perhaps she could get away with removing it – if only for an hour or two, when Dorothy appears in her doorway.

“You rang, ma’am?”

Quickly moving her hands, Beth gestures behind her to the back of her dress, rising steadily to her feet in the process. Picking up on the cue as she always does, Dorothy crosses the master bedroom – passing the large, four poster bed, soft gold chaise, the ottoman, Dean’s locked cabinet – to Beth’s spot at her dresser, her aging fingers making quick work of unhooking each little eyelet on the back of Beth’s gown.

The cool fall air chills her skin, nipping above her many petticoats before slipping below as Dorothy pulls them off and puts them aside, the stiffer ones and the softer, then the bustle, before finding the laces of her corset and making as quicker work as she can. Beth swallows in a rich, full breath as the thing loosens, her ribs singing in gratitude, her waist softening too sweetly as Dorothy finally pulls it off too.

Leaving Beth in just her chemise, stockings, garter and drawers, Dorothy takes a step back, finding Beth’s robe from the closet, draping it over her, before tilting her head, directing her out into the hall.

“We’ve rest the bath in front of the fire, my lady,” Dorothy tells her, and Beth nods. Now that the season has started to chill, it’s best to bathe before the larger fire in the library instead of in her and Dean’s chambers. She allows Dorothy to lead her out, unable to quite help peering into each of the children’s rooms as she passes, catching their little forms curled in each of their little beds, their soft snores and snuffles barely audible over the crackle of the fire in the distance and the slosh of the water the servants are pouring into the tub.

Dorothy closes the door to the library, and Beth sucks in a warm breath, dropping her robe from her shoulders and feeling her nipples pebble beneath the brisk fall air. She slips out of the last of her clothes, and down into the portable tub, exhaling as the languid water engulfs her.

“Will that be all for now?” Dorothy asks, and Beth blinks over at her, the steam through the dark briefly ensnaring the other woman. She should ask her about the vase, Beth thinks, but then perhaps not. She’d asked after the cuff links and the cradle after all, and much more interrogation could lead to unhappiness amongst the staff. Annie had told her stories after all, of other houses, where servants spat in food or dropped hems from dresses, and Dorothy hadn’t seemed to know anything about the other things anyway.

But of course, there was the other question.

Beth clutches at the rim of the tub, tilting up her chin as she clears her throat.

“Has Lord Boland sent word of when we might expect him home tonight?”

A pause.

Beth looks, breath caught, and Dorothy wrings her hands.

“No, my lady.”

And well.

Beth waves out her own hand, dismissing her.

[rogersbabyyy]

sex, drugs, rock n’roll | roger taylor

author’s note: me? posting a fic? this is much too strange!  i really have no excuse for writing this other than i was horny and just wanted to write some filthy ass 70s sex where everyone’s high and and it’s a lot of fun. but please don’t do drugs it’s not a good idea, this is just for fictional sake and me wishing i was a groupie :) also, i tried to change up my writing style a bit a try and get into the head of someone on cocaine, hence the repetition and somewhat scattered internal monologue. i really hope you enjoy, please reblog! 

summary: you get high and fuck roger at one of freddie’s parties... that’s it.

warnings/tags: this is the most disgusting thing i’ve written. DRUG USE!!, foul language, smut (dom!roger makes an appearance), but mostly heavy drug use (cocaine) so pls pls dont read if u feel uncomfy!

word count: 3.7k

not proofread

Two hours ago, the party had conformed to become a force of life in itself; roaring and fantastical, welcoming and formidable, all at the same time. Nothing less than outrageous, there were naked girls, naked boys, lounging on Freddie Mercury’s grand staircase, snogging and touching and almost fucking right for everyone to see.

The latest disco hit playing through the stereo system was nothing but a pounding heartbeat for the writhing bodies to obey, hands clutching glasses swaying above heads, shoes kicked to the sides of the room, heads unconsciously bobbing to the beat.

It was the quintessential celebration for the release of Queen’s latest album, months and months of hard work, Roger arriving home every night (morning?) at two, and proceeding to wake you up at six o’clock anyway with the crush of his golden cymbals and throb of his bass drum. Not that you minded, but… it was nice to finally have the chance to let loose, and the boys, finally earning a proper wage of their own, had the money for parties like these now.

The host of the evening (and lead singer of the band) adorned in a leotard clinging to every curve of his muscular body and showing off his chest covered in a soft dawn of hair, had been busy all night entertaining his guests, balancing a velvet crown atop his head with one hand, a glass of bubbly champagne in the other (his matching cloak long ago discarded), his booming tenor voice always assuring that more drinks were coming, and oh, come on darling, you must have another.

Brian and John, however, were long gone; as soon as one of Freddie’s friends dumped an assorted mix of drugs onto the table (causing to Brian to choke on his beer, with someone needing to thump him on the back for a solid two minutes before he recovered), he whisked Chrissie out of there, and John was always yearning to be with his little babies these days (they were utterly precious; Freddie constantly demanded that they be brought round to the studio).

So, that left you with the drummer.

Your boyfriend, Roger, was situated firmly at your side, the hand that wasn’t holding an ice cold glass of whiskey thrown around your waist. His shirt was unbuttoned almost to his navel, exposing his toned abdomen shining with sweat (not unlike the little black dress you were wearing, with a neckline that dipped so low it really didn’t leave anything to the imagination), and oh, did he ever look delicious. And, he obviously thought the same of you; for the way his tongue was licking slow, deliberate stripes over your exposed neck, causing you to giggle so hysterically, it probably had something to do with the remnants of fine white powder littering the glass table, on which your nose was pressed up against approximately five seconds ago.

Euphoric was barely a satisfying enough word to describe how you were feeling. You were orgasmic, horny, powerful, high, burning up (God, you were hot); and from the way Roger’s baby blue eyes were fixed on you, dilated and glazed over, he wasn’t feeling all that different. Growling softly against your neck, his head clouded with a high of his own, his lips hot, so hot, burning, exerted to find the words he desired to describe what he wanted to do to you.

“Mhm, lovie,” he moaned, “Want to, want... ” he laughed softly against you, his equilibrium simultaneously failing him, as he lost what little balance he had left and swayed against you, spilling his drink all over his front in the process.

“Ah, fuck,” He discarded the glass by letting it roll out of his hand and onto the beautiful Persian rug below, and you found this unspeakably hilarious, laughing harder until his lips finally found yours in a kiss so filthy it belonged in a porn movie. Open mouths, tongues entwined in a furious dance, he tasted of his whiskey, Benson & Hedges cigarettes, the hor d’oeuvres that had been floating around all night on silver trays, and something else that was just inexplicably him.

“Naughty dress you’re wearin,” he tried again, lips breaking from yours, and then, barely suppressing a grin; “M’ so horny. M’ so horny you don’t even know. Wanna fuck you right here, don’t give a fuck if anyone sees. Need to fuck you, need your cunt, need you, need you,” He repeated the words continuously, his voice ending as a mumble as he went back to press open mouthed kisses against your neck, on which you’d know there’d be countless bruises in the morning.

Your heart throbbed faster, faster, fasterfasterfaster, and it wasn’t even a question in your mind to squeeze the stiffy growing in his too tight jeans; no one was really even looking, too busy dancing and kissing and drinking and smoking and laughing and-

“I swear to God, I will come in my jocks if you keep bloody doing tha’.” He choked, grasping your wrist and squeezing it softly.

“Well, s’much as I wanna fuck here, I don’t think Fred would appreciate seeing your cock, as lovely as it is,” you beamed up at him, and he giggled softly back, brushing your hair to one side.

“Hm, you have a point, kitten,” he peppered your neck with a few more slow kisses, before his lips found your ear to whisper, “Besides, we wouldn’t want everyone seeing your pretty cunt, because that’s all mine.”

Oh, he owned you, he owned you so bad, and you could feel your walls tighten at his words, and oh how you wished they were clenching around him instead.

“Please, Rogie, let’s go, upstairs, somewhere, the bathroom or the car, even-”

“Calm down, lovie, c’mon, let’s go upstairs… Be needin’ some o’ this,” Roger staggered sideways to snatch up one of the last small plastic bags left on the table, bulging almost to the brim with white powder, “Let’s go.”

Your hand in his as was clammy and hot, God it was so hot, as you took a grievous amount of time to scale Freddie’s staircase in platform heels that perhaps maybe possibly you might have stolen from John, it was too long ago to remember. So, you kicked them off, and they clunk clunk clunked as they bumped their way down the stairs; you’d pick them up later, but probably not, because you were so horny and so bloody fucked up that really the only thing you were thinking at that point about was grinding slowly on Roger’s cock.

Your clit throbbed at the thought, and you fell against his side, moaning softly, his arm encircling your waist to keep you upright.

“Here,” Roger grunted, sweeping you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, and you howled gleefully, legs failing as your halfheartedly moaned for him to set you back down.

“Roger, stop!”

He ignored your pleas, a soft, dazed smile on his face, as he pushed open the door to the nearest room with his shoulder; which happened to be a master bedroom with a four-poster bed, surround by a floaty, gauzy fabric.

He set you down gently on the mattress.

“Right,” he smiled, and for as high as he was, he unsealed the small bag and carefully tapped out a short, perfect line of cocaine on the bedside table. “Ladies first, hm?”

Reaching for the five pound note in his outstretched hand, (“Thank you very much, kind sir,”) you rolled it into a tight cylinder with some difficulty, your hands were trembling so much (from the drug, or from the need for more of it?) and hovered over the line, sniffing as hard as you could as the powder rushed its way upward, Roger’s hands carefully holding your hair back in a makeshift ponytail as the stimulant worked its magic.

Within seconds the drug was in your blood, in your brain, sizzling and popping and making you shiver in delight, oh, it felt good, and you sniffed again, your head dizzy and the room whirling around and aroundaroundaround until your eyes came to a focus on Roger right at your side. He seemed ten times more attractive, if possible, and you quite literally drooled at the sight of him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as the room whirled once more.

“Good, huh?” His eyes were excited, as he unbuttoned his shirt completely now and shrugged it off, the fabric landing in a heap on the floor, his hand sliding down the small of your back to squeeze your ass, practically hanging out of your too-tight and much-too-short dress.

“So good,” you said, running your fingers through your hair, your palms coming to rest on his shoulders, “Fuck, I feel like I could do anything. And I’m so horny I could die,”

“Know the fuckin’ feelin’,” he groaned, pushing you backward onto the awaiting bed, his mouth clumsily finding yours in a messy snog, his hands obviously focused on something else;

“Please get those pretty tits out fo’ me,” he growled, his hot hands everywhere all at once, all at once, all at once yesyesyesyes, and God it felt so good, pulling at your dress and squeezing your hips and cradling your pyretic cheeks, “Been teasin’ me all night like the whore you are, mhm, such a little whore, yes,” finally, he managed to rip your pretty black dress right down the middle, your breasts bouncing as they were revealed to him.

His feverish, insistent mouth eagerly found one of your nipples, nipping the soft bud between his teeth. In return, you gasped, thrusting your chest forward ohohohohfuck and yanking on his salty hair. He sucked on it until the bud pebbled, hard against his tongue, and the other breast received the same treatment, Roger always being one for fairness.

“Lay down, c’mon,” his voice was a soft whine, a palm on your shoulder to push you backward onto the luxurious mattress, on which you fell against like one of those rich white girls in chick flicks, collapsing after a long day of retail therapy.

And before your brain could process what he up to, the bag of cocaine was in his hand, and he poured a generous line over the dip in between your breasts, a mischievous grin lighting up his face as he did so.

“Mhm, let’s get it all over, that’s it, all over your pretty tits,” he simpered, his chest heaving with anticipation and arousal, as he tidied up the line with his fingertips, “Always wanted to do this, gettin’ high off your body, mhm…”

“Oh, you’re filthy!” You gasped, as he pressed his soft, upturned nose in the valley, not even bothering with the rolled up fiver. Holding one nostril closed, he snorted the fine powder all in an alarmingly fast fluid motion, your hand entangled in his hair to hold him close to you as he did so, before he shot up like a person possessed.

“Oh, shit!”

He was a flurry of blurry blonde locks as shook his head from side to side, almost violently, his body positively trembling when he was done as he sniffed hard, a final time. His eyes rolled back in his head briefly, before fixating on your lips, and stating in a deadpan voice as clear as day;

“I might die if I don’t fuck you right now.”

You thought it impossible for your heart to race any faster than it was, but your body proved you wrong, your head and the inside of your wrists and every limb pounding hard and fast to the rhythm of the organ, like one of Roger’s particularly fast drum beats that left him panting and shaking from adrenaline (in fact, not so different from his current state).

“Fuck me then, would you? I’m so wet I think I’ve made a mess,” your voice was a soft, hoarse, giggle, as you looked down to find a noticeable dark patch on the white lacy g-string you’d had the foresight to wear.

“See! Oops!” You laughed loudly, slipping your fingers past the material to rub your throbbing clit, throbthrobthrobbing godyouweresowet, and you pouted teasingly when Roger could do nothing but stare. “What, don’t you want me, Rogie?”

His eyes flickered shut as they rolled backward again, showing you the whites as painful, animalistic whimper left his throat. His hands fumbled at a speed you’d never seen before to unbuckle his belt, tugging down his flared denim jeans (that were all the rage at the moment).

While he did so, you removed your fingers from their place over your core, you brought them to your mouth, taking your index and pointer fingers to the knuckle, before dragging them down over your lips.

Finally managing to slide the leader belt through the loops of his jeans, Roger shook his head as you this, his gaze almost becoming furious and disapproving as he leant toward you and nudged your hand away from your mouth, replacing your fingers with his own.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, “Don’t you dare tease me like that now, lovie.”

You sucked eagerly on his fingers, tongue running thoroughly over the tips of each, kissing and sucking and perhaps wanted them rubbing over your needy clit instead.

As if reading your mind, Roger’s fingers withdrew slicky from your mouth, spanking the sweet bundle of nerves between your legs, just enough that you convulsed, shuddering at his touch; “Fuck!”

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, forcefully taking your face in his hand and squeezing your cheeks until you obeyed, eyes crazed and jubilant.

With a soft hum, he let a single strand of his saliva drip from his mouth to yours, dribbling slowly onto your awaiting tongue, as you swallowed eagerly and jutted your chin out proudly to show him your efforts.

“Tha’s my girl.”

“Can you fuck me now, please?” You moaned, sliding your knickers past your ankles to toss them over Roger’s shoulder, all the while giving him the sexiest puppy dog eyes you were able to muster up.

“Since you asked so nicely.” Yanking his boxer shorts off and kicking them toward the foot of the bed, you finally got to wrap your hand around his length as it bobbed upward to tap against his tummy, beads of precum leaking from the tip, feeling the throb of his erratic drug fuelled heartbeat pulse through his shaft.

“Such a needy boy,” you whispered, legs spreading earnestly as you greedily guided his palpitating member to your core. The cherry coloured blush that was the head of his cock slid past the swollen lips of your cunt, and the both of you shivered in a bout of ecstasy, moaning against each other as Roger clutched you to his chest.

He then slid out of you slowly, before immediately jerking his hips back toward you, making you scream, digging the heel of your foot into his back.

“You’re so bloody wet,” he gasped, collapsing his weight onto his forearms as his thrusts continued the erratic pace he’d established moments before, one slow thrust, and then fastfastfastfaster-

“You’re so fucking huge, oh my God, I love your cock, I love your cock, I love-”

-until he returned to his teasingly slow pace. Whimpering, you hid your face in the crook of your elbow, eyes squeezed shut as you shakily begged your boyfriend to increase his pace.

“I’ll fuck you how I like,” he grunted, angling his cock in a way that it only just nudged your g-spot, making your toes curl as his hips finally found the familiar rhythm that you so adored: fast, steady, and hard.

The room resumed its spinning motion from earlier as his cock sent you into a bout of euphoria, his balls making the filthiest noises you’d ever heard as their momentum caused them to slap against your your dripping pussy.

“You feel so fucking good, holy fuck,”

His cock made a slick, wet sound as he pulled out of you, and you whined, cunt clenching around nothing, so emptyemptyempty.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Get on your hands n’ knees, c’mon love, c’mon, need t’be back in your cunt,” He was panting, his hair soaking with sweat, his palms so warm so hot so boiling, as they found your waist to flip you over, making you titter deliriously as you landed on your front, ass in the air and cheek against the soft dawn of the mattress.

“Pass us the coke, angel,” you felt him smile as he pressed the gentlest of kisses against the back of your shoulder, as you stretched to reach the little bag filled to the brim with euphoria to pass over to your boyfriend.

Catching you by surprise, his palm came down sharply on the supple skin of your ass, as you jolted forward and squealed, clutching the sheets against the sting of your skin that was just the right blend between pleasure and pain.

“You like that, don’t you? Filthy little thing, an absolute slut, horny and dripping, all for who? Hm?”

“For you, for you, only for you, Rog!”

Feeling a tickling sensation between your asscheeks, you knew what Roger was doing immediately, knew he was tapping out what was left of the white powder on the barely-an-inch of skin that separated your two holes.

“Stay still,” he muttered, palms spreading your cheeks apart to bury his face in between them, snorting the powder in a quick, practiced movement.

A slurred jumble of profanities left his mouth as the smaller amount of the drug boosted the euphoria coursing around his system, and he delivered a final spank to your ass, and you yelped and laughed deliriously once more.

“Alright, c’mon, you naughty thing, back up you get,” His staunch arms encircled your waist and lifted you so were you sitting upright.

“Want you t’ride my cock, think you can do that fo’ me?”

“Yes, yes, oh, please, want you back inside me,” you begged, clambering on top of your boyfriend as he settled against the headboard of the bed, his eyes clouded with lust as you rocked desperately against his thigh. “Feel so empty.”

“I can certainly help you with that, darlin’, mhm, oh, oh fuck,” he grunted as you took a hold of his member and settled down onto it, pushing him inside you.

Grinding your hips against him slowly, it was Roger’s turn to whimper, as his hands squeezed your waist to keep you balanced against him.

“Please, love,” his voice was hoarse, “need to you- oh, yes.”

Using your knees as leverage, you re-commenced the steady tempo, except now you were in charge. You bounced on his cock, taking him right to the hilt every time, your breasts bouncing in front of his face, in and out and in and out outandinoutandin…

You went to throw your head back in a wail of pleasure, but Roger’s hand found the back of your neck to stop you, and he growled,

“Watch. Watch yourself bouncin’ on my cock.”

You looked down at the join of your bodies and moaned gutturally at the sigh of his dick soaked in your wetness, his veins pink and throbbing, so pretty, God his cock was gorgeous-

You reached down to rub your stiff, hard, slit, your movement becoming messier and erratic, Roger announcing;

“I’m so close, love, I’m so close-”

“Come inside me, I don’t care, please, want you in my cunt, Rog, please,”

“Bloody fuckin’-”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. Your words alone prompted a callous growl from his diaphragm, his muscles seizing and spasming as his warm seed covered the walls of your pulsing cunt, hips jerking of their own accord as he emptied himself inside you.

The feeling of his cum inside you, paired with the stunning sight of his orgasm, pushed you to your own.

“Roger, Roger, oh my God, Roger-!” The coil in your stomach popped, your eyes rolling backward as they did when you took your first line of the drug, falling into his chest as your trembled.

“Tha’s it pretty girl,” he encouraged, still shaking from his own orgasm and the cocaine and everything was just overwhelming as you came all over his cock, “Tha’s it, come for me, fuck, you’re clenching so hard-”

And that’s when you squirted all over his cock, drenching him with your cum, almost looking like a person having a seizure.

If he had it in him, Roger could have come again right then and there. His ego certainly inflated a solid few degrees (although it was already relatively huge; c’mon, this was the 70s), because he did that to you. He made you squirt all over his cock, and forget the cocaine; that was the most powerful feeling was capable of experiencing.

Rolling off of you in a tangle of limbs, Roger’s breathing was hoarse and loud and rough as he fought to catch his breath.

“Fuck, that was hot.”

Eyes heavily lidded, the tiny floating pinprick sized silver stars still sporadically clouding your vision, you sighed contently, feeling fuzzy and happy and high as a kite and most importantly, in love.

You knew it wouldn’t last long; the inevitable crash would creep up on you out of nowhere and have you reaching for a cigarette or glass of wine, or, most likely, Roger’s arms, where you’d have a good cry for no particular reason.

“Rogie?” You murmured, rolling on your side to rest your head on his shining chest, hearing his turbulent heartbeat thunder against your ear.

“Yes, angel?” His eyes were still bright and misty from the drug, and yet, they surveyed yours carefully, his arm wrapping around you. “That was fun, dontcha think?”

“‘Course,” you smiled, “like having your cum inside me, all dripping out.”

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he kissed you again, “n’ I love marking you up, darlin’, letting everyone know you’re mine, all mine, mine, mine…”

He smiled his perfect little cheeky schoolboy grin, “Love you, angel, you know that? ‘Cos I do, I love you, wanna be yours n’ fuck you forever.”

Your vision was hazy, the last of the cocaine beginning to thin in your blood, the crash creeping up on you as the seconds ticked by-

“I love you, Rog.”

-but, boy, could Freddie throw a party. And Roger: he was worth it.