#with little bony fingers which is weird but ok

[skelekins]

It’s grey outside when there’s a knock on your door. You ignore it because you treat the door like your phone, you don’t answer it.

When it happens again you tiptoe over and squint through the peep hole. Nothing.

You itch your ass and unlatch the locks before cracking open the door. Nothing but must and quiet.

You close the door before your neighbors, that you may or may not have, notice.

You regret opening the door.

[jazztag]

An Encounter in the Snow VII

The Captain finds Weapon as he left him, seated on the floor and fidgeting with the dust. His prisoner looks up when hearing him step inside. He grins a little bit and then, as if remembering the last time, he retreats from his place and steps as far as his chains would let him, hiding in the shadows and away from the dim light on the ceiling. Knowing Hero may be mad at him, he turns his back toward the Captain and tries to look inconspicuous while doing so, hyperfocused on the wall.

Hero scoffs.

His prisoner remains facing the wall, but something is different. While Hero stops, hands in pockets, he observes Weapon getting more and more unrested. His prisoner seems to be smelling the air, as if something has changed.

“I brought you something,” says Hero, and Weapon turns around at last, still sniffing the air like a dog. The Captain reveals the old blanket, something that can merely cover Weapon’s skinny body but thick enough to look comfortable.

Hero waits for his reaction, but Weapon is frozen in place, caught between an expression of confusion and agitation. So he decides to try something he has been rummaging about for the last few hours.

“Come here,” orders Hero. Weapon doesn’t move at first, but when he sees Hero signaling for him to approach, the prisoner complies. He stands up, still with his back ached and head down, and gets in front of Hero.

The Captain scrutinizes him for the first time since the prisoner arrived. From head to toe, he finds it funny that the two of them may be of the same height, or at least it may seem so if Weapon stood straight. His prisoner keeps looking at the ground, suddenly docile and weirdly calm. He still has his grin plastered on his face, but his expression is more sober.

Hero observes how he still clutches at his side and pays attention to his bony wrists, ankles. His skin, calloused and burned from severe exposure to the sun. His hair, which falls onto his eyes, only letting his smile shine from under the messy dark waves. He lacks some fingernails, both on each hand and foot. It may have been because of torture, who knows. Lots of bullet wounds, cuts. His hips bend at a weird angle, and his underwear, clearly old and not once washed, just adds to his overall pitiful state. And the way he twitches. Now that’s scary, adverts Hero. He grins constantly, and his fingers seem to grab something invisible in the air from time to time. Signs of PTSD. There’s one twitch that specifically puts him on edge. The index finger on his left hand, which curls inward subtly. As if pressing the trigger of his firearm, shooting, and killing as a first instinct.

He’s absolutely and utterly a machine made to kill. Hero looks down at his prisoner, trying to see underneath the other’s matted hair. Two gray eyes return his gaze. He steps back again and decides to try something with the blanket.

“Now, eyes on me, you dog,” signs Hero. Weapon looks up toward him, and his hair falls back a bit, framing his face. He has huge eyebags, and he looks tired. He always does.

“Is this yours?” asks him Hero, showing him the folded blanket. Weapon looks briefly at the item and then pouts. He looks as if he’d like to tear it out from his hand but can’t. As if now, Hero has the upper hand, at least for the first time.

“If you want it back, you’ll follow what I say,” tells him Hero. The Captain is still feeling a little bit skeptical about the whole ordeal. Weapon furrows his brows but doesn’t move from his place. He is now listening. “Ok, it seems I have your attention. Now, put your right hand up.”

Weapon seems to have heard him, but grinning a bit, he looks like he doesn’t understand what is going on. Hero, with the hand which isn’t holding the blanket, puts it up, palm open and toward Weapon. “Here,” motions. And Weapon ends up copying him as well, pulling his right arm out and opening his palm toward Hero a bit. His fingers are long and bony, and the skin on his knuckles is red and raw. His hand trembles. Actually, all of him seems to subtly tremble. Hero waits a bit. The chains dingle.

“Ok,” says Hero, lowering his arm. Weapon copies him as well. Hero then says, “now the other hand,” while pulling up the very same hand as before… Just as the Captain thought, Weapon raises again the same right hand, mirroring him again.

Hero repeats himself using a monotonous voice, “no, the other. Left.” He doesn’t move, though, keeping his hand still up. Weapon doesn’t hesitate to change sides; he keeps his right hand up in the air.

The Captain finally pulls his arm down, and Weapon copies him again. “So I was right,” mutters Hero to himself. “You don’t really understand me.”

Weapon smiles again, looking absentmindedly at his blanket, still in Hero’s grasp. His arms gravitate towards it, but Hero pulls away from his grab.

“Before that, one more thing.” Weapon looks at him again. ‘He seems to get the tone of my voice,’ notes Hero. He signals down to the floor.

“Sit down.” Weapon looks at his index and then at the floor, and without a word complies, crouching down. He lets his hands rest on his knees, fidgeting again with his fingers. The chains on his arms and feet rattle quietly.

Hero crouches down to his level as well. He makes a mental note to clean him up when possible, and with caution, reveals a key from the inside of his coat inner pocket. Weapon watches closely as Hero grabs one of his chained wrists and unlocks the link between the handcuff and chain. Silently, Hero does the same with his other wrist and ankles, releasing him from them all except the one on his neck, still bolted to the floor. His prisoner doesn’t move at all. He looks around meanwhile, lost in thought and not quite there. Finally, Hero grabs the blanket again and unfolds it on him. Weapon doesn’t move while getting covered with the soft fabric, and when the Captain gets up again on his feet, the prisoner caresses absentmindedly his item.

He sniffs the cloth, and there’s a peak of weirdness in his eyes. Weapon looks up at Hero, questioning.

“I had to wash it, you dog; it was disgusting,” tells him Hero. The Captain kicks away the detached chains to the back of the room, away from Weapon’s reach. Last time it was a pair of tweezers stabbed onto a Colonel’s leg, who knows what Weapon would be capable of with those.

Hero stands in front of his prisoner again. It’s useless to talk to Weapon. He won’t understand a word, and he doesn’t seem too eager to acknowledge even his tone. But talking to him has proved from time to time to calm Hero’s thoughts, maybe as a way to free them off his mind.

“I’ve seen your eh… room, the one back at your last base,” speaks Hero. His tone is harsh, authoritarian. Weapon looks up, not really understanding a word from a language he hasn’t been trained to understand. “Seems to me you are considered useless if not owned and directed. At least that’s what they say in your homeland.”

Hero starts pacing around the room, hands behind his back. Weapon, seated on the floor and caressing his blanket, smiles devilishly at the Captain. Who knows what might be he thinking about. He sits, cross-legged, fiddling with the cloth but without taking his attention off Hero. ‘He’s waiting,’ realizes the Captain.

Hero stops again right in front of his prisoner. Weapon looks up, defiantly. They stare at each other.

“I know you don’t understand a word I’m saying,” tells him Hero. “But I don’t fucking care.” He crosses his arms, looking down at the other severely. “You are now under my orders. You rest when I tell you, you eat what I’ll give you, and you, in no circumstance, move a finger without me knowing it beforehand.”

Weapon says nothing, as usual. His smug smile widens under his matted hair.

“I,” repeats Hero, pointing at himself, “own you,” and follows by pointing at Weapon. Weapon looks at his finger and licks his lips. Hero’s not too sure the other is getting the idea. He then crouches on one knee and gets really close to the enemy. Weapon doesn’t mind the sudden movements of the other. He watches defiantly how Hero grabs at the only chain still binding him to the cell floor, the one around his neck. The Captain pulls it up toward himself, obliging the other to face him, unable to resist the restraints around his neck.

“You are now my dog,” tells him Hero, and suddenly, it appears to dawn on Weapon what those strange words he can’t identify mean. He loosens his smile, and his gaze becomes darker.

Hero lets go of the chain, and Weapon sits back again, still looking him in the eye.

“Hope we can get to an agreement,” says Hero. Still kneeling on the floor, he slips out from his inner pocket a metal canteen, full of water. The Captain unscrews the cap carefully, watching Weapon’s eyes following the action. His prisoner’s mouth opens slightly, his gaze now pierced onto the bottle. He stops fidgeting with the blanket, leaving it aside, and starts to crawl toward the canteen.

“Ah, ah. Stop there.” Hero motions for Weapon to stop dead in his tracks, and the monster complies, looking thirstier by the minute. The Captain leaves the bottle right in front of Weapon and crosses his arms. He waits patiently, observing how Weapon grows more restless from the sight of water.

“I heard you weapons could stand almost a week without taking a drink. But looks like even you have limits when bound.” Weapon grows more nervous each second that he isn’t permitted to get his hands on the canteen. He starts struggling with breathing, and he starts to scratch at his left arm, drawing red lines onto the dry skin. The Captain observes the sight, finally taking some pity on his new pet.

“Ok, stop scratching. Drink already,” he finally allows. Weapon looks up to him, trying to understand if that was a yes. Hero motions toward the water and points at his prisoner. “Go on.”

His prisoner grabs the bottle as if there was no tomorrow and in practically seconds gulps down the entire contents. Hero motions for him to return the water flask, and Weapon complies when finished. He looks more relaxed and docile after that, and so, Hero stands up on his feet again.

“Good boy. Surely we can manage to understand each other.” Weapon dries his mouth on his arm, and the Captain looks absentmindedly at his still fresh bullet wound on his chest, alongside all the other scars and older bruises on his skin.

“I’ll take a look again at that if you let me,” and starting to head toward the cell door, adds, “Now rest.” Weapon looks at him from his spot on the floor. Hugs his blanket and falls on his side, closing his eyes and rolling until finding a comfortable spot on the concrete. Hero watches him for a bit before locking again the door. He can’t keep away the thought, though. This cell looks as sad as the one Weapon inhabited before.

Taglist: @whump-blog @bitchaknso @pumpkinsncoffee @scrumpledumple (comment to get added/removed from the list!)

[telli1206]

21 for Jaylos please my dear ❤️

So sorry for the delay, my wonderful Sparrow 💖 It took me a minute to find inspiration for this one. I hope you like it!

21. Character B hugging Character A immediately, sobs racking through their body after being shaken awake from their nightmare and Character A not knowing what the hell to do with their arms so they awkwardly pat their back, saying, “There, there…” 

Jay doesn't welcome most touches.

There's really no reason for them. Unless he's getting something out of it, of course.

Like, when he "accidentally" bumps into Third in the market to slip a hand in his pocket, feigning an apology just so he can make off with a few of his best knives. Only to turn around and sell them back to him a few days later. 

He can accept that kind of touch.

Or, when he slips a hand under Maddy's shirt just outside Dragon Hall, pressing her up against the cold brick wall so he can whisper sweet nothings into her ear, making her swoon and placating her just enough so he can slip all of the gold rings off her fingers.

Not really wanted touches, per se, but needed to get the job done. And he’s ok with that.

Even Mal’s and Evie’s touches make sense. When Mal shoves and screams at him to move faster when they’re about to make a score, she’s just taking charge. And also reminding everyone around them that she’s not to be messed with. He would, and has done, the same. So how could he fault her for that? That’s just survival mode tactics.

Evie’s touches are different. She’s not being assertive with her actions, not really. Or even mean. She’ll just swat at Jay lightly, usually in the arm or chest. And 90% of the time it’s because of Jay’s awful pickup lines or dirty jokes that he won’t hesitate to try out on her every chance he gets. Her response is what he expects, to make him look like a flirt. A lothario. A ladies’ man. That’s what he wants from it, to maintain his reputation. 

So he’ll gladly take a hit from Evie. He’ll even smile through it. Because really, she’s helping him out, and she knows that. It helps her reputation, too. And he’s happy to give her that.

Which is, a little weird. Jay usually doesn’t care about what anyone else gets out of touching him. But it’s always been different with Evie. She’s the exception. The only one, so far.

Until one night, when Jay decides to sleep at the hideout. 

He, Evie, Mal, and Carlos had gotten caught in a particularly bad storm. By the time they had made it back to their hideout, Jay’s clothes were soaked through completely and his body was wracked with shivers. He was too frozen and exhausted to even think about trying to make it home, and passed out quickly on the makeshift bed they had shoved in the corner. He’s not even conscious long enough to know what the others decided to do, letting sleep take him over as soon as his back hit the too-stiff mattress.

He’s woken suddenly by arms snaking around him from behind, making him jump. He flips around quickly, his shocked eyes adjusting to the inky black night. And the arms are back before he even knows what’s happening, grasping desperately at his waist to pull him in closer. Jay’s hand moves to bony shoulders, ready to shove the figure away, until he hears a familiar sob that leaves him frozen in place.

“Jay...it’s...she’s...” 

It’s Carlos’ voice. Or, his cries actually. He sounds so broken, and Jay’s breath hitches in his throat as he listens, his fingers tightening on the shoulders he now recognizes.

“She won’t stop! Tell her I didn’t do it! Please, Jay...”

Carlos chokes back another sob, and Jay can feel how hard his body is shaking under his fingertips.

“Um. It’s ok ‘Los. She’s not here. This...you-you’re, at the hideout. You’re not home.You’re. Ok.”

Jay feels stiff in this moment. Awkward. Watching Carlos’ body heave with sobs, a stream of steady tears now glinting in the moonlight as it streaks down his cheeks. It was more than he could bear. The fear emanating from Carlos is so real, so intense, it’s palpable. Like a thick cloud hung in the air, filling Jay’s lungs and burdening each breath. He wants to do something to help, anything, but he has no idea where to start.

He lets his hands slip from Carlos’ shoulders, keeping his eyes focused on the boy as his sobs slowly start to break, ebbing away to softer coughs and sniffles. As Carlos’ breaths even out and his body relaxes into the mattress, he slowly lets his shoulders drop, tipping his head up and opening his eyes to fully focus on Jay, who tenses at the sight. Carlos’ full brown eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, still brimming wet with tears.

Instinctively, Jay stretches a hand out, forcing a weak smile as he reaches around to Carlos’ back. Carlos perks a curious brow at Jay’s movements, his eyes widening and releasing an unshed tear when he feels a short smack.

“There...there,” Jay chokes out, his voice broken and barely above a whisper.

He pats his back again, his arm curved out awkwardly to avoid any more contact with their bodies. Jay lets his eyes slide up, trying to focus them just above Carlos’ forehead so he can avoid the boy’s beautiful pleading eyes.

But the angle leaves ample room for Carlos to move closer, which he takes full advantage of before Jay can react, swooping in and looping his arms around his torso, burying his face in the crook of Jay’s neck, pushing himself inside the once empty space between them so tightly that his soft white curls start to tickle Jay’s chin.

And Jay just sits there, arm still outstretched, and lets him. Carlos nuzzles in close, really close, so that their bodies are flush against each other, chest to chest. He rubs his nose into Jay’s neck to muffle the sniffles he’s still fighting, and that tickles almost as much as the hair that’s making Jay’s nose twitch. And Jay’s hip is starting to hurt from the awkward side angle he’s been leaning in for so long. It’s not the most comfortable position he’s ever been in, but at the same time, he finds that he might actually like it.

He’s warm, for one thing. Carlos is slotted so perfectly against his body that Jay can feel the warmth emanating from him from tip to toe. Even the soft hair in his face is warm and comforting, smelling faintly of coffee beans and some kind of fruit. Jay finds that he’s taking deep inhales just to get more of Carlos’ scent.

Very, very slowly, he starts to decompress, a calmness taking over him as he lets his arms drop, his palms now resting on Carlos’ back, followed by the rest of the length of his arms. He’s fully draped across him now, and Jay even lets his head fall, resting it lightly against the back of Carlos’ neck.

But when he hears a contented sigh escape from Carlos’ lips, feels the soft breath ghosting along his skin, he can’t fight back the smile curling on his lips. He pulls Carlos in closer, reveling in the way their bodies melt together.

Maybe he doesn’t need this touch. But he wants it.

Send me an ask!

[onlyplatonicirl]

Still Earlier...

Dream smirked. “So, Casey, about you and Gradient… thinking about kids?

     “WHAT! Uh no no… what the hell bruv… uh, that’s…” Casey’s eyes flew open, blushing madly, feeling totally violated. Never in his life had he imagined such an intrusive question. The question even felt intrusive if it were to pop into his own head “Gah, bruv, that, how would… that even be possible?” Casey coughed and tugged at his shirt sleeves, scooting on the stool, crossing and uncrossing his arms. Dream, all the while, stared at the flustered human with a malicious shit eating smirk that almost stretched from ear to ear.

     “Hmm. Hmm… uh huh. Yeah..” Dream nodded, smoothing out his pants. To Casey’s surprise, Dream came to his feet, crossing his arms, kicking his legs out to adjust the flare of his pant bottoms. “So. Is that a permanent no?”

     This was just getting ridiculous. Casey scratched at the back of his head and turned his gaze away from the small skeleton. “Uh, yeah i guess.”

     “Hey! You look at me when you talk to me!” Dream stepped a bit closer, his apple scented perfume could be detected permeating through the air at this point.

     “i said no for god’s sake, bruv… grandpa,” Casey muttered, hunching into his suit, which became all the more sweaty.

     “Hmmm? What was that? Did you just call me grandpa?” Dream put a hand to his chest in mock disbelief. “Well?”

     “A- aren’t you Gradient’s grandpa or somethin’” Actually, Casey didn’t know this guy’s relation to Grady, all that he knew was that he was in Grady’s life at some point. He kinda acted like those British old guys Casey had seen back home, so he just put two and two together and made assumptions. But he was about to know just how horribly wrong he was.

     Casey knew he was beans on toast coming up. Judging by the way Dream’s eyes twitched, how his fingers went all jagged, he was in for it. But really, what could this guy do? Being about two feet shorter and all. Oh wait… couldn’t he wield a bow and swords or something? That part made Casey a bit more queasy.

     “I am not!” A low growl burned in Dream’s chest. He stared up at Casey with those bulging yellow eyelights. “You insane flesh bag!”

     “What the hell!” Casey let out a weird stifled squeak as Dream gripped his arms with shocking force, his bony little hands digging into the skin beneath his sleeves.

     The small skeleton slowly tilted his head up, the yellow coloring drifting to the tops of the sockets, engaging dead on with Casey’s worried brown eyes. His voice was low and purposeful, a bit airy. “… you better listen, ok… I don’t want you… ruining… things… just. I don’t want to see your bloodline continue.”

     Casey stared down at Dream, his face pale and petrified. He was pretty sure his arm was punctured. He couldn’t comprehend what would make for such a hateful creature, those golden squinted eyes and malicious grin radiating with a poisonous intensity. All Casey wanted was to marry the guy he loved and that was it. He didn’t want any complexities or anything like that. He just wanted to take Grady out to eat Mcflurries and play video games with him for life. Because he loved him. That’s it. He didn’t know what this Dream guy was getting all hot and bothered about. He definitely didn’t want to wreak havoc with his, uh, apparently poisonous bloodline.

     “Aha.” Dream’s eyes shifted before refocusing on Casey. “Do you smoke?”

     Shit. “Erm, nah.”

     “That’s a lie. I saw you smoking by the Circle K earlier today.” Dream tapped his chin slyly, clicking his tongue. “Noted.”

     “Er, ok…”

     “Aha. Do you drink?”

     “i like water.”

     “Oh.” Strangely Dream looked dissatisfied, like he was hoping for an alternate response. “Were you convicted of any crime?

     What was this guy’s deal? Casey wondered if he was some kind of FBI agent or something. “N-no! Bruv can I just-”

     “Enough! I didn’t ask you!” Dream’s eye lights flickered down to an intense honey glow, filling out the sockets, almost entirely.

     Casey felt a lone bead of sweat drop from one of his curls. “But- you asked-”

     “Ah, ah, ah.” Dream waved his thin index finger in front of Casey’s face. “Do you have acne?”

     “A- a little!”

     “Do you smell bad regularly?”

     “Maybe??”

     “Do you have ingrown toenails?”

     “I dunno!”

     “Got a lot of social connections?”

     “From Minecraft, yea!”

     “You sweaty?”

     “Right now I am, yea mate, jesus…”

     “Any infections, diseases?”

     “Bruv!!”

     “Does your flesh rot?”

     “LET ME GO!” Oh god this short skeleton man was going to freaking kill him! Casey shoved Dream off him, unexpectedly sending the guardian plummeting to the floor as he fumbled around frantically for the doorknob.

     Got it. But then he heard faint groaning behind him. Looking back, Casey saw Dream crumbled on the floor, all balled up, his face crumpled into a frown. It was an odd sight, really.

     “Oh god, mate, I’m sorry.” Casey ran over to Dream and helped him up, nearly lifting him off the floor as he overestimated the skeleton's weight. He should have known from the experience; he picked Gradient up quite frequently, anyhow.

     Once Dream was on his feet, Casey stepped back, for fear that he might lunge at him or something. It was odd, because Dream’s expression looked almost disappointed, before he looked up with a sweet smile all the while his eyes did that creepy squinty thing again.

     “You really are a nice man Casey…” Dream’s voice dripped with sweet honey and his eyes looked like daggers as he reached up on his toes, patting Casey’s shoulder. Without another word, Dream drifted out of the janitor’s closet.

     Was he supposed to follow? Casey quietly followed Dream out of the compact room. He watched as Dream’s petite figure headed down the hall, his pant legs swishing along with his swift yet small steps. The clicking of his shoes echoed even as he turned the corner and disappeared down the hall. The sound sent tiny pounds into Casey’s brain tissue, and all he could do was wait until Dream was entirely gone from the vicinity.

     Casey leaned against the wall and slicked a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. He realized his heart was beating. He realized he had a new fear of apple scented perfume.

     He also realized that a glitched, wavering shout came from somewhere within the labyrinth.

     Was he going to tell Gradient about this? Debatable, mostly because of the fact that Casey wasn’t entirely sure of the depth of Grady’s relationship with Dream. He didn’t want to be taken again… if he could avoid that in any way possible, great.

     Casey pressed of the wall and dashed to his left, almost tripping as another glitched call pierced the halls.

eat mor grasey

*unveils the anon*

it was YOU ALL ALONG!!!! YIPPEE!!!!! Thanks for revealing yourself I love your grasey fics in my inbox !!!!!!!

- dream why do you have several large sticks up your ASS

- I love how Casey is so sweaty. It’s so canon 🫶

- Dream and Casey be friends right now or else I will SCREAM AND CRY !!!!!!!!!!

I had a long and busy day today and this is like the best reward I could get YIPPEEEEEEEEEE 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

[mxvladdy]

HI I LOVE YOUR WRITING! aaa sO I don't know if you still accept prompts but if you do could you do one with MC being fascinated by the brothers' demon forms and seeing the brothers react to them carefully inspecting their horns/wings/tails??

AHHHHH I love that you love it! And of course! :) Horns are my weak spot lmao. Hope you like!

Lucifer

Hmph. Isn’t ecstatic about you wanting to nose around in his business at first. No matter how touched starved he is, just the thought of your tiny human fingers exploring him…Well on the other hand-

At first, he thought you had some weird fetish for his demonic form. Wouldn’t be the first time a human had. But slowly he realizes you are genuinely just enamored with him. It strokes his ego sky high.

He loves it when you stroke and pet his horns. The bases of which are super sensitive. The amount of time you have spent just looking at the gold-tipped bone, he is certain you probably have memorized the number of chips and notches in them.

You start bringing ornaments and tassels for his horns. Things you made or found pretty when out shopping. He doesn’t wear them in public but likes it when you put them on him in private.

It takes him longer to let you get your hands on his wings though. Looking at the mess of his back isn’t pleasant for him.

He has a dust bath. He loves dusting, and when you help him. Ugh-it’s like his own little paradise.

He teaches you how to preen and find broken feathers to pluck. Your cooing over his soft feathers just makes him fluff up more.

He shows off his horns and wings just a touch more in public now.

Mammon

Hells yeah you can see his demon form. Why wouldn’t you want to? He is absolutely delighted to have you lovin’ all over him. He’s big on scenting.

He is especially proud of his wings, in all his forms. Leathery or feathery, they are his favorite part of his body. They are strong, reliable, and fast if he needs to protect you.

He makes sure you are extra careful about his horns though. The spirling columns of bone aren’t smooth like Lucifer’s and have a wicked sharp point on the tips. His horns grow a lot faster than his brothers. A lot of his horn upkeep is him shaving them down and oiling them.

You take delight in doing that for him. The keratin of his horns flakes quickly so you like to help with that too.

He doesn’t have much feeling around his horn area so you won’t get too many reactions from him. Now his wings~

He gets a kick out of watching you open and close his wings. You are mesmerized by his leather wings stretching to their full wingspan.

His wings look fragile upon closer inspection. You can feel the beats of his hearts through the thin membrane stretched over black bones. It almost makes you forget that you’ve seen him bludgeon demons to death with them before.

You’re so enamored with his wings you miss how flustered he gets when you trace your fingers around the base of his wings. Right where the limbs attach to his back. It’s a very tender spot that hurts most times when he touches it, but maybe because it’s you it feels really good.

Leviathan

He is apprehensive to have you inspect him at first.

Doesn’t have wings and is kinda jelly. But he has a bitchin’ tail, and you remind him often of it.

His tail is strong. A lot stronger than you originally thought. You can feel the slide and pull of thick muscle underneath his leathery skin when he swifts around.

It took you a while to get him to understand you are 1000% ok with his tail and horns being out, in public or private.

He notices that you can't keep your eyes and hands off his tail. While he never does it in front of his brothers he loves to pick you up with it. Your giggles and gasps of awe, while you dangle above him in his secure grasp, brings a huge smile to his face.

He has the most strenuous care routine out of all the brothers. His tail sheds a lot and dries out easily. It is usually a very intimate affair. Lucky for you, he likes you.

He shows you how to use his dry brush to sluff off the dead skin from his tail and scaly parts of his back. It's therapeutic to him. He talks about his newest hyper fixation while you brush and pet his tail.

His horns are a bit more persnickety. They are made up of a delicate ecosystem of coral and sea vegetation. It’s a beautiful vivid array of purple, pink, and blues. Henry and schools of smaller fish make little homes in it when Levi is in his tank.

It has to be kept moist and landscaped or it gets overgrown. He has a knack for aquatic horticulture and gives you a chance to learn too.

It naturally changes size and color based on the Devildom seasons. Your favorite displays are during the warmer seasons.

You buy little tank ornaments to decorate his horns to post on devilgram from time to time. It gets so many likes he gets so excited.

He wears your work proudly, even if it’s not up to his usual standard. His water monster brethren are jealous of the attention, and that’s what matters most.

Satan

If you bring up your interest in a scientific or educational manner, he is more willing to share. He has had far too many run-ins with witches and humans vying for him to be comfortable flaunting his demon form.

As the only born devil out of the group you have to be extra careful with his horns and tail. The bony structure of them is like fine sandpaper. Rough, course and far too abrasive for your tinder human skin.

You have to wear gloves when handling his horns and tail. He apologizes a lot about it. It angers him that he is the one brother that has to be so careful around you.

You really don’t mind though. Even through the thick leather gloves you feel the pulsing heat of his magic. You like the tingling feeling of his magic through your gloves, it’s like licking a battery.

He doesn’t need maintenance on his horns and tail as much as the others. But his horns do fall off like deer antlers.

He gets really irritated when it’s shedding season. The itching and throbbing of his horns when they are ready to fall off is maddening.

You always know when it is horn season due to the deep gouges in the stone walls around the house. You help him though this by scratching around the bases of his horns. It feels so good to have it scratched, and it’s 10x better when it’s not him.

Normally he would just dispose of his horns when they fall off or use them for alchemical purposes. Now, he gives some of them to you. You collect them and have turned a few sets into some lovely pieces of art in his opinion.

Asmodeus

Very much like Mammon- who wouldn’t love his horns and wings? He loves them, so obviously everybody should.

Absolutely eats up your praise and curious touches. He shows you the best places to pet or stroke.

His wings are leathery like Mammons but 1000x more sensitive all-round. He can sense air currents with them, so sneaking up on him to touch a wing is out of the question. As much as you would like to.

Loves see you try though. Will fake being surprised when you come at him from behind to lovingly touch a wing.

He shows you the best places to touch and examine his wings and horns. His smaller set of wings have this one spot underneath their pit that is super ticklish. When you find it, exploit it. He has the best laugh.

He admits to you that he dyes his horns. What can he say? Pink is the best color and his horns just look that much more fabulous in it.

You can convince him to try different colors, but only if you help him dye them. Starts matching colors and outfits with you and his horn color of the month.

His cleaning and maintenance routine he likes to do himself. Sorry! Nothing against you, but he is too meticulous to ask for help. But please stay and watch!

He shows off a lot more when cleaning and moisturizing his horns and wings. Stretching them out, or making sure his horns are shiny enough to catch the light of his room.

Absolutely soaks up for enamored gasps and wide eyes stares.

Beelzebub

Just shrugs when you ask to see his wings and horns.

Of course, he doesn't mind you touching them. He just finds it odd. Kinda forgot that it's not a normal occurrence in the human realm.

He has no issues with you touching or rubbing on his horns. He doesn't have any feeling in them anyway.

But, unfortunately, you can only look at his wings. The cuticle is very fragile so he can't just flare his wings out whenever he feels like the others.

You find the hard casing that protects his wings just as fascinating though. The iridescent sheen of it is mesmerizing. Your eyes can't pick up all the colors that it gleams, but it's still beautiful regardless.

You have a hard time getting any of the shell bits when they shed. Beel normally eats them and he is much faster than you.

But he will temper himself and save a few for you once he figures out why you are pouting.

His paper-thin shell casing resembles stained glass when you hold it up to the light. You have taken to making a large wind chime out of the shedding of the brother's horns and wings. His chitin is the perfect addition to give the slightly macabre piece some color.

He-and the other brothers find it kinda odd that you collect essentially garbage to them, but they chalk it up to a weird human quirk.

If it makes you happy-*shrugs*

Belphegor

Like his twin, doesn’t get the hype around it. But, if it means you’ll be spending more time with him then he won’t complain.

You pet his tail a lot when he is sleeping. His tail is soft and fluffy. It wraps around you while he slumbers, locking you in place by his side.

He wakes you up by tickling your nose with the tuft of his tail. He teases you when it makes you sneeze.

If you thought his bedhead was bad, wait till you see him struggling with the tangles at the tip of his tail.

You offer to help comb it out. Maybe even convince him to invest in a good bottle of conditioner. He takes you along to buy it and lets you choose the scent.

He has a penchant for cucumber and melon scents when it comes to his detergent and pillow sprays so you keep to that realm.

He cannot express how much he doesn’t care about upkeep so if you want to brush his tail and examine his horns go to town, means he doesn’t have to do it.

Belphie gets addicted quickly to you doting on his form. He sleeps harder and better after a session with you brushing his tail or rubbing at his horns.

You’ve learned just how to massage his scalp and where to scratch around his horns to help him fall asleep. He doesn't realize he does it himself as a self-soothing mechanism until you bring it up one night.

When you hit the sweet spots at the base of his tail or horns he can’t control the twitching and movements of his tail.

[builder051]

Marvel Disabilities Celebration Week: Day 1

We fit like an Enfit (tube 'verse)--Captain America AU

______________________

Steve's been up since before dawn, clutching James's arm and retching into the mixing bowl in his lap. They're both bleary; James's hearing aids lie forgotten on the bedside table, and Steve's hair stands on end, now that James's fingers have run through it possibly a thousand times.

"You think you're about done?" James asks, patting Steve's bony shoulder as he spits dregs of bile into the bowl.

"Mmm," Steve muses, as if he really has a say in the decision. Stomach matter has been forcing itself up his throat for... hours now, it must be. The faintly glowing clock under the TV has pushed forward from five to six to seven in the morning, but to Steve, it doesn't feel like that much time passed.

Steve's last heave has been clear tinged with mucousy yellow. This one looks whitish, and it tastes like warm, chalky milk. A feeling of dread runs through him as he realizes it's his formula, intestinal sludge now coming back up through his mouth to haunt him.

"Ugh." He spits, hard, attempting to detach the thick stream of enteral nutrition from his lower lip. This stuff isn't supposed to come up. He's not meant to vomit up stuff that starts off below his stomach to begin with. But he supposes that, as an individual with gastrointestinal disease, he should be prepared for the weird shit to happen every once in a while.

"What is that?" James seems to be catching on.

"Formula, I think," Steve chokes.

"What?" James leans his head closer, nearly dipping a lock of his hair into the bowl of sick in his attempt to get close enough to hear Steve's answer.

"Nasty shit." Steve then realizes he's probably lucky that he's not literally vomiting up his shit, what with his digestive system going in reverse as it currently is.

James pats Steve gently on the back. Steve coughs. His eyes and nose start to stream, and his mouth stretches wide for a pitiful dribble of bile, which is badly aimed and catches the edge of the bowl and the front of his shirt.

"Sorry," James whispers.

"'S ok." Steve finally detaches the long, wet string from his face with the back of his hand. He pants for a few moments, struggling to find his breath. Then he tips his head sideways to lay against James's shoulder.

James continues to hold the metal mixing bowl in his lap, his prosthetic arm balancing it in place while his flesh one snuggles Steve close.

More time passes. The clock flips on to read that it's now after eight. "I think..." Steve says tentatively. "I think... I'm done."

"You sure?" James checks in. "You said that the last, like, three times as well."

"I really think there's nothing left." Steve grips James around the waist and shoves himself up into a fully seated position. "I... My throat hurts, but my stomach is alright, I think."

James slowly nods. "Ok. D'you think you can handle a sip of water? Or, like a couple ounces of water in your tube?"

Steve considers. "Maybe you can do a little water bolus in a minute. For now, I just want to... sit a minute."

"Sure." James nods, the movement carrying into Steve's body and making him feel comforted and nauseated at the same time.

The sound of a jingling bell collar comes bounding down the hall, and Steve's partially closed eyes snap open. "Alpine!"

"He's not gonna eat your tubes..." James begins to roll his eyes.

"C'mon, cat, you know better--" Steve makes a shooing motion as the petite white cat makes to rub against his legs and sniff at the feeding tube dangling off the edge of the sofa.

Just as James said, Alpine leaves the tube alone and instead crouches, leaps, and lands in Steve's lap, narrowly avoiding upsetting the wobbling bowl of sick.

"Of course," Steve mutters under his breath, convincing himself that he's well and truly done puking.

"I'll get your water, shall I?" James offers, standing up and taking the bowl toward the kitchen. "And dispose of this?"

Steve nods, then looks down at Alpine. "And I guess I'm supposed to pet this?"

"Aren't you?" James raises his eyebrows at the cat's cocked head, one ear flattened as if inviting a hand to come down perfectly in that spot.

"Sure." Steve can't help hide his grin.

James takes off for the kitchen, and Steve strokes Alpine behind the ear, both enamored and annoyed with the cat's immediate purr.

When James comes back a moment later, he has his phone clutched in his hand and a water bottle and syringe resting in his prosthetic grip.

"What's up?" Steve asks.

"Yeah. Just called into work," James says. "Well, texted. Can't hear worth shit on this thing without bluetooth." He gestures down the hall, toward the bedroom, and, ostensibly, toward his aids, which have the magical ability of bluetooth connectivity.

"Oh." Steve does a quick self-inventory, then says, "I'm, well, I'm actually ok, I think. It was a bad minute, but I think I'm done puking my guts up."

"A bad minute?" James looks down at his watch. "Try, like, four hours."

"Really?"

"...yeah..."

"I was gonna say we should maybe make toast and watch some TV before you have to leave for work," Steve says guiltily.

"Fucking... toast?" James shakes his head. "Are you nuts?"

"I'm hungry..."

"You're fucking empty." James sits down on the edge of the couch and places the water bottle and syringe on the side table. "I think you should stay that way for a few, then I'll give you some water. If you haven't puked again by, like, lunchtime, then maybe I'll give you some toast."

"Ok, point taken." Steve pets Alpine again. "Since you're home today, what do you want to do?"

"I thought you wanted to watch TV," James says. "Isn't it Shark Week?"

"Yeah." Steve isn't sure if he's proud or self-conscious that he keeps up with these things.

James hands him the remote and reaches over to give the cat a few strokes down the tail.

"Thanks," Steve whispers. "I don't know what I'd do without you. Really, I don't."

"You don't know what you'd do without Alpine, you mean." James grins.

"Oh, I suppose he's ok." Steve returns the expression.

"You're pretty ok, too."

"Yeah? Well you're the okayest."

James leans in to kiss Steve on the cheek. "I love you. Even when you puke all over me all night."

"I'll try not to do it again." Steve crosses his heart. Alpine looks disappointed at the pause in the petting.

"Liar."

"Well, you know the risks of being with me..."

"Stevie, stop." James places his hand on Steve's chest. "I took the whole day off to watch stupid real-life Jaws with you, just to be sure you don't pass out when your blood pressure tanks when you stand up."

"Buck, I'm fine--"

"Yeah, you say you are. But, let me be the expert here, ok? I don't think you're good to be alone right now."

"Alpine would look after me," Steve says definitively, his smile returning.

"Can't say I don't trust him to do a good job. But there are some things I want to do myself, I guess," James says.

"Well, if you say so." Steve sinks low in his seat and rests his head against James's arm. He turns on the television and flips through the channels until a great white fills the screen, blue tinged with the aura of an underwater camera.

James pets Alpine again, then reaches his fingers upward to pull them through Steve's messy mop. "Glad you're ok."

"Me, too." Steve looks up at him. "I love you."

"I love you too. No matter what."

[lunaekalenda]

Heya An 💕🥺 I hope when you see this you are doing good!! First of all congrats and I checked out your event (which is so creative btw and I love it) and here is my request! (I hope it’s not complicated omg-)

💖, ❓, can it be in the aot world? Like she joined the survey crops and she is really skilled, smart and really tough and that caught Levi’s attention and he has a crush on her :,). After a mission battle she almost risked her life but Levi saved her. It got her by surprise and she tells levi why did u save me out of all ppl and Levi decided to confess his feelings first time to the person he loves and he gets all nervous and shy. (Like he just says randomly “will you be my girl?”) and hes all blushed up. And the girl is all surprised but accepts it and she brags abt it to all her friends that Levi is her man and he lowkey is rlly happy abt that 🥺 (fluff scenes of him holding her hand and all that to FINALLY show off he has a girl and he’s so cute and happy abt it 😭). Thank you and have a great day ✨

ofc!! i hope you like it <3 and thanks for participating! <3

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

romance + strangers + canonverse feat. Levi Ackerman

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

“Nice one!” Hange says approaching you. You land on the floor and smile to them. They look to the tall tree you just escalated in a very short time. 

“I wanted to try a trick that Rico taught me.” you say. Hange nods, excited.

“The one with the little tumble to turn faster and begin the descent with propulsion?” you nod.

“Yes! It’s pretty useful.” you say. You’ve been friends with Hange for a while now, but you spend most of the time with the cadets of your promotion, specially with Eren.

You have just joined the corps this promotion, training with Eren, that’s what made you two so close. You’re also friend of Mikasa and Armin. 

“Hange.” Levi calls them. He’s walking towards you two, loosening his shirt collar with a bony hand. “Erwin is calling us.” He looks at you, as if he had just noticed in your presence. He knows you, he recognizes your face though you two never talked. You made the salute to Levi, after all, he’s your superior. He nods quietly. 

He of course knows you. You’re that one that uses the ODMS as if you were executing a ice skating routine, so graceful and pretty. Hange waves a hand towards you. Levi walks fast in front of them. 

“You’re too obvious.” they say. Levi grumps.

“Shut up.”

Erwin called them to let them know there’s a mission the next day. One of the squads that went for a recognition a week ago has not arrived yet, and they want to search them. And to know if all of them are alive. Hange says they can call their squad, where you are listed. Levi nods, knowing he has to call his new Special OPs Squad. You talk to Eren to ask him if his squad also goes on the mission when Hange tells you you have to be prepared to fight tomorrow. Eren nods.

“Yes. Captain Levi told us earlier. So, I guess we have to go for that...” he says. You nod and say bye to him after you two end having dinner. You enter your bed and prepare yourself for sleeping, trying to recover energy for tomorrow’s mission. 

It is too early in the morning to be talking about titans, but Erwin is giving his discourse before you all leave. You listen to him, trying to avoid unintentional yawns. Once he has assigned every squad to each part of the army, you start to walk. Casually, Eren’s squad is next to yours, on your left. He smiles at you. Behind him, Levi Ackerman looks as awesome as usual, up in his black horse. 

The way is silent in your group and kinda uncomfortable. Some soldiers are crying and some others are screaming that they want to go back home. You try to not listen to them. You also want to go home.

No, you don’t. You’re here because you want to help humanity. If stay away from home and risk your life will help your family to live in better conditions, with no more fear, you’ll risk it every day.

A red light is seen, and you know what that means.

“Titans!” Hange says. “I wonder what amazing ones will we find today...” Once you’re near enough to them, you take your blades and swing between the trees. 

Levi saw you do that hundreds of times, but seeing your body elevate quietly, all the grace in every movement, from your side is another story. His grey eyes follow you, as if the battlefield was now a stage and this was a kinda strange ballet, in which you were the main dancer, and he only one of the public. 

He looks around, blushed. He has to center himself in the battle. Giving a couple orders to his squad, he easily finds an enormous titan. He goes all way up a tree, searching its weak point. You do the same a couple trees to his left, fighting. There’s a weird titan between the two of you, and Levi cannot predice its movements. He seems to be interested in you, but at the same time, he looks at Levi, as if he was about to attack him.

Unfortunately, you were it’s prey.

The titan runs towards you, his mouth open and his hands ready to catch you. You didn’t see him coming, you were too centered on the one you were attacking. The titan caught you off guard, taking one of the strings of your ODMS, making you scream. Levi hears that.

“Y/N!” He goes as fast as he cans near the titan, seeing your blades moving fast towards the enormous hand that was about to cage you. He kills the titan you were trying to kill, the one that had his mouth ready to eat you from his colleague’s hands. Then, he turns over himself, attacking the other one’s neck, the one that is squeezing your body so hard that you’re even screaming of pain. He never saw you screaming of pain. Never.

That’s when he realized how you’re suffering. You feel how the hand around you loses all strength and you fall. You fall because your body feels weakened. Levi catches your body in its way to the floor. You feel his warm body surrounding yours, his calm breath and his voice it’s the last thing your senses catch before you pass out.

❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁ ❁❁❁❁

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a fluffy bed under you, followed by a softly touch on your leg. You open your eyes quietly, trying to adapt to the light of the room. Levi is there. You blush.

“Captain Levi?” you ask in a whisper. He looks at you.

“Y/N, you’re awake.” he says. He offers you a glass of water. You thank him and drink slowly. 

”What happened?” you ask. You don’t remember exactly how you ended there, but you were surprised to find Levi by your side.

“You got squeezed by a titan three days ago.” he says, looking at the marks in your legs. “I came here with you as fast as I could and took care of you.” he says. His hand feels soft and hot against your skin. 

“You? You took care of me?” You ask. He nods.

“For all the days you’ve been here, in this bed, with your eyes closed.” he says, his voice going down and his gaze showing what he feels: tiredness.

“Have you been sleeping here, Captain.?” you ask. He nods.

“In this chair.” adds. You take air heavily, but it makes your ribs hurt. He looks at you concerned.

“I’m ok, I’m ok.” you say. “But you should get some sleep.”

“No.” he says.

“Why?” your tone is concerned now. He looks at your bed, but never at your eyes.

“You need someone to take care of you.” He simply answers. His hands play with your leg quietly, making sweet caresses on too of the wounds. You look at his hands dancing on your skin. It feels really good... Levi has been taking care of you for days. He saved you and then took care of you. You thought that the one that will be Levi's partner will be so lucky...

“Can I ask you why did you save me?” you ask, out of nowhere. His hands stop its caresses and he looks at you. His grey eyes are fixated on yours, making a quick scan all pver your face. Your plump lips that he dreamed to kiss for a long time, your cute nose, your blushed cheeks and your beautiful eyes.

“Cause I like you, and i was hoping you could be my girl, y/n” he says.

Wow. You weren't expecting that. He said it so directly, as if it was the simplest thing to say. As if it was easy as breathing. You looked at him, but he was serious.

"Be your girl?" you ask. Levi nods.

"I've been watching you. How strong, beautiful and powerful you are. All those things make my mind a mess, full of you. Your voice. Your body. Everything about you is invasive in my head." he says.

You were totally speechless, analyzing every movement he makes. How his adam's apple goes up and down nervously, how he plays with his hands. You find it kinda cute, how a captain of the Survey Corps is nervous to tell the girl he likes his feelings. After all, Levi took care of you. You felt an attachment, a bond that pulled you closer to him as magnets. You smiled.

"We'll give it a try." you say. He looks at you again, blushed. You smile. His hand searches yours quietly, and you let his fingers tangle with yours. He smiles.

"Y/N, I prom..."

"HOW'S MY FAVORITE GIRL EVER DOING?" Hange asks, entering the room. They didn't pay attention to your tangles hands. A shy Eren and a concerned Historia are behind them. "Oh, you look less like a zombie." they says. "I'm sure that Captain Levi has been taking care of you really well, if you know what I mean." they winks. Levi clicks his tongue, but he keeps your hand caged in his. That makes your stomach be full of butterflies.

"I saw you were in danger, who helped you?" since Historia wasn't called to that mission, she didn't knew what happened. Rumors are fast but, the 99% of the times, false.

"Yeah. Fortunately..." you look at Levi. How his eyes shined when he told you he wanted you to be his girl. "... fortunately my man was there for me." you smile and Levi almost choke on his saliva, but his acting skills were really worked. Historia smiled and Eren blushed.

"Oh Goddess, you two are now a couple?" she asks. You nod, smiling, and Levi blushes after being caught looking at you.

"Why did the little brat blush?" Levi asks. Eren coughs.

"It's just that is weird... My bestie and my Captain..." he says. You blush as well.

"It isn't!" Historia goes on your defense. "It's really beautiful. How the two of them..."

"... are wishing to be alone and we're here. Guys, head to the dorms, our girl is being treated." Hange says. Levi raises a brow and you let out a little laugh.

"Your jokes are pitiful." he says. They close the door behind them and Levi sighs. You smile at him.

"Then... About what treatment was Hange talking?"

[nakababakla]

Headcanons: Holmes and Watson in a QPR

1. They take long evening walks together, arm in arm, but that's actually canon. They purposely go through dark alleys so that Watson can rest his head on Holmes' shoulder. Holmes puts his hand around Watson but he swats it away because it makes him feel short.

2. At the end of Empty House Watson finds some sheets of paper in Holmes' cloak containing 23 scenarios that Holmes predicted of his return. Watson reveals he tried theater once because of his love of literature, at least before he decided to take up medicine. And Holmes was also a theater kid. They re-enact all the scenarios with full costume (Holmes planned different disguises); Watson quickly writes dialogue. They act all night and laugh to death at the end of every scenario like little kids playing roleplay. There's actually one where it's Holmes that faints.

3. cuddles cuddles cuddles cuddles CUDDLES. Who's the big spoon? Depends on the mood. Watson's like a big soft stuffed bear, Holmes is bony and his shoulder is perfectly contoured for one to nest his head on.

4. Watson sometimes gets severe back pains, which Holmes notices. He narrows down the possible causes: he switches out Watson's lounging chair, he tries different dinner stools, etc., until he realizes that it might be his bed. So that night he drama queens all over Watson's bed and steals it, forcing Watson to sleep in Holmes' new bed that he just bought. Watson wakes up with no pain for the first time in months.

5. Holmes can also get a lot of arm/back/body/hand pains after sitting in weird positions for long periods of time, conducting experiments, or after poring over tomes of books. Watson has nimble fingers and he gives great massages.

6. Watson's dog likes Holmes more than Watson because Holmes spoils him too much. Of course Watson's jealous, "mY OWN DOG doesn't like me huhuhu" They compete for the dog's attention constantly.

7. Another post-Empty House headcanon: There are two reasons why Watson moved back in with Holmes after he returned, even though he wasn't in financial distress anymore. We only know of the fact that Holmes asks his cousin to buy Watson's practice. But before that, Holmes would put on the most covert disguises and go to his clinic as a patient, just to check in on him and he misses him ok. Watson looks forward to his visits; he uses deduction methods he learned from Holmes to figure out whether this was an actual patient or just Holmes again. When it's Holmes they chat for hours. Eventually this becomes a nuisance to his patients.

8. Holmes adores flowers. Watson knows this. Sometimes he'll pluck flowers from Mrs. Hudson's garden out back and put them around the flat—in vases on the dinner table, little mugs strewn across the living room and the kitchen, tiny pots on the windowsills, out in the porch (do they have a porch?), and he'd pin one to his lapel. Holmes would smile from ear to ear all day.

9. Scotland Yard + Mrs. Hudson throw a birthday party for Holmes every year. Watson and Mrs. Hudson spearhead the arrangements. The Baker Street Irregulars are invited and Watson makes games for them. The kids are odd-numbered, so Holmes has to join to evenly separate them into two teams. Actually Watson deliberately tells the kids to bring one extra person so that he has an excuse to make Holmes join. "You're the birthday boy anyway" "I am a grown man Watson" "please please please please please" "ughhhhh ok" *haves fun anyway*

They do the same for Watson but they guess his birthday every year, because Watson staunchly refuses to say his birthday.

(February, Year 1) Happy Birthday Dr. Watson!

Watson: Awwwww thank you, I'm touched.

Holmes: *gasps* Oh no.

Watson: Why?

Holmes: It's not your birthday, is it?

Watson: ...Well it is now.

(September, Year 2) Happy Birthday Dr. Watson!

Watson: Thank you so much! I love you all!

Holmes: Your birthday is today, is it not?

Watson: ...Yes.

Holmes could easily get his birth certificate, but he values his privacy.

+ it's fun to just tell Lestrade or Gregson while they're on a case, "Oh btw it's Watson's real birthday today you'll come tonight right" "what WHAT WHAT I don't have a gift oh no oh no oh no" "Ehehehehehe".

+ every year's birthday is a surprise. Holmes picks a random day at the start of the year. He usually won't take cases that week to focus on the case of Dr. John Watson's Surprise Birthday Party.

+ chaos ensued when at the start of the year he picked January 1st. As Holmes made breakfast his hands darted at the speed of light. He tried to stay quiet but Watson woke up when he dropped a big pot. He peeked out and saw what Holmes was doing then pretended to go back to sleep. Then Holmes woke him up and served breakfast in bed. Watson didn't wince when the eggs were too salty. Mrs. Hudson nearly fainted at the mess of the kitchen.

[mediocre--writing]

How about Billy struggling with an eating disorder maybe? Billy might have bulimia (or maybe I’m projecting) and/or orthorexia. At one point it gets really bad maybe he goes to residential or Steve has to take care of him.

tw: eating disorder and mental health issues mentioned and discussed

so i have i friend from school who really struggled with orthorexia and obsessive working out to maintain a body image and they got really weak as a result. my friends and I had to watch him kinda fall down this rabbit hole and it was just awful. 

so i can see billy doing this. at first it’s because it’s basketball season and he needs to look his best and play his best and in order to do that, he has to be strong and eat right

and this boy is obsessed with his looks. you can’t tell me he doesn’t nitpick every single thing about himself every time he looks into the mirror. his hair just look nice, his abs must be defined, he wants to feel good

and he has control. eating healthy makes you feel good and energized and exercising has the same effects. the problem lies in getting too comfortable in that lull

billy doesn’t let himself eat the cupcake max got him for his birthday. he has to work out at least once a day, and if he misses a day, regardless of reason, he stretches himself to do double or triple the next day (or next few days)

eventually billy stops eating school cafeteria food. it’s got too many calories and too much sugar and he can’t stand how artificial everything tastes

after the season is over and billys back to regular life, he doesn’t stop. he’s become so dependent on having this thing he can control, the authority he has over his own body, he can’t let go

so he keeps working out dangerous amounts. he picks at susan’s cooking and only eats the meat and vegetables, not even looking at the rolls and dessert that comes with each meal

steve is the first to notice. he swears that nobody else can see what he does. they still have gym together, which results in showers together, and steve just notes that billy always looks more muscular every time he sees him

but it’s not good muscle. because with each muscle growth, billy loses that small bit of shape he had on his hips and the thickness of his thighs. he loses distinctive coloring in his face and steve swears he can see the veins through his hands under the harsh gym lighting

it’s not until steve and billy become friends, close friends, that steve really starts to see why billys body is changing

they’ve started hanging out at steve’s and are regularly in each others lives. sometimes billy even sleeps over

he sees the way billy eats fruits and vegetables and meat, but they won’t have seasonings or other spices. billy only drinks water. billy works out far too much for any person ever

after every meal, even if they’re just snacking, billy will start doing calf raises or push-ups or curl ups and it’s weird

it’s like after he eats he gets this guilt that can only be smothered by exercise and it’s just not healthy. but this is one of those things you can’t just bring up

it’s not until billy has so much muscle that you can’t even see the absolute minimum amount of fat on his body. he’s thinner now, and it’s just not the billy that steve knows

so he starts out slow. he puts a light colored, not very flavorful, seasoning on the chicken when billy stays over next. billy doesn’t realize and steve takes this as a win

the week after, steve stops billy from doing push ups after dinner. he forces him into the living room and they watch a movie. another win

steve keeps going for the next month or so, and he doesn’t see any change in billy, but assumes it will take time to see progress

billy knows what steve’s doing. he’s not sly. billy can’t explain the guilt he feels for missing his after dinner workout that one night and makes sure to run three miles rather than two for a warm up the next day. he also adds another few weights to his barbell

he likes that he’s strong. he’s eating the healthy foods, he’s building up muscle mass, so what’s the issue?

the issue truly lies in the afternoon that he and steve are just chilling in the living room and steve brings it up.

it’s more of an off handed comment about how much he works out

and billy gets kinda defensive. he’s all “well i have to look good and i can’t do that by lounging around all the time,”

and steve, trying not to take offense to it, responds with something about how billy may be over working himself and can go for a day without lifting weights or can take a cheat day and eat a bag of chips or ice cream

and billy just explodes. he rants about how it’s so bad for you to eat that kind of stuff and how there’s no way it’s healthy and how he likes the definition in his muscles so why should he “take a cheat day”?

billys breaking point is 4 little words:

“billy, you’re hurting yourself.”

and he just storms out of the house. gets in the camaro and drives away.

what the hell is steve on about anyway? so he enjoys working out, what’s that got to do with anything? he likes the way he feels after eating healthy, so what? and who the hell is he hurting making sure he’s happy and in control of his own body...

it hits him faster than a freight train. he pulls off the dingy back road he’d just been flying down and parks the car.

he puts his hands flat on the wheel and just stares at them. how bony his fingers have gotten.

his eyes trail up his arms. he sees the muscle he’s built but he also notices that he can see an extrusion where his veins run.

his jeans aren’t as tight anymore. he’s built muscle but lost the fat that filled his jeans. that gave him the nice look he was going for.

and billy doesn’t realize he’s crying until there’s a puddle on his jeans from where he’s bowed his head and that’s what broke him

he’s sobbing and sobbing and sobbing because this, the one thing he could control, has gotten out of control and he swears he’s gonna lose his mind.

steve, ever the mother hen, had been driving around hawkins just to make sure that billy was ok. he went by his house first, but it was just neils truck in the driveway.

he drove along every backroad until, of course the last one he checks, there it is, billys car.

and steve parks behind it and slowly walks up to billys car and taps on the window

billy flinches but doesn’t look up. he rolls down the window and steve just bends down, elbows resting on the door and eyes pitiful.

“bill,”

“you were right, i’m sorry,” it comes out so choked and garbled that steve barely registers what he’s saying. but steve slowly reaches a hand to billys hair and pushes it back, getting a view of his red, wet cheeks

“billy,” steve says, just as soft as before.

billy looks up, finally, and steve shouldn’t be surprised by how red and puffy his face is. “i didn’t mean to. it—it just, i don’t know, it got out of hand,”

“i know, billy, and it’s ok,”

“no,” it’s a crackly sound as billy cries harder at the thought that this, this whole situation, was ok. because he had control over it and it was gone so so so so quick

“let me help, billy, i promise you’re absolutely fine any way you look, but this isn’t healthy and i want to be there for you,”

billy doesn’t say anything. doesn’t know what to say. because if steve’s noticed then who else has? or does anyone else care about him at all?

there are questions bouncing around his head like a pinball machine but he hyper focuses on what steve said:

“i want to be there for you,”

maybe, to have full control, he needed someone else to show him that a guiding hand is better than an iron-tight grip.

and maybe he’ll get better. he knows steve won’t rest until he’s happy, as seen a million times before.

and billy wants to be happy. he wants to relinquish enough control to be happy. he knows he can accomplish that, with the guiding hand of steve.

and billy does get better.

it takes almost a year for the guilt to finally go away completely. it took him five months to stop feeling guilt to not work out after eating. it took him eight months to stop feeling guilt when eating a cupcake or ice cream. it took him a year to regain that healthy weight and find the perfect balance between muscle and fat

the good days were met with love and congratulations. the bad days were met with love and understanding. the days in between were met with love and whatever else billy needed.

and after the year it took for billy to almost fully understand the consequences of unchecked control over himself, a month later he asked steve on their first official date.

and billy realized that he needed to help himself as much as he needed someone to show him that every inch of him deserved love, no matter what it looked like

[sootburred]

...i'll tell you the secret, but you gotta promise not to tell no one.. /j

....the other burs love how like.. peculiar Phantombur is; he has these pretty lil wings which serve as good blankies but not as good air planes, and he has these cute lil green freckles and green eyes which glow in the dark,, a tail which is long and bony, and ghostbur learned that it makes xylophone noises when you tap your finger on it (/hj) they learned that phantombur purrs and that he naps in the day and that he loves water,,, they also all adore how he curls up like a cat and how he even has lil paw pads ,, i royally love him what HELPAHJKAJK

thats the secret. like. of course, they love each other equally but in this hc we're focusing on phantombur HELPAGHJKAJAK :eyes:

- casino

oh dude for sure!!!!! he's their token bizarre little cat. 100pbur has literally asked to "study him" and phantombur was just like ^-^ ok! (it ended in them kissing nd also finding out that phantombur trills when hes flustered/happy). he's weird n funky and the other burs flaunt him around like !! look at my cool ass bf right here!!!!!

[mxrvelxbucky]

Bucky Barnes x reader

Bucky Barnes one shots

Warnings: dirty thoughts, 18+ scenes

Words : 2,7k

Notes: Sorry if I have some mistakes, but English is not my native language

A/N: Do not copy, rewrite, repost or translate my work on here or any other site. Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome.

Bucky went out of the well-known cafe who went since Steve left, because there they were coming every day to take their coffee. But it was not only that the reason for his continued visit to Cafe. Every time he went to the Cafe, he was welcoming by the same girl, with her long black hair and emerald, her green eyes, with a beautiful and warm smile on her lips.

Every day Bucky tried to catch her talking but every time customers came so they could not talk and he was forced to leave and close again in his apartment.

Today, however, what surprised him was that he did not see her in the cafe. But he did not get into the process of asking the other girls in the Cafe where she was. But as he was leaving the cafe, he hit someone. But before the other person could fall, Bucky caught up with him. As he looked at it he immediately understood who he was.

These emerald looks, these fleshy red lips and snow-white skin definitely belonged to her. "I-um-eh-I-Iam-s-oh". He could not speak, he was bony. Bucky tried to apologize to her but no matter how hard he tried, the words did not come out of his mouth. He was literally stuck. How should he talk to her? What should he tell her? He did not know what to do, but you got him out of the predicament he was in, letting your voice, which was like a melody in Bucky's ears, resound.

"Morning Bucky" He did nothing, he did not react, he just looked deep into your eyes. You were starting to feel a little uncomfortable, because he had his arm wrapped around your waist, and your faces were a few inches apart.

Wow, that was the first time you noticed how beautiful his eyes were. They had many shades of blue inside. They were like oceans, dangerous oceans with a beauty and a serenity in them that made you want to explore them.

After a while you started to feel something hot enter your skin that made you scream from the burning. Bucky's coffee had spilled on your chest and stomach. When Bucky realized what he had done he was shocked. He had been absorbed by your features, your eyes, your lips, your body, everything for so long. He was absorbed by you. He wanted you so fucking much to be his that he had not noticed that his coffee had started to spill on you.

"Oh, my god, Y/N I am s-so sorry about that, I-I d-din't want to........" He tried to apologize but he could not, the words were confused in his mind and his actions could not control what he did.

"It's o-ok Bucky" you tried to say without showing him how much the burning hurts "Can you please bring me some paper towels" you looked at his eyes as sweet as you could. He didn't reply he just went into the cafe and some seconds later he came out with some paper towels. He gave them to you and he was watching you trying to clean yourself.

Your T-shirt was stuck on you, clearly showing the contour of your bra and some parts of your boobs. Bucky, no matter how hard he tried to look away, but he could not, dirty thoughts passed through his mind which he could not drive away. He wanted you, he wanted you so fucking much. He wanted to be on the top of you and talking you dirty. But he knew that you didn't feel the same.

Those few times you'd talked, Bucky had found out that you have a boyfriend. But he couldn't, even after all these days, stop thinking about you, he might have been a playboy before, but you were the first one to make him really feel something. Something that had nothing to do with his twisted thoughts, or sex, but it was about you. He really loved you even from those little things you'd said to each other, he'd fallen in love with you. Something that had nothing to do with his twisted thoughts, or sex, it was about you. He really loved you even from those little things you said to each other, he had fallen in love with you.

"Perfect. It's not cleaned for anything"you said. It may have seemed like you were blaming Bucky for what happened, but the truth is that you were about to kiss him If he didn't make the first move. You broke up with your boyfriend just yesterday, because you couldn't get those blue eyes out of your mind.

"Y/N I am so sorry, really I didn't mean to-"

"Bucky I am not blaming your for anything, ok? Just forget it" You said looking sweetly into his eyes, those eyes you fell in love with, from the moment you first saw them.

"Ah Ok, but You can't walk around like that, with coffee on your shirt, my house is nearby, I'm sure I'll have some clothes there for you" You were about to say no, but he interrupted you "And I don't take no for an answer" You both laughed and you followed him to his apartment.

Along the way, you were talking about different things. He asked you about how you're doing with your boyfriend, and of course you told him that you broke up with your boyfriend. Bucky may have looked sad at the time, but he couldn't have been happier at all.

When you arrived at his apartment you sat in the living room while he went to one of the other rooms to find clothes. A few minutes later he came and gave you the clothes. He showed you where the bathroom was and you sources to get dressed. You were sure the shirt was his, it had its smell, expensive cologne and something of vanilla.

When you sources back into the living room, you saw him lying on the couch. He was going to put on a movie. When he noticed you, he got up and came to you. He had taken off his shirt and instead of that jeans that he was wearing before, he had worn a thin, almost transparent, pair of shorts. You felt a little weird when the thin fabric of his shorts.

"Since you have the day off, you'd like to sit down and watch a movie" He looked you deep in the eye, you couldn't refuse, you wanted to sit with him more than anything else in the world.

"Of course I'd like to, just before you start the movie, wait till I sit-"

You didn't have time to finish your sentence. He grabs your wrist and tugs you down on the couch. You fall on him with a sharp, playful shriek. "You know I’m the best seat in this place"  He jokes, pushing you over his body while he brings his knee up so you’re between his thick bare thighs, his briefs riding up higher so you feel his skin on yours.

Resting your head on his warm, smooth chest, you feel his cock pressing into your pelvis. He’s not even hard, and he’s big. The thought making you throb as you push down the whimper bubbling in your throat.

"Comfortable?" Bucky asks as he looks at the top of your head with a knowing grin. You nod, your head rising and falling with his even breathing.

"Good girl" he hums, shifting his hips up, grinding into you so briefly that you think you imagined it.

Bucky listens to the small noise that escapes your lips when he does it again, stretching under you with a loud groan as he adjusts your bodies on the plush cushions. "Me too"

It’s hard to focus on the movie. All you can think about is how the only thing separating you is two layers of very thin cloth. Two layers keeping you from feeling how warm and firm he really is.

Bucky’s hand is trailing up and down your back, the tips of his fingers grazing your spine as he watches the movie. After a while, his touches get more deliberate, harder as he massages your back. His other hand lazily tossing popcorn in his mouth.

You glance up at him, studying him as an explosion happens in the background. He didn’t shave today so there’s a hint of a beard covering his cheeks, the corner of his lips turned up as his blue eyes follow the action playing out on the screen. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows another mouthful of popcorn. He’s so handsome and hot, no man should look this good.

You whimper, actually whimper, when his hand drifts down to your ass, resting over the swell of your cheek. Heat floods your face as you stare at him. Please please say he didn’t hear you, please-

Bucky doesn’t look down, but you swear his lips twitch. "This is my favorite part" He murmurs his large hand curves over your ass. He slapped hard your ass and you let a small moan get out of your mouth. You didn't know what he exactly was supposed to do to you, but you didn't care, You knew he was going to do bad things to you, those bad and naughty things that you've been waiting for a long time of him to do to you.

"Mm, I can’t get enough of this" He gently squeezes, his ring pressing into your skin, and you nearly arch into his powerful touch. His large hand kneads your ass, squeezing and rubbing until you’re soaked, wanting his hands everywhere on your body. His cock swells under you, pushing into you. He’s so big. That throb is getting worse, he has to feel it, feel how wet you are.

"I always want more, Doll" The nickname that he called you, it makes you horny.

Bucky looks down at you, his lust-blown eyes nearly black, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He wants you. He’s hot and stiff and you can feel him.

"Hmm, you want more Doll" That wasn't a question, his voice was so deep and thick, you knew what was going to happen.

He pulls down your bottom lip with his thumb. "Yeah, you want more" He smirks, his words laced with a smug assurance, he’s going to make you feel so good if you let him and you will let him.

Bucky pulls you up his body until your hands are resting above his head, your forehead on his. "Say you want more and I’ll give you everything"

He’s looking up at you , his eyes steady on your face. His hand kneading your ass, ushing you hard on him, down on his hard erection, grinding into your clit. You whine and his eyes get darker. "You like that, huh?"

He reaches up and bites your bottom lip, sucking it into his warm mouth, his hand slipping between your bodies, under the band of your panties, cool fingers find your hot cunt, aching and dripping for him. He traces along your clit, an intricate pattern of his name that has you gasping.

Bucky lets your lip go with a wet plop, "Say it Doll" He demands, feeling as desperate as you look. He pushed you against him and made you horny in even more"Say it"He whispered in your ear, you could feel his hot breath on your neck just before he started leaving you sucking pacifiers around your neck.

"I want you"

Three simple words ignite a fire in him. His hand slaps your ass just as he pulls you in for a heated kiss, swallowing your shocked squeal. Those two layers separating you are gone, ripped from each in a flurry, the kiss deepening with each second until you’re consumed by him.

Breaking away with a groan, Bucky watches as you straddle his hips, your glistening pussy sliding over his thick cock. His swollen head pushes through your folds and into your core, you grab his chest, panting through the burning twinge, fuck he’s not even halfway in.

There ya go, Doll, you can take it "he encourages, his hands on your ass, easing you down until you reach his base." Little more, there ya go. Good girl. Knew this tight little pussy could take me" He said in your ear.

You’re so full, his cock so deep in you, even a small roll of your hips has you crying out. "Fuck, I don’t think I can take-"

Bucky presses his hand on your belly, smirking as he feels himself. "Yeah, you can Doll" He counters softly, you try to circle your hips, wanted to be a good girl for him but when he hits your soft spot right there, you lose your rhythm.

He sits up, keeping his grip on your ass, bringing you down over him, harsh and fast, stretching and filling you in a way no one has ever done, the swift burst of pleasure has you seeing stars. Your hands clutch his hair as you hang on while makes you ride him, each stroke twisting the pulsating coil in you, tighter and tighter.

The faint sounds of the tv drowned out by the wet squelch of your pussy sucking him back in as he brings your hips down, his massive hands rocking you back and forth until you’re mewling and sobbing from the sensations tearing through you.

Bucky tightens his hold, his face contorted into a sneer when you clench down. "Fuck, fuck, you’re so fucking tight, shit should have fucked this sweet cunt weeks ago" He’s whispering the filthiest things, describing all his wet dreams as he pushes deeper into your pussy.

All you can do is hold on to his large body, to overwhelmed by the way his cock is dragging along your walls to respond, only able to produce broken, needy gasps. "Please ‘m so close, so close god Bucky, just please Bucky-"

"Say you own to me, that you're mine "

"Say it" he told while he was pushing harder and harder.

"I am yours, you own me, I-I'm yours"

"Good Doll" He is pulling your head back, he brushes his lips across your jaw as he fucks up into you, your breasts bouncing against his sweaty chest with each thrust. His mouth hovers over your open lips, muttering, "Cum right fucking now, Doll"

A searing white-hot heat flashes across your body as the coil snaps. "Oh god, yes, oh fuck-" Your belly tenses in and you shatter, his name a strangled wheeze as your orgasm roils through your body.

Bucky grins, his tongue caught between his teeth as he waits for you to come down from your high, your body trembling over his. His hands rubbing your back as he sighs.

Slowly opening your eyes, his smirking face comes into view. You shift your hips, he’s still hard, bitting back a weak moan, "Bucky you didn’t-"

"So you know we missed the movie. I really wanted to see it" He traces your swollen bottom lip with his thumb, "how about you keep my cock warm and we finish it"

He leans back on the couch, grabbing the remote off the table. “And if you’re good, I’ll eat your pussy until you pass out. If you’re not, well I’ll edge you until you pass out"

He did not just say that-

You stare down at him with wide eyes, your mouth dropping open as he grabs a handful of popcorn. He puts a few kernels on your tongue, eating the rest as the movie starts up. "Your choice Doll"

You tilt your head considering your options. Things are about to get real interesting around here. "You know Bucky, I know exactly what I want"

You lean down and whisper in his ear. Bucky nods his head, his smirk getting wider. "Good choice Doll"

That was my first story, tell me if you want more

[captainjanegay]

in the lane, snow is glistening | Stucky | Canon Divergent, Winter Fluff, Pre-War, but also Post Endgame | 2.3k words | Ao3

Summary:

Two times Steve and Bucky take a walk through the snowy park.

based on a one-line holiday prompt - "if you throw that snowball, you’re declaring war"

A/N: It’s funny you said you’re in the mood for some winter fluff cause this one is specifically for you. Thank you so much for the prompt, my love  @its-tortle​ ♥ The summary it's basically what the fic is about lmao You just need to add two dumb boys in love, loads of fluff and bickering and a good helping of emotions.

Also - my seventh fill for the @stuckybingo2020​ ♥

The Prospect Park looks beautiful covered in a thick layer of white fluff, sparkling in the morning sun. It only started snowing last afternoon but there's a good two inches of snow everywhere. The park is relatively empty. The hour is late enough for most people to be at work or whenever they need to be but also cold enough for most people to stay at home if they don’t need to be anywhere. Bucky has no idea why he and Steve are outside. It was probably one of Steve's stupid ideas that Bucky has agreed to because there are only a few things he is able to deny when it is Steve who does the asking.

So here they are. Strolling through the snowy, almost completely deserted park on a Wednesday morning. Both shaking slightly in their worn coats, too thin for such weather. Bucky curses himself in his mind. He shouldn’t have agreed to this. What if Steve catches another cold? Even a light one always completely wears him out, tying him to bed for days. At least he agreed to take Bucky's scarf in addition to his own. He didn't go down without a fight. It took almost half an hour of arguing before Steve finally gave up and took the scarf.

So what if Bucky is now trying not to shake too visibly. At least Steve is warm. Ish, considering the temperature, but it's still comforting.

"Steve, come on," Bucky sways to the right, nudging Steve lightly. "We should head back."

Steve nudges him back, pressing his arm into Bucky's for a bit too long. The alley is wide enough and yet they still walk with barely an inch of space between them.

"Just a minute," Steve looks up at him. "It's the first snow of the year, let's enjoy it without your nagging, shall we?"

Bucky rolls his eyes, annoyed. But he doesn't press any further. Damn Steve Rogers and his stupid ideas. And damn his stupid, beautiful blue eyes. Just one look into them and all of Bucky’s common sense flies out of the window.

“I wonder if you still will be such a punk if you get sick again,” Bucky mumbles. Still, instead of taking the left turn that’ll take them home, he goes right, to take another leap around the park. 

“Probably,” Steve grins.

His smile is as bright as the sun. Bucky feels warmer already, just looking at Steve’s happy face. Steve’s eyes are sparkling and he looks content and healthy and Bucky really hopes it’ll stay this way for the rest of the winter. Or forever, preferably. And maybe Steve’s right. The times they live in aren’t the easiest and it’s important to cherish all the little joys they’re able to find.

“I don’t know why I still put up with you. You’re horrible,” Bucky says. The way he looks at Steve says something entirely different, though.

“You’re horrible, too,” Steve points out. “So we’re even.”

A fond smile still in place, Bucky only rolls his eyes and quickens his pace, just a bit to get ahead of Steve in pretend annoyance. After just a few seconds he glances over his shoulder and sees that Steve is crouching down. At first Bucky thinks he’s just tying his shoe but he’s proven wrong soon enough.

“Oh no. Don’t you dare,” Bucky says as he turns around quickly. “If you throw that snowball, you’re declaring war.”

Steve cocks one of his eyebrows up as if Bucky just challenged him. Which Bucky didn’t, he’s not stupid enough to challenge Steven Grant Rogers. But that’s probably what Steve thinks has happened.

So — of course — before Bucky can say anything else, a snowball hits him right in the chest. After a second the hurriedly-made soft missiles are criss-crossing over the park alley. Steve’s not bad but he’s no match for Bucky and his perfect aim. In the last heroic and desperate measure, Steve runs across the alley with a fierce scream and tackles Bucky. Completely surprised by this sudden course of action, Bucky tumbles to the ground and a surprised laugh is knocked out of his chest as he falls.

Steve hovers over him. He has his arms braced on both sides of Bucky’s face. His bony knees are pressing gently into Bucky’s sides. 

Bucky looks up. He looks at the joyous sparkles in Steve's eyes, at the satisfied grin, the dishevelled hair and cheeks reddened by the cold and exertion. The midday sun is right behind him, making it look like there’s a bright halo surrounding him. He’s the most beautiful sight and for a moment Bucky feels like he can’t breathe. This is the sight he wants to store carefully in his memory and take to his grave when his time comes.

In a split second something around them changes. The world turns, a minute ticks by but the atmosphere changes from joyful to something heavier. Bucky’s perfectly aware of Steve’s gaze that flicks to his lips once, twice, before skipping back up to his eyes. It makes Bucky go crazy. There’s nothing that he wants more than to lean on his elbows and kiss the remnants of Steve’s cocky grin off his face. But he doesn’t. The cold ground under his body, the distant voices of the city make him regain control.

“We should—,” Bucky starts, his voice hoarse all of sudden. “There’s people— We should head back home, yeah?”

Steve lets out a small sigh but he nods shortly before scrambling to his feet. When he pulls Bucky back up, their fingers remain intertwined for a moment longer than necessary.

***

The Prospect Park looks beautiful, covered in a thick layer of white fluff, sparkling in the morning sun. It’s the middle of the winter but only recently it got cold enough for the snow to stick for longer, instead of melting the moment it hit the ground. Despite it being almost midday, there are many people hanging around the park. 

It was Steve’s idea to go outside and wander aimlessly through the city. His ideas of fun are a bit different than Bucky’s. If it was up to him, they’d stay in their warm flat and do things that didn’t require getting cold. But after all this time, he still has a hard time saying no to Steve.

Bucky is not a big fan of the cold these days. Sam always laughs that he’s just a big, mean cat that will hiss and scratch everyone who looks at him the wrong way. He calls him the Winter Panther and actually asked T’Challa to adopt him at one point. Sam is ridiculous sometimes. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he doesn’t like to be around people sometimes and that he really enjoys having his hair pet — but only by Steve and Nat. And maybe Clint. Or Sam, but he’s rarely willing to do that. And Bucky does tend to pick the warmest, sunniest part in any place he’s at.

After everything, Bucky just has a pretty bad associations with cold.

Today is fine, though. He doesn’t mind wandering arm in arm with Steve. Bucky’s safely tucked up in his long, warm coat and he has two scarves wrapped around his neck. When they left home he had only one but after walking for a while he confiscated Steve’s. The idiot had it hanging loosely around his neck anyway, didn’t even bother to wrap it once. It’s a miracle that his coat is buttoned up. This man has turned into a walking furnace after the serum. Bucky is convinced Steve’s leeching his warmth to fuel it.

"You want to head home, already?" Steve asks, looking at Bucky with a soft smile.

There's a tiny hint of concern in his eyes. It's easy to miss but after all those years and everything they've been through, there's almost nothing about Steve that gets by Bucky.

"I'll be fine," Bucky grumbles. They both know it's more on principle. "We can freeze my butt off for a bit longer, no problem."

Steve only rolls his eyes at Bucky, shoving him to the side but doesn't loosen his grip on Bucky's elbow.

"Ah, you're incredibly cheerful today, my love," Steve says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"How could I not be? My partner always has such splendid ideas for our daily activities," Bucky answers, with an overly sweet smile.

"You're such a jerk," Steve laughs. 

After a moment, he extracts his hand from under Bucky's elbow and crouches. Assuming that he needs to tie his shoe, Bucky doesn't stop. When he looks over his shoulder a moment later, he audibly gasps and turns around.

"Fuck off, Steve! Don’t! If you throw that snowball, you're declaring war!"

As soon as those words escape his mouth, Bucky frowns. He looks to the side, trying to decipher that weird feeling of deja vu. A memory appears in his head. 

It's a memory from a life long gone, from a park much like this one, from a winter that ended ages ago.

"Bucky?" Steve asks, dropping the snowball and taking a step closer. "You're OK?"

"Yes, it's just—," Bucky hesitates and when he looks back up at Steve, he sees that the concern in his eyes is as clear as a day now. "I've just remembered something. An old memory," he clarifies and smiles fondly. "I believe it was about a snow fight I've had with some little punk in this park. I said the very same thing to him back then. It's not a very detailed memory. And who knows if it actually happened?"

The smile on Steve's face grows gradually with every word Bucky says.

"Oh, it did happen. I actually might know the punk you're talking about," Steve jokes. His hands come to rest at Bucky's waist as he continues. "I'm pretty sure it was him that persuaded you to take a walk and since you've always been lazy, you've had a lot of complaining to do before you agreed."

"Oh, of course. It's not like I tried to keep the little punk from dying of pneumonia or something," Bucky rolls his eyes but he's smiling.

Steve completely ignores his comment. "The two of you walked for a while, didn't talk much but enjoyed the day. At some point he made a snowball and you said the same thing you did a moment ago. It didn’t make an impression on him, though.”

"Because he was a little shit," Bucky smiles softly, pressing the palm of his hand to Steve's chest.

"Maybe," Steve says with a chuckle. "The snow fight took some time and even though you weren't kids anymore it was the most fun you had in awhile. And then he took you by surprise and did this."

Before Bucky properly registers Steve's words, his legs are swept from under him and he tumbles to the ground. Steve goes with him, an arm behind Bucky's back cushions his fall. If it wasn't for Steve Bucky’s habits, both the Winter Soldier and the army ones would already kick in. But Steve is and always has been a calming presence for him. His anchor. So the only thing Bucky feels right now is surprise and a bit of annoyance, probably. No sight of feeling unsafe so he is able to remain calm. 

Steve's face hovers over him, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

"He easily knocked you down. You stayed like this for a bit, just staring at each other," Steve's hand comes to brush against Bucky's cheek.

The look in Steve's eyes is both tender and heated and it makes Bucky forget all about the people around them, about the cold ground underneath him.

"He couldn't stop thinking about how badly he wanted to kiss you, right there and then. Just for a moment he wanted not to care about the people who could see you and how dangerous that could be. It would have taken so little effort to do so," Steve's voice is down to almost a whisper.

As if to prove a point, he leans down and presses a sweet, chaste kiss to Bucky's lips. Bucky smiles into it, feeling the tell-tale prickle of tears in his eyes.

"Who knows if he managed to do that after you'd gone back home."

"I think he might have," Bucky says quietly, swiping his thumb across Steve's jaw.

Steve's face is soft and filled with pure happiness. Bucky's heart feels like it's about to burst simply from looking at him, from all the emotions he tries to store inside. Steve’s beautiful blue eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips spread in a big smile. The December sun is shining high on the sky behind Steve, surrounding his body in a bright embrace. He's beautiful. Even after all those years, Bucky still thinks Steve is the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. Breathtaking. And when Bucky's time comes again, he knows that that is the memory he is going to take with him. 

Since the mere sight of Steve is enough to have saved him from desolation once already. 

"Come on, Buck," Steve says, getting to his feet. "Let's go home."

Feeling a bit hazy from the sudden tide of emotions, Bucky let's Steve pull him up. He leans forward, pressing another kiss to Steve's mouth. Even if no words are exchanged, they both know what the other thinks.

I’m yours and you’re mine and there’s nothing that could make me stop loving you.

After shaking the snow off of each other, they head back to the same part of Brooklyn where they used to live in the previous life they shared. 

Their fingers stay entwined the entire walk home.

.

Title: in the line snow is glistening Creator(s): niallhoranbitches Card number: 065 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844513/ Square filled: A4 - New York Rating: Teen and Up Archive warnings: None Major tags: Canon Divergent, Winter Fluff, Pre-War, but also Post-Endgame Summary: Two times Steve and Bucky take a walk through the snowy park. based on a one-line holiday prompt - "if you throw that snowball, you’re declaring war" Word count: 2287

[hermannsthumb]

ok this is incredibly specific but can i request nsfw newmann on their honeymoon being quiet out of habit of living in Shatterdomes for years, but then realizing they can be as loud as they want out here and they stop holding back noises??? if this is too specific i FULLY understand and hope you have a great day!

you sure can request it bro 👀

18+/not sfw below cut!

-------

“Okay,” Newt says, “I’m going in.”’

Hermann shifts one leg and scowls at Newt over his shoulder. “It’s my arse, not some great bloody cave,” he says. “You don’t have to be so dramatic.”

Newt delivers a gentle smack to the ass in question. It doesn’t jiggle, unfortunately, but instead leaves Newt’s hand stinging a little. “Eat some cake or something, dude,” Newt says, shaking it out, “you’re killing me. Skin and fucking bones.” He remembers hurting his hip once trying to nail Hermann’s bony ass back at the lab, when they only had the couch and some cheap-ass surgical lube to work with, and neither were very ideal. Especially not for someone as impatient as Hermann. He kicks when he’s pissy.

“The only one of us who ought to be eating anything right now,” Hermann says, “is you. Get on with it.”

Get on with it: delivered in his usual bitchy way, as if he’s the one doing Newt a favor here, as if Newt should be thanking him for the supreme act of kindness of being allowed to eat him out. Like he didn’t fall on the bed some ten minutes ago and bat his eyelashes and push aside his bath towel and spread his legs and go oh, Newton?

Newt grins, and falls over him to press a kiss to his shoulder. Hermann smells like the fancy soap from the fancy bath they just took together and sweat. Sweat already. Weird, bitchy, sweaty Hermann. Newt laces their left hands together, enjoying the way their wedding rings clink, and rolls his hips down against Hermann’s ass in one small movement. “You smell good,” Newt says.

“You’re heavy,” Hermann complains.

Newt lets go of his hand and slips down to kneel between his parted thighs instead. “Shut up,” he says. ���Okay, hand me the stuff.”

Now, normally, Newt doesn’t have a problem going down on Hermann without the aid of anything else, but the suite they booked is fancy as hell and had at least ten different types of lube packed into the bedside drawer, so Newt thinks he should at least try one. “Which one?” Hermann says. He puts on his glasses to squint between a few bottles Newt pulled out earlier. “Cherry? Butterscotch? Oh, this one is Wedding Cake flavor. How strange.”

“Cute,” Newt says. “Definitely the cake one.” It’s very appropriate. Wedding cake flavored sex in the wedding suite.

But Hermann hesitates. “I must say, Newton, I don’t know how I--well, feel, about having my--it--taste like--”

Newt presses a little kiss to the spot on Hermann’s ass he previously swatted. “Luckily, I’m in favor,” he says. “Hand it over.”

He works a few fingers into Hermann to expedite the hard stuff and skip past the annoying build-up that usually leaves his jaw aching like a bitch, and after deeming Hermann loose enough, settles in to breathe against his hole. “Don’t come yet, okay?” Newt says. “I still wanna ride you.”

Keeping things a steady PG-13 in the jacuzzi tub was painful; there was all that steam, and all those nice-smelling soaps and perfumes and bubbles, and there was Hermann (his super-genius super-sexy husband) all hot and naked next to him, running his hands all over his body, and the most he’d let Newt do was give his dick a few loose tugs with a soapy, rose-scented fist. I want to consummate our marriage properly, he’d breathed into Newt’s ear, which, yes, that’s awesome, that’s hot, even if consummate was one of the least sexy words out there to refer to the act. Newt kind of just thought he’d be getting around to getting fucked around now, is all. He doesn’t want Hermann to blow it early. 

Hermann stretches his limbs out languidly, and burrows his face into a pillow. “Mm, I wouldn’t overestimate your abilities,” he says.

Newt shoves his tongue into Hermann in one go; Hermann muffles his whimper into the same pillow.

He tongue-fucks Hermann lazily for a bit, running his hands up and down the backs of Hermann’s pale thighs, occasionally pinching the odd soft bits of skin, and relishing in every little grunt he drags from him. Throaty and low when Newt moves his tongue back and forth; higher, thinner when Newt slips a finger back in to lick around it. Sounds Newt knows and loves. 

That’s when the realization hits Newt--that Hermann’s grunts and groans don’t have to be little. That he doesn’t have to muffle them into his pillow. In the Shatterdome, with paper thin walls, they had neighbors who’d bang on the walls or submit complaints to HR when they got too loud (Newt, begging for more, or Hermann ordering him around, or the cheap mattress creaking) but--here--in their fancy motel--on their fancy honeymoon--in their fancy wedding suite, with the jacuzzi tub and ten types of lube--

Newt presses two fingers back into Hermann and inches up to whisper in his ear. “Hey, be louder,” he says. “It’s just us. I want to hear you.”

“No,” Hermann says.

Newt frowns; he presses his fingers higher, searching for the right spot, and then Hermann-- “Ah,” Hermann gasps, body seizing with it, “oh, you bloody cheat, that’s--”

“Good?” Newt supplies, frown twisting up into a coy grin. His fingers twist, too, inside Hermann, and Hermann shivers magnificently.

“Wretched little man,” he whimpers. “I ought to divorce you.”

“I think that’s an overreaction, Dr. Geiszler-Gottlieb,” Newt says. 

Hermann mumbles something that sounds like smug prick. Then he lifts his head and gifts Newt another scowl. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, “why don’t you give me a reason to be loud first, and then we’ll see.”

It’s a challenge readily accepted. Newt dives back in with twice as much fervor as before, moving his fingers in intervals with his tongue, which he curls, and folds, and fans, and moves in any way he can think. Hermann’s grunts rise to groans. Then--astoundingly, or maybe it’s not that astounding, because Newt really is giving this his all--to moans. “Oh, yes, yes, Newton, keep--”

“Keep what?” Newt murmurs against one pale cheek.

“Doing that,” Hermann moans, and Newt grins.

“I got something better,” he says. He quickly lathers some of the weird lube on his dick, which has been kind of hard as shit this whole time, and drapes himself over Hermann’s bony back. The idea of having to work himself up to it too when Hermann is so nice and relaxed already just isn’t jiving with him. Plus, he’s horny. “Hm?” he says, rubbing up against Hermann’s ass. “Mind if I just...?”

“Oh, just don’t make a mess,” Hermann says, and Newt slips in neatly with a grunt. “Ah. Ah--! Newton, don’t go too--” But Hermann pushes back against him eagerly, tearing at the sheets and moaning all the while.

It’s always a bit of a challenge to do it like this, since Hermann can’t put much strain on his knee without it hurting, so Newt usually ends up crouching awkwardly while Hermann lies ramrod-straight below. But Hermann’s taken his pain meds just before they undressed (which made the champagne Newt had sent up undrinkable, but whatever), and the bath relaxed his joints, and they avoided engaging in anything more strenuous than blowjobs all week in preparation, so Newt thinks they’ll manage if he lifts Hermann up by the hips just a little bit to nail him better. 

And to coax some more sounds out of him. It works: the instant their angle changes, and Newt slides in deeper, Hermann tosses his head back with a choked-off shout. “You’re a tease,” he says, “you’re a--oh, Newton, darling, move at once, or I’ll--”

“Bossy,” Newt laughs, and then Hermann clenches down around him and he swears. “Fuck. Now who’s cheating?”

“Newton,” Hermann moans.

The faster Newt pumps himself hips in and out of Hermann, the louder Hermann gets; he curses, and he moans, and he even shouts a few times (mostly orders at Newt, go faster, go slower, do that again, though once he does say I love you). It’s not just Hermann, in fact. Newt surprises himself with how loud he’s being too. Obnoxious grunts, embarrassing squeaks, a low running commentary of filth that Hermann matches in kind. “Yeah, you like that?” he whines, loudly, in Hermann’s ear. “You like what I’m doing?”

Hermann twists his head around to lock eyes with Newt over his shoulder; his face is flushed a bright, angry red. “Yes,” he half-shouts. “Yes, Newton, bugger my arse, oh--”

It takes Newt a few seconds to stifle his giggles. “Dude,” he says. “You cannot say shit like that. It’s--” Hermann clenches around him again, in a way so aggressive Newt can practically feel his annoyance. Fortunately, that’s all Newt needed. “Oh, shit, okay, I’m--”

“Wait, wait,” Hermann says, “not--”

“Too late,” Newt says, and he fucks Hermann through a messy orgasm, only collapsing atop him once he’s sure he’s done. “Oh, yeah. That was awesome.”

“I was going to say not in me,” Hermann says mournfully. “I can’t stand the mess.”

Newt loves the mess. “It’s cool,” he says. “You can bugger me now and do it in me to make up for it.”

Hermann scowls, but he doesn’t decline the offer.

[valkyrieofsmut]

Captive Love 6

UF!Sans x Reader (or Frisk if you wanna)

Summary: Somebody is a cuddler, and somebody's body likes it more than their brain wants them to...

A/N: Just about 1800 words of them waking up in the morning because I can. And who doesn't want to read about accidental sleep cuddling and what happens after?!

Masterlist      Series Masterlist

Story

Another morning panic.

(Y/n) slowly and groggily drifted into the bleary world of the waking. 

She was laying on one side, her top hand loosely around the edge of the bed, her top knee the same, giving her something to anchor herself with, while her other arm was almost trapped beneath her, and her other leg was straight down, making at least a small obstacle for if a certain someone tried to get too close to certain places. 

She was instantly wide awake, though, as she was suddenly dragged backwards the few inches between her and that person's body, her fingers slipping easily from the edge of the bed they hadn't been ready to hold on to, and was now flush against his front. 

His voice was hushed, deep and husky from sleep, muttering inaudible words against her neck as he nuzzled there. The arm under her held her against him, the one on top slowly trailed over her, his bony palm sliding over her stomach, down, dangerously close to the spot she was trying to keep him away from, up, making circles over her ribs, down to her thigh, pulling her leg against him. 

(Y/n) crossed her ankles and tightened her thighs, pressing them as close together as possible, as her eyes widened and she felt her heart trip over itself in restrained fear. 

He didn't try to pry them apart, though, which was good! ...but his pelvis was cradling her hips, and he was grinding against her ass, just a tiny bit. 

Stop- stop him! Her brain cried. Move! Make him stop! Don't let him think he can get away with this!  

She didn't know what to do. 

She couldn't roll away. 

He was too strong to just push him off of her… 

Sans' hand slid a little towards the inner part of her thigh, and her hand caught his, pushing to keep it from delving between her thighs. It instead slid back up to fondle her hip, his muttering against her neck getting a bit huskier. 

Automatically, (Y/n) threw her elbow back, connecting weakly to his ribs. She did it a few more times, awkwardly throwing her elbow back, sure she wasn't doing any real damage. But it was something, and the effort seemed to appease her brain.

It appeared that she was annoying enough to stop, though, since Sans' hand went to hers, grabbing it and taking it to his other to hold it. 

A shot of minor panic hit (Y/n)'s belly. Now she had no hands. Now what? N-now what-  

NOW WHAT?! 

Hold yourself together, she told herself, that's what. Chill. Observe. Escape. Calm the fuck down. Don't make things worse. 

(Y/n) took a breath and steadied her nerves, assessing her situation. 

Somehow she could tell that Sans was honestly asleep this time, not just pretending. Maybe it was the difference in the movements his body made against her. Maybe it was the mumbling nonsense against her neck. Maybe she could just sense that his consciousness was missing or inactive or whatever. 

She felt calmer. For some reason, knowing that he wasn't consciously holding her against her will made her feel better. 

Not that it made anything he was doing ok! No! It just made it more innocent, like he was sleepwalking or something, not in control of his actions, doing something he'd never normally do. 

She just had to wake him up and he'd stop. 

(Y/n) took a breath and let it out to further calm herself, then kicked back with her foot, connecting with his thick shin bone. She could tell he was displeased from the grumble he let out. She kept kicking, ignoring the pain in her heel, until he let out another grumble and moved his leg away, swinging it over hers and pinning them. 

And, honestly, she couldn't really blame him; she'd been hitting and kicking him. If someone had been doing that to her, she would have made them stop, too, if she could. But… 

Oh fuck… 

She pushed down the panic rising in her- only to find that… with his warm breath blowing over her neck and his strangely warm body pressed against her, his free hand resting in the dip of her waist, his fingers trailing lazily over her side and belly, there was none. Even when his pelvis pressed against her again, no panic. 

That fact made her start worrying a bit, though… 

A small, rough groan brushed her neck, followed by something warm and wet that made her skin tingle. 

His tongue- that was his tongue trailing softly along her throat. 

Those were his teeth that nipped her sensitive neck and made her gasp. 

Those were his teeth again, nipping at the back of her shoulder. 

And those , stiff, pointed little buttons… those were her nipples… 

That shiver that ran through her belly… that was her body reacting, like the traitor it was. 

Pleasure starved double crosser… 

His pelvis rocked and pressed against her again, and she felt her cheeks heating, though it took a moment to realize that the strange tickling buzz in her sinuses had been a moan, even if no noise was able to make it out. 

Fuuuck- fuck! Ok- she really needed to get out of his arms! 

She was debating trying to buck him off of her and possibly stirring more passion, versus trying to headbutt him and getting a headache, but didn't have the chance to act before a snort followed by a sad attempt to clear a throat sounded at the back of her shoulder. 

(Y/n) decided that playing dead, at least for a moment, was the best course of action, if only to truly test his morals. 

"mmmm- taste good…" he mumbled after his tongue reached out again. "hmmmm-" he cut off, suddenly stiffening as he took in their positions. "shit," he breathed. 

Slowly, he moved, and she could feel him checking her status. She stayed limp and it seemed to convince him she was still asleep. 

Sans slowly pulled away, climbing from the bed and leaving the room. 

ya stupid fucker! Sans silently berated himself in the hallway, his face twisted in a grimace. she's a'ready scared a ya! flinches every time ya touch her an' she's not ready, every time ya talk too harshly- ya don't need ta be makin' it worse!  

He hated himself in that moment. Self hatred definitely wasn't a new thing to him, but the reason for it being scaring someone- a human especially- was something he'd never experienced before.

Sans thumped his fist to his head soft enough that it didn't do any real damage, then went back into his room. 

He slowly and carefully climbed into his bed, sliding one arm under (Y/n)'s body, the other going over, but keeping them in safe places this time as he held her close. 

He knew he shouldn't. 

He knew that having (Y/n)'s sweet, soft body against him would make him lose his mind. 

He also knew that she'd hate him if she found out how much he was coming to need to hold her close against him.

She'd especially hate him if she found out that he could take her home at any time. That he'd basically lied about the possibility of being spotted on the way to the house. 

To be fair, it wasn't impossible that they had been seen then, if any monsters felt brave enough to get that close to the skeleton brothers claimed land, but it was so unlikely that he could say with confidence that they hadn't been. 

And, despite what he'd seen of her conflict avoidant nature, she'd probably want to kick his ass if she found out that the only reason any of the monsters were interested in looking for her was because he'd pretty much straight out told them there was a human in the town. 

He was such an asshole…

But, the thought of his sweetheart leaving filled him with panic, his soul squeezing and twisting painfully until it made him do stupid, reckless, irrational things, just to keep her close. 

(Y/n) felt Sans squeeze her against him gently, and wondered what was going through his head. He seemed distraught for some reason. 

Was it because he'd realized what he'd done in his sleep? 

She hadn't heard his brother speaking, so it probably didn't have to do with him… 

"hey, doll, ya 'wake?" He asked softly. 

"Mmmm- mhmm…" She hummed, pretending that she'd woken up at just that moment, managing to actually make the noise. She felt triumphant; her voice was starting to come back! 

Sans was quiet for a moment. "you, uh- ya did real well eatin' paps' lasagna las' night… took it like a champ…" He murmured the praise softly, like it was something he either wasn't used to doing, or was afraid someone would hear it. "i, uh, i 'preciate it…" 

(Y/n) felt her face contort in confusion. He appreciated that she'd eaten his brother's awful lasagna? 

Huh? 

That was… a weird thing to be thankful for… 

She lifted a shoulder to show it wasn't a big deal, then tried to whisper, getting out, "...nks f...r ...e sm...ll piece." 

He chuckled into her neck, and she thought she felt him doing something that might have been nuzzling her hair. "'s no problem, sweetheart. 'll have ta ta- uh, bring ya somethin' from grillby's some time," he told her, stumbling at saying he'd take her.

It was too dangerous to take her out anywhere without obvious and very strong signs that she belonged to him as property; a burn, a mark, some kind of scar… Or something like a collar. 

He shuddered at the thought. 

He didn't want to do that to his sweetheart. 

Collars were usually used to say that the one wearing them was used in any manner their owner felt the desire to, and there was nothing the one wearing the collar could do about it.

The thought alone, along with his own memories, made him sick, though some monsters weren't quite so vicious to their pets as they made it seem.

"S...ns," she rasped out. 

Mmm, stars , he couldn't wait to hear her say his name when her voice was fully recovered. 

"S...ns," she tried again, patting his arm. 

"wassup, sweetheart?" He asked, rubbing his cheek against her hair. It was so soft… He wanted to run his phalanges through it and tug. 

Not hard! Just enough to see what her reaction would be. 

“L...t m… g…?” She asked, tugging at an arm to get her point across. 

“oh, yeah, course, doll,” he told her. He took his time, shifting around to take longer to pull away, his arm drifting over her side and down her hip as it moved away, but he did let her go. F

A/N: Someone asked, "what if reader has kinks?" I also found a prompt and wrote a UF!Sans drabble.

[tysonrunningfox]

Two Night Stand AU: Part 6

Ao3

I’m...chasing the ever illusive feeling of accomplishment upon finishing things.  Heard it’s possible.  

“How was…how was that?”  Hiccup asks, flopping back onto the bed with more force than his skinny shoulders should be able to produce. 

They’re a few experiments in, a couple of failed hypotheses closer to the truth.  Her hands are shaking, her skin twitching when he pulls the sheet up her chest, a fond gesture that she should tell him to stop.  But they’re being honest, and she honestly likes it, enough that she scoots sideways to rest her head on his shoulder. 

His hand finds her hip, stroking in a lazy, exhausted way that makes her chest throb even though it’s somewhere beyond the middle of the night and there’s no way they’re doing that again.  Because there’s no way they have energy to do that again. 

Maybe if he did all the work. 

“That was good,” she adjusts to get comfortable, her temple against a sweaty collarbone that doesn’t quite do the trick.  He’s the close kind of bony, like he has less of a buffer, and she can see why his personality is as oversized as his hair. 

He might kiss the top of her head.  She’s not sure.  She should ask, in the name of honesty, but she doesn’t know how much she cares about honesty if he’ll touch her again in the morning. 

Like there’s a limit, obviously if he started spouting racist slurs or required a pledge of allegiance first, that would be a no-go, but a little hair kissing?  Forgivable. 

Corny, but forgivable, given the circumstances.  Given how if she thinks about it, it feels like there’s no one else on the planet.    

“I’m…” He trails off, nose in her hair.  Nuzzling her hair.  And Ruffnut said no one would bang her pre-shower.  Ruffnut just doesn’t have a mind for the science of it all.  “I’m…”

“You’re…” She half-asks, half-ignores, eyelids feeling heavy as his warm palm settles on her waist. 

“Hungry.”  He laughs, stubble evident on her forehead. 

Her stomach growls. 

He laughs.  He kisses her head.  She should ask why he keeps doing that and also ask if there’s a pizzeria in the basement that she didn’t notice in either her haste to get up here or her haste to leave.  A 24-hour pizzeria.  Open during a blizzard. 

“We should go figure that out.” 

“I was thinking take out,” he laughs, voice still low, kissing her head again, and his boniness shouldn’t be so soft.  This shouldn’t be so ok.  “Or we can eat here.”  His hand migrates down, tickling her stomach, and she twitches at the memory of the last hour even as she grabs his fingers. 

“I’m literally hungry,” she laughs, “for calories.  Not jokes.” 

His stomach growls.  And he earned it, and that makes her laugh, which makes him laugh, chest reverberating like it’s bigger than it is.  Big hand on her waist.  Lips in her hair. 

“Me too.” 

“Well, let’s go do something about it.”  She sits up, taking the blanket with her, and he has the audacity to be groggy as he sits up slowly and fumbles for his leg.  Before his boxers.  It feels intimate.  And he looks up at her through his eyelashes, adjusting his stance, everything out. 

And penises are weird.  And she feels like she can’t look at anything else.  Maybe it’s allowed though, for science. 

It looks hungry too.  Not for calories, necessarily, but it has also driven the show for the last few hours, so maybe it’s someone else’s turn. 

“Here,” he tosses her the shirt he’d been wearing before pulling up his boxer briefs and it’s easier to pull it on than it is to emotionally fund an archaeological expedition to the site of her strip tease that wasn’t a tease. 

It was an appetizer. 

And he ate. 

And they’re still hungry. 

Because scientific endeavors don’t have any calories. 

“Food?”  He looks at her like it’s really a question.  Like her answer isn’t ‘forget the food and get back here because I’m cold’. 

Her stomach gurgles and he grins, holding out his hand and pointedly ignoring her eye roll.  He pointedly ignores a lot of things, among them, how obvious it is that there is no food.  He lets her look through every cabinet and find mustard, a pack of gum, vitamin C supplements, and a single packet of fruit snacks. 

And it’s snowing. 

And she’s wearing his shirt and nothing else and she knows what she can do with his hands and she swallows hard as she turns to face him. 

“We have to ration the fruit snacks.  Who knows how long they have to last?”  She tosses the packet at him.  He drops it.  He bends down to pick it up and his ass is right there.  She wonders if she’s allowed to tell him that his ass is more distracting than his leg, but even asking that of herself ruins the game.  “Also why don’t you have food?” 

“I did, until we got high.” 

“Fair.”  She tucks her hair behind her ear.  “Fair.” 

“Why…why don’t you just go back to bed?”  His voice dips as he asks the question and she wonders how asking him to do all the work would really come across as his fingertips glance across her thigh.  “I’ll be there in a minute.”  

“Are you weighing the fruit snacks?”  She backs into the doorway and pauses, elbow on the doorframe, “because as the person who just got off more, I could make a concrete argument for getting the bigger half of the fruit snacks—”

“You can have the whole packet.”  His lip twitches like a warning he tries to squelch and she takes it, for once, shuffling out of the room.  Badly moonwalking, almost. 

His awkward is contagious. 

She has the feeling there’s a vaccine, and she should have acquired it socially at some point, but she didn’t.  And she’s here.  Badly moonwalking out of a kitchen over a fruit snack victory. 

Sometimes rock bottom isn’t so hard.  Sometimes it’s padded with expired fruit snacks. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” she mumbles before turning and shuffling off, refusing to hold the shirt down. 

The longer she sits in it, the more comfortable Hiccup’s bed becomes.  His bedroom is homey in a way hers never has been, disorganized enough to feel lived in, the blanket well-worn and soft around her waist.  Her bedroom was always so clean, everything in its place, until the last few months.  And even now, it’s not really comfortable, it’s more just…messy.  Like she lost interest in everything before it made it back to its place.  It feels like lethargy, like sleeping until three, and staring at a computer screen until her eyes burn and she’s forgotten all that she didn’t get done. 

She likes Hiccup’s room.  She likes thinking about last night, about being tangled together in a web of constant communication.  She flushes when she remembers that she probably shouldn’t be thinking about it, adjusting Hiccup’s shirt around her waist and curling her knees to her chest. 

Hiccup comes in a moment later, holding a suspiciously laden tray, the all too familiar smell of Kraft macaroni and cheese wafting towards her. 

“Where did you get that?”  She shifts, accepting the tray as he slides back into bed next to her, quickly thumbing his prosthetic off and hiding his leg immediately in the blankets.  There’s a full, expired packet of fruit snacks on her side and she wonders if feeding anybody anything has ever been sexy and if that’s enough of a concept to turn into an experiment. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Astrid takes one of the bowls from the tray and frowns, because where Hiccup’s skin is touching hers it’s warm, and he didn’t go outside and—

“This is your neighbors’ food, isn’t it?” 

He avoids her eyeline just enough to prove her point and she grins, “you were such an asshole about me breaking that window, and now you’re breaking into their apartment and stealing their food.  Hypocrite.” 

“They will understand,” he shrugs, stirring his food and taking a bite.  “I’ll tell them it was life or death, that if I didn’t feed the crazy girl I met online, she was going to go all Donner Party on my ass.” 

“I still might,” she’s suddenly too aware that it’s his shirt warm and soft on the back of her neck.  “You did witness me breaking and entering, I probably shouldn’t let you live.” 

“But I fed you,” he elbows her, shifting slightly closer to her in a magnetic way she wishes she didn’t notice.  “And for the record, I thought it was pretty badass when you broke that window.” 

“I agree,” she takes a bite, and Kraft has never tasted so good.  The muffled moan at the taste of fake cheese is embarrassing and she clears her throat, “I’m glad you came to your senses.  It was badass.” 

“I have to say,” he slows down, stirring his mac and cheese and looking at her, eyes narrowed.  His eyelashes are ridiculously thick, dark in the half-light of the room, and she wonders what she would have thought about him if she’s met him anywhere else, in any other way.  “I really don’t get you.  Like, one moment you’re unemployed, looking for a booty call online at midnight, and the next you’re just…this go-getter, take-no-shit-even-from-windows-or-laws rebel.  Which is it?” 

Astrid should be angry, and some remnant of who she used to try and be stirs in her chest, offended at the idea of being a rebel.  The rest of her is…well, she’s flattered he asked.  That he noticed. 

“I don’t know, both?”  She takes another bite, mulling it over for a while.  “I was valedictorian in high school.  Graduated college at the top of my class.  I had not the requisite three, but six letters of recommendation ready to be sent off to medical school but…” 

The way he’s looking at her makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to remember that she’s damaged goods, doomed to keep that never-healing injury close to her chest until it scabs over and becomes some knotted whorl of scar tissue. 

“I was engaged once,” she can’t look at him as she says it, and her hands suddenly look like they should be attached to someone older.  Like they’re her grandmother’s knuckles.  “Sounds like I’m writing a memoir.  I was engaged recently, up until a few months ago.”  She shrugs, “he cheated.  I wanted to work it out, he didn’t.  You know, typical…whatever, bullshit, but…”  It’s hard to talk about in a way she can’t explain, hard to form the words on her tongue even while they’re surging through her brain. 

Harder when he looks at her, more curious than sympathetic, chin tilting to the side. 

“I thought…” She swallows, thinking about rebellion, and how maybe after months of listening to the reality of her shit situation, she needs to push back against it.  “I thought that maybe getting back out there, getting back on the metaphorical, dick-shaped horse might make it sting less and maybe that’s stupid, but—”

“Did it work?”  He’s too quiet to really cut her off but she was so hoping to hear him talk that she pauses when he does. 

And he has those earnest eyes. 

She shrugs, wishing she’d grabbed her own shirt while also being glad that she didn’t.  His is softer.  The kind of shirt a girlfriend would love to steal, and she’s never thought of being that person again.  All paths forward were cul-de-sacs to be walked alone in fits of depressive pacing. 

She bites back a smile.  She feels tired.  A bit sore.  Her stomach more than the rest of her, because it was hilarious when he tipped backwards off of the bed.  She’s lost, but no more than usual, in fact she might have re-discovered the concept of North, as an idea.  A theory.  A constant that exists separate from whatever direction she’s facing. 

“I don’t get how someone could be there through…I mean, it used to feel like everything.  Like life stopped at college graduation and everything since has been limbo, but anyway, I don’t get how someone could see what I was working towards every day for years and then suddenly, it was too much.  I was too much.” 

“You?”  He raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the bedframe with a snort, “never.” 

“Apparently he just couldn’t take me ‘obsessing’ anymore.  That was the word.”  She hasn’t told anyone this.  Not her mom, not Ruffnut.  She’s held it close like an infection, fearing a diagnosis that would require an emotional surgery so invasive it would be more exorcism than excision. 

“Obsessive,” he nods, “I’ve heard that one a few times too.  Mostly from people who think I’m in the way or I will be soon.” 

“The thing is, I was always like that.  I was the twelve-year-old with a five-year plan, I was the eighteen-year-old with a plan for my second promotion at forty, it didn’t show up out of nowhere.  You think he would have told me my ‘obsessiveness’ was a deal-breaker before he bought a ring.”  She sighs, “like he never did anything else he was ‘supposed’ to, why did he suddenly start?  And who told him that I thought he was supposed to propose?” 

“No, I—the way I see it, people need to realize that refusing to make a decision is a kind of decision.”  Hiccup’s fork clangs against his bowl as he drops it on his lap, freeing his hands up to talk, “people spend their entire lives either trying to avoid the flow or completely immersing themselves in the flow until they freak out at the lack of decision in their lives and it’s the same on both sides.”  He gestures at one corner of the room, eyes bright, “you’re either thirty or forty or fifty, flitting between random part time jobs or you get a job straight out of college and then you have to get an apartment and you can’t lose the job because of the apartment, and then you have to keep houseplants alive to prove you’re an adult because the standard is impossible—”

“I don’t really know where you’re getting your standards—”

“And ‘obsessive’?  As an insult, it’s—being a little obsessive is the only thing that cuts across it, so of course people hate it.  Because it makes them realize that they’re either drifting down the lazy river of life, or they’re fighting the current just to brag about it.  And that they’ve never actually thought about what they want, versus what they’re supposed to have by now, on some imaginary timeline.”  He looks at her, cheeks red like he forgot he had an audience for his rant.  “And really people are just jealous that they never thought of wanting something that hadn’t already been sold to them, so then it’s your fault for making them realize it.” 

She doesn’t think that ended up where he wanted it to.  She’s not sure it ended up at all, it just spiraled higher and wilder, but she liked it.  The limitless-ness of it, the fact he found the energy for it. 

“Wow.” 

“Blacked out for a second there,” he tries to put the energy away but it crackles between them, “high on my own dulcet tones.” 

“We should go like…write to our senators or something,” she laughs, punching him in his skinny arm. 

“Right,” the cynical mask doesn’t fit under his bed-head and she nudges his shoulder with hers, taking another bite of stolen mac and cheese. 

“No, you’re right, it’s…he couldn’t care about anything enough to decide on it.  It’s not just me.  He liked the concept but the reality of choosing what his forever looked like didn’t sit well.” 

“I feel bad for him, honestly.”  He laughs and she tries to resist the cold fingers that curl in her chest as she raises a judgmental eyebrow. 

“What about this story makes him seem like the one who should be pitied?”  Except she doesn’t want his pity either, but she knows she doesn’t need to tell him that from the way he smirks at her.  With her.  Conspiratorial, not confrontational. 

“Because he’s so stupid and he doesn’t even know it.”  He finishes his food and sets the bowl aside on the bedside table next to an empty condom wrapper that didn’t make it into the trash.  Because this isn’t the environment for a heart to heart and he’s not the person she should want one from, but here she is, watching the snow fall outside the window over his shoulder.  “He thinks you’re just one example of some milestone girl and when he thinks he’s ready, he’ll find another one, but that’s not—you’re not.  You’re—of all the girls I could have met on that dating site--”  

His face softens, and the hazy potential in his expression amplifies the energy that she doesn’t want to name.  To name it is to acknowledge it, and to acknowledge it cements her place on top of the podium for ‘worst one-night-stand-haver’.

“What are those?”  But she’s never been good at keeping quiet. And maybe sometimes, at the end of a long, winding losing streak, any win counts as a win. 

“What are what?” 

“Those mushy, lovey-dovey eyes you’re looking at me with right now.”  She punches his arm again, lighter this time, then jokingly points her thumb over her shoulder.  “Get those out of here.” 

“It’s like three in the morning, my contacts are dry.”  He’s not wearing contacts.  She knows because she tore apart his bathroom looking for a plunger.  She knows because he’s close, like he’s going to kiss her again, and she can see every fleck and striation in his eyes.  “So, this is really your first one-night stand?” 

“Yes, I told you that,” she tucks her hair behind her ear, “why would I lie?” 

His shrug verges on an attempt at confidence as he leans to half-whisper in her ear, “they usually don’t last this long.” 

“Well,” she bites her lip and lets it go slowly, glad there’s no one here to assess the optics of the move, “that’s too bad.” 

“I’m going to go destroy the evidence of my…grocery run,” he takes her empty bowl and stands up. 

“And deal with your contacts?”  She just wouldn’t be herself if she let him have that inch, and she feels more like herself than she has in a while. 

He blushes and rubs the back of his head with his free hand, “yeah, contacts, I don’t need reminding.  Not with how…itchy they are right now.” 

“Whatever,” she stands up to size up his closet, trying to determine where something warmer would be.  Probably in the back, and he’s left-handed, “it is actually cold in here, so I’m going to grab a sweatshirt.”  She opens the left door, “I promise I won’t steal it, I don’t need any souvenir aside from the psychological trauma of…Stockholm Syndrome.” 

Her words trail off to nearly nothing.  Words not worth saying, because they don’t apply anymore.  None of this applies. 

She’s staring at a closet full of women’s clothes.  Young clothes.  The kind of clothes she might wear if she wore more black and if she went anywhere.  Aside from this apartment on a whim. 

This one-bedroom apartment where a young woman clearly lives. 

“Astrid,” Hiccup’s voice skips and she turns slowly to face him. 

“Those aren’t your grandma’s coats.”  She states.  Accusing isn’t necessary.  “You may have played me for a fool, but I’m not one.” 

“I didn’t—” He practically drops the bowls onto a desk and gets between her and the closet, like if he’s in the way she won’t remember what she’s seeing, “look, Astrid, I can explain—”

“I don’t need to hear this side of the story!”  She can’t look at him anymore, not with the stack of picture frames staring at her from the closet shelf.  He covered his bases, hid anything suspicious.  Made sure to offer his guest use of the back-stabbing knife.  “I’m familiar enough with the other half, I’ve put this one together pretty well.” 

“Astrid, please, it’s not like—”

“Who is she?”  She hates that she just said that.  She hates that she’s said that before, when she was crying more than yelling and watching her carefully registered future fall apart.  “No, never mind, I don’t care.  I just—thought I was better than getting roped into this, but I guess not.” 

“Can you please just listen to me?”  He follows too close as she retreats to her pile of clothes, hurling his shirt at his face as she gets dressed.  “It’s—her name’s Heather.  She’s a DJ.  The storm cancelled her flight back—”

“Not my problem,” she sits on the edge of the bed, tugging her socks on and hating herself for wondering what Heather looks like.  For knowing that Heather is going to spend hours thinking about the same thing.  For how petty and small she is because even now, in the moment, she knows that this is better than being on the other side of this coin. 

“Let me explain myself,” he fumbles through a dresser drawer.  A dresser drawer full of bras and underwear, and if Astrid didn’t have a vendetta against that stupid toilet, she might throw up.  “Here.  Just—read this, please.” 

He holds a letter out to her.  Written in girly handwriting on college rule. 

Her hand hovers above it for a second before curiosity wins over and she snatches it from him with a glare. 

Hiccup,

Being direct in a letter feels ironic, I guess, but I don’t know how to say this any other way. 

It’s not working out. 

I know we just got the place, and I know that I met your Mom, and I love you but I just don’t see where this is going.  I don’t know if it’s living together or if I’ve just been on tour too much, but the connection is I feel like I’m pretending when I’m with you. 

I think we’re just growing apart.  Or we already grew apart.  I don’t know. 

I’m on the lease, but maybe you can stay with my brother.  You have a cousin in town, right?  I should know that.  We live together, I should have met your family.  I’m not trying to get rid of you, I just need some space on my own right now.  Have for a while. 

Heather. 

“See?”  Hiccup asks, voice quiet and husky as she carefully folds the letter back along its worn seam. 

“I—no, I don’t see, if she gave you this Dear John letter and asked you to leave, why are you still here?”  She hates that she asks, that she’s still sitting on his bed, that she’s wondering how hard it would be to find Heather on social media. 

Not hard, probably.  But she doesn’t think the comparison would accomplish anything. 

“She hasn’t given it to me yet.  I don’t know when she wrote it.”  He wrings his hands together, knuckles white, and he looks familiar in a way she shouldn’t have let happen. 

“You snooped.”  Another not-an-accusation. 

“I didn’t—ok, it fell and I picked it up and saw my name but—”

“What does this have to do with me?”  She asks even though she knows the answer.  Which is ‘nothing’.  This has nothing to do with her, and her involvement is her mistake even if it’s not explicitly her fault. 

“I didn’t think it’d be you.” 

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“I wanted…I wanted something to hold against her when she finally gave it to me.  I wanted an a-ha, I thought—I didn’t think,” he looks at her, green eyes wet and pleading, “I went on a dating site to have something to throw in her face when she dumped me with a note after we’d moved in together—”

“And I fit the bill?” 

“Yes.”  He says it like he means it, reaching for her hand with both of his, and she jumps to her feet.  She shouldn’t feel betrayed.  She used him too.  She used him first.  Using him was her idea at every turn but the way he’s looking at her makes her feel like she clicked Accept before she read the Terms and Conditions. 

“Well that’s—”

“Astrid,” he says like he hopes her name is a balm, but it doesn’t really work, and she hates that they’re out of sync even though he’s awful and she hates him.  For real this time, on purpose.  Not just an imagined, convenient hatred.  He’s everything that hurt her and more.  In fact, he put in the effort to make her believe he was different before he ripped the rug out from under her.  “She’s right, ok, it hasn’t been working.  It’s not—I thought I was getting some preemptive revenge but instead it’s you and—”

“So, I messed up your revenge for you?” She snorts, stalking out to the living room and grabbing her jacket.  She checks for her phone, her keys, her purse, because no one could pay her enough to come back here.  “Good, it’s what you deserve.  I hope it’s…sweet,” she scrambles, “sweet and sour, actually.” 

The opposite of bittersweet.  Or maybe adjacent on the color wheel.  He doesn’t get to feel bitter, either way, he gave that away. 

“You—I don’t want her—”

“Clearly,” she glares at him and she wishes it worked, that he hadn’t seen how easily removable her outer layer is.  Plate mail rather than greaves.  Something that holds its shape no matter how long you leave it alone in the dark. 

“I didn’t even know you existed, Astrid.”  He says her name like it has value, like it’s a coin under his tongue that will curry favor in the afterlife and she wishes she couldn’t see his leg right now.  She wishes that his vulnerability didn’t feel like trust, or that she didn’t want the trust.  “If I had I would have ended it so long ago, before I got the note, before—I thought she was—we were—If I’d known about you—”

“You would have what?” 

“I—you’re the one I want to be with.”  He was probably high school class president.  Or worse, runner up who bet on something lame like saving the world instead of getting everyone a new vending machine. 

She would have voted for him. 

The lump in her throat feels like it’s going to explode. 

“Astrid, the last forty-eight hours—I,” he swallows hard, risking one hand against her jacketed arm as he steps between her and the alarmed front door.  And she believes him.  She’s seen him vulnerable enough to recognize his honest face.  And it doesn’t matter, it can’t, because he lied.  Systematically.  While making it feel like he didn’t lie at all.  “I—last night, tonight—sometimes I forgot that other people even existed.” 

He reads her mind like a stolen book and she feels the loss of proceeds. 

“I’m leaving.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge anything up—”

“You’re just some funny guy who knows how to write a dating profile,” she clears her throat and stands up straight, shoving his front door open with enough preparation that the alarm doesn’t make her blink, “I think I’ll live.” 

“Astrid—”  

She races down the stairs and to the door.  Against who, she’s not quite sure. She doesn’t think he’d follow her in boxers at four in the morning and she wouldn’t let herself care if he did.  Because emotions are that easy, right?  When they’re big and confusing and stupid, you can just turn them off until you’re equipped to handle them. 

You can just pause. 

She’s so sick of being paused.  She’d rather fast-forward at this point, through the tears and confusion and the listless hours of staring at the ceiling and trying to finagle herself into being blamed for other people’s shitty decisions. 

But it doesn’t work that way. 

She feels every shove of her shoulder against the door in real time.  Feels the heavy snow shift inch by inch, tumbling onto the walk that someone managed to plow at some point in the last two days. 

They were a pause, in a way, the long, lingering moment that stretches out before disaster. 

The walk home is freezing.  Her hands are numb as she fumbles with her key, opening the front door and barely noticing the scene on the couch. 

“You’re home!”  Ruffnut fumbles with a blanket, slapping at something suspiciously firm where the gap between her legs should be.  “Ah!  N—how was it?” 

“Is that from my bed?”  Astrid doesn’t wait for an answer before yanking the blanket and revealing Snotlout, scrambling to cover himself with a pillow that Ruffnut tosses him. 

“You’re back!”  He yells, like it’s normal for him to be naked on her couch, and she realizes all at once that it would be if she hadn’t camped out here for months, feeling sorry for herself. 

Which she does.  Still.  Maybe more than ever, but admitting it is different than spending all of her energy trying to hide it. 

“You two are impossible.” 

“So are you!”  Ruffnut calls after her, “it’s been two days, quite an extended sexcapade, I’m proud of you—”

She slams her bedroom door so that she doesn’t have to hear anything about pride from someone so happy and pulls out her phone before she can think twice about it, deleting her profile from that stupid dating site.  She’s done waiting for her mistakes to blow over, at least this one is shallow enough to shower off and be done with it. 

[bibliocratic]

future jonmartin (cw for hospitals; no warnings for character death) The rocking against his shoulder knocks him shuddering from his worrying. It is like being unmoored, cast back into the tumult and it takes a while for Martin to blink, to align the vision of who is rousing him with who they are.

 It's both a relief and a disappointment that it's not the doctor with news.

“Anything?” Lewis asks. A brisk voice, demanding, but it's unsteady and catches in his throat and little things like that have always given him away. “Have they... is there any news?”

Martin is standing up, gathering him up in a tight hug. He's tall, but not in the way Martin is – he's bony and meatless and  his posture is terrible no matter how often he's been lectured on it, and it's such a relief that he's here, that Lewis is gripping just as hard and just as scared.

“Nothing yet,” Martin says, and he's attempting to sound optimistic, the sounds made wrong in his mouth, and it's too much like lying to comfort either of them. He doesn't want to deliver meaningless platitudes, repeat like rote statistics of recovery, of chances, but he doesn't want to worry him, and it's in that sort of double-think he lingers, the sort of equivocation that comes with parenthood.

Lewis must have come straight from uni, he thinks. He's washed out from the travel, wired and jittery from tasteless on-board coffee-grit. There was delays at every leg of the journey down from Liverpool, and when Lewis slumps himself down like a dropped bag, he's still not worn down those frantic mechanisms in him, the clock-watching, the checking for news, for updates.

“Have you eaten?” Martin asks, an old fall-back, casting an eye over him. He might have some change in his pocket, he thinks, for the vending machine back along the corridor. It's been a busy term, and video calls don't quite do things justice, because he worries that maybe Lewis has lost weight, maybe he's not eating properly, or it might simply be the unkind lighting of the waiting room.

“I'm not hungry,” Lewis says, providing a round-about answer to the question. He's a sharp young man, made of edges and this burning thirst to prove himself that Martin knows doesn't come from him, and to anyone else the way he sometimes talks can come across as dismissive, a hand-wave of a tone designed to disregard the topic. But Martin knows him. Knows his son. Knows it's not meant like that.

Watches him fiddle his bottom lip with his teeth, jitter his leg up and down, and wishes this was something he could kiss better like the old days.

“What about...” he fumbles for the strings of some other conversation. “Were your tutors ok? With you … just leaving like that?”

“They'll understand it was an emergency.”

“You had a... you have your final essay due on Monday, what will...?”

“They'll give me an extension, it's fine.”

Martin nods and goes back to twisting the ring on his left hand, round and round and round. Surely he should have heard something by now, it’s been hours of waiting, what if something's gone wrong, what if he wasn't fast enough...

“Dad?”

“Yeah?” Martin looks at Lewis, his glasses all smudged and mucky because he forgets to clean them.

Lewis puts a hand on his arm.

“Are you... are you ok?” he asks, uncharacteristically tentative, and looks right at Martin. A rare gesture of eye contact, held for more than a flicker of time.

“I'm... I'll be fine,” Martin says – Martin lies – because that's the best he can muster right now. What he thinks, but will never say out loud is – I'm not ready for this. I don't know how I ever could be. I can't imagine doing any of this on my own.

He hasn't moved from this chair. He's convinced himself that if he stays here, then everything will turn out ok, and it's stupid, yeah he knows it, but that this point he'll take any backwards ridiculous quirk of brain chemistry that counts as superstition.

His sleeves are damp and his eyes must be a mess and his fingers are bitten to nothing, and he's still got a coat thrown over his pyjamas for god's sake, and still he hasn't heard anything.

Lewis doesn't believe him, but he keeps his hand where he placed it on his arm. And Martin supposes that's fair.  He'd called Lewis after a few minutes of building his composure, swallowing down shuddering breaths and pushing out air too hard, telling himself that he needed to calm down, that he couldn't go to pieces, not now, not yet – Lew? Lew, it's – it's your... I'm sorry to be calling so early but I think you should.... You need to come home. As soon as you... It's – it's your father. He's had... he's at the hospital.

(And he was proud of himself then, because stammering as it was, incapable of communicating the enormity of a moment he couldn't comprehend fully, his voice did not betray the terror it had. Not when he had heard the sound of the fire alarm sniping, assuming the toaster settings had been left on too high or something, walking into the kitchen to see the toast popped up, burning and ignored, Jon, frowning, confused, breathing funny with his palm over his chest, sucking in air in straggling little hitching gasps; Jon meeting his eyes, tears already sprung into the corners – Martin, something's wrong. Not when Martin had juggled calling 999 and holding Jon's weight bodily up, swaying and light-headed and his breathing seeming a whetstone to the pain, clutching him too hard and none of Martin's words being enough. Not when he was sat in the back of the ambulance, Jon barely holding his hand, wondering if this, this was the great joke of the bloody universe, the Archivist surviving everything but his heart in the end.)

There is a patting sound, sensible shoes slapping squeaky tile, moving towards them. Martin's world loses colour when he sees the doctor.

Lewis is standing immediately, tumbling through a number of quick-fire questions, and the doctor does a good job of not looking rattled.

“Are you a family member?” he replies, and he's not obviously looking between Martin and Lewis, failing to find much resemblance, but he is definitely looking. It's perhaps more delicate than others have been in the past, inquiring about their relationship to each other. Martin is well aware that Lewis looks nothing like either of his parents. He likes to think, in his more fanciful paternal moments, that he has Jon's prominent jawline, his propensity for scruffy stubble, sees something of his husband in the brown of his eyes.

“My son,” he gestures with a weak wave and the doctor nods, before he slides into explanations. Lewis is keeping up, asking questions about the procedure, the complications, recovery and where they go from there, and the doctor is trying to be sensitive  but his son is bullish, wanting every detail and he's so much like his father like this, headstrong and unwilling to yield an inch.

It's good news. Better than hoped. Martin is too exhausted to smile. The rush of relief that should un-tense his muscles, pull the curtain down on the performance his anxieties have been playing out behind his eyes, instead it has left him hollow and dizzy.

“Lew,” Martin says, and Lewis turns, and must see something he can't because he quietens, his expression shifting softer, moves over to grab Martin's walking stick from where it's lent against the seat, pressing it into his palm. He puts a hand on Martin's shoulder.

“Let's go see him,” he says, and Martin takes the arm offered to help him to his feet.

They follow the doctor. Martin's not been fast on his feet, not since the Watcher's Crown, but he can't lay all the blame at the foot of that particular clusterfuck; age hasn't been on his side either in this regard, and his progress isn't as fast as he wants it to be. Lewis and the doctor are talking about Jon, something about local anaesthetic, sedation, how Mr Blackwood-Simms has an unusually high tolerance to anything they give him – and some part of Martin's brain thinks this is probably Jon's weird former Archivist powers, the rippling after-effects of which have never quite left him. Martin is not really listening to either of them. He puts one foot in front of another, and tries to feel relieved, and he should, he should, it's good news, this is what he wanted.

Jon nearly died today, his brain keeps reminding him. You nearly lost him, you nearly weren't fast enough.

And Martin is not strong enough to disagree.

Jon is awake when they go onto the shared ward. Propped up to sitting, already looking slightly bored at the lack of anything to do. There's an IV taped up and held in place on his scarred hand, and he looks like a wind-knocked scarecrow what with all the wires and tubes he's hooked up to, his hair unbrushed and tussled all over the place. He is not as pale as he was, more exasperated than frightened, and Martin tries to forget the last expression he saw on his husband’s face. He feels a hitch in his throat but swallows it down.

“Lewis?” Jon says, sounding surprised. “I thought you had an essay due Monday?”

“Before someone got themselves admitted to hospital,” Lewis replies easily, but he's striding forward, giving his father a hug that betrays his worries, holding on a bit too long, leaning over the bar around the bed with discomfort.

“Really,” Jon grumbles, but he seems pleased at the unexpected attention and hugs back with the hand not tangled up in wires. “All this fuss over nothing, you didn't need to come all this way.”

“I hear you got the ambulance service out. Doesn't seem like nothing,” Lewis responds and Jon waves a hand as though the comment is not worth his time.

“Are you eating?” he says instead, looking over their son critically. “You don't want your dad worrying. I won't hear the end of it.”

It's a teasing pattern of back-and-forth, familiar and shot through with affection, but Martin can't be part of it. His hands don't know what to do with themselves. He doesn't have any words that can make any of this palatable, none of this, because they're in a hospital, again, after surviving everything else, and he thought he was done being frightened of this.

He sees Lewis nudge his father.

“Go gentle, yeah?” he hears him murmur admonishingly. “You really scared him.”

Jon looks right at Martin then. There's sorrow cutting into the lines of wrinkles there, some acknowledgement of what just happened finally gracing his face. Martin is shuffling forwards to the side of the bed, and Jon is reaching up, cupping Martin's cheek.

“You saved me again,  I see,” he says, teasing if it wasn't so soft, so quiet, so clearly for only the two of them. There's a weight of histories there, the many times they've both been here before, but Jon is looking at him so sadly, rubbing a thumb over the tear-stains on Martin's cheek. There's such blinding trust in his eyes. Martin doesn't know, because Jon doesn't know how to put it into words, but even as the pain spiked hard in his chest and he struggled to breath, Martin had been there and so some part of him knew it would have been ok. Martin would have made it so. “I knew you would.”

Martin is wrapping his arms around him then – oh god, Jon, don't you ever do that to me again – and Jon is solid under him, gripping tight, and it's like being able to breath again.