#you can take a six month break from it and come back and ain’t shit changed 😭😭

[jemgirl86]

Scrolled SamBucky ao3 the other day for the first time in a hot minute, instead of just relying on email notifications from (and/or the archives of) my favorite authors, and whew chile lol. You know, I could write an essay about the SamBucky tag on there… and I could devote half of it to the way irreparable damage was done to an already… unpredictable place, during two months in 2021, but, well never mind lol

[deantfwinchester]

Late Nights

Pairing: No-Outbreak!AU, back on my Joel x Teacher!Reader shit (though her work hardly plays a role in this), established relationship

Summary: Getting home late is an unfortunately common occurrence in Joel’s line of work. When you both have busy days, it can be hard to find time to share, but you make do.

Warnings: extreme fluff, just utterly fucking saccharine at this point, is fluff without plot a tag?

——————

It’s Wednesday night. Joel’s night to cook dinner.

You get home earlier every day, no question. But since you like to take most every night during the summer months, he insisted on a 60/40 split during the school year. Sundays, Mondays and Wednesdays are his. You had Tuesdays and Thursdays. Friday & Saturday are mainly for pizza, take out, or date-nights.

When he’d grill on Sunday afternoons, you liked to try and help him with prep, but he’d just pour you a glass of wine or mix you a drink and try to usher you out of the kitchen. You’d always sit and talk with him while he worked anyway. Sarah too, when she wasn’t working on homework or out with friends. It’s one of his favorite parts of the week.

On the nights he’d come home late, though, he always worried about leaving you to it. He was meant to be home cooking for the three of you while you relaxed, tried to let the stress of the school day roll off your back. He loved giving you that time.

This particular night, when six o’clock rolled around and he realized he still had a good hour or more on the site, he knew he needed to let you know he wouldn’t be timely with his return. Didn’t want you to worry.

You’re on the couch, grading. By this time of night, Joel’s normally taken the work from your hands and pulled your attention toward anything else. Noticing the room darkening, you wonder where he is, just as your phone dings:

Wednesday, October 7, 6:03 PM:

Sorry baby, gonna be later than I hoped tonight. Y’all don’t wait on me, okay?

Supposed to be my night too, dammit. I apologize, sweetheart.

You’d told him till you were blue in the face he didn’t need to apologize to you when he was the one having to work until long after dark. It never took.

You responded quickly, knowing his phone would be back in his pocket and forgotten again soon when his attention turned again to the work and his team.

Wednesday, October 7, 6:04 PM: (Outgoing)

Dont worry about it, sweetie. i promise i can handle dinner, just don’t work too hard and get home when you can ❤️

And take a break and drink some water, will ya? if that bottle ain’t empty yet, you haven’t had enough! see you soon, love.

He’d be dead on his feet when he walked through the door, that much you knew. And he’d have no business rifling around in the kitchen for something random he’d throw together, not substantial enough by far for a day of working like he’d been. You hopped up and started to the kitchen, determined to make a hearty meal for you and Sarah to share now, and to ensure Joel had a real meal when he finally made it home for the night.

————

A couple of hours had passed by the time Joel finally walked through the door. You’re back on the couch, this time reading a book while the lights from the tv danced softly in the dimly lit room, with a bare haze of sound playing at low volume.

It was nearly 8:30 when you heard the key turning in the door. Sarah had retired to her room for the night after dinner. She’d tried to help you clean the dishes, but you’d ushered her off to relax after spending most of the afternoon doing homework.

Joel trudges wearily through the door, shoulders slouched and eyes heavy-lidded when he thinks you can’t see him. The second he lays eyes on you, though, his posture straightens and his expression brightens, eyes opening a bit more as he lifts into a smile. Your expression mirrors his, and you sit up, closing your book and rising to meet him halfway. You practically speak over each other in greeting:

“Hi darlin’, how was your day?” he says.

“Hey honey, how’d it go today?” you ask.

You laugh a bit when you realize you’re asking the same question on top of each other, and he pulls you close, arms resting heavily around your waist. You drape yours around his neck as he leans down to kiss you. When you pull away to look at his face, you see past the tired smile he wears to the exhaustion etched in his face, settled in his drooping eyes.

You move one hand up, fiddling gently with the strands of hair at the back of his head. You smile and put light pressure on the base of his neck with your other hand, moving his head down to rest on your shoulder. He catches on instantly, and settles comfortably where you direct him. He nuzzles into the nape of your neck and you feel his eyes close against your collarbone, his warm fatigued breaths rhythmically grazing your chest.

You continue playing with his hair with one hand, while the other remains resting on the back of his neck. You turn your head to place a soft kiss to his temple and, after a moment of restful silence, quietly speak:

“You’re tired, huh? I missed you today.”

“Missed you too, baby,” he murmurs against your neck, tightening his grip around your waist, and snuggling closer.

“You gotta be hungry. Got a plate waitin’ for ya in the fridge. Want me to warm it up?” you ask him, moving your hand down his neck to rub gently against his back. He breathes deeply in contentment at your comforting touch.

“No, I’m never leaving this spot. I live here now,” he says, and you feel the rumble of his voice against your chest. You chuckle lightly and speed up your ministrations, applying a bit more pressure as you discover the tightness of the muscles in his back.

“Mhm. And when was the last time you ate? Or drank anything for that matter?” you ask knowingly.

“Uhhhh, i guess it was, arou-“ he cuts himself off with a yawn, “around lunch time? Maybe one? Did finish that bottle like you asked, though,” and he smacks his lips lazily, somehow nuzzling further into your shoulder.

“Good, thank you. But lunch was seven hours ago now, so you need to eat something. Wanna start there? Or shower first?” you ask, chuckling a bit.

He raises his head a bit and squints at you, frowning playfully. “You sayin’ I smell, darlin’?” he mumbles, laughing into your shoulder.

You giggle in response before elaborating: “I’m saying you’re sweaty and would feel better if you rinsed the day off before crawling into bed.”

He sighs and rasps into your neck, “you changed the sheets didn’t you?” you feel a smile form against your chest.

“Sure did. So it’s food, shower, and bedtime. You can pick the order. Which first? Want me to grab your dinner?” you ask.

He sighs deeper this time, “What’s that thing about objects in motion and objects at rest or somethin’? Gonna keep doing whatever they already got goin’ on?”

You rumble a little laugh in return before responding. “I see. C’mon Newton, let’s keep ya moving. Go hop in the shower while I get your dinner ready.” You say, patting his cheek as he raises his head with a little groan.

You catch his eyes with your own and let your hand rest on his cheek. You move a thumb beneath his chin and pull him to you, giving him one last peck before ushering him down the hall. You pull his plate from the fridge and get to work on reheating his meal.

——————

He emerges less than ten minutes later smelling fresh and dressed in a clean t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants, padding into the kitchen just as you’re filling a glass of water to place next to his warmed plate. He rubs a fist into one eye, yawning again, and plops into a chair at the kitchen table.

You approach behind him, placing the glass on the table with one hand and rubbing his shoulder with the other. He lifts a hand to grab yours and squeeze as he takes a sip. His eyes reach up to meet your own.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this, sweetheart. It was my night anyway, and now you’ve cooked and even put the damn plate in front of me,” he huffs.

“You don’t need to thank me, love” you respond, leaning down to kiss him again before taking the seat next to him with the glass of wine you’d poured to sip while you sat with him. You reach for his left hand where it rests on the table, and gently squeeze. He wraps his fingers around yours before you can retreat. Your fingers remain intertwined for the duration of the meal.

The two of you discussed the highlights of your respective days - roses and thorns, both too sleepy to bother with buds. When Joel finishes, you grab his plate to wash, but he takes it from you.

“No way are you washing my dishes too, honey. You’ve done enough already tonight,” he tries to insist. You’re not having it.

“Will you just let me take care of you, dummy? You’re bone tired, I can see it in those beautiful brown eyes. Here. How about this?” you rinse the plate and utensils, shove them quickly in the dishwasher, close it emphatically, and raise your empty hands.

He rolls his eyes, but relents with an exasperated sigh. “Whatever you say, darlin’,” he responds smiling, a bit bashful from the care and compliment.

“Good. Now c’mon, bedtime.” you say, taking his hand in yours once again and leading him to the bedroom.

“Whatever you want, baby” he grins, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You can’t help bellow a hearty laugh at that one.

“Jesus, like you could keep your eyes open, Miller,” you respond, as you pull the covers back and lead him onto the bed next to you. You settle back against the headboard and open your arms up, beckoning him into your lap. He shuffles closer and leans into your embrace.

“It was-“ he pauses, only to finish through a yawn “- worth a shot.” You chuckle quietly as he rests his head in your lap, eyes instantly slipping closed.

You turn on the tv, keeping the volume low. It’s only a little after 9, so still early for you to fall asleep. You would read, but you’d rather turn off the light, hoping the dimness in the room helps him get some good rest.

You lay one hand on his back and the other in his hair, both softly rubbing in comforting circles, and you feel him melt further into you. A familiar warmth fills your chest at the sight of him there, resting peacefully in your lap. You lean down and press one last kiss to his head before whispering to him.

“Good night, sweetheart.”

“G’night, darlin’” he rumbles, muffled into your lap. You smile, one hand still on his back as the other reaches up, flicking off the lamp, before returning it to his hair. Your fingers gently massage his scalp, and within minutes, you hear his soft snores.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Tim Visits Curly in the Reformatory

Small fic I wrote based on @pumpkinsy0 's addition to this post.

*************************

The reformatory is the exact same as it was when Tim was here last, five years ago, before he got old enough and his juvenile record long enough the courts decided he was beyond reforming and started sending him to the cooler at the ripe old age of sixteen and a half. Impersonal grey stone walls, hard faced staff, heavy locks on each and every door. Tim is sure if he was in the cafeteria it would have the same chipped yellowish linoleum and serve the same barely palatable slop, just like he knows the barracks probably still house the same iron bunks and lumpy mattresses they make the inmates- sorry, students- make with tight hospital corners before anyone is allowed so much as a bite of food.

Of course, Tim won’t get to see any of his old haunts because as a non inmate the only place he’s allowed is the visitor area. He’s lucky even to be here- unsurprisingly Curly hasn’t proven himself to be a model inmate, and so was supposed to have lost visitation privileges for the month. Tim had to make up some sob story about a dead auntie and god rest her soul just to be allowed in the door.

The visitation room is made up of the same grey walls as the rest of the place, but the room has a half decent carpet and plastic chairs and tables scattered throughout. It’s better than the visitation he’s allowed in the cooler which is all cold metal benches and glass screens, two way telephones and ‘fifteen minutes no longer’.

Keys rattle and the door off the side of the room opens, a hard faced guard practically shoving Curly through the door, who’s grinning like a chessy cat, cussing the guard out in creole and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

He practically swaggers over, leaving the guard at the door- yet another perk of the reformatory, that they’re not chaining him to the table- and takes a seat across from Tim.

“Hey Tim.”

The reformatory has always suited Curly, always left him entirely in his element, able to wreak havoc and cause trouble without ever really getting punished for it. For someone who loves nothing more than attention and consequences he can deliberately fight back against, it’s perfect.

Tim dreads the day the courts give up on Curly too and start sending him to the cooler. The reformatory suits him, but the cooler might break him. There’s an undeniable softness to Curly- he hides it well, but it’s there, always has been, and Tim knows the Curly that goes into the cooler for the first time will not be the same Curly who comes out.

“Curly,” he nods, and Curly’s grin widens. He’s a feral housecat raised in a lion’s den, and has never once managed to actually keep his cool, “I see they chopped off that mop of yours.”

That makes him frown, rubbing a hand self consciously across his shaved head. 

“Ain’t like I had a choice now is it?”

Curly hates looking lousy- Tim blames the vanity on him sharing half a soul with Angel- and short hair has never suited him. 

They lapse into silence. Tim because silence is the only thing in the whole world that makes Curly uncomfortable and because the little shit deserves to squirm. Curly because he must know he isn’t supposed to have visitors, which means he knows Tim isn’t here for a mere social call. This visit is important, and Tim knows Curly knows it. His kid brother is stupid but he isn’t dumb, and he’s scarily perceptive when it comes to reading emotions. 

“How is it,” Tim asks when Curly starts fidgeting proper and glancing at the guard like he might try something to piss him off, “that you were sentenced to six months and after being here less than a week they’ve upped it to seven?”

Curly shrugs, that shit eating grin taking over his face once again, “got into it with some asshole in the dining hall. The guards didn’t much like that.”

“And how is it,” Tim continues, wishing for a cigarette and knowing he’ll get kicked out faster than lightning if he pulls one out here, “that you’ve already lost your visitation priviledges?”

“Poor old auntie delilah,” Curly drawls, dodging around the question, “good thing they were nice enough to let you come and comfort me about her passin’.”

“Cut the shit Curly.” Tim orders, “enough causin’ trouble. You could be outta here in four months if you keep your head down. Hell, maybe even three considering this place is prone to overcrowding and this is only your second offence. But only if you play right with the staff and make like a good little reformed schoolboy.”

“Why?” For all he likes his games, Curly’s done playing, eyes sharp, “What’s goin on?”

“We need you back in Tulsa.” 

“Why?” Curly demands again, a spark of panic lighting in his eye. This is unusual behaviour, especially for Tim, and loathe as he is to admit it, Curly can tell right off, “is something wrong with Angel?”

Per usual, Angel’s been the exact definition of a fucking piece of work ever since Curly got locked up, because the twins don’t do well with separation. Yesterday she and ma had gotten into it, and he’d practically had to pry her off the old bitch, but not before she’d ripped out a chunk of ma’s hair. Then she’d gone and baited his two best bruisers into a brawl at the dingo, and now Ricky was getting charged and Danny would be recovering for a few weeks. Just this morning she’d gone over to Buck Merril’s and if rumours were true had hooked up with one of Merril’s shadier friends, some asshole new in town and determined to cause trouble. If she kept up like this until Curly got back, Tim was gonna have to keep her on a very short leash- and Angela never liked following rules.

“She’s fine. Shackin’ up with that buddy of Merill’s, Jack or whatever the fuck, but she’s fine.”

Curly curses. “That asshole will swing at her sooner or later.”

“He won’t,” Tim and some of the gang had made that very clear to him before he drove down here, “and if he does I’ll take care of it.”

“Then what’s goin’ on? How come you want me playin’ goody two shoes in here, huh?”

Tim sighs. “You read the paper in here at all?”

Curly looks at him incredulously, and yeah, that’s fair. It was a stupid question.

“Of course you didn’t. I forgot you can’t read.”

“I can too!” Curly shouts, lowering his voice when the guard makes a move to grab him, “I can! It just…it ain’t easy. The letters all jump everywhere.”

“We need you in Tulsa,” Tim tells him, brushing past it. Reading has always been a sore spot with Curly, and Tim doesn’t want to shame him more than he already has. It wasn't his fault every teacher he’d ever had had glanced at his name on the registrar and immediately abandoned him as a lost cause. “Shit went down last week. You missed a hell of a rumble last week.”

“Fucking socs,” Cury scowls, “did we win?”

“Of course,” It’d be a cold day in hell before any of them lost a rumble to the socs, “but uh, the rumble wasn’t all that happened.”

“TIm.” Curly is as serious as he ever gets, “What happened? Why are you bein’ so weird?”

“Dallas is dead,” Tim admits, and hates that it stings. He hated Dally as much as he liked him, but it was rare he ever found someone he understood so well. The guys in his gang were all a little afraid of him and he liked it that way, and the Curtis’ were too nice for all they were good fighters, but Dally Winston was the same type of asshole as him, loyal to no one, and just about the only person Tim ever really had fun with. Much as he hated to admit it, he was really gonna miss him.

“Winston?” Curly’s eyebrows shoot up, “Shit, I’m sorry man. What happened?”

“Shot,” Tim manages, “he was pointing a heater at the fuzz, the dumbass.”

“Shit,” Curly repeats, shaking his head, “Dallas ain’t stupid. The fuck was he doin’ baiting the cops?”

“He was mad. That little dark haired kid, Johnny. Him and Ponyboy Curtis got caught up in a murder rap, stabbed some soc in the park and skipped town. Got caught up in some fire at the church they ran to, saved a bunch of kids. But Cade got caught up in it, died in the hospital a few days later. Guess ol’ Dal couldn’t take it. Shit kid, you really ain’t heard a lick of this from the papers?”

“Ponyboy was in a fire?” Curly asks, ignoring every other piece of Tim’s story just like he knew he would. Curly was stupid over that Curtis kid as much as he pretended he wasn’t, and it was obvious to anyone with eyes. Tim had seen Curly with crushes before, but none half as bad as the one he had on the Curtis kid. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. Got a concussion in the rumble but other than that he’s ok. Darry says he’s taking the whole situation mighty hard though. Him and Cade were good buddies, and Dal was in their gang.”

“They just lost their folks too,” Curly recalls, biting his lip. “Hey, uh, next time you see him tell him I said to take it easy, ok?”

Tim rolls his eyes at his kid brother being reduced to an absolute lovesick fool. “Tell him yourself, I ain’t your messenger.”

“C’mon man,” Curly whines, “don’t be a dick.”

“Don’t get mouthy,” Tim warns, rising when the guard starts making his way over, no doubt ready to tell them their time is up, “and quit causing trouble. Things haven’t cooled down with the socs yet. We need you in Tulsa.”

He allows himself a self satisfied grin as he’s escorted outside. If there’s one thing that can motivate Curly to do anything these days, it’s mentioning Ponyboy Curtis.

Maybe he should pay a visit to the redheaded kid. See how he reacts when he mentions Curly to him. After all, if Curly’s gonna date the kid, Tim should probably get to know him a bit first. Vet him y’know. Plus it’ll annoy Curly.

Four months later Tim makes the drive out to the reformatory and if he just so happens to bring a redheaded Curtis kid with him, so be it.  He’s helping Darry out ‘cause apparently the kid’s been too quiet since everything went down.

Curly’s eyes widen the second he stumbles out the gate and lays eyes on Tims new passenger. He stammers out some half crocked greeting, clearly caught off guard, and Ponyboy grins, despite looking a little confused. Tim watches Curly’s failed attempts to flirt the whole way back to Tulsa, hiding his laugher the whole time.

[sgtjamesrogers]

Make It Up To You

a between-scenes ficlet for 3.10: International Break | roy x jamie | roy x keeley

i'd been saving this bit for later on in my series but since it doesn't work for my plans post-3.10, please enjoy it cleaned up and contained in this ficlet. :) let's place this while roy is working on his apology chicken scratch letter, but before he gives it to her.

“Do you…want to come inside?” 

Roy leans heavily on his good leg, hands at his hips, and scuffs his foot against the pavement. He shakes his head, mouth tightly pressed closed. The sky is a milky early morning blue; a post-dawn sort of blank slate that casts the shadows of Jamie’s face in a strange greyscale.

Jamie frowns, stepping outside as he closes the door behind him. “You sure? Because you look like you’re about to throw up.” 

“I’m a really shit boyfriend,” Roy bursts out, hands still on his hips, his whole body tense for a blow. Jamie just looks at him like there must be something else Roy has to say, so Roy gropes wildly for more words, each of them like holding a lump of hot coal barehanded to get out. “No, really, I am.” 

“An’… so am I?” Jamie says, head tilting as a furrow appears between his brows. “What’s your point?” 

“But you’re not, that’s the thing,” Roy continues, gesturing angrily with one hand. “That’s the whole fucking problem. You’re not, and you haven’t been for a while. I don’t think you’ve been Jamie ‘only out for himself and fuck the rest’ Tartt for months and months and fucking months now. You just pretend to be sometimes. It’s like… like a joke you’re having with yourself, or, or a fucking mask you wear.” 

Jamie goes very still, hands in the pockets of his joggers. Picking his words carefully, he says, “Ain’t that a good thing, Coach? Being a good person? Thought that’s what everyone wanted.” 

“Just listen,” Roy grits out, and hates how it sounds like a plea, like he’s begging. ���You are, and you should be, and it’s… it’s good. Catching you being kind is like, a sort of.” Roy swallows. “It’s a gift.” Somehow it feels like almost too much to say, especially after turning up for fucking 'Uncle's Day' and getting subjected to the sort of multi-front emotional terrorism on par with Never Let Me Go.

Roy has always thought that Jamie wore all his emotions right on his sleeve even back when he was being a self-centered idiot; the way he could pout like a toddler or happily gambol like a child on the first day of the summer holidays. But there’s something trembling and complex unfolding across Jamie’s face right now, Roy can’t parse what it means but it’s taking his breath away. 

Finally, Jamie asks, “Like I said Coach, that isn’t a bad thing, is it?” The way his voice turns up at the end makes it sound like could be a bad thing somehow, if only Roy explains exactly why. As if Roy could say that the best training was walking on his hands from nine am to six pm, or gravity went up instead of down, and Jamie would agree because Roy’s the one saying it. 

It’s a heady concept; something that alarms Roy even as it speaks to some greedy little grasping monster that’s wound through his guts. It’s a different quality of pleasure, knowing how much weight his words have with Jamie, and it makes Roy a little ashamed. 

“Of course it’s not,” Roy responds, and that greedy little monster gives a kick as he watches Jamie relax. He shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, backing Jamie closer to his front door with his hands out like he’s calming a wild animal. “It just feels like, like fucking everyone’s motoring along, being better fucking versions of themselves, and here’s me, just… spinning my fucking wheels.” That’s not all there is, but Roy can’t get any of his other words in order; something flustered and too honest twisting up his tongue. “It’s like all I can do is dig myself deeper.” 

A cheeky expression plays at Jamie’s lips as he says, “Well, y’know what they say about finding yourself in holes.” 

Roy squints at him. “Is this some kind of dirty joke?” 

Jamie tips his head back against his front door and rolls his eyes, and something about the arched motion of it makes Roy burn and avert his gaze. 

“Nah, just that… if you find yourself in a hole, you should probably stop digging, yeah?” 

Roy feels like his strings have been cut, the tension holding him taut disappearing. Jamie’s not wrong, but the truth of it feels at odds with what Roy really wants. When he lifts his eyes back up, Jamie’s still looking at him like he’s a bomb that might go off if only he says the wrong thing. Horribly, Roy knows he’s not even wrong about that, either. 

He sighs. “Not that I’ll be regularly taking your advice about holes, but I guess I could take it under consideration.” 

Jamie looks up at him through his lashes. Roy feels like he could count them individually if only he had enough time. There’s a puff of his breath in Roy’s face, warm and vaguely minty. Roy doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and Jamie just…waits. The sun continues its inexorable journey into the heavens.

Finally, Jamie asks with a cartoonish waggle of his eyebrows, “But. You’re taking my advice about holes today, eh?” 

Roy reaches down past Jamie’s hip, twists the doorknob, and lets Jamie Tartt fall backward into his own house. 

“I fucking said it’s under consideration,” he spits a little childishly, and steps over him inside. 

[absolutepokemontrash]

I come bearing a request! The Brothers with an MC who's really good at cooking and baking? Like, the stuff food blogs dream of. Master-level instagram pastries. Could compete with the chocolate guy if they put their mind to it.

👀 ooooo, I do love me some pastries-

(I know you have an *ahem* distaste for Lucifer, dear moot, so enjoy Lucifer acting like a bit of a dingus in his section!)

Lucifer

Oh, the human can cook. *insert asshole eyeroll here*. Great. Wonderful. Groundbreaking. That’s what’s got all his brothers acting like- what was that word Levi used? Simps? This human has turned six of the seven rulers of hell into a bunch of simps.

Sure, the human has near godlike cooking prowess. Sure, everyone looks forward to their day for cooking. And sure, everyone thinks the human’s pretty great.

Tsk, not him though. He’s a refined demon. Some silly food isn’t going to make him a lovesick fool… did he smell eclairs..?

Lucifer peered into the kitchen to see MC carefully taking a tray of eclairs out of the oven and letting them cool off on the counter. His favourite dessert… right there in front of him…

Due to not being a total moron, MC notices Lucifer and asks him what the hell he’s doing just standing ominously in the doorway. Lucifer makes up some bullshit excuse about reminding MC to do their homework and just leaves. Okay, game plan, he needs those fucking eclairs or he will spontaneously combust.

As he snuck into the kitchen that night, Lucifer took a moment to briefly wonder why he was creeping around his own house. He was the Avatar of Pride for pity’s sake! He could eat whatever he damn well pleased! Oh shit was someone coming- no? Okay, back to sneaking.

Lucifer crept into the kitchen, saw the eclairs, and all logic was thrown out the window. Time to eat!

“BEEL NO! NOT THE- Lucifer..?” “…” “…” “…you’re very talented, MC, do you mind making more of these?”

SOMEONE SNAP A PICTURE! THIS IS THE CLOSEST LUCIFER HAS GOTTEN TO BEGGING IN THE LAST THOUSAND YEARS!

Mammon

Ugh, stuck babysittin’ some dumb human, how lame…

As Mammon was throwing a “I’m broke and I’m stuck in a pact with a dumb human” pity party, the most heavenly smell entered his nostrils. Cooking… good cooking… was Barbatos visiting or somethin’? Nah, Lucifer woulda made a big fuss about gettin’ ready for Lord Diavolo. Huh, so what was goin’ on in the kitchen?

Huh? The human? The human can cook? Well damn, maybe this whole deal wouldn’t be so bad. Oi! MC! As payment for babysittin’ ‘em, he got to have an extra big share of- OW!

Did- did the human just hit him with a spoon?! Th-they can’t do that!

Apparently they fucking can. Mammon gets told to sit the fuck down and wait for the food like everyone else. He grumbles on the way to the dining room, but he can’t fully hide his excitement to try the food.

The food even looked pretty! How did they do that?! Magic. It had to be!

After everyone’s tastebuds were blessed with the heavenly substance that is MC’s culinary exploits, Mammon decides he needs to get on this human’s good side in order to receive more food! Maybe even find some way to make a profit or somethin’!

After weeks go by of trying to suck up to the human without looking like too much of a chump, Mammon eventually realizes… hey, this human ain’t so bad. They’re nice, they make him feel good about himself, they give him headpats… he’s really hit the jackpot here!

He’ll offer to help MC bake or cook, but beware, he will try and sample the food before it’s done. Don’t let him lick the spoon!!!

Leviathan

First thought? This human ain’t shit. Thought after seeing their food? WOAAAAAAAH! JUST LIKE THAT ONE ANIME-

He was unceremoniously cut off by Beel asking demanding seconds. Humph, fine, he doesn’t actually care about this dumb normie food anyway.

…well at least until Levi saw a little something something on TV that he just had to ask MC to try and make. He shyly knocked on their door and when they answered, Levi shoved the screenshot in their face and stuttered out a dinner request.

On the day MC was supposed to make dinner, Levi poked his head into the kitchen and tried to make it look like he was just standing in the same room as MC and not checking to see if they were making his dinner request.

Not that he’d blame them for not doing that… who’d wanna make some anime dinner for a yucky Otaku- OMG JAHSHSHABA THEY’RE MAKING IT! *fangirl squeals*

As Levi continues to commit the SIN of being in the kitchen at the same time as someone else, MC eventually just asks him if he’d like to help out.

“Here! Just keep turning the takoyaki.” “R-really? You trust me?” “Yes, Levi. You watched how they made it on your show, right?” “Yes! I won’t mess up! I swear on my honour as an otaku!”

All in all, it was a very cute bonding experience for the two. Now it’s a regular thing. Levi requests something for dinner or dessert, MC makes it, Levi helps out.

Satan

So, the human can cook. That’s nice. At least someone in this literally god forsaken house can.

He makes sure to thank MC every time they cook, then he makes sure to thank whatever deity is watching over him that Solomon wasn’t the human staying with them.

As the months progress, Satan realizes, he should learn how to cook better. I mean, Levi and Mammon were somehow both improving in their cooking endeavours, and if MC could teach those two, then he would be a breeze.

Satan walked into the kitchen and simply asked if MC needed any assistance with what they were doing. MC just slid him some garlic to dice and that’s how this mentor/student relationship was formed.

Satan was a star pupil, but Mammon and Levi weren’t above trying to sabotage Satan’s progress to get him to leave.

Here’s the thing, the sabotage worked, but it only worked once, and the two idiots didn’t stop to think that maybe they shouldn’t sabotage the meal they were going to have to eat later.

Well, cooking lessons continued uninterrupted after the ghost pepper incident…

Even when he’s ‘graduated’ their little cooking class, Satan’s always willing to lend a hand if needed. He also will slyly hand over some recipe books and cute baking supplies that he finds. MC should be prepared for lots of cat related things to come their way.

Asmodeus

The human can cook? Oh frabcious day! He’s saved from a life of his brother’s mediocre cooking! And the human’s so cute too! What a bonus!

Not only is the human cute, but their food is just so… aesthetic??? Pretty???? Omigosh he just has to get a picture for Devilgram!

For the first few months, MC’s relationship with Asmo consists of Asmo not at all subtly asking to take pictures of their food and post it to his Devilgram. Listen MC, his followers would just love it!

Being the saint-sheep they are, MC lets Asmo sit in whenever they’re making anything in the kitchen. And Asmo slowly realizes “hey, this cute human with the awesome food is actually pretty cool too!”

New Mission: Make the human fall madly in love with him so they’ll want to hang out more.

Whether the mission succeeds is up to MC of course. (I mean, I’m already smitten with him sooooooooo-)

MC offers Asmo a lot of the pastries they make, but the Avatar of Lust almost always declines. Listen honey, he’s on a diet- wait, don’t make that sad face! He’ll eat it! Look! It’s- it’s delicious…

Diet cheat day is now every day MC makes dessert. The feeling of bliss Asmo gets when he takes a bite out of anything MC makes is only second of the treats is second only to the joy he feels at seeing MC happy that he likes their food. It’s just so wholesome I can’t-

MC’s food Devilgram has almost surpassed Asmo in terms of followers and honestly- he isn’t even mad.

Beelzebub

Gasp! Lucifer finally got him the pet personal chef he’d always wanted! Thanks big bro! :D he’ll be sure not to eat this human!

On the first night MC was supposed to make dinner, Lucifer needed to hold Beel back from breaking into the kitchen to see what was causing that heavenly smell. It was, difficult… especially because Lucifer hadn’t slept in three days.

When they all sat down to eat, Beel practically inhaled everything and held up his half bitten plate for seconds.

We here at Stupid Headcanons incorporated recommend that MC have as many bodyguards as possible stationed around the kitchen at all times to ward off a hungry Beel. We don’t want him eating the ingredients and half-tempered chocolate.

A cinnamon roll through and through, he’ll eat everything MC gives him with a big ol’ smile on his cute little face. He’s not the best person to go to if MC wants advice or critique because the best thing Beel can usually muster is “it was really good.”

As Luke said in Lesson 5, Beel would make an awful food reporter. But we love him.

Similar to Levi, he’ll give meal requests on what to make for dinner. (At this rate, MC’s going to have to make some kind of list).

He kind of just waits by the door like a sad puppy whenever MC is making anything because he can’t get into the kitchen :(

Belphegor

The smell of freshly made chocolate chip cookies wafting through the house did reach the attic and it only fuelled his rage more. How dare the human win everyone over with cookies?!

After the attic incident, Belphie was won over with cookies.

Belphie just stands creepily in the kitchen doorway whenever MC is making anything and just makes shit really uncomfortable. Why’s he doing that, you may be wondering, well, he’s trying to calculate the energy needed to swipe the bowl of cookie dough and sprint to safety.

He never succeeds, mainly because once he gets to the bowl, MC already has the wooden spoon ready to smack him, so he just freezes mid-theft and slowly puts the bowl down.

“Oh my gosh, it says let the bread dough rest overnight? Let’s get a headstart and go to sleep now.” “Belphie what-” “I made a pillow Fort, come in. Let’s sleep.” “In the kitchen????”

How’d he make the pillow Fort without MC noticing? Years of experience. He’s trained in the art of- MC? What do you mean you can’t sleep right now and you need to get a head start on shaping fondant?

…he may have eaten the fondant while MC wasn’t looking… whoops… Beel may have rubbed off on him a little…

[thefanficmonster]

Interesting Encounters

Corpse Husband *& Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Paranoia and Fear of Invasion of Privacy

Genre: FLUFF, Humor, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Corpse has an interesting run-in with his regular delivery girl, having the chance to talk to her for the first time despite her having been delivering to his door for months. It’s a big step in overcoming his anxiety and paranoia when talking to strangers.

Requested by Anon. Hi darling! Thank you so much for your wonderful request! Hope you come across the final product of your request and give it a read and if so I hope you like it! Sorry for the wait, I hope it was worth it though! Love, Vy ❤

It’s a regular Monday morning, close to 10AM and Corpse’s face is practically glued to the sound editing app he’s downloaded, playing around with some cool effects to add to his voice in the background of the new song he’s been working on. He hasn’t been able to sleep a wink thanks to the immense excitement, not that he would’ve been able to regardless, but the tune and the lines have been stuck in his head all throughout the weekend and he knows they’ll be bothering him until he turns them into something other people will be able to listen and give an opinion on as well. So far he’s done plenty of work but there’s plenty more to go until it’s done. He’s at that point he usually needs feedback and wants to ask for it but would rather not to avoid either too harsh judgement or fake praise.

He slides the headset off, deciding to take a break for the sake of his sanity before he drives himself to insanity with the intensity of his focus on this new piece. His brain just so conveniently sends him a reminder that his groceries are probably waiting for him outside the door. He has, as of the last half a year or so, had someone deliver his groceries to him to avoid trips to the grocery store with both the whole pandemic situation and the growth of following which translates to growth of the risk of him getting recognized. That’s the main reason - and maybe the only one - as to why he doesn’t interact with the people who deliver to him either. He always gives his delivery person the instruction to leave whatever he’s ordered at the doorstep and if it’s not takeout to not even ring the doorbell. 

That being said, the deliverer of his groceries doesn’t ring the doorbell to give him the kind reminder to be responsible, but luckily he hasn’t forgotten to collect them yet in the six months he’s been practicing this delivery technique.

Going to the front door and looking out of the peephole, he confirms there are several full plastic bags waiting to be picked up on the mat. With the person who brought them not in sight, Corpse unlocks the door and steps out to bring in the groceries for the week. Taking them to the kitchen, he unpacks the goods in the three bags. At first glance he would’ve been fooled, seeing as how it seems that all he has ordered is there. But, each Monday, he receives exactly four bags of groceries. One is missing. He rolls his eyes thinking he didn’t see it outside and left it there while he was hurriedly collecting the rest so he gets up to go grab it real quick.

While in the meantime...

Y/N looks through the remainder of bags in her minivan, making a route in her head for what roads and shortcuts she can take to deliver the last of the groceries to the respective homes they need to be taken to. Upon looking through them, however, she sees a bag labeled ‘MM’ that she uses short for ‘Mystery Man’, aka the guy who never opens the door to greet her whenever she delivers him anything. She works for several delivery services such as takeout, groceries, clothes even and has delivered to that apartment hundreds of times but has never met the resident, giving her the right to call him Mystery Man, aka ‘MM’.

“Ah, shit.“ She mumbles under her breath, realizing she failed to grab the fourth bag when on her way up to MM’s apartment.

Coming to terms with the fact that she’ll have to lose another five minutes going back up to his floor, she grabs the bag and takes off running back inside the building and up the stairs, deciding it would be quicker than taking the elevator.

Just as she arrives to the floor, heading straight for the door, it opens, freezing her in her tracks as her eyebrows shoot up.  At the doorstep stands a guy with an eye patch who looks more surprised and maybe even a little terrified than her. Taking in that Mystery Man is not such a mystery anymore, she returns to her professionalism, remaining at a distance and outstretching the hand holding the bag towards him.

“Sorry, forgot to drop this one off as well, I’m a bit all over the place today.“ She says in her most professional voice.

Corpse too regains his composure and takes the handed bag from Y/N gloved hand. Before he can think twice about it he says, “Thanks, uh...”

“Y/N.“ She says, “I’ve delivered to you countless times, it’s funny you don’t know my name but it’s to be expected since I’ve never seen you. This would be a good time to tell me your name so I don’t have to call you Mystery Man anymore.“ She laughs, cutting her own laughter off barely a second later when she realizes what she’s said, “Oh, fucking shit...”

Corpse chuckles, clear amusement in the sound, “Mystery Man? Interesting, interesting. If I ever become a superhero I’ll make sure to pick that name.” He fails to even pay mind to the fact that he’s spoken a lot more than he’d usually feel comfortable with.

Y/N laughs a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck, “Yeah, sorry about that. I promise to come up with a better one if you’re not willing to tell me your real one. Like....Pirate, for example?” she suggests, raising her shoulders.

He can’t help but let out a laugh, “You’d be surprised, but my name is not so far from your mark. It’s, um....” He’s not looking forward to the judgmental look or the questions he might receive in response to his statement but he succumbs to the expected disappointment, “My name’s Corpse.”

Surprisingly, she just smiles - a smile he cannot see due to the surgical mask she’s wearing but the crinkle at the corners of her eyes gives it away. “Cool! Well, I better get going then.”

Just as she turns to head for the elevator this time, seeing as she’s still out of breath from the run up the stairs, Corpse gets an idea he’d probably not be too fond of if he gave himself time to think it over. Which is exactly why he didn’t.

“Hey!“ He calls after her, gaining her attention immediately, causing her to turn around, “You got a minute? I need a little help with something...“

Y/N’s eyebrows raise a little, a moment before she shrugs her shoulders, “Meh, I’m already behind schedule, what’s an extra minute gonna do?” And just like that, they strut their way back towards his apartment.

He can’t help but chuckle, taking the opportunity to crack a joke, “This is how people often get killed. You don’t just walk into a stranger’s apartment like that.”

She scoffs as she passes the threshold, “Believe it or not, you can learn a lot about a person based on the groceries they buy. And trust me buddy, you’re not a murderer.” Earning herself a laugh and a nod with that remark, she continues, “You do appear to be an artist with all the cheap food you’re buying though.”

Corpse laughs yet again, a hint of nervousness is sensed in his laugh this time around though, “Yeah, well, I don’t know if you’re still gonna call me an artist when you hear this song I’ve been working on. Not even out of the box yet.”

Y/N stops in her tracks, “Well, well, well, aren’t I honored to be one of the lucky people hearing this before its release.”

“The first hearing it before its release.“ He corrects her with a pointed look, not missing the excitement that arose in her eyes.

“Let’s hear it then!“

Of all the friendship stories that exist, no one can say this ain’t a unique one.

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[seijorhi]

insidious

Hinata Shoyo x female reader (+ Miya Atsumu x female reader)

tw dub-con/non-con, yandere, voyeurism, nsfw, smut but like just a sprinkle

Atsumu’s never considered himself much of a relationship guru, but surely he can’t be the only one who notices there’s something real fuckin’ weird about your relationship with Hinata.

Admittedly, the first few times he met you, he wasn’t paying all that much attention. Sure, you were hot, and he’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t snuck a peek every now and then; but his focus has always been on the game, on his teammates. On himself as a setter. It’s why he’s got a strict no girlfriends policy during the season. Atsumu doesn’t do distractions.

And he likes Hinata. On the court, the little dude’s a monster for him to unleash and he’d love him for that alone, but somehow despite being a 5’7” excitable ball of crazy intensity off the court as well, the redhead’s impossible not to get along with. 

There’s a few guys on the team that have partners – fuck, Meian’s even married, his wife five months pregnant with their second kid. But it doesn’t hit him until maybe three or so weeks after Hinata joins the team that he’s never seen any of them (or the ones that came before them) show up at every single training session. 

You do. 

Rain, hail or shine, no matter how early Hinata starts or how late he stays, you’re there, sitting in the stands, just… watching. It’s not a bad thing exactly. He knows Bo thinks it’s cute, gets all moony eyed and sappy about it and Hinata certainly doesn’t seem bothered by it, beaming up at you after every point scored, every successful spike, every receive. 

But it’s just– they train six days a week. It’s long hours and a lot of it’s just drills and exercising till they’re dead on the floor, and even hardcore volleyball fans would find it boring to sit through day in and day out. You don’t take a book or sit there on your phone; you just watch idly as they train. 

Day in, day out. 

There ain’t a rule against it; their practices are closed to the public but the team have a few passes they can hand around on the odd occasion. It’s more of an unspoken understanding; you can invite who you want, so long as you’re focused and they don’t make a fuss.

You never do though, quiet as a mouse as you wait for Hinata to finish up. 

“Don’tcha think it’s weird though?” he asks Sakusa one afternoon, wiping the sweat from his brow as he watches Hinata slump down beside you after practice wraps up, pulling you into a nuzzling embrace.

Sakusa makes a noncommittal noise, but dark eyes regard the two of you nonetheless. “She moved with him from Brazil, didn’t she?” 

Atsumu shrugs, “And?”

“She doesn’t have any friends or family here, no roots, no job, just Hinata,” he says – slowly, like Atsumu’s an idiot. 

And he tries to put himself in your shoes for a minute, imagine what it would be like to follow someone halfway across the world (further actually, because he’s pretty sure you weren’t from Brazil to begin with) but it’s not the same. Even without Samu, or his friends or his family, even in a country with weird customs and a language that wasn’t his own, Atsumu’s always been good at finding his feet. 

But he supposes he can understand why you cling to Hinata. Though it’s really more a case of Hinata clinging to you, ‘cause whenever he turns around, it’s the redhead who’s the one all over you, pulling you into cuddles, twining his fingers with yours, peppering your face with butterfly kisses. Like he’ll just die if he’s not touching you every second you’re together.

It’s either sickeningly cute or revoltingly excessive, and for the life of him Atsumu can’t figure out which. 

You’d think it’s his first relationship or something, that he’s stuck in some weird puppy love honeymoon phase, but from what he’s heard the two of you have been together for years now – that’s just the way Hinata is, apparently.

He shouldn’t be too surprised; the guy’s always first in line to jump on his back or try and tackle him to the floor after any successful play. Between him and Bokuto, he’s got more bruises littered over his body than a linebacker, but they’re a tactile team, and he usually gives as good as he gets. 

You’re not one for excessive PDA though. You never fight against the overbearing affection, don’t shrug it off or shrink away – at least, not from what he’s noticed – but Atsumu hasn’t seen you initiate anything more than a quick peck to his cheek when Hinata’s got you all bundled up in his arms.

And he gets that not every relationship has to be equal in that sense, different love languages and all that crap, but while you don’t fight it, you never seem… entirely comfortable with it either. Not in the ‘stop, we’re in public, please don’t’ kinda way, but–

He can’t put a finger on it. 

You smile at Hinata, cheer when he scores, let him pet and kiss and pull you around wherever he wants, but you never seem to relax properly, and it bothers him. He doesn’t know why it bothers him.

If he hadn’t met you, hadn’t known that you’d been with Hinata since he was dirt poor and moonlighting as a delivery boy in Brazil, he’d be tempted to think that you were only in it for the money. It’s not a bad plan, as far as these things go – find some up and coming athlete to place all your bets on, get him wrapped around your finger before success goes to his head. And he doesn’t know you all that well and has absolutely zero fucking justification to back it up, but you don’t strike him as the money hungry type.

You don’t strike him as anything, and maybe that’s part of the issue.

Hinata’s like a sun; he’s gonna eclipse anyone standing too close. That’s normal. The team; him and Sakusa, Bokuto, the others – they have their own talents to stand on, to push through and shine on their own, but you… 

Fuck, why does it even matter?

Why does it bother him? It ain’t his relationship. You never complain, you make Hinata happy – he’d have to be blind not to see how much that guy loves you – and he dotes on you, spoils the shit out of you, so why can’t he shake this feeling in his gut that something ain’t right there?

It ain’t his relationship, and Atsumu’s not stupid enough to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.

It ain’t his relationship.

It’s not, and he has more important things to focus his time and energy on.

You aren’t his problem. Fuck, you’ve barely spoken more than a few sentences to him! There’s no reason for why he can’t get you and your stupid relationship with his wing spiker outta his mind. 

“Just admit ya wanna fuck her and stop bitchin’ about it,” Samu groans one night when Atsumu stops by the restaurant after training. “Yer looking for a problem between the two of them so ya don’t feel guilty about it.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Shut yer trap, wouldja, Samu? I said it ain’t like that!”

He’s not gonna stand there and deny that he thinks you’re hot, but that’s not what this is about. Never has been. 

It’s quiet between them for a moment, Atsumu angrily stabbing at the onigiri on his plate, but he feels it when Osamu looks at him. Really looks, dark eyes flickering across his face, reading him like an open book. Samu might enjoy giving him shit and winding him up just for the sake of it, but there’s nobody on earth who knows him better. 

Eventually he sighs, and the air feels different between them. Heavier, somehow. “What’re ya saying, Tsumu? Ya think Hinata’s hurting her or somethin’?”

Yes. 

No.

He knows Hinata. Well, for a few months at least, but peripherally for years. Ever since high school. And Atsumu’s had the displeasure of knowing guys like that, guys who liked to feel big and tough and strong and would gladly slap around some pretty thing just to feel all manly and shit, and Hinata’s not– 

He doesn’t treat you like you’re made of glass or anything, but every time he touches you, so much as looks at you with those bright eyes, it’s with this kind of intense, burning love that Atsumu just doesn’t understand, that honestly freaks him out a little. He’s never seen bruises littering your skin – at least, not the kind that Samu’s worried about. You don’t flinch away from Hinata’s touch. 

(You never look comfortable though. Never happy – not like Hinata is.)

No. He’s a good guy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and despite the lingering unease Atsumu has about the two of you, he doesn’t doubt for a second that Hinata is head over fucking heels in love with you. He wouldn’t hurt you.

He wouldn’t.

“No, ‘course not! I just…” he breaks off, shaking his head. And he chews on his lip for a moment, debating with himself whether he should actually admit what he’s been thinking the past few weeks or whether Samu’s just gonna call him a pussy or something and tell him to knock it off. “I get the feeling she doesn’t wanna be there. She’s smiling and sitting there all pretty, but it’s just… I dunno, it’s just weird.”

Osamu doesn’t say much after that, but he doesn’t really need to. He knows what his brother’s thinking. If you weren’t happy, you’d leave. If Hinata wasn’t treating you right, you’d leave. You’d tell someone. But it ain’t that simple, is it? 

Atsumu’s always had a problem sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. 

The first game of the season’s a slam dunk, and while they’re usually pretty tame during the season, beating Kageyama and Ushijima, last year's undefeated champs is cause for celebration. He’s not surprised to see you there at the club, tucked under Hinata’s arm in some little black dress, all dolled up. You smile at him, a hollow, fleeting thing, and Atsumu hates how the sight of it makes his stomach clench. 

Sakusa, Bokuto and Inunaki arrive moments later, a drink’s shoved into his hands and he forces himself to think of other things. You aren’t his problem, you aren’t his girl, and he’s definitely not watching you dance, your back flush with Hinata’s front, the wing spiker’s hands splayed across your hips, his mouth trailing greedily along your neck. 

And for the first time since this whole stupid thing started, Atsumu recognises the ugly feeling stirring in the pit of his gut. It’s jealousy.

He’s played one of the best games of his life today, his team’s fucking amazing, the music’s good and the alcohol is free flowing – he should be happy. And there’s absolutely no reason he should be watching you out of the corner of his eye, waiting for an opening.

It shouldn’t make his heart skip a beat when Hinata leans down to whisper something in your ear, passing you his glass as he heads off to find the men’s. He’s midway through a conversation of his own with Adriah and Bokuto that he’s barely paying attention to, and there’s a voice in his head (one that sounds suspiciously like Samu’s) that tells him to just let it go, but his feet are already moving, a half hearted excuse spilling from his lips as he slips past them both to make his way over to you.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is too quiet, too breathless to carry across over the music, but he’s taller than you, taking up your space and he isn’t imagining the way that your eyes widen, a flicker of something passing your face before you school your features back into that same fake, pleasant smile. 

He doesn’t imagine the nervous look you dart over his shoulder in the direction Hinata walked off in. 

You take a delicate sip from your glass, the very same one you’ve been nursing since you arrived and he watches – watches – as you force yourself to relax, the tension easing from your shoulders, your posture softening. “Miya,” you greet, raising your voice just enough to be heard. “Congratulations on the win.”

It’s so polite, so fucking fake that it makes him wanna hurl. 

“Atsumu,” he corrects before he can help himself. Sakusa calls him Miya, but nobody else – nobody who knows him – does. He can’t bear the sound of it on your lips, like you’re nothing more than strangers. 

He’s talked to you before, right? Surely. 

You’re just standing there, perfectly at ease around him and the others – if not for the finger tapping anxiously against the stem of your glass, a tic he wonders if you’re even aware of. You might be able to fool the others – admittedly, they’re probably not paying you too much attention – but he’s used to picking up on the smallest details. 

And he’s become real good at reading you these past few weeks.

“So tell me, how’d the two of ya meet?” he asks instead, because he’s rushed in here with no game plan and it’s the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t even care about the answer; now that he’s finally here, finally has you to himself for a moment, he just wants to hear you talk. 

“Oh, um,” you swallow, ducking your head so you’re not meeting his gaze anymore. “It’s a little embarrassing–”

A familiar, bright laugh cuts you off, and Atsumu’s heart hammers when Hinata slaps him on the shoulder, “It’s not embarrassing, babe, it’s cute!” 

Deep brown eyes meet his; wide, glittering and freakishly intense and he fights the urge to recoil. He’s done nothing wrong, he knows that, but Hinata’s staring at him like every thought he’s ever had about you is written right across his face, plain as day.

And you – you look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, like Hinata’s stumbled on you shoving your tongue down his throat rather than just having an innocent, friendly conversation with his teammate. It’s a split second that stretches a lifetime, but when he dares to look over, you’re rigid, eyes wide and full of panic and he knows, he fucking knows that he’s right. 

“Tell him,” Hinata urges, wasting no time in slipping past Atsumu to take his place by your side.

His arm wraps around your waist, squeezing you gently, and after a single, tense beat, you comply. “O-on the first week of my trip to Brazil, I was mugged. Shoyo saw it all happen and chased after them – got my purse back for me, even walked me back home to make sure I was okay, patched me up and everything.” You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you gaze up at Hinata, “He was my knight in shining armour.”

Hinata preens as you smile, but it’s still wrong. Atsumu’s seen what hero worship looks like, what real love looks like, and he’ll hand it to you; you have the basics down pat, but you can’t fake everything. 

With bitterness and disgust eating away at his gut, it becomes suffocating, standing there trying to carry a conversation and pretending that whatever there is between the two of you is in any way fucking romantic–

It’s too much, like somebody has a grip on his lungs, viciously squeezing out the last of his breath, and he barely remembers to excuse himself before he’s shoving his way through the crowd, knocking Meian’s concerned hand away as he flees for the balcony.

The late summer night air’s warm and humid, but he gulps it down in big, gasping heaves, clinging to the rail like it’s a lifeline. 

You’re fucking with his head and he hates it. He hates that he can’t let this go, can’t get you out of his goddamn head no matter how hard he tries. Atsumu’s always been a selfish, arrogant bastard, why should he give two shits about some girl whose last name he doesn’t even know?

He wants to despise you. He wants to forget you, to shove you aside like he has every other distraction in his life. It’s not his problem you’ve found yourself in some fucked up relationship.

But he squeezes his eyes shut, and all Atsumu can see is your face. 

He stays out on that balcony until his body stops shaking, until the sweat on his forehead cools and he no longer feels like he’s gonna throw up. The beat of the music, spilling muted from the glass doors, wraps around him now that the pounding in his head’s subsided, tempting him back inside. Any other night, and he’d follow it, get absolutely shitfaced and party till he doesn’t remember his own name.

And as he stands there alone, staring up at the Tokyo city skyline, part of him almost wants to give in – to drink himself to oblivion. Because at least that’d be easier.

But he won’t.

Instead, Atsumu shoves his feelings down, musters up a lazy smirk and walks back inside. He has every intention of saying goodbye to at least a few of his teammates before heading back to the hotel room to crash, but as his eyes scan the crowded floor, he catches sight of something that stops him cold in his tracks.

Hinata has you pinned to the wall, his face buried in the crook of your neck, but that’s not what makes his heart skip a beat. It’s the way your dress is hiked up, your panties shoved to the side, Hinata’s hand between your thighs, fucking you on his fingers.

It’s the look on your face, screwed up in pleasure – or pain – biting down on your lip to stifle your cries. It wouldn’t make a difference. Nobody would be able to hear you over the music, and even if they could he doubts anyone would give a fuck.

His mouth dries out, every thought eddying from his head as he watches you cling to Hinata, your hands gripping his arms tight. Your makeup’s smudged, a tear spilling down your cheek catches the glittering lights of the club, but when your head tilts back he knows it’s a moan that leaves your lips. He can almost hear it, picture it in his mind. You’re shuddering, shaking your head even as your eyes are squeezed shut and the only sound Atsumu can hear is the restless thumping of his own heart.

And then your eyes flutter open and find his. He watches, frozen in place, transfixed in the worst possible way as mortification flashes across your features and your lips move–

Whatever you say to him, Hinata doesn’t stop. He just shifts a little, angles his body in a way that gives Atsumu a better view of your pussy and the attention he’s paying it. He can’t look away even if he desperately wants to, utterly enthralled by the slickness coating the digits, the way your thighs tremble and quake as those fingers curl inside of you, the little jolt you give when Hinata’s thumb rubs at your puffy clit.

Atsumu watches, equal parts horrified and mesmerised as he pushes you over the edge and you cum for him, a pleasured cry drowned out by the music, shaking and breathless and beautifully wrecked in his teammate’s arms. And as you all but collapse against him, Hinata finally turns to glance over his shoulder, meeting Atsumu’s stare.

And with his eyes fixed on the blonde, he whispers something into your ear that Atsumu doesn’t have a hope in hell of hearing, presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek and grins.

It’s enough to rip him out of his stupor, stumbling back with a gasp as his blood runs cold. Hinata knew, he knew he was watching – put on a fucking show for him, and suddenly the nausea returns, bile creeping up his throat and Atsumu can’t do a single thing but turn and flee.

Alone in his hotel room and not nearly drunk enough, he falls into a fitful sleep, the image of your face, tear stricken and beautiful as you fell to pieces on Hinata’s fingers, burned into the back of his eyelids. 

—

He doesn’t utter a word about it when Boktuo gives him shit for ducking out early the next day at training. He doesn’t so much as meet Hinata’s eye, though the redhead seems no different than usual, all but bouncing on his heels when the Coach runs through the game against the Adlers set by set.

He still gushes when Atsumu gives him a perfect set, beaming up at him with that thousand watt smile. He still offers to be paired off with him when they run two-on-two games, isn’t ruffled when Atsumu instead grabs Sakusa and goes up against Adriah and Barnes.

And you’re still sitting in the stands, fingers twined on your lap, smiling dutifully whenever your boyfriend glances up.

Atsumu tries his best to ignore you and focus on training. He can’t afford to let you distract him any more than you already have, but in the quiet moments between sets, on their breaks, every second he’s not thinking about the game and his performance and his team his thoughts drift back to you. The way you’d bitten down on your bottom lip. Your eyes, pupils blown wide as pleasure crashed through you. Your glistening cunt, swallowing up Hinata’s fingers. The cute little noises you made – the ones he couldn’t hear but spent all fucking night imagining.

And the moment those thoughts enter his head, he can’t stop himself from darting a quick glance towards you, like he’s making sure you’re still there, that you’re okay. Even if you stiffen almost imperceptibly every time he does.

He can’t help himself, and he’s not the only one who notices. 

“Dude, you good?” Bokuto asks, pulling him aside a week or so later during one of their water breaks. And for a second there, there’s a flicker of indignation – whatever’s going on with his head, his performance is beyond question; he’s killing it. 

It’s not until the wing spiker’s attention shifts, risking a glance over his shoulder to where he knows you’re sitting that he realises that’s not what Bokkun’s worried about.

“Look, I get it, she’s cute and all, but…” Bokuto trails off, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. Every ounce of discomfort is written clear as day across his face. “You might wanna tone it down a bit, you know? For everyone’s sake.”

The irony of it all doesn’t escape him. And he probably should feel some kinda shame, because if Bokuto’s noticed then that means every goddamn one of the others has too and they’re all just too uncomfortable to say anything, but he can’t seem to muster it. 

“Yeah,” he croaks out instead.

Two days later he’s halfway through a shower when the stall beside his bursts open and he hears that familiar, sunny laugh, the sound of two bodies clambering into a space too small, and his heart stutters in his chest.

“Sho, no. I-I don’t wanna–”

“Shh, be good for me, alright baby? Please?” 

A drawn out hiss followed by a breathy moan, and Atsumu’s bracing himself against the tiled wall squeezing his eyes shut.

The spray of the shower isn’t loud enough to drown out the sounds of you swallowing down Hinata’s cock. And he can’t move, can’t make a sound for fear of making this worse, but with every lewd, messy gluck from your throat, every obnoxious moan that spills from his teammate’s lips, Atsumu feels that telltale stirring in his gut.

His eyes are closed and the image comes unbidden to his mind.

You on your knees, looking up at him with those big, wide innocent eyes. You, pressing soft, teasing kisses to his cock, your tongue slowly trailing along the thick vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. The way it’d swirl around his flushed head, eagerly lapping at his precum. Fuck, his cock’s already throbbing, aching. 

He’s only human, he thinks as he wraps a hand around his member, teeth sinking into the flesh of his forearm to stifle his groan. You’re making a mess of him, he wants it so fucking bad. Wants you; to fuck you, have you, hold you, he doesn’t give a shit anymore, you’re driving him to the brink and he’s helpless to stop this.

He can see it so perfectly in his head, how you’d look with those soft lips wrapped around him, the way you’d massage his balls as he fucked your face, how you’d choke on it. You’d be good, so fucking perfect as you sucked him off–

Hinata’s chanting your name and Atsumu picks up his pace, strokes turning into pumps, his fist tightening as he hisses with pleasure. Distantly he wonders whether they can hear it too; his heavy breathing, the slick, wet sound of him jerking off less than a foot away.

He doesn’t care anymore, can’t hold himself back. It’s blinding, the pleasure that rips through him, shaking him to his very core as spurt after spurt of thick, hot cum paints the shower walls.

His knees buckle, his cock still twitching as aftershocks jolt through him, stealing his breath. For a blissful moment, Atsumu lets himself sag against the tiles, a lazy smirk coating his face as he basks in the afterglow, his heartbeat slowly coming down from it’s racing high. 

And yet as the warm water of the shower cascades down his toned body, his breathing returning to normal something unpleasant begins to unfurl in his stomach, toxic and cloying, seeping through his veins. All that bliss, that heady, addictive pleasure fades away and Atsumu’s left with the weight of what he’s just done.

Distantly, he registers that it’s quieter now in the stall next to his. Hinata’s murmuring something to you, but Atsumu can’t make sense of it over the dull roar in his head, the disgust and shame that coils like a noose around his throat.

He should hate himself. 

He just might, actually.

And it’s not enough to scrub until his skin’s raw and he doesn’t feel it crawling anymore, doesn’t matter that he stays in the shower until the two of you leave, until the water runs ice cold and it physically hurts to stand under the spray.

Hinata’s still in the locker room when he gets out, slowly gathering the last of his things and shoving them into his duffle bag. For once you’re not by his side, and Atsumu can only thank whatever godly beings might be out there for this one, tiny mercy, because he doesn’t think he can bear to see you after what he’s just done.

But Hinata just smiles, bright and cheerful and all too knowing, “Seeya tomorrow, Atsumu!”

And he feels filthy all over again.

[prouvaireafterdark]

Fireside Song - 3x09 Coda

Um, did you think Michael was going to say he had a heart to heart over Alex with Sanders and I wasn’t going to write something???

Also on AO3!

***

The sun has long since set by the time Michael climbs out of his lair and starts looking for the six pack he left in the back of his mini fridge. He’s cut way back on his drinking these last few months, but Alex is stuck working late and he’s got nothing better to do than crack open a beer or two in front of his fire pit. 

Once he gets the fire going, Michael collapses into one of his creaky old lawn chairs with a tired sigh and reaches out his palm, willing one of the bottles in his six pack to float up and into his grasp. The glass is cool against his skin, a welcome contrast the growing heat of the fire against his legs.

Michael stares at the flames dancing in front of him as he flicks off the cap and takes a sip, thinking of the fireplace he spotted in Alex’s living room the last time he was there. He wonders if he ever actually uses it, if maybe he should stop and pick up some firewood for him the next time he drives over. It would be nice, he thinks, for the two of them to curl up together on his couch in front of the fireplace, or, better yet, to litter the floor with pillows and blankets the way they used to in the bed of Michael’s truck when they were kids. 

He can imagine it perfectly: the firelight casting flickering shadows over Alex’s face as he lies beside him, his thigh slipping between Michael’s as he presses in close and runs his fingers through his curls. Warmth that has nothing to do with the fire spreads through him at the thought and Michael wishes more than anything that he was holding Alex in his arms right now. 

It’s amazing, really, that Michael’s spent most of the last decade not touching Alex, but now that they’re together—in a real relationship, he reminds himself with no small sense of wonder—Michael can’t fathom how he ever lived like that. Now he feels Alex’s absence like a physical thing, a tug at the center of his chest pulling him toward his other half as surely as if they were two pieces of the same console. 

It scares him as much as it thrills him. He knows that building a life with Alex is never going to be as easy as wanting it, that the path ahead of them is long and arduous. As Michael sinks deeper into his chair, he can’t help but wonder if they’ll make the journey—and how the hell he’s going to survive it if they don’t.

A door slams in the distance and Michael looks up to see Sanders exit his office. Michael waves at him with the bottle in his hand and the second the old man finishes locking up for the night he turns and crosses the yard over to him. 

“The hell are you out here brooding for?” Sanders asks as he approaches. 

“I’m not brooding,” Michael shoots back. “I’m thinking.”

“Huh,” Sanders huffs, taking a seat beside him. He reaches down to steal a beer from the six pack sitting in the dirt by Michael’s boot. “Could have fooled me.”

Michael just takes another sip of his beer. It’s warmer now than it was when he opened it, but it’s still decent.

“You got a church key lying around here?” Sanders asks, holding up his still-capped bottle. 

In lieu of a verbal response, Michael lifts his right hand off the armchair and uses his powers to flick the top of the bottle off. 

Sanders looks at the cap lying discarded in the dirt a few feet away with something like amazement on his face before he huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Aliens.”

Michael tips his bottle at him in a salute, his lips pulling into a grin.

They sit together in silence for a moment before Sanders finally says, “So, you’re not brooding. What are you thinking about then?” 

Michael takes a deep breath before he admits, “Alex.”

“Oh, so we’re done pretending you two aren’t a thing?” Sanders asks.

Michael hides his smile against his collar. “Yeah, we’re, uh, definitely a thing now.”

“About damn time,” Sanders says, reaching over to clink the neck of his bottle against Michael’s before he takes a long pull of his beer. 

“Tell me about it,” Michael laughs before Sanders words really catch up with him. “Wait—how long have you even known about us?”

Sanders looks up as he thinks about it before he answers, “You remember that summer you got your Airstream and started parking out here so you’d be closer to work?” 

“That was nine years ago,” Michael says, more than a little stunned. He’d assumed Sanders had watched them interact sometime over the last two years or so, when Alex was back in Roswell for good and they’d been spending more and more time together.

Sanders gives him a deadpan stare as he says, “I’m sorry, did you think you were being discreet when you shoved him up against the side of your trailer in broad daylight and—?”

“You know what?” Michael interrupts suddenly, a flush beginning to form on his cheeks as he remembers where that sentence is headed. “Nevermind. Forget I asked.”

Sanders snickers beside him and takes another sip of his beer before he asks, “So what’s the matter then?”

“What do you mean?” Michael asks. 

“I’ve known you a long time, kid,” Sanders says. “You don’t sit out here like this if there’s not something going on in that head of yours. You wanna stop playing dumb and tell me what it is?”

Michael takes a deep breath. “Alex and I are having our first date tomorrow night.”

“You nervous?” Sanders guesses.

Michael nods, shifting his grip on the bottle in his hand. “We don’t exactly have a great track record when it comes to communication. As good as things are right now… I’m worried we’re gonna fall into old patterns and fuck it all up.”

Sanders is quiet for a moment, his chin caught between his fingers in apparent thought before he finally asks, “Do you love him?” 

“More than anything,” Michael says automatically, the words almost spilling out of him.

“Then you’ll be fine,” Sanders says with a confidence Michael can’t understand.

“How can you possibly know that?” he asks.

“You love that piece of shit truck you drive, right?” Sanders asks, jerking his thumb in its direction across the lot.

 “Of course I do,” Michael scoffs, mildly offended. That truck’s been with him through so much—Hell, once upon a time it was even his home.

He’s about to tell him off for insulting his baby like that when Sanders continues, “Well, say you’re driving to Colorado to bring an old friend of yours a mysterious package he tells you not to open—“

“Is this a true story?” Michael asks, an amused quirk to his lips.

“Yes, now shut the hell up,” Sanders says, making Michael laugh as he continues, “Anyway, say you’re driving along and all of a sudden your engine breaks. Are you gonna just abandon your truck on the side of the road and start hitchhiking?”

“No,” Michael says. “I’d tow it back here and fix it.”

“Exactly,” Sanders says, as if Michael has already proven his point. “You love that piece of junk, you’re not gonna just walk away from it. You’re gonna find a way to make it purr again.”

Michael gets what he’s saying, but he can’t help but point out, “Engines can break beyond repair, Sanders.”

“Sure,” he concedes. “If you don’t take care of them.”

Michael thinks about that for a beat, long enough for Sanders to continue, “Look, I ain’t sayin’ it’ll be easy, but when you hit a rough patch, don’t just call it quits. Talk to him. Find a way to—”

“Make him purr?” Michael jokes.

“If that’s what you’re into,” Sanders says.

Michael shakes his head in amusement, his heart lighter than before. The old man’s right, he thinks—He loves Alex more than anything. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep him.

“Thanks, Sanders,” he says, smiling down the neck of his beer bottle. 

“Don’t mention it,” Sanders says, waving him off. “Just make sure there’s an open bar at your wedding, okay?”

Michael laughs sharply at that. “Yeah, okay,” he says, his stomach flipping over as he thinks about it. “I think I can make that happen.”

[aggravatetheaxe]

BO SINCLAIR X TRANS MAN / MAN ALIGNED READER COMING OUT - Pt. 1 - Under Your Skin

This title is SAFE FOR WORK. Pt. 2, Over the Moon, will be NSFW. I'll link that here when it's written!

You met Bo while you were still presenting as a woman. Suffice to say things have changed, and you can't keep your secret from him any longer. You have no choice but to tell him or leave ... but what if he makes you leave anyway?

CW: descriptions of dysphoria that get very intense, deadnaming/misgendering, mentions of murder and mortal peril, it's 2005 and Bo is from the south so just be advised it's not all fluff and rainbows (but there is payoff, this isn't straight angst, it's just a journey)

Soundtrack: x

Words: 4,175

Part Two

Masterlist

***

Your shoulders were stiff. Your throat was dry. Your leg was bouncing, the only thing you could do to release the nervous energy juttering through your body.

You were going to tell him.

You'd put it off for months now, not quite sure how to say the words. Then, when you'd arranged them in your head, fear had kept you from saying them out loud. But you couldn't wait anymore. You couldn't live like this any longer.

You'd been hiding the secret for too long. Every time Bo called you by your birth name or made some quip about you being his girl, your heart shriveled just a little more. It had gotten to the point where you didn't even want compliments from him ... you didn't want to talk. You didn't even really want to sleep with him, didn't like to think about him looking at you as a woman during sex.

He didn't know, of course. But that almost made it worse. He couldn't stop hurting you and you couldn't yell at him for it. It was always the same: you lost control, you got frustrated, wouldn't tell him why, he'd get frustrated, you'd fight ... it was a mess. You knew all that was putting a strain on your relationship.

So it had to be tonight.

It had to be tonight.

You had everything planned. You'd already gone into town with Lester and picked up some stuff for a nice dinner; there was a fresh, cold six-pack of Bud in the fridge; and Rocky III was sitting in the VHS player, ready to go. Once he was relaxed, you'd talk to him.

You'd convinced yourself so fully that you'd stick to the plan that when you heard his truck pull up and your heart leapt into your throat, you nearly cried. Fuck, not again. Not another night. You were supposed to be stronger than this.

Stomping boots on the porch. You heard the door swing open from the kitchen. "I'm home."

He didn't sound like he was in a particularly good mood, but it didn't sound like a bad one, either. That was good news, at least. Things must have gone okay down at the shop. "I'm in here!" you called back.

Bo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, tracking a little gravel into the house as always. He leaned against the doorframe with one hand on his hip, gesturing with his chin. "Hey, sugar. What you got there?"

You looked down at the meal you were plating. "I thought I'd try a pot roast? I dunno. I don't think it came out very good, but I guess we'll see."

He didn't say anything. You glanced over your tense shoulder to see him simply staring at you, like he was trying to read your thoughts. You could sense the gears in his head turning behind those clever blue eyes of his. He knew there was something wrong; you were guarded.

For a moment, you thought he might say something. That familiar little bit of irritation was beginning to creep into his face, right around his neck and jaw. But after a few seconds, he simply said, "A'right," and straightened. "M'gonna go change."

"'Kay." As he stomped up the stairs, you finished getting the food ready and brought the plates to the living room. Bo usually ate at the table—"I ain't a savage"—but you could tell he liked eating on the couch. It was like a special treat. And clearly, you were short on charm at the moment, so you'd have to use your environment to your advantage.

You pulled up two tray tables and set the food down, then fetched the beer. By the time everything was set up, Bo was coming back down the stairs.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to look at him. He was wearing jeans and a red flannel, sleeves rolled up. At this point, he didn't care about you seeing his scars. You hardly noticed them anymore.

He came closer and slowed to a stop, forehead wrinkling as he eyed your set-up. "What's all this about?"

"I was thinking dinner and a movie." You paused. "I thought Rocky might get the taste of my cooking out of your mouth."

You succeeded in making him laugh a little, crow's feet crinkling, but as he took a step closer, his smile faded. "Did you do somethin'? Is somethin' broken?" He glanced quickly, running his gaze over the clutter his parents had left behind.

"Nothing's wrong," you reassured him quickly, stepping back into his line of sight in the hopes of distracting him. "I just thought, you know, we could have a nice night. Like ... romantic?"

He stared at you for a moment. Then, his gaze lit, a toothy smile appearing. "Romantic, huh? Well hell, sweetie, why didn't ya say so?"

He clearly thought you meant sex. In fact, the way he was looking at you, you thought he'd jump you right up against the pool table if you let him. Your dysphoria made sex so unbearable that you'd been avoiding it when you could lately, and you were sure he missed it.

You were lucky he hadn't gotten mean yet. You guessed that was a testament to how much he must like you. But who knew if he'd like you after tonight?

Quickly, you shoved a beer into his hand, redirecting his attention as you slid onto the couch and clicked play. He slid into place beside you, relaxing back with his legs spread.

You both picked at your food—you because you were way too nervous to eat, and him because ... well, you assumed it was because he was waiting for you to initiate the "romance." He did eventually finish his meal, though, complimenting you with one of his "So good, baby"s and a boozy kiss.

The movie droned on, and eventually, he wrapped an arm around you. As he did, you relaxed, if only a little. You wanted to settle into him ... you wanted it more than anything in the world. You did love him. But who did he love? The woman he thought he was putting his arm around wasn't you.

"What's wrong?" His tone was firm and sudden after such a long stretch of silence.

You blinked at him. "Nothing."

He wasn't buying it, and he didn't look impressed. "There's no point in lyin'a me, darlin'. I know when somethin' ain't right." Then, with a little edge to his voice, "You know I get pissed when you brush me off."

"I'm just..." You sighed, setting your beer aside and rubbing your forehead. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"Let's go to bed, then." In one fluid motion, he stood and turned off the TV. "Hope you're not too tired," he added quietly.

It was equal parts insult, warning, and come-on, and it exhausted you as much as it panicked you. You weren't ready to tell him just yet. You'd figured you still had a few hours, but ... well, if you pissed him off now, all this nice set-dressing had been for nothing. Then you'd either have to tell him while he was in a bad mood or spend another night as someone you weren't.

Biting back a sigh, you stood, too. He was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, and let you go up first.

"Nice view from back here," he said smoothly. "Almost wanna tell you to start runnin'."

Shit. You needed an excuse to buy yourself a little time. "Can you shower first?"

You knew the question ticked him off because he didn't answer it. He followed you to your shared room, grabbed a towel, and left for the bathroom in heated silence.

The shower would make him feel better. It always did. He'd scald himself like he liked, then come out much calmer. Hopefully. You changed and took your place in bed, sitting under the blankets with your pillow propping you up. Waiting.

You were wrong about the calm. When he came back into the bedroom—red-skinned and completely naked, towel occupied in his hair—he was scowling at the floor. You waited for him to yell. It was inevitable.

When he did finally say something, his tone was quieter than you imagined, though simmering. "Why are you doin' this to me?"

You didn't respond, mostly because you had no idea which this he was talking about.

"Hurts my pride, y'know." He began toweling his body. Rather roughly, you noticed. "My girl don't wanna fuck me. You know how that feels as a man? You think I wanna have to— hurt you?"

A pause. "Bo..."

"Am I gonna have to get it somewhere else? Fuck, Deadname."

You shrank in bed. That name made you feel rotten to the core. It was like poison slowly choking your veins. You had to do this ... but you couldn't. But you had to.

Bo was unaware of the war going on inside of you as he turned, leaning against the dresser, arms back to clutch the edge. "Is it someone else?" You could tell he was murderous just thinking about that possibility, gaze aflame, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break teeth. "Is it Vincent?"

"What? No!" Why he'd think that when you'd only ever expressed mild concern for Vincent's well-being, you had no idea. "There's no one else, Bo, I just—"

"Then what's a matter with you, huh?" He raised his voice. "Am I too rough, am I too— Jesus Christ, you gotta at least tell me what the damage is!"

Your conflicting emotions threatened to overwhelm you. You yelled back, "It's not you!"

"Then what the hell is it?!"

"It's me!"

He opened his mouth to shout back, but only managed, "What in the f—" before he lost steam, searching your face helplessly. Something about the way you looked must have given him pause. You meant what you said. Desperately, desperately. It was you. You were the problem.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, glare pointed. "You been off all night. Hell"—one of those incredulous laughs that betrayed his genuine anger—"you been off for a while. Least you can do is tell me what the fuck is goin' on."

He was right. No turning back now. You took a deep, grounding breath. "Okay."

A moment of hesitation. Did you want him close or across the room like that, just in case? Eventually, you decided you needed him close. You patted the bed beside you.

Bo grabbed a pair of boxer-briefs, stepping into them on his way over. His expression was still twisted sourly, but you could sense him relax as he sat in bed next to you. He didn't meet your eye, simply looking down at the sheets. Beneath the anger, a begrudging expectation simmered. Did he think you were going to break things off?

That thought spurred you into taking his hand, squeezing lightly. "I love you so fucking much."

He glanced to the side. At length, he mumbled, "You, too."

You took another deep breath, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "There's something I haven't told you about me. And it's really been stressing me out lately. That's why I've been acting so weird." When he didn't reply, you continued, "It's been making it ... hard to be close to you. I don't like the way lying to you makes me feel, and I've been ... scared, so fucking scared, Bo."

He glanced at you again, brows drawn, this time with confusion rather than anger. "So what is it? What the hell can be so big an' important that you can't stand bein' around me?" A pause. "I mean shit, Deadname, you know I kill people for a livin'. My fucked up twin turns 'em into wax. You know about the fuckin' dungeon—what could be bigger'n that?"

That fucking name. You couldn't take it anymore. Your voice cracked as you whispered, "You need to stop calling me Deadname."

"What? Why?" He frowned deeply. "That's your name, ain't it?"

"It's not the name I want to be called."

You could almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tried to figure out what was going on. "Okay ... so it ain't your real name. Why you goin' around using a fake name?" His gaze turned flinty and cold. "You're a cop."

"No!" You held up your hands. "No, I didn't lie about who I was, not ... not in the way you're thinking. I was born with that name; everything I've told you about my life and where I came from, all those things were true. I never lied about any of that."

"Then what is it?" He was getting angry again. "Spit it out!"

Well, since he asked... "I don't want to use that name because ... it's a woman's name. And I'm not a woman. I'm a man."

Bo stared for a few seconds, then scanned you up and down once. His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "You were ... born a man? Then how come your name—"

"No, no." You pursed your lips, taking his hand hesitantly again. "I was ... I guess for simplicity's sake you could say I was born a girl. I was born with a vagina, I developed breasts and started my period naturally. But I'm not a girl. Like, in my head. In my brain, I'm actually a man."

He didn't believe you. You could see it in his face. But you weren't planning on giving up that easily. You knew what he'd be thinking; you'd planned this whole thing out so carefully, chosen your words so precisely.

"It's not ... a delusion or anything. It's actually more common than people think. It's called being transgender. When you're born one gender but you want to be another."

He frowned, obviously completely lost. He wasn't getting it. He just didn't fucking understand. And you were growing desperate.

"Bo." Your throat was raw, tears threatening your eyes. "Every time you call me your girl, or you refer to me as a woman, or you use that name ... I fucking hate it. It hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad to know you're not seeing the real me. It makes me not see the real me. I look in the mirror and I just want to ... tear my skin off. Sometimes I just wanna take a knife and— and fix me. Cut out whatever part of me makes it hurt so bad. I just want to be seen as who I am so bad."

"Okay." You didn't like the way he was looking at you, but the anguish in your voice had at least moved him to speak. You could see in his eyes that he was working overtime to puzzle this out. "So, what? What're you gonna do? What's it mean for us?"

"Well..." You had to break eye contact, staring down at his hand. "What I'd like to do is start living as a man. You know, dressing like a man—which I already pretty much do—going by a different name, maybe cutting my hair. You could call me 'he' ... I might even get medicine later on down the line, like hormones, to make me look squarer. Maybe even surgery."

"You gonna get a dick?" The almost mocking tone of his voice made you want to shrivel up and die. He seemed to pick up on the change in your body immediately and shifted his tone. "I'm askin'."

"No, that's not a thing. But I'm gonna be a man regardless." Finally, you released his hand, though you still couldn't look at him. "What that means for us is ... up to you, I guess. It'd mean you were dating a guy. I mean, you have been this whole time—"

"I didn't fucking know," he cut in firmly.

A jolt of fear lanced your heart. "I know. That's my fault; I didn't tell you. I was ... scared."

"Scared of what?" he pressed, tone growing aggressive.

"I don't know. Of you being mad. Or not loving me anymore." You glanced up. "I love you. Seriously, I do. More than anything. I still want to be with you, just ... as a man."

There was silence. A horrible, stretching, heavy silence that made you want to hang your head and cry. After a while, Bo rose from bed, going to the dresser and pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, all in that silence.

Was he ... leaving you? No, he wouldn't leave his own house, he'd make you leave. Or kill you. But he certainly wasn't opening his arms to you. Waves of sadness crashed over your chest, so intense you thought you'd throw up.

He seemed to contemplate the dresser for an extended period. Then, he glanced over his shoulder, just barely. "I need ta' think."

And with that, he was out the door. He didn't come back to bed that night. The next morning, you found his pillow on the couch.

***

Vincent was next on your list of people to tell. It turned out he was a big help, bigger than you could have ever realized he would be. You had to explain yourself, but he took it in stride, calling you by your new chosen name and even helping you come up with a sign for it.

« Did you tell Bo? » he eventually asked you.

"I told him last night." Your eyes were still puffy and red from your night alone, and the morning following it. You still hadn't seen him, but you could hear music blaring from the garage, so you at least knew where he was.

« How did he take it? »

"He isn't speaking to me."

Vincent paused. His wax face was blank as always, but you could tell he was considering something. « Did he yell? »

"No ... he just said he would think about it."

A low grunt, and Vincent nodded. « Then let him think. »

And he did think. He thought about it every night from then on. You could see him thinking during meal times, when you brought him lunch down at the shop, when he was watching TV. You noticed him zoning out in the middle of reading sometimes: paperback crunched and folded in one hand, other hand pressed to his grim mouth, those blue eyes glassy and staring at nothing. Thinking.

He hardly ever spoke to you outside of necessary communication. Before bed, he told you goodnight, but it was ... heavy. He didn't roll over to touch you or hold you anymore. The distance was yawning and heartbreaking, especially when you were alone. The silence was so pregnant with unsaid words and all his damn thoughts.

You wanted to ask if he was mad, but you didn't dare. He didn't seem mad, and you knew a thing or two about his moods. This seemed ... different. So you simply didn't say anything.

And then, one day...

"Hey, handsome."

His voice practically made you jump out of your skin. You, Vincent, and Bo—and sometimes Lester—divided who would have to go into the houses in Ambrose to dust and clean, and today was your day. He'd snuck up on you in the middle of oiling some of the rigs like he'd taught you.

"Uh. Hey." You managed a hasty smile, uncertain you'd actually heard him call you what you thought he had. "What're you doing here?" After a week of him barely speaking to you, it seemed odd that he'd start now.

Bo took a few steps in, looking away and reaching to fiddle with a knick-knack on a nearby side table. "Just thought I'd come check up on you. You are my, uh ... boyfriend, after all."

You stopped dead in the middle of spraying WD-40, staring over your shoulder. What?

When he felt you staring, he lifted his gaze. There was an uncertainty there, discomfort, along with a challenge. "What?"

"Nothing." You turned back to your work. After a few seconds, you added, "Thank you."

He didn't respond, but he eventually sidled up to you, surveying your work. "Not half bad. Yeah, you're doin' real good." He reached up to adjust his hat, and you could feel his gaze on you. "We'll make a man outta you yet."

You couldn't help it—your face burned. "Girls can maintain machinery, too, Bo."

"Yeah, I know that, but you—" An edge of irritation entered his voice. "Now you're just confusin' me."

You set down the WD-40 and turned, searching his face. By god, he really was trying, wasn't he? It was almost cute how bad he was at it, but he was trying. Vincent had been right.

"You never asked my name," you eventually muttered.

"Vincent told me it. Y/N." He said it again, rolling it around on his tongue. "Y/N ... in'erestin' choice. I guess it suits ya." A pause, and he lowered his voice. "Gonna take me some gettin' used to."

"That's okay," you said quickly. "As long as you're trying."

"Yeah, well..." Bo paused before reaching out, brushing his fingers through your hair. "Gonna miss all this."

You leaned into his hand. "I might not cut it. I haven't decided yet."

He grunted, continuing to brush his fingers through your hair. You could see his expression drift back to that thoughtfulness you'd gotten used to seeing. Eventually, he said, "Guess this makes me gay."

He sounded so begrudging and yet so decisive that you almost laughed in his face. Thankfully, you were able to bite back your reaction. "You don't have to be. You can be whatever you want. But ... if you stayed with me, it would mean you were attracted to at least one man, yeah."

"Fine." He pursed his lips, huffing through his nose. "Bi-sexual or whatever."

"You don't have to put a label on it right now. You've got time." You hesitated before taking his large hands in yours, bringing them to cup your jaw. "This ... you know ... it isn't something that has to happen overnight. I'm not asking that. It's a process for both of us ... a lot to get used to for both of us."

"Sure the hell is." He scoffed and shoved his hat up his forehead, scratching his hairline. "Now I want you to tell me somethin'. Why were you so damn scared of tellin' me?"

You took a breath. "I mean ... Bo."

"What?"

"I'm in the south ... alone, no family ... in a town where you could kill me if I pissed you off and no one would ever know." He made a face, but you pressed: "You know where I come from. Things are dangerous there, and things around here are even—"

"You think just 'cause you're in the country folks are gonna treat you different?" He sounded offended.

"Bo," you said again. "Let's not kid ourselves. How many guys do you know who would beat my ass if they found out? If they found out I liked other men, even."

"Couple assholes. But they ain't gonna bother you with me around. B'sides, plenty a' gays around here, like any other place ... they're just drillin' and weldin' and workin' the factories." He fixed you with a look. "Country don't mean stupid."

"Did you just quote The Stand?"

"No," he said hastily, taking his hat off and shoving it in the back pocket of his Dickies. "All I'm sayin' is ... I'm not some dumb animal."

Your shoulders sank, heart softening. "I know you're not, baby. But you have been known to, y'know, murder people. You can understand why I was scared, can't you?"

His mouth twitched, but reluctantly, he mumbled, "Yeah, I guess." A pause. "I can't promise I won't never hurt you, Deadn— Y/N. I know I can be real careless with my words on occasion. But I won't kill ya. Don' know if I could reconcile that shame. And, uh ... I love you."

Your heart swelled, and you leaned forward, hugging him tightly around the middle. It wasn't long until you felt his strong, warm arms enfold you in return, one hand tangling in your hair. His heartbeat was steady and comforting beneath your head, and the heat radiating from him relaxed every muscle in your body.

The two of you stayed that way for a while, hugging tightly while the TV droned in the background. Eventually, he shifted and spoke, his voice rumbling deliciously against you.

"Now if you don't mind," Bo started casually before dropping into a purr, "I'd like a kiss from my handsome lover."

You couldn't help but grin up at him. "You sure?"

"Lay it on me, big boy."

Maybe you were evil for loving him despite it all. Maybe you were complicit. Those weren't your judgments to make. But as you craned your neck to kiss him and euphoria exploded through your chest, you knew one thing for certain:

You were you.

***

Part Two

Masterlist

Tip Jar

[amor-immortalem]

Friends (With Benefits)

Minors DNI

A/N: Fair warning this is a mammonxoc smut-not a very good one but its a smut nonetheless- because its just that kinda day... It’s not the first one I’ve written but it’s the first one I’ve ever posted that hasn’t been part of a role play so... yeah. Do with that info what you will...

I'm not participating in kinktober but since its that time of year I figured eh why the hell not. Now, if you excuse me. I need some water.

Also I’m doing that 48hr post+ protest so any comments questions or concerns will be heard on the 4th.

Warning(s)?: unprotected sex, oral sex (Female receiving) size kink (if you squint)

Gods she needed to get off. She’d been down here on the exchange programme for about six months at this point and yeah, Asmodeus made it a point to make sure she had plenty of quality toys at her disposal for the year, but it just wasn’t as satisfying as the real thing. Not to mention, she never had a moment’s peace in this god-forsaken house to begin with. It was common place for Arella to come home to Mammon or one of his brothers making themselves at home here in her room or just barging in whenever they felt like it- no better way to kill the mood than getting walked in on by one of her housemates.

In fact, that’s the case today. Arella had come home a little earlier than the others due to them being stuck for a student council meeting for the express purpose of having some privacy and time to relieve her frustrations without risking the chance that one of those pesky demons would interrupt her. Of course, that wasn’t the case for her as waiting on her bed was the Avatar of Greed himself scrolling through his phone like it was no big deal- dressed in only a pair of grey sweat pants because of course he would be.

It was a nice view though. Despite Mammon’s frustrating hot-’n-cold attitude sometimes, he always is pleasing to look at and now in her desire-addled mind, Arella finds herself scanning over his form as her eyes drift lower and lower until...

“Ya gonna just stand there or...?” Mammon calls, not looking away from the screen of his phone.

Her face flushes at the notion that he’s caught her eyeing him up like a piece a meat. “Why’re you in here, Mammon? Surely, you have better things to do since you’re always so busy.”

“Well yeah, naturally, I’ve always got shit ta do but I said we were gonna do movie night after school today so...”

“Can you give me a few hours, please? I... have to take care of something.” Arella sighs when the demon makes no effort to leave but rather shifts a little to the point that the material of his pants leaves astoundingly little to the imagination.

She audibly swallows, trying so hard not to stare. Arella has to look away, her face an impossibly bright shade of red as her mind starts to wander into the gutter. She could always order him away with the pact but she always did hate using it unnecessarily. It’s not until she sees the smirk on his face that she knows he’s fucking with her.

“What’s so important that I can’t be here, huh?” Mammon drops his phone on the bed beside him.

“That smirk on your face tells me you know exactly why.” The human glares at him.

“Yeah ‘n that’s why ‘m not goin’,” The Avatar of Greed laughs, “Yer jus’ gonna have to suffer, Princess.”

“You are absolutely horrible, you know that?” Arella sighs in frustration. “C’mon, Mammon, just go, please. Unlike you, who has the luxury of going out to find a partner when you need to get laid, I can’t for risk that they’ll eat me afterwards so I have to take care of myself when it comes to that.”

“You could always just ask me to help ya...” The demon suggests. “Ever heard of the term ‘friends with benefits’?”

“Huh- Wha- I – Of course, I’ve heard of the term!” She crosses her arms as she huffs. “But friends with benefits only works when both parties don’t run the risk of catching feelings. And you strike me as the type who does.”

“What? No. Couldn’t be me.” The demon rolls his eyes as he looks away, “’sides you’d be doin’ me a favor too and ya can’t tell me that yer not even a little curious about what I’m like in bed. I heard ya this morning. Moanin’ my name and beggin’ me for more.” A smug smirk paints itself on his face as he gets up, approaching her, walking her back until she’s trapped between him and the wall. “Well? Ya got your chance with The Great Mammon now... ya gonna take it or blow it?”

Arella bites her lip as she mulls it over. It wasn’t like he was wrong. She did fantasize about him more than she should for someone who she considers a friend. “Fuck it,” she murmurs as she surges forward to capture his lips in a heated kiss as she pushes him back towards her bed.

If the need wasn’t so urgent, she’d take her time with Mammon, but honestly, going for six months without any chance for release when she was used to being able to have it whenever only made her more desperate to find it now. Her hands traveled all along the demon’s body as she straddled his hips. She let out a soft moan as he shoved his tongue in her mouth and he rolled them over, grinding his hips against hers. He broke their kiss only to trail them down to her neck where he nibbled and sucked little love bites into the delicate skin on her neck.

Arella’s fingers carded through his snowy hair as she panted, head tilting to the side as he moved, his hands coming up work on unbuttoning her unform shirt, tossing it to the side once it was off. He wasn’t so gentle with her bra, choosing to rip it off and toss it away as if the article of clothing had offended him somehow.

“Mammon!” she gasped as she watched it go.

“What? Ya got a hundred more where that came from. If it’s that big a deal I’ll by ya a new one.” the greedy demon growls as he trails his lips down her chest, taking one of her nipples into his mouth and sucking as his fingers pinched and rolled the other one. Every once and a while he would lightly nip at her before circling it with his tongue. Arella would only tug at his hair impatiently signaling him to get on with it as he chuckled. “Here, get these wet for me.”

He prods her lips with his fingers and she takes them in her mouth, sucking and swirling her tongue around them as he pushed them in further to the point that she was nearly gagging on them as he works on ridding her of her skirt and panties. As they slid down her legs, he pressed open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs, withdrawing his fingers from her mouth and tracing them down her stomach. He let his warm breath tease for a bit as she tried to rock her hips to spur him to action.

“Impatient, ain’t ya, Baby?” He chuckled, “Just hold still, you’ll get what ya want.”

“If you’d stop teasing, maybe I would,” she pouts, just wanting to feel him where she needed it most.

“As you wish, Princess.” The demon smirks as he spreads her open and licks a stripe from her opening to her clit and she could almost cry at how good it feels when he starts to gently suckle on the sensitive nub.

“Fuuuck, yes, right there,” She gasps at the feeling of his mouth on her and the prodding of one of his long fingers at her opening followed soon by a second. “Don’t stop...”

Her head tips back as she lets a pleasured sigh fall from her mouth, her hand coming down to knot itself in Mammon’s fleecy white hair to push him closer, drawing a moan from the demon. He has her dangerously close to the edge of oblivion without having even done much of anything.

“I’m so close, Baby, keep going.” she rocks her hips to match pace of his fingers before he pulls them away only to replace them with his tongue and she lets out a frantic cry as she feels the wet muscle work its way against her walls while his thumb rubbed tight circles around her clit.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it.” He growls out as he returns to his ministrations and she absolutely loses it, body going tense as she lets out a strangled moan and she clenches around his tongue as she cries out his name.

The demon cleans her up as he helps her ride out her high before pulling away, making a show of licking his lips as he crawls his way back up her body. He leans down for another kiss and Arella moans at how she can taste herself on his lips and tongue. She used her knee to brush against his crotch listening to the beautiful groan he lets out at the sensation.

“Get those off,” The human says in reference to his sweat pants that now have a large stain of pre covering the front. “You need more or are you good to go right away?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He pushes himself up on his knees and slowly rids himself of his sweat pants allowing his cock to spring up, slapping against his belly.

Her jaw drops at the sight of him. She knew he was big- but damn. He absolutely would tear her apart if they we’re careful- and are those piercings? She can feel her mouth start to water as she looks up at him to see the predatory look in his eyes that were now a shining gold.

“That shut ya up real fast, didn’t it?” He chuckled as he lined himself up. “You ready or do you need a minute?”

“No, I’m fine.” A determined look crossed her eyes. “I’m more than ready.”

“Got a safe word?”

“Just use the traffic light system.” She hooks a leg over his hips to bring him closer. “I want this.”

The stretch she feels as Mammon enters her is as delicious as it is painful even with him taking breaks to let her adjust. Once he’s fully seated, he keeps still as she takes a moment to savor it. With a nod from her, he begins to rock his hips gently, upping his pace as he draws more moans and gasps and the occasional whine from his human. Soon he’s pounding into her as he slips into his demon form.

Her hands are at his back, digging into the skin near the base of his wings and scratching angry red lines down his back. She’s so tight around him that it’s intoxicating to the demon as he lets out a growl. He can feel her next climax is imminent by the way her walls are clenching and gripping him and the breathy pitchy cries of his name- by the way her eyes are nearly rolled back into her head as he pulls her legs up over his hips to hit deeper. The pleasure is overwhelming as his piercings drag along her walls and she cums for the second time that afternoon.

He slows his pace in consideration of the human but he never stops all together. As she starts to squirm from the overstimulation, Mammon holds her still.

“What’s your color, Baby?”

“Green,” Arella looks up at him and pulls him back down by the horns for a tongue filled kiss as he picks his pace back up.

She ran her fingers against the curls of his horns as the demon goes back to biting and sucking on her neck as the only sounds that could be heard were the sounds of their moans, growls, and gasps and the sound of skin slapping against skin. “More! I need more, Mammon. Please.” She has tears slipping down her cheeks from the overstimulation. “It's so good... you’re so big...”

He growls as he hoists her legs up over his shoulders, nearly folding her in half as he thrust into her at a near animalistic pace hitting the deepest part of her as she cried for him. He was getting close to his release as he grasped her hand in his.

“Almost there... so close... Just keep squeezin’ me like that.”

“Me too!” Arella threw her head back, “Fuck, I’m so close. Cum inside.”

“Yer playin’ with fire, Princess. Ya really want that from me?”

“Yes! Yes!” Her grip on his hand tightened as she threw her head back. “Fill me up.”

He groaned as he felt her walls tighten once more as she hit her last release. “Shit... haah... fuck. I’m cumming!” Mammon buries his face in her neck as his thrusts falter. His cock twitches as he fills her with his seed until she’s overflowing with a mixture of their fluids.

They ride out their highs together, letting out soft groans and gasps as the demon pulls her legs down from his shoulders. They stare at each other as they try to catch their breath, wide-eyed, sweaty messes before bursting into a fit a laughter.

“I can’t believe we did that,” He sighs as he leans his forehead against hers.

“That was... amazing...” She sighs, “Best sex I’ve had ever had... I don’t know about you but I need a nap after we shower and change the sheets.”

“Yeah, I second that...” Mammon groans as he pulls out and rolls out of bed. “I’ll start the water; you just pull the sheets off.”

Arella only gave him a thumbs up as she sat up, feeling considerably better than she had before she’d gotten home from school.

------------------------------------------------------

Find more on my masterlist

[boredfanwrites]

Buddie #1

There is not a bone in my body that can accept that in any other universe they wouldn't be perfect together. Post 4x14 so SPOILERS for that. This got so much longer than I thought it would be. Sorry in advance, there's much more under the cut.

· Eddie tells him about the will. Chris goes to Buck if anything happens to Eddie. Which it very nearly did.

· It causes Buck to actually stop and think things through before rushing into danger.

· The rest of the team question it while Eddie's recovering but he just says there's someone relying on him now.

· They take it to mean Taylor - well Chimney and Albert do, Hen and Bobby are more clued in.

· Buck talks about Eddie and Chris like he did when they quarantined together - like they're living together again.

· They are.

· Buck moved in to help Eddie and his recovery, with Ana stepping in when he was on shifts - even if she tended to undo everything Buck had done.

· He tells himself it's because she's not used to the way he and Eddie do things - yes that one singular bowl and plate live in the lower cupboard, it's so Eddie can reach them easily. Chris always picks the movie on movie nights, Eddie and Buck alternate when he's gone to bed.

· Eddie is stubborn as always, but has managed to allow Buck to help him dress and shower - Ana is very much not allowed, despite her protests they're barely in a relationship.

· Eddie explains to Buck that yes, they've been together for six months but they've not really been togetherand he quietly admits that he regrets telling Chris so soon.

· Buck calms him and says that it was right to introduce Chris to the idea of Eddie dating, but yeah, maybe it wasn't smart to spring Ana on him so early - especially because she decided she had to be a bigger part of his life now he was aware.

· Chris manages to get to the station once while Buck is on shift.

· Buck comes back to Albert making him pancakes and Chris scribbling with the things they keep for the school trips.

· 'What are you doing here, bud? Does your dad know?'

· 'Kinda.'

· 'What does kinda mean here?'

· 'He knows I wanted to see you. I don't think he knows that I came here.'

· Albert quickly jumps in saying he's texted Eddie and he and Carla are on their way, it just happens that the rig got back before they got there.

· Buck sits down with Chris, leaning his head on his arms and looks at the picture. It's him, Eddie and Buck with Carla and her husband in the background.

· 'What's wrong, Chris?'

· 'Ana.'

· 'Ok, what did she do?'

· 'Tried to get me to bath before I ate and then said I had to do my homework before TV time.'

· 'Buddy, you always have to do your homework before TV time.'

· 'But she tried to help me.'

· 'Your dad and I try our best to help you. She's a teacher, she's better use than us.'

· 'No that's not it.'

· Chris has tears in his eyes and a death grip on his crayon.

· 'She told the poor boy his handwriting was ineligible and took his pencil, tried to get him to tell her the answers and that she would write them for him.' Carla sighs.

· She stands with her arms open and Chris runs into them. Eddie looms behind them, looking sad.

· Well, neutral really, but Buck knows his micro expressions well enough.

· After that Ana is banned from the house in the afternoons/evenings and Carla steps back in. The new problem is Ana turning up when Buck has days off - their schedule was she was here when Buck wasn't, for multiple reasons.

· Ana's great, there's just something about her that Buck doesn't like and she definitely doesn't like Buck. Maybe it's because they're just opposites.

· Eddie tries to gently tell her that he barely gets to see Buck anymore and he needs it for his mental health. Ana starts pestering about the fact that he should want to see his girlfriend more than his best friend.

· It's one of their biggest fights and turns into a screaming match one night (Chris is at Hen's with Denny but Buck is hiding away in the guest room) where Eddie shouts that she had decided that she was his girlfriend without asking Eddie if that was what he wanted and she was suffocating.

· She leaves pretty quickly after that and Buck is incredibly happy as their paths never cross again.

· There's an emptiness settling in his chest when he finds out that the two are still together and are treating the relationship as though they're just dating again. He hates that he really doesn't like the idea that it's working out now that they're on even footing.

· He decides to push it away and starts getting reckless again. Taylor's hanging around the station more like she wants more from Buck, but he'd given up. She liked being chased and now that he's tired of it, she wants him. He knows she'll get bored if he shows interest again.

· It's interest he doesn't have. Eddie had called him Evan and told him he deserved more. How was he supposed to go back to normal after that?

· Why doesn't Eddie see how life changing that was?

· Eddie does. But in typical Eddie fashion, he pushes it deep down and replaces it with his content being with Ana. She makes his parents happy, which makes him happy. She gets along with Pepa and Isabel and his sisters, but they act a lot more familial with Buck.

· It makes sense, he tells himself - they've had years with Buck.

· Nothing really changes for Buck until TK and Judd find themselves in LA. Buck hastily explains to TK that he wasn't asking him out back in Austin, he just wanted a friend and really he wasn't attracted to guys.

· TK just straight up laughs at Buck.

· 'Buckley, you checked me, Carlos, and the barista out in the span of like five minutes. You're a little attracted to guys.'

· 'Wait, you mean you and Diaz ain't datin'?'

· Judd's question throws Buck through a loop.

· 'What? No...we're just...we're friends. Best friends.'

· TK laughs again, patting Buck on the shoulder.

· Once they're on their last day, TK takes Buck out for a drink like he'd promised. Buck tries to ignore the fact he's brought him to a gay bar.

· He gets hit on at least three times in an hour, not to mention the building collection of beers for both him and TK and he decides he doesn't actually mind it.

· 'Ok, I want you to do something for me. Scan the crowd and pick a guy, any guy, and tell me what you find attractive about him.'

· Buck picks out a shorter man, tanned skin and dark hair.

· 'He's got a cute smile.'

· 'Oh boy, you have a type.'

· 'Huh?'

· 'He looks like Eddie.'

· And he does. Like a Walmart version of Eddie though. He didn't laugh like Eddie, didn't have the same laugh lines. Or frown lines. His eyes weren't as warm when he met Buck's nor did he smile as fondly. And...

· 'Fuck.'

· 'You just now realizing your feelings for him?'

· 'Yeah. How did I not know?'

· 'Honestly, it was probably such a subtle shift. From what you've told me you've basically been a couple for a year and a half, so you didn't realize anything had changed for you.'

· 'I've never denied it.'

· 'I mean you clearly must have.'

· 'No. I meant that there have been so many times people assumed Eddie and I were a couple and I never denied it, I went along with it all.'

· 'Shit man, you had it bad before you even realized.'

· Buck groans as TK throws an arm around him, leaning against his shoulder.

· Things change after that. Buck is hesitant with physical touch with Eddie - it's his main love language and he needs to make sure he's not overdoing it and making Eddie uncomfortable.

· Eddie notices because of course, he does. Buck has pulled away from him for seemingly no reason. The second Eddie can dress, shower, and reach the high cabinets himself Buck is talking about going home.

· He is home.

· Eddie doesn't say it, he just hums, not really agreeing. He's gotten used to Buck being around and so has Chris. They'd easily fallen back into their quarantine routine and now Buck would be leaving again.

· A quick thought of getting shot again fills Eddie's head. Though this time it's nothing to do with his PTSD and more so that he doesn't want Buck to leave. So he exaggerates just a little.

· 'You know, my PTSD is still acting up. Maybe, you could stay until it balances out a little?'

· 'You'd want me to?'

· 'Yeah, you're great at getting me out and calming me and Christopher down.'

· 'You don't think Ana should start taking up some night shifts?'

· 'I don't really want her to deal with that side of me yet.'

· 'Okay.'

· 'Okay?'

· 'Yeah, I'll stay.'

· Eddie keeps an eye on Buck just as much as he keeps an eye on Eddie. He quickly realizes that Buck is holding in his own troubles. He knows from experience that Buck does not think his problems are anywhere near as bad as everyone else's. He has a lot of unlearning to do.

· Subtly, Eddie starts talking to him about his mental state, his worries, trying to let Buck know it's ok to do the same.

· When he and Ana inevitably break up not even a month later, it's Buck that he tells first.

· Buck, who has his back.

· Buck, who loves Christopher as his own.

· Buck, who is insecure about everything he does except saving people.

· Buck, who thinks he is unworthy and undeserving of love.

· Buck, who shows his love through acts of kindness and physical affection.

· Buck, who Eddie is so unapologetically in love with and probably has been for years.

· The revelation doesn't shock him like he thought it would. More so, it was a natural progression of their relationship.

· Friends. Best friends. Co-parents. Co-habiting. Partners. Partners.

· Eddie sees a future with Buck, a future he'd only ever seen with Shannon but it's so much brighter.

· He comes home from his first shift back - Buck wasn't working and offered to look after Christopher so Eddie knew he was safe - to find Buck on the couch, staring into an empty beer bottle.

· 'Hey?' it's broken and Eddie drops his things to rush over to him.

· 'You good?'

· 'No. I'm not.'

· Buck looks up, tears in his eyes, cheeks red and puffy.

· 'What's going on, Evan?'

· That's all it takes. He breaks. He babbles about watching Eddie die over and over in his dreams. How sometimes the shower will splash his face just so and he's thrown back with Eddie's blood on his face. How he was trying to get through it with Dr. Copeland but it wasn't helping.

· Nothing was helping.

· 'It's ok. I'm here, I'm okay.'

· 'You weren't. You died, Eds. You died on me.'

· 'You saved me.'

· 'What if I hadn't? I don't know a life without you anymore. I can't lose another person I love.'

· 'You love me?'

· 'Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?'

· Buck registers his words, quickly backing away from Eddie and tries to make a break for the open door. Eddie isn't letting him run away anymore. His wrist snakes around Buck's.

· 'Evan. I told you there wasn't anyone else I'd want to look after Christ. I told you you weren't expendable. I said that because I love you and you needed to hear it. You had to learn you deserved love. Love that Chris shows you. Love that I can show you. I love you so much, Evan Buckley.'

· Buck crumples in Eddie's arms, Eddie rocks him gently until the sobs subside.

· It's not an immediate or obvious change. There are still things the two need to work through.

· It's different but the same. There's more contact now; hugs, tactile hands on waists, and backs at work. Kisses in the bunk, soft and slow.

· It's new and exciting. Especially when they finally get together, officially and exclusively.

· Chris loves telling everyone about his two dads.

· Eddie and Buck are happier, closer.

· Buck had always been a Diaz. He'd always had a family who loved him. The big change was he got to love them both endlessly in return.

[adhdeancas]

For the Saileen wedding festivities...

Cas and Dean are lying quietly in bed, settling in for the night early because (they’re old) they have to wake up early in the morning. More wedding stuff to be done, and Garth is coming over to start making centerpieces. It’s almost comical how quickly their lives turned around from fighting God from an underground bunker to arguing with a florist over the price of chrysanthemums (too damn much; Cas won that fight though). 

Cas snuggles closer, his head nudging under Dean’s chin, and sighs. “Oh, Sam asked me to be his best man today.” he says sleepily, trailing a finger up Dean’s softly padded ribs. 

“What?”

“Sam asked me to be his best man,” Cas repeats, confused, because he recognizes a less than positive tone in his husband’s voice. “For his wedding?”

Dean sits up suddenly and looks at him. “What? My brother asked you to be his best man? What the fuck?”

Cas squints at him. “Sam and I are very close friends, Dean. I don’t think it’s that extraordinary.”

Dean has a hand on his hip. This is not going well. “And what am I, huh? Chopped liver?” Cas opens his mouth to reply but Dean holds a hand up. “Don’t answer that. I’m his fucking brother, we’ve literally been to hell and back-” another more insistent hand up to hold against Cas’s interjection which was most certainly going to point out that he and Sam had also been to hell and back together. “Oh fuck no,” he climbs out of bed, already pulling on his pajama pants where he discarded them before getting in bed. 

“Dean, where are you going?”

“To talk to my brother.”

“Dean, it’s late and-”

“Cas, I’m going to talk to my brother. This is bullshit. You’re the one who’s always saying I should talk more, well,” Dean throws his hands up, and he would look adorable if he weren’t so angry, with his rucked up hair and pajama set and wild eyes. No, scratch that, he does look adorable. 

Cas rolls his eyes and gives up. “Okay, well, drive safely.”

Dean waves him off, already halfway out the door. 

------------------------

Sam is not expecting any visitors. 

He’s halfway down into his place next to Eileen on the couch, ready for his first ever viewing of The Exorcist (it hit too close to home growing up, but he and Eileen are working on picking up on the shit they missed out on because of hunting), when he hears someone pounding on the door like there’s been a murder. 

Given the fact that any of his friends and family members would be much calmer if there’d been a murder, he can assume it’s not that. Given the fact that they have a perfectly functioning doorbell six inches from their doorknob, Sam can guess who it is.

“Coming!” Sam rolls his eyes and turns to give Eileen an apologetic glance. 

One second - Dean’s at the door. He signs and leans in for a peck. She pulls him into a kiss that really should not happen right before he opens the door to his brother, but he’s not complaining when he pulls away after a few seconds. 

Hurry back. There is a devilish glint in her eyes that Sam recognizes.

Yes, ma’am. 

Sam leaves his fiancée with a scrunched up nose at being called ma’am and pulls open the front door. Dean freezes midair with his fist raised, halfway through another thudding knock. “What the fuck,”

Sam and Dean had made a deal after the first month post-chuck, and that deal included no non-emergency unplanned drop-ins after 8:00. Dean had agreed to it only after they both installed Life360 on their phones and got automated (and supernaturally modified) alarm systems for both their houses. So this was a breach. 

“You asked Cas to be your best man?”

Sam sighs. He should’ve known his brother would freak out over this. “Yeah, we’re-”

“I thought we were good, Sammy! I mean I know I was a little uptight at first, with the moving out and the figuring stuff with Cas out and all that, but I thought we figured that out! We did the boundaries and that shit, Sammy you took me to fucking couples’ therapy!”

“It wasn’t couples’ therapy, it was group therapy, and it was for both-”

“I don’t give a shit! And then you ask my husband to be your best man instead of me? Your own damn brother?”

Sam blinks. “Dean.”

“What? You got a problem, you come talk to me about it! Isn’t that what we fucking decided?”

“Dean, listen,”

“No, it’s bullshit!”

Sam sighs and closes the door behind them, backing Dean up onto the porch. The cool spring made him hug his arms close to his chest. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was shivering, but he did know better, so he knew his brother was shaking. And that meant that he was actually really fucking nervous about this. Shit. “Dean, I didn’t ask you to be my best man because I want you to give me away.”

Dean blanches. There’s a beat of silence where they both just look at each other. “What?”

Sam shrugs, feeling weird about saying it now. “Yeah, well, Eileen said that walking down the aisle at the end made her feel like she was an animal at a circus, so we decided I would.” He pauses, sure Dean’s about to make fun of him for another gender non-conforming move at his wedding, but he’s still too shell-shocked to be a smart ass, apparently. “And generally, the person who walks down last has someone give them away…”

“Yeah, like their dad.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I don’t think Dad and I are really there… yet.” Or that they ever will be, but there’s no need to go into that now. Dean always gets this constipated look on his face when they talk about John. “Besides, I kinda want the person to give me away to be the guy that raised me, so…” he shrugs again. “I want you to do it.”

Dean has gone completely silent and he’s staring up at Sam either like he kicked his puppy or he’s just named himself the Pope. 

“Uh, Dean?” He waves a hand in front of his face. “You in there? Breathe.”

Dean frowns at him but obeys and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You want me to walk you down the aisle?” he whispers hoarsely. 

Sam laughs, recognizing his face for the I’m-trying-not-to-break-down-crying face now. “Yeah, man. You’re my big brother. Of course I want you in my wedding. I just… I want you to be in the right place.”

It takes another few seconds of staring, but then Dean breaks into a wide grin and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. “Fuck, Sammy, of course I’ll give you away, you fucking princess,”

Sam barks out a breathless laugh, not even sure if Dean’s trying to insult him anymore with the pet-name. “Great.”

Dean pulls back. “Does this mean I don’t get to make a best man speech? Because I’ve already got half my jokes planned.”

Sam grins. “Unfortunately, you can still make a speech. Just keep the sex jokes to a minimum, okay?”

Dean chuckles. “That ain’t your call, Sammy. Eileen’s gonna love it.”

“Shit, so it’s gonna be really bad.” Dean winks at him. He’s gonna need to make sure he drinks before that speech. “Alright, now can you get off my fucking porch? I love you and all but you’re ruining date night.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pats him on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, old man, go and enjoy your boring old stay-in date night like the nursing home patient you are.”

Sam fixes him with a bitchface. “You act like I don’t know you’re about to go crawl into bed with your husband and go to sleep just so you can wake up early and do the crossword before Garth gets there.”

Dean freezes only a second, but Sam wins. “Shut up.” he says quickly, finally retreating back to where the Impala’s parked on the street. “Tell Eileen hi for me!” he adds excitedly. 

Sam grins and waves. It’s only when he’s going back inside to Eileen that it hits him how fucking lucky he is, to have a brother who cares so much and a family all around him like this. The love of his life sitting on her phone with a bowl of popcorn and m&ms in her lap waiting for him. He sits back down on the couch and signs Sorry about that - wedding stuff to Eileen. 

She rolls her eyes. He freaking out again? 

Always.

Such a brother-of-the-groom-zilla. 

Sam laughs and grabs a handful of popcorn, signing again once he’s stuffed it in his mouth. Ready to make demons fun again? 

Eileen nods, grinning. No talking about how you would hunt the monster better this time. 

Sam scoffs. Like you won’t. 

Eileen laughs and presses play.

[golden-web]

I’ve officially lost it. Well no going back now. I knock on the door. Groaning comes from inside the apartment. The door opens just a bit the chain stopping it.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Barnes asks. I hold back my tears and nod. “What do you want kid?”

“We’ve meet before I promise this isn’t a joke or a trick just let me in,” I say quickly glancing nervously around the hallway. Teo shifts his weight in my bag meowing.

“Are yo…”

“Shhhhh, probably yes just let me in.” The door closes and then swings open. I rush inside as he closes the door.

“So you are Golden-Web?” Mr. Barnes asks. I look around one more time and nod.

“Call me Finley.”

“Kid what the hell are you doing here? It’s late, you should… oh hell, they fucked you up didn’t they?”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t…”

“Don’t be sorry it ain’t your fault, shit I should’ve known. Do they know you’re here?”

“SSR got to me, they said they took everything out and I’m myself again, but it doesn’t feel right.” Tears spring to my eyes. The small apartment around me blurs.

“Hey hey hey easy there kid,” Mr. Barnes cold metal arm leads me to the couch. “Let’s get your cat out of the bag and take some deep breaths alright?” The weight of the bag drifts off my shoulders. I try breathing in but I only get a shakey breath. “What’s your cats name? Mines Alpine he’s taking a nap in the other room.”

“Teo,” I gasp.

“Good name. How long have you had em?”

“Six months? I don’t know.”

“You want something to drink? Milk, water, coffee?”

“Milk.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back you just focus on breathing.” He’s footfalls retreat away from the couch. What am I doing? I could get us both in trouble. I’m breaking the law, if I left now maybe no one would know? I could just sneak out the window. And then what? Go home?

[supergraphicultramoderngirl]

i ain’t gonna face no defeat

in which alex was a figure skater.

word count: 2,916

some willex, juke if you squint

tw: occasional swearing, period-typical homophobic parents (q word is used as a slur exactly once)

———

“Cut off my circulation even more, why don’t you?” Alex grumbles, grabbing his arm away from his sister.

She rolls her eyes and nudges him as he adjusts the arm band. “Hey, feel lucky you’re even doing this. I don’t think Mom and Dad actually realize what you’re skating to.”

Alex hesitates and sucks on his teeth. “You think they’ll be mad?”

“Oh, they’ll be livid,” she deadpans, then smiles softly. “But they can’t stop you.” She gives him a pat on the shoulder as he leans over to pull on his boot covers. “I’m gonna head to the bleachers. Break a leg!”

Alex calls after her, not looking up, “That’s only for theater and you know it, Mel!”

A few minutes later, he’s called to the boards, and he can’t shake off his damn jitters. He knows he’ll be fine once the music starts, but right now his skate guard won’t come off and he really has to pee all of a sudden and oh my god why is he wearing a tank top when it’s so fucking cold—

Alex steps onto the ice, and the announcer calls his name while he glides into a stretch before taking his beginning pose. He ignores the way his arm, raised in a fist, is shaking while the beginning harmonies start to play, and he skates.

•••

Alex began figure skating when he was six. It was an odd situation, really; he didn’t care about doing it one way or another, and he would’ve been fine with not doing it since his parents would always say it was a girl’s sport. His little sister, Melanie, however, wanted to skate so badly, but with her being the four-year-old she was, she was terrified of doing it alone. Begrudgingly, his parents signed him up for lessons alongside her.

Much to their dismay, he was good. Like, really fucking good. He landed his first single jump after only two years, and his first axel after six. He managed to get height in a way that his coach’s other skaters didn’t; maybe it was the inner pent up anxiety making him bounce like a jumping bean, who knows.

Alex wasn’t just good at jumps, either; he got his Y-spin after four years. He was that kid on the ice who accidentally cut people off with an impeccable spiral. When he practiced his programs, the other kids would move towards the boards to give him room and sneak a glance.

As much as Alex liked the attention from his peers (god, that support system was something else), he couldn’t help but feel disappointed that his parents never sat in on his sessions. They would only ever come to the shows and competitions his sister was a part of; he had to find his own ride to the others (thank god for Bobby's parents, honestly). It had made him angry at first that they didn’t want to be involved, but as he grew older, and learned more about himself, he realized he could use it to his advantage. He could skate to anything he wanted.

Alex was 13 when he chose to skate to Somebody to Love. To anyone else, it was very unassuming, just another kid skating to a popular song at the time, maybe even a tribute, since Freddie himself had passed two months before. It was everything to Alex, though. He pulled out all of the stops; his costume was the whole armband and wifebeater getup, and his coach let him assist in choreographing it.

He didn't know it was his last program.

•••

"Hey, Alex?"

He looks up from his math homework and hums in recognition.

Mel bites her lip and leans against the doorframe before mumbling, "I wanna quit."

Quit? Shit, nonononono— "—nonononono, Mel, you can't quit! If you quit, they're gonna make me quit!"

She closes the door softly behind her and walks slowly up to him. "Alex, the only reason I've been skating for the past year was so you could keep doing it. I'm really sick of skating at this point, and I wanna switch to something else. I'll keep going if you really, really want me to, but—" She sits next to him on his bed, lowering her voice to a whisper, "You saw how they reacted to the recital, 'Lex. You think they might make you quit anyway?"

Alex sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. She's right, he knows she's right. It just fucking sucks.

He tilts his head back. "You can quit," he whispers.

Mel places her hand on his and squeezes, whispering back, "I'm sorry." Alex looks back down at her. "I really with there was something we could do, but there isn't," she continues, recollecting her hand. "At least your last program was a good one."

He gives her a sad chuckle. "Yeah, I guess so. And, I'll have more time to focus on the band. Luke'll be happy about that."

Mel rolls her eyes, takes a breath, and leaves Alex to his own devices with a pitying look.

If she hears him practicing the beat to Somebody to Love in the basement the night she officially quits, she doesn't say anything.

•••

"Julie, what are you doing up there?"

Julie throws a shoe over the wall of the loft and into the evergrowing pile on the floor. "Cleaning out all of your old junk. Which one of you had a magician phase?" she asks, holding up a cheap, ratty top hat and matching plastic wand. "It was Reggie, wasn't it?"

Alex chuckles to himself, poofing up next to Julie. "Why do you think he knew who Caleb was when we met him?"

Julie lets out a loud laugh, continuing her digging. "Are the other guys here?"

"Nah, they're looking for a gig. I just got back from the park," Alex answers.

“Just the park?” Julie asks sarcastically, and before Alex can retort, she adds on, standing up straight, “Hey, whose skates are these?”

She’s holding his old figure skates in her right hand.

The black fabric is a little faded, with the familiar scuffs still on the toe. His dark blue skate guards are all dusty, but the blades still somehow look intact, given there wasn’t much opportunity for water damage in a loft.

Alex scratches the back of his neck, ignoring the rising blush in his cheeks and bracing himself for the inevitable teasing. “Those, uh, those are mine, actually.”

Julie looks up from the boots at him in awe. “Whoa, you skated? That’s so cool!”

Alex drops his hand, mouth open in hesitation. “Really? It’s not... weird to you?”

He can recall a tight grip on his arm, firmer than the band that had been ripped off. "Alex, what made you think it was okay to pull off this kind of stunt? You don't want people thinking you're some kind of queer, do you? Why we've let you continue this is beyond me, it isn’t any good for you.”

“Why would it be weird?” Julie asks, quirking her head to the side in such a Julie way that Alex would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so worried.

He shrugs, shuffling his feet from side to side, and mumbles with a wince, “I don’t know, because I’m a guy and figure skating is like, a girly sport, I guess?”

Julie shakes her head, eyebrows furrowed with a soft smile on her face. “First off, it’s not inherently girly, and second, if it’s something that you enjoyed, then that’s what matters, right?”

“I guess so,” Alex replies, looking down at his sneakers. Is that all that matters, though? He pauses for a moment in debate, then adds on at Julie’s encouraging expression, “My parents made me quit when I was fourteen.” He takes a breath. “They were never that involved in it, though, they actually only let me because my sister did it. I, uh, after I skated to a Queen song in a full Freddie Mercury getup, they weren’t too happy, and made me quit.”

At some point in his spiel, Julie had put her hand on his shoulder, and now she was squeezing it before pulling him into a hug. “Your parents are stupid,” she mumbled into his chest.

Alex chuckles, something emotionless, a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue. “Yeah. They were.”

Julie pulls away with a gasp, a bright smile on her face. “We should all go skating this weekend! The public rink just opened up a couple weeks ago, and I can bring Flynn so it doesn’t look like I’m talking to myself—” she falters, cutting herself off, “I mean, if you’re cool with it. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Alex thinks back to his many (many) practice sessions, and remembers the feeling of finally getting that move right, of flying in the air for that one glorious millisecond, of seeing some of his closest friends every other day. He misses it, of course he misses it. It was his biggest outlet before he focused all of his attention on drumming. But, he can’t help but feel that stupid fucking guilt clawing at his throat, can’t help but imagine oh, so clearly the look of betrayal on his mother’s face the night he came out.

Then again, he had lived the rest of his life out of spite of his parents. Why not keep it going?

“That sounds really fun,” he replies, pulling her back in. “Thank you.”

•••

A world sans Caleb was a new one to Willie. However, it was also a very welcome one, because it was in this world that he was able to just relax with Alex in the studio, enjoying every second they spend together without worrying about the time running out.

Which is why he was (reasonably) surprised when the time ran out.

They throw Alex an impressively offended look as he removed his arm from behind their shoulder. “What?”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Willie scoffed.

Alex chuckles to himself, pressing his lips into a line. "As much as I would love to stay here and cuddle with you—" At that, Willie's face goes bright red, and Alex counts it as a win in his head, "—the band and I are going ice skating when Flynn gets here, which should be in about five minutes."

"Oh," Willie's face brightens as they reply, "sounds fun!"

Alex winces. "Yeah, making sure Luke doesn't accidentally become tangible and run over a seven-year-old while playing human bowling on the ice with Reggie is super fun." Willie laughs something golden in response, and Alex only hesitates for a moment before adding on, "Uh- actually, would you want to come with us?"

Willie grows soft, still getting used to finally being included, but quickly schools his expression before replying, "Yeah, I'd love to! Though, fair warning, I'm kind of only good at the one kind of skating?"

Alex quickly scrunches his nose. "That's fine, I'll help you," he offers, slowly untangling himself from Willie.

Willie isn't sure how much help he's really gonna be, but they figure even an amateur would be better than whatever the fuck kind of Bambi creature he is on the ice, so they nod and pull Alex up by his hand off the couch.

•••

They arrived to the rink a few minutes ago, and while Julie and Flynn are buying their rental skates and Luke, Reggie, and Willie attempt to steal some without being noticed, Alex laces up his own skates by himself on an open bench.

It isn't until after he yanks the last bow that he realizes— putting on those skates should not have been that easy.

Yeah, their clothes are usually easy to put on, and they can summon their instruments any time they want, but touching anything else usually takes an immense amount of focus. Hell, the dahlia pin Julie had bought Luke for his guitar strap took five tries to actually hook on rather than just drop to the ground.

And yet, his skates just— went on? Laced up with no problem? His foot didn't go through the sole even once? He wiggles his toes around inside the boot, and only feels the familiar push of fabric against them.

He decides not to question it, to not think about the implications of his skates possibly being attached to his soul, and tries to avoid yet another afterlife crisis as they walk toward the boards. Or, at least, he walks, while Luke just bolts onto the ice with no hesitation, and Reggie quickly follows. Alex falls back behind Julie and Flynn, who step onto the ice and begin gliding around, and Willie somehow finds their way next to him, grabbing onto his hand. They make it to the door, and Willie lets go with a small nudge to the shoulder. "Alright, hotdog, show me what you've got," he jokes.

Alex lets out a small laugh and steps out onto the ice, a weird feeling of deja-vu settling into his nonexistent bones. Once he gathers his bearings, he glides along before maneuvering closer to the middle of the ice and pulling himself into a scratch spin. It takes him a minute to really center the spin, but with the phantom tingling of blood rushing to the tips of his fingers before he pulls in completely, suddenly it's 1990 and he's doing his Lacrimosa program and he wants to try to land every jump he's ever learned, even though he knows that trying his axel right now is a horrible idea, and—

He's exited the spin now, looking back at the door to see Willie about a foot away from it, gripping the wall with a concerning amount of intensity, an odd combination of fear, shock, and something else (awe, maybe?) coming to rest on their face. He skates back over, and Willie's expression doesn't seem to change. "You—" they swallow, "—you can skate."

Alex slides his feet back and forth, his arms behind his back. "Yeah, I figure skated for eight years, actually. Did, did I not mention that?" he asks, smirking a little, knowing damn well he very much never mentioned that.

Willie closes his eyes, sucks on his teeth, and takes a breath, getting over their minor bluescreen moment. "Help me?"

"In order for me to help you, you need to let go of the boards," Alex responds. Willie looks at the boards, then back at him, eyebrows furrowed. "It'll hurt a lot more falling into two flat surfaces rather than one," Alex reasons, and Willie hesitates before finally letting go.

"There we go," Alex says softly, taking both of Willie's hands in his. He begins to slowly pull them along, not caring about passing through lifers, while Willie's feet slip and slide beneath him. Alex tries his hardest not to laugh, and Willie quips, "I thought I was supposed to be the athletic one."

Alex scoffs, "Who told you that? Are you the one lugging around an entire drumset every weekend?" At Willie's laugh, Alex tacks on, "I didn't think so."

They make a full lap around the rink before Alex lets go, having to prevent Luke and Reggie from pulling on some little girl’s milk boxes to make her go faster, because no, that’s not how physics works, and yes, people will notice, Luke.

After, Willie moves to get off at the boards, and Alex pulls a disappointed pout. Willie just motions toward the ice, saying, "I know you didn't just come here to pull me around the whole time, I wanna see your turns and stuff."

Alex hesitates, "But I don't want to leave you here by yourself—"

He’s cut off by a familiar harmony playing in the background, and Luke and Reggie poof by his side in an instant. Alex barely has any time to register it before Reggie is putting a hand on his shoulder and Luke is asking if he’s okay.

And Alex doesn’t know how to answer that right away, if he’s being honest. At first, he thinks he might not be, because all he remembers is scolding, leaving, hiding, but he reminds himself it’s 2020 and he’s a ghost; that his parents are as involved in what was left of his life now as they were when he came out— not at all. The feeling of freedom starts to envelope him; the same freedom as when he danced with Dirty Candy at Eat ‘n’ Beats, the same freedom as when he played the drums at the Orpheum, and the same freedom he had before his last recital. He takes a deep breath.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” Alex replies, trying to hide his newfound itching to just get back out there.

Reggie drops his hand from his shoulder with a smile; meanwhile, Luke catches notice of Julie and Flynn starting a mini snow fight, to which he immediately races over and shouts, “I want in!” Reggie just shrugs and poofs over. Whether to stop him or join, the world may never know.

Alex rolls his eyes at his friends’ antics and looks back over at Willie, anxious energy seemingly radiating off of him— except, not as it usually does; now it was more excitement than anything else.

“Go show off, Alex,” Willie says, shooting him away with a smile.

Alex unsuccessfully tries to suppress the overwhelming giddy feeling that rises in his chest, and he skates. Again.

Finally.

[mistabullets]

Okay! Imagine! Mista with a S/o that IS Bruno's little sister

> As Bruno’s sister, you respect and appreciate your fratellone.

> He made sure to give you plenty attention when the two of you were younger and in a way, he’s very protective of you. When your father became disabled from the gunshot wounds, Bruno basically raised you and made sure you continue your education. Growing up, it eventually clicked that your older brother was working for the mafia. How else can such a young man his age able to afford your schooling, the nice apartment complex, and your father’s hefty medical bills?

> It made you worried. What if Bruno accidentally cross the wrong people? What if he never came home? You offered to find work, drop out of school, or just do something to ease the burden. You even offered to join Passione but your brother particularly seethed at the idea. “Under absolutely no circumstances will you be doing that, rella. Do me a favor - promise me you will not associate with anyone else in Passione. Am I clear?”

> Swallowing nervously, you promised. He even made you pinky promise.

> Life moved on. Your father passed and Bruno became more committed to his work as he rose through the ranks. Eventually, Bruno found you a nice place in town and paid for your tuition for school. Your essentials were covered. He even made you change your last name so you weren’t associate with him in anyway or form. Bruno always made sure to call you once in day and check in - he was such a mother hen. But you wanted to try to live independently! So you picked up a part time job, perhaps at some cafe, bakery, or restaurant. You didn’t tell your brother about it, since he would throw a fit and tell you to focus on your studies.

> That’s how you met him.

> He was a frequent customer and was quite the looker. A toned body, sun kissed skin, warm dark eyes, and curls peaking out of his hat. He always bought a lot of food - like he had a whole family to feed. But you never questioned it because he was so friendly, maybe a bit too eccentric but endearingly so - sometimes you would sneak him an extra of his favorites. You eventually became aware of his phobia of four and made sure not to give him four of anything. Weeks later, you were bold enough to write your number on a napkin when he made a passing comment how it sucked being single.

> He gave a lopsided smile and asked for your name. You kindly gave it to him and he told you his name. “Guido Mista. I’ll call ya later tonight, Y/N! Maybe we can set up a date or somethin’?”

> When you arrived him, you were eager to receive his call and was pleased when your heard your phone ringing. Eventually, you did set up the date. That date became multiple dates. He started coming over to your apartment and staying the night. It was safe to say the two of you were an item now. There were some questions you would like to ask; why did he have a gun? Why did he talk to himself a lot? How come sometimes he would smell like... iron and death? And god, how much could this man eat? But you assured yourself that it was nothing too serious to fret over. You were just over analyzing.

> Bruno figures out pretty quickly you had a boyfriend and wanted to meet him. But you were quite worried about introducing each other. Your brother was essentially your father figure; he will make it obvious if he approves of your boyfriend or not. You kept postponing dates to meet up - it’s not like you didn’t want Mista to meet Bruno but your brother could be nitpicky about if your lover was good enough for you or not. You didn’t want Guido to feel any pressure from your brother. He was already good enough for you and that’s what matters.

> However Mista is more than eager to introduce you to his familigia. “Well, it’s more like, me and five of dudes but they’re particularly like bros to me!”

> After hearing nothing but praise from your boyfriend, you were looking forward to meeting them as well. When approaching the villa, you wondered how six men in their late teens and early twenties can afford to board such an estate. You were greeted by four other men - a pretty blonde with curls and a braid greeted you, a studious young man in green teaching a messy haired with purple eyes, and a brooding man with long silver hair tuning out the world with his headphones.

> “Finally we can have dinner!” Narancia shouts.

> “Narancia, you dumbass, we have a guest here! And we need to finish this problem here!” Fugo exclaims, looking like he wants to stab the boy.

> “Will the two of you shut up? I can hear you through my headphones and our capo is still doing paperwork upstairs!” Abbacchio takes a glance up at you, “You look quite familiar...” he murmurs.

> Giorno leads you to the kitchen and it smells like your mother’s home meals. You settle in a seat right next to Mista and you can hear your stomach growl. “Our capo was expecting ya and took the time out of his day to make this dish! He’s honestly a really good cook when he wants to be. He’s honestly like, the big brother of this group, aside from Abba over there—“

> “Don’t call me that,” Abbacchio sighs, popping open a bottle of red wine. You giggle - despite the chaos and the energy strumming through the air, you can appreciate how homely it is. You’re growing comfortable already, Mista already has a hold of your hand under the table, happy that everyone so far has been welcoming in their own unique way. You’re growing used the all the noises and clattering of plates, you don’t hear the footsteps approaching. You raise your head up to greet the new presence, only to find a familiar face that looks much like your own. The rest of the gang noticed and perks up, wondering why the two of you look so taken aback.

> “B-Bruno?” you ask in disbelief

> “Huh? Ya know Bucciarati or somethin’, bambina?” your boyfriend ask, swallowing nervously.

> “We do. She’s my sister, after all,” Bruno responds, collecting his composure despite Narancia in the background saying “holy shit that’s your sister?” Even Abbacchio lets out a surprised gasp. Mista is glancing at the two of you, back and forth, the similarities of facial structures and eyes now dawning on the gunslinger. What a small world. And you, on the other hand, are now coming to realization that this must be Bruno’s team. So that means... you’ve been dating a mafioso for the past months now - the gun and the smell of iron (no, blood) made a sense now. And you inadvertently broke Bruno’s promise: to not associate with a gangster.

Perhaps after dinner, we can talk about this.” Oh no. Was he angry? Upset? There was something laced with his words. Dinner passed by with awkward silence, despite how delicious the food was. No wonder it smelled so much like home... You held onto to Mista’s hand, as if to reassure him. And while he couldn’t grasp the entirety of the situation, he tried to sympathize with his capo. He understood why you may have been kept a secret - Passione’s underbelly screamed dangerous and someone would definitely try to use you as bait for Bucciarati. After all, Polpo’s suicide was still being investigated and there have been rumors flying around about how suspicious it was that one of Bruno’s subordinates last saw him alive. This double your risk. Not only was your brother a capo for Passione but your boyfriend was gunslinger for mafia as well.

> After dinner, Bruno wants to talk to Mista alone. You dread whatever his verdict will be and wait outside silently, hoping your brother doesn’t force Mista to cut things off with you. To be frank, you didn’t mind Guido being part of the mafia - sure, it was scary to ponder if your loved one was okay and wonder if they’ll come home alive. But Bruno had survived for this long. Guido definitely had the will to do the same. And you doubt this man would wanna put you in active harm’s way! He cried one time for accidentally hitting your face during a tickle fight once so you knew his motives weren’t ulterior.

> Bruno questioned Mista like it was an interrogation. While he knew his underling was a good man at heart, Bruno couldn’t help but worry for his baby sister - that was his only family left. He was surprised to learn the two of you met at your part time job. Bruno specifically told you not to worry about finances! “Listen Bucciarati, ya sis loves ya. She talks ‘bout what a great guy ya are ‘nd how much you’ve done for her. But... you also been makin’ her feel sheltered. She was so nervous ‘bout us meeting. I... I know ya wanna protect her and so do I! But ya can’t be babyin’ her forever. Ya gotta let her make her own choices. So I ain’t gonna break up with her. That’s up to her, for her to decide, ya know?”

> After reflecting on the younger man’s words, he reluctantly agrees with him. Sure, you are his baby sister but you’re an adult and can make your own decision. You can distinguish what is and isn’t safe. Obviously, you’re not that naive. And perhaps with the gang knowing about your existence, that would grant you extra protection if anything were to happen. He sighs, “Fair enough. But if you break my sister’s heart, I will lock you up in Sticky Finger’s dimension. And make sure you protect her. Understood, Mista?”

> Mista particularly beams. “Understood, capo! Thank ya for blessin’, I promise I’ll take care of her.”

> In the end, you continue to date Mista. It definitely takes awhile to adjust - while your brother is understanding your relationship and respects it, he’ll glare daggers at Mista if he’s being a little too touchy during dinners and outings. You thank Bruno for allowing this relationship and apologize for accidentally breaking that one promise.

> He smiles at you softly, finding it endearing how you kept that to heart. “Well, promise me not to do anything stupid and keep up with your studies, alright?” he offers his pinky to you.

> “Alright, I promise!”

> “Oh, I don’t even think about marriage and kids until you’re done with your studies—“

> “Bruno, hush!”

[descendantstidalage]

Lorictobetr 2021 Day 5: Precognition

Garde flew back hard, leaving John standing, glowing so brightly like one of Ran’s explosions. Nine reached out but his metal arm was gone and running was like moving through molasses. He could see paintings on the wall behind John of them and the Mogs—the prophecy wall. It absorbs the glow, pulsing with the same explosive energy into the walls.

Five brushed past Nine, giving Nine a glare. Nine snarled back, but a bright light flared, momentarily blinding Nine as Five disappeared. No! His students…

Nine bolted up in a cold sweat from the same dream he’d been having for weeks. He rubbed his face. He hadn’t seen John for months and he certainly hadn’t seemed like he was ready to blow some place up, so he wasn’t sure why his brain seemed obsessed with it. “It’s just a stupid dream that won’t leave me alone.”

He pulled himself together long enough for a morning run and for John to crash his day, apparently. Because if his mind couldn’t stop thinking about the other Garde why shouldn’t he swoop in all hero-like when he hadn’t been around for the past several months while Nine was working with his little fugitive six to take down an organization kidnapping the new Garde. Six was around more than his ass, and she was vehemently against the academy.

“I’ve been having visions about New Lorien blowing up. I’m trying to stop it,” John explained all hero-like.

“Seriously?” Nine cut in. “Dude, it’s just a dream. I forgot how seriously you take these things.”

The room fell silent and stared at him. Nine shrugged. “I’ve been having the dream for weeks. And I don’t think you’re going to go crazy and blow everyone up. I’d be stopping you from coming in here if that was the case.”

John stared at him, his face slowly going red as the students in the room started going “oooh.” They got off on way too much drama. “Why are you always ignoring them?! It took us falling off a cliff for you to take our shared dreams seriously?” John cried exasperated.

“Uh-oh, Mommy and Daddy are fighting,” Nigel eased with a shit-eating grin.

“Shut it, Nigel, or I’ll ground you for a week,” Nine shot back.

John just shook his head in disbelief and ran a hand down his face. “I’m getting Adam.”

“Like a Mog knows more about our legacies than we do,” Nine scoffed.

“Oooh, are we meeting Dad’s new boyfriend?” Nigel called out.

“You’re grounded for the week, Nigel. And clearly Johnny-boy here’s the mom, and I’m the awesome dad,” Nine called out.

Nigel blinked innocently, “I thought you were both. An awesome dad and an attentive mom.”

Nine narrowed his eyes. “Sweet talking ain’t getting you out of grounding.”

John watched with an affectionate look. “You’re doing good with the kids.”

Nine flushed and shoved him. “Shut it. I was the only one sticking around.”

John nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry. Adam’s been helping me talk with Henri and get myself back together a little. He can talk to the dead Loric—maybe just the dead in general, but he won’t talk to anyone else.”

Nine blinked. “Seriously? The Mog’s been holding out on us. Dude should be teaching a class. You know what new rule—all the original Garde, plus Adam, have to teach a class. I shouldn’t be the only one passing along my knowledge.”

John shook his head and disappeared, leaving Nine cursing. “Why does that asshole get all the cool powers?”

Nigel slid up beside Nine. “Didn’t you just discover new powers?”

Nine stared at him for a moment and then sighed. “Come on, go find someone else’s drama to get involved in.” He threw an arm around Nigel’s shoulder and scruffed up his hair. “I’ll talk to you later.”

The little rascals left, muttering about Nigel being his favorite.

He sighed and flopped down in his chair. Why was he getting more of these weird dream stuff? He wasn’t sharing dreams with John again, was he? That was awkward enough the first time.

A pop sounded, and Nine looked up to see John standing back in the middle of the room with a tired looking Adam. “How many jumps did you have to do between?”

“Fifteen,” Adam replied for John and yawned. “You’d think he’d let me get a coffee or something after waking me up, but no, he says this is important.”

“Nine’s having precognitive dreams about the same event I’ve been seeing. You said last time that Henri said Sandor had some information about the whole precognitive stuff, but that he was only talking to Nine,” John cut in.

Adam stared at him. “That’s a lot to take in right now.” He scanned the room and goes over to the couch Nine had set up for nap breaks and flopped down. “You want me to see if Sandor wants to talk now?”

Nine looked at him. “Does he like possess you or something?”

Adam made a face. “I’m not letting that happen again.”

“What it happened once?” Nine perked up.

Adam glared at him. “I’m not talking about it. If everyone could just shut up a minute, you’re giving me a headache.”

He rubbed his temple. “So Nine’s having dreams about New Lorien exploding. What does that have to do with dragging me down here?”

“He likes to ignore these kinds of things. I figured he’d be more likely to listen to his cepan and take it seriously,” John said.

“Excuse me? You’re the one that took off on us and ignored all the help the New Garde needed,” Nine growled.

Adam looked between them. “Were you two together or something?”

They ignored him and sized each other up. Adam groaned. “Oh look, Sandor’s talking and—wait seriously? His grandfather told you that you were going to die but Nine was going to live?”

“Wait, what?” Nine snapped his head to look at him. “What’s he saying?”

Adam sat up. “He said your grandfather had that ability, and the last time he met him, he told him that… he told him that you would make it, even though he wouldn’t.”

It hit Nine like a punch to the gut. His grandfather really knew what would happen? He knew what Nine would—what Nine did? “Yeah, well I’m not going to let the same thing happen with John, so how do we stop it?”