#pints wips

[halfpintpeach]

Professor Neil (sneak peek)

I missed the guy and WIP Wednesday this week brought him back up so here's a lil gift for @jtl-fics for being amazing and closing on a condo today!!

(Snippet includes part of the WIP Wednesday piece in the beginning)

September 16, 2008 (Tuesday)

Tuesday was probably Neil’s favorite day of the week. He only had two classes in the morning and both were lectures that he didn’t mind sitting in. After his lectures, he always went to the small coffee shop that didn’t even serve good coffee, but it was cheap and it was routine. Routines helped and kept him focused. Besides, the coffee shop was the only one that hadn’t tried to demand proof of papers for his service dog. One would think that the prosthetic leg would be proof enough but Neil clearly overestimated the mental capacity of most people. 

Armed with subpar coffee and a warm bagel, Neil made his way to the library. The main floor was a communal hub, with no volume limits and plenty of chairs and couches for people to sit on. Tucked on the left side was an open room full of tables, the tutoring center. The woman behind the desk smiled as Neil walked up and wrote down his arrival in a notebook. Neil liked tutoring oddly enough, he didn’t care much for the people, but he enjoyed the subjects and the feeling of someone understanding a difficult concept was hard to beat. 

A good chunk of the people who frequented the tutoring center were those who were on big time scholarships and unwilling to risk a dropping a point in the GPA. Hyped up on coffee, Neil often had to fight them away from his preferred table. The largest portion however, were the athletes. All required to maintain a minimum of a 2.3 to play for the NCAA Division 1 league. Neil tutored football players, soccer stars, and dancers every day. For most, as long as they went to their classes and didn’t fail any exams, it was an easy gig. Five hours a week in the tutoring center was a easy gig.

The Exy team was no exception.

Neil had started tutoring Matt Boyd last year, the tall man hopeless with his French courses. His pronunciation was leaps and bounds better, and the backliner was steadily maintaining a passing grade in the class. Languages were difficult for athletes who traveled almost weekly for games. 

Thankfully, there was no one at the table Neil had claimed as his own. Despite the years of therapy he still took a table in the back of the room. There were other reasons, which his therapist had been good to point out, the fact that being further back in the room kept his dog focused on the task. Babe Ruth was a large golden retriever who seemed to forget that he had an additional appendage attached to his rump. The dogs tail was a weapon, thumbing hard enough against a leg to leave bruises. It was a disappointing scenario, considering Babe Ruth walk to the right side of Neil—tail smacking against his good leg. At the table, Neil took care to sit with his back to the side wall rather than the back. It was the little things, his reminded himself mentally. By now, his voice in the tutoring center was easily ignored as he commanded Babe Ruth to lay at his feet. The dog wasted no time, flopping onto the hard carpet and splaying out his limbs. 

Neil checked his watch, Matt would be arriving in a few minutes. He always came right after his French class. Neil had managed to arrive a little early, so he went ahead and pulled out the workbook and folder that they’ve been using over the semester. This was their fourth meeting and already Neil liked how they were able to review the French that had just been covered in Matt’s class. He made a mental reminder to email his thanks to the French Professor, she’d been helpful in sending Neil her presentations for the classes.

[aembarcar]

[phoenixislost]

Some writing progress to share. A little of both fics I'm working on. ;A;

From the History sequel:

And from the Chiscara fic:

[jtl-fics]

*cough* *cough* New Kings to improve my ailing health 🥺

WIP Wednesday 1-3-24 (Closed) | New Kings AU

He's sweating, hair plastered to his forehead, he looks like he is about to be sick. "Kevin, get him outside." Wymack orders and Kevin nods but hesitates to put an arm around Andrew.

It had been something that had been fine in the past...future...in the future past but now? In this moment?

"Andrew, can I put my arm around your shoulders?" Kevin asks nervous and Andrew shakes his head in the negative before rushing out of the reception room and out towards the athletic fields.

[boltlightning]

worst part about dragonfic is that i'll occasionally be writing something unrelated and think "wait...where is tempest in this scene?" forgetting that dragons are not, in fact, canon to potc, nor does norrington have any friends,

[sockendrache]

Obito can you please start looking more like yourself already and less like someone took you and tried to shove you into a suitcase

(I rarely show off wips but this is going to make me cry if i keep it to myself for much longer)

[whumpfish]

But then something happens to them that's too much for their companions to handle so they drive to the ER and have to just cross their fingers

Also: characters who can't visit or check on their hospitalized friends because they're on the run from the law

characters who can't go to the hospital because they're on the run from the law my beloved

[hwang-inhos-fish]

So I have a 457 WIP currently where In-ho keeps calling Gi-hun after the "I am not a horse" call... but the twist is, it drives Gi-hun fully off the deep end, and he ends up just as raptly, feverishly obsessed as In-ho.

And I have a scene where, FURIOUS and unhinged with frustration and grief after he misses the 35th Games, Gi-hun draws a pint of his own blood, properly packages it for shipping, and uses a pink soldier contact of his to have it sent to In-ho with a hand-written note that says, "Since you insist on drinking blood, spare the innocent - here's mine." And a recipe for blood soup (same soup Kim Jeong-rae threatened to make of GI-hun's blood).

In-ho makes the recipe and calls back with his notes.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Cool for the Summer 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren’t as you left them.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: Humping it up on hump day.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You taste the cocktail and make a face. As sweet as it is, the alcohol is stringent in your throat. You set the glass down as Bucky’s fingers tap on his pint. You glance up, surprised to find him watching you. 

"Don't like it?" He asks. 

"Mm, no, I mean yes. No." You stutter out. "It's good, I just... don't drink much." 

"She's a good girl." Your mom teases. "I always had to push her out the door. Oh, don't even ask about prom." She grabs his forearm and cackles. "You would think buying a dress would be fun. Nope. I think she'd have rather gone to the dentist." 

Your cheeks turn hot. Four years past and you still cringe at the fitting room torture. You look down and fiddle with the cutlery wrapped in a red napkin. You really wish she wouldn't treat you like a child. You suppose at times you might act like one. 

"Those things can be tough. I barely remember mine. Only went so my buddy didn't feel like such a loser," Bucky shrugs. "But look at how far you've come. I'm sure high school is like a blip on the radar. Now the real fun begins, huh?" 

You know he's trying to help and you appreciate. But it only makes your chest tighten. The dread throbs in your temples. Life, it's all ahead of you but you have no idea where to start. 

"Yeah, I... I barely remember." You talk to the table. 

"She's a smart one," your mom praises. "I really lucked out. No teenage angst, no rebellion." 

You chew your lip and pick at the trim of the table. You sound lame. You are and you never minded the safety of that trait. Still, you'd like to be known as more than a boring little bookworm. 

"Okay, here we are." The server rescues you from further humiliation. "Chicken caesar." 

She puts your salad in front of you, "cheese steak sammy and macaroni salad." She lays a plate in front of Bucky, "and the sizzling fajitas." 

Another server appears with a wooden plank, set with a cast iron pan atop it and fixings; tortillas, salsa, guac. It smells delicious but you know it's too early for all that. You'd be even sleepier and you still have to get unpacked.  

"Enjoy," the waitress smiles and struts away. 

You unwrap your cutlery and use the knife and fork to shred the lettuce. You should've known better than to order salad. It's always so awkward to eat with others around to see. 

"Mm, pretty good," Bucky says. "Lauren, how's that extravaganza? Really went all out." 

"Wasn't expecting all this." Your mother scoops grilled peppers into a tortilla, daintily with her fork as her nails shine in the light. You remember when you asked to get a manicure and she said they were impractical... 

She's changed but you don’t feel all that different than when you left for college. Maybe you should have tried harder. Well, it's not like your life is over. Far from. 

"How about you?" Bucky prompts and once more you meet his gaze with a startled blink. You nod and swallow. 

"Good. Just boring old salad." You say. 

"Always chicken caesar," your mother chirps. "Creature of habit. Don't worry. You'll hardly be surprised. By tonight, she'll have one of her books and you won't hear another peep." 

You bite down on your tongue. You're not sure anymore if she's bragging or she's chiding you. Her life is so exciting now. Her hair is highlighted, her nails are filled, and her makeup... she's actually wearing makeup. 

"Didn't think you could work with those." You say as she catches her nail on her napkin. 

"Oh, yeah, I'm not in the ward anymore. Sweetie, didn't I tell you? I do clinicals now. I just show the new ones what to do. Not much hands-on stuff." 

"Uh, I remember. Sorry." 

"Too sharp," Bucky chuckles. "Can't even hold her hand without getting clawed." 

She jabs him with her shaped tip and he grunts. They laugh together and you look around. You're the sore thumb sticking out. Ever the third wheel. Even when you had 'friends', you sat on the sidelines, confused by their inside jokes. 

"It's very good. Thank you." You sit forward and focus on the salad. The sooner this is over, the sooner you can do exactly what your mom expects. Hide with a book. Alone. 

🩵

Home is always a comforting sight but not as much as you expect. A flicker of guilt sparks in your chest. Bucky just bought you lunch, you shouldn’t be so negative. Still, you just want to unwind after a long day of traveling. 

As much as you want him to just go, you would never say as much. Your mom seems happy with him. She even seems healthier. It’s nice to see her taking care of herself, she’s done enough of that for others for too long. 

You get out of the car but Bucky’s too fast. He has you bag in his hand before you can react to the trunk opening. He smiles and insists, “I got it. You lead the way.” 

“Mm, I could nap about now,” your mother calls over the car roof. 

You agree internally. The whole train ride, you looked forward to burying yourself in blankets and leaving the world behind. It would be rude to do so with company around, even if they aren’t yours.  

You follow your mom to the front door and she unlocks it with a yawn. You enter and slip your shoes off on the mat. Things are different. Not too different, you can’t quite place everything. Yet you notice that the coat rack has been replaced with mounted hooks across the wall and the rug at the bottom of the stairs is new. 

“Oh!” Your mom spins, surprising you before you can sneak past her. “I forgot about your surprise!” 

You look at her then over your shoulder at Bucky as he plunks down your bag. You wait for him to respond. He just offers a small curve of his lips. You turn back. 

“You,” your mom taps your nose. “Come on. Ah,” she waves around you at Bucky, “bring her bag with you.” 

Your mom grabs your arm and ushers you upstairs. You can’t resist, too swept up in fatigue and confusion. He follows behind you. What’s happening? 

“Okay. I hope you like it,” she goes to your door and your stomach flips. Oh no, what did they do? She swings the door open and backs up, waving inside, “tada!” 

You hesitate but make yourself step into the doorway. You glance around and your mouth slowly falls open. You blink at the room. Wow. 

It’s not awful, just another change you’re not ready for. Instead of your old rectangle bookcases, new circle ones have been built into the walls; white instead of brown. Your bed is the same but the wood is newly re-stained and the bedding is shade of pink you wouldn’t necessarily choose. A heart shaped rug is spread across the floor and your previous desk has been replaced with one that folds into the wall. 

There is an entirely new piece that stands out. A vanity in the corner. The mirror is the same shape as the carpet and the stool has a fluffy seat. 

“Oh, wow...” you utter as you step further inside. 

“Bucky is so handy! I always wanted to do this but I didn’t know where to start. Oh, just wait until you see his place,” she rambles as she trails you. “He built the whole thing himself.” 

“I had help,” he tuts and sets your bag down. “Tried not to do too much but just added a fresh coat to everything.” 

You’re silent.  

“Sweetie?” Your mom touches your arm. 

“I’m... surprised. That’s all.” 

“She’s speechless, Bucky!” She squeals and claps her hands. “I knew she’d love it.” 

“Heh, yeah. Well, I hope it isn’t too much.” He rubs his neck as he looks around. “You can let me know. I can change whatever you need.” 

“No, no, it’s really nice. Like really. I...” you wring a finger in your other hand. “Thank you.” 

“Lauren,” he sidles past you and nudges your mother gently. “Why don’t we let her get settled in? I’m sure she’s beat from the road.” 

“Right, right,” she beams around the room before she faces him. “Of course.” She glances over at you, “sweetie, let us know if you need anything, okay?” 

“Mom, I’m fine.” You show your teeth sheepishly and hover around the wall. 

Bucky leaves first, your mom following as she cranes to stare at the room. She leaves you with an excited wiggle and you go to close the door behind her. Once it’s shut, you sigh. You weren’t ready for any of this. Somehow coming home has proven even more disjointing than going away to college. 

You plod to the bed and flop onto it. You roll onto your back and let your eyes rove. It is so cute. You would have killed for a room like this in high school, even on campus. Yet it does seem a lot. You’re sure once you get a job, your mom doesn’t expect you to stay too long. 

Maybe this is a good thing. A little less pressure on you to get out but not exactly. With Bucky hanging around, you can’t help but be in the way. You’re not the only one who needs to adjust to your return. 

You can worry about it all later. For now, you need to close your eyes and stop thinking. 

🩵

The afternoon wears on as you dawdle away on your phone. You can barely keep your eyes open as the screen glares back at you. It’s almost six when you make yourself stop the addictive word game.  

You lay listless, trying to urge yourself to get up and do something. You lose the battles as your eyes close and you drift off without realising it. In your subconscious, you’re just as you are in reality. Just lying there, motionless and mindless. 

You wake slowly as pressure squeezes in your pelvis. Your bladder forces you to action. Even with the painful weight throbbing inside, you move without urgency. You sit up slowly, dizzy from the unexpected doze. You stand and shuffle to the door. 

You leave it open as you go into the hall and let your feet guide you. Habit takes down to the bathroom door and you reach for the handle. It turns from the other side and you recoil in surprise. Bucky stops short as he emerges and apologises. 

You stammer as you gape back at him. Somehow after the whirlwind morning, you forgot all that change. In your grogginess, you didn’t see the new walls or the white bookcases or think. 

“S...Sorry...” you murmur.  

You’re consumed in radiating heat as you stare at the stubble along his neck. Any lower and he might be embarrassed. He is shirtless after all. You’ve never been the best at looking people in the face but you have no choice. You examine his silver-streaked hair, slightly tussled, and his grizzly beard with its dusting of white along his chin. 

You step back as he raises a palm and dips his head. “No problem. Gotta get used to each other, I guess. Bad timing, is all.” 

“Right,” you agree dully. 

He looks back at you and his forehead creases. “You okay?” 

You wince. “Yeah, why?” 

“Nothing, nothing. Just... you look... a little out of it.” 

“I fell asleep,” you run your fingers along your throat nervously. The motion catches his eyes. Their startling blue hue gleam in the light. 

“Right. I figured you needed it. Long ride...home.” His gaze flicks up to meet yours. “Sorry you’re stuck here with us boring old people. You probably miss it already.” 

You shrug, “not really.” 

“Not really? What about your friends?” He rests his hand on the door frame and leans. 

“Didn’t... just study buddies. Classmates.” You look away and shift as your bladder aches. 

He clears his throat and stands straight. He steps out of the frame and you jump at his sudden movement. He touches your hip to keep from colliding with you and sidles by. 

“I’ll just get out of your way, baby girl,” He squeezes, his hand lingering for a moment. “Welcome home.” 

He lets go and turns, strutting down the hall as you stand frozen. You hurry forward and shut yourself in the bathroom as you scramble with the sudden agonizing pang. You don’t have time to think, you have to go! 

[lucky13cat]

Snippet of my latest Kingdon WIP:

Mel's date ends up with her accompanying said date to the Pitt. No one is pleased with this course of events. Least of all Dr. Langdon.

Mel was beginning to deeply regret agreeing to this date.

Not that it was bad or that her date was a jerk. Neither were really true. The date, meeting up at an arcade bar for drinks and friendly competition, had been nice in the way that she hadn't hated it. It was her second time going out like this with this particular person, and the first time had gone well enough that saying yes to a second had made sense. A simple decision really. Becca had been happy to hear about it though she had smiled and asked if she'd told Dr. Langdon about it.

Which Mel hadn't. Frank was her friend, and she really loved working with him. Talking about her dating life felt treacherous, especially considering his very recent divorce and her own feelings about him she chose not to acknowledge. Frank was her friend. She'd tell him if the second date led to a third. Maybe.

The second time was shaping up to be just like the first date, good with no reason to turn down another. She'd liked the skeeball machines, and the pretzel she'd ordered had been tasty though she'd not enjoyed her drink, alcohol was hit or miss with her. And Fisher, her date, had been nice and not the least bit offended when she'd demolished him at said skeeball machines and stuck with one drink. Which was... nice.

In truth, the date would have perhaps prompted a third had an unfortunate accident not occured.

Alcohol and throwing games should not be combined. Especially when said alcohol is in glass cups.

Mel doesn't see it happen. She's turned her head to stare at the machine in front of them to see how many points Fisher manages. He's quite bad at skeeball which is probably why in his drawback he'd managed to not only shatter the pint glass of someone behind them but also end up with a shard of glass through his palm.

The one time she doesn't have her emergency kit on her too.

By the time she's managed to convince Fisher not to pull the shard out and stabilize his hand for the inevitable ride to the hospital, someone's called 911. An ambulance rolls up just as she's paying their check.

"You coming?"

Technically, she did not have to get in the ambulance. This was only her second date with Fisher, which usually meant she was free to let him be on his way, but that would mean heading either back into the bar or home. Neither option sounded great, and she'd certainly be wracked with guilt if anything else happened to Fisher. So, with a sigh, she'd pulled herself into the back of the ambulance after Fisher was loaded up.

She'd asked the paramedics to take them to Presby. Both had recognized her from work, which was definitely the reason they'd let her climb in. One of them had shaken their head while the other climbed into the driver's seat.

"Sorry Dr. King, the Pitt's closer."

"Ah," Mel tried very hard not to feel defeated. "Alright then."

She checked her phone. 6:27. Hopefully, everyone from day shift suddenly decided to leave early.

Published: Going, Going, Gone

[milf-murdock]

Well, I’m about to hop out of the bath, and unfortunately I did have to stop just before things got ~juicy 😔 but here’s a lil WIP to hold ya over

Kate Laswell x Wife!Reader

Warnings: gross men being creepy, but Laswell comes to your rescue 😘 canonical swearing, and just a lil nsfw (I might keep writing if there’s an audience for it lol) I do owe you some Top Laswell, anon

Truth be told, you hated coming to base. It was all so rough and rugged, a veritable Good Ole Boys Club that smelled like cigars and gunpowder. You keep your head held high as your step across the gravelly terrain, the small heel of your shoes adding a slight wobble to your step. You catch the eye of a couple of soldiers and ignore their thirsty gazes as they stop to gawk. Picking up the pace, you hurry to your destination: the bar. Just past the far edges of the base, it was obvious the foul-smelling, secluded establishment was less intended for civilian patrons and catered more to offering a place for military officials to take the edge off. You hated this place even more than you hated the base itself, but you know Kate loves a beer right after a job, and John had texted you to meet them here, which could only mean one thing—Kate was back.

The pungent smell of stale beer and cigarettes floods your nostrils as you open the heavy door. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but you find your way to the bar. Once again, you keep your head held high, pointedly ignoring the men who don’t even try to pretend they’re not checking you out.

You adjust the hem of your skirt as you take a seat on the bar stool, anything to keep your hands busy. It’s only a matter of moments before a slurred voice comes from behind you, and your shoulders stiffen.

“Well what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

Despite your better judgement, you glance over your shoulder to see a tall, older man in uniform. You can smell the beer on his breath, and you don’t even bother to hide your grimace.

“I’m waiting for someone,” you respond curtly, turning back around.

“Hey now, don’t be like that. Just give me a smile and I’ll be on my way.”

You ignore him, busying your hands with a stray thread at the edge of your skirt, tugging to pull it loose.

You hear a scoff from behind you before you feel a rough hand on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you, bitch,” he growls.

Your breath catches in your throat, completely frozen under his touch.

And in the next second, you hear another voice—a female voice, low and full of a threatening malice.

“I suggest you take your fucking hand off my wife.”

Relief floods your body, your eyes fluttering close as the weight lifts from your shoulder.

“Shit, I- I didn’t—“ the man stammers, hands raised as he takes a step back.

Laswell steps closer. “And if you ever call my wife a bitch again, you will find yourself on the fucking street with nothing but a dishonorable discharge to your pathetic name. Is that understood?”

Without a word, the man turned to flee the bar, not even passing a glance to his group of encouragers, who all found themselves instantly fascinated by their pint glasses in hand.

“Katie!” You exclaim, leaping from the bar stool to throw your arms around her neck. Her laugh fills your ears, and it sounds like rays of pure sunshine.

“Hi, bun,” her voice is low in your ear as she holds you close. “Told you I’d be back before you know it.”

You squeeze her even tighter, standing on your tiptoes to match her height. “Every minute apart from you feels like an eternity, Kate.” You can’t stop the slight break in your voice as tears well up. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

Kate pulls back just enough to press a fierce kiss to your lips. Your mouth parts in surprise at the passion; typically Kate’s kisses are on the more reserved side in public. Kate uses your parted lips as an opportunity to slide her tongue into your mouth, immediately taking dominance. You melt like putty in her hands, falling into the kiss. All too soon, Kate breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and your lips swollen.

She smiles down at you with a tenderness only reserved for her wife, one hand coming up to brush your cheek. “Let me take you home, bunny.”

You struggle to put together a coherent thought after that damned kiss. “But don’t you want—you usually like, uh,” you blink furiously, trying to think past the rising need taking over your body. “Beer?” You finish lamely, feeling the flush in your cheeks as your gaze bounces between Kate’s lips and her bedroom eyes.

Kate chuckles, leaning in close to whisper in your ear. “Fuck the beer, sweetheart. I have better plans.” A shiver races down your spine and you can feel the wetness pool between your legs.

Kate pulls back just a bit, her lips hovering above your own. “Does that sound ~good?” She’s teasing you, her sweet breath fans over your face, and you can’t help but imagine that breath elsewhere. Your cunt clenches, and you bite your bottom lip, holding back an audible moan as you nod your head eagerly.

Kate has you eating out of the palm of her hand. And she fucking loves it.

“After you, my love,” she coos as she steps aside and lets you lead the way back to the car. You stumble across the bar, looking for all intents and purposes like you were the one to overindulge, though you hadn’t had a sip of alcohol. But Kate knows how you get when she’s gone for long periods of time. She knows how you get when the need is absolutely eating you whole, that fire of desire coursing through your veins. It turns you into a puddle, nothing more than a weeping mess entirely at her mercy. Kate clenches just thinking about it as she watches your ass sway in that perfect fucking dress she knows you wore just for her.

[halfpintpeach]

P.P.P.S.

Should any of my messages find you I pray it be this one for I wish for you to write that which most pleases you dear Pint. For I will love it.

With the utmost sincerity, - @jtl-fics

Prof Neil Prequel || WIP Wednesday 10/4/23 (closed)

Special little thing for you my sweet since you helped reignite the flame that is Professor Neil :))

September 16, 2008 (Tuesday)

Tuesday was probably Neil’s favorite day of the week. He only had two classes in the morning and both were lectures that he didn’t mind sitting in. After his lectures he always went to the small coffee shop that didn’t even serve good coffee, but it was cheap and it was routine. Routines helped and kept him focused. Besides, the coffee shop was the only one that hadn’t tried to demand proof of papers for his service dog. One would think that the prostetic leg would be proof enough but Neil clearly over estimated the mental capacity of most people. 

Armed with subpar coffee and a warm bagel, Neil made his way to the library. The main floor was a communal hub, no volume limits and plenty of chairs and couches for people to sit on. Tucked on the left side was an open room full of tables, the tutoring center. The woman behind the desk smiled as Neil walked up and wrote down his arrival in a notebook. Neil enjoyed tutoring oddly enough, he didn’t like the people persay, but he enjoyed the subjects and the feeling of someone understanding a difficult concept was hard to beat. 

[acotarxreader]

Silence in the Shadows

Azriel x Reader

Synopsis: Hewn City has been hit by a fresh crime wave, stumping the inner circle as they search for a solution. Azriel meets you in a crowded bar while trying to escape the stresses that the City was supplying him. But after a spur of the moment night together, Azriel is left wondering if the girl he spent the night with is truly all what she seems?

Warnings: Smut, angst, a lil action, typos

A/N: This has been reworked a million times and now I just think I have to post it so it can be free of the WIP graveyard. Let me know what you think of this friends???

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

Azriel allowed his shadows to swirl into the flashing lights of the nightclub deep within the City of Nightmares. Cassian span Nesta around in the drowning music as Azriel leaned on the bar top, watching his friends release some heavy tension they’d all been feeling. His head gently bobbed to the music while taking a deep drink from the heavy bottomed tumbler in his hand. Any and all attempts his friends made to separate him from the ledge of oak he rested against were futile, all until his eyes of the same colour landed on a fae he didn’t know. You moved through the crowd with an ease that rivaled his movements, head slightly ducked, obscuring your full facade. Cassian turned to attempt to pull his brother into the moment only to find the section of bar top bare again. 

“Hello there” You jolted slightly at his soft words from behind you, your hand on the release of the back exit of the Hewn City haunt. 

“Hi” You didn’t look back towards Azriel, your hand pressing the release bar to free you back to the street only to have it reject your request. You sighed, turning back to take in the beautiful Ilyrian, it stopping you in your tracks as much as the locked door. 

“Stuck with us?” He grinned at you and you found yourself uncharacteristically returning the same. Azriel felt an odd sense of calm wash over him, his shadows seemingly floating to his feet, suddenly too lethargic to leap to him with information about the fae in front of him. 

“It would seem so” you shouted back over the music.

“Why leave such a wonderful party?” His sarcastic tone accompanied his outstretched hand while it gestured to the chaotic party scene in front of you both. 

“I was just looking for someone” For a fleeting moment your eyes crossed Rhysand path across the dance floor, so quickly that anyone other than a great spymaster may miss.

“Ah, our High Lord, I can introduce you to him?” Azriel’s best effort to hide is slight jealousy at not being the object of your eyes failed him and another grin grew on your face. 

“Not tonight-emm?”

“Azriel”

“YN” You returned, your voices getting lost in the booming sound system.

“I thought you were looking for him?” Azriel couldn’t help but pick up on that little detail. You blinked away the question, offering your hand out towards him.

“Dance with me instead?” Your own question surprised you and he couldn’t help but accept the offer, Cassian nudging Mor in the background at the sight of their dear friend dancing with a stranger in person. 

The night was spent in the great company of one another, unable to keep from one anothers orbit as you both effortlessly melted into the chaotic scene. You both stayed on the outskirts of the dancefloor, away from Azriel’s family that you observed when Azriel was lost to the beat of the music. The night was escaping both of you quickly, Azriel felt as though he was trapped in a parallel universe where only the two of your occupied. Rhysand passed a large pint glass into his brothers hand as he passed the both of you, bringing Azriel out of his illusion.

“And what will you have Azriel’s lady?” Charisma and curiosity radiated from the towering Ilyrian. 

“Rhys she’s not m-”

“-I’ll have a martini, Rhys, like Rhysand right?” 

“The infamous” He beamed back before shimmying back to the bar top for your order, your eyes evaluating the motion with a scrutinising gaze familiar to Azriel.

“Planning on leaving me for a dance partner upgrade YN?” he called out to you jokingly, your attention being pulled back to the somewhat air of seriousness in the undertone of his voice. 

“You’re holding your own Azriel” You smiled while his hazel eyes heated your face over the rim of his beer, your head tilting temptingly towards him, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. 

You never got that martini from Rhysand. Instead you were liplocked with Azriel as your back was pressed flushed into the front door of Azriel’s Hewn City accommodation. 

Your legs wrap around his torso, your chests clinging to one another as if your lives depend on it, both becoming more hungry in your actions. The pulsating energy between the two of you clouded your brain from the questions that previously sat at the forefront while Azriel’s hands tracing up your back in search of the zipper of your dress took all his attention. 

“Why-are-you-guys-in-Hewn?” You managed between the practically touch starved kissing, trying to refocus your mind. 

“Hewn City is a great stressor in our lives right now” he rushed out before meeting your lips again dropping you down on top of his bed, his hands quickly going to pull his shirt from his chest. 

“What?” you breathed out, pulling at the straps of your own dress, your own question long forgotton.

“You asked why we were here” the sound of his shirt hitting the wooden floor hand your eyes tracing over his vast muscles 

“Emm oh yeah whatever” You reached up for the Shadowsinger, pulling him down to connect back to you with a burning desire you had never previously felt with someone, Azriel sharing the sentiment.

Azriel kissed you sweetly before moving down the shape of your body, peppering kisses along the trail to your entrance. You felt your legs begin to tremble under his touch, begging for more as his fingers began to play with your clit, your hands tangling in his hair with a moan. Your pulse nearly hit the roof, the feeling of pleasure shuddering through you, his rough but delicate fingers entering you, massaging you as they slide to your core. You dig your nails into his bare shoulders, riding his thrusting fingers as he groans at the sight. The tension built in your abdomen, the greatest realess you ever had just a few movements away until he stopped entirely. You looked down between your legs to meet his eyes as he moved to hover above you again, discarding his own trousers in the process. You rasped out what air you could until Azriel’s mouth stole the breath away again. 

Azriel slowly then began to enter you, you both almost meeting your release at the feeling. He slowly began to drag in and out as the sensation grew with its addictive nature, he increased his speed, spurred on by your hitching breath. Your head fell back as you both began to sink into synchronised movement. The pressure growing and growing and growing, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your back arched until the band snapped sending you into overdrive as every nerve in your body stood to attention and then exploded. You practically screamed his name sending him over the edge, returning the sentiment by moaning your name, collapsing next to you while riding out his high. You rolled to your side slowly, your hands tucked beneath your cheek against the pillow, your eyes watch Azriel’s chest try to return the balanced breath he was accustomed to. He raised a shaky hand, a snap of a finger sent a buttery soft sheet to cover you both before he laid that same arm across your waist to pull you in towards him. 

“I- fucking hell I needed that” He found himself laughing as you smiled up to him through your lashes. 

“Stressed out lately Spymaster?”

“You have no idea” Azriel yawned out, missing the use of his title by you. Your smile faltered slightly before a rush of pure panic at what you had just done rattled through your body. Azriel’s grip tightened on you as he pulled you in further into his chest, silencing the rising alarm in your chest, you would deal with the repercussions in the morning. 

-

Cassians fist rattling against the solid door with Azriel’s wake up call had him bolting out of the sheets with the fright, never one to oversleep. He looked back towards the space you had previously occupied now empty. He felt a wash of disappointed at the sight, it stolen away by Cassians yelling on the otherside of the door once again. He would process the night later, he had work to do right now. 

—---------------------------

 “I fucked it”

“Have another drink Az, it was a bad day at the office”

“Except our office is the battlefields and the cursed streets of this fucking city” Azriel took the large stein of alcohol from Cassian, nearly sinking it in one gulp, the rotting bar in Hewn City bubbling around the two cloaked Illyrians. 

“Rhys is up there now trying to fix things with Keir, we’ll find the fifty” Cassian offered, tightening the next written plans of action he had tighter into his leathers beneath the cloak as the bar grew in masses.

“He shouldn’t be cleaning up after my mess, I should know where those Fae are gone” He sank another jug of alcohol before standing, having had enough wallowing, Cassian followed him out into the dark streets. Residents of the City avoided the two figures like the plague as the two Illyrians made it back to where the Court sat. 

“If you go in there, you’ll anger Keir even more, he’s just heard of the influx of illegal medicinals entering the city” Cassian said with a strong but hushed tone, catching up to Azriel with ease. 

“Another one of my blind spots, don’t remind me Cass” Azriel fought the urge to run his hands down his face in disgrace

“You know Rhys has been somewhat…limiting of our use since Nyx was born, the mother hening is preventing you from doing your job” Azriel agreed with Cassian as suddenly an obscured body bumped his brother's shoulder while passing him.

“Sorry” was said muffled by a female voice, Cassain took no notice and continued his stride, Azriel looked over his shoulder briefly to find the figure gone again, stopping in his tracks.

“What?”

“Odd in an empty path they couldn’t avoid you” 

“It doesn’t matter Az-Az!” Cassian’s eyes grew wide as his hand went beneath his cloak to the suddenly cold empty space where the Court papers had been. Without speaking, the two brothers ditched their cloaks and separated in pursuit of the thief. 

They coursed through the streets in opposite directions, passing through the residents like they were made of air. Azriel’s shadows raced ahead and back again, relaying information to him as fast as they flew until they darted down a narrow side street without returning, Azriel’s indication to follow suit. He collided with the hooded figure forcing her against a crumbling brick wall, his forearm flush with her throat as his shadows leapt with excitement at catching their prey. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” he seethed out, jostling the female slightly, given the stress he was under he was very much in the mood to act now and question later. 

“Oh, t-he S-hadow-singer” she rasped out through her narrowing larynx. He snatched the hood from the female, revealing a glowing but sharp young face, she could hardly be more than twenty, Azriel releasing the smallest amount of pressure on her. 

“Give what you have taken and I will leave you live” he chewed out, a smirk growing across her small face. 

“Oh Shadowsinger, you can have it, you are much more valuable” he raised an eyebrow to the cocky fae until a new voice came from behind him.

“For fuck sake Dahlia” was the last thing he heard before being sent into a deep sleep by the lid of a bin from behind.

—----------

Azriel’s head rolled off of his chest as he swung his heavy head back to take in his new surroundings. He shook his head gently from side to size, squeezing his eyes together before forcing the dark and damp room into focus. He moved to stand, the heavy sickly weight of chains behind his back kept him welded to the chair. 

“Don’t struggle, you’ll only tire yourself out” the females voice cut through the darkness, quickly reminding Azriel that this was not his home. A broad male stalked over to him, before catching his chin and forcing Azriel’s head to meet his gaze. 

“I’m not sure if she’ll be happy with this Dahlia” his low growl of a laugh gained an eye-roll from the twenty-year-old female Azriel now knew as Dahlia. He would not forget her name and face, she was to be added to a long list he kept in his head. 

“She’s busy welcoming the new ones, besides he went down like a logged tree Orion, doesn’t really align with the formidable character she portrays him as” Dahlia entered the space next to Azriel as the broad figure released his chin with a jerk

“Let me out of these bonds and we’ll see” Azriel spat, unable to call his shadows to his side. The swift brute force of a gloved heavy hand met the side of Azriels face, blood flowing from his lip on contact. 

“Don’t speak unless spoken to” Orion chewed out gaining another eye-roll from Dahlia. 

“Don’t break the new toy Or” a clear, crisp voice floated to Azriels humming ears from a shaded corner of the room. Azriel noticed Orion's face darken further as Dahlia’s smirk turned into a grin. 

“I thought I asked you to bring an egg, not the fucking chicken” the voice continued, shrouded in shadow as the grin left Dahlia just as quickly to the sharp words.

“Release him back, unless you have anything useful to say for yourself” 

“Answer Shadowsinger” Orion chewed

“Oh apologies, I wasn’t sure if it was only when you spoke to me that I to answer” Azriel's words dripping with sarcasm, Orion's fist took hold of Azriels shirt, almost lifting him from his chair. 

“Huh, cute-” you gave a slight half laugh through your nose “-I hate to interrupt you and Orions flirting but it’s time for you to go” 

“But I just lugged his heavy ass all the way here, you’re not going to even try to get answers from him” Dahlia almost whined out the words like a small child, your eyes never leaving Azriel until a smile grew underneath your bandana.

“He doesn’t have any answers, he has nothing, that’s why he’s not trying to escape, he’s trying to see what answers we have” Azriel felt his own small smirk grow at your words, like two tigers feeling one another out before one would strike. 

“Why not kill me?” more sarcasm comes from Azriel as Dahlia moves towards him, ready to send him to sleep again, Orion releasing his shirt.

“Why would we do that when we’re having so much fun watching you struggle to do your job-” Dahlias smile returning to her “-fancy another sleep Shadowsinger?”

“Don’t fucking touch me” You scoffed again from the darkened corner to his protest, taking the scene in before speaking again.

“Dahlia, darling no more knocking out members of Rhys’ Court unless asked, they make rather annoying prisoners” Something about the way you said the High Lord’s name struck Azriel’s mind like echoing memories, in such a callous but casual tone of familiarity. 

“No, it can’t be” he said so quietly he thought no one had heard him, a sigh left your voice before your boots moved with a gentle thud along the stone, entering the strip of light that illuminated Azriel. You had a scarf pulled up and across your face from the bridge of your nose down, your piercing eyes cut through Azriel with almost an addictive nature. 

“Hello Azriel” you narrowed your eyes over the rim of fabric before simply blinking once, Dahlia crashing Azriel into a deep another unwelcomed sleep. 

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

Whatcha think?

Part Two

[phoenixislost]

The receipt in question.

(Context: this is for a Chiscara fic I am writing on the side).

I just spent 12 hours. Formatting a receipt. For a restaurant. That does not exist. For a fic. For a scene transition for a fic.

Please send help.

[razupaltuffsstuff]

To get back to the fanfic recs (I’m working on a longer post, or maybe two, about recs for the fandom classics, but this will need a little bit more time), I have some recommendations or longer fics that are relatively new, so I hope they are also new for some of you.

As you will see with most of my recs, I prefer human AU’s, so these all fall into this category.

You're the Bad Guys (Rated E, 91643 words) by @alphacentaurinebula

I really love this fic. It is a lovely story with a really great characterization of the two ineffables but what it sets the story apart is the setting and that you can feel all the research the author put into it. It takes place, true to the Cold War setting of the book, in Berlin in the early Eighties and it is a really good depiction of this time and place. I was alive back then, and living in East Germany and I really loved to see our two in the role of spies and to navigate this complicated setting. This is a lovely spy story, with all the love, the misunderstanding and shenanigans we expect from a GO story, enriched with a good history lesson.

Author summary: Berlin, 1981. MI6 Agent Aziraphale has never been good at one night stands, but why not give ‘em another go in the middle of a mission in Cold War Germany? What could possibly go wrong?

Agent Crowley goes along with the KGB as far as he can. But how far might he be willing to go for a certain British secret agent with blond curls and a penchant for waistcoats?

Heaven's Calling (Rated E, 87350 words) by @sixbynine-da I followed along with this in parts really heartbreaking story and it really staid with me. It is sweat and kind but has a really heavy topic (please be aware of the emotional/psychological abuse tag). But from my point of view the story was never to heavy, but it was earnest in regards do the topic. I was particularly impressed with the ending, or to be more precise the last couple of chapters. But to say why would spoil this, so I hope this will find some more readers.

Author summary: Aziraphale Whitegate is a cellist, the pride and joy of the wealthy and well known, God-fearing, Whitegate family. He is front and centre of their church community, representing everything the family stands for. Talent, dedication, class, subservience and above all else the image of perfection Gabriel has carefully crafted for them.

Crowley hates him the second he meets him. From the tip of his polished shoes to his perfectly buttoned shirt Aziraphale represents the worst of society as far as the guitarist is concerned. Now he’s expected to play alongside him and make nice, even though Aziraphale isn’t exactly making it easy.

But people’s lives are a lot more complicated under the surface.

Punks without pants (Rated E, WIP) by @playdohangel

And one WIP to add to my recs, which is currently waiting for an update, just to give the author some love (but absolutely no pressure) because I really enjoyed reading along and especially learn about the English punk scene of the past. There is so much research and love in the scene involved in this fic and I also appreciate the literature recs in the notes.

Author summary: This is an AU based in London around the end of 1978 to 1979 known as ‘the winter of discontent’. Strikes, protests and political upheaval were the norm. Crowley, a self confessed rich spoiled little shit, is more discontented than anyone. Running away from his life of privilege he lands in a squat with Hastur a dodgy student who makes "art" from found metal. Has Crowley told anyone where he came from? Has he fuck. He's spiked his hair, torn his jeans and signed up for the dole, he listens to punk and is pretending he's as ordinary as everyone else....

Az an avid follower of the Northern Soul music scene is having a pretty shitty time of it. His dads been laid off and he's had to come down to London and work for his uncle who owns the punk venue Dingwalls. He spends his nights breaking up fights and serving pints to groups of pretentious "punks" who have more hair gel than manners...

[hisbelfastboy]

A Kiss, If You Would #4

A/N : Once again ran away from a WIP that was giving me headaches to write this fluffy little thing <3 A huuuuuuuuge thank you to @eoin-mcgonigal who beta read this and was just the kindest, most thorough sweetheart ever 🥹❤️

For the prompt "Kissing them to confess your true feelings" Also on AO3 Masterlist

On December 5th, 1938, Eoin turns eighteen; not old enough to be taken seriously as an adult — not for another three years — but not a bairn anymore. His mother still kisses him on the forehead when he comes down in the kitchen, and his father affectionately pats his cheek as he sits down for breakfast, but he isn’t a child in need of protection anymore. He’s eighteen. 

So perhaps nothing significant has changed. His body is still as lanky as it was when he went to bed yesterday as a seventeen-year-old. He doesn’t feel as though he’s woken up with enlightenment or new knowledge as to how to tread his fresh adulthood. His bedhead is still as ridiculous as when he was a child, and his cheeks still have the softness of a teen’s. But he’s eighteen. He can go to pubs and not have to charm his way into a pint. No more “Are you even allowed to be here?” or fond side eyes when he saddles up at the counter with Ambrose or Blair.

Blair.

Just the thought of him fills Eoin with nervous energy, giddiness mixing with apprehension that knots his gut tight. He’s always liked Blair; ruggedly handsome — though his pricklish manners turn his edges sharper, bordering on brutish with those he isn’t comfortable with — and with a poet’s soul despite his bite. The man is a menace on the rugby field, all broad shoulders and manic grin, running and tackling with a stubbornness that more than compensates for his height — at least a head smaller than most of the players — and becomes downright trouble once he’s had a drink. Eoin loves it. 

Blair’s gotten into so many fights he’s been banned from a good part of the Belfast pubs, and Eoin from half as many by pure association with the older man — though how he can be banned from a pub he wasn’t even supposed to be in in the first place remains a mystery; bad faith on the owner’s part he wagers. Blair had barked a laugh when Eoin had shared his thoughts on the matter, and wrapped an arm around Eoin’s shoulders despite their height difference, bringing him closer in the kind of half-hugs Blair only initiates when he’s had a few drinks. He’d sported a split lip that bled steadily as he’d laughed, but he’d looked at Eoin with mirth under the streetlight, the fleck of blood on his cheek only complimenting the wrinkles at the corner of his eye. 

That was the thing with Blair. No matter how bruised his knuckles or how drunk his mind, he’s only ever treated Eoin with gentleness. They’ve roughhoused, played around on the rugby field, tackled and wrestled each other before, but that’s always what it is: a play. Blair plays with Eoin but never fights him. Blair does fight for him though; be it a quip or an argument he couldn’t back down from, Eoin’s landed them in their fair share of troubles. 

Every time Blair has been at his side, eyeing their opponent like a dog ready to pounce at the first threat at his owner. The rush of blood it sends to Eoin’s brain is perhaps not one he should chase, but the fiery anger in Blair’s eyes whenever he deems Eoin’s honor insulted is a sight to behold; it never fails to have Eoin feel hot all over. And then, once they’ve retreated to Blair’s flat not to alarm Eoin’s mother at the state of her son, Blair will insist on disinfecting whatever cuts Eoin’s gotten, disregarding the shards of glass still stuck in the skin between his knuckles like they’re but freckles of dust. He’ll reluctantly let Eoin disinfect his injuries, but only once Eoin’s have stopped bleeding — Eoin has long since given up on that fight, too grateful that Blair trusts him enough to handle cotton and the occasional stitches to push for more. Eoin’s eyes will linger, counting each of Blair’s eyelashes as he stands relaxed under Eoin’s hands, before he’ll force himself away.

They’ll drift to the living room, still too riled up with the memories of the fight to go to sleep, and Eoin will kick his feet on Blair’s lap as the latter reads from one of his poetry books. He’ll read slow and steady, the soft cadence of his voice lulling Eoin until his eyelids are heavy, and each blink lasts longer than the last. Sleep will claim him, but he’ll wake up in the morning with a blanket covering him and a pillow expertly placed so his neck doesn’t protest the night spent on the couch. Blair won’t mention it but his lips will quirk up in half-smile when Eoin thanks him anyway.

Eoin loves him.

That’s the crux of it really. He loves Blair, and perhaps Blair loves him back. Sometimes Eoin thinks he does, when Blair allows him to learn his language so they can build a world for the two of them, where the sky is Housman’s and the desert Brooke’s. 

He’s eighteen today, so his age can’t be the reason Blair rejects him if Eoin tries his luck. Just this once, he’ll push for more and hope he hasn’t misunderstood Blair’s lingering looks when he thought Eoin too sleepy to notice.

This year, his birthday falls on a Monday. Most of his siblings are at work or unable to travel to Belfast today, and since Eoin’s fifteenth birthday, with only him and Ambrose left at home, it’s been decided Eoin's birthday would be celebrated when the family came together for the holidays. His mother still cooks all his favorites for dinner as well as making him the most delicious chocolate cake he’s ever tasted, but that means he’s free to go join Blair at the pub with Ambrose after — his first completely legal pub outing, though nobody was hung on that detail before. 

It is, of course, raining when he and Ambrose head out to the pub. The cold rain is whipping at them and soaking their coats, like a punishment for going an hour before Blair is supposed to join them, and Ambrose laughs at Eoin’s misery, collar drawn up to protect his neck but seemingly not put off by the weather. Admittedly, Eoin shouldn’t be either — the rain won’t last he can already tell — but he’s spent almost an hour taming his hair, not combing it through with gel like he usually does to make sure it stays in place. All the rain water has ruined his work, curls falling limply in front of his face. Ambrose’s do the same, but Ambrose isn’t the one to whom a drunk Blair said he liked how soft his ungelled curls looked so Ambrose doesn’t get to be upset like Eoin does. 

Almost to rile him up further, the sky clears not five minutes after they’re settled in a booth, and Eoin sulks through the first half of his pint, feeling his hair dry frizzy.

“Christ, what’s gotten into you?” Ambrose bemoans, uncaring of the way his hair gives a valiant attempt at curling but ultimately falls limp over his eyes.

“This is why you don’t have a girlfriend,” Eoin mumbles, a spark of indignation flaring in his chest that Ambrose can fly from girl to girl without a care whereas Eoin hasn’t ever held hands with the one he loves.

“Hey listen here, you little gobshite.” Ambrose gives him a pointed finger but there’s no heat in his voice. If anything, he looks a bit offended and a lot like he’s having fun, which means nothing good for Eoin. Mischief lights up Ambrose’s eyes, blaring alarm bells in Eoin’s mind but it’s too late to shut him up now; Ambrose’s already opening his mouth, knocking his shoulder into Eoin’s. “Blair will be along in a few.” 

Heat burns his ears, cheeks feeling hot as Eoin hurries to take another gulp of his beer; Ambrose gets a swift kick to the ankle for cackling. 

“Aye, drink up,” he snorts, wiggling his eyebrows. “Can’t let Blair see the birthday boy moping around, it’d break his heart.”

“Shut up,” Eoin mumbles in his pint, ears still burning. 

Ambrose chortles, and a large hand comes to ruffle Eoin’s hair; with a hiss, he ducks away from Ambrose, slapping his hand away. It only sends his brother in another fit of laughter, and Eoin feels warm knowing his secret is safe with him.

Soon his pint is empty and the world starts to feel softer as Ambrose pushes a second one in front of him. Though loose-limbed, Eoin isn’t drunk yet, just more at ease as he leans against Ambrose, previous frustration now forgotten. Then, a flash of dark honey blond passes by the window, the orange burn of a cigarette lighting up before disappearing and Eoin bolts from his seat, barely hearing Ambrose’s laughter behind him. Stepping outside the pub ought to have him shiver, his coat still in the booth with his brother, but the alcohol flowing in his veins keeps him warm as he trots towards Blair, in the alley adjacent to the pub while he finishes his cigarette.

“Hiya Blair.” 

The older man’s mouth quirks up, eyes soft and amused. “Hello, Eoin.”

He’s cleaned up nicely, Eoin notices. Hair wet like he’s just gotten out of the shower, neatly combed back showing off the honeyed strands on top, and with a coat that hugs his shoulders perfectly, he looks nothing like he usually does for pub nights. That Blair took the time to dress up for Eoin’s birthday sends a rush of warmth down to his very toes, hope giving him the push he needed.

“I’m eighteen.” Eoin rolls on the balls of his feet, hands behind his back. He thinks he might be smiling but the alcohol is making his mind fuzzy. 

“I’m aware,” Blair hums, stubbing out his cigarette with his shoe. “Happy birthday.”

Eoin’s sure he’s smiling now. Blair might be too, but there’s something guarded in his posture, shoulders too straight for the amusement dancing in the blue of his eyes.

“You’re not drunk, are you?”

Eoin takes a step back, offended. 

“I’m not,” he denies, shaking his head. Maybe he’s walking the line of tipsy, but he’s far from drunk. Blair hums again, eyes raking over Eoin’s form for a second before they flicker back to his face.

“You’re not,” he eventually agrees, a small smile gracing his lips. 

Flushing under Blair’s piercing gaze, the blue of his eyes vibrant in the darkness of the alley, Eoin clears his throat, stepping closer in spite of himself .“Do you know what I’d like for my birthday?” 

“It’s a wee bit late for that, isn’t it? I’ve already bought you a gift.”

“You have?” Eoin asks, momentarily distracted; Blair always gets him the best gifts, like he somehow always knows what Eoin wants even when Eoin himself doesn't.

“Aye,” Blair huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I’d be a shite friend if I hadn’t.”

“Blair,” he whines, stepping even closer until the toes of their shoes almost touch. “I’m eighteen.”

“I know, lad,” Paddy says, slow and quiet.

Eoin holds off a sigh, recognizing the signs of Blair’s stubbornness. Fortunately, he is just as stubborn; in a battle of will, Eoin’s convinced he can give Blair a good run for his money.

“Even if you already got me something, if I told you what I want–” he falters, suddenly unsure of his wording. He doesn’t want it to be a mere transaction, or Blair giving in to his wish like one would humor a friend. 

Blair’s face softens further, fear and apprehension swimming in his eyes despite the bright bloom of hope that colors his voice.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s only so many ways he can say yes, and more than anything, and with all my heart that would convey just how long Eoin’s been waiting for this; holding Blair by the hips as Eoin dips down until their noses brush and he can hear Blair’s breath catch in his throat is only one, though it is Eoin’s favorite.

Blair freezes against him, lips slack against Eoin’s and cold dread pools in Eoin’s gut — he’s miscalculated, Blair doesn’t want this, he’s just ruined everything — but not a second passes before warm hands are cupping his cheeks, angling him closer. Kissing Blair is softer than Eoin’s imagined. It’s not rushed or heated the way he thought it would be if he kissed him after a pub night or a rugby match, nor playful like their houseroughing. 

It is, as Blair always is with him, excruciatingly gentle, like coming home after a long day to see a fire already lit in the hearth. There are fingers playing with the drying curls at his nape, and soft lips under his that part easily to pull him in further, and it’s all making Eoin’s head fuzzy like cotton. 

After a moment, Blair pulls away with a slow stroke of his thumb under Eoin’s eye, but Eoin can’t bring himself to open them just yet, too content to feel the way his lips tingle warmly. Another kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth, the gesture so tender Eoin’s breath hitch.

“Be good to the lad that loves you true,” he murmurs, only half aware of the words. Against him, Blair stills and then huffs a laugh through his nose.

“And how can I be good to you, lad?” 

Eoin blinks, mind hazy with the ghost of Blair’s lips on his but not enough not to notice the sad edge lining Blair’s voice like summer rain.

“What?”

Blair smiles, a small thing that softens his entire face.

“What do you want, Eoin?”

“Oh,” he laughs breathlessly, giddiness leaving him winded when he brushes his nose against Blair’s. “Kiss me again?”

Eoin’s eighteen, and the boy he’s loved since he was sixteen has kissed him back, then kissed him again, and again. Somehow, the kissing part holds much more value to him than his age, though Blair would disagree. 

Maybe by the time he reaches nineteen, they’ll have shared a thousand kisses, confessed in hundreds of poems this love that’s liquid gold, warm and pure, in Eoin’s veins. 

Maybe for his twentieth, Blair will share some of his own poetry with him, recited low and warm in Blair’s bed that’s become theirs before Eoin leaves for his classes and Blair for the firm.

Maybe for his twenty-first birthday, Eoin will convince Blair to come over for his birthday dinner, perhaps also for Christmas if Mrs Mayne agrees to let her house be one Mayne short for the holidays. Or perhaps Eoin can get his mother to invite the Mayne family for Christmas; he and Ambrose get along with them all enough to justify it, and only Blair and him would know how precious this moment would be. It’ll take some convincing for Blair to even pitch the idea to his family, but Eoin has three years to work on that. For now, he can focus on kissing Blair some more, and discover what makes him shiver and gasp in the night.

On December 5th, 1938, Eoin turns eighteen.

On December 5th, 1938, he finally kisses the boy he’s loved since he was sixteen.