#I was just a little pile of goo for months and that's like. a lot to deal with.

[kirby-the-gorb]

[shesalewa]

Head canons for my gay boys.

GunGoo

Gun has a specific favorite type of cigarettes and Goo knows about it. (The bran is not my choice I hate smoking and cigarettes in specific)

Goo dyed his hair once and went swimming and did not notice it looked a little greenish, until Gun pointed that sh-t out.

Gun is good at cooking. It's just that his tastes in dishes and the way he makes them, makes Goo cringe and confused that he forbid Gun from the kitchen, even though Gun's cooking is actually good.

Gun is a Mama's boy, and Goo is his Older brothers boy.

Gun was taught to use weapons before, specifically a sword, but he didn't give a sh-t about sword fights more than he did with hand combat.

Goo had an older brother once, and his older brother was the reason he got into both anime and sword fighting.

Goo only steals Guns clothes because Gun actually has a higher sense in fashion than him and gets jealous (I'm legit not joking here.)

At the same time Goo does not understand why Gun wears stupid ugly a— clothes sometimes.

Gun definitely uses Guns. A rifle or a sniper. That way nobody knows he actually knows how to use a weapon.

Goo has a collection of very expensive and pretty eye glasses.

And Gun on the other hand, has a collection of expensive watches and rare edition cigarettes.

Goo hates Guns hairstyle. So right after Gun puts his hair in a slick back. Goo messes it up and leaves.

Goo has a bunch of mangas piling up in his room. And Gun surprisingly knows all of them.

The two are definitely in a relationship.

How they ended up together is unknown. Basically the only way I know how to explain that they're dating is.

Goo: I like you Gun. Let's date. Is that good?

Crystal: ... But the two of you are already dating though...?

Goo: what? Yk what? I'll go tell him.

Goo: Gun! Let's date!

Gun: ... We're already dating what do you mean?

Goo: ... DID EVERYONE KNOW BUT ME!?

basically that's how it went

Gun had siblings at one point before legit becoming a lonely piece of sh-t

Goo became an orphan.

Goo has a Mc complex. And Gun is fed up with him.

With how Gun constantly gets into fights he has to get a new phone every now and then. To the point Goo decided to get him those old a—nokia phones for both of them.

Speaking of the Nokia phones, Goo uses it as a weapon from time to time.

Gun knows that Goo likes fashion so he constantly would get him very fancy clothes.

Gun is a pillow princess. And Goo loves his beauty sleep

Speaking of sleep. Gun's body automatically wakes up at 4:30 am. It doesn't matter what time he slept. He'll wake up at 4:30. NO. EXCUSES.

And Goo on the other hand has no choice but to wake up earlier, cause if he doesn't Gun will start cooking.

Gun is a picky eater. But he Never complained about Goo's cooking.

Gun has multiple pictures of him as a baby and isn't afraid if it.

Goo hides his baby pictures.

When Gun was Training little Daniel for a whole a— month. Goo was left alone and didn't even know where Gun was.

Goo gets jealous when Gun starts talking about Daniel.

Gun's bed is legit plain black and white. While Goo's bed is littered with Stuffed animals, books, and all that sh-t.

Gun knows how to sing alittle bit. He also surprisingly knows how to use a harp, a Biwa and a flute.

Goo on the other hand is exceptionally great at singing. But he only knows how to play a ukulele.

Gun is always ready to fk Goo.

Goo is a powerbottom.

But Gun would definitely bottom if Goo asked.

Gun likes showing off his scars.

And Goo hates it when he gets even the tiniest scratch.

The two find comfort in each other.

Goo and Gun have a weird love language. And that is. Fighting. All the time.

Goo has written fanfics before and Gun unfortunately read all of them.

Goo is Terrible at anatomy.

Gun on the other hand is bad at coloring.

Goo had a nightmare once and ran straight to Guns bedroom and realized that Gun as. Warm a— body.

When Gun was Training little daniel, he spoke a lot about Goo.

[shares-a-vest]

💖 Fic Writing Review 2023 💖

I was tagged by @penny00dreadful @rocknrollsalad @cranberrymoons and @unclewaynemunson Thanks everyone! You all smashed it in 2023. Here's to more words wording and fun fandom times with our faves.

Tbh, it took me a good month minute to work out how to do this, seeing as I don't post much to ao3 (something I intend on mending in 2024). I'm very much going with the 'feel free to show whatever stats you like' aspect of the rules.

But before all that, I'd like to use this post as an opportunity to acknowledge everyone who enjoys my writing. I kinda just fell into writing in this fandom and discovered that I love it!

I'm also sending love and appreciation to my beloved moots and everyone in the stwg discord server. Here's to another year of creating, sharing and interacting 💖

This fandom really is my happy place a lot of the time, a much-needed creative outlet and a space where I can talk to people who let me be my silly little old self.

I have so much I want to write in 2024 (including some in-the-works stuff listed below). One goal I know I have in 2024 is to write what I'll temporarily title, 'The Origin of Joanie Munson'. I would really like to knuckle down and write a looonnnggg fic this year that would tell that story.

Anyway, enough of me talking, I'll stop before I get too sappy...

Top 5 Posts by Notes:

Wayne and Claudia to Steve's Rescue

I'm Dating Garfield

My Prince

Eddie gets stuck in Steve's shower after the power goes off

Eddie Munson: Sparkly Vampire Boyfriend

Proudest Work & Reflections:

Wayne and Steve get hearing aids: This post was very much inspired by my pop's ongoing struggle with his hearing aids. HoH Steve is a beloved headcanon of mine so I was happy to receive so much love for a little ficlet that came from a very real place.

Steve spends Father's Day with the Buckleys: If there's one Steve trope I will write, it's Steve Has Bad Parents™. I always find myself writing this trope and getting Steve all sad and angsty as a personal coping mechanism/outlet for irl Dad Stuff™. I was a pile of goo over the tags and comments saying this ficlet resonated with readers! We really are just out here projecting onto our blorbos to get through shit.

Joanie Munson's First Word: I love my Joanie Munson AU. And one thing I love writing into it is Wayne being a doting Grandpa. It was a WIP for quite a while and I remember waking up at like 3am, unable to sleep and bam I finished it, proving that sometimes it's worth letting something linger in the drafts until the moment strikes.

My Fandom Events in 2023 (I did a sprinkling of others, but these I completed/worked on consistently):

Spicy Six Fanworks Challenge SPRING and SUMMER

Steddie Week 2023

Steddiemas

Upcoming Works & Events (aka, next in the pipeline):

Spicy Six Fanworks Challenge WINTER

Clarkson Mixtape Fic

STWG Hozier Project

Tagging some precious moots (plus those above) to send my love and good New Year vibes to! @thefreakandthehair @tboyeddie @steventhusiast @imfinereallyy @hbyrde36 @spicysix @momotonescreaming @withacapitalp @farahsamboolents @hellion-child @sidekick-hero (also feel free to do this tag game too if you'd like/haven't already!)

Rules: Feel free to show whatever stats you have. Only want to show Ao3 stats? Rock on. Want to include some quantitative info instead of stats? Please do this. Want to change how yours is presented? Absolutely do that. Would rather eat glass than do this? Please don’t eat glass but don’t feel like you have to do this either.

[shroomtime00]

Hoodwinked - chapter 1: Blight Meeting

“Hah!” Edric laughed as you cheekily put down a plus four card directed towards Emira. His grin fades as Emira grins before putting down another plus four. 

“I won’t do it! I will never win in uno!”

“Do it or Batric sleeps outside tonight.”

The midnight eyed bat squeaks before flapping into Edric’s emerald hair, burying himself amidst the green. 

Before your brother could respond, the door slams open, to reveal Amity, carrying a huge stack of books.

“Sorry guys, am I late?” she asked anxiously, and the books floated to the ground, piling up neatly. Now without the books hiding her face, you could see her mint-green hair disheveled and dark eyebags gracing her face. 

“Titan, what happened to you?” gasped Edric, pointing at her face. “You look like a zombie!”

“Do you need a face mask, Mittens?” you ask, laughing a little as you throw her a selection of face masks. “Join the club.”

Amity’s eyes shift from your face to Emira’s to Edric’s, each one adorning a different face mask. She sighs, yet a grin on her face. 

Amity unties her half-ponytail and plops herself on the ground, surveying the game you were playing. “Who’s winning?”

Emira raises her hand. 

“What’s all the books about, Mittens?” you ask, grabbing the top book. 

“Oh, you know, abomination books. Complex Abominations, Ten Ways to Summon, Abominations: Rise. I’m studying for Emperor Coven tryouts—they’re two months away only!” she stresses, “And I’m already old enough to try out.”

“Ew, a coven?” you feign a disgusted look. “That’s for losers.”

Amity raises an eyebrow. “What coven are you joining, then?”

“None,” you shrug, “I’ll be a Wild Witch!”

Emira snorted, placing down a card. “As if Mom’ll let that happen.” 

“She won’t know! Edric will make me a fake sigil, won’t you?”

Your brother grins at you, pulling a thumbs up, “Hell yeah!”

As Emira places the golden face mask on Amity, you take it upon yourself to skim through the pages.

“Woah, Mittens, this is really complex shit!” you exclaim, showing Ed and Em the equations for….the seven properties of Abomination Goo?

“Are you even planning to sleep tonight?” Ed jokes, ”Come on, relax! You’ve got two months still.”

“Two months only.” She corrects him, prying the book from your fingers and placing it back on the pile. “And no, I’m spending the night in the library, reading up on equations.” she compiled the books, summoned a small abomination, and laid them on it. “Just wanted to check up on you. Good night!”

And with that, she ran out of the room. 

You three exchanged anxious glances. Em was the first to break the silence. “I’m worried for Amity, honestly.”

You nod, “She’s been overworking herself a lot lately. These studies have been taking a great toll on her.”

Edric’s smile drops, and Batric hops off of his head. “I know. I’ve tried lightening her up, trying to convince Mother to let her relax. Nothing works.” he shook his head and sat up, Batric in his hands. “Nothing works.”

Emira collects the uno cards and begins to shuffle them. “It’s all their fault. Mother and Father’s. They’ve implanted this idea that she needs to work all the time and achieve something great, and that she's useless without. It’s dumb.”

You sat, quiet, while you considered these words. It was true, no doubt. 

The rest of the night was spent in silence. 

-

You open your eyes  and the early morning light spills across your face. You yawn, still slightly tired from the all-nighters you pulled with Ed and Em. 

You pull Em's arm away from you and glance around. 

You notice a lack of your younger sister, and your suspicions rise again. You pull yourself out of the covers and sneak out the room. 

The hall is quiet, save for your muffled footsteps against the carpet. You notice Bernard, an abomination maid, cleaning the flower vases with a duster.

Alright, here’s the problem: Bernard’s got a program on his face that notifies Mother when you walk by him. And Mother hates it when you try to drag Amity away from her studies. 

And that’s what you’re about to do. 

Okay, use your super-sleuth skillz-with-a-z, (Reader)! Your eyes turn into little (e/c) slits as you analyze the situation before you. 

You can’t crawl through the vents as they’re way too small, so that’s off the list, and you can’t kill the abomination, because that’ll notify both Mother AND Dad, causing you to have to sit through a thirty-minute earful from the both of them. 

Can you tell you’ve tried this before? Multiple times. Each one ending in a different disaster. 

There is one solution, though. It might get you caught, but who cares?! 

You ready a fire spell, aiming it at a light opposite of the place where you’ve got to go. The flames burn a bright violet as you release it, and the fire spell goes up and up—

Landing on the light, it broke. You grin in triumph as Bernard perks up and goes to investigate the broken light. 

Good thing you’ve got long legs, because you’re at the end of that hallway in three seconds flat, and then you’re at the library’s door!

Distractions. That’s the only thing you seem to be good at, but it’s really the only thing you have to be good at, anyways! 

You twist the handle, and your face is promptly slapped with the smell of coffee and old books. 

You pull a face as you glanced around the library. You stepped in, and once you shut the door you called out, “amity? Amityyy?”

Amity’s white cat palismen, Ghost, appeared outta nowhere and purred at you. You grin down as you picked up the cat. 

“I know you’re here you know. Ghost ratted you out.”

A groan. 

You grinned, following the sound. You navigated through stacks of books covered in purple slime, coffee stains, until you found your sister. 

“What’s up, mittens?” You ask cheerfully to the girl with deep eye bags. Your eyes widen as you notice her tired frown. Woah, are you okay?”

She nodded, although a little delayed. 

“So…studying about abominations, have you?”

She nods again, and then turns her attention back to the book cracked open in front of her. 

“Have you taken a break?” You asked her lightly. She shakes her head no. 

“Well, come on then.” You tug at your sister’s arm, but she is stubborn to stay on the chair. 

“Can’t. Coven tryouts—“ her sentence is cut off with a yawn, “—two months away.”

“You won’t make it to two months if you don’t eat,” you warned her. 

Suddenly you heard the doorbell echo through the halls. Curious, you walk towards a window and peep out. 

There, standing right out the door, is a tan girl with her dark hair styled in a pixie cut. She was wearing an indigo-and-white shirt, and was carrying a plate of cookies. 

“Oh no.”

You turn around to see Amity gawking at the window. “Luz. I forgot she wanted to go grab some breakfast.” She turns to the books, “But—“

You grab the book, placing a bookmark on the page and then shutting it firmly. 

“Nuh-uh!” You said, tiptoeing as Amity tries to grab the book back, “you need this, Amity. Now, go dress up, I’ll distract her.”

Amity glares at you, though you can tell she’s a little grateful.

Then, her shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine.”

You look down at Ghost, who cocks her head at you, curiously. You smiled at the cat and whispered, “mission success!”

Then you turned back to the window. “Now to that human.”

“Oh, hello, (reader)!” Luz said excitedly when you opened the door. “Is Amity there? She promised she’d go eat breakfast at the owl house!”

“The owl house, huh?“ you raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Is my sister eating well?”

She nods enthusiastically. How does she have so much energy at seven in the morning? “Yup! I make her cookies, her favorites are red velvet,” her caramel eyes trail to the red and white cookies on the plate. “Me and Eda spent all night making these! I left most of them at home, but I think Amity won’t mind if she tastes some of them early.”

You now realized why Amity liked hanging out with Luz. She was like a ray of sunshine, and you couldn’t help but smile at her excited nature. “How about coven tryouts? Did she tell you about that?”

Luz’s grin falls, only for a split second. “Yeah. She’s super stressed about it. I’ve been helping her find some books in the library, though—me and Gus and Willow. She really doesn’t want to disappoint her parents—-“ she slapped a hand to her mouth, guilt rippling through her features, “Sorry! Wasn’t supposed to say that!”

“Say what?” A new voice from behind you, and you see Amity. Her hair was back in a half-ponytail, and she wore her black dress with purple leggings underneath. 

“Amity!” Luz’s tone brightens, “I brought you cookies!”

“Oh,” red tinges her cheeks as she notices the cookies on the platter Luz was holding. “Um, thanks, Luz.”

“No problem! Ready to head out?”

She nodded. “Bye, (reader).”

“Bye.” You say, watching absentmindedly as the two girls walk away. Luz gives you a final wave, but you can only think of one thing. 

Fuck your parents. 

[sweetgaleria]

hello tumblr user sweetgaleria!!!!! I just thought maybe u could use a reminder of what an AMAZING artist you are. honestly your art makes me smile SO much. a couple months ago when u posted that drawing of adrien simply standing there and being a whole entire cutie I was like dhdjdjDHJSSK💕💕💕 IT’S HIM. THAT’S MY BLORBO. I’m dead. Because holy cow do u make him the BLORBO-IEST. like. You just have this way of drawing faces that is So pleasing. Activates intense Cuteness Aggression in me. Makes me melt into a pile of goo. It’s just, like, this level of baby that seems like it should actually be unattainable, yet somehow, you attain it. You’re the master of little baby blorbos and I am crumbling at your feet about it. i do not know how else to describe it but that when you draw blorbos they are soooo blorbo shaped. Like there’s the exact amount of Beloved packed in there that there should be. The beloved is just baked into the crust. Mixed into the sauce. MAN UR ART STYLE IS JUST!!!!! SO CUTE!!!! AND SO GOOD!!!! I know this is like ancient by now and I wasn’t even around when you posted it but the first time I saw that post-reveal Christmas comic you did with the sweaters I was just like 😭😭😭😭 ohhhhh that was so soft I melted like butter dude. It’s still one of my favorite pieces of fanart in this fandom but you have grown a lot as an artist since then and it’s amazing to see!!!! You create beautiful things that make people (me, and also others but very much me) happy and that’s such a special gift to have. Your coloring always feels soooo warm and cozy, like a big hug 🥺 and whenever you post an animation my brain goes 💥💥💥 because it’s incredible!! It is honestly so cool and sexy of you to be a whole entire animator out here and I have no doubt you are gonna kill it in that career and make so many amazing things. I know school can be Rough, especially when it’s taking a lot out of you and you don’t have the time or energy to create :( but hang in there!! you will make things again! It’s not lost. If you’re not able to create right now that’s just bc your formidable powers are in charging mode. They got a little pooped out bc brains and bodies can only do so much but they’re charging up and you’ll be back to a full battery and it’s gonna feel so good. Be kind to yourself 💕 and remember that you are GOOD at this. you’re GREAT at it. your skills and talents are so impressive to me and the heart that goes into your work is what makes it truly special💜 please don’t feel pressure to draw or post if you aren’t up for it but whenever u do I will be extremely delighted,,,I am always so excited to see your art. I’m a sweetgaleria fan. anyway I hope you have a nice day!!

tumblr user carpisuns I've been reading this ask for so long and I still haven't found the proper way to say thank you??? These past few months haven't been the easiest in a number of ways, so your message really did make my week, thank you so so much <33 I don't think I have the mental capacity to reply to your message the way I wanted to, but I hope you know i am also a huge carpisuns fan, seeing your rambles and your doodles and your tags on everything is always so exciting and fun!!! You put a lot of love and care into the things you do, and that shows. I hope we can continue to see each other grow through the years!! And same goes to you!!!! You will be able to create again, you are AMAZING at what you do, and it's normal to feel like you can't draw or write the same way you used to. It's like exercise, once you stop, to get back into it you have to warm up for a while before catching up where you left off. I feel bad sometimes for not improving as fast as i'd like, but then again.. we have the whole rest of our lives to get good, you know? Theres fun in improvement, too And again, thank you so much for your message!! It really did make my week, my whole month even 😭🧡

[ofmermaidstories]

Orihime and Ichigo are <3 <3 <3 I used to watch Bleach a lot when i was like 13? 14? Ichihime were my first OTP I think. A few months ago I started to watch the Soul Society arc again but sadly it wasn't what it used to be for me, the anime didn't age too well imo. I was so excited for the new episodes though and first one really hit the spot again, everybody looks so pretty and the music is so good, ugh. it gives me all the feelings.

i wanna watch the new series sooooo badly, but 🅱️isney+ are the only ones streaming it in my country and i would legitimately rather die than support yet another streaming service, especially a streaming service by a company that’s a empty shell of itself devoid of the innovative creatives that gave it the name it stands on. (i really hate disney 🔪 i hate them and i hate their fourteen squillion year Marvel plan and i hate the fact that they only bought Marvel and Starwars because they needed a market to draw in little boys because 🅱️isney wants to absorb us ALL into a big pile of GOO that vibrates occasionally and that’ll be sufficient entertainment)

anyways, i was also a hardcore ulquiorra/orihime stan when that arc happened…. but moreso in a one-sided way? ugh, peak fiction, i wish hori had taken some goddamn NOTES from Kubo and given me (only me) some goddamn romance in his stupid series!!! like, it’s not as if it was a big thing in Bleach either??? in fact it was tiny, but like—idk, somehow it feels leagues above whatever Hori’s doing right now LOL.

(i say that, but i do think romance is not Hori’s strong point LOL so maybe it’s for the best. 🥹 just give us intense “platonic” soul bonds forged through misunderstanding and obsession i guess, king 🥹🥹 im sorry for slandering u 👑 )

[mytwinflamepath]

august 24/2022 7:11pm

i’m currently on day 4 in separation/very low contact w my DM. it’s been 2 days since we last spoke- which was a brief interaction about a collab we’re working on together. this is the first time he initiated it.. after two weeks of finally getting to know eachother properly. it’s so hard sometimes on this path because my experience seems so different from everyone else’s. maybe that’s just my ego talking… but gadamn. not only do we have an age gap.. he’s in a karmic relationship and is closeted… i’m ftm.

before these past two weeks we didn’t interact much but saw eachother about once a month at friend’s parties or DnD since he started hanging out with my friend group again in October. he was my brothers friend from highschool and randomly invited him to his birthday party. I realized in february , after he drove me home after DnD one night- that we were twin flames. i had always felt a strong magnetic pull to him whenever we were around and a very strong sexual energy& i felt like i was becoming myself again the more we interacted. but i thought it was all in my head because he’s very “straight”.. until that night in february and a 25 minute car ride felt like 2 minutes. i told him about my past and i never felt so connected to someone before. i couldn’t explain why i felt so strongly for him- so i started looking online and came across the label twin flames. I had already had a spiritual awakening 6/7 years before but this really ripped my third eye open. I instantly began healing and recovered from a lot of trauma and codependency issues. I started taking care of myself and my space- instead of wasting away in a trash pile. it felt like i was reborn again. unfortunately that didn’t last long because the next time we saw eachother- he triggered me so deeply that I didn’t get over it for the next 2 months. And by barely doing anything, too. it kept happening, and i kept running. we barely talked from march up until august. where i finally opened up a little about how he inspired me, etc and we texted every day after that, until this current separation. i suppose i technically initiated it because i knew damn well he would be triggered by what i had to say but i also didn’t care anymore. i had already opened up so much and him barely at all. i was feeling pushed to take a step back because him wearing a false mask was triggering me. I thought we could just be friends but it was making it very hard for me to trust him fully. So I basically said that. I chased for like .2 seconds (a couple of messages) when his energy shifted and began pulling back- and then realized i had to let him go and do his own thing. ever since my third eye has been going nuts. ive been seeing signs everywhere.. having dreams, downloads… it’s been very intense and every day has been a rollercoaster of emotions. but im staying on my path and focusing on my purpose. healing from the past and making art. even though it fucking sucks- i honestly only really feel super sad when it’s his emotions coming through. he’s dealing with a lot right now, and not just stuff with me. i feel so bad and wish i could help but i know he has things he needs to go within to figure out. today i got a download of the lyrics from iris - goo goo dolls “i don’t want the world to see me, because i don’t think they’d understand, when everything’s made to be broken, i just want you to know who i am”

[omegaverse-seeker]

Do you have any pup headcanons? I love to hear about the little babies 🥺

Broooo, I have so many. 😭Just look through my blog, but because I would die for widdle pups I'll give you a few.

OV pups learn very fast in just a few months. Like rolling over, crawling, holding things, facial expressions, things of the like.

They "mistakenly" scent things that don't need to be scented and they mostly do it because they are fond of the thing or marking territory without realizing it.

I just really like the thought of nap time being a big puppy pile.

Dynamic doesn't matter to them, they are all protective of each other.

The giggles...the howls...UGH SO FUCKING CUTE. Them triggering each other to giggle or howl? I'm dead.

Mimicking their parents!!! Like imagine a little Alpha pup just being a little pacer like their Beta parent? An Omega pup being all serious like their Alpha parent? Please, I'm going to throw up.

Pups always looking for a nest to nap in. At home they will look for their dam's nest to nap in.

Babies are always sleepy.

They get the zoomies.

Oftentimes, if there is more than one pup in a litter, parents will not separate their pups. Cribs are built huge and are advanced enough to make sure that nothing bad happens.

In a litter there's always a leader pup, doesn't matter the dynamic or the order of birth. Although it does tend to either be the first born or last born.

Pups being swaddled together. Are you kidding me? Someone give me a baby right now.

Pups have crazy memory over scents. Which is both a gift and a curse. They tend to get overstimulated with these smells, so I imagine they can get a lot of sinus infections.

This is all my brain goo can think of....for now.

[rrazor]

fructose | m. atsumu

tags: babies

“ouuh!”

atsumu makes grabby hands towards you from his place on the gym floor. kita had called you to come to the gym while you were studying in the library, waiting for volleyball practice to end so that you and atsumu could go home together. when you make it there, you’re surprised to see atsumu, osamu and even suna, on the gym floor, regressed to about a mere ten months old.

“um, what happened?”

“we don’t really know either,” omimi says.

“kita-san’s grandma made him daifuku this morning,” ginjima starts. “he shared them with all of us, but for some weird reason, only the twins and suna got turned into kids.”

you make your way to the pile of babies on the floor, bringing atsumu into your arms. suna’s watching something on a cellphone. osamu’s sitting in aran’s lap as he feeds him a banana.

“mmm!” osamu squeals.

“slow down, the banana’s not going anywhere but your stomach,” aran sighs.

you look down at atsumu in your arms. “ouuh!” he babbles. he’s adorable, but a little grumpy—small brows furrowed, pout on his lips. supporting his bum, you rest him against your chest, rubbing his back and kissing his forehead.

“fuu,” he sighs, a soft smile on his face, finally in your arms. he paws at your face, wanting more attention, so you leave little pecks on his face as he giggles.

“they’re all so cute! especially you!” you tickle atsumu’s stomach and your heart melts at his giggles. “where’d kita-san go?”

“to get the coach,” akagi says, sitting down next to you. “he sure looks a lot less intimidating as a little brat.”

“buu!” atsumu tries to wack akagi, stretching his little arm out, but akagi simply grabs onto his small hand, moving it up and down like one would do to a dog doing the handshake trick. you laugh as atsumu frowns, glaring at akagi with his large, golden brown eyes.

“oh! i have strawberries.” taking off your backpack while supporting atsumu in your arms, you take out a small container of berries, opening them. atsumu’s eyes glimmer at the treat.

“uuooh!” he exclaims, patting at your arm.

“yeah, strawberries!”

he smiles, giggling in anticipation.

“mmm! haahmm!” osamu paddles his arms, drooling at the sight of sweet berries. aran takes a deep breath, and picks him up, sitting osamu next to your knees. atsumu pouts, pushing on osamu’s head to get him away from the strawberries that were clearly, in his eyes, for him only. the twins do their best to wack at each other as you and aran deflect their hits towards one another to prevent tears.

“num,” suna coos, crawling up your lap.

“oh!” you support a hand on his back as he wobbles on his little legs and he smiles at you. you smile back, offering a strawberry for him. atsumu turns his head, seeing the world burn before him as one of his precious strawberries leaves for someone else. osamu takes the chance to grab one for himself, and he’s just about to shove the whole thing in his mouth before aran stops him.

“you’ll choke!”

you giggle, loving how cute and soft they all were; easy smiles, small hands and sparkly eyes. atsumu turns back to osamu, small hands tightening their hold on your school sweater as his bottom lip quivers. those were his! you brought them for him!! why were people taking them?!

“woah!” ginjima exclaims, bringing out his phone as atsumu starts crying, face in your chest.

you bring atsumu up to rest his head on your shoulder as he continues to cry. “atsumu? don’t cry, sweetie.” you pet at his hair, kissing his cheek. atsumu buries his face in your shoulder, small body quivering.

suna sits on the floor, munching on his strawberry as he looks at atsumu. “fufu,” he laughs, pointing at atsumu.

“you’re a mean one, ain’tcha?” akagi smirks.

osamu pays his sobbing brother no mind as he reaches out for another strawberry. aran holds out his half-eaten banana for him. “you haven’t even finished this yet! where are you getting all this stomach volume from?!”

you laugh softly, rubbing at atsumu’s back to console him. “c’mon, ‘tsumu, i still have some strawberries for you, ‘kay?”

he sniffles, lifting his head up. your heart swells with how endearing he looks. you kiss away the remainder of his tears as he starts smiling again. bringing up the container of berries, you offer them to him. he grabs one, before looking up at you and offering the sweet treat for you.

“hnnm?”

your heart goes into overdrive. who knew atsumu could be such a downright cutie as a baby? you wish you had enough arms to take a picture of the moment. “thank you, ‘tsumu,” you say, brushing his bangs away to kiss his forehead. you take a small bite of the strawberry before insisting he eat too. a smile stretches across his darling face as he nods and finally starts eating.

“mmm!”

“good, yeah?”

“goo.”

you laugh softly at his reply. osamu comes up and pats his brother on the head.

“goo,” he mimics.

atsumu swats his hand away. osamu tries to steal his berry.

atsumu ends up hogging all the strawberries, only sharing them with you. osamu goes back to eating his banana, with an exasperated aran acting as his banana holder. suna decides to nap, resting on a pile of jerseys.

“well, what do we have here?”

everyone turns around. amused smile on his face, coach kurosu assesses the situation. “now i didn’t think you were lying, shinsuke, but this is a bit strange.”

kita sighs, “i apologize, but i don’t know how to fix this.”

“what if you fed them another piece?” you ask.

“nah,” ginjima shakes his head. “some of us had two, or even three.”

oh. you look down at atsumu, strawberry juice on his cheeks. reaching into your backpack, you wrestle out a packet of tissues to clean him up and offer some to aran too.

“should we ask your grandmother?” omimi asks, looking at kita, who nods, grabbing his cellphone.

“what about all the baby stuff?” riseki says, face is riddled with concern. “they’ll need diapers and things, right? we can’t leave them like that.”

everyone looks down at the babies. he’s right; they couldn’t stay bundled in their jerseys all night.

the team splits up. you, aran and akagi are left on babysitting duty as the others go out to get necessary supplies.

(“how are we getting the money for this?” riseki whispers.

“it’s fine,” omimi says. “our club budget is sizable thanks to the twins.”)

when the three babies are changed into more appropriate clothing, you find out that kita’s grandma didn’t have a clear answer—but it was food after all, so maybe, with some time, the food would pass through their digestive system and they’d be back to normal, she mused. the coach decides to heed kita’s grandma’s advice to watch the situation for now. he tells everyone to let him know of any changes.

(“why didja get dinosaur themed clothes?” akagi asks. “we’re foxes.”

“that’s all they had,” ginjima scoffs.)

it’s only 4:30pm, but you offer to babysit so the rest of the team can continue with practice. you change into your gym clothes in case things get messy.

(“i’m sorry,” kita said.

you shake your head. “i kinda like this. and we’re lucky it’s a weekend tomorrow too!”

aran laughs. “well, at least if they start arguing like kids, they’ll look the part.”

kita smiles, shoulders feeling less heavy.)

atsumu sits between your legs, playing with your fingers as suna continues to nap on his pile of jerseys with one draped over him. osamu plays with a spare volleyball on your right. you reach into your backpack, finding a packet of stickers and offer it to the twins. osamu takes one and sticks it onto his volleyball.

“nnnm?” atsumu says, looking at the pink heart sticker stuck on his finger.

“it’s a sticker, ‘tsumu. you can decorate things with them,” you explain softly.

he sticks it onto the back of your hand and you do the same on his. “now we match!”

atsumu beams, giggling. “kya!”

you laugh, kissing his cheek. he holds onto your hand, admiring the matching stickers when a ball hits the side of your leg.

“ouh!” osamu bounces on his bum, waving his arms and hands. you push the ball back and start a rally of back and forth with osamu, who giggles at the fun.

“hnnnmmm…..buuu.”

you look down at atsumu. “are you getting tired, ‘tsumu? do you want to take a nap with suna?”

he shakes his head, holding onto your fingers as he crawls further into your lap, resting his head on your chest. he taps your other arm that’s pushing the volleyball. confused, you bring your hand in and atsumu takes it to wrap around his body as he cuddles into you. you squeal internally at his adorable behaviour, but osamu pouts. he gets on all fours, crawling over to you and up your arm as he holds himself up on his shoulders.

“hello!” you chirp.

he takes a breath. “weeoo,” he says.

you bite your lip, not wanting to laugh at the weird sound he made. atsumu looks up and isn’t happy that you aren’t focused on him, so he gets up too.

“nyea!” he shouts, as if saying ‘see? i can do that too!’

you smile. “you did it!”

atsumu huffs, proud. osamu gets bored and sits back down, crawling over to suna and lying down next to him. you turn your attention back to atsumu as osamu settles in.

“so, what’s next? are you hungry again?”

“ouh!”

“hm?”

atsumu pats at his forehead, before pursing his lips. you laugh, grinning into the kiss you put on his forehead. atsumu smiles too, cheeks pink. “ehehe,” he giggles. oh, if only atsumu would always be this honest. he asks for another one, this time by patting his hands over his lips. you oblige, but no sooner than you do, a puff of cream coloured gas—smoke?—erupts in your face before you’re left with atsumu back in his original size. nude.

“eh?”

“eh?”

“gross. put some clothes on,” akagi grimaces.

“what the—?” atsumu looks down. “oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“don’t swear!” you admonish.

“get dressed, you freak!” ginjima yells.

“huh?! why can’t i swear?” he retorts. “and shut up, you don’t have to tell me!”

“guys!” you whisper-yell. “be quiet!’

too late. suna startles and starts crying at the sudden noise, waking osamu. you rush over to them, hoping the warmness on your cheeks from atsumu’s sudden nudity leaves you soon.

“hey, don’t cry!” you coo, picking up suna, rocking him in your arms as kita comes over to console osamu.

“the hell?” atsumu gripes. “shouldn’t you be holding me, babe?”

you huff at him, patting on suna’s back. “maybe if you weren’t so loud, i would be!”

“get dressed, atsumu.”

as kita berates atsumu, another cream cloud puffs up. this time, a crushing weight comes with it as you collapse with the weight of suna’s body on yours. you’re stiff as a board as suna props himself up, lifting his head from your shoulder.

you blush, putting your arms over your face. “i can’t see anything!”

suna gets off you, perturbed. “what hap—?”

“get dressed,” akagi huffs, throwing his jersey over his head.

“suna, you ass—!” atsumu swears, but shuts up when kita glares at him.

kita places osamu down on the floor, having deduced the next ‘transformation’. just as he does, osamu is returned to his original size through another puff of smoke. kita hands osamu’s jersey to him and he gets dressed without any fuss.

you sigh, finally the ruckus was over.

“so, what happened?” osamu asks.

kita gives the three of them a basic rundown of the events. they all find it weird, skeptical. ginjima pulls out his phone to show them the pictures but they aren’t there. he swears they were. the twins think they’re being pranked and suna does too, thinking he was probably just a casualty for the greater good.

lifting your hand, you point to the back of it. “you stuck a sticker on me, ‘tsumu. there’s one on you, too. and i bought those yesterday so you haven’t seen them yet.”

everyone’s gaze is directed at your matching pink heart stickers. atsumu blushes a little. “well, maybe you aren’t lying,” he mutters.

“whipped,” osamu coughs.

“moron,” suna yawns.

atsumu’s blush darkens, but before he can say anything, aran does.

“how were we supposed to give all three of you temporary memory loss?”

everyone decides to drop it and kita ends practice early, thinking that his grandma may have been right in saying that the gods really were watching. he wonders what they meant by all of this, if there was any reason at all.

“you know, i kinda miss you being a cute little baby, ‘tsumu.”

“yeah?” he grabs onto your hand as you walk home together. he hasn’t removed the pink heart sticker.

you snicker. “widdol baby achumu weally wiked forehead kisses you know.”

“oh, shut up,” he mutters, heavy blush across his face.

you hold onto his arm, snuggling into it. “s’okay, i’ll just have to give you forehead kisses forever.”

he squeezes your hand, grin breaking across his face as he looks at you with hooded eyes. “i’ll hold you to that, babe.”

you giggle, tugging on his shirt lightly. he leans down, kissing you.

he tastes like strawberries.

[marvelobsessedteenager]

All The Hurt - Chapter 1

Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader

Warnings: ANGST, Peter was an ass, reader is a hurt and petty bitch, fluff to make up for the angst, curse words, lots of “coincidences”, description of an explosion and blood.

Summary: Peter Parker. What a dick. It wasn’t always like this, but once he just got up and gladly left you for an unknown reason, you decided to bring hell down on him by publicly ridiculing him whenever you got the chance. However, when you accidentally find out what he's been hiding, conflicted feelings begin emerging, causing you to wonder if you could ever forgive him — especially when he saves your life.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/n: this came to me in a fucking dream so you bet I had to wake up and write this. It’s already completed hehe. I’m going to be posting the parts every day so stay tuned :D

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Never in your entire life would you have thought that there’d be a time when you’d willingly side with Flash. When you’d join him in bullying Peter, your best friend that you’d known since the both of you were shitting yourselves in diapers. Not a night goes by in which you don’t ask yourself why.

Why did he decide to break you?

The day he told you he didn’t want to be friends with you anymore was a day worse than finding out your father had cheated on your mother, prompting her to abruptly exit both your and your father’s lives when you were eleven. In all honesty, it felt like Peter took notes about suddenly leaving when you cried to him about your mother disappearing and used them to his advantage the summer before freshman year.

It was a pain like no other, a wound so hurtful your tear tank was constantly emptied every time you were alone in your room. There were too many nights where you’d lie awake with an ache in your chest - like someone dropped an avalanche on your heart and left it there to crush it.

Friendship breakups hurt like hell.

The days seemed to move slow and the nights even slower. You didn’t know how much time had passed when you’d blankly stare at your collection of photos of the two of you with tear stricken cheeks.

You constantly wondered if he regretted it.

And if he did, you told yourself you’d forgive him. You’d go back to him, because you were sure he didn’t mean it. Excuses began piling up in your mind, each one not having enough evidence to be proven true; maybe he was going through something he didn’t want to talk about. Maybe someone in his life died, like when Uncle Ben suddenly passed away. He didn’t speak to you for a week and didn’t show up to school, and when you went over to check on him, he broke down in your arms as he apologized for ignoring you, but you understood.

You always did.

So, you waited, and waited, and waited. Waited for a call, a text, something. But nothing ever came. No phone calls — he ignored yours — no apologies, no explanation, nothing but radio silence. It was almost like you never existed in the first place.

Day by day your hope slowly faded, and by the 56th day, all of it was gone. You didn’t know how to feel. You were furious at him for abandoning you. You were heartbroken. You told yourself you were being overdramatic — it wasn’t like you were in a relationship together, no matter how much you wanted to be.

All he ever saw you as was a friend. But that was before it all happened. Now he probably didn’t see you as anything but a stranger.

A stranger with memories and secrets revolving him.

Hot anger was quick to take control of your mind, and soon you stopped your crying and tore down years worth of captured memories and pinned birthday cards he made you - all reminders of how much you loved him - and threw them into a box. You shoved it to the back of your closet, along with your dignity and love for him.

Four months after your ‘breakup', you came back different. Newfound confidence shone out of you with every step you made down Midtown’s hallways. Your smile radiated happiness as you felt everyone’s eyes lay upon you. You were able to fool yourself and others around you that nothing happened. Your heart knew better, but soon it’d turn to stone.

And you convinced yourself that you preferred it that way.

You moved on, found friendship in others, and although they never lived up to him, they were enough to fill part of the gaping hole in your heart.

Flash making amends with you was probably the most surprising and unexpected thing to have ever happened in the school. You two got along well, almost too well, and about halfway into the school year, you became good friends. You two weren’t as close as you and Peter once were, but you bonded over your absent parents in ways you didn’t know were possible.

You felt understood, and he the same.

Still, that didn’t stop you from seeing Peter in the hallways. You made it a point to walk past him like you didn’t know him — because apparently, you didn’t.

You kept watching him from a distance.

You watched him make goo-goo eyes at Liz while rolling your own.

You watched him dart out of school at exactly two forty-five every day. You saw the anxiousness in the way he bounced his leg during class, the tapping of his pencil on the desk, the constant glances he threw at the clock with every minute that passed. You wanted to ask, but you didn’t.

On a particular day, the same day you overheard him and Ned making plans to meet up at his house to build Legos, you decided to go to Delmar’s to grab a bite. You hadn’t been there since the breakup, as you were always too nervous in case Peter ended up going there at the same time, and now that there was a clearing, you took it. Even if he was there, you didn't care.

You don’t.

When you stepped into the store, you were immediately welcomed by the one and only Mr. Delmar. He looked good — happy and content, and that’s why you absolutely adored him. It wasn’t fair that you cut off ties with him because of Peter, but he didn’t seem to take it personally. He went on and on about how much taller you’ve gotten and reminisced about how little you were when you and Peter got your first flattened number five sandwiches with pickles.

He must’ve seen your smile falter at the mention of Peter, because his eyebrows furrowed in concern not a moment later, “Did something happen to you kids? I never see him come with you anymore.”

So he’s been coming without you.

Ouch. That’s another stab to the heart.

Your palms began to feel slick as you rubbed them on your jeans with a strained smile and a shaky voice, feeling as if the walls were closing in on you, “Uh-we-“

But you never got to finish. Mr. Delmar’s eyes widened at something behind you, and in a split second, he yelled, “Get down!” followed by a string of Spanish curse words.

A scream left your mouth as a purple wave of something ripped through the bodega, nearly missing you by a strand of hair as you ducked. Shattered glass scattered everywhere, digging into the skin of your arms in a multitude of places. You hissed at the burn you felt below your eye, feeling a heavy liquid (which you assumed was blood) trail down your cheek and neck. You felt intense heat near your legs and your vision became blurred, ears ringing as all other noises besides your breathing became muffled. You coughed and coughed, feeling like your lungs were closing in on themselves from the fire that surrounded you.

The light above you flickered as you attempted to shout Mr. Delmar’s name, praying that he was all right.

But your voice never left your throat.

Your legs were trapped below two giant shelves that collapsed on them, and you weren’t strong enough to move them no matter how many times you tried to. The fire slithered like a snake as it began climbing to where your legs were being held below the rubble.

“Help.” You weakly whispered in between your coughs. The air around you felt heavy and limited, and it was starting to feel like you were choking on the fumes. You didn’t know how much longer your lungs could take.

It was hot. So fucking hot.

Your eyes shut and your head fell back on the ground, chest heaving in fast paces as you felt your body give up already, a burning sensation spreading all over you, like your insides were set on fire.

Your face trickled with sweat that dripped down to your cheeks, mixing with your tears.

Just when all hope was gone, just when you thought you were done for, you felt the weight lift off of your legs in one sudden movement, and an arm slide beneath your knees and on your back, holding you tightly.

You looked up at your savior, and who else could it have been other than Spider-Man, New York’s knight in shining armor, and apparently yours, too. You heard part of what he seemed to be saying as he looked down at you: “…got…I…you” and you could’ve sworn you heard your name.

But then again, you were on the brink of death, so you were no doubt hearing things.

You laid your tired head on his chest, wheezing into his smooth suit as he ran and jumped away from the fire until he reached the outside. He gingerly placed you on the ground and made you lean back against a parked car, and you breathed in the cool night air as he crouched down to rub your back while you practically choked.

In front of Spider-Man.

How embarrassing.

You felt your head heavily fall back as you clutched your arm in pain, the distant sound of police sirens audible now. Your eyes landed upon his covered face that turned away when you looked at him - like he was staring at you until you caught him. You could see that he wanted to go somewhere in the way that his spidey-eyes were expanding and shrinking at the destroyed bank across the street. You moved to touch your legs, and by some miracle, they were just a little sore. You could manage on your own.

“Go,” you breathily said, making Spider-Man look down at you, “I’m okay.”

He hesitated for a moment and pivoted his head to your legs. You breathed out half a laugh, coughing again, “Dude,” you placed a hand on his shoulder and jutted towards your legs as you began moving them, “they’re fine. I’m fine. I know you wanna go somewhere. Just go after it.”

He stayed. For a long minute, just watching you breathe and tilt your head at him. You wondered what was going on in that brain of his, wondered how old he was, wondered where he went to school - if he even went to school. You were trying to formulate a way to thank him for saving you, but you didn’t get the chance to. He nodded and quickly he sprung away, making way for the paramedics and cops to inspect the scene.

You didn’t go to school for a whole week after the incident, as you were too busy reflecting on what had happened. You went over multiple scenarios and “what if’s” and tried not to dwell on the fact that you had to have your driver pick you up from the hospital, not your father. He was probably out of the country, like he always was.

When you finally returned to school, you had stitched up three areas, including one below your eye, and were bombarded with questions and a large group hug from your friends. Your phone was no doubt a goner, so they had no way of contacting you. Even when they tried to come over, your housekeeper, Jane, always the responsible adult, told them the doctor needed you to rest alone.

She knew you couldn’t handle people, and needed to recharge on your own. She was like the mother you never had. Even when Peter left, she stayed by your side and tried to cheer you up. She knew how strong your feelings were for Peter, but she didn’t question you, instead allowing you to grieve the way you wanted to - alone.

Your friends asked you about what happened, and their eyes sparkled when you told them the Spider-Man came to your rescue, their excitement cutting short once the bell rang. They all left to go to their classes after wishing you a quick recovery. All but one.

Flash stood in front of you, nibbling on his lower lip with a wobbling chin and glassy eyes.

“Are you..crying?” you squinted at him, lips twitching into a smirk.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, wiping the stray tears before attacking you with a tight hug. You sighed deeply, feeling a nostalgic warmth spread through your chest as you placed your chin on his shoulder, arms circulating him and squeezing in a way that said "I’m here."

In class, you felt hardcore stares — stares that came from one person and one person only. You saw them from the corner of your eye, tracing the scar on your face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they were laced with worry. But perhaps you hit your head too hard.

During gym class, the last class of the day, you were excused from exercises due to your near-death experience, so you watched and cheered Flash as he climbed the ropes, attempting to break his own record.

“48 seconds.” You stated, pausing the timer as he jumped to the ground and planted his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

He looked up at you with a deep frown, “Seriously? How did I get slower?”

You shrugged, “Maybe you should change your nickname, Eugene.” You smirked, taunting him with the name you knew he hated.

He breathed out a laugh as he shook his head. He was about to say something when Ned’s voice overpowered everyone else’s with one sentence: “Peter knows Spider-Man!”

Everybody went so silent you’d think the queen of England had just walked in.

The sound of balls being dropped and shoes squeaking echoed through the gym as all heads turned to Peter Parker, who nervously looked around and quickly stood up, “Uh, no! No, I don’t. I-I mean..”

He clumsily made his way over to Liz (go figure), whose face remained expressionless.

“They’re friends,” Ned said as a matter of factly.

“Yeah, like Coach Wilson and Captain America are friends,” Flash said, making a couple of people laugh, including you.

“I’ve met him, yeah, a-a couple of times. But it’s um, through the...Stark...Internship. I’m not really supposed to talk about it.” He gritted through his teeth as he threw daggers at Ned with wide eyes.

“Well, that’s awesome!” You piped in, your loud sarcasm breaking the silence that settled over the gym, "He’s a pretty cool guy, I’m sure Liz would love to meet him. Hey, maybe you should invite him to her party.”

“Yeah, I’m having people over tonight, you’re more than welcome to come.” Liz sweetly admitted, almost like she wanted him to come.

Ew.

“You’re having a party?” Peter said breathlessly, as if that wasn’t what you just said.

Flash gave Peter a snarling smile, “Yeah, it’s gonna be dope. You should totally invite your personal friend Spider-Man.” He suggested, derision oozing out of his words.

“Um-“ Peter stammered, helpless eyes searching for assistance in your own. But you wouldn’t give him any sympathy. Not anymore. You stared back, cold as ice, and you knew he saw that. You merely gave him a raised eyebrow, challenging him to say something.

“It’s okay,” Liz said, breaking you and Peter’s eye contact, “I know Peter’s way too busy for parties anyways so..”

“Oh, come on, he’ll be there. Parker wouldn’t ditch.” You said, voice dripping with venom as you maintained eye contact with him and walked past Flash until you reached him. You stopped at his side, just enough to give him a deadly stare, “Right?”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob and eyes dart across the ground as his fingers tangled with one another to conceal his shaking left hand. You studied his face, ignoring something that looked like a fading bruise on his jaw. The school bell rang, and with that, Flash walked to you, raising his hand for a fist pump. You bumped yours with his with a smirk and walked out the gym doors, ready to call Peter out on his bullshit once more tonight.

Next Chapter All The Hurt Masterlist Main Masterlist

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

Business AU - Working Late, Part 7

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6

sdfsfdgdfgf

^^^^^ my actual thoughts after writing this.

There was no denying that he was still thinking about that Saturday night. The feeling had been extraordinary. It’s been some time ever since he felt like this, but there was also something more. And he couldn’t quite place his finger on it.

First thing he did on Monday when getting to work was to lock himself in his office, his thoughts empty as he repeatedly drummed a pen against his desk, his gaze hardly focusing on anything. He did call for someone though at some point, taking this waiting time as an opportunity to collect his thoughts into something comprehensible.

Some knocks were heard at the door, a single “yes” escaping Donnie, an approval for the newcomer to come in. Next came into view another turtle adorning a red do-rag, this one much more massive when compared to the bespectacled mutant. It was none other than Raphael, the muscular terrapin a rare sight in the building as he was often more out to meet clients than stuck behind a desk.

“What’s up?” he started, closing the door behind him. “I’m on a tight schedule, so it better be important.”

Raph did frown a little as he noticed his brother’s composure, the purple clad mutant’s eyes speaking volumes.

“I, uhm... I need some advice,” finally said Donnie.

“What kind? A client’s giving you troubles?” added the other, taking a seat.

Donatello tsked, quickly waving that query away: “No, I know how to deal with those. ... It’s more of a personal matter. A... relationship one.”

Raph’s eyes widened a little, then relaxing his stance with an amused smirk.

“Well, well, well... back in business, I see? I thought that receptionist situation would keep you out of the market for quite some time.”

“Oh please, that girl was crazy. I’m just glad she moved out of the city. ... It’s been more than a year, I’ve moved on.”

“What’s the matter then?” added the red clad terrapin. “You forgot how to socialize or somethin’?”

Donnie quietly chuckled, leaning back in his chair, then thoughtful.

“Oh no, I’ve been socializing, alright... I just don’t want to fuck it up, you know? Things have been going so well now and on this last Saturday we took it a lil’ further-”

“How much further?”

“We kissed.”

“Bro, that’s nothin’.”

Tension was broken for a moment, both brothers snickering. That did help Donnie and calmed his thoughts a little.

“Who is it though?” next asked Raphael. “Someone working here or... ?”

“She’s a project manager for our creative team. She got here from Montréal a couple months back and we met one night by pure coincidence as we were both working late. Her name’s Véronique, but I call her Vee.”

“Oohh, already on a nickname basis, now that’s a feat,” teased the other.

“Please, she asked me to call her like that on the first night we met.”

“Ay, you know I’m just pokin’ some fun at you. ... What’s the matter, then? Why aren’t you talking about that to Leo or Mikey?”

“Because,” started Donnie. “Leo would try to dissuade me into pursuing this relationship, and Mikey well ... you know him. He’d say: ‘Invite her to my place and have her swim in the pool. Girls love pools!’,” mimicked the purple clad mutant. “... You know he’d only want that so he can have a look at her as well. I ain’t having none of that shit.”

Raph laughed once again, acknowledging those statements.

“And, to be frank,” added the bespectacled one. “I value your judgement. You get straight to the point and that’s what I need right now.” He leaned foward a little on his desk, hands joined. “So my concern is; what should I do next? We have interest for one another - we openly expressed as much. We obviously have a good chemistry together... but how do I know she’s the one? ... She feels different from anything, anyone, I’ve ever been with before, may it be in terms of relationships or not.”

“Easy,” shrugged Raph. “Have sex with her.”

“Raph!”

“I’m serious! ... You wanna know if she’s the one? Show yourself vulnerable before her. If there’s something more between you two, it’ll click.”

Donnie sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing them in slight annoyance.

“Okay so what, I just have to sleep with her, no strings attached? I hope you’re not suggesting for me to force myself upon her.”

“Hell no, stupid. I said be vulnerable, not a psycho,” frowned the red clad mutant. “Look ... you wanted my opinion, there it is. I believe in deep connections, and if right now you’re already feeling something special between you two, I don’t see what’s bad about wanting to explore that and see if there’s truly something more. ... Also, people can fuck for the fun of it, I hope you know that?”

Donnie exhaled sharply, half of a smile next on his lips: “I suddenly regret asking for your opinion, but I do see your point.”

“I’m sure you can be a gentleman about all of that.”

“My brain turns to goo whenever I’m with her. I try not to show it, but damn... I don’t think she’d get to that point though, I don’t know...”

“As long as it naturally gets there, that’s what matters. ... Those things are felt, Donnie. I’m not saying to rush it, but rather to not be scared.”

The purple clad one conceeded, lowkey admiring his brother’s wisdom about the matter. He finally rose from his seat, inviting Raph to do the same.

“Alright, I won’t take more of your time. You’ve given me enough food for thought.”

“‘Bout time, I have to go Uptown, I’ll be late ‘cause of you,” Raph teased, playfully nudging his brother’s shoulder along the way.

“Har, har, very funny,” added the other, opening the door so both could exit the room.

As they were about to say their goodbyes, a voice rose, followed by the light clicking sound of hurried heels against the floor.

“Donnie, good timing!”

Both turtles turned their attention to a woman coming their way; Vee. She was holding a pile of documents, already taking some apart and then handing them to the tall terrapin when she was next to him.

“I’ll need you to sign some of these before Wednesday. Some designs for an upcoming project need an approval and I thought you’d be the best for that task. And I- ...” She stopped, finally noticing the other mutant. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Absolutely not,” smiled Donnie, properly holding the documents now. “We had just finished our small meeting, actually.” He gestured the woman to his brother: “Raph, this is Vee, our newest project manager addition.”

The red clad turtle grinned, extending his hand to the human in a proper greeting.

“Ah yes, Donnie mentionned you a couple of times.”

“Oh dear, I hope it wasn’t in a bad way,” lightly laughed Vee, shaking Raph’s hand.

“I would never,” reassured Donnie gently, his free hand instinctively resting at the small of her back.

A faint blush appeared on the woman’s cheeks, next adjusting her hold on the documents as her handshake with Raph ended.

“Not to be a party pooper, but I’ve gotta run,” she said with a smile. “I have a lot of stuff to hand out. Have a good day you two!”

She made sure to cross Donnie’s gaze before walking away, wanting to express her small longing to him. As she was back on her way, Raph did not hesitate to follow her frame, judging her for a moment. He finally looked back at Donnie with a look of approval.

“... Brother, you got taste.”

Donnie only replied by hiding his face with the documents he was holding.

***

Raph had said to not be scared, but Donnie couldn’t help still feeling that way. A part of him wanted to spend every moments with Vee, but on the other hand he didn’t want to appear too clingy or demanding. Gotta savor it like a fine wine, he’d try to reason. ... But frankly he just wanted to chug the damn bottle.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and so far he had only exchanged some words with her on Monday, then Wedneseday when he handed her back the approved documents he reviewed. Then he’d retreat to his office and think. And think. And think.

A ping from his computer got him out of his reverie, noticing a direct message notification.

His heart skipped a beat, his lips forming a thin line as he thought about what to answer.

Hey, wanna bang? Gosh, he felt dirty thinking about that... Keep it natural, Donnie, you don’t have to think about that for now. See where things go from there, naturally.

ABORT MISSION. ABORT MISSION. ABORT!!!! He felt so goddamn cheesy after sending that.

If it were up to him 100%, he’d get on his feet right this instant and sweep her off to anywhere she’d want to go. But he tried to keep it cool:

You’re the best one so far...

More like I’ll be lying down on the floor, a blushing mess. He couldn’t erase his smile, rereading again and again this conversation. He’d definitely have to think of something!

***

Later in the afternoon, as people were finishing their day, Donnie had reclused himself back into his drawing room, continuing some work on the Lowline plans. He was so focused that he did not hear Vee come in, the woman calmly making her way to his position.

“Hey...” she started softly, leaving a hand on his shoulder.

Donnie gasped, his hand holding a pencil jerking and leaving a long mark on the paper. Both froze, eyes wide as they witnessed the horror.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you that much!” apologized Vee, already on the look out for an eraser. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“No it’s alright. I, uh...”

Donnie’s sentence died as the woman was now hunched close to him, already removing traces of that nasty mistake.

“I could’ve done it. I...”

His voice was hushed, having a hard time to keep focus on Vee’s movement, prefering to look at her features instead.

“I ... I could do it,” he added.

Vee slowed her movement, finally looking at Donnie.

“Do what?”

He paused, his heart drumming in his chest.

“This...”

He delicately placed a finger under Vee’s chin, not even needing to move much in order to bring them both closer for a soft kiss. The woman was surprised at first, but she quickly melted, not even denying that she had been craving the feeling as well since that Saturday night... She dropped the eraser, her hands prefering to trail along the mutant’s scales. As they broke the kiss to breathe, Donnie brought her closer to his sitting position, Vee now standing inbetween his legs. No words needed to be said, this sudden electrifying feeling passing through them. The terrapin’s hands couldn’t get off of her, either lost in her hair or tracing her back. The more they joined in a kiss, the more they wanted to be closer. At some point the turtle acted on instinct as he rose up, his hold on the woman’s hips as he laid her against the inclined drafting board. The paper crinkled underneath, but he gave no care in the world about that. Their kiss was heating up, a low pleasured churr rumbling in Donnie’s chest as he stood close to Vee’s core, feeling her desire as strong as his.

The distant sound of people talking and laughing, still around and about to exit the building, brought them both to a stop - looking at the room’s entrance, as if afraid someone would pop in at any second.

Both were lightly panting, their smiles shy after what happened. Donnie took that moment of grace to study Vee’s features, gently brushing away some wild strands of hair off her face. He straightened his stance back up afterward, helping the woman back on her feet.

“Welp, and here I came only to wish you a good evening,” chuckled Vee, adjusting her clothes.

“I’m sorry,” added the mutant in a similar tone.

“Don’t be ... I liked that.”

She rested her hands on his chest, slowly rubbing the fabric of his shirt over his plastron.

“I can’t stay late tonight, but I won’t prevent you from doing so. ... Just don’t stay here too late though.”

“No promises.”

“Please, don’t overwork yourself,” softly pleaded Vee.

“Don’t worry...” he reassured with a smile, a hand cupping the other’s cheek.

They added one good evening kiss. Nothing more, nothing less. A pleasant omen for feelings to come...

((Part 8))

[zmediaoutlet]

I've always felt very strongly that there is a serious lack of touch-starved Sam fic in this fandom.

(read on AO3)

For a hundred and fifty miles of midmorning blacktop outside of Kearney, Missouri, Dean won’t look at Sam. Sam figures he’s got a convenient excuse—traffic, threatening rain—but he doesn’t really need the excuse, does he. Everything they could say they’ve said and now Sam’s just got to sit here, his elbow on the door and his hand braced over his mouth so he won’t say more. Furious for a few miles and just—dragged-out empty, for a few miles after. It cycles. He wants coffee very badly but after the fight they had he doesn’t want to ask for a thing.

He sat there and let Garth wipe up his face. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t have done himself but he didn��t want to go into the bathroom, not with Dean trying to get the black ectoplasmic goo out of his ear, off his skin. Garth gave him a worried smile before he left with Dean and Sam didn’t return it, and Dean didn’t look at him before the motel room door closed, either. It was left to Sam to try to clean up the room. Not the first time. Glass shards swept up as best he could, broken furniture piled on top as a warning to the maid. Dean tips pretty well, whenever this happens, and so Sam tucked a fifty under an unbroken coffee mug and then sat there with his bags packed and his hands over the back of his neck and thinking, god, where did it go this wrong? Why did they let it?

The blinker tick is the only warning before Dean pulls off at an exit. Sam refocuses. Des Moines, coming up through the windshield, and here an exit with the usual suspects: gas, fast food, motel. He didn’t actually drive all that much, in the last year, and it’s a surprise still how often the car needs gas. Another itching burr, reminding him: the responsibilities he should’ve had. What he ignored, and what the costs of ignoring it were.

A Shell station. Sam opens his door first, before the car’s even in park. “How much on the pump?” he says, and Dean’s hand pauses on the gearshift but he actually answers.

“Fifty.” He half-reaches for the inside of his jacket. “You’ve got—?” he starts, and Sam interrupts and says, “I got it,” kind of sharp, and then wishes he hadn’t said it sharp. Last few miles he’s been more scraped-out than mad. Go figure.

Dean glances at him, at least. Still greyish outside, the clouds thicker the more they drive north, and his face looks white. “Get caffeine, too,” he says, and it’s not sharp. It’s not—anything.

Two coffees, granola bars. A Snickers, since Dean likes Snickers. Olive branch or bribe, Sam doesn’t know, and then for thinking it he rolls his eyes. He gets a Payday, instead, and waits for the old guy in front of him to cash out and then gets the fifty, on the pump, and then stands at the lone hightop by the window with old coffee rings and spilled Equal and watches while Dean crouches to get the gas in the car and then leans against the rear bumper, head sinking between his shoulders. Sam can’t tell from here if his eyes are open or closed. He looks tired. Sam sips his coffee, sugary with the fake hazelnut creamer. Well, they’re both tired.

That argument. He barely slept, last night, and when he did he had a dream of the day Dean came back. Different to how it really happened. In the dream he was the one waiting, in the cabin with the light coming through the dirty windows, and he was so happy, heart-sore, his pulse thudding thick in his throat—and that’s true, at least, that’s how it was when he was coming through the door on that day, thinking it couldn’t possibly be true—but in the dream, when Dean came through the door, he came with black streaming from his ears and nose and the corners of his mouth and instead of eyes he had dark holes and he knocked Sam down to the ground and got his hands around Sam’s throat and he leaned down and said—well, when Sam woke up with his heart thudding sick in his mouth, he couldn’t remember what the Dean in the dream had said. He woke up because the bathroom door had closed and there was a light seeping through the cracks but he couldn’t hear what Dean was doing in there. It wasn’t a subtle dream. He lay there awake, nauseated and sorry, because he was too exhausted to be angry, and he doesn’t remember when he fell asleep again but the next thing it was morning, and the alarm on his phone was sounding, and Dean was sitting up on the far side of his bed with his shoulders hunched up high and his back all tension, and he’d said shut it off, jesus, his voice so raw it sounded like he’d been yelling all night. Sam shut it off and went and took a shower, and that was it, pretty much. That was what they had had to say to each other, today.

Dean accepts the coffee with a nod, and the Payday with a strange twitch of his eyebrows. Sam eats a granola bar in a few efficient bites, tosses the wrapper before they leave, and sips slow at the rest of his own coffee as they drive out of the gas station and back up onto the highway and on through Iowa, wondering if Dean thought he’d actually forgotten or if Dean thought it was carelessness or if Dean—

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t be wondering. He should be angry, and he is angry. His hands curl in cringing reflex whenever he remembers shaking Benny’s lukewarm monstrous hand and seeing the slight smugness of his look and seeing Dean’s expression, just behind, warning, saying no. Saying that Sam didn’t get a say, here. Like after all these weeks of lying, of turning away from any real conversation Sam tried to have, of him being jagged-sharp and furious and—and not-Sam’s—this was just another something Sam wasn’t allowed to touch.

There’s a lot of Iowa and a lot of quiet. They stop again for a piss and burgers and Dean says, “Get mine with extra cheese,” and Sam, jesus. Sam does. Extra cheese and onions, too, and they eat at the bar with college football on the television and Sam watches Stanford absolutely cream Arizona and he expects Dean to say something cutting, something snide, but he doesn’t get that, either. Dean just shakes his head as the reporter runs up to Arizona’s quarterback who can’t be more than twenty years old and asks breathlessly what they did wrong, and Dean says, “Should be a law against that,” and signals the bartender for the check, and Sam watches the poor kid struggle to maintain his composure for the cameras and thinks, yeah. Yeah, there oughta be a law.

Dean doesn’t turn west for Sioux Falls like Sam expects. Instead there’s more road and more north and more clouded sky, and more quiet, and it’s a dimming twilight when they pull into St. Cloud, Minnesota, after a full day of nothing, and Dean says, finally, “Think it’s gonna rain,” and roughly one minute later it is. A steady sifting-down kind of rain, the kind that’ll keep going for a week if it goes for an hour.

A motel. Dean goes in to get the room. End of the low building and actual real keys and two queens, like it’s been since Dean got back. Sam drops his bag on his bed and folds the key into his hand until it hurts. “I’m not hungry, you?” Dean says, and rolls on without actually waiting for Sam to say anything. “Figure we can look around for a job here in the morning. Still waiting for word on whatever else.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at the bedspread. Mottled green-and-pink, ugly. Whatever else, said all neutral. Like there’s not a river of blame running through it. “Yeah,” he says, again, and then looks up and says, “Give me the keys.”

Dean’s got his gun in his hand, his bag unzipped and his shit already spilling out across the other bed. Dirty shirts, a tie. What he wore yesterday when he tried to kill Sam. He frowns. “What?”

Sam ignores the gun. “I want dinner,” he says. “Give me the keys.”

A tightness around Dean’s eyes but what is he going to say? No? Sam wants to dare him to. Dean looks down at his bag and then digs in his pocket. It's a clean underhand arc, meant to be easy for Sam to catch, and Sam turns and goes without another word, and when he's behind the wheel he looks at the muted pinkish light of the window coming from behind the thick curtains and he—closes his eyes, and turns on the car, and finds a bar.

It wasn't two beds. Not at first. Not that very, very first day, in the cabin, with the light coming in and Dean strangely tan, all blinding grin and quick manic movement and his hands strong—gripping Sam's shoulders, sliding up under his shirt, bright and hot and dizzying. He'd tackled Sam to the floorboards and cut him and splashed Borax over his skin and then when Sam was still gasping and unprepared he leaned down, right down, and gripped into Sam's hair and said breathless fuck, I missed you so much, and kissed Sam bruising, and Sam could hardly keep up. They barely made it to the bunk in the corner, the one that creaked so bad under their weight Sam thought it would collapse, but it held together somehow. It was so fast it sits in Sam's memory in strange little snatches—Dean's lips smearing across his throat, and the way his head hit the wall and Dean laughed delighted and rolled over on top, and for some reason the very moment of sliding his hand down into Dean's barely-opened jeans and feeling the crisp roughness of his pubes before anything else. That particular feeling.

It was only afterwards that it fell apart. Sam should've lied. He's thought about it a lot, these past weeks. Months. Or maybe he should've told Dean everything: every single second of panic, terror, misery. Every failed summoning and every fruitless hour of research in Bobby's remaining books. Every moment where he thought if he's dead, then I—how every second of living felt like failure, like betrayal, how no matter he what he did he was letting his brother down, so what was the point of counting it—but they didn't lay that on each other. They knew what those days felt like. At least he thought they both did. Maybe it was different, for Dean. Sam wouldn't have thought so, but. Maybe it was.

The bar's mid-sized, kind of friendly feeling. A girl in her twenties pulling beer who's mastered the line between welcoming and actually-flirtatious, and Sam's set up with a beer at the far end by the bathrooms in record time, and he looks into it and thinks, fuck, why not, and drains it fast, and says, "Another, thanks," and the girl's very shaped eyebrows knot a little but she sets him up, so. Big tip for her, later. She smiles, eyes dipping to his chest, and there's a little sway as she walks back down to the couple at the other end. Maybe over the line to flirtatious, then.

A girl. Sam looks down at his beer. He's not sure he ever heard Dean's voice with that much venom in it. Not even—back then, with Ruby. Like this was a worse betrayal than that. He chews the inside of his cheek and shakes his head, tries to focus on—hockey, on the television, but Sam doesn't know anything about hockey, and he can't get it out of his head.

A girl. Like that was the worst part. Like Sam's year of emptiness could be summed up with the fact that he fucked someone else, for a little while. Even if it didn't work out. Even if they ended up more as friends, at either end of a falling-down motel with a shared visitation for a dog, and Sam spent most nights in bed alone watching the blue-and-red neon sign blink through the blinds, and he couldn't— No. And where did Dean get off, anyway? Being that furious, that betrayed, when he was the one who—with Benny— He finishes that beer and orders a bourbon, instead, and settles in. Fuck it. He's watching hockey.

The bartender cuts him off, at some point, but she's very nice about it. Sam knows he's too big to threaten and he tries to be nice back but he's not sure it's working, from her face. "Why don't you drink some water," she says, sweet but with her eyebrows high, and he takes the glass in both hands just to make her feel better. "Can I call you a cab?"

"Can't leave the car," he says and it comes out—oh. So. It's been a few hours and he… that burger was a while ago, wasn't it. Still, this part is important. He has to make sure she gets it. "I can't. Car's special."

"Okay," she says, drawing it out. The hockey's over and there's a too-colorful gameshow on the television. Sam puts his head down on the bar, which is better. Old-people music playing on the sound system. Sam grinds his forehead back and forth on the wet wood. Old-people music is what Amelia called it. Sam just thought it was what his life sounded like. "Okay," she says again, muffled, "I'm just gonna—" and then the glass gets removed from his hand, and she says, "All right, you can't sleep here, we close in thirty. Who should I call?"

Good question. Sam folds his hands over the back of his neck and tries to think of a good answer. Some time passes while he tries to figure it out.

He hasn't been drunk in—he doesn't know. A year. When Dean was gone and Sam didn't save him. Now Dean's here and Sam wants to be anywhere else because Dean doesn't—Dean won't—

"All right," he hears again, but it's a different voice this time. Hard hand on his arm, tugging, and he sighs against the bartop and says Dean, or thinks he does. He lets himself be pulled upright but doesn't open his eyes—that's gonna be bad, he knows that for sure—and so he lets his weight sway, sink, and the hands are still hard but they're holding him up, so that's something, anyway. His head drops back—hard bone, muffle of leather—Dean. "Jesus," he hears, in some tone he can't interpret, and he turns his head in and there's a scrape of stubble against his nose, and he sighs and feels boneless, for once, his body just melted away where it won't cause any more trouble.

"Dean," he says, definitely out loud because Dean says, "Yeah, that's me," kind of annoyed but quiet, and then louder, "Is he cashed out?"

Some answer. Sam's drunker than he thought. He can't remember if he tipped well, hopes he did. His head doesn't hurt yet, like his face doesn't hurt even though Dean was trying to kill him, yesterday, and that's funny kinda, that there aren't repercussions, for anything. Here they are no matter what. He smiles and says Dean's name again and gets steadied, pushed upright a little more. He grasps for Dean's jacket so he can't get away and says, "I love this song," because he knows it at least and likes it fine, and because when Dean talks about music he's happy. Sam wants him happy.

"Yeah, Sam, everyone likes Sinatra," Dean says, and Sam finally opens his eyes to find himself swiveled around on the barstool and Dean in front of him, with unhappy tired lines at his eyes and mouth and looking just—Sam reaches for his face and Dean kind of jerks, like he didn't expect it, but grasps Sam's hand and pulls, says, "C'mon, Jolly Green," not annoyed anymore. Sam slides off to stand with his weight half in his boots and half steadied against Dean's shoulder, and Dean's arm goes around his back and this, this is the most Dean's touched him, since that day, that last day.

Difficult walk in the spattering rain. Propped against the car, and Dean going through his pockets, warm familiar touches. The passenger seat, poured in, and he slumps into the corner between the door and the seat-back and Dean's mouth is in the amber light from the parking lot lights, scattered and blurry from the water, and Sam licks his mouth clean of that same water and wants. He isn't allowed to ask. Driving, then, the car's rumble and sway, and Sam spends the whole drive watching strange flashes of Dean's face appear in turning headlights and fluorescent storefronts and gleaming wet red in brakes and thinking that he dreamed this, more or less this, so many nights, that year in Texas. Dean's cheekbones and lips and freckles and ears and the bump where his nose got broken, way back when they were teenagers, here in the car, where Sam could almost touch him. He wishes he could touch him.

He jerks when they get to wherever they're going. "Last stop, everyone off," Dean mutters. His door opens and shuts while Sam's still blinking, his mouth dry. The rain's still falling and Sam listens to it drumming the roof, the glass. Imagines laying out in it. Feeling it on his skin.

He almost falls when his door opens. "Christ, how drunk are you?" His shoulders were caught but they're out in the rain—cold, on his face, and he closes his eyes and tips and feels it. "Sam. C'mon. Sammy, you're too big, I ain't carrying you. You gotta get your feet under you, man." But there's no good reason for that, Sam thinks. He's just going to fall, and then Dean'll see that he can't do even that, and then what's to stop Dean from just leaving him here? A squeeze at his shoulder and Dean's voice is softer. "Jeez, you're getting soaked. C'mere." His hair's pushed back from his forehead. He reaches for Dean's hand but misses, and his wrist gets caught, and he's pulled back—Dean's body, warm behind his—and his weight tips so far that he has to scramble, lurching, and Dean says: "Hey, there he is. Okay, Gumby, now we gotta do one foot in front of the other—" and hey, it turns out that Sam didn't fall down, and he sways swimming and heavy-skulled from the rain to the chilly concrete walkway to the cool slick polyester comforter, under his back, the room warm and that same pinkish light seeping in behind his eyelids, his wrist still caught in Dean's grip, his jacket heavy-wet and water trickling into his ear. He tips his head, trying to get the rain out.

"You're a mess," Dean says. He lets go and Sam's hand drops to the bed, heavy too. "What were you thinking?" Oh, you know, Sam thinks, but doesn't say. He stretches his legs out, his bootheels dragging on the carpet, and there's a sigh, and then Dean's warmth up against his knee, his voice quiet. "Yeah, I know. Just can't do anything right, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and slits his eyes open. Wet, eyelashes and mouth and his hair soaking the blanket. Dean's splintery up above him, confusing, and Sam turns his head toward the window, the heavy pink curtains blocking out the night. Raining harder. "Yeah," Sam says, again, to someone, his voice sore.

A touch to his jaw, soft. He hasn't shaved for a few days. Dean's fingers drag along the bone, prickling through the stubble, and he scrunches his eyes closed, feeling it. A touch on his chin, on the dip under his mouth. Pausing there, warm. Sam's lips part and Dean's finger brushes the bottom one and Sam drags in air. It feels—he can't quantify it. The touch dips down to his neck, to his collar, where his damp shirt's clinging, to press against the bone there in a way that almost hurts but it feels so good, too, that Sam doesn't want it ever to stop.

"Sammy, I'm—" Dean says, or starts to say, because Sam says louder: "You never touch me."

He reaches up and manages to get Dean's hand. He presses it down, harder. The feel of him, a little damp but the heat of his skin, and the closeness. Sam turns his head and looks up through the shattered light, blinking, trying to get Dean's face. "Right? It's been—no one ever does."

Dean's frowning, when Sam can focus. "Hey, we both got hugs from Garth," he says. Sort of light. "Can't believe you're forgetting that. I still gotta shower off the patchouli."

Like Garth counts. Sam grips Dean's wrist and reaches for his jacket, pulls, and Dean resists for a second but then sits by Sam's hip and even that, the warmth there, that feels good. Right. Sam sighs. "There," he says. Dean's thumb drags along his collarbone. "Missed this part."

Dean's face is so pretty in this kind of light. This golden motel light, with the yellow bulbs that aren't environmentally friendly but are cheap, with the night seeping in behind him so he stands out against the dark. His freckles showing and parts of him shadowed. "What part?" Dean says, after a second. Sam almost forgot what he said and blinks, feels heavy. "Sam?"

"Oh," Sam says, and tries to remember. He smiles at Dean, shrugging against the bed. "Just—when you used to—last time I slept beside someone was… I don't even know. A long time. It was so good when you came back. Forgot how good it was."

It is. Dean's frowning at him but he's still just the best thing Sam's ever seen. Dean's hand slides up his throat, fits his jaw. Slides up, cupping his cheek, and Sam tips into it, all the air going out of him. "Jesus, Sam," Dean says, quiet.

Dean doesn't want this, Sam knows. Not since that very first day. Dean had someone else, has someone else, someone better, someone who doesn't fuck up, and Sam—god, he fucked up. So bad. He's selfish, though, he thinks—he gets to be selfish, today at least if on no other day, because Dean tried to kill him and even if Sam maybe deserved it or something like it then surely at least today Sam gets one thing he wants, and Sam says, blurry, "Could you just sleep here, just so I can—so you'll be here, and I'll know," and Dean says miserable-sounding, "Come on, Sasquatch," and leans down, and his lips land soft on Sam's cheek and then Dean turns his head and his lips find Sam's and Sam breathes through it, not sure, letting Dean kiss him, trying to remember what Dean kissing him could mean.

"Sam," Dean murmurs, and Sam grips his shoulders and lifts into it, spinning. Hand on his jaw, another slipping to his waist, digging in at his side. Dean kisses him and Sam's jaw drops and Dean licks inside and Sam thinks, yes—Sam thinks, finally—aching—and Dean shifts, leaning over, his thigh alongside Sam's thigh and his other leg spilling over Sam's lap and Sam touches him, doesn't dare let go.

God, he's drunk. He's dizzy, laying here on the bed with his eyes closed, Dean's weight over his chest. "What are you doing?" he manages, when Dean pulls back from his mouth, and Dean huffs hot against his chin and says, "Shit if I know—you want me to stop?" and Sam says no and grips his jaw and pulls him back in, not doing much to help but open, grasping, wanting anything Dean'll give, anything he has. The world's spinning lazily with its axis right in Sam's hindbrain, it feels like, but Dean's hand is skimming up his stomach under his t-shirt and Sam's fine if the planet just tumbles away, a skipped marble flashing out of sight.

The touch of Dean's skin is—Sam's been high, Sam's been cracked-open. This feels more than that did. Dean pulls at him, urging, and Sam moves on the bed somehow but the wheeling world's centered right on where Dean's hand is braced there, on his ribs just below one pec, and Sam grips his shirt, pulls him down, keeps him. Fingers at his belt, in his jeans, slipping against his skin, soft and the nails dragging and the shocking warmth of them—"Hey," Dean says, picking his head up, "are you not—" and Sam shakes his head, says, "Don't worry, I—I just want—"—and lifts and gets Dean's uncertain mouth against his jaw, gets his hand around where Dean's thick, filling up his palm, heat and pressure through the denim. "Shit," Dean says, lifting up a little, but Sam won't let him, desperate for the feel of him, the weight. The knowing that he's here. The salt-taste of his throat, and the smell here under his ear where he hasn't showered all day and he smells like—the car, the guns. Beer. Sam's whole life, right here.

Dean has to help, with the belt, the zip. He sighs against Sam's hair when he's free and Sam touches—there, crisp-dry hair and the stiff resistance at the root and the smooth thick pole of it, curving up sweet, enough to get his hand around, familiar in every way. Dean's thigh between his legs, his breath in Sam's ear. "Not fair," Dean says, strain in it. Sam licks his lips, squeezes, and Dean huffs. "I'm getting all the fun, here."

"No, you're not," Sam says, and pulls, and Dean surges against his hand, hot. God, he's hot. Sam couldn't ever match it against anyone else. He's uncoordinated but he wants it, he wants to feel it—"Help," he says, selfish, and Dean half-laughs but there's a rearrangement—Dean half-tipped to one side, his fingers brushing Sam's, knocking them out of the way a little, taking over. Sam touches his nuts instead, careful because he remembers, clearly, some other drunk laughing day when he sucked Dean's dick and then sucked in his balls and Dean yelped, shook, too sensitive—and he doesn't think that's changed but Dean just groans for it, now, and Sam tips into him and mouths at Dean's throat, at the peek of shoulder where his t-shirt's pulled away, feels the smooth jerking pump of his arm, trapped between them. The strong present meat of him, the hardness of his bones. Sam bites and Dean jerks under him, says fuck, says louder, "Sammy, for god's sake," and Sam says back, "Let me feel it," because that's what he wants, that's all he wants. He wants Dean pulsing-present, loud, furious, jealous, hurting—as long as he's here—and Dean says low, "That's it, huh? You want to feel it?" and Sam nods and grips at Dean's t-shirt and pulls him in, and Dean's dick presses up firm against Sam's stomach and Dean pulls Sam's shirt up out of the way and grinds in close and—ah, ah, there. That thick twitch, the heat. Sam turns his face and Dean's there, breathing hard, and Sam kisses him and it takes a second but Dean kisses back, softer. His teeth drag against Sam's lip. Sam drags his cheek along Dean's cheek and can't let go. He's not going to let go.

"I've got to," Dean says, at some other point. Sam blinks, muzzy. Dean's pulling and Sam grabs at his hip, keeping him. "Dude. Enough with the octopus routine."

Quiet. Sam tucks his head down and Dean smells like sweat, now, and there's the smell of come. He drags at the edge of his shirt and his stomach's a mess, and Dean sighs. Touches there, too, and Sam squints down into the shadows between them, and Dean's hand looks somehow like a stranger's but he's careful, dabbing at Sam's skin. His dick's tucked away and Sam misses it. Wishes he weren't so drunk that sucking it was a viable option. Wishes he were less drunk, generally, and that's, he thinks, a sign that he's sobering up. Too soon.

"Sure I can't get you off?" Dean says, after a few seconds. Almost polite. Sam closes his eyes, tips away. "Feels kinda messed up."

"It is pretty messed up, Dean," Sam says, tired now, and Dean sits up—away from him—and Sam thinks, well, that's it.

Dean doesn't disappear. There's a space—the rain louder outside, audible now that Sam's not focused on every breath from his brother—the damp mugginess of his wet jacket, and the way his stomach's starting to complain—and then Dean's fingers, at the waist of Sam's jeans, tracing along the low bared part of his belly, soft. Sam drags in air, feels his stomach suck in, and Dean pauses, but then there's his thumb, pushing against the trail of hair, careful.

"You're gonna be so pissed," Dean says, quiet. "In the morning. Shit, in like, three hours."

Sam tips his head. The clock says two. "I'm pissed now," he says, and it's so not true that he doesn't know why Dean doesn't just laugh at him, call him a liar, say, oh sure, princess.

There's a faint shadow of Dean on the far wall, from the lamp by the door. A big blown-up silhouette over the other bed, his head bent and his details impossible to see. Sam wants another drink and won't have one. Probably not for a little while. Unfair, for both of them, when it doesn't fix anything.

"It wasn't supposed to be this screwed up," Dean says. His fingers drag across to Sam's hip and then away. Sam misses them instantly. "I don't know. It just went wrong somehow."

"Yeah, somehow," Sam says. Dean sighs, and then the bed shifts, and before Sam knows it Dean's standing up, turning away, and Sam lifts on one elbow and says, "Wait."

"Gotta clean up," Dean says. He waited, though, is waiting, standing by the bed with his belt still undone and his ears pink and his eyes hard to read.

Sam's head swims, still a little too drunk for this. "It doesn't fix anything," Sam says, trying to follow the thread. Dean's eyes tighten. "Stay."

"Getting real mixed signals here, Sammy," Dean says, but he steps closer, and Sam reaches out and gets Dean's belt-loop and pulls, and Dean looks down, frowning. His mouth's a low curve. "Darlin', you've got to let me know."

A song? Sam shakes his head. He pulls, and Dean sits, by Sam's hip again, and Sam slides his hand up from the belt to Dean's side, to his back. His skin, warm.

Dean touches the hollow of his throat, soft. Thrilling. "What are you doing?" he says. Almost sorry.

"I don't know," Sam says, clinging to the last bit of whiskey, "but let me."

It's still dark, a quiet carved out bit of black rainy morning. There's tomorrow to remember to be mad. Dean lets him.

[nad-zeta]

Mochi Madness

Pairings: Vlad x Reader

Words: 2200+

Comments: Eeeeeeeek! Once more HAPPY BIRTHDAY NEEEMOOO! ❤☺hehe I bet we have all become far better at making mochi than we were with the first attempt lol,☺😳😳😳😳 Eeeek I'm super excited to see how our cheesecakes and brownies are going to turn out! whoooop whoooop even more excited to spend the day with ya ! hehe, hope you had a wonderful day neemo filled with all the candy, all the sunshine and all the sweetness! Sending ya infinity catbus hugs! hehe love ya lots! ❤❤😳😳

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ

The month of July was not a particularly special time of the year for you, but for Vlad, it meant the world, for it was the birth month of his dearest flower. You had insisted multiple times to the man not to make a big deal out of the day of your birth, and after a bit of back and forth, a compromise was made. A morning spent making some delightful birthday treats followed by tea in the garden was the suggestion and one that seemed like an appropriate way to spend your birthday. Not too grand, yet intimate and memorable.

It was the early afternoon of your birthday, a perfect time to make some treats for tea. You were the first to arrive in the kitchen, so you decided to prepare yourself for the mountain to climb. You tied the pink apron around your waist, washed your hands and gathered the ingredients for the battle that was about to commence. Your kitchen had become a war zone, so to say, more so because of your severe lack of cooking abilities.

Your comrade—companion in arms— arrived in due time to lend support and as such, marked the start of the great birthday battle.

Vlad strode through the kitchen doors, taking soft steps as he carried a basket of precious cargo close to him. “Ah, just in time, did you manage to get enough strawberries from the garden,” you asked curiously, shooting a happy smile over your shoulder.

He returned your smile with a gentle one of his own, coming up beside you to place the heavy basket down, pulling the cloth off to reveal a mountain of strawberries. You let go of a gasp in awe. “I think we have enough strawberries to feed an army,” you jested with a playful elbow jab to Vlad’s side.

“I have no intention of sharing these with an army, only with you, my love,” came the light chuckled response from Vlad as he reached over to grab hold of a matching pink apron. It was the cutest apron, littered with bunches of tiny bright red strawberries— a gift from his last birthday— one which he cherished very much for the feature of his favourite food. Despite the airy response, you knew he was dead serious, especially when it came to his beloved strawberries. You shook your head with a smile, memories of past castle shenanigans flashing in your mind— of Faust and Charles stealing Vlad secret stash of berries and the severe punishment that awaited them for their crimes.

Your eyes drifted down to the recipe— it was one you had come across a few weeks ago while searching the library for a book to read. Mochi, it was called; you remembered researching the dish after it had been mentioned in a favourite book of yours. You were always curious about the dish. However, after the main character described the soft, chewy texture, you knew you just had to try the treat for yourself. Hells, you were so excited about wanting to try it out, that you had immediately sought Vlad out in his garden to share the discovery and to find out if in all his years on earth if he had ever come across such a dish.

With a shake of the head and a fond smile shot your way, he suggested that the treat be included as part of your birthday picnic.

It took a bit of searching and lots of researching, but thankfully, with Vlad’s help, the two of you managed to find a small recipe book that featured the soft, chewy dessert.

“Okay, first things first, we need to mix the rice flour and water,” you stated, tapping the recipe in thought as you read a little further to gauge the next few steps to follow.

Meanwhile, Vlad reached out to pick up the two bags of powdery substances laying on the table, crimson eyes scrutinizing the labels. He then turned to you, concern painted over his face, “What’s the difference?” he asked.

Your first obstacle had just arrived; you knew it was one that would come back to haunt you as even after you had found the recipe, one of the ingredients had never been heard of before. You and Vlad hunted far and wide for the rice flour when finally, one day when Vlad was on his way home from the flower shop, he spotted the very flour you required for the baking battle. The only problem was that that shop housed two types of rice flour. So Vlad did what any reasonable person would, he bought them both. It was a problem for future Vlad to deal with.

You looked over at him in confusion, which only seemed to grow when you investigated the labels yourself. “Surely glutinous rice flour and rice flour are the exact same thing,” you stated, stroking your chin and wracking your mind for any differences between the two.

“Let’s see what the recipe says?” Vlad suggested, moving to take a closer look at the book.

“Sweet rice flour,” he read aloud with widened eyes. How was there a third type of rice flour? You tried to decipher the labels for any indication, even going as far as to look at the sugar content hoping that one of them would be higher, as surely that would dub it as sweet rice flour? More sugar equals sweet, right? RIGHT?

After a moment of pondering, and investigating you smiled over at the man with a carefree shrug, “there is only one way to decide which to use.” Vlad looked over at you curiously, raising a brow as he waited for you to reveal your master plan.

”Cover your eyes,” you said with a widening smile and a hint of mischief, carefully taking the two bags from his hands and putting them behind your back.

Once his eyes were closed, you brought the bags forward and placed them down on the counter, keeping a cautious eye on Vlad to make sure he wasn’t peeking. With a satisfied nod, you quickly started shuffling the bags around until even you were unsure which was which.

With a tender smile scattered across his face, Vlad’s eyes twitched to open ever so slightly, if only to catch a glimpse of what you were up to. Unfortunately for him, you had eyes at the back of your head and caught him in the act trying to steal a glance, “Nuh uh, I see you peeking,” you squealed out, quickly rushing behind him and bringing your small hands up to block his vision further.

He tilted his head to the side, puzzled as to just what antics you were up to. As if reading his thoughts, you finally revealed your ingenious plan. “Since neither of us knows the difference between all these flours, we shall let fate do the deciding for us!”

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, hands extended out in front of him to feel around the counter until finally, they hit one of the bags. After a moment of patting around for the second bag, he randomly picked one up, “this one,” he smiled, turning to lock eyes with you.

You clapped your hands together happily, letting out a gleeful hum, “perfect! Okay, let’s mix it with some water!”

Without care for quantities, you eyeballed the amount of water thrown into the bowl with a satisfied smirk— you never were in the habit of measuring ingredients out accurately, much rather opting to follow your gut.

After the two ingredients were combined in a bowl, you cooked it in a saucepan until a blob of sticky goo formed. You removed it from the heat and set it aside to read the next set of instructions. “Knead,” you stated simply.

Vlad looked at the pot of goo dubiously, giving it a little poke, “is it supposed to be this sticky,” he asked with a troubled expression. Cooking had never really been his strong suit either, despite the years spent on the earth.

“I mean, the recipe didn’t say it shouldn’t look like this, “you responded with a confident shrug and an easy smile. You tried tipping the pot out onto the counter, only for the goo-like substance to remain firmly stuck to the bottom, causing an amused snort to come from Vlad.

“Interesting,” the white-haired man mused, using the spoon to help the goo from the pot to flop onto the counter. He split the mixture in half and gestured for you to knead one half while he took care of the first.

“Here goes nothing,” you said, apprehensive, not entirely sure what kind of end product to expect— as things stood, the pile of goo was neither light nor fluffy, just a sticky mass.

After several moments of trying to knead the glob, you finally broke into laughter, “this is not working,” you looked down at the ‘dough’, most of it being stuck to your hands, the other half stuck to the board.

Your gaze shifted over to Vlad, who seemed to be having about as much luck as you with the dough, but instead of kneading, he was playing with it like goop between his hands, “I bet Johann would like this, reminds me of one of his experiments,” he said with eyes lit up in childlike wonder.

Continuing on your crusade, somehow, you and Vad managed to get the sticky mass of goo into a semi doughlike blob. Left to chill for 30 minutes beneath a heap of cornstarch, you moved onto the next feat, ganache...

Easy enough, you thought scanning the recipe— how wrong you were— how very wrong indeed, as it was anything but simple. You glanced around the kitchen and gulped; Charles was going to kill you when he got home.

The mixing of the chocolate and cream was easy enough, but the shaping of the dark chocolate substance into balls? Now that was a separate feat on its own. After letting the ganache sit in the fridge for a few moments, you were ready to make up and fill your mochi.

A strawberry centre with a chocolate ganache covering. That was the goal, and truly the recipe made it sound so simple. Just make a ball out of the ganache and press the strawberry to the centre, covering it entirely with the chocolate, it said— it will be fun it said, freakin nope! What the recipe didn’t account for was warm hands and sticky chocolate melting and making a giant mess.

Even though the once-pristine kitchen turned warzone from the hurricane that was your and Vlad’s cooking, a smile never left Vlad’s face.

You had to laugh at your pureblood lover covered in chocolate, brows furrowed together as he tried his hardest to wrap the mochi dough around the ever melting chocolate covered strawberry. At some point, to motivate himself between mochi’s, he would pop the ‘flopped strawberries’ into his mouth, you know, to taste test and make sure they were still good.

After 5 successful ish attempts, the two of you decided to call it quits! With a wide grin, you snuck a glance over at Vlad, who finally managed to seal his first chocolate delight in the mochi skin. You clapped your hands and praised him with a ‘bravo.’

After carefully putting your newly made treat into the picnic basket, you turned to Vlad with an impish glimmer in your eyes. “You have a little chocolate right here,” you gestured to the man, startings of a cunning smile falling across your lips.

With a thoughtful hum, he brought his knuckle up to wipe the spot on his cheek, but it was of little use as you simply giggled and shook your head.

“Did I get it?” he asked, crimson eyes looking down at you with nothing but pure love and affection.

Your smile widened, turning Cheshire as you reached your tiny hand covered in chocolate to his face, to leave a playful smear, “nope, it’s right here,” you said, biting back the laughter that threatened to spill from your chest.

“A cunning one, I see,” came his response, with eyes lit up. Before you could jump back, he dipped his fingers in the bowl of chocolate and swiped them across your cheek with a smear to match.

Chimelike laughter filled the kitchen as you and Vlad continued to worsen its state with the third natural disaster of the day, this time in the form of chocolate finger painting. The end of the new battle was marked when Vlad leaned down to steal a kiss from your lips mid-attack. “Sweet,” he remarked with a twinkle in his eye, hand moving from your check to delicate take hold of yours.

“Happy birthday, Draga mea,” the words befell his lips, followed by another tender kiss on the forehead. You responded in kind by giving his hand a squeeze,” shall we go out and have that picnic in the garden? I am rather excited to try these mochis.”

“Anything for you, my love,” he spoke with an affectionate squeeze of the hand, leading you to your favourite spot in the garden.

[beatricethecat2]

“I’m super bummed about the yurt,” Myka says.

“It is rather unfortunate," Helena says. "Perhaps internet rentals are unreliable?”

“That’s how everything’s done these days. And it’s not their fault, the pump died, and no water means it’s a no-go. But I still want that river view.”

“And the solitude. Plus the solar-powered generator.”

“You were super into that,” Myka says. “But this place…” She pushes at the cards scattered in front of her. “They just left stuff lying around. Such a dump.”

“It was rather last minute. Merely a stop-gap; a place to rest our weary heads after nights under the stars.”

“And backs on the hard ground,” Myka grumbles. “Where’d you find this?” She twirls a yellow flower between her thumb and forefinger.

“In the garden behind the shed. Though ‘garden’ and 'shed’ are generous terms.”

“Thanks for picking it. And thanks for being so upbeat about this,” Myka says, cracking a small smile.

“Thank you for humoring my curiosity.” Helena gathers the cards within her reach and piles them into a neat stack.

“It’s given us a destination, which we needed.” Myka pushes more cards towards Helena. “You’re sure none of the sites we saw are what you remember?”

“From the stereographs? No.” Helena fans the cards out and begins to arrange them in suits.

“Could you…could it be you don’t remember it as well as you thought?

"Stereographs were the virtual reality of my day. They immersed one in places inherently foreign to our own. The take-away memories were vivid. I was hoping…”

“Hoping what?” Myka says, scooting closer, joining in organizing the cards.

“That the physicality of the ruins would trigger an emotional response. I viewed the images at one of Charles’s parties not long before I was bronzed. My reaction was quite visceral; I’d felt life flowing through the structures, even though they were long abandoned.”

Helena stares at the card in her hand.

“Then again, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind. Perhaps it’s a ridiculous quest.” She lays the card, a joker, on the table.

“Hey, we’ll keep looking,” Myka says, laying her hand over Helena’s. “We’ll regroup in Vegas, then go north and hit Mesa Verde. It’s pretty magical.”

“You’ve been before?”

“Girl Scout trip. Long, miserable bus ride. But even as a kid, the cliff dwellings felt magical.”

“Perhaps they’re the site I’m looking for!” Helena says, perking up. “And, perhaps we met there in the past. Star-crossed lovers, throughout time and space.”

“Past lives? You believe in that?”

“Not in a grand sense,” Helena says, aligning the gazes of the queen of hearts and queen of spades to face each other. “But I do appreciate that these days, one can mention such trivial mythologies without repercussions.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my day, as a woman, there was little room for flippant musing. Christian values dictated our every move, while Spiritualism promoted the fanatic embrace of communing with the dead. Not to mention the base-level assumption women were of a lesser intellect.”

“So you’d never say it out loud.”

“Never. In fact, I’d blocked it out. Hard science was my escape but at the expense of my sanity.”

“I suppose we all need a sense that something out there's guiding us,” Myka says, plucking the two other queens from the spread and aligning them as Helena did. “It’s kind of romantic to think our connection’s lasted hundreds of years.”

“But you’re not sold.”

“Nah.” Myka slips the cards on top of each other and slides them back into the pile.

“Perhaps my bronzing was the universe’s way of aligning our presence.”

“Sounds like a story you might write. Or one you already did.”

“So pragmatic, Myka Bering.”

“You’re the romantic,” Myka says, bumping Helena’s shoulder.

“I’m a woman of science!” Helena quips playfully.

“Hm, yeah,” Myka mumbles, turning to look towards the other side of the trailer. “Come with me, 'woman of science.’ Let’s test out this awful looking bed.”

She grabs Helena’s hand and tugs her across the room. They tumble in tandem onto the full-size futon.

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

Bering and Wells On the Road ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 5 Title: Las Vegas: Hopes, Dreams, and a Little Bit of Crazy

Summary: Myka and Helena travel across the expanse of Texas toward the arid Southwest, tracking down a memory. A last-minute cancellation leads to less-than-ideal accommodations and musings on the universe. A stop in Vegas turns into an artifact hunt after a few nights on the town. While there, a less than supernatural mystery garners honest talk, revealing a sticking point that, for better or worse, is left hanging to be resolved down the line.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4

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

***BONUS SCENE***

“What’s this?” Myka asks, holding a piece of paper found while tidying the room before checkout.

Helena turns from packing and squints at the page.

“It appears to be an advertisement for burlesque.”

“It’s a strip club.”

“There’s a distinction?”

“You’ve watched enough cop shows to know.”

“Touché,” Helena says with a smirk. “Were you considering attending?”

“It’s from your pocket! The stuff you took out to dry clean your coat after it got gooed.”

“I don’t recall saving that piece of ephemera.”

“Maybe you recall this?” Myka flips the paper over.

Helena steps closer and squints again.

“Do you need glasses?”

“I haven’t had proper tea yet,” Helena grumbles. “It appears to be writing.”

“It’s a name. And a number. Who's Giselle?”

“Ah…” A light bulb goes off behind Helena’s eyes. “The tall, blonde you were ogling at the bar.”

“Me? What blonde? Oh…” A dimmer bulb goes off behind Myka’s eyes. “I thought I recognized her from that show we saw, Zumanity.”

“And I’d thought she’d reminded you of a tall blonde from your past.”

“Sam was a man.”

“Gender is a construct–”

“I know! I don’t need another lecture–”

“–designed to control the masses, just like– ”

“Capitalism, religion, television….who knows what else,” Myka gruffs. “No more podcasts in the car for a while, OK?" 

Helena crosses her arms over her chest and grunts dismissively. Myka's face pinches as she holds her ground.

"So you, what, went up to this woman when I took that call from the Warehouse?”

“As it happens, she spoke with me,” Helena says, puffing up like a bird on the defense.

“She came to our table?”

“I’d gone to the bar. I needed a top-up as you’d been gone for an immeasurable amount of time.”

“And she just happened to be there?”

“Coincidentally.”

“Coincidentally? And she 'coincidentally’ gave you her number?”

“We had a lovely conversation about the mechanics from the show. The hanging armatures, the chains, the silks, the water tank. And the athleticism that went into their provocative stunts.”

“Uh-huh. But she gave you her number. Why?”

“I believe there was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?”

“Must you parrot me so?” Helena plants her hands on her hips.

“If you’d tell me what really happened, I wouldn’t have to.” Myka mirrors Helena’s pose.

“Fine. You seemed so enamored, I thought to ask questions–”

“I thought I recognized her, that’s all!”

“She was quite stunning. Did I mention statuesque?”

“Helena, why?” Myka waves the page in Helena’s direction.

“She offered us a backstage tour.”

“Us, or you?”

“I’d pointedly mentioned you, so us.”

“Oh.” Myka’s shoulders slump. “What does 'backstage tour’ mean?”

“I believe a peek behind the production.”

“Because you said there was a misunderstanding.”

“Due to her somewhat pointed overtures.”

“I knew it! She was hitting on you.” Myka smacks the desk with her hand. 

Helena grimaces. “I believe she was 'fishing’”

“Do you even know what that is?”

“I do, as per the aforementioned police procedurals. In fact, it was….refreshing, being courted by a woman." 

"I’m a woman!”

“Yes, but….in the wild, so to speak.”

“Did you…” Myka starts, then glances at the paper again. She sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Helena. “Did you want to go out with her?" 

"Again, I’d pointedly pointed out I was taken.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because we rushed off New York, New York the minute your call from the Warehouse finished.” Helena throws her hands in the air. “We then spent the majority of yesterday chasing an elusive King Kong around that scale model of the city.”

“We did. Stupid antiques convention.”

“I swear we spend more time on Warehouse business than our own.”

“Like once a month.”

“Every week.”

“Every other week. When they call us. Us getting whammied doesn’t count.”

“Mine was New Orleans. Yours Austin. But the others…”

Myka tallies missions on fingers until she hits ten. “You’re right. We’ve spent a lot of time on Warehouse stuff. I’m sorry.”

Helena shakes her head while breathing out a heavy sigh. She sits next to Myka and lays a hand on her thigh. “To answer your question, we’re off today anyway, so there was no point in mentioning it.”

Myka slips her hand over Helena’s. “I bet you actually wanted to see the mechanics backstage. That’s something people do on vacation.”

“Quite an improvement from Trouble Wit,” Helena says.

“I don’t know that that is.”

“Illusions with pleated paper. Parlor tricks, but they delighted Christina so.”

“See, I like hearing that stuff,” Myka says, squeezing Helena’s hand. “Would you have told me any of this if I hadn’t found the flyer cleaning up?’ She hands the paper to Helena.

"Why would it matter?” Helena crumples the paper and lobs it towards the garbage can. It bounces off and onto the floor. 

“Because for this to work we need to talk to each other, tell each other how we feel.” Myka looks Helena in the eye. “I can’t read your mind.”

“Then, perhaps we were not destined to meet throughout time and space.”

“Hey, you can’t take it back. I like that idea now.” Myka threads her fingers through Helena's and flips their hands over. “You’re really annoyed about the work stuff?”

“I was hoping to have you all to myself.”

“You do.” Myka squeezes Helena’s hand again and lifts it up, kissing its back. “How much time do we have before checkout?”

Helena glances at her wristwatch. “Not nearly enough.”

“But it could be.” Myka threads a lock of hair behind Helena’s ear and guides their lips together. Their kiss leads to more-than-kissing in record time.

Next Scene: Running late to checkout…

-TBC-

NOTES: The quote, “Las Vegas is a city built on hopes, dreams and a little bit of crazy,” is by Eleanor Goggin. If you haven’t seen a well-shot stereograph in a viewer, you are missing out. Their mock-3D spaces from bygone eras can be mind-blowing.Myka with the flyer is from a season four episode where she and Pete go to Las Vegas. The show Zumanity is a racy offshoot of Cirque du Soleil and just closed after a seventeen-year run in Vegas. I started reading a fascinating dissertation about why middle- and upper-class Victorian women embraced Spiritualism. In a nutshell, it gave them autonomy and a sense of power within the rigid confines of what was expected of them as women while they remained safe within the construct of home. H.G. would have bristled at that, because she wanted more. But I’m certain she would have been fascinated by Hilma af Klint’s amazing drawings and paintings, even though they were based in Spiritualism and Theosophy. Oh and here's on of the stereographs. (H.G. would have seen it later than 1898.) Also, the title font/design is from the first edition of the book you are thinking of but the content is not related.

[thewriterowl]

Do you have any head cannons for how Din would go about wooing Luke? I know in fics Luke usually gets his emotions figured out first and Din is a slowe burn but I’m wondering how Din might be like “Oh no I like the Jedi...okay that panic is over now how do I get the Jedi”? Is he subtle? Not subtle?

Ooh, ok, that’s a fun one!

So, Din would actually really take some time to think and consider how he should go about this. Because, hey, you know what? He’s pretty tired in resisting things he wants and since he accepted the kid as his own thing have been a lot happier, so why not the same for Luke?

Now, Din I can see being one of two ways: an awkward flirt 100% of the time or a guy who knows 100% how to seduce (but maybe not always for those he likes--as rare as they are). There is no in-between. Cause, he’s a hunter by nature and though I am sure he prefers stealth and just throwing fists, he’s had to at least have lessons on what to do on seducing someone to go somewhere to get them taken care of easier. Even if it is never used, I feel like this would appear in the How to Bounty Hunt in the Galaxy handbook. There was also something sexual in the history he had with the Twi’lek siblings (whether anything happened is up for interpretation but he did something to make them both want him...and it was not by being nice and awkward).

If he is awkward, he would probably be very sweet but a little clumsy. He would ask anyone and everyone he knows. He would do research. He would watch videos. The man would do his research. He’d probably start off with more Mandalorian courting techniques. They could be mundane at first and something friendly rather than romantic, so he can test the waters (offer to cook, training, cleaning weapons, telling stories, etc.) and then start to open himself up more (talking about his past, his dreams for the future, something hard to do for a closed-off-guy from a rather closed-off-culture) and before he hits the big guns of Mandalorian wooing, he would add in some basic stuff; bring Luke personal but small gifts any time he could, ensure he uses Luke’s first name at all chances, give him flowers (something he is a little unaccustomed to but hides it behind getting them from Grogu first until he got more comfortable with such a soft presentation of feelings), and such.

When it seems like Luke is receptive, and possibly understanding and trying to woo back (with a sweet dumbass like Luke it can be hard to tell) then Din starts going a bit “hard-core” for Mandalorian courtship.

Usually Mandalorian partners showed off to each other, each trying to one-up the other to impress them and show capability. This is still done when one of the partners isn’t Mandalorian...only it is just the one doing the showing-off. It is a (self) competitive thing but also to show how well of a provider they are. A put on of confident airs that they are the best selection for whoever they’re wooing. Of course, awkward-Din would take this slow as well. Putting more energy and focus into training to take Luke down, taking on the biggest bounties to bring in bigger and better gifts, providing food, “boasting” about his successes, etc. Luke is eating it up, much to Din’s excitement. But Din doesn’t really get into it until he starts the physical stuff.

It starts when he decides to brave Luke seeing him shirtless. He had a decent body from his diet, life-style, and work-out routine. He had to be healthy and in-shape to survive. He was rather thicc (aka a beefcake) with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and tattoos (cause Din with tattoos?? yes) so he wasn’t too insecure...so he starts off with something easy to pass off with. He keeps his helmet on but trains in just his pants and boots. The planet was warm and he was comfortable enough to do such a thing with Luke even if it did not have a romantic agenda.

When Luke blushes so red his eyes nearly water and walks into a wall, stuttering out his words and barely able to concentrate does Din get a massive boost in confidence.

This would be the time he’d start adding touches. He’ll push hair behind Luke’s ear, bring him close to show how to do forms correctly, pick Luke up and carry him around just cause, use his bedroom voice to optimal level of unfairness on the poor Jedi, and the likes. Luke is always left a blushing, flustered mess. Which makes Din feel very good and does it as often as he can.

He ups his gifts as well. He gets Luke Jedi texts, Beskar items, maybe Mythsosaur bones, and even outfits meant for a King’s consort.

When Grogu is in bed, Din brings in a bit of dirty-talk when Luke is just trying to clean things up from the day or study. Just like, “you’d be beautiful ravished and blissed out” or “you think you’d beg if you were put on this table?” or “I’ve been dreaming about you...about all of you.”

Luke is always close to passing out after that.

Finally, Din would have enough fun and feel like he has made his intentions very clear and confess. But being Din it would probably be very blunt and a bit forward of, “I would marry you right now, if you’d have me. I want to marry you. You’ve become my whole life and I want more.”

Luke, who probably was suffering so much at this time, would probably just tackle him.

While awkward!Din would take a few months, seductive!Din would probably have confessed and gotten Luke to bed within a week. He’d skip over the small stuff and just be like, “i’m going to seduce you now, I’m going to court you, and I’m gonna be very, very non-subtle about it. You need to tell me you don’t like me now if you don’t or things may get awkward.’” But luke, of course, does like him and things are very, very fast paced with a lot of very, very, VERY well done seduction techniques that leave Luke a meek pile of goo.

Luke probably still tackles this Din out of desperation as well.

[ayellowcurtain]

Would you ever write an Elu fic that deals with the fact that Lucas was homeless for a while and couldn’t pay rent for a while?

It’s a late night. Eliott lives by himself and he has been for a while. His family is rich and he needs his personal space to keep his mental health in good shape and his parents know that and what’s best for their son. So he lives by himself but like a five minutes walk from his parents’ place.

One night he’s there, by himself, thinking about his date with Lucas earlier, smiling to himself while eating whatever he ordered for him tonight when the intercom rings downstairs. He isn’t expecting anyone and it’s pouring outside but he rushes to pick up, slipping with his socks against the floor and he freezes when he hears the voice.

“Hi!” An out of breath Lucas says, loud enough to be heard over the very loud rain. Eliott knows that anxious tone in his voice because he’s often the one using it, “Can I come in?”

Eliott looks around him, at his very messy (but clean) house. This is not how he expected Lucas to first see his place. That first time doesn’t count because they were just getting to know each other months and months ago, and the cleaning lady had just left a few minutes before they got there.

Eliott wants Lucas to like everything about him, every single thing. For once, he wants someone that’s completely in like he is in everything he does in his life.

He lets Lucas in and tries to at least put all his dirty clothes inside the washing machine and all the dirty dishes inside the sink, looking himself in the mirror inside the bathroom, fixing his hair and his black shirt that should have been giving away a long time ago, way too worn out to be considerate a goos shirt.

There’s enough food for him to share if Lucas is hungry but it’s a little late, Eliott doesn’t think Lucas will want to have dinner at this hour.

He rushes to the door when he hears the last few steps on the stairs, followed by silence and a knock on the door.

Lucas is soaking wet when Eliott opens the door, carrying what seems to be a heavy bag, looking a lot like a stray dog.

“Can I stay with you for a few days?” Lucas asks without hesitation but Eliott can tell he’s not happy to be asking. Eliott doesn’t want to make him feel worse so he nods his head, stepping aside so Lucas can get in. He’ll ask what’s going on later.

“I’m so sorry for coming so late...I didn’t know where to go.”

Eliott holds his bag and Lucas lets go without thinking twice, not moving much to not leave a trail of water on Eliott’s place, barely looking him in the eyes, so ashamed. He steps closer, touching Lucas’ hair, putting it back and hugging him carefully not to bother him with how physical he’s been when Lucas is clearly struggling with something.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Eliott kisses the top of his head, feeling as Lucas’ wet clothes quickly get his own clothes wet and cold too, “And I would love for you to stay for as long as you want to.”

This seems like something that anyone else would think through before deciding but there’s no way Eliott would ever say anything else. Lucas is his boyfriend, and even though they don’t talk about it often, Eliott knows that Lucas’ home situation is not an easy one and even the smallest change can take a tool on Lucas. He has more than enough room for two people and he would be the happiest if Lucas moved in permanently.

He holds Lucas’ face gently and presses their lips together and Lucas moans very softly, melting in his arms, finally giving up on his facade, letting go of all his worries for a while, letting Eliott make him relax for tonight.

Eliott helps Lucas takes his wet clothes off on their way to his bedroom, smiling against his lips in an attempt to make Lucas smile too, forget about whatever is bothering him, they’ll fix it tomorrow.

Lucas sighs when he’s finally naked, the coldness not bothering him anymore, lying in bed where Eliott leaves him, kissing his chest slowly.

-

Eliott tries to move his hips to the beat of the song playing on the radio. He should focus on the waffles he’s trying to make, knowing how bad of a cook he is and how much Lucas needs a good breakfast this morning but he’s too hyper to keep his body still and completely focused on one thing.

The thought of living with Lucas made him wake up way too early this morning, he has plenty of time before his shift starts so he decided to make an effort, show Lucas how good life can be if this was their every morning. He doesn’t want Lucas to worry anymore, Eliott will always be by his side to help him with anything and he shouldn’t feel ashamed for needing help.

He hears the old wood floor squeaking with every step behind him, a warm and soft body pressing against his back, nuzzling against his skin, breathing him in and soon enough, there are two arms around his middle, hugging him tight.

“Fuck, good morning.” Lucas half whispers, half yawns, his lips brushing against Eliott’s back lightly, making his smile thinking about a sleepy Lucas attaching himself to Eliott.

“Good morning, beautiful. I’m making some breakfast for us.”

Lucas doesn’t make a joke out of it and Eliott lets him be, still with no rush to pressure Lucas into explaining what’s going on.  

He moves away way too soon and Eliott looks over his shoulder, watching Lucas drag himself to sit on the stool around the counter, watching him from a distance, with no need to use his legs now.

“I...” He starts and stops almost immediately, and Eliott continues making his small pile of waffles, paying attention but not staring to make Lucas even more uncomfortable, “I can’t pay rent for now.”

“My dad lost his job and he was very fucking passive aggressive when telling me that yesterday. I know I have to find a job, I’m more than old enough but he made sure to remind me of that over the phone. We had a fight...”

Eliott nods his head, turning everything off before grabbing the plate with all the waffles and putting in front of Lucas while he grabs some honey, maple syrup, butter, whatever Lucas might want to use.

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“I do, though.” Lucas sighs, grabbing the fork that Eliott gives him, with no intention of ever really using, not seeming hungry at all this morning, too worried to think about taking care of himself, “It’s stupid that I still don’t have my own fucking money. I’ve been living in this stupid situation for over a year and I should get my shit together and stop needing my selfish dad’s money.”

“Lucas.” Eliott finally sits right next to him, putting his hand on Lucas’ thigh, squeezing carefully to get his attention, “Stop punishing yourself. Your dad said he would pay for your rent and food, you’re just a teenager.”

Lucas drops his fork on the counter, looking at Eliott just for a second before looking away again, clearly too ashamed to hold his gaze.

“Please, believe me.”

Lucas nods his head just to not start an argument. He’s stubborn and Eliott knows this money situation is one of the few that really get to him.

“I’m sorry for showing up with no invitation. It’s just with the fight and the flat situation...I couldn’t stay there. And I can’t ask Yann again because I know he would never let me homeless and I would end up staying more than anyone should, and-”

Eliott kisses his temple, brushing his nose against Lucas’ cheek, hoping to get his attention.

“You don’t have to explain, and you don’t have to ask Yann. You can stay for as long as you want. If it was up to me, you would stay forever.”

“It’s not fair. I don’t have money to give you.” Lucas runs his hand through his hair in a failed attempt to calm himself.

“Lucas, don’t worry about it.”

“But I can’t help it! It’s all I do! Worry about fucking money!”

“You don’t have to! Money is not important in this situation, okay? My parents love you so much, we both know we don’t need more than a bed to live together. And they will be more than happy to know I’m not living by myself here.”

Lucas sighs, frustrated, putting his elbows on the counter, covering his face with his hands, trying to even his breath so he doesn’t end up crying. Eliott pulls his stool closer, in between his legs, kissing Lucas’ naked shoulder, still shirtless from last night, looking at him even though Lucas is still hiding against his hands.

“Move in with me. You would make me so happy.” He runs his hands gently over Lucas’ knee and thigh, hoping his boyfriend knows he would ask him the same thing even if this wasn’t an emergency right now.

Lucas doesn’t answer for what it seems like eternity but he finally looks over his shoulder, at Eliott looking at him, and he rests his chin on his shoulder, too tired and desperate to fight.

“I wish this happened differently.”

Eliott smiles bright, his heart beating so fast and loud inside his chest, kissing everything he can reach of Lucas.

“What matters to me is that we’re living together. And we’ll figure it out. Minute by minute.”