#and right now I have garlic breath that will last until breakfast

[marlynnofmany]

Me, eating garlic bread: "Yum, this is a good one! It's even got bits of fresh garlic on it! Love it."

My garlic-sensitive taste buds, chuckling evilly: "Remember that for the next 24 hours. Hope you enjoy the garlic toothpaste in particular."

(This happens with onions too. Uncooked, both of those foods are a COMMITMENT.)

(And no, the chocolate I just ate wasn't very good, why do you ask?)

[strawberriescherrieskiwi]

My Love, My Heart. Happy Birthday.

Anon request:

Something for Hoseok’s birthday. I loved your Jimin birthday fic.

Wordcount: 2.7K

Description: It’s your boyfriends birthday and you want to spoil him and make sure he has the best day possible.

A/N: Happy Birthday to Hobi. I adore him and he means so much to me, I’ve been listening to Hope World and Jack in the box on repeat all month long. This is my first Hobi and I loved writing for this couple. Also thing you for your love of my Jimin. I sort of regret I took the smut out, but just wanted some fluff.

designereader x dancerHobi au

Warning: Fluff all around. Slightly suggestive language but not actual smut.

Waking up before your boyfriend, you couldn’t help but coo softly at his sweet sleeping face. You brushed his hair out of his face, rubbing the pads of your thumb on his cheek, causing a soft sigh to pass from his lips.

He smiled softly, snuggling closer to his pillow. Grinning, you pressed a quick kiss to his, sliding out of bed. It was his birthday and you wanted to make sure he had a perfect day. You had everything planned out in a list on your phone.

Almost oversleeping, you were slightly behind schedule, but Hobi got home late from his studio last night's beat and was ready to pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow, so you were confident he would sleep long enough for you to make breakfast and finish the cake.

You spend all yesterday taking a cake-making course via the phone from your grandmother and after one failed try, the second came out perfect but you had yet to decorate it. Only because you knew Hobi was a little snoop and would have tried to find it.

Boiling the water for the Seaweed soup, you chopped onions, garlic, and beef quickly, humming softly to some soft rock in the background. While you wouldn’t say you were the best cook you knew your way around the kitchen. 

As a designer you liked creating things out of nothing, designing for a person was like cooking. There were instructions to do things, but so much room for personal creativity. You were sure in another life you were a chef instead of a designer.

Or maybe you would be a dancer, like your boyfriend. You grew up in the ballet world, with a ballerina as a mother, and she had you dancing as soon as you could walk. When you first moved to Seoul for school with a group of friends you met him. While you were focusing on designing, most of your friends were still dancing and introduced you to Hoseok.

He was more into hip-hop and street-style dancing, but the way he moved was mesmerizing. You bonded over your love of dancing and before long you were falling in love with him. Luckily, Hobi felt the same, and after university, you two moved in together. He opened a dance studio and you started your business. 

You weren’t married yet, it wasn’t something completely important right now. You loved each other and a piece of paper wasn’t going to change that, plus you wanted to save up for your dream wedding.

You’ve spent plenty of birthdays together, but you still liked to make each one special, and if things worked out, this would be would amazing. Humming along with the music, you mentally ran through your list, checking the soup when strong arms wrapped around your waist.

 “You left me,” Hobi yawned, giving you a little squeeze. 

“Left you? You were asleep, gorgeous. I was making your birthday breakfast,” you chortled, turning around to kiss him sweetly.

Hobi’s wrapped his arm around your back, pulling your body closer as he kissed you back lovingly. He rubbed your back as he hummed happily reveling in your love and affection. You kissed for a few minutes until your lungs begged for breath.

“Happy birthday, Hobi,” you said as you stroked his cheeks, cupping the back of his neck. You stayed pressed against him, all your planning leaving your mind as you stared at him.

Flushing embarrassingly at your attention, even after years together, he ducked his head into your shoulder. “Thank you, aegiya. I’m happy to spend my day with you,” he whispered.

“Oh, Hobi-ah. You are so cute, so cute.” You couldn’t help but tease him. He was beyond adorable.

He chuckled, hugging you closer. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m sorry, you are just adorable. I have the most adorable boyfriend in the world,” You proclaimed, kissing him again.

“My girlfriend is the most adorable in the world,” he corrected, pecking your lips before looking at the stove.

“Ahhh, Seaweed soup, beef. Ohhh you are spoiling me,” he said excitedly, rubbing his hands together. His whole face lit up, and his eyes crinkled as he unwrapped himself from you. 

Smiling at his excitement you moved to set the table. “There is also rice and baechu kimchi in the refrigerator, can you get it for me, baby?” You asked.

Without a word, you and Hobi moved around the kitchen in perfect sync as you set your table. Grabbing coffee cups, bowls, and dishes. Once everything was set, you moved to sit next to Hobi, grabbing his bowl to add soup.

“Aegiya, you don’t have to,” he protested, trying to grab the bowl.

“Hey hey-” you slapped his hand away -” It’s my baby’s birthday, I will serve him food. It’s your day.”

He had another noise of protest in the back of his throat but he didn’t try to stop you. He was secretly pleased and loved when you spoiled him and took care of him. He was a pleaser who loved taking care of all his friends and family, he didn’t mind caring for them, but you were the one that took care of him.

You passed him the bowl before grabbing your own, smelling the soup. “I don’t want to blow my own horn, but this smells amazing.”

“Better than last year?” He asked, smelling the soup, and groaning softly.

“Last year with seafood was great, I doubt it will top that.”

“Your cooking is phenomenal, I’m sure I will love it,” he said.

You both ate in comfortable silence, occasionally feeding each other or talking about work. Slowly, you two shifted closer until you were basically sitting on each other lap. “So what is the plan for the day? I’ve been happily ignoring all your “secret” planning?” He teased, bumping his shoulder into yours.

“Oppa,” you whined. “You are not supposed to know anything.”

“I don’t know anything. I promise I promise,��� he said repeatedly kissing the side of your head. “I’m just excited.” He grinned.

You smirked, getting up and carrying the dishes to the sink. “Aegiya?”

Ignoring him, you started washing the dishes. “You should go shower, and then I will have a surprise for you when you are done.”

“A surprise?” He asked suggestively, hands moving to your waist, pressing himself up against you.

“Hoseok,” You said with widened eyes, slapping his hands away. “Naughty naughty, Jung Hoseok.” You teased. “I meant a present on the bad. An actual present, not me in a bow,” you laughed.

“Can’t say I’m not disappointed,” he said, placing a heated kiss on your neck. ‘I’ll be in the shower. If you would like to join me.”

“Very tempting, I might take you up on that.”

Once he was gone, you pulled out the cake getting to work on decorating it with white icing and red hearts. The cake was a chocolate strawberry cake and you couldn’t wait to show him and preyed that it taste great.

After a joint shower, that put you way behind schedule, you wrapped a towel around your body going into the closet, and pulling out two birthday bags. A small one with a bracelet and another with a cute gym bag and a white sweater.

“Okay, baby it’s time to open the presents,” you said happily putting the bags on his lap. Still wrapped in his own towel he smiled, cupping the side of your face. 

“I know I am going to love whatever you got me, so thank you,” he said, kissing you.

“So sweet, Oppa,” you mumbled against his lips. “Now open them up.”

First with the bracelet. He gasped hugging you close to him, “I love it, I love it, I love it,” he gushed, slipping it on his wrist. “Look at how good it looks. You are the best at shopping for me. You know me so well.”

“It’s because I love you so much. I love shopping for you and buying you gifts. Love spoiling my Hobi Oppa,” you grinned, loving his praise.

“Now what is in here?” He teased, grabbing the bigger bag, and playfully shaking it a few times before pulling out the gym bag. “My old strap broke a few days ago, I tried to tie it back together,” he said.

“I know. I noticed it was torn a bit a few weeks ago; So I brought you a new one. It has so many pockets and I just knew you would love it.”

“I do. So much, though not as much as I love you,” he said, wiggling his eyebrow.

“Turn 29 and become very suggestive, I see.” You joked.

“You love it.”

“Oh. I do, you are my favorite person. Now on to the next one, it’s my favorite.” You were buzzing with excitement. 

“I’m getting to it,” he chuckled. “So impatient,” he said, clicking his tongue and pulling out the white sweater with the broken heart and bandage. “Ohhh. It’s just my style and taste. The color with some jeans, maybe some shorts?” He said, holding it against him.

“Are you the designer or me?” You teased, getting up off the bed and opening your dresser. “But look it gets better,” You said turning around and showing him the matching one you brought for yourself.

Gasping, Hobi got up from the bed. “Baby. You got us matching sweaters? Really? I love it and I love you.” Wrapping his arms around your waist he pulled you close, attacking you with kisses. You giggled basking in his kisses, you wrapped your legs around his waist, letting your towel fall.

“Ah? Another gift?” He teased, tossing you into the bed and climbing onto you.

Your legs opened allowing him to run his hands up and down your thighs as he moved between them. “I love your thighs so much. Have I told you that, so soft and love gripping them, kissing them, digging my fingers into them, biting them,” he growled softly, as he bit them.

“We have a plan for the day, Hobi,” you said, moaning softly, making no move to stop him.

“Plans are made to be broken?” He whispered between your thighs. “And it’s my birthday.”

By the time you both left the bedroom, the sun was setting and you both were more than a little hungry. You dressed in your new sweater and grabbed your phone, wincing at how many texts you had for Yoongi and Jin.

You planned a dinner party on the beach with Hobi’s closest friend and were meant to text them about setup. Luckily it seemed they figured it out but they were close to driving to your home. Your face flushed thinking about the possibility of them coming over and finding you two.

“Oppa, we are so behind schedule and my thighs ache,” you said when he came into the living room.

He smirked proudly, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Are you complaining, baby?” 

You shivered. “No, just you’ll have to make it up to me later,” you said, kissing his jaw.

Taking your hand he kissed the back of it. “Let’s take a picture and then we can go. We have to show off our matching fit. Make all the people jealous of how cute we are,” he grinned.

“We both know you are taking photos for yourself. Gonna put them on mugs for Christmas,” you teased, letting him pull you to the mirror and pose for pictures.

“Mugs? That’s a good idea,” he said, snapping dozens of pictures. “Oh this one is perfect, I will make it my background photo on everything.”

“Send them to me as well.”

“Of course, Aegiya. We need matching wallpaper as well,” He said, grabbing your hand, leaning down, and kissing your nose.

Cupping his jaw, you kissed his lips. “We should get matching hats to go with our sweaters,” you said pulling away.

“This is why you are the love of my life,” he joked. Laughing as you huffed and pulled him to the kitchen. 

“Okay we are going to be late, so let’s get the cake and go,” you said. 

“Can I see it?”

Nodding, you lifted the top. “I decorated myself, what do you think?” You asked nervously.

He smiled widely, his whole being a bright light. Your happy little sunshine. “Are you kidding me? This is amazing. So well decorated. As if I doubted your talents. I can’t wait to taste it.” Hobi pressed a kiss to your cheek. “My talented girlfriend.”

Smiling blissfully at Hobi, you pulled him in for another bruising kiss. One full of desperation and love. Every time you kissed him it felt like the first time you kissed him. The butterflies and anticipation and the thrill of him being near you. You kissed until you needed to breathe, but you didn’t separate from him long.

“Shall we blow off the plans and stay here, make use of the sofa?” He asked, coyly.

“Hobi-ah. You are really insatiable today,” you teased, pecking his lips.

“New Year, new me?” He joked.

“As much as I would like that. There are people waiting for us,” you said, closing the cake back up and squeezing his hand. “Let’s go, I’m starving. And before you ask, I am driving no arguing.”

Hobi pouted but didn’t say a thing as you walked outside, getting into the car. “Don’t pout you don’t even know where we are going,” you laughed, putting the cake on his lap.

“I like driving you around.”

“And I like you driving, but it’s a surprise. I even have a blindfold you.” With your words you pulled out a blindfold, leaning over to tie it around his eyes.

“Kinky.”

“Shush Hoba,” you laughed, pulling out of the driveway.

Arriving at the beach you got out of the car, open the door for your boyfriend, and helped him out of the car.

“Why do I feel like you are leading me to my death,” he teased, though his hands were out in front of him trying to grasp something. Grinning, Jin came out behind him, grabbing his sides.

“Oh shitt what is that?” Hobi shouted, almost jumping a foot in the air. 

“Ah, Hobi so scary all the time,” Jin said bent over in laughter.

“Oh, Jin. You almost gave me a heart attack,” Hobi said laughing.

“I am just lucky I took the cake from you first,” you said, untying his eyes.

His laughter died in his throat when he saw set up. His eyes filled with tears and he covered his mouth with his hand. “Aegiya…” He whispered, his face contorted from happy to overwhelmed.

“Oh Hobi,” you said, wrapping your arms around him as he sniffled and laid his head on your shoulder. You squeezed him tightly, rubbing his back. “I love you so much, Hobi. You deserve to have a nice night with friends.”

“Yeah, Hobi. We all love you and are happy to be here,” Jin said, joining the hug. The rest of the gang crowded around you all, offering Hobi words of encouragement. The group hug lasted a few minutes before he was able to get his bearings.

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to cry,” he chuckled, wiping his eyes.

“Don’t apologize,hyung. We understand, we are just happy that you are happy,” Jimin said, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. 

The youngest of the group, Jungkoon wiped his own eyes. “You almost had me crying, hyung. If you cry at my gift, I’ll be done for it,” he teased.

“Okay. I’ll try to keep the tears at bay,” Hobi promised walking over to the dinner set up, and sitting down. “It means a lot to me that you are all here.”

“There is no place we would rather be,” You said, sitting next to him. Taking his hand you kissed his palm. “We love you,” you mumbled.

“Okay okay enough sad talk, how about a toast to the birthday boy?” Yoongi said, pouring everyone a drink.

“To Hoseok-hyung the best dancer and the best friend everyone could ask for,” Namjoon said.

“To hyung, the best of the best. No one I rather dance with,” Jimin said.

“Hobi-hyungie I love you,” Taehyung added.

“Hoba. You are the glue to our friendship. Always looking out for us,” Yoongi said.

“Hobi-hyung, my life is better because you are in it,” Jungkook said, sniffling.

“To Hobi our dearest friend, my partner in crime,” Jin said, raising his glass.

“Oppa, I love you and I can’t fathom not having you in my life,” you finished.

“To Hobi,” you all cheered.

[russett-pots]

What's your ideal breakfast in bed? Choose 1 idol to have morning sex with and also please describe what your breakfast meal would be, any dishes and breakfast items from around the world are fine.

The Morning After

Kang Hyewon

Words: 0.8k

Just a dumb idea to answer the ask.

Short answer: Hyewon; longgasnia with a fried egg and garlic rice, with some French-style scrambled egg on top of some buttered toast, and a pair of hashbrowns. Finally, with some pineapple juice.

Warning: wrote while barely awake so barely edited it.

You wake up with a stunning girl beside you. Looking down at her alluring beauty, her aura shines despite the rough sex you had the other night. Your soft lips kiss her forehead, waking her up. Her eyes open slowly as her face fully forms to the complete picture that you always wanted in your life. Her hand moves up to your cheek and gently lays on it.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Hyewon greets you.

You look down on her and respond. “Good morning.”

“You know, I’m still ready for some action.” Hyewon looks at you. Her gentle face turns away from her innocent charm but into the same face hungry for your cock.

She pulls out the blanket, revealing the naked two bodies that are still naked from last night. You lay there on your back as Hyewon moves between your legs. Her elbows prop up her chin as her hand moves down to hold onto your cock.

She moves up to give a delicate kiss on your kiss before she does the same with your tip. Her tongue swirls around the head as her cold, but soft hand gets a grasp onto your shaft. She pumps it slowly as she continues to tease your tip.

“I can already taste your pre-cum, Oppa.”

Your only response is a groan as your lean your head back as her tongue-hand combo already begins its ritual on your cock. It slowly starts. Her tongue licks the underside of your shaft as her hand plays with your balls.

Your length enters her mouth as her tongue licks your cock all around it. She bobs her head up and down as she continues to move faster. She would release her mouth to catch her breath but only before she would start to suck onto your balls while using her hand to continue to pump you.

“Fuck, Hyewon. Don’t you ever get tired of this?”

“Sucking you? Never. I always want to please you, Oppa. Now let me just….”

She pops off your cock and moves her knees on either side of your legs.

“Can I just?...”

She holds onto your cock to align it again with her cunt. Once more, she wants it. Once more, she wants your cock to fuck her.

“Hyewon, I can’t….”

“Can’t?”

“Don’t you want this?”

“Yes, but…”

She leans in a whisper. “Let me do the work. Just tell me when you’ll cum then I’ll swallow it whole. I’ll swallow your entire cock whole.”

You lean back after being tired, but you hold onto her waist, allowing her to impale herself on you. As she promised, she’ll do it. Her ass moves up and down. Your long, girthy shaft slides in and out as she continues to move all around.

Her pussy moves forwards, backward, right, left. She breaths heavily on your ear. The airwaves tickles your ear canals. She leans towards you, with her cold nipples poking onto your skin. You grab onto her. Your arms are wrapping around her waist until her back. Essentially, hugging her closer to you.

“Fuck, Fuck Fuck, Hyewon. I’m close.”

She gets off you and gets her mouth back onto your cock again. She is hastily pumping on your cock. Her tongue welcoms it by swiveling all around.

“Hyewons, it’s going to…. “

She swallows it whole again. Just like last night, her mouth takes everything in. The round of the bitter liquid shoots inside. Each throw just satisfies her thirst for your cum.

“Hyewon, why the fuck are you so good?”

With her cheeks still filled from all the cum that you spat inside her, she looks up to you with glee. Then gulps down everything and opens her mouth, revealing the empty mouth.

Her tired body shows it all; she moves to her side of the bed and lays there again.

But you have a great idea to show your appreciation. You sneakily go to the kitchen and whip up a lavish breakfast for her. Both of your favorites, your special longgasnia with a fried egg and garlic rice, with some French-style scrambled egg on top of some buttered toast, and a pair of hashbrowns. Finally, with some pineapple juice to both wash down the food and all the cum she just swallowed.

“Hyewon, I got a surprise for you!” You present her with the marvelous meal that you just prepared. Propping up the bedside table for her to eat, you place it in front of her. You feed each bite to her.

“Oppa, are you hungry?”

“Me. I’m already full after watching you eat. But if you want me to have something?”

You move in between her legs and start going to town by eating all of her pussy. She moans as you continue to insert your tongue, play with her clit and do all wonders to her.

[whisperlullaby]

Don’t Over Do It

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 1766

Warnings: Violence, mentions of smut, mentions of disordered eating and over-exercising, explicit language.

Summary: Your boyfriend is an asshole. Bucky reminds you that you are perfect the way you are.

A/N: Listen apparently it’s sad girl Sunday over here. This is another story from a real life thing that happened to me with a Bucky twist! Thank you forever to @river-soul​ for looking over this story. I hope you guys enjoy and if I missed any warnings please let me know!

"Doll, you okay?" Bucky wondered. "You've been really quiet all morning."

When your eyes darted up, everyone around the table was staring at you.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You looked down at your soggy bowl of cereal. "Actually I'm gonna bring this back to my room. I'm a little tired." 

You got up and left before anyone could object. You made it to your room and almost had the door shut before a metal arm pushed through.

"You don't seem like yourself. Did something happen with Sean last night?"

At the mention of your boyfriend, you flinched. Letting out a sigh you allowed Bucky to step into your room. You placed the bowl on the kitchenette counter and turned to face Bucky.

"It's nothing. Just dumb relationship stuff really," you chuckled but it was a humorless sound. "I'll be fine tomorrow, I promise."

Bucky looked at you skeptically.

"Okay, but if you need anything you know you can come to me. I'm here for you."

Bucky placed a gentle kiss on your forehead before he left. When you heard the sound of your door click shut, you grabbed your bowl and dumped it down the sink.

///////

The next day you were sitting in the shared kitchen picking at a bowl of blueberries while scribbling notes in your journal. You heard a chair scrape next to you as Bucky plopped down and leaned onto the table.

"Whatcha writing doll?"

You felt your face flush with heat. 

"I'm just writing down what I'm eating. Making sure it's all healthy, trying to be better about what goes in my body, ya know?" 

Bucky cocked his head.

"That seems like a lot of extra work. I don't think you need to keep track of what you're eating." 

He paused, eyes roamed over your figure. 

"You look great doll." 

You snorted.

 "Yeah okay, Buck whatever you say." 

You closed your journal and stood up.

 "I'm gonna head to the gym. You can have the rest of the blueberries if you want," you offered, leaving before Bucky could say anything to you.

/////////

Three hours later Bucky slammed open the door to the gym where you were dripping sweat on the treadmill.

"Steve said you've been here for hours, doll," Bucky stated an edge of anger in his voice. "You are going to run yourself straight to the med bay if you don't pace yourself."

You turned off the treadmill in a huff and stalked over to Bucky on shaky legs.

"I know my limit, Sergeant. I'm fine. Why are you being so nosey about my life all of a sudden? Yesterday, following me to my room. Today in the kitchen. What's your problem?"

"Yesterday you never made it out of your room. Did you eat anything for the rest of the day?" Bucky’s voice seemed to drip with concern. "You didn't even finish that poor excuse for a breakfast this morning and you've been here for three hours."

Your eyes dropped to the floor. You shifted uncomfortably under Bucky's gaze before your anger spiked again.

"It's none of your fucking business, Barnes. I need to lose a few pounds and how I do that is absolutely none of your concern." 

You started to shove past Bucky but stumbled your vision blurring. 

Bucky caught you as you fell into him.

"Sweetheart let me help you to your room, please." 

You looked up at him and nodded. He helped you into your room and placed you on the couch. You watched him disappear into the kitchen and return with some water before sitting next to you and pulling you into his side.

"Doll, you need to tell me what happened. What's making you do this to yourself?" 

You took in an unsteady breath.

"Yesterday Sean and I were making out in his car. It was getting pretty, um, hot and I went to get on his lap but he pushed me away. He said I was too big to have car sex with, that if I lost a few pounds we could try but he would be uncomfortable with how I looked now. That he couldn’t even attempt to maneuver me in such a small space."

You picked at a loose thread on Bucky's shirt. You didn't realize he had stopped breathing until you looked up at him and saw how red he was.

"He told you to lose weight. Because he couldn't figure out how to fuck you in a car?" Bucky seethed.

You shot up. 

“I don't think he meant it like that. I mean I've been meaning to slim down anyway. I know I put on a bit of weight since starting fieldwork."

Bucky cupped your face in his hands. 

"You've put on muscle, doll. You need it to kick ass, lord knows you can knock me to the mat like a pro. Your body is perfect exactly how it is. You do not need to put yourself through any of that shit to slim down."

Bucky’s thumbs brushed away your tears as they fell. 

"He's not a bad guy Bucky I'm sure he didn't mean to upset me. He's coming over tonight.  I'll talk to him about it."

Bucky sighed and shook his head. 

"If you need me I'm right next door," he offered, placing a kiss on your forehead.

"Thank you. I don't know what I did to deserve having someone like you in my life." 

You looked into Bucky's eyes and saw them flash with adoration.

"Oh, doll, you don't need to do anything. You deserve everything I can give you and more." 

Bucky pulled you close and hugged you. You melted into his embrace with ease.

//////

"Hey, Sean! You're just in time. I just finished up dinner."  

"Smells great." He looked at the table full of chicken parmesan, pasta, and garlic bread. "This all for me?"

You laughed. "Well, not all of it silly. I'm going to have some too."

"Don't you think this is a bit much? I thought you were trying to lose some weight. So we could, ya know, have fun anywhere." 

When he pinched the skin of your hips you sucked in a deep breath, willing the tears that pricked your eyes not to fall. 

"I just thought maybe this would be okay? I didn't think I looked that bad."

"Not bad babe just, you can tell you've put on some weight. I'm just trying to help you, do you have a salad? Maybe that'll be better for you instead." 

Just as Sean made his way towards the fridge, your door burst open to reveal Bucky. His chest was heaving and his eyes were shooting daggers.

You looked shocked as you watched him rush over to Sean with malicious intent. "Bucky stop, what are you doing?"

Bucky paused his movements but never took his death glare from Sean.

"I was walking by and I heard what he said to you."

Before you could react Bucky had Sean dangling midair. 

"You are a pathetic excuse for a man and you're lucky I don't beat the shit out of you right here. Have you ever taken one look at Y/N? She is perfect. And you don't appreciate her, she's over here pouring herself over dinner to make you happy and all you can do is worry about her weight." 

You were stunned as you watched Sean struggling in Bucky's grasp.

"Babe, are you going to tell your guard dog to heel and let me down," Sean gasped frantically.

Bucky growled as you placed a hand on his shoulder. 

"Bucky let him go. He didn't mean anything by it.”

Bucky slowly placed him on the ground. Sean moved around Bucky to face you.

“Babe of course I didn’t mean anything by it. You look beautiful, I just thought you would want to lose some of the baby fat so we could be more adventurous.”

You heard the metal plates shift before you saw Bucky pull back to knock Sean out. You gasped as Sean collapsed on the floor unconscious.

“What has gotten into you!? You heard him, he didn’t mean it he is just trying to look out for me.” You pushed Bucky back. “Why can’t you just listen to him?! He’s right! I just need to watch what I eat. Once I lose the weight I’ll be...I’ll earn his love.”

You looked into Bucky’s eyes and saw his heartbreak in real-time. 

“Y/N. You do not need to lose a single inch on yourself. Sean is a delusional asshat who wouldn’t know a gorgeous dame if she punched him in the face. You do not need to earn a person’s love.”

You stared at Bucky for a moment before you crumbled to the floor sobbing. He rushed over and cradled you to his chest, soothing you with his hands, drawing gentle patterns along your back. Sean started to stir and Bucky gently pushed you off his lap to stand and grab Sean by the collar.

“You are gone. Don’t contact her again and if I hear you’ve been around I’ll make sure you stay out a lot longer than you were,” Bucky threatened before throwing him out of your apartment.

He returned to you and helped you up. You offered him a gentle smile.

“Why did you do that Bucky?” You held your breath while you waited for his answer.

Bucky looked softly into your eyes. 

“Because you are the most beautiful person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing inside and out. Hearing what he was doing to you, warping your perception of yourself into something dangerous, I couldn’t live with myself if I stood back and did nothing. I had to protect my best girl.”

He reached out and wiped a stray tear off your face. You smiled from ear to ear and grabbed his hand to press a soft kiss on the palm.

“Thank you,” you told him, eyeing the table of food. “Well I cooked all of this and it’s probably going to get cold if we don’t eat it soon.”

“You asking me to dinner doll?” Bucky smirked.

“Well, it’s a start to thank you for everything you have done for me over the last few days. Besides I’m starving.” You started to turn around to grab the plates off the counter when Bucky grabbed your arm spinning you into him. He kissed you breathless and you were quick to deepen the kiss. 

When Bucky pulled back he was grinning.

“Let’s eat, then maybe I can show you how real men are able to fuck in a car.”

[whump-a-la-mode]

A hero is in a coma. Villain visits them every single day, loosing sleep, not eating, their life is now completely focused around the empty hospital room.

Until hero wakes up and notices how sick villain has become due to anxiety and not taking care of themselves. Caretaking?

This is such a cute ask!! There’s only a little caretaking, but as always I’d be happy to write some more ^^

To all non-Americans out there, I am so sorry for using our weird 12 hour clock in this piece

CW//Comas, medical settings, just some horrible self care, mentions of explosions, bad hygiene, sleep deprivation, low self esteem, blaming self, strong language

“How are they doing?”

The voice alone was enough to make Doctor jump, spinning on their heels with such quickness that their shoes squealed on the tiled hospital floor.

Oh. It was just Villain.

Just Villain. It was a ridiculous thought to have, and they were well aware of that fact. Only a few short weeks ago, the name would have been enough to make any well-minded civilian tremble. It was bad enough, to hear it spoken on the news. Worse, to hear it not coming from a television-- in some cases, that name was all the warning one was given, before a terrible fate befell them. A nameless causality in the never-ending battle of good and evil.

But, now, there was no terror associated with it.

Most hospitals, Doctor was well aware, were fortunate enough that villains did not often pass through their doors. When they did, in the best cases, it was to seek treatment. In the worst cases, they had far more destructive intentions.

Their hospital, however, was an exception. There is a saying, that one can get used to anything, and with their experience, they now believed it to be more than true.

Doctor sighed, letting their shoulders fall.

“Visiting hours are over, Villain. You need to go home.”

The villain’s eyes widened, flickering momentarily to the nearest clock. In fact, it was past the end of visiting hours. Well past. Night rounds were about to begin, even.

It was simply so easy to forget Villain, hunched over in their little plastic chair.

Especially with those big, pathetic eyes with which they regarded Doctor.

“I can’t leave.” They pleaded. “Not yet. Can’t I stay just another hour?”

“No, Villain. We’ve been over this. You can come back tomorrow, bright and early, right at seven.”

“But it’s eleven, now! That’s eight hours. Eight hours they’ll be alone.”

“Not alone.” Doctor bit their lower lip. They knew full well that the person before them could render them to a charred corpse in mere seconds, if they so wished. Their tense, skipping heartbeat wouldn’t let them forget it. But, there was no malice in their eyes. Not an ounce. Only that terrible, pitiful sorrow. The sorrow that never seemed to leave them. “There’s people here, all night. A whole medical staff. If anything happens, they won’t be alone. I promise.”

Villain’s lip quivered. Weren’t they supposed to be dangerous?

“You’re sure I can’t stay? Just another hour?”

“I’m sure.”

“O-Okay.” The villain reached into their shoulder bag, and, for a moment, Doctor nearly pressed the nearest panic alarm. Yet, they withdrew no weapon. Instead, Villain took a small, spiral-bound notebook in hand, offering it. “Here are my notes. Um, just so you know. What they did today.”

Doctor’s gaze downcast to the paper. They already had three of these, piled on their desk. Filled to the brim. This one had only recently been started.

The page the notebook was turned to displayed the same thing as all the rest: Impeccably neat handwriting, dividing the page into half hour blocks. In each, letters of equal quality described the patient’s condition, down to the most minute detail.

3:30 - Minor twitching of the eyelids accompanied by singular irregular heartbeat.

4:00 - No abnormalities.

4:30 - Twitching of left index finger.

5:00 - Abnormal breath at around 5:12.

It was the best-kept record of a comatose patient’s condition that Doctor had ever seen. Even if it wasn’t exactly helpful, with how repetitive the patient’s movements tended to be, it was downright impressive.

“Thank you, Villain. I’ll tell the receptionist to expect you at seven?”

“Is there any chance I could come in earlier than that?”

“No. I’m sorry. Visiting hours start at seven.”

“I’m quiet. You know I’m quiet. I won’t be a bother to anybody.”

“I know, Villain. If...” They knew they needed to say something, or this argument would continue all night long. “If anything happens, we have your number on file. I’ll call you myself.”

“Really?” Their eyes widened. “You promise?”

“I promise. Now, you need to go home.”

“Okay.”

“You won’t hide in the bathroom and try to stay late this time?”

“You saw?”

“Everyone saw, Villain. Now, you’ve gotta skedaddle.”

The villain nodded hesitantly, looking to their shoes as they turned, moving down the hallway. As they left, Doctor could not help but mutter in their wake:

“And get some rest.”

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Six weeks.

Those two words echoed hollowly in Villain’s mind as they plodded along the damp sidewalk, lit only by the dewy echoes of streetlights overhead. The hour was late enough, and the city tired enough, that the streets were nearly deserted-- a state they were in so very rarely.

Their henchmen had spoken to them so many times, lecturing them that moving through the city’s depths, alone and unprotected, was terribly dangerous. Any hero, or any vigilante too cocky for their own good, could try their luck in an ambush.

But, Villain could hardly bring themself to care.

Six weeks.

That was all they cared about.

Six weeks since Hero had moved. Six weeks since they’d spoken, since they’d awoken. Exactly six, now.

Exactly six weeks since...

Villain’s hands clenched to fists at their sides, overgrown nails digging into the meat of their palms.

Since they’d made the biggest mistake of their life. Since the two sworn nemeses, Hero and Villain, light and dark, good and evil, had had their final battle. An industrial sabotage gone wrong.

They should have known better! Better than to use their pyrokenisis in an oil refinery.

But, that hadn’t. They hadn’t been thinking. They never thought! They were so stupid, so reckless, so careless...

Villain’s ears still rung from the explosion.

Their injuries meant nothing, even as they still throbbed. No. Because, for the last six weeks, they had been awake. Moving. Talking.

Hero hadn’t been so lucky.

When they at last arrived at their HQ, the halls were silent. Life existed only in the form of a scattering of guards, nodding their respects, but making no other gestures.

It was with weary legs that Villain ascended to their bedroom. They hardly noticed its state-- they’d grown used to the scatterings of clothes and papers. Instead, upon opening the door, their eyes snapped to the bed.

More specifically, the item upon it. They rushed to it, yanking it off the mussed blankets.

A book. A note, upon its cover.

“Went to bed before I could give this to you. It’s that book you wanted - Henchman”

Villain removed the note, far more interested in the cover it hid.

A Neurologist’s Guide to Chronic Vegetative States

There were more than enough pages within to last them until sunrise; until visiting hours at last recommenced.

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At 5:40, the sun began its ascent, bathing the sky in a dull hue of blue.

When six o’ clock came, the first rays of light could be seen, flashing over the horizon.

With the strike of 6:10, Villain placed down their book. They were only around halfway through-- wandering eyes and brief minutes of dozing lowering the speed at which their foggy mind could process the medical textbook.

They would have more than enough time to read, the next night. The book didn’t matter. What mattered was that visiting hours would commence in 50 minutes, exactly.

Twenty minutes to walk to the hospital. Meaning that, to get there early, they needed to leave in fifteen.

Rubbing sleep from their eyes, Villain rose from their chair, knees popping and cracking all the way to the bedroom door. Quickly, they changed into the cleanest clothes they could find, if only for the sake of appearances, before heading out.

Showering could wait. Showers took time, time that could be spend watching. Reading. Taking notes.

Helping. Doing anything, anything they could to help.

Emerging into the hallway, they startled a moment. The lights had already been turned on, despite the fact that their henchmen never awoke this early. Perhaps they had simply forgotten to turn them off the night prior.

Yet, there were noises, from downstairs.

There was no fear left in their body to feel. Justifications were quickly made, and they ran down the stairs.

Entering the kitchen, a scent hit Villain, forceful as a gust of wind. The scent of food-- warm and fresh and garnished with garlic.

Before the stove, Henchman stood. Out of all those Villain employed, Henchman was the least likely to be awake at such an hour. Often, they dragged themself from bed well after ten.

Yet, here they stood, flipping a pancake in a skillet.

“Hey, boss.” Their henchman turned, a grin glimmering upon their face. “I’m almost done here. Get yourself something to drink.”

Villain blinked.

“What... are you doing?”

“Making breakfast? I thought that’d be pretty obvious.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But... Why? You never eat breakfast.”

“Yeah. It’s not for me. ‘s for you, boss.”

They shook their head, glancing at the clock. 6:17.

“I’m not hungry. Besides, I really need to get going.”

“Boss.” There was an endeared, yet frustrated, tone to the voice. “When was the last time you ate?”

“You made me eat a granola bar yesterday.”

“And the day before that, you didn’t eat anything. So, you’re eating breakfast, if I have to shove it down your throat.”

They clenched their hands to fists.

“I don’t have time for this! Visiting hours are going to start soon. I need to be there.”

“No. You need to eat. Then you can go to the hospital.”

“You don’t get to decide that. I need to go. I’m sorry.”

“Boss.” Henchman slid the pancake onto a plate before deftly stepping between their boss and the front door. “I don’t mean to be blunt, but you look like hell. I know you haven’t been sleeping. Everyone knows it. If you keep acting like this, you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed.”

Villain gritted their teeth.

“Maybe that’s what I deserve. Now, fuck off. Get someone else to eat your damn pancakes.”

With those words, and furious footsteps, they emerged onto the sidewalk outside.

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When Receptionist arrived at their desk, there was already a patron, sitting in their waiting room.

A few short weeks ago, such would have been unusual. While other parts of the hospital were occupied day and night, the appointments handled by this room did not begin until the hospital actually opened-- right at seven.

Now, though, there was nothing strange about it.

Before they could so much as sit down, Villain was already moving towards them.

Receptionist could not help but note their appearance.

Working in a hospital, they had long since grown used to seeing the sick and injured. And yet, there was something particularly distressing about this case.

They supposed, it was because they had seen it happen. Usually, when patients arrived at the hospital, it was because they could no longer manage their own conditions. Their bodies were in shambles. They showed up in their damaged states.

Villain, on the other hand, had first appeared to the waiting room is relatively good health.

Then, they had begun to appear tired.

And thin.

Now, their appearance matched that of the comatose patient that they were here to see. Skin clung taught about their cheekbones, their flesh pale and eyes glazed over. Most semblances of hygiene had been abandoned entirely; some parts of their hair had even begun to mat, and dirt clung to them like caked and cracked makeup.

But, there was something else in their eyes. The sheer essence of undying compassion.

It was that alone that prevented Receptionist from sending them away.

Villain had no need to speak. As soon as they had time to sit, the hospital employee had paged the proper floor-- a sequence of buttons that had quickly become muscle memory.

“You can go up, now.” They spoke. With a wearied nod, Villain moved to begin their ceaseless watch.

Neither of them could have guessed that, an hour later, the unthinkable would come true.

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When Hero awoke, it was to the sound of a pencil, scratching at paper.

The world filled in with a terrible, exhaustion tedium. Above them, blurs of white and grey turned to a sterile, white tile, while the world about solidified to four pale, beige walls.

A hospital. They’d been in enough to recognize as such, with just how clumsy their teammates tended to be.

But why were they here, now...? Who had gotten hurt, this time? They couldn’t quite remember.

Rolling onto their side, the question was quickly answered.

Villain appeared to be on death’s doorstep, about to press the doorbell. Matted hair clung to their neck, eyes drooping and skin appearing as though there was no blood beneath it at all.

At the very least, they had made it to the hospital before suffering any serious damage.

Wait.

It was only then that Hero realized who exactly was in the room’s hospital bed.

[nicka-nell]

HQHQ Collab - First Choice

Pairing: Atsumu x reader, mention of Bokuto

Words: 6.822

Warning: mention of unnamed cheating ex-boyfriend, angst if you squint really hard, fluff, friends to lovers

Beta-reader: thank you for beta reading the fic @xmyshya

Summary: You’ve been living with your best friend for a few weeks, crying to him about your ex-boyfriend cheating on you. But Atsumu no longer wants to see you sad and offers himself as Wingman once more when he tries to set you up with his teammate.

This story is part of our HQHQ server collab with the prompt: When will I be someone’s first choice? Tell me, when? You can find the other stories here. So check out all the other wonderful writers.

“Y/n now go on and get up!” Atsumu’s loud voice wakes you up. With swollen eyes you turn to him, your hair still ruffled, left and right of you lie the crumpled handkerchiefs with which you have cried yourself quietly and secretly into sleep.

You’re tired, your head hurts, and Atsumu’s loud babbling doesn’t help your headache to settle. Reluctantly you pull your blanket over your head, but in vain. Because even before you can get used to the darkness and the warmth underneath, to the calm without the voice of the dyed blond-haired man, he pulls the coat off your body with a jerk and confronts you with the cold morning air, through the open window in your room.

“Tsumu, you idiot, give me the blanket back!” You whine, but he doesn’t even think about it. “Why does your bed look like a mess again? It’s been two months, and you’re still crying after this asshole? It’s enough with moping around.” Before he can finish his sentence, you can feel his hands curling around your ankles and how your legs were jerking forward, setting your entire body in motion.

“Tsumu what are you doing?” You scream and try to hold on to the upper edge of the bed. For a few seconds you manage to resist his tug, but you soon realize that he is stronger than you.

But Atsumu has apparently forgotten to calculate that you would let go and pulls you off the bed with so much momentum that you both land on the floor.

“Ah, Tsumu you airhead! Now my ass and feet are hurting. Why did you do this?” You want to know while you’re rubbing your butt, which you landed on a few seconds ago. Sulking, you look over to your best friend, who is also sitting on the floor, supporting his weight on hands behind his back.

“Sorry, I forgot how weak you are.” He teases you with a grin. “But you seem to be awake now, eh?”

“Yeah, awake and angry…” You quickly add to his statement and look at him with a wrinkled forehead. “Don’t look so evil. That wannabe look doesn’t suit you. I told you before, if you want to talk, I’m just a room away. No need to cry yourself to sleep.”

Even if he annoyed you earlier, you realize in his words that he’s worried about you. It’s been two months since you saw your boyfriend… No Ex-boyfriend with another girl. Just “saw them” is wrong. He had kissed her, touched her, and you were sure that if you hadn’t confronted them directly, more would have happened.

Atsumu was there for you, caught you with open arms and told you that everything would be fine. Because that’s how he always was. Back then, when the kids at school had teased you, when the girls had blasphemed you because you had always gotten along better with the boys. He was also the one who comforted you at your first lovesickness.

Ironically, you had a crush on his brother, who at the time had no thought of such trifles as love. The first time you were really in love with someone, it was Atsumu who tried to set you up with that person. Because it was none other than his volleyball teammate Suna who had twisted your head.

The fake blonde had really tried everything to make you as interesting as possible for Suna, had always invited you and Suna to ‘learn’ and then left the room for hours to leave you alone. But in the end, it didn’t work out because Suna told you he had feelings for another girl.

When your heart broke into thousands of pieces for the first time, it was Atsumu who had carefully tried to pick up all the shards and cautiously glue them back to the right place. He was always there for you. And even though you know what your heart wants, you shut yourself away from it. Because Atsumu is your best friend. The man who will always stand behind you to give you a push forward so you can finally find your happiness. Without him.

“That’s enough sulking! What do you say you come to practice with me today? Get to know my teammates and friends? Maybe there’s someone in there who piques your interest, eh?” He grins mischievously and wiggles his eyebrows before he straightens up and stretches his hand forward to help you up.

“Mhm… You’re not gonna leave me alone before I say yes anyway, are you?” You mumble as he pulls your body upward.

He still grins as he nods and lets go of your hand just to bring it to your hair. “But before that… you go take a shower and make sure that this nest on your head becomes the normal beautiful hair you actually have. All right?” He laughs as he pulls a scrap of a handkerchief out of your hair.

Oh God, how embarrassing you think and at the same moment you have to laugh. No matter what you look like, even if you are wrinkled, with greasy hair, mustard stains on your top and swollen eyes, Atsumu still likes you. After all, he sees you as a buddy.

“Well, I guess… I’m gonna get ready. Can you make breakfast, Tsumu?”

“Are you nuts? There is no more time for breakfast. I can heat the last slice of pizza from last night’s movie.”

“Oh, you’ll be such a good husband someday, Tsumu.” You answer him sarcastically as you shake your head and pass Atsumu.

“Sure, and you eventually become a good wife Y/n.” He calls after you, but you already lift your middle finger and slam the door behind you with a smile on your face. “Tze… Tsumu you idiot.”

The knife slices the butter with ease as Atsumu greases the butter on a toasted slice of bread to put your favorite cold cuts on top. Because he was just joking. Your first meal shouldn’t be a piece of old pizza.

When you’re with Atsumu, you forget all the things that made you sad. You’re happy and glad to have such a good friend by your side. And even though you said it sarcastically earlier, you still meant it like this, that he would make a woman very happy. Just with the thought of him and another woman, you feel a short sting in your chest, but you are sure that deep down you have to think about your ex-boyfriend and that you still miss him.

“Ready to go! Give me that slice of pizza or I’ll eat your friends.” You shout out to Atsumu as you enter the hallway through the doorstep. Once in there, you can hear his muffled voice calling out to you while his voice comes closer and closer.

It is only a second where Atsumu stops in the doorway, looks at you before he continues his walk and pushes the slice of bread and an apple into your hand. “I can’t let you smell like tuna and garlic the first time you met my friends.”

With rolling eyes you take the bread from him, push it into your mouth before putting on your thin cardigan and place the apple in your jacket pocket. According to your phone, the weather today is anything but cool and gray.

But just as you want to pull your zipper up, you feel something heavy landing on your shoulders, looking confused from left to right before your gaze sweeps up from the yellow fabric on your shoulders to the fake blond-haired man.

You don’t need words, your gaze is filled with the question of why he gave you his jacket. But again he just lay down his arms against his hips, grins casually. “Well, you’re with me or not? Not that they’ll think you’re a paparazzo at the gym entrance and not let you in.”

With the words ‘you’re with me,’ your heart gives a beat. “Don’t you think your friends will think we’re together, Tsumu? That this is more such a friend-girlfriend thing?”

The entire car ride is quiet, but it’s not an unpleasant silence. Only the radio rattles quietly, while Atsumu complains about the careless drivers or cyclists, and that there is never a parking space in front of the gym.

“Ah, don’t talk such nonsense. You can tell we’re just friends, you dummy.” Another bang, no stab, making your chest heavier. “Sure… right.” You just mumble quietly. So quietly that Atsumu cannot understand it as you breathe in the fine fragrance of his harsh deodorizer as you walk past him and leave the flat.

You have to admit you’re a little nervous standing outside the hall with Atsumu. You can hear voices from inside. Probably his friends. As if Atsumu understood your feelings, he puts his arm over your shoulder to give you more security, and enters the room freshener smelling hall with you.

It doesn’t take long for all eyes to be on you until the first person beckons Atsumu and the next one goes on you. A boy with orange hair that you remember very well. Atsumu’s school team had a game against him. They lost and Atsumu was talking to you for weeks about how he wanted to play with this little boy sometime.

Behind him stands a dark-haired man, hands in the pockets of his jacket, while he lingers in place, watching you only from a distance. That should be Sakusa. The guy Atsumu always talks about, how clean and special he is when it comes to hygiene.

Just when you want to turn to Hinata again, as he is still waving towards you, another man runs towards you at an incredible speed, shaking your hand vigorously with sparkling eyes. Your whole body is shaking, you’re getting headaches, but somehow you find his overactive anticipation cute.

“Hey, hey, hey! I‘m Bokuto Koutarou! I’m a super ace and I’m really successful!” He grins proudly, which makes you giggle. Of course he is. After all, he plays in the same team as Atsumu.

Yet Bokuto does not remain long in his proud posture. His shoulders collapse after a few seconds, while his gaze wanders to Atsumu. “Hey, Tsum-Tsum, why didn’t you tell me you were coming with your girlfriend today?” He wants to know from the fake blonde one.

Irritated, you look over to Bokuto, wanting to clear up the misunderstanding as the voice of an older man interrupts you. “Miya, the next time you bring someone, please report this to me first. Now, warm up and let’s start training.” The man you consider to be the coach says to Atsumu, who nods in agreement before pointing at a bench where you should sit, before he goes to warm up with Bokuto and Hinata.

Although you talk little to people, you’re not bored watching them train. It pleases you to see how everyone is with full passion. From time to time the man who introduced you as Bokuto grins at you, waving a little awkwardly before Atsumu admonishes him and turns his attention away from you. He’s kind of cute.

“Oh Tsumu…” you mumble quietly while chuckling unconsciously as you watch Atsumu reprimand Bokuto for being so easily distracted, and how Bokuto lets his shoulders drop apologetically.

“You seem to have had a lot of fun today, eh?” The question is rhetorical, because of course you did. He recognized that in your face. With the rest of yesterday’s pizza and a salad with smoked tofu, he sits down next to you at the dinner table.

The training passes, and your attention on Bokuto grows. First a few glimpses you exchange, then words and sentences, up to such long dialogues that he completely forgets his break and is called back to the playing field by Atsumu to finally finish the training.

“You could have introduced me to your friends earlier. Especially Bokuto. He’s kind of cuddly.” You babble while you are in your thoughts about the cheerful man.

“So, so… Bokuto, huh? Looks like I got a new job as a wingman, eh? Give me a few days to figure something out. Operation Lovebirds begins.” His eyes are narrow and playful, while his face is only a few inches away from yours.

As Atsumu had said, a few days pass. Days in which you were always at his training, always with the yellow jacket which makes you feel much safer and more comfortable. Days when you often talk to Bokuto during breaks.

Your heart gives a quick blow as the warmth of his breath hits your lips. From the excitement? Excitement to see Bokuto again soon, right? With an unnaturally bright laugh, you slap him on the shoulder, turn to the pizza, before you both go to your own rooms and get ready for bed.

Atsumu has the idea to take Bokuto to Osamu’s store, like he’s doing almost every Saturday to eat together. Sometimes the other teammates come with him, but this time he will only ask Bokuto.

He wants to lure him to the store and write to him shortly before, so that he has no time. You would sit already in the store and then pretend after a few minutes as if you had randomly noticed Bokuto. You could eat, talk and maybe even exchange your numbers. The idea was perfect.

As agreed, you sit at a table near the kitchen, looking at the menu while watching Bokuto from the corner of your eye. How he reaches for his cell phone and how his cheerful look is slowly getting sad, because he probably reads the message from Atsumu that he will not come.

You consider going straight to him, but your vibrating phone prevents you from it. A message from Atsumu with the words ‘Mission lovebirds can begin’. An unconscious grin spreads across your face as you read the message before a voice makes you shrink.

“Has someone also dumped you?” You hear Bokuto’s sad voice and make a brief shout when you see him standing right next to you. “Bokuto!”

You laugh a lot, seem to have a lot of fun and get along great. At least that’s what Atsumu can see from his brother’s kitchen. Because of course he didn’t want to miss out on seeing if you two really come along well with each other.

“Ah! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you! Uh… mind if I sit here?” He asks clumsily, pointing to the free chair opposite of you. Nodding, you invite him to sit down before quickly putting your phone in a pocket and start talking to Bokuto.

“Why are you here, Tsumu?” His brother’s voice makes him look away from you.

“Eh? What do you mean, Samu? I want to see if I’m successful with my mission.”

“Sure, stop lying to yourself.” Osamu quietly talks to his twin while he continues to prepare the Onigiri for his guests. But his brother doesn’t answer him, just looks out of the round kitchen window at the table where you talk to Bokuto with a smile on your face.

“You know I didn’t reject Y/n back then because I had no interest in girls. So finally get some balls in your pants.” With a full plate of Onigiri, Osamu crosses his twin, passes the plate to his server at the counter, before he enters the kitchen without a word.

“If she’s happy, I’m happy for her too. Why don’t you understand, Samu?” He now turns his gaze away from you, instead looking at the unfinished rice that Osamu had prepared for the next order. It annoys him that his brother has to address this topic again and again. It’s not up to Atsumu to decide what you want. After all, it’s up to you.

“So? So you don’t mind if I invite her on a date if it doesn’t work out with Bokuto? As long as she’s happy, it shouldn’t be a problem for me to taste her lips.” He deliberately tries to provoke his brother, and for a split second he sees Atsumu twitching his eyes, his cheekbones sticking out from his clenched teeth before looking his brother in the eye.

“If that’s what makes her happy. Then make her happy, damn it, understand?”

“What the hell, what’s wrong with you, Tsumu!” His brother yells at him, furiously stomping to him and grabbing him by his collar. He expected such an answer, but not this flat, indifferent response, which is supposed to hide Atsumu’s feelings.

Atsumu also grabs his twin by the collar, pushes him away from himself and continues the scramble. Again and again he tries to explain to him it is not Osamu’s problem and he should not interfere in his things and anew Osamu tries to convince him to finally listen to his feelings. Plates fall over, knives that lay on the work surface as the voice of the server stops the two men.

“Eh… I’m sorry, but at table four, the lady was asking what was in the spring drink because of her allergies.” Both let off from each other while Atsumu’s steps carry him quickly back to the round window to look at your table. Because he’s irritated that you’re asking that question.

The fake blond man hardly notices the voices of the two men in the kitchen. His heart suddenly beats restlessly. A young girl your age sat next to you and Bokuto. Atsumu’s plan to set you up with Bokuto seems to be failing.

“Nobody ditched me, Bokuto. Actually, I just wanted to drop by and leave Osamu a nice greeting when it becomes a bit quieter here. But it always seems to be full here.” You lie because you wouldn’t even have come here without this plan from Atsumu.

He feels bad that a small part of him hopes Bokuto finds the other girl interesting, but Atsumu quickly talks himself up that he just wants you to be happy.

With a quick beating heart you hope that Bokuto does not see through your lie, but when he smiles at you, you are sure that he believes you.

“Oh sure, right! If you know one Miya brother, you automatically have the other on your back, don’t you? Especially when you’re so close.” He grins, and his words remind you of the incident in the gym. There, Bokuto said something similar. He wrongly portrayed you as girlfriend and friend, which was certainly due to Atsumu’s jacket. And just as you were about to correct him there, their trainer babbled something into the room.

You definitely need to clarify that you two are just friends, otherwise you can’t ask Bokuto for his number. Just friends…

“Uh Bokuto? I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Tsumu and I-”

“Y/n? Oh my God, is that you?”

Again, someone interrupts you. This time not Atsumu’s coach or Atsumu, but a person you haven’t seen for ages. Your old school friend, who was with you at the same club and with whom you really got along well.

Because of your ex-boyfriend, your paths somehow separated, but you’re thrilled to see her now. “Oh Mei, is it you? You’ve really changed, wow.” You smile at her before you greet her and sit down again.

“I don’t want to bother you guys, and I’m sure that’s rude, but is it okay if I join you? If I annoy you, I’ll leave!”

Mostly you’re just here to get a date with Bokuto, but sending her away now would be too suspicious. For a moment you think about how to best handle this situation, but Bokuto takes the decision off you by inviting her to join you and just stay as long as she wants.

You talk partly to Mei, partly to Bokuto for a while when you check if Atsumu has written anything to you. You’re surprised he hasn’t asked you how the date goes. Is he on a date right now himself?

“Y/n? Did you hear?” Mei’s voice gets you out of your mind again, before you look at her absent-minded. “I have to go now, but… I was really happy to see you again and I hope we can repeat that soon. And I was also pleased to meet you Bokuto.” She adds, before she smiles at you both and goes to the counter to pay her bill and leave the bar.

Just when Bokuto wants to say something, his phone rings and he apologizes to you for a moment. You take the opportunity to write to Atsumu, ask him if you should take some Onigiri with you from his brother’s shop and hope for a hint if he had a date. Because if he doesn’t want some Onigiri, he sure is having dinner with another woman.

Two minutes go by, four… Ten minutes until Bokuto comes back in, and you feel your phone vibrating at the same moment. A simple “No, I’ve already eaten.” is his answer. An answer that suddenly makes you feel so weird.

“I’m so sorry I kept you waiting. Akaashi, my best friend, called me. I have to see him. Is it okay if we postpone our meeting for another time? So… I mean this random meeting.” He smiles embarrassed, and scratches the back of his head as he puts his jacket around his shoulders and shoves the chair back to the table.

“Oh hm? Sure. I would be happy to meet you again Bokuto!” You answer him enthusiastically, even if you’re still on Atsumu’s date in your mind. Did he really go out with a girl? Why do you not know her? Why didn’t he tell you?

“Perfect! So, I’ll see you at practice tomorrow?”

“Sure, I’ll be there.”

“Then let’s talk about some meetings during my break. I’ll go to Samu and pay the bill for us.”

“Wa-!” You want to stop him, pay your own bill but Bokuto already stamps away from you and knocks on the kitchen door to lure Osamu out and pay.

He doesn’t know how fast he ran to be home before you. Good thing he didn’t tell you about the shortcut, or you’d have run into each other. Fully sweaty, he jumps into the shower, trying to get the smell of Osamu’s kitchen out of his hair as he hears your voice dull from the hallway in the bathroom.

Together you leave the restaurant, but then go your separate ways. Although this is not the first time you walk this path, even though you don’t need twenty minutes on the way, it seems like an eternity to you. Absorbed in your thoughts, you kick a round stone along the sidewalk, burying your hands in your trouser pockets while watching it roll. The long gray road matching gray walls on the sidewalk, no car to see. Everything is dreary and you feel odd, but also happy at the same time. After all, Bokuto seems as interested in you as you are in him. You can quickly overlook the fact that Atsumu is probably on his own date right now.

“Tsumu? Are you home airhead?”

Hissing, he shakes his head, rubs his towel through his wet hair, ties it around his hip and glances into the mirror before he goes out.

“Tsumu! Put some damn clothes on!”

“I’m also pleased to see you. Got my clothes in the bedroom. Don’t worry, I’ll put something on. But first, how was your date?” The question was unnecessary. Of course he knew, because he was there, watching you. But you don’t know that.

Atsumu studies how you dance on your tiptoes, how you swing your body forward and backward, and tap your lower lip. You always do that when you’re nervous. But before he can even give another thought to you, your body moves forward in his direction.

Just a few seconds pass when your soft skin lies on his, your arms wrap around his neck and you hug him. Atsumu stops as if petrified. Because his heart beats fast, your body so close to his triggers so much in him.

Carefully, he pushes you away from his chest, hoping you didn’t hear his raging heart. Yet, your arms remain on his neck, your warmth on him, although this on his chest slowly fades.

Lovingly you look at him, a look that gives him an unknown sting. An expression that you would probably turn to a big brother, otherwise he cannot interpret it. But he cannot look away from your warm eyes. Those bright, happy eyes that captivate him.

“The date was really great and tomorrow at the training we want to make a new one! Bokuto is such an incredibly great guy, and he is so funny. He made me laugh so many times and it’s sweet how emotional he always is and ah! He is really fine. Thank you for introducing him to me.”

Silently you look each other in the eyes, speak with your eyes instead of words. Subconsciously, your fingers move, gently stroking his neck up and down, while your sugar-sweet laugh makes Atsumu even crazier.

His body acts on its own as it bends forward, coming to a halt just in front of your face. But his mind quickly catches up with his body, for his words wander down your cheek to your ears as he whispers to you quietly that he is happy for you.

“So mission complete, eh?” With a mischievous grin, he tries to distract you from his previous action, patting on your shoulders with his hands before he walks past you and strolls towards his room door.

“I’m gonna put some clothes on. You should take a shower and get some sleep. You stink and need your beauty sleep for Bokuto tomorrow.”

“Haha, very funny! I love you too, you idiot.”

Days go by when you talk to Bokuto a lot. At training, to the detriment of everyone else, eating ice cream after training or just sitting around in the park and doing nothing. You get along well, laugh a lot, talk a lot about his buddies - Akaashi and Atsumu. After your dates you always tell Atsumu how much fun you had and are sure that you deafen his ears with your Bokuto-talk.

Words that come so easily out of your lips, for they are meant amicably. Words that are so easy to understand, but leave a bitter heavy feeling in his heart.

Today you both sit on a wall in the park again, fooling around like good friends. For a moment your shoulders brush against each other, when Bokuto twitches and stares embarrassed down at you. You too feel your body getting more restless, out of balance as you look into his golden yellow eyes. Both of you are silent, always opening your mouth to say something, but then close it again.

“So, eh… Do you… remember our first random meeting? In Osamu’s store?” Bumpy, he tries to find the right words, starts playing with the moss growing between the grooves of the stone wall.

Your chest suddenly stops moving. Out of panic you hold your breath because you are afraid that he has found out that Atsumu is behind this coupling action.

“I was wondering if… Well, there was your school friend there, and I was wondering if maybe you could… could give me her number?”

“Her number?” You realize how anger slowly boils in you, how an unpleasant feeling rages in your body and you suddenly feel so uncomfortable and stupid. With a bitter hiss you laugh up, turn your face away from Bokuto so that he cannot see your sparkling eyes. Eyes that don’t sparkle with joy, no. Eyes that sparkle with tingling tears and leave small wet spots, like those of rain, on the stone wall below you.

Of course he wanted her number, of course he did. After all, it was always like this. Whether it was Osamu or Suna, your ex boyfriend or any other man you found cute or attractive. You were always the second choice. You were always good as a friend, but not good enough as a girlfriend. There was always another who came before you, who had taken the place that you had so longingly aspired to. It was always like this.

So why did you think things should be different with Bokuto right now? Did you really think there was a man who had only you in his mind? A man who adores you as much as you do him?

“Why all the dates Bokuto? Why did you invite me to all those dates, get my hopes up if you only wanted my friend’s number, anyway? Why...? Never mind, forget it!” You sniff and jump off the wall to get out of here as soon as possible. Only Bokuto remains, sitting on the wall in confusion, trying to understand your last words.

With his cell phone in his hand, Atsumu scrolls through your messages, through your enthusiastic and joyful words about Bokuto while lying on the couch, the free hand behind his head. On the table is the last bit of a spinach-garlic pizza he ordered shortly after you went on your date with Bokuto. His thumb stops at a note in which you jokingly wrote to him that you also love him when he teased you with your crush on Bokuto. Words that hurt more every day, the longer you stay at Atsumu’s flat.

“Get your hopes up? H- Hey, Y/n wait!” He calls you, but your silhouette gets smaller and smaller. You’re not thinking of turning in his direction again.

His gaze is focused on his cell phone, the thumb still on that one message as a new message covers it. Irritated, he looks at the name of his teammate, who sends him one message after the other. Although he hasn’t read the messages yet, he has a bad feeling. He doesn’t know if it’s worry or something else, but he must think of you directly as he opens the messages with shaky fingers and straightens up on the sofa.

>> Tsumu-Tsumu! Get on your phone! I think I screwed up! I thought Y/n is your girlfriend and today something weird happened, and! I screwed up, man. Tell her I- <<

Atsumu is still reading Bokuto’s incoming messages, can hardly keep up with them when the loud banging of the front door makes him startled. As if he has just been caught in something forbidden, he throws his cell phone in panic behind the couch and looks in the direction of the living room door in which you suddenly stand.

Your eyes are red, nose runny, and your words come to him only as a loud sob. In him everything hurts at this sight of you.

“Tsumu!” You sniff and want to make a step forward to your best friend, but Atsumu is faster. He takes you in his arms as you press your head against his warm chest. His fingertips glide slowly through your hair, calming you while his grip around your waist becomes firmer.

“It’s okay, I’m here.” His words that softly kiss your ears calm you down. He knows exactly that there is no point in questioning you now, because you are still too busy collecting yourself again. So he just keeps silent, caresses your head and listens to you as your sniffing gets less and less, your fast, hasty breathing gets calmer and calmer.

“You want to tell me what happened?” His muscular arm loosens easily from your waist, his hand stroking you, now raises your head and makes you look at him. With a loving smile, he wipes away your tears, puts his arms on your shoulders and waits for your answer.

Hard you breathe out, try to pull yourself together, but your voice remains shaky.

“Bokuto… He just wanted her number… He didn’t care about me.” You notice how your voice becomes unclear again, begins to tremble more and your sniffing is again to take over your voice. But Atsumu’s thumb, which caresses your shoulders, calms you down again and you try to spell your words back into clear sentences.

“He wasn’t interested in me. At least not so… Tsumu, it’s like that every time. Men always fall in love with other women. I’m always just the third wheel. Am I that ugly? Am I so unattractive that every man sees me as a buddy? Tsumu… When will I be someone’s first choice? Tell me, when?”

Your eyes glittering with tears, search for his eyes. His heart breaks with the sad look you give him. And although the answer to your question is on his lips, he would like to scream it out of himself, yet a big lump sticks to his neck and keeps him silent.

“Tsumu when?” Is the only thing that comes out of you broken, now that not even your best friend can give you an answer to that question.

It was probably his fault you’re so sad now. Because Bokuto didn’t mention that school friend of yours once. He probably only said that because he thought you were Atsumu’s girlfriend and he didn’t want to destroy the friendship of the two men.

It was Atsumu’s fault that when he introduced you to his team, he didn’t make it right that you weren’t his girlfriend. The fake blond had not done this on purpose. His words just didn’t want to come out of him back then. Only later he had understood why he had tried to make his friends believe that you are his girlfriend.

He’d have to answer his cell phone, read Bokuto’s messages to be one hundred percent sure he wasn’t serious about your school friend, but his body isn’t moving. Actually, he can’t move anyway, because you clenched your hands into fists and clutched them into his shirt.

Atsumu should set it right. But in him, Osamu’s voice pushes forward. The words Atsumu wanted to deny. ‘You’re in love with her… Stop lying to yourself… Finally, get some balls in your pants.’

Not even your best friend can answer your question. How could he if he met with others every time you were with Bokuto? But even though it hurts that Bokuto rejected you, it hurts more that Atsumu doesn’t give you an answer.

With a sad sigh, you push his hands off your shoulders and set your legs in motion to go to your bedroom and be alone. But you can’t take many steps, because Atsumu holds you to your wrist just to turn you back to him.

Slowly, without strength and without joy, you look up to him. In his face, which shows so many emotions at once, yet he tries to hide them all from you. You notice how he struggles with his words, not knowing how to begin. His grip on your arm gets tighter. It almost hurts, but you say nothing.

“You… You have always been… my first choice.” He says hesitantly, in such an uncertain tone which is unlikely for him. His words are so quiet that you don’t understand them, just look at him questioning.

“Y/n, you have always been and always will be my first choice. Shit, I know I’m gonna ruin our friendship with this, but I can’t do this anymore. I’m selfish, yes, I know. I didn’t correct the statement when Bokuto said that you were my girlfriend because I didn’t want to see you with someone else who would just hurt you again. Y/n I can’t see you sad anymore. I don’t want to see you like this anymore. It just doesn’t work anymore. Ever since you’ve began living here, swinging your sweet little ass around my apartment, eating with me, spending evenings, and almost all days, I can’t think of anything but seeing you as more than just a buddy. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Shit, you airhead, I love you.”

His words become clearer and clearer, on the contrary to his expression. Then, as his tone becomes firmer, his gaze becomes more anxious. And now you understand. You always wanted the perfect boyfriend. Wanted to have a man by your side who loves you, who Atsumu gets along with since he is your best friend and had never noticed that he was always your second choice.

You always wanted someone who liked your friends, who understood you, and that person was always at your side. You knew why Bokuto’s words didn’t hurt you as much as Atsumu’s silence a few minutes earlier. You knew why you enjoyed wearing Atsumu’s jacket, and you knew why it didn’t bother you that Atsumu had not corrected the statement, and so the rumor arose that you two were a couple. Also you knew why you wanted to convince yourself that Atsumu met other women to not feel bad about going out with one of his friends. You knew, but you never wanted to face it. Because like Atsumu, you were afraid of losing the person you needed most.

You open your mouth soundlessly. If you say nothing now, you are sure that the man in front of you will immediately lose his temper with excitement and fear.

Although you have said the words many times, your heart is racing like crazy, your belly is tingling and your chest is almost painfully contracting. You’re nervous, nervous like when you had to introduce yourself to the big class full of people.

“I love you too, you idio-” Before you can finish your sentence, the warm lips of Atsumu, which lie gently on yours silence your last words. Full of pleasure you give a quiet whimper, trying to calm your loud throbbing heart in vain. Because your body burns, trembles, is numb and awake at the same time. Your thoughts are going crazy.

Atsumu also gives a relieved sigh, almost as if a huge load has fallen from his shoulders. His arms quickly wrap around your cheeks, stroking your face while his lips open a little and you feel his wet tongue on your mouth. You have the feeling that your body has just gotten warmer, reducing the last distance between you and giving off a gasp as you also open your mouth slightly to allow him to enter. His hand, which stroked your cheek earlier, seeks its way to the back of your head to bury itself in your hair and pull your head back a bit to kiss you better.

For a moment your tongues dance together, your bodies almost link as you interrupt your kiss and look into Atsumu’s excited face. His cheeks are reddish, lips slightly puffed up from your kiss, while his breath lands warm on your body.

“What’s the matter Y/n?” He whispers hoarsely, the expression slightly playful. But you just look at him with a slightly silly grin.

“Did you eat garlic, Tsumu?”

For a moment he looks at you, as if a fuse blew through him. He’s thinking about what you meant by that, before he starts sulking while stretching his head backwards, so that he’s looking at the ceiling.

“Ah shit, if I had known I’d tell you that I love you, that we would be kissing, I would have bitten into a rose and not into a pizza with extra garlic.”

Laughing, you put your head on his chest, looking up at him while he continues to stare at you sulking. “Is there still a slice, bunny?”

“One piece, but it’s already bitten, babe.” He grins and reminds you of all the nights you two sat on the sofa watching series and arguing about who gets the last piece of food. Once Atsumu had licked the last piece and thus reserved it for himself, sometimes you were faster. You were acting like toddlers, but you were having an incredible time. You just had fun with him, always.

“Your tongue was watching if all my teeth were still in my mouth a few seconds ago. Do you think it bothers me that the pizza piece is bitten?”

“Guess not. But give your sexy boyfriend a last stinky kiss. Okay?” He smirks and sharpens his lips playfully to tease you and brings his arms around your body so that you can’t escape. Only so you press his lips away from you, laughing until Atsumu finally gives you a fleeting kiss and you act as if you faint and lean against his chest.

Your loud laughter resounds through the room and your hands do not let go of the other until you are quiet and enjoy the moment in silence.

“I love you Y/n. You, my first choice.” He whispers to you as he gives you one last kiss on your crown.

[hopefulobjectmiracle]

wearing the smile you gave me

This fic was prompted by a sweet anon, and I decided to dedicate it to my dear friend @randomcanbian because I love her. I know the next few days will be hard for you, and I hope this makes your week a little less difficult 💕

Pairing: Brittany S. Pierce/Santana Lopez

Prompt: “My shirt is way too big on you...but it’s cute”

Words: ~2.3k

Additional Info: Fluff, Canon Compliant, Married!Brittana, Future Fic. 

Read on AO3

-

Brittany wakes to the soft sound of snoring. The clock next to her bed reads 6:04 AM, but it’s still dark outside.

She rolls over in her bed and breathes a sigh of relief. Santana had gotten home last night, safe and sound. Not that she wouldn’t have, but New York is a dangerous city; one that the two of them hadn’t spent much time in together prior to their wedding. And so Brittany couldn’t help but worry about her anyway. 

It’s been four months since the wedding, and married life has been treating them well. They've settled into their new apartment fairly seamlessly, and have been taking classes at Columbia together just like they always planned. Santana would never admit this to Mr. Schuester, but his ‘hunch’ from way back when had turned out to be right - she really did want to go into law in order to make a difference in the world. Preparing for law is difficult, but Santana is loving that she gets to have such an important goal. Brittany is taking classes part-time in the math department, spending most of her time training at the Paul Taylor Dance Company. 

It’s not easy, though. Santana often works late nights at the diner to earn extra money - late nights that keep Brittany up worrying about her. Occasionally, like yesterday, their schedules don’t overlap and they aren’t able to spend time alone together. There are bills to pay, classes to attend, and responsibilities that neither one would have ever dreamed of as a teenager. And yet - it’s perfect, because it’s the two of them. Brittany thinks that her teenage self would be damn proud of where they are today. 

Now, Santana lies next to Brittany, her dark hair fanned out across her face and her features lax with sleep. Brittany smiles as she traces a finger across Santana’s cheek. This is her Santana, hers alone; the soft, sweet girl that no one but her ever gets to see. And Brittany gets to spend the rest of her life with her. She gets to wake up every morning to that beautiful face, spend her entire day loving this incredible woman, and go to sleep every night knowing that Santana will be right next to her. 

Forever. 

This thought alone sparks Brittany’s every nerve, and is enough to send Brittany stumbling out of bed, deciding that she isn’t going to be able to fall asleep again before sunrise. Four months in, and it’s finally hit her on this dark, cold morning - this is it. This is forever with the girl she loves. 

She quickly smoothes the blankets over Santana, presses a soft kiss to her forehead, and all but sprints to the kitchen of their tiny condo. Lord Tubbington, whom Brittany hadn’t even realized was awake, uses this as an opportunity to climb onto their dining table, attempting to make himself at home in their fruit bowl. 

“Quiet, you!” Brittany whispers. “Don’t be an asshole, Santana needs her rest.” Lord Tubbington hisses at her, and Brittany sighs and picks him up, depositing him on the kitchen counter. He mewls in protest, and she jabs her finger at him. “Behave. My wife needs sleep, and I will not have you and your gang ruining it.” She sneaks a glance back into the bedroom. Santana is thankfully still asleep, and Brittany breathes out another sigh of relief. She turns back to Lord Tubbington and says, “I’m keeping an eye on you, mister.”

Brittany leans forward and opens a couple of cupboards mindlessly, unsure of what to make for her wife’s breakfast. It’s a rare free Saturday morning, and she is not going to let it go to waste when she can do something special instead. She sifts through the ingredients they have in their fridge, making a mental note to stock up on bagels. Brittany sighs. She wishes that NYC had at least one Breadstix - she isn’t really the best cook, and Santana only deserves the best. 

Still, Brittany thinks Santana will appreciate anything Brittany makes for her, because she knows that what really matters to Santana is that Brittany loves her enough to make an effort. Even if that effort results in burnt lasagna. Which is an event that Santana has sworn to never bring up again. 

Brittany shakes that thought away. Santana’s had a hard week, and Brittany needs to do everything in her power to make it better. She spins around the kitchen again and grabs the recipe book they keep on the counter. She flips through it, landing on a page with a list of Italian recipes. She scans the pasta section, hoping to find something easy enough to make. Raviolis, farfalle, fusilli...

Fettuccine Alfredo. Bingo. 

Brittany thinks back to her wedding, when Kurt and Blaine burst out laughing when that dish was served for dinner. Apparently, when Sue had locked them in that elevator - a scheme that Brittany had no involvement in, thank you very much - Sue had slipped them a basket of Breadstix food, including a recipe for the pasta. A couple of weeks ago during a drunken night out, Kurt had been so gracious as to share it with Brittany, and ever since then, she’s had it in her back pocket; an ace up her sleeve that she had forgotten about until now. It’s Santana’s favorite, and Kurt’s recipe is simple enough that even Brittany can’t screw it up. 

Brittany takes out her phone and scrolls through her pictures until she finds the recipe. She sets the phone on the counter and gets to work, pulling out the noodles, parmesan cheese, garlic, butter, and cream. She turns the stove on, placing a pot of water on the burner. As she’s boiling the water, Lord Tubbington climbs up next to her, knocking her phone off in the process. 

“Damn it, I told you to stay away,” Brittany snaps, making a shooing motion at Lord Tubbington. She crouches down and looks at her phone, checking to make sure that no damage has been done. 

On the screen is now a photo of the night Santana came to visit Brittany at the dance studio, complete with a big bouquet of flowers. That had been one of the most magical days of her training at the studio, and Santana being there had only made the night better. Brittany picks up her phone and beams. Not for the first time tonight, Brittany is made aware of how lucky she is to be able to have this life with Santana. She places the phone onto the counter again and begins grating the cheese. 

Hours later, Brittany is stirring the alfredo sauce on the pan, contemplating the possibility of a four-dimensional cube within the macroscopic universe, when Santana comes padding into the kitchen. “Hey,” Santana says, startling Brittany out of her reverie. 

“Hi!” 

“Mmmm...that smells so good,” Santana says, stroking Brittany’s arm and inhaling the scents of garlic and cream with a sleepy grin on her face. “What’re you making?”

“It’s a surprise,” Brittany sing-songs. “And good morning, honey,” she says, giving Santana a kiss on the cheek. Santana yawns and rubs her eyes, her hair sticking in every direction. It’s the most gorgeous thing Brittany has ever seen, and - oh. 

This is new. 

Santana is wearing Brittany’s MIT shirt. The oversized one that Brittany used to throw on daily when she was at the school. The one that was her only source of comfort so far away from home; the one that she put away after reuniting with Santana because she simply didn’t need it anymore. 

Now, it somehow looks even better on the person that is Brittany’s forever home. The shirt hangs loose on Santana’s diminutive frame. She’s not wearing anything under it, and that makes her look even more appealing than Brittany had ever thought a T-shirt would look on any one person. 

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Brittany says wonderingly. 

“Yeah, babe, is that okay?” 

“Okay? I...” Brittany is at a loss for words. She slides her hands down Santana’s lovely arms and yanks her in for a kiss. She cups Santana’s face, holding her close and keeping their foreheads pressed together after they break the kiss. 

“I’m going to take that a yes,” Santana says, grinning as she pulls back. 

“You look incredible,” Brittany breathes. “You have no idea how much I-”

A loud noise goes off right then, making both girls jump. Brittany hurries back to her saucepan, pouring its contents into a bowl. 

“What exactly is that?” Santana says, peering over Brittany’s shoulder. Brittany spins around and covers Santana’s eyes.

“No, Santana! It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Brittany says, steering Santana away from the stove. 

“I want to help you,” Santana says, attempting to push past her back into the kitchen. “You don’t have to do this all by you- ”

“No can do, honey,” Brittany says, sweeping her hands down Santana’s back and hoisting her up from underneath. 

“Britt - ah - what!” Santana yells as Brittany picks her up. She struggles to get out of Brittany’s arms. “Put me down!”

“Sorry,” Brittany says, adjusting Santana in her arms. She walks over to the bedroom and deposits Santana onto the bed, sending her tumbling into the mattress. “You stay here until the food is ready.”

Santana faux-glares at her from where she’s sprawled on the bed, and then sighs in defeat. “Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Brittany leans in and kisses Santana’s forehead. “Stay here.” 

Brittany races back to the kitchen, pouring the sauce over her noodles and sprinkling the remaining cheese over them. She takes out the orange juice from the fridge, removes the muffins from the microwave, and neatly arranges everything onto a tray. She carries the tray to the bedroom, careful not to trip over Lord Tubbington’s now-sleeping form. 

Santana’s face lights up when she sees Brittany, and she gasps in awe as she takes in the breakfast Brittany made. Santana ducks her head, bashful and so, so cute. “Britt,” she says, smiling softly. “You made all of this for me?”

“Only the best for you, babe.”

“How did you do it? I thought...” Santana trails off. “You’ve always said that you can’t cook. But you made my favorite meal for me.”

“A chef never reveals her secrets,” Brittany says, winking at her. She makes a mental note to thank Kurt at their next night out. 

“Oh, yeah?” Santana teases. She leans in closer. “And what else does this mysterious chef do?”

“Right now, she just wants her wife to eat her breakfast,” Brittany says.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay. But you need to come eat with me.” She sets aside the tray and draws back the covers, gesturing for Brittany to join her in the bed. Brittany crawls in and tucks herself against Santana, pulling the blankets back over them. Santana sets the tray on their knees and hands her a fork. The two of them sit in companionable silence for a couple of minutes, taking turns feeding each other small bites of the food; just relishing in each other’s company. 

“You know what?” Brittany says suddenly. 

Santana swallows down a bite of pasta. “Hmm?”

“This shirt that you’re wearing…” Brittany reaches out and gently fingers the fabric. “This is what I used to wear when I was away. I don’t know why, but it would always make me feel safe. It helped me when I was isolated from you and all of our friends. It made me feel less alone.”

Santana nods her head in understanding. “So, how come you don’t wear it anymore? It’s pretty badass, and I bet you looked so cute in it. It’d be perfect for late nights when I’m at the diner.”

Brittany shrugs. “I don’t need it now. I have you to make me feel safe. Even when you’re not here physically, I have the knowledge that you’re my wife,” she says, showing off her wedding ring. “You believed in me when no one else did, you supported me through everything that happened before MIT, and you even managed to figure out that I wasn’t happy and got me the hell out of there. Why would I need some old shirt when I have you, my darling wife, to keep me safe?”

Santana grabs Brittany’s hand and kisses it. “You make me feel safe too, Britt,” she says earnestly. “Life is so, so hard sometimes, and you make me feel like it’s okay to just be myself in a world that doesn’t always like me.” She looks down and presses her lips together. “Growing up, I never thought I would have that. I always thought I’d marry a man, and he’d sit around judging me on everything I did.” 

Brittany winces, remembering how heartbroken Santana was for most of their high school years and how long she’d had to struggle with her feelings. She remembers too, how her own heart broke every time Santana recited a hypothetical future with some nameless man, knowing that it would never make her truly happy. 

“I never thought I’d be able to feel so free and so loved,” Santana continues. She cups Brittany’s cheek. “But here you are,” she says, grinning helplessly. 

“Here I am,” Brittany agrees, bringing their lips together in a soft, slow kiss. Brittany tries to pour all the love in her heart into that kiss, hoping that through the kiss, Santana will feel even a fraction of the infinite love Brittany holds for her. 

“And I’m going to stay with you, Santana. I’m going to love you and make you feel like this for the rest of your life.”

“I’m going to do the same for you, Britt.”

As they lie together, talking, kissing, loving one another, their stomachs so full, their bodies so comfortable, and their hearts so happy, Brittany thinks once again that this is really it for them. 

This is forever, and Brittany wouldn’t have it any other way.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: mishpachah rating: T+ word count: 3,085 summary: Five years after rebuilding the manor—and the birth of a new Belmont into the world—Trevor decides to share an old recipe with his newfound family.

For @fibulaa 💛  Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

The first bread Trevor Belmont ate while living his newly orphaned vagabond life was so dry it cut at the inner walls of his throat. He swallowed each bite with grimace after grimace, knowing that despite the pain, the already hardened child of thirteen could stave off starvation for a little while longer. Until he tasted the faintest tinge of copper on his ruined tongue.

Putting those years far behind, he now stands in front of a wooden counter, blurry eyed and with a yawn reminiscent of a sun drunk cat. It seems clean at first glance but in every corner Trevor notices fragments of past meals which he tried wiping away once they were finished and placed on a more pristine table meant for family. Bits of salt, half minced vegetables, and crumbs of bread much softer than the ones belonging to a later childhood he would rather forget. This kitchen, warm in its early morning sunlight, was the final instalment of the manor, newly risen from the ashes. Or rather, simply rebuilt thanks to the calloused, blistered, and splintered hands. No more ruined stone, no more fire blackened beams holding together little less than an architectural skeleton. The somewhat mirror image of Trevor’s lost home has been faring better than the castle. Too many memories, fresh, ranging from bitter to incomprehensible.

Slowly, he grows conscious of his surroundings and his own self. A continuing habit of being the first to wake not just in this manor hold but in life. Reluctantly opening his eyes prior to dawn covering the landscape while still traveling alone only to drag a pair of worn boots back along a similar muddy road. Trevor never wanted to wake up before the sun. He just couldn’t bear to stay in the same place for much longer whether due to the laundry list of dangers or more often than not, his newfound hatred of whichever backwater hamlet he unfortunately found himself in.

He’s happy to wake up early. Happy to never feel a need to leave or escape, happy to know that lack of food replaced with pints of liquid pleasure mixed with death will never plague him again. Happy to prepare breakfast in a hot iron pot over a well stoked fire. What he thought he lost forever has come back, along with new additions to the family he’s carved out.

Another presence bounds her way into the kitchen and ambushes Trevor from behind. He’s not old—not yet, he’ll give it time—but years of drinking have made their permanent stay, dulling the more acute senses. Makes it easier for a five-year-old to catch him off guard. Trevor’s eyes bolt open as tiny arms hold him in a tight cage.

“Good morning, papa!”

His ears ring at the sound of Mirele’s loud voice, but at least he won’t have to worry about nodding off. He stares down at the youngest Belmont who looks as though someone had split Trevor and Sypha straight down their centres into four pieces and sewed each differing half onto the other in order to create a new person. A homunculi of messy dark chocolate hair, bright eyes shining with blue ice, full rosy cheeks somehow conspicuously smeared with some sort of dirt or jam, and enough energy to wear out an electric powered jackrabbit. 

“How’s my little monster doing this morning?” Everything Trevor says is laced with his own personal touch of affection and Mirele loves it.

“Mama and papa are still asleep. Help me wake them up! Pleaseeee?”

This doesn’t surprise him; Sypha has always preferred to savour her last moments of sleep longer than normal and Alucard is… well, Alucard.

“Tell you what.” Trevor places a lid onto the simmering pot with a heavy clank. “While this heats up for our breakfast, we’ll go wake up those lazy bones.”

“Right!” Hand in smaller hand, the two make their way upstairs into the shadowy master bedchamber. Curtains drawn with only a sliver of light cutting its singular path across the floor and over two distinct lumps covered by blankets and furs. They seem conjoined, linked in each other’s arms, unaware that a third party has been missing for long enough. Mirele plunges into the room first, jumping onto the bed as all children do when parents refuse to join the land of the conscious. She playfully shoves and cuddles her way between the two bodies who sink deeper beneath the covers, lazily moaning like ghosts.

“Mama! Papa! Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

Trevor hopes that his tactic of throwing open the weighted curtains works in a more effective manner. Listening to the rising chorus of wordless protests coming from behind, he’s pleased with the results. “Never thought I would be the one setting a good example for our daughter.”

“Do not get cheeky, especially this early.” Sypha’s response spills out like running water. It’s clear her mind isn’t quite all there yet. But she can scoop Mirele into her arms, find every ticklish spot, and illicit giggles that only canines might hear. “At least we both know how to have fun, right my sweet?”

“Vampires… nocturnal…” A deeper, muffled voice emerges from under one of the pillows.

“Something you’d like to share with us, Alucard?” Trevor quips, amused at how the other father of the household can never seem to shake off his morning dishevelment. Perhaps sleeping in a coffin would help—a very large one so he doesn’t have to be alone. Alucard reluctantly removes the pillow as tangled heaps of gold fall over his face.

“Vampires are supposed to be nocturnal. Would you rather I burst into ashes upon contact with the sun? Think of our girls, Trevor.”

“We’ve all seen you in the sun before, it’s about as dangerous as a clove of garlic.”

“I have my own means of physical protection. Far beyond your measly human comprehension, love.”

“Personally, I’ve been able to comprehend you plenty.”

Mirele stares up at Sypha, her bushy brows furrowed. “What does… comp… sshhheshion mean?”

“It’s just another word your fathers use whenever either of them want to feel smart.” 

Alucard gives Sypha a gentle pinch on either side of her abdomen. “I thought you were on my side.”

“What about my side?” Trevor asks, excelling at the greatest strength he possesses—the ability to never take anything seriously, only when he must.

“I’m hungry,” Mirele speaks up. “Hungry and bored. Can we eat now?”

--

This life is not normal, but then again it is. It always has been for them. Normal once meant coming together because of violence, encroaching darkness, and some flimsy prophecy stringing them along one dead body at a time. A prophecy which never said what had to be done after they followed it to the hard earned letter. Perhaps that’s why Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard floundered afterwards. No instruction on how to live their upturned lives.

Fuck prophecy.

They made this life by their own standards and in accordance with their own desires. They loved how they wanted to love and no prophecy could have foreseen Mirele. How she calls for her father while both Trevor and Alucard turn their heads at the same exact second. How she quickly calms herself when presented with a bowl of warm oatmeal drowning in honey and wild fruits hand plucked from the surrounding forest. But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is for someone always growing, always wanting more from life at such a young age.

“Can I have bread?”

Trevor, half way through his bitter coffee, turns to Sypha then Alucard as all three parental figures exchange glances. They haven’t the heart to tell Mirele. No bread at the ready, only the necessary ingredients and a considerable amount of flour bags to blanket Enisala. There’s the option of making it themselves, yet it depends on a certain someone’s capacity for patience.

“How do you feel about baking our own?” Trevor’s voice wavers, which he tries to mask with his characteristic dry tone. It’s been a long time since he’s made bread. Then again, helping the manor cooks was a somewhat selfish endeavour as it meant extra servings for the baby of the Belmonts. Yet his proposal goes over well with Mirele, whose inherited eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new.

“I wanna make bread! Can we? Can we please?”

“When was the last time you baked anything, Trevor?” Alucard asks, genuinely curious and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “You still won’t tell us much about anything concerning your former life, let alone the sort of foods your family ate.”

Trevor feels a twinge in his gut—still better than a punch. His two lovers, even his daughter, they only know of his mother; a matriarch in her own right. They know her name, the monsters she killed, and not much else. Trevor’s excuses: he doesn’t remember anything about her, despite the fact that he does. He didn’t know her for very long or very well, so there’s no point in missing her. Trevor did know Sonia and he does miss her, sometimes more than he can handle. Then the easiest excuse: it’s just another self-preservation tactic.

Out of this inner reflection comes an idea. It breaks tradition in a way. For the Belmonts and other Jewish families, everything is passed down through the mother—recipes, forms of worship, blood memories, centuries old tactics of bruising one’s knuckles and temples. Trevor doesn’t think this slight deviation from his culture’s norm will make him any less of what he’s always been. Mirele will simply have to pick up where he left off when she’s grown.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. She’s only five after all. One lesson at a time. 

“Alright. Gather round, pupils. The bread we’re making isn’t just any bread. Forget everything you know and everything you’ve been taught because this will be the closest thing to heaven you’ll ever taste.”

“How dramatic…” Sypha mutters under her breath. Alucard joins her amusement with a subdued chuckle. 

“I believe you were partially his influence.”

Trevor knows how much trouble he’ll be in if he puts Mirele through the most agonizing cruelty of waiting a second longer than necessary. Fearful of her pint-sized wrath, he gives everyone the order to start gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, and some indulgent herbs to make this particular bread something special. As much of a strategic leader in the kitchen as he is when the world is coming to an end. With everything spread out on the countertops, Trevor guides his family step by step through the only recipe he remembers. He calls this bread “challah”, which Mirele immediately strains her freshly green vocal chords, trying to pronounce the word exactly as her father does. She quickly gives up and focuses on mixing the ingredients with an intense look—almost to a fault as bits of sloppy dough fly out of the bowl. Good. This enthusiasm is what Trevor wants to see.

Kneaded and allowed time to rise, the next step is the most important. Trevor divides the dough into four halves, then again, and again until each participant has their own handful of raw unbaked strips. 

“We have to braid them?” Mirele asks following his explanation. 

“That’s right. It’s what makes this bread different from all the rest.”

“Just like when papa let’s me braid his pretty hair!”

Every pair of eyes turns to Alucard, whose smile widens in that way which causes his eyes to shut tightly. Fangs happily bared as he pulls Mirele into his flour and dough covered arms while she giggles in delight. After they all return to work, her loaf turns out the same way as the braids she gives to him—lopsided, uneven, lacking a few outsticking stray hairs, but filled with affection and genuine resolve.

Three loaves are placed into the oven, including a fourth crudely constructed but still adequately done piece. Mirele is now more willing to play the waiting game—so she claims. Sitting in front of the oven while staring directly into its insides, utterly fascinated, oblivious to her surroundings. Unaware that her three parents are whispering behind her back. Eventually, Sypha has to gently pull her away with her bottom dragging along the kitchen floor.

“How about you and I do something a little more interesting while your fathers keep watch over things.”

“But what about the c… the calla!”

“Don’t worry, they will look after it. And we are not going far, my sweet.”

“We’ll make sure nothing burns down.” Trevor assures, despite it being Sypha who usually revels in cinders and ashes, intentionally or not.

The two retreat down the corridor past diamond shaped stained windows and into one of the manor’s smaller libraries where the cabinets reach the high ceiling painted in deep blue hues. Scattered from corner to corner are constellations of stars and midnight clouds obscuring each phase of the moon. Once when Alucard found Mirele curiously asleep atop a number of pillows when she should have been in her own bed, it was his decision to paint the library in new colours. Sypha moves aside an entire shelf of thick volumes as though trying to find a carefully hidden switch that will lead them into a secret chamber. It’s what Mirele hopes but turns mildly disappointed when the books do not in fact magically shift to reveal a stone passageway. Her soured anticipation is only countered when Sypha places a box on the desk.

“Can you guess what’s inside?”

“Is it treasure?”

“Close! You are almost right.” Sypha opens the lid just as Pandora did except there are no horrors, no evils to be wrought upon humanity. Mirele peeks inside and her eyes shine with the glistening silver of trinkets, pendants, and talismans. She resists the innate urge to reach her hands, still white with flour, into the box only to briefly experience the sensation of holding one between her fingers. Even children know when something is sacred.

“These belonged to your grandparents. They used them for protection and strength. A long time ago, before you were born, their home burned down and everything was destroyed.”

“Papa’s home?”

Sypha nods, grateful that this story now has its happy ending, slight as it may be. “However, when your other father started building the manor we live in, he found this box trapped amongst all the rubble. It managed to survive.”

“What do they say?”

Mirele points to one pendant molded in the shape of a sword. Inscribed along the curve of its ash-riddled blade are the Hebrew names of angels which must have been muttered by Sonia or Gabriel. The longer Mirele stares, attempting to decipher yet another new language, the brighter her cheeks grow red with frustration. Her mother acts quick just as her eyes begin to water. 

“It’s alright if you don’t understand what any of them say.”

“I can learn! Please, mama? I promise I’ll study really hard!”

Sypha’s lips curl as Mirele continues her begging. Oh the mind of a child. How quickly it changes.

--

The kitchen feels hotter, wafting through the air. Enveloping the room and everything caught between its walls. Trevor stands by the oven, a thick cloth ready in his hand. It shouldn’t take much longer. At least there’s no stench of something burning. Almost makes him pine for the days of his family’s massive stone oven and how he would sneak around at night and pick out leftover morsels from inside like an insatiable mouse. Not unlike the actual beasts which he hunted throughout the hallways before moving onto larger prey typical of a Belmonts’ work—or as large as his own runtish body mass could handle.

Minutes of quiet pass, still eyeing the loaves with a keen gaze. Trevor’s concentration soon broken by the feeling of two arms wrapping around his softening yet still robust midsection. Slow and careful, until his back is pressed against an equally broad chest.

“Can I help you?” He asks as Alucard buries his face into the curvature of his shoulder blades.

“You’re already helping.” The dhampir, unchanging in his physical appearance (a revelation both Trevor and Sypha refuse to acknowledge for the time being), tightens his embrace.

“Something wrong?”

“No… I just enjoy feeling how much softer and warmer you’ve become.”

Trevor’s cheeks blush ever so pinker and not because of the oven’s heat. By now he should be used to Alucard’s sudden bouts of outward affection.

“You even smell better.”

There it is. Trevor thought he would be waiting forever to hear that little jab, though said with nothing but a good heart.

“That might be the herbs you’re smelling.”

Alucard shifts around so that the two of them are side by side, cheek to cheek, as he chuckles in Trevor’s ear. “Come here.”

He doesn’t offer a kiss, not where Trevor was expecting. Instead of his lips, Alucard singles out every patch of stray flour on his face, kissing, wiping, even licking them clean. Cheek, jawline, and nose. Trevor’s expression twists into a ticklish, surprisingly delighted facade. 

“You’re a half vampire, not a cat.”

“Better to clean you now than later.”

“Always so fucking odd…”

“You love it.”

Much to his lucky stars, Trevor manages one curse mere seconds before Sypha and Mirele return. They let their daughter speak at a breakneck speed neither one can fully comprehend—something about silver pieces and whether they can teach her a new language—until one series of questions finally sticks.

“Is the bread ready yet? Can we eat it now? Can we please?”

Trevor placates Mirele by revealing the fruits of their joint hard earned labour: four freshly baked and perfectly shined challah loaves each representative of whoever did the braiding. She bounces in her chair before simmering down to an excited tremble once Trevor warns her of how they need to cool. In order to make this more of a meal, he rummages about in search of two other beacons from his childhood. He’s rewarded with one of the few fresh apples they have left while Sypha, ever in tune with his inner thoughts, grabs another small pot of honey for him.

Trevor thanks her by gently running his palm across her lower abdomen, over the growing bump. He keeps it there for just a second longer, a subtle gesture of love noticed by Sypha. Fingertips intertwined with each other, they join Alucard and Mirele at the table as the midday sun shines golden through the windows.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief,@whiskeycherrypie donated $25, and requested Sam/Dean, very late seasons, switching. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

The second hunt, after, is when things start to feel real again.

First job was the shapeshifter and even after just a few weeks of post-almost-apocalypse vacation they were rusty, as much as they ever got rusty. Sam broke his damn finger, which Dean made fun of him for, and Dean limped around on a half-busted shin that Sam can just stop smirking about, any time now, but they felt—like what? Hard to pin down. Like they were stepping out into a strange world. Like they'd fire a gun and didn't know if it'd recoil the same way it always would, because the world was different. New. At least, Dean kept feeling that way, and he thinks he's known Sam long enough to guess Sam was feeling about the same. Every part of that job was—feeling for a step down in the dark, and then being surprised when it was there. Sam flicking through the local paper checking obits, cautious when he pointed out a possible connection, like he hadn't done the same thing a hundred, thousand, times before. Dean going through the trunk and pulling out their supplies and holding a fistful of silver bullets in his hand and thinking—is this it? Sam, getting the motel room after, when they'd been to the Urgent Care to check out Dean's stupid shin that it turns out, okay, wasn't broken after all, and the woman at the counter asking what kind of room, and Sam hesitating, and glancing back at where Dean was propped up in the office doorway.

But it was right, in the end. They did right. They saved most of a day and killed the bad thing and it turned out that after everything they were still the same guys they always were. After the world ended it was supposed to be maybe something else, but, shit, the world didn't quite end after all, and it turned out… Sam gave his stupid shin a few more days to rest up and kept his finger splinted and then after a week there was Sam, laptop open on the table when Dean came in for breakfast, and he said, "Hey, you want to work?" with every expectation that Dean would, and that—that was new, kind of, in the way that Sam wasn't trying to distract himself or Dean, and it wasn't to patch up some broken thing that couldn't be fixed, and it wasn't because they owed anything to anyone. It was because it turned out that after all this was who they were, and Dean looked at Sam over the island while he whipped up some eggs semi-capably (although he never used enough salt) and Sam glanced over his shoulder when the toaster popped and saw Dean looking, and raised his eyebrows like—what?—like this wasn't just the best hope of Dean's life being realized, finally, right here in a hole in the ground at eight in the morning, on the wrong side of forty. "What's the job?" was all Dean said, then, and then—that was it. That was that.

Second hunt's a success, too. Vetalas, in Wyoming. Dean hates Wyoming. Not for the people or the scenery or the weather, even, though the weather can be a bitch, but because you can't get anywhere with a damn mountain leaping up into the middle of the highway and having to drive three hours the wrong direction to get to where you're going. Sam has heard this argument, and rolls his eyes mostly, but this time, this second hunt, he laughs, and stretches out in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and his elbow hanging out, and it's summer and he's stripped out of his jacket and has his sleeves rolled up and he just looks—good. Dean recites his lines: "Lander to Pinedale should be, what, forty minutes, but no, we gotta drive a hundred miles out of the way to get around this stupid—" and Sam sighs and says his line, which is, "Don’t you like driving?" and Dean says, "Don't get facts in the way here, man, that is not the issue—" and it's… the same ruts, the same life, but Sam's face is all folded up in glad creases, his dimple carved in so deep it looks like it's going to set up residence there full-time, and Dean eases off the gas a little, stretches out the drive, even if it's around the same damn mountain they've circled three times, looking for the same damn vetalas. They find them, of course, and they kill them, and they find three men drained of life in the cellar at their cabin but there are two more that Sam and Dean save, and on the drive back to Kansas through the night Sam's not in that same sunshine mood but he's not anything but content, either. Dean had—he'd hoped, in some shriveled part of himself that hadn't really had much luck with hoping—and maybe the last few years he'd gotten some proof, that what he'd wanted was what Sam wanted, too—but to have the proof, right here, it's—he doesn't pray, really, but he says inside his head very clearly thank you, to whatever might be listening. It's all he's got. He hopes it's enough.

They stop for a booze restock, for stuff to make dinner, and back at the bunker Dean's slow, watching Sam unpack his half of the car. His finger's still splinted but it can probably come off, soon. He gets his backpack on his shoulder and his duffle over his arm and the twelve pack in the good hand, and glances at Dean, and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam's eyes narrow in that tiny tiny way where he smooths it out so fast he must think Dean won't notice, but Dean's honest, here, and he smiles without meaning to, and Sam frowns at him but smiles back, confused. Dean claps him on the shoulder and Sam shakes his head, says, "Dude, what?" and Dean says, "Nothing, you deaf? C'mon, let's get the beer in the fridge before it gets any warmer," and Sam shakes his head again and says, "You're the weirdest person I know," and Dean looks over his shoulder and says, "Takes one, Sammy," and he's just—sure. Sure, all through his body, from gut to his heart to his stupid brain, always lurching, looking for the exits. What a thing.

Spaghetti and meatballs, for dinner. The sauce is from a jar but Dean takes his time with the meat. Half pork, half beef, the spices he likes, a bunch of garlic. Sam practically inhales it and gets sauce on his chin and Dean grins at him until Sam colors and says, "Shut up," and swipes it off with the heel of his hand, and then shrugs and licks his palm. They're on season two of Game of Thrones and they watch an episode, and Dean wants Joffrey to die and asks Sam to tell him it'll happen soon, and Sam just smiles and says, "Dude, I'm not giving you spoilers after how long I had to wait to read the books. Hold your horses." Dean mutters, "I'll hold your horses," and Sam raises his eyebrows, but Dean just waves a hand instead of getting into the bickering match they could.

They get fresh beers and Dean says, "Hey, let's—" and so they head upstairs to ground level, and Sam brought two spare bottles each, and they go around to the back side of the big abandoned power plant where there's an ugly concrete bench they hung out on, sometimes. Especially before, when the bunker was fuller than it is now. A place to be quiet, to breathe. To watch the moonrise, as they're doing now, and drink in quiet companionship, their knees touching because they both tend to sprawl, and they've never, ever minded each other's warmth. Even when they were pissed at each other, or when it hurt.

Dean holds his beer in both hands, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Sam's quiet at his side. A three-quarter moon, so it's bright enough to lay white-silver on the planes of Sam's face. His nose, a gleam of that goofy ski-slope swoop. His brow. A light shine on his hair, and brighter on the silver that's started to come out in it. Dean's always been a little entertained by that—Sam's four years and a handful of months younger than him, and it's Sam who's been going grey faster—but he never said anything about it because—well, it's just something, that's all. Sammy, with grey hair. He's so damn lucky to see it he can't really pull Sam's pigtails about it.

Everything else, though: fair game.

"Never have I ever?" Dean says, after who knows how long sitting in silence. They're on their second beers, anyway.

Sam huffs. "You're kidding," he says. He tips his head on his shoulder, looking sidelong at Dean in the dark. "Anyway, wouldn't you just get… trashed, at that game? You've done everything, right?"

"Very much underselling your weird kinky shit, brother mine," Dean says. Sam's eyebrows jump and Dean's stomach rushes hot, in a way he didn't expect, even if he's been halfway thinking, all day, about how they were going to get here. "Try this: never have I ever… ate out a chick during shark week."

Sam half-scoffs, weak. Dean raises his eyebrows back, and Sam says, "Seriously?"

Dean spreads a hand, expansive, and Sam says, quiet, "This is so stupid," but then, because Dean knows his brother very well indeed, Sam takes a drink, and Dean says "Ha!" out loud and shoves Sam's shoulder, and then says, after a second's thinking, "Dude, seriously?"

"It's just blood," he says, and it's not exactly defensive but there's a shard of it buried somewhere in there. Dean laughs, half-surprised and half-not. "Not like we don't deal with it every day. You should broaden your horizons."

"Oh, my horizons are plenty broad," Dean says. It's bubbling in his chest, now, ready to come out. This is stupid—"This is stupid," Sam says, out loud—and teenage, and dumb, but he feels… "Come on, your turn," he says, and Sam lets out this long exasperated sigh, but even in the moonlight Dean can see that he's smiling, and Sam says: "Okay, fine: never have I ever had a threesome."

Dean sits up straighter. "What, seriously?" he says, derailed, and Sam shrugs, and of course Dean has to take a drink because Sam knows that Dean—and then it's on, really.

Dancing on the edge. The things they know about each other, the things they might could guess. Dean kills his last beer on never have I ever had sex in a movie theater, and he tells Sam after that that he needs to live more, and Sam smiles at him kind of bitchy and then says, "Hang on, stay here," and Sam gets up and half-jogs away, disappears down the recessed hidden driveway that leads to the garage, and Dean sets his bottle down among the empties and rubs his palms over his thighs, letting the warm denim scratch him up, taking a deep breath. It feels too big to say. Even if he's sure. It's too big to even be true, if it's…

Sam comes back, quick, like he ran the whole way. He has two more beers and the bottle of bourbon they bought today tucked under his arm. "Okay, sucker," he says, handing Dean an open bottle and plumping back down on the bench. Their thighs are solid together. He clinks his bottle with Dean, setting the bourbon down at their feet. "Never have I ever…" He licks his lips, shine in the dark. "Slept with a demon."

Dean blinks. He takes a breath. "I don’t think that's how you're supposed to play," he says, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth and shrugs. Maybe he's a little tipsier than he seems, even if they're only three beers down. Sam takes a drink, quick, but his eyes are focused on Dean's face, the moon a little behind his shoulder, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek but drinks, too, and Sam lets out this quick short breath that—Dean doesn't know, what that means. He feels caught at something.

"Did you—" Sam starts, and cuts off. Quiet, for a second. Dean's cheeks feel hot. "I didn't mean… I meant on Earth, not in…" Awkward. The air goes out of Dean, realizing that Sam's trying to give him an out.

"Me too," he says, voice weird in this way he could be embarrassed by but—he isn't, and Sam's face turns away, and even with full moonlight Dean can't tell what that expression is.

He puts his beer down. "Never have I ever slept with a vampire," he says.

Sam's chin ducks down. Dean licks his lips and folds his hands between his knees. Sam puts his beer down, too, and braces on the edge of bench. There's barely enough room between them for his hand to fit; his knuckle presses against Dean's thigh and Dean licks his lips.

"Never have I…" Sam shakes his head, huffs. He looks up, out at the empty farmland spilling out from the back of the plant. His eyes shine, open, though Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. "I've never slept with a guy. On Earth, I haven't."

Dean bites the wet off his bottom lip, dragging, and then ducks down and gets the bourbon instead. Twist of the cap and a glug goes down—christ, hot. He coughs. "I hate the cask strength shit," he says, and Sam says, "Wuss," thin, and Dean could bicker back but it's here. Here. All this stuff he didn't know Sam was thinking about—things Dean kept secret, and things he didn't—and he didn't mean to dredge it all up at once but maybe it's better. Like this, in the dark. The night warm, smelling like grass and the weeds growing up among the fallow field, and Sam's knuckles still pressed up right there, where if Dean put his hand down he'd cover them.

"Do you remember that time in, uh," Dean starts. Swerving around the mountain, the long way through the dark. Sam's head turns towards his, a little. "Montana, I guess it was. Somewhere. You were… seventeen. That July. You got so wasted."

"Whose fault was that?" Sam says. Dean grins, makes sure it's wide and wicked, and Sam glances up at him and huffs again, more of a laugh this time than whatever the last one was. "That was when we invented beer bowling."

"Yeah, and you sucked," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and leans back against the plant wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. They did play, ten-pin with glass shattering because the only ball they had was a half-rounded rock. Then they sat out with Sam tipsy and Dean getting that way himself, only twenty-one and not quite as sure of what he was doing as he is now, and they just… talked. He can't even remember about what. They just sat and they were together and it was about the happiest Dean was that whole year. Like if he could just have that, forever, things would be okay. That was… god, twenty years ago.

"One more round," Dean says, now. Sam's eyes close. Dean leans the bottle on Sam's thigh so he can feel it. "Never have I ever kissed you."

Sam's eyes pop wide when Dean picks up the bottle, and takes a drink. He sits up straighter. Dean lets the burn of the swallow go all the way to his stomach, a bonfire there, and watches Sam's face as the thoughts flicker across it, limned in moonlight. Sam opens his mouth, and closes it, and he's not mad just like Dean knew he wouldn't be mad but it's still enough of a relief that Dean tips the bottle his way, says, "Technically, you did too, so—"

Sam takes it out of his hand but doesn't drink. "No, we didn't. When?"

Dean wipes his mouth, dragging his hand over his chin, and down. Sam's watching him. "After the second trial," he says, finally. Sam frowns. "Your fever was pretty bad. You kept talking about…" He shakes his head. All sorts of things Dean doesn't like remembering. About worth, and right, and being clean. Nonsense, as far as Dean was concerned, though he didn't know how to say it that way, then. With how it was. Instead he leans back against the wall and says, because it's true, and he can say it now: "I just wanted to… I guess, to prove something. How I didn't think of what you were saying the same way you did. How I didn't believe all that crap you were saying about yourself. It was bad and I didn't want you to believe it, either, and I didn't really know how else to… You didn't remember, though, so I guess it didn't do the trick. To be honest, thought I was a better kisser."

Sam doesn't smile. It was a pretty weak attempt. He stares at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder.

How it was, then. In the hotel, where Metatron was staying. When he found Sam on the floor and about had a heart attack. Sam's skin burning and ice-cold by turns. His body this huge out of control thing, being taken over by something Dean didn't understand. He woke up while Dean was trying to drag him to the bath, but he wasn't really conscious, hardly making sense. Babbling, half-frantic, trying to make Dean understand—how it was okay, how it was fine if he burned, if somehow the trials scoured the marrow out of his bones, because it was just right after all he'd done and all he hadn't, and it was a use for him, when he hadn't been worth anything in so long. Dean had told him no, over and over, and no again, and he'd slapped Sam at some point to get him to shut up, to try to shock him out of the awful monologue, but Sam didn't even register it, clinging to Dean's shirt while the tub filled, the sack of ice Dean had brought bobbing to the surface. It can mean something, Sam had said, nodding, tears in his eyes, trying to smile, and Dean wanted to throw a chair through the window but he grabbed Sam's face instead and he said it does and Sam shook his head, confused, and Dean leaned in against him, ready to cry too, and instead he…

"I thought," Sam starts, and immediately stops. His hands twist around the bourbon bottle. "I dreamed that."

Dean thinks of a joke to make, something about Snow White, but he keeps his mouth shut. He remembers it, clearly. Sam's mouth, hot and dry against his own. His hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and on the side of his neck. Weak and strong at once. If Sam dreamed it, what does he remember?

Sam looks down at the bottle for almost a minute, Dean counting it away with beats of his heart. A breeze picks up, light and warm. A cricket, somewhere, chirping and then going quiet. It could feel bad but it doesn't. It could be terrifying, but it's just—Sam, and him. Like always. Like it will be, always. He knows that, now. No matter what.

Sam smiles, eventually, for no reason Dean can tell. He wipes his thumb over the rim of the bottle and then takes a drink, two long swallows that are loud as they go down, and then he takes the bottle away from his mouth and puts his hand on Dean's jaw and leans in and kisses him. Brief, hot. Not dry. His mouth tastes like bourbon. It tastes just like Dean's.

Sam leans back. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam looks at him, very close, and Dean puts his hand on the side of Sam's neck, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair, and Sam's lips quirk and he nods and Dean leans in and kisses him, again, slower, pressing in soft with his lip plush against Sam's, tipping to make it good, and his jaw's cupped in both big mitts and Sam opens for him and it's…

He pulls away eventually. He must have been breathing, during, but he hardly sees how. Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, weirdly sweet, and his hands drag down to Dean's chest before he pushes back, blinking. "You better remember that one," Dean says, and Sam smiles briefly, but shakes his head, not letting them off the hook.

"I didn't…" What goes there? Dean could guess but he doesn't want to. Sam's thoughtful now, but his hand's on Dean's forearm, because Dean's hand is—oh, still locked there on the side of Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's still, doesn't seem to mind, and Dean lets his thumb brush over Sam's stubble. Familiar. The world new, and not-new.

Sam squeezes his arm. "Did you start the stupid game just to say that line?" Dean shrugs. Sam rolls his eyes, and detaches Dean's hand from his neck, and stands, but pulls Dean up at the same time, and this time when he kisses Dean it's—full, real, Sam holding him close and Dean lifting his face up for it and Sam getting an arm around his shoulders and Dean pressing his mouth open, just a little, licking Sam's top lip and getting a slow, deep inhale where Sam's close enough that he can feel it.

"Sammy," Dean says, and maybe there's more to say. More that should be said, if this is what—but Sam shakes his head, and says, "Come on," and scoops up the bourbon and his empty beers, and so Dean scoops his up, too, and follows Sam around the plant and down the stairs to the bunker and to the kitchen, where they drop the bottles in a rattle of glass into the recycle bin Sam insisted they get, and then Sam looks at him in the light, his hair a little rucked-up at the back from where Dean was messing with it and his mouth a little pink and his expression just… considering, open, honest, and Dean looks back, not trying to hide a thing. How can he? It's Sam.

*

In the morning, Dean wakes up slow, alone in his room. He has a shower, taking his time, and wraps up in his robe, and comes into the kitchen to find coffee made but no breakfast, and he pours a cup and thinks about eggs, or maybe waffles if he wants to wrestle that ancient cast-iron waffle pan down from the top of the shelf, and he's thinking mainly about the food but he's also thinking, of course, about Sam, and it's only about five minutes of him standing there with his hip against the kitchen island before the door creaks, distant, and then—Sam, in the doorway, shining with sweat.

Dean's stomach flips, very slightly. It's just Sam, soaked and gross after a run. It's every morning, like the last, except, of course—

Sam hesitates for just a second. His mouth turns up at one corner, a little rueful, and then he comes in and grabs his metal bottle from the fridge, and gulps water. Dean turns to watch him, coffee warm in both hands, and when Sam's done he leans against the fridge, breathing deep, and then says, "I don't know, it feels like it should be weirder," like he's continuing a conversation they were in the middle of without interruption.

"Nothing weird about being hot for my bod," Dean says, calm, and Sam snorts. He looks at Dean sidelong, and then turns and really looks at him. Looks, from Dean's mouth to his slippered feet, and it's not much of a view in the robe but Dean spreads his arms out, anyway, and Sam bites his bottom lip, half-smiling. Dean sets his coffee on the island, runs his thumb along the lipstick-red rim. "You know," he says. "It doesn't ever have to be more than this. Just… how we've got it. It's good, now."

"It is," Sam says, easy. He twists the cap back on to his bottle, sets it on the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, and he's still just looking but Dean feels, now, the difference in it. It's just Sam but it's also… maybe a new part, a Sam that Dean didn't really get before, and the consideration there, the curiosity, the attention, it's… He tilts his head back, looks at Sam right back. Sam smiles.

Last night they did nothing more than kiss. Dean stepped close in the kitchen and tipped his head up and Sam met him, one more time, and it was soft and a little strange and a little new, but it felt right, in a way that's been full in Dean's chest, from the first moment of Sam's hand on his face to—well, it hasn't gone away.

"I was thinking I'd make waffles," Dean says, still buoyed in it. "You want one or two?"

"Two," Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam gets the pan down—showing off, tall bastard—and then goes off to shower, and Dean mixes up the batter and butters the pan and pours in the mix and watches for when the steam stops, eyes on the cast iron but his thoughts around the corner of two hallways and down a few doors, and when he's got four waffles stacked on two plates and he's wondering if he's gonna need to send in a rescue team, Sam comes back into the kitchen with wet hair and says, "I'm going to run a marathon," and Dean blinks at him, entirely derailed, and says, "What?"

A marathon. Apparently Sam's been thinking about it for a while. His runs, he says, in the morning, are usually five miles, but he's been running a little longer each time, and he's at seven now without much worrying about the extra distance. He wants to go the whole way. See if he can do it, he says.

Dean's busy smearing as much butter as he can feasibly fit into the squares of his waffle, but he gives Sam a look. "If I can, he says," Dean mutters, and maybe it's against usual policy to give Sam full credit but it gets a surprised blink and then Sam looking down at his own syrup-free plate with a soft curve to his mouth, so—worth it. Dean cuts a four-square bite and pauses, watching the melty puddles form on the plate. "So, what. Are you going to enter one of those city things? Am I gonna have to drive along the route with Gatorade and applaud from the sidelines? Are you dressing up as a moose for charity?"

Sam shakes his head. "I can donate to charity on my own time," he says, although to be honest Dean's now taken with the moose idea. Sam sees him thinking about it and rolls his eyes. "No. But—I can figure out a route with my phone. Just around here. Anyway, it can't hurt, for the job."

"Yeah, I'll let you chase down the next werewolf," Dean says, shaking his head. Marathons. His brother.

They finish eating about the same time. Sam sips at his coffee while Dean sucks maple from his thumb. "You want to find a job," Dean says, while Sam's piling their forks and plates together, "or do you want to go for another jog? Gotta get up to twenty-six miles somehow."

"Twenty-six point two," Sam says, standing up with the dishes in hand, and then he leans over and brushes Dean's thumb away from his mouth and kisses him, again, and Dean grips the edge of the table and Sam's shoulder, his mouth pushed open on Sam's tongue, sliding in easy like he's got the run of the place and doesn't expect an ounce of resistance. Fair enough. Dean tips his head back and tastes Sam, syrup-and-coffee, and when Sam pulls back his eyes are half-closed and he licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Weird?" Dean says.

"Should be," Sam says, quieter, but he stands up, and lets his thumb drag over Dean's jaw before he steps away, to the sink, and he doesn't say anything more when he puts the dishes in and stands there with hands braced on the edge for—ten seconds, twenty, thirty—before he turns the water on.

Dean could say something but there's nothing to say. It's weird. It's not. That it's not is weirder. He gets up, refreshes his coffee with the hot from the pot, says, "I'll look for a job," and goes to the library, and lets Sam think, with his hands in soapy water, and quiet to do it in.

There are odd stories—news of the weird never fails to deliver—but nothing so pressing as to drag them across the country on an urgent mission. Dean doesn't feel the need to fake anything, either, to yank out of the bunker on a long drive of not talking through the night and too-loud music and burying their thoughts into means/motive/monstrous opportunity. He sends some links to Sam's email and goes and finds clothes instead, finally, and figures—well, today's a day off. He changes the Impala's oil, washes her. Goes through the trunk, sitting on a stool dragged over from the garage's weird little office, and makes notes of what they're out of, what needs replaced. More salt. More holy oil. Or—not more holy oil, since they haven't seen hide or nor hair of angel or demon in weeks and weeks and maybe never again, and he sits, then, with the empty flask turning over and over in his hands, looking into the trunk, thinking about—how the world is, now. How there's downtime. How, incredibly, there are marathons to run.

In the library, later, Sam's reading on his laptop. "That thing in Pierre might be something," he says, without preamble, and Dean nods—it could be—but then Sam says, "I sent it to Jody, to see if she and the girls want to take a look."

Dean sets the empty flask on the table. Sam's eyes barely flick to it. "What are we gonna do, then?" he says, and Sam sits back in his chair, laptop lid half-closed. He half-smiles, looking down at nothing, and then he looks up at Dean again.

They sleep together that night. Nothing complicated. Dean's room, and the lamps all off but the one over on the table by the door, so Sam's half-haloed in amber light this time, instead of the white moon. Dean's shirt comes off but Sam's stays on, and they're still in their socks, and Sam leans over Dean on one elbow, touching his chest, curious. It's not romantic, or urgent, but Dean keeps smiling, and Sam finally catches him at it and whispers, "Shut up," and kisses him when he opens his mouth to protest that he wasn't saying anything. While they're necking Dean gets Sam's jeans open, and slides his hand inside, and Sam bites his lip but he's half-hard, and gets harder while Dean learns the shape of him. Sam rocks a warm palm over where Dean's swelling up and Dean rips at his own belt, unzips, and then rolls them over so Sam's on his back, and Sam grips his hips, looking up, his hair loose on the pillow and his face just…

After, Dean wipes his hand on Sam's shirt. "Dick," Sam says, and Dean says, "Hey, it was already a disaster, I just added to the general—" and Sam rolls his eyes and nudges Dean off, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging it off careful from the back. Dean rolls onto his side, looking. Sam's shoulders, and his back. Muscle and, miraculously, no scars. His skin that same all-over bronze, like he's immune somehow to farmer tan. Sam tosses the shirt in the same vague direction that Dean's went and then looks over his shoulder, finds Dean looking. Half-smiles. He lays back, his head on the pillow, and tucks a hand underneath it, looking up at the ceiling. Dean just keeps looking at Sam.

"It should be weird," Sam says, after a second.

"It's a little weird," Dean says. Sam snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Sam's head tips, on the pillow. He looks into Dean's eyes, then at his lips. He reaches over and presses his thumb against Dean's bottom lip, and Dean lets Sam dent it, pulling, and then he flicks his tongue against Sam's skin. Faint salt, faint bitter. Sam drags his thumb down, wet trail over Dean's chin, and then settles his hand on Dean's chest.

This. This is weird. Sam looking at him, quiet. Sweat's still drying in the middle of Dean's back and he has the sense of what it feels like to have his brother's hand on his dick full in his head. The body part, though, that—matters, of course it matters, but it feels secondary to Sam just... fully present. That they're both in the same weird, weird boat, and that it could go on like this forever, and it wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't want to wonder about it anymore," Dean says. He gets his hand on Sam's wrist, squeezes. "There's—I don't know, man. There's a bunch of crap we should probably be talking about, freaking about. But it's…"

"Beside the point?" Sam offers, and Dean nods. That's it. Sam nods, too, and closes his eyes, and maybe that makes it easier.

Dean closes his, too, and it's just the amber-colored haze of dark, and the kinda-too-warm of the bed, and his hand sticky and needing to be washed, and vaguely wanting a shower. And he's an adult, and he's fucked before, and so it's also that one article about that disappearance in Winston-Salem that he's been half-thinking about all day, wondering if there's more—and then remembering that they're out of milk—and then, when Sam's thumb drags over his pec, under his nipple, the vague jolt of: Sam, and maybe that should be all that fills his head but Sam suffuses every other thought. Dean can't make any more room in himself than he already has.

"Did that woman in North Carolina disappear at night?" Sam says, after another minute.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Shit," he says, to Sam's frown, and they sit up at the same time, and then—it's them, and the job, and nothing's really, in the end, that different.

*

Sam keeps running. He tracks his step count with an app, figures out mile by mile how far he can push it, how fast he can go. Dean goes into Lebanon by himself one day, hitting the post office and the market and just getting some air, and then he rolls to a stop at the single stop sign and checks his odometer, and then drives—a square, basically, twenty-six miles around the farm-fields both worked and fallow, and he imagines what it would be like to run the whole way. He's run for his life, and he's run for the lives of others, but just to do it for himself—no. He gets Sam, most every way, but this one is gonna stay a mystery, he thinks.

"What took so long?" Sam says, when he gets home.

The milk's still mostly-cold. "Estelle wouldn't stop hitting on me, man," Dean says, hauling in his half of the load, and Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean slots the barely-frozen pizza into the freezer and stocks the eggs into their holder and then, when Sam's done putting the cans onto their spot on the shelf, tugs at Sam's belt-loop and gets Sam surprised and then leans up and kisses him, pressing him against the dry goods, and Sam kisses back good and pleased and open and then, when Dean sets back down on his heels, touches the back of Dean's ear and murmurs, soft, "If I knew angry old ladies got you hot I would have tried something different, last night," and gets Dean laughing, unexpected, tucked into the corner of their kitchen.

They've been slow with each other. Dean has more experience but he didn't realize how much more. Sam's not uncertain, not nervous—incredible, how not-nervous Sam is, and Dean got finger-shaped bruises on his triceps one day when Sam just held him down and kissed and kissed and kissed him, body-confident and knowing, smiling pleased and half-smug when he pulled back and Dean was nearly dazed with wanting him. Little shit. Still: Sam's not a virgin, not by half, but he was being honest when he said he'd never screwed a guy—on Earth, that is, and Dean knows exactly what he meant by that qualification, and it was a very very brief conversation afterward ("It doesn't count," Sam had said, firm and honest there too, and Dean had nodded because, after everything, he trusts Sam to be honest), and they left it at that.

It's Sam who brings up more. Dean's content to follow. It's Sam who gets Dean's jeans open one night, petting at the base of his dick and sliding down to cup his balls, long fingers and big broad palm, and it's good but it's Sam who hmms, and then says, "Mind if I—" and crawls backwards down the bed—Sam's bed, the mattress tipping with Sam's weight—and Sam who bolsters Dean's dick up out of the split of his fly and breathes there, eyes flicking up the length of Dean's body where he's propped on his elbows, briefly dazed. "Go ahead," Dean says, voice coming from somewhere approximately at the center of the earth, and Sam snorts, and fists Dean capably from root to tip, and then leans in and licks, flat and deliberate up the spine of it, a wet warmth that shocks in Dean's thighs and between his shoulders and sparking in his hands, making him fist into the blanket. Sam's eyes are closed, like he's concentrating. Dean tips his knee out wide and touches Sam's cheek, and Sam's mouth tips up at the corners, and he shifts forward and takes the head in his mouth and—oh, that. He doesn't quite know how to get his mouth around it at first but he figures it out quick, and he sucks the tip and licks under the crown and fists the rest and when Dean's close, clenching, Dean says, "Come up here," and Sam opens his eyes after who knows how long and they're black, practically, and he crawls up over Dean's body still jerking and Dean kisses him, licks the taste of himself out, and Sam breathes hot into his mouth and groans when Dean comes, looking down at the spill over his fist, and he says, "Fuck, that's good," rough and true. Dean pants through it for a few selfish seconds before he squirms down to return the favor, and Sam's mostly-hard just from sucking Dean, and he's weirdly a gentleman when Dean goes down on him, hands off and careful until Dean lifts off, gulping, and says, "Like you mean it, dude," and Sam laughs and then grips him and that's how they learn that Sam likes dick just fine, in fact, and that Dean likes even more how much Sam likes it.

Sam runs farther. Dean paces him, one day, when they fell asleep in the same bed and mostly managed to sleep through the night together, except for some moment around three a.m. when Sam kicked too hard and Dean threatened blurrily to murder him or dump him out of the bed, one or the other—and way too early after that, Sam nudged him awake, lacing up his running shoes, said, "Come on," and Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head and then, well, he came on.

Seven in the morning, autumn settling over the farms. Cold enough that Sam's breath fogs and Dean rubs his hands together, sitting in the idling car with the window down while Sam stretches his hamstrings. "You look ridiculous," Dean says, just to say something. Sam ignores him, of course. "How far are we going?" he says, instead, and Sam says, "Thirteen," and Dean checks the odometer and says, "Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, you just say—" and Sam says, "Go," and takes off, and Dean rolls his eyes and lets off the brake, and the Impala rolls forward, chasing Sam down the farm road, the sun glinting behind them so the whole damp stretch of gravel sparks silver. Nine miles per hour is the pace Sam asked for and Dean keeps it going, on the far side of the road while Sam lopes along on the left shoulder, and it's boring but not as boring as he thought it would be. He keeps an eye on the speedometer, makes the turns just behind Sam as the roads weave around the cornfields, the soy beans, the farm that's just gone to dead-dry grass that waves in undulating strange patterns in the morning breeze. He goes through Zepp one side one, side two, switches to AC/DC and cranks it during Big Balls so loud that a bird startles up out of the bushes by the road, and Sam laughs, coughs, keeps running. His pace doesn't slow, not by a step.

Sam stops, finally. An hour and a half, and Dean has to piss. He parks, turns off the car, while Sam breathes hard with his hands on his knees. "How was that?" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, still panting, and Dean can't wait any longer and goes over to the other side of the fence post and communes with the morning.

"Dude," Sam says, vaguely accusatory, but Dean only shrugs, and zips up when he's done. When he turns back around Sam's leaning on the car, sweat slicking his hair back behind his ears, and Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "That was good," he admits, finally. He's drinking the water bottle Dean's had sitting in the passenger seat the whole time. "Too fast to go the full twenty-six, but—yeah. Good."

He looks—content, again. Not smug, not even really glad. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, leans back against the car. Looks out over the little pond, the trees around it. Dean smiles, while Sam isn't looking, and then says, "Well, I left my gold medals at home, but if you want you can run back and get it—" and Sam rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger side, and Dean gets to fake-bitch then about Sam's stinky sweaty ass on the vinyl, and it's a good morning, like they all are, anymore.

On the way home from a hunt—Ajo, Arizona, and vampires, in what Dean insists is the most ironic job they've ever been on—Sam has Dean stop at a drugstore. Two in the afternoon. Dean heads for the booze aisle and gets a six pack, and swings through the specialty candy and gets some pre-Christmas stocking filler, and then he walks around the aisles looking for Sam, and finds him in—

"Condoms?" he says. Sam glances up at him, holding a box, unfazed. Dean feels the black orb eye of the security camera on the back of his neck and feels—surreal. He tips his head. "I mean, not to go all sex-ed, but it's a little late, don't you think?"

Sam snorts. In lieu of responding he turns the box around in his hand and—not condoms. Astroglide. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and watches an old lady go by with her little cart on the far end of the aisle. "Yeah?" he says, and Sam lifts a shoulder, says, "You have a preference?"

Long time since Dean's had to think about it. He hitches the six-pack onto his other hip and comes and stands next to Sam, looking at the options. Fire & ice, spermicidal. Water-based. Sam's radiating heat, enough to feel six inches away, and Dean thinks about Sam thinking about this: driving through the cold desert, both of them tired after a night of chasing down the vamps, planning to crash in Amarillo. A motel, in Amarillo. He feels boring, normal. Shopping, with a bag of red-and-green Kisses in hand, and the wall of intensely pink pads and tampons looming at his back, and his—brother, waiting, while Dean reaches for the silicone-based KY he used to buy, when he used to have to buy it. The packaging's different but he's guessing the product's the same. He puts it in Sam's hand and Sam looks at it with his cheek sucked in on one side, and then Dean says, "You want something with, I don’t know, electrolytes?" and Sam says, "Yeah," and so Dean goes back to the wall of coolers and pulls out two Powerades, and Sam meets him at the cashier with rolled bandages and aspirin to replace what they used up out of the kit during this hunt, and the woman at the counter glances at their faces as she's ringing them up and Dean says, smiling, "Can I get a two-pack of lighters, too, miss?" and she's like seventy if she's a day but the charm offensive still works, and she's over-the-top as she hands them their receipt and tells them to be well, and Sam's giving him a sidelong look as they take the bags out to the car but, shit, Dean's had enough people giving him looks in his life, and Sam gets to but just about no one else does, now.

A motel, in Amarillo. Raining in west Texas like it never does. They get tacos and margaritas at a hole in the wall and it's still early, when they get back to the room, and Sam checks the stitches on Dean's shoulder—still holding—and Sam takes two aspirins to help with all the bruising on his side, and then Dean eats a Kiss from the mess of the Walgreens bag, and then he tosses the box holding the lube onto the closer bed, and he says, "So," and Sam shrugs, and says, again, "You have a preference?"

Shadow of a smile on his face. Dean gives him a look and Sam raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and Dean says, "You're a dumbass," and goes over and pulls Sam in by that godawful orange jacket and kisses him, and then he goes into the bathroom.

He takes his time. Showers, cleaning up. Leans his forearm against the wall and leans his head against his forearm and pushes his fingers inside, on the thin glide of the little complimentary bottle of conditioner, reminding his body that this is—yeah. This is good. He comes out with a towel loose around his waist and finds Sam mostly-stripped, leaning back on the bed with the TV on mute and his hand in his boxers. Dean glances at the screen—ESPN, showing basketball highlights—and says, "Jeez, you got a kink you haven't told me?" while Sam snaps the TV off, and Sam says, flushed, "Not my fault you took forever," and Dean says, frank, "Figured you wouldn't want any Mr. Hanky guest appearances on our first trip on the backroads, but if you'd rather—" and Sam says, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean grins like an asshole, and Sam rolls his eyes, and—

Sam's screwed women like this before, turns out, and knows to go slow. Dean's on his back, his one leg caught over Sam's arm and the other curled around Sam's hip, and he's not sure slow is slow enough. "Fuck," he says, grinding his head back against the pillow, and Sam kisses his jaw, murmurs, "Sorry," and Dean grips his shoulders and says, through a groan, "No, you're not," and Sam smiles against his skin. Dean knew it. Little shit.

Sam lifts up on one elbow, touches Dean's cheek. He drags his hips back, pushes in. Dean breathes shakily out and Sam's expression changes. "Is it—" he says, but thankfully doesn't ask the stupid question. He leans in, tilting Dean's hips to a new angle, and pushes again, and Dean drags a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam's watching his face, he knows, watching everything, learning him, figuring out what he likes, like he has with every new thing they've tried—probably cataloguing it on some insane chart, like he's been doing with the running—but just now, Dean doesn't care. He didn't realize how much he liked this, or how much he could. "God," he says, gripping Sam's hip, "go—" and Sam, thank christ, for once does what he's told.

Sam sucks him, to finish him off. When Dean's spent, Sam spits to the side, and then slides back up, kissing Dean's nipple and then the sweaty angle of his collarbone and his jaw and his cheekbone and the very end of his eyebrow, for some reason. "Freak," Dean sighs, content, and Sam cups his other cheek and says, "Back at you," quiet, and Dean tips his head in towards Sam's and breathes with him. Sam's mouth tastes like dick and it's a combo Dean is extremely fond of, but that's not, anymore, anything new. He reaches down and holds Sam's dick—still slick, because this is indeed the good lube—and half-hard, and sensitive apparently after doing its work, from how Sam hisses, and squeezes his forearm. Dean says, "If anyone gets to complain," and Sam lifts up then, and watches Dean's face while he slides a hand back between Dean's thighs, and presses gently. Dean bites the inside of his lip but lets Sam try it, and after a second Sam—slides a finger inside, where he's busted Dean open, and Dean lets his knee fall wide with the slick sting, and wonders. How much he could take, if Sam asked.

In the morning, Sam goes for a run. Dean stays very firmly in bed. "How'd it go, Romeo?" Dean says, drowsy in bed when Sam finally gets back, and Sam says, "You know that makes you Juliet?" but then, while Dean's frowning and trying to dredge up a comeback, he says, "Sixteen miles, mostly eight miles an hour, and I brought back coffee," and Dean lifts up enough to see the carrier on the table, steaming, and says, "You're forgiven for the Juliet thing."

He has Sam drive. He's feeling—hard to pinpoint, how he's feeling. Still cloudy, over Texas and then over Oklahoma, and Sam's driving a regular level of fast so they're going to get home around maybe dinnertime. He's thinking about steak—they could stop at that butcher in Smith Center—when Sam says, "Hey, let me ask," and Dean grunts, and Sam says, "What's it like?"

No guessing what he means. Dean says, "I mean, my ass is sore," and Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not being a dick about it or anything, and Dean thinks about how to answer. What's it like.

What came before doesn't matter, so much. They already talked about how only Earth counts, and that's true for a bunch of reasons, but on a physical level there's just no comparison. Even on Earth, though, this was different. What came before was mostly something Dean was okay with, either because he wanted it or because he needed it or because he had a job to do, and he's not someone who dwells on shit that could be different, and he doesn't really wish any of that was different. No point in it, and it doesn't bug him. It was always better, though, when he liked the person, and he got that sometimes, and when he got that it was… good, but. Maybe what he and Sam have isn't romance, isn't some big sweeping thing like from a movie—if Sam tried to sweep him off his feet, or vice versa, they'd probably just bicker and then fall over—but. But. What was it like?

He's been quiet too long. "It feels good," he says, honest. Lame, and Sam knows it, from how he glances across the seat. Random section of I-35, while Sam passes a semi. Dean watches the approaching road rather than look at Sam. "I don't know, man. Hard to describe. When you're with someone and you're figuring out what works, what makes the fireworks, that's the same from either side. But it's…"

Quiet, again. In the corner of his eye he can tell Sam looks at him, and he shifts his weight. His ass does hurt. Sam's got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, in the jockstrap department. That he can get used to; the weird feeling under his breastbone, this thing he's been carrying all morning, that's going to take a little longer, maybe.

"Jessica used to say she felt like she was taking care of me." Said—casual. Dean stares across the bench seat, can't help it, but Sam's just looking out at the road. One hand at ten, the other at about five thirty, his hair tucked behind his ear. His jaw clenching and then unclenching. "I don't know. I didn't get it—felt the other way around, to me—but I always… wondered, I guess."

Taking care? Maybe that's it. Dean finds he's holding his hand over the weird feeling in his chest and shakes his head. Last night: Sam's head bent next to his, Sam's chest against his, his back drenching sweat against the bed, his body loose-open finally to Sam's dick after so long of the punishing stretch. Sam's hips grinding in against his hard and low, and his arms around Sam's shoulders, and his eyes closed and just—taking, feeling the slick parted jolt and feeling Sam quicken and feeling, deep, in this jolted raw way, how Sam was getting close and Sam was winding tight and how Sam was coming, how he hitched and crushed in and breathed strange and didn't make any other sound but held Dean still and close and tight while he unloaded. With other men Dean was tired or sore or impatient, wanting his turn. Last night, he held Sam's shoulders and felt Sam's face duck in to his throat, and Sam's lips pressing there, and he put his fingers in Sam's hair and twined his leg around Sam's and wanted it to go on and on. Perfect.

"Guess you'll have to try it and find out," Dean says, after way too long.

Sam glances at him again, and pulls into the right lane, and settles in for the long drive. "Guess I will," he says, and he's watching the road, and so maybe doesn't notice the deep breath Dean takes, and lets out slow.

It turns out a marathon is not, in fact, twenty-six point two miles. "Technically," Sam says, while Dean's on his back under the Impala, "it's 26.21875 miles."

Dean rolls out on the bench to give that the incredulous look it deserves. On the stool, Sam shrugs. "Why," Dean says, "on earth, ever, would anyone care."

"It's the rules set by the competition," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and slides back under the car. "It's just the length. Same reason a football field's a hundred yards."

"Isn't it the length of the run that Greek dude did?" Dean says, later, chopping up potatoes for salad. Sam looks surprised, but not as annoyingly surprised as he's looked other times. "Did the length of that change, somehow?"

"Dean," Sam says, patient, "I hate to say it, but I am not in charge of the rules committee for marathons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

During dinner Sam's doing math. 26.21875 isn't that much longer than 26.2. In March he did twenty-five miles in three hours and fifty-five minutes, looping back from the pond and then running way out to town and back again, and he's nearly there. "What's the difference between 385 and 352," he mutters, and Dean doesn't bother even attempting to work it out in his head before Sam says, "Thirty-three yards."

"Doesn't seem worth making a whole-ass rule about," Dean says, but Sam's just ignoring him at this point, probably looking at his dumb running spreadsheet, and that's fine. Thirty-three yards, Dean thinks.

There are weird old surveyor tools in one of the archive rooms. One morning when Sam's back from his run, soaking off the ache in the shower, Dean figures out how the hell to use the damn wheely thing, and he walks it off. He drags his boot in the dirt, right in front of the stairs down to the entrance, and then walks it out: ninety-nine feet, up the driveway, out to the gravel road. Almost exactly the length to the gate. Dean smiles, and walks back from the gate, and then marks ninety-nine feet precisely, with his boot and then with three stones, so he'll know.

Sam's planning for May 1. Dean doesn't ask why; he figures he can guess. They find a job, April 21, and it's a family of ghouls that's gross and shitty and time-consuming to put down, but they manage it on the seventh day, at least, so they don't overshoot the deadline. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat while Dean drives straight through all the way back from Pensacola. When they get back to the bunker it's two in the morning and Dean has to shake him awake, and he blinks in the barely-moonlight, and Dean has to say, "Up and at 'em, Sasquatch," for Sam to rouse, and Sam follows him down the stairs and into the bunker and through the dark halls and then, quiet, straight into Dean's bed, barely kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket before he curls over the pillow, sighing into the mattress. Dean stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him. Then he goes upstairs, and does the thing he's been thinking of doing for weeks, and when he finally gets back to bed he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and slides in right up against Sam's back, and Sam doesn't wake up but he does make this tiny sound in his chest, when Dean's arm goes around him, and Dean sleeps, finally, like the dead.

Thursday's a slow day. Sam's not running again, apparently, until Saturday—he ran pretty flat-out a few times during the hunt, and Dean guesses that's probably training enough. Because he is, in fact, supportive, Dean makes food that Sam actually likes—chicken breast and broccoli and some stupid grain thing that he read was good for slow-release energy, and Sam says, "I didn't know you knew what farro was," which proves that in fact it's Sam who's the dickhead, but then Sam practically inhales all of it, so. Success. They watch Chariots of Fire so Dean can remember the stupid song, and Sam goes and does his weird yoga stretching after that, and then they sit together in the workroom and make silver rounds for a while, since Dean got a load of pawned shitty jewelry in and it's one of those chores that falls down the priority list when bullets are flying, and then when they've packed up the bullet boxes, and there's really nothing else left to do with the day, Sam stands up and stretches with his fingers reaching way up and his body arching, pulling long after the hunched work, and Dean's mouth goes wet, and he says, without much thinking about it, "Hey, Sam," and Sam says yeah without hardly paying attention, and Dean says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Sam looks up at him. Dean lifts a shoulder and Sam takes a visible breath, and he says, "Smooth, Dean," but it's not a no.

Dean shaves, while he's waiting. He takes a whore's bath in his sink, and waits in his boxers just like Sam had, that first time, sitting on the little loveseat in his room. Sam comes back in a t-shirt and unzipped jeans and bare feet, his hair barely wet at the ends, and he frowns at first at the empty bed before he sees Dean, sitting, and Dean says, "Took you long enough," and Sam says, "Don't start."

He's not nervous. He lets Dean kiss him slow, though, laying together on the bed, and with Dean's hand in his jeans, and he's hard all the way and wet at the tip and a tight grip locked on Dean's hip before Dean finally slides his jeans down, feels. Damp, and a little soft, and small, and he rolls his hips back against Dean's thumb, making this deep sound in his chest. "How do you want it?" Dean says, and Sam shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. "However," Sam says, honest, and Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him and then pulls his jeans all the way off while Sam pulls his shirt over his head, and Dean gets him on his knees, then, pulls his hips back, and applies his mouth to Sam's asshole, and that's not entirely new but Sam yelps, flinching, and Dean has to hook an arm around his hips and hold him in place to lick in deep, like he wants to.

"Tell me," Dean says, and Sam groans. He's reaching past Dean's arm, fisting his dick. His balls warm and heavy, and his body—open, yeah, from the shower, from prepping himself, from knowing how—from watching Dean do it, from doing it himself, sliding his fingers in and working the muscle soft and learning how it can be good. Sam's hips push back and Dean breathes out hot, ducks his head down, suckles one of Sam's nuts and then licks back up over the flattened-wet hair and the crinkle of his hole and scrapes his teeth over one asscheek, and Sam's hand reaches back and grips his shoulder and Sam says, deep, "Are you going to fuck me, or what," and Dean slides up, kisses between Sam's shoulderblades, presses his dick swelling up in his boxers against Sam's ass.

It'd be easier if he kept Sam on his knees. He turns him over instead, and Sam's—god, hot for it, his dick huge and curving up to his navel, his chest flushed in that deep way it gets when he's nearly ready to come, his eyes heavy. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Dean lube himself up, and when Dean slots a slick thumb inside Sam—still tight, christ—Sam's eyelids dip but he just pulls his knee higher, and reaches down and feels Dean's dick, fingers slipping over the head. He gathers his balls up out of the way while Dean pushes up between his legs, and he's watching down between them, avid, for the moment it happens. Dean watches Sam's face instead, and on the push inside—Sam's lips part, and his jaw loosens, and his breath stills, and his eyes—Dean pulls back an inch, slides in deeper, and Sam's face tips up and he meets Dean's stare, dragging in air, gripping Dean's thigh, arching. Dean gets a hand on Sam's jaw and holds him there, their noses brushing, and he feels it, the moment Sam's body ripples. How Sam lets him in.

Sam doesn't come from being fucked. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean holds his balls and kisses his jaw, his mouth, lets Sam bite his lips, while Sam jerks his own dick, and when Sam finally spills he groans, his thighs twitching around Dean's hips and his asshole rippling. Dean slides his hand up, following Sam's, squeezing and getting the wet over his own fingers, and finally his dick slides free from Sam's body. Sam says, low and surprised against his ear, ah, and Dean loves him, is all, and always has, and always will, and now is, really, no different.

"So," Dean says, much later. His head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam's fingers in his hair. "What's it like?"

He'd watched Sam clean up. His nose wrinkling as he wiped between his legs. Sam had said, "You like this?" and Dean had said, "The proof is in the pudding," and Sam had stared at him and then said, horrified, "Never talk again." He'd gone and got them both beers as repayment, and now those are gone, and they've cooled off but the bed's still kind of gross and smells like sweat and jizz and, honestly, Dean's about as comfortable as he ever is.

Sam's fingers go still in his hair. "Huh," he says, after a few seconds' thinking.

"Told you," Dean says.

Sam pulls, what little he can pull, at the top of Dean's head where he should really trim it up. "I'll think of something," he says, and Dean says, "Sure you will, Wordsworth," and Sam says, "I don't know why I thought this would make you less annoying," and Dean says, "It's a gift," but he's smiling, tipped in against Sam's side, and he can't see it but he'd bet that Sam is, too, or at least that Sam's got that dimple tucked into his cheek. Sam's hand spreads, cupping the back of Dean's head, and his mouth brushes Dean's temple. Yeah, Dean decides, warm. Dimple. Maybe two.

On Saturday, Sam goes for the run. His route's pretty simple. Looping west away from the bunker and back for thirteen miles; looping east and back for the other thirteen. The point two gets sorted out somewhere in there, as Dean understands it. He offered, a few months back, to pace Sam in the car if he wanted, and Sam looked surprised but then shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, and Dean knows it's true. Still, he set out water at few-mile intervals—no one's out here, so unless a rabbit stole one of the stashes Sam should get the benefit—and Sam's pace is pretty damn consistent, so Dean knows when he'll hit the various markers, and knows when he'll be home, when it's done.

Sam stretches easily, on the stairs by the entrance. "If you twist your ankle a mile out, call me, but give me time to laugh," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his one foot and pulling up the other. "Do you want me to grab a pistol? Starting gun, or whatever?"

Sam shakes his head, and pulls out his phone. "See you in a few hours," he says, and presses a button, and takes off, and Dean watches him go, down the driveway, to the gate, and then turning and running from the morning sun. Nine a.m. Dean checks his watch, and says, "Okay," to no one, and goes back inside to at least do something with the morning.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Dean's leaning on the gate, drinking a beer, when Sam comes running back up the road. "Woo!" Dean calls, sort of sarcastic and sort of not, and Sam's breathing hard when he comes up but he steals the beer right out of Dean's hand, takes a few deep swallows. "Hey!" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, burps abruptly, says, "Thanks for the water," and takes off again, and Dean checks his watch—right on time. Maybe faster. He finishes the beer, tasting Sam's salt on the rim, and then goes and sets up his minimal surprise.

He disassembled the bench those weeks back. Too heavy to move any other way. While Sam's completing the second half, Dean moves the pieces out of the side of the plant where he'd moved them, and puts the thing back together. Big concrete supports; concrete slab, that he about gets a hernia hauling back up into place. He's sweating, when it's done, but it's right at the end of the drive, just in front of his three-stone marker.

It's where he's sitting, forty minutes after noon, with a bottle of the whiskey Sam actually likes on the step, and two glasses waiting to be filled, and the sun coming down soft and easy, not yet hot or humid, not like it'll be later this summer. He stretches out his legs, propped on his arms, and watches down the lane while Sam comes around the corner again. Sweaty, tired, but keeping pace, and Dean doesn't mock or call out or say any of the dumbass shit he could say. Sam pulls out his phone, as he's running down, and Dean knows because he paced it exactly how many steps are left, exactly how far Sam has to go. Sam slows, as he's approaching the marker, and when his sneaker hits the stone he presses something on the phone and it beeps and he says, "Done," and takes a huge deep breath, panting.

He tips his head back on his shoulders, eyes closed. Dean watches him. His heaving chest, the sweat darkening his hair to black at the temples. His body.

"You set up a cheering section," Sam says, finally. "I'm touched."

Dimpling. Dean cracks the bottle, pours two glasses. "What can I say," he says, while Sam tips his head back down, tired. "I'm a fan."

"Sure you are," Sam says, tired. He sits down, finally, and takes his glass from Dean. Their shoulders together, and Sam's knee tipped against his. "Whiskey's probably the opposite of what you're supposed to have after a marathon."

"Well, good thing I'm not a stickler for the marathon rules," Dean says, holding his glass up to toast.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling, "it is," and lets their glasses clink. They drink, quiet, looking out together at the warm day.

[wwilloww]

unwind - m | knj

Pairing: soft dom Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Smut. Explicit. 18+.

WC: 5.5k

Summary: You come home after a long, stressful day at work to your boyfriend, who does his best to cheer you up and remind you that you can always rely on him. Sometimes the best form of self-care is simply accepting affection and care from someone else.  

Warnings: softdom!Namjoon. Dom and sub play. Dirty talk. Spanking. Fingering. Oral sex (f receiving). Edging. Orgasm denial. Thigh riding. Begging. Unprotected sex within a committed relationship. Multiple orgasms. Creampie. Aftercare.

A/N: This story is a commission by an anonymous donor through @ficswithluv‘s Changes With Luv project. Thank you so much for your donation—I hope it lives up to your idea! I’m sending my whole heart out to the incredible Luna @moonchild-og​ and Ash @ot7always who beta read this very late last night! Also, shoutout to @meowxyoong @strawbxxymilk @randombtsprincessa @diedinwarofhormones for sharing their thirst for soft doms with me.

|| masterlist || ao3 ||

wwilloww ©️ do not repost, translate, or copy.

The door seems particularly heavy as you close it behind you. You slump against it, dropping your bag on the floor as you close your eyes.

Today has been an absolute shitshow. Not only had the day been long and arduous, but your asshole boss seemed to have some kind of personal vendetta against you.

You take a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

When you open your eyes, you are met with the sight of Namjoon reclined on your couch, a thick book held up to his face. He looks over the tome at you, an eyebrow raised.  

As he takes in your sinking shoulders and tired gaze, his excitement that you’re finally home shifts into concern. Immediately, he hops off the couch to come to you, slipping your coat off of your shoulders before wrapping you in a tight embrace.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” You untuck yourself and press a kiss to his lips. When you pull back you can see a crease forming between his brow, so you reach up to roll your thumb over his forehead, smoothing out the skin for him before bringing your hand down to cradle his cheek. “Everything’s fine.”

Namjoon tightens his grip around your waist, knowing you well enough to spot the tension in your posture.

“Why don’t you go shower and I’ll whip something up for dinner,” he prompts, brushing a strand of hair that has fallen out of your ponytail behind your ear.

“You? Cook?”

He nods eagerly.

“I have a new recipe I’ve been practicing.” He grins, pushing you lightly away from him. “Go. Shower. You’ll feel better.” You throw him a weak smile as you make your way to the back bedroom.

You emerge from the bedroom twenty minutes later, smelling of balsam wood and lavender and wrapped in your softest sweatshirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You wander into the kitchen, slipping quietly into one of the stools at the breakfast bar where Namjoon has left a glass of your favorite red wine. You sip the wine, pursing your lips together at the swirling bitterness that takes over your mouth. As you relish in the feeling of the cool liquid trickling down your throat, you prop up your head on your hand to watch Namjoon move around the kitchen, stirring noodles and chopping garlic and parsley.

“Babe, you look like you know what you’re doing,” you tease, sending him a wink.

“Of course I know what I’m doing!” he scoffs. He notices your wine glass is empty and makes his way around the bar with the bottle to fill it up. You eagerly offer him the glass. He fills it generously before pressing a quick kiss to your wine-stained lips.

As he turns away to return to the kitchen, you pull him towards you again, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and deepening the kiss. He softens against you, letting his hands press into your lower back. However, he quickly remembers himself and pulls you away, a slight smirk on his face.

“First, you need to eat.”

He rounds the counter and proceeds to finish cooking, while you watch on with a slight pout. Your frown cracks into a gentle smile though as you study the care with which he carefully twists the pasta onto a dish and does his best to delicately sprinkle parsley on top.

He brings two identical plates to where you’re sitting. As he slides into the seat next to you, you twist so that you’re facing him, pulling his face to yours and kiss him deeply. Needing more, you tease his lips open with your tongue, sliding one hand up his thigh to squeeze the thick muscle. He kisses you back before tensing and pulling away.

“Babe, come on,” he groans, laughing.

“No, I want this,” you say, pushing your hand up until it meets the junction between hip and thigh. “I want you,” you look up innocently at him, doing your best impression of doe eyes, even as you move your hand to trace his quickly forming bulge.

His gaze hardens from playful to something more serious. He shows no sign of being affected by your increasingly distracting hand and instead picks up your fork and twirls a noodle around it, bringing it to your mouth.

“Eat or nothing else happens tonight.”

You smile sheepishly up at him and open your mouth. He feeds you until you take the fork from him and finish your meal.

“You had a tough day?” Namjoon finally asks as you finish your plate.

“No, everything’s fine.”

Namjoon watches as your brow creases. You always do this. You come home after a difficult day, and think it would be a burden to your boyfriend to share the details. So you keep them to yourself, unsuccessfully pretending that nothing has happened. Namjoon loves that you care so deeply about the way other people feel, but he hates that you do this—that you feel you need to hold back—with him.

So he sighs and puts down the dish he’s currently holding to turn to you.

“Babe, I know something’s wrong. Right?”

You pause, mulling over your options before deciding to tell him.

“Yeah,” you murmur, dropping your gaze.

“I’m not saying you need to tell me the details. I know you need time to process these kinds of things. But I also don’t want you to...to hold back from me simply because you think it’ll burden me in some way.” You meet his eyes. Instead of pity or even frustration, there’s softness there. “I’m an adult. If I can’t handle something, I’ll let you know. I don’t want you to feel like you need to hide from me or lie to me to keep me happy.”

You sigh and put your dish down so you can wrap your arms around his waist.

“I know. Thank you, Joon.” You look up at him, resting your chin on his chest. “I know I do this a lot. I promise I’ll work on it.”

He smiles at you.

“How can I help?”

“Is it possible to fuck the frustration away?” you tease.

You watch as something dark flashes in his eyes.

“Sure is.” He bends down to kiss you. “Will you let me take care of you?”

“Joonie, that—that’s not what I meant. You don’t have to.”

“Babe, I want to.”

“No, really, this is my shit, it’s my bad day—”

“Get on the bed.”

“What?”

“Leave your clothes at the door and get on the bed.” His voice has dropped, deep and serious, signaling his switch into his more dominating persona. “Let me take care of you.”

You leave your plate where it is and start down the hall, tugging off your sweatshirt. It’s quick work undressing, seeing as you’re only really wearing two items of clothing. As you slide your shorts down your legs you know Namjoon’s eyes are on you. You put an extra ounce of energy into slowing down the process and arching your back slightly—just enough to let his gaze linger. You peek back at him as you stand, now naked, and trail your hand over your bare skin. A soft chuckle echoes from behind you as Namjoon dumps the dishes in the sink, a task for tomorrow.

Knowing he’s shortly behind you, you step into the bedroom completely naked, and plop down on the bed.

“You know what I want, babe. Ass up.”

You smirk at him before flipping over onto your belly, kicking up your legs playfully. You rest your head on your arms as you watch Namjoon lean against the doorframe. He tugs at the top button of his shirt, his gaze roving over you: Roving over the slight valley of your lower back, the waterfall of hair against your neck, the sweet swell of your ass. He could watch you all day but knowing that he gets to touch, too, that knowledge means that just studying your form will never be enough.

He strides towards you, unbuttoning his shirt as he walks without entirely untucking it.

The bed dips under his weight as he comes behind you, swinging one knee over you so that he’s effectively straddling your upper thighs. He smooths a large palm over the smooth swell of your ass, first one cheek then the other. You melt into the sensation, his light but spanning touch raising goosebumps all over your body. He brings a second hand down on your ass, now mirroring his ministrations on each side, roving in large circles.

Slowly, he works his way upwards, palms spreading across your lower back. He’s gentle at first, hands warming you up against the cool air of the bedroom. But then his touch becomes heavier. He uses the heel of his palm to knead into the flesh and muscle of your back. Gradually he works his way up along the curve of your spine, left hand mirroring right, each one delightfully heavy as he digs into the tension you’re holding in your body.

Namjoon hits a particularly tight knot in your shoulder. As he fluctuates between the dancing pads of his fingers and the deep pressure of the heel of his hand, it slowly unravels. You groan at the painful pleasure of the pressure releasing and you know he’s smirking from behind you as he continues to work at it until he’s satisfied that he’s released it.  

“I know you had a hard day, kitten, but you should know that I’m going to take care of you—no matter what. No matter what it is that you need.” His hands come down to smooth over your back, brushing back and forth, redistributing the stagnating energy that he’s dug up. “I keep telling you this. Do you need me to remind you again?”

You nod furiously.

He leans down so that when he speaks his voice feels like it's brushing over your ear.

“You remember your safeword, love?”

You nod and mumble a soft “Mhmm.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Kaleidoscope.”

“Good girl.”

He watches as a faint blush begins to creep up your neck at the use of the pet name. Gently, he unstraddles you and pulls you up to your knees, maneuvering you to his own will. He moves so that he is sitting on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. As if it’s second nature, you obediently lay yourself across him so your ass is up in the air.

“You know exactly what to do,” Namjoon muses, almost more to himself than to you. He runs his hand over the dip of your lower back and the rounded curve of your ass. “So pretty, just for me.”

You push up into his hand involuntarily at his words.

“Do you know why I’m doing this?”

“To remind me,” you say.

“Yes. And?”

“And?” you twist back to try to gauge his expression, but he pushes your head back down.

“And because you were so greedy earlier. Trying to get me hard at dinner, trying to get me to fuck that needy cunt in the kitchen of all places.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing and Namjoon grins when he sees the subtle movement.

“So eager, already? I haven’t even gotten started with you.”

“Plea—”

You’re cut off as his hand comes down on your ass. It’s a light slap, more of a practice run than what he knows you can take—than what he knows you crave. Still, the smallest of oh’s slips past your lips. As he runs his hand over your backside in a circular motion, you press your ass back into his touch, desperate for more.

“Is that alright?” he asks, knowing that you’re one to lean into the sting of his hand, but still wanting to check in with you.

“Yes, please, more.”

Namjoon doesn’t need any further convincing. His hand comes down on you—hard. Hard enough to elicit a gasp from you. You bite your lip to hold back the sinful sounds that threaten to escape. His hand comes down again—and again—and on the fifth hit you groan, loudly. You can feel him harden beneath you.

“Good girl. You’re doing so well.” Despite his obvious arousal, he does nothing but focus on the sensation of his hand hitting your supple flesh and the sight of you beneath him.

Above you, Namjoon watches as after each spank your body relaxes further in his grasp. Each strike feeds the healthy glow beneath his palm and he smiles because even as your breathing picks up, the tension you’re subconsciously holding in your body begins to slip away, allowing for a new kind of tension to grow between your legs.

His hand comes down a final time and you whimper beneath its strength.

“Okay, love. I think that’s enough for now.” He begins to pull you up, turning so he’s got one leg hanging off the bed and you’re sat upright on your knees between his legs. “You did so well.” He wraps his arms around your waist, coming to gently squeeze your ass, knowing how sensitive you must be. As you sigh into his touch, he leans in to kiss you, his lips moving tenderly over yours. “You always look so pretty for me, bent over my lap.” You flush at the praise, leaning back to push a loose strand of hair out of your mouth.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he helps move the hair out of your face.

“Much better,” you smile sweetly as you bask in the sunlight of the endorphins rushing through you.

“Better than before?”

“Mhmm. Thank you.” You press your lips against his once more before starting to slide off the bed. You move between his legs, fingers running over the leather of his belt. He’s still entirely dressed, although his shirt is hanging obscenely open, his toned chest shining softly with sweat. You tug gently on his belt, eyes looking up through your lashes and pleading.

You look gorgeous like this, on your knees, eyes wide and wet. Namjoon runs a hand through his hair, letting his head fall back just enough to expose his neck to you and groans. He reaches down to stroke your cheek as you fumble with his belt buckle.

“Darling,” he murmurs. “You are so good on your knees for me. I love it when you suck my cock—but not now.”

You pout slightly. “But, Joon, I want to make you feel good.”

“You will,” Namjoon smiles gently. “But nothing feels better than you being a good girl and listening to me.”  

He wants to say that watching the tension unravel itself from your body is what makes him feel good. That watching a smile grow softly on your face feels like heaven, or that seeing you unwind beneath him, underneath his touch, is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced.

“But—”

“No. You heard what I said.”

Your pout deepens. He knows he’s not going to be able to talk you out of this, so instead, he diverts your attention.

“Go lay down.”

“I—”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow and you shut your mouth.

“Go lay down and put your hands above your head.”

You do as he asks, moving slowly until your head is resting on a short stack of pillows. You arrange yourself, knees together and hands twisted above your head. With a smirk, you spread your knees apart, revealing your inner thighs, glistening with sweat and arousal.

He watches you do this and raises an eyebrow.

“Someone’s feeling extra needy tonight, hm?” Still, he doesn’t hesitate to crawl towards you, pushing your knees even farther apart as he settles between them, still dressed.

For a moment you think he’ll stop the teasing and finally press his lips against your clit. As if reading your mind he grins up at you as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“You should know better.”

You groan in frustration, reaching down to pull his chin to where you want him. With a growl, he pins your hand back above your head and sits up slightly.

“You do know better, don’t you?” The threat is implicit in his tone: do as he’s asked or he’ll stop. You nod sheepishly. “Words, baby.”

“Yes, I’ll do what you’ve asked.”

“Good girl. Anything I want?”

You nod. “Whatever you want.”

He slowly lowers himself back to your stomach, kissing up your soft belly until he meets the slope of your breasts. He wraps his lips around your right nipple, teasing it softly, sucking, and rolling it around in his mouth. And then—oh—his teeth graze over the sensitive bud. As he continues to suckle at each nipple, your groans become louder and you squirm up into him.

Namjoon is still fully clothed and your burning skin finds little relief against the rough texture of the fabric. Still, you press up, closer to him.

Namjoon chuckles and you look down to find his lips pursed perfectly around your breast, his tongue flickering out to tease the already-bruising skin and the hard bulb of your nipple.

“God, you look wild right now, babe,” he murmurs against your skin.

“Joonie—” you gasp as he bites down particularly painfully. “I need more.”

Usually, Namjoon would draw things out or scold you for being so vocal. But alongside the dominating personality that he regularly assumes in the bedroom, tonight something softer sings alongside that hard edge. Tonight, he wants to see you unravel for him.  

You suck in a sharp breath as he pushes one long finger into your cunt without warning. Your body tenses as he begins to draw it in and out—and then quickly relaxes as he finds his pace.

He adds a second finger as he lowers his head to wrap his lips around your clitoris. With his other hand, he pushes down on your stomach, quelling the desperate movements of your hips to get more of him, to get closer to him. As he sucks on the delicate bud, it swells, pulsing rhythmically beneath his attentions. You gasp.

Namjoon gazes up at you through the swell of your breasts, watching the way your brow furrows and mouth gapes in pleasure. You can feel his lips spread into a grin against you and you look down to find him drowning in his own intensity, his shirt slipping down his shoulder, only to throw your head back again as he adds a third finger and scissors them apart.

“So obedient. You’re taking everything I give you.”

“Mhmm,” you manage to mumble through clenched teeth. “For you—”

“For me, baby girl? Just for me?” All you can do is nod stiffly as a tremor of pleasure races through you, eliciting the sweetest sounding moan from you. “That’s right, love, moan for me. You sound so gorgeous when you make those pretty little sounds.”

Your back arches as he hits a particularly spongy spot within you. As you do, he sucks extra hard on your clit, sending stars shooting up and down your spine and into your vision.

“Can I come?” you plead, breath coming in short gasps. “I-I’m so close.”

“No, baby. Hold on a little longer for me.”

Still, he doesn’t falter in his punishing pace. If anything, he picks up the speed and force. You whimper beneath him, squirming and twisting the sheets by your head between your fingers.

You do your best to hold on to the pleasure that is coiling so tightly in your belly, to hold it there, just at the edge—but then suddenly his pattern changes and you’re tipping over.

“Joon—I-I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“No,” he growls. And then as quickly as he had begun, his touch, his tongue is gone and all that is left is the cool air of the bedroom.

Tears of frustration well up in your eyes as you lift your head to see Namjoon sitting back, his mouth set in a hard line.

“I told you not to come.”

“I was so close,” you whine as you throw your head back on the pillow.

“When you come, it’ll be around my cock or not at all.”

You sit up again, crawling over to him. You tug on the loose ends of his shirt.

“Then fuck me,” you say, making your eyes big and wide just for him. You know he always goes a little weak when you do this.

His eyes grow large and he pulls you against him to kiss you furiously. He quickly slips his tongue between your lips and swipes it against the roof of your mouth. You groan into him, pressing closer, finding his clothed thigh between your legs. Unabashedly, you grind down on it, your clit rubbing against the rough material.

“Shit,” he murmurs against you, taking one of your lips between his teeth.

You continue to circle your hips against his leg, undoubtedly ruining the pants. Namjoon bites down on your lip, causing you to yelp into his mouth.

“I love to see you this desperate,” he groans. “So worked up that you’re going to use my thigh to cum, huh? Is that enough for you? Are you so fucking desperate for me that you’ll get yourself off on my thigh when you can’t get my fingers or my tongue?”

“Yes, god, yes.” Your movements become erratic as the tension he left broken within you minutes ago quickly rebuilds.

At this point your arousal has soaked entirely through the fabric of his trousers, leaving the skin beneath it wet and sticky. You��re so close, if you could just get a little closer, a little more, a—

“Stop.”

The word cuts through your blissed-out haze. You slow but don’t stop.

“I said, stop.” Namjoon's hands come down on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he halts your movements. “My girl is having trouble listening today, hm?” He takes a finger to tilt your chin up as you whine and continue to try to press against him. His fingers dig deeper into your hips. That’ll definitely leave a mark for tomorrow, and the thought of it has your cunt clenching. “What did I say about cumming?”

“Not to,” you frown.

“Unless?”

“Unless it's on your cock.”

“Good girl.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Joonie, I can’t wait anymore.”

Looking down at you, he can see that. You’re covered in sweat, love bites, and fresh bruises. Your skin is so delightfully flushed and the look in your eyes is desperate. So slowly, he nods his consent and lets you unbutton the remaining button on his shirt and slip if off his shoulders.

He watches as you unbutton his trousers and needily push them down just enough that you can slide the band of his boxers down and slip your hand inside. His cock springs free, the tip an angry red and leaking precome.

“You’re so hard for me.”

You wrap your hand around the base, stroking up once torturously slow. He loves the way your hand looks wrapped around him, and when you look up there’s a new fire in his eyes. He’s held back for about an hour, untouched, and now that your beautiful hand is stroking up and down his length, every sensation feels wildly intense.

You let go of him to reach down in between your legs and slide two fingers into your cunt to collect the slick that has gathered there. Without breaking eye contact, you wrap your hand around his cock again, spreading your wetness onto his length.

“Fuck.”

He freezes for a moment before springing into action.

Before you know what’s happening, Namjoon has wrapped his arms around your torso and is flipping you over onto your belly. The air wooshes out of you as you hit the bed, but he’s done this enough times that he knows exactly how to cradle your fall. You start to twist back to him to see what he’s doing, but he moves quickly, pressing your thighs together and coming to straddle you, similarly to how he had when he massaged you earlier. He leans over you, pushing your shoulder down so you’re facing forward again.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget everything except for this cock. How it feels inside of you, filling you,” he whispers in your ear, raising goosebumps over every inch of your skin.  

And then his movements slow. His hands disappear and you’re left touchless, squirming on the bed.  

“I-I want it,” you whine, lifting your hips up just enough that your glistening folds brush back against his cockhead. You do your best to push back onto him, to get him inside, to fill you, but his hand comes down to press on your lower back, his fingers spreading out in a fan against your skin. He pushes your spine into a delightful arch, successfully restraining your movements.

Normally you love his calculated movements: the simplicity and strength that this kind of gesture has to put you exactly in the position that he wants you in usually has goosebumps peppering your skin and a shot of adrenaline heightening all sensation. And that remains true in this moment. However, the coil in your stomach is quickly unwinding and you’re left aching for something more, for him.

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Ngh—yes,” you groan, squirming against him.

“Baby, I need more than that. Use your words.” Still, he doesn’t move and instead pushes down on your back so your movements are further limited.

“I want your cock. I want your cum,” you gasp. “I want everything,” you add with a shaky breath, knowing that although you being wordy isn’t going to speed up the process, it will make Namjoon harder.

You can almost hear the smirk that spreads across his face.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes, Joonie, please. I need you.”

Namjoon reaches down to grip the base of his cock and slides it against your slick folds.

“Hm, but this feels so good. I could do this all day.”

“KIM NAMJOON. If you don’t put your fucking cock in my cunt right this second I will march into the bathroom, lock the door, and finish this myself.”

Namjoon fucking laughs—a big, hearty, jubilant laugh that echoes around the room—as you wriggle beneath his weight in your best display of anger.

Finally, finally, he slots the head of his cock against your entrance and leans over to whisper against your ear.

“I don’t want you to think that that comment is going to go unpunished,” he whispers. The hair on the back of your neck rises with the promise, but your next comment is quickly silenced by a roll of his hips as he slides the first inch of his cock into you.

This is nothing like his fingers. He’s girthy, filling you to the brim. The slight stretch of his cock against your sensitive walls straddles the delicate line between pain and pleasure and you groan as he slides further into you.

He begins at a slow pace, his hips rolling forward into you. In this position, it feels like your walls are sucking him in.

“God, you look so good taking my cock.” Namjoon moans. He can’t take his eyes off the way your lower lips part around him, the way he seamlessly glides in and out of you. Each time he withdraws, he comes out glistening in a mix of your arousal and his precome.

He comes down to rest on his elbows, in the process shifting his hips slightly up. With this new leverage, he begins to drive into you with a new ferocity. The slight shift has him hitting your g-spot. As he continues to pound against that soft spot within you, you reach out to wrap your fingers around his forearm and press your face into the pillow.

There were times when Namjoon took extreme pleasure in tying you up and refusing to let you touch him. But now he wanted nothing more than to be as pressed as close to you as possible. As he lowers his weight onto you and onto his forearms, he can feel the muscles of your back and hips ripple beneath him as you thrust back in tandem to his own pace.

“You feel so big,” you moan.

You don’t usually cum without direct clitoral stimulation, but after being unwound just to be riled up again and then left on the edge of your orgasm, the repeated pounding against your g-spot is consistently building up a warm pressure at the front of your pelvis. You dig your nails into Namjoon’s skin and feel him press harder into you. Between the comforting weight of his body and his unyielding thrusts, you can feel your orgasm quickly rising within you.

“Joonie—” you gasp.

“I can feel how close you are,” he groans, sweat beading on his forehead.

“I’m so close, Joonie, please, can I—”

“Cum, baby. Cum for me.”

At his command, you press back into him and dig your fingers into his arm. Your vision goes white as pleasure ripples through your pelvis and outwards, into your belly, your limbs. You vaguely understand that Namjoon is still grinding his hips into you, helping you ride out your orgasm as long as possible. You continue to clench around him and he hisses.

“Shit.”

Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut, doing his best to hold back from drilling into you. Instead, he circles his hips against you, grinding into your still-clenching walls as he guides you down from your orgasm. Your breath is coming in pants and huffs now, and you turn your head so that you’re looking up at him. He’s got that precious fold in his brow that appears when he’s close but holding back.

“Babe, I need—” he grunts.

“I know, I know,” you weakly lift your arm to stroke his burning cheek. “It’s okay.”

He finally lets go, allowing his pace to stutter and falter against you, morphing from a circular grind into something more primal. At this point, he’s chasing his own pleasure in a way that you almost never see. He’s still hitting your most sensitive spots and you groan in overstimulation.

All of a sudden, you’re coming again.

“I-” is all you can stutter, a long, silent groan shaping your swollen lips into a perfect O. As you come, you reach up behind you and grab onto his neck, your nails raking down the sensitive skin. All he needs is to feel the blood rise to the surface and see your neck arched back for him to come undone. His hips stutter into you, and with one final, deep thrust, he presses as deep as he can and lets go. His pleasure unravels in his stomach and you can feel him spurt again and again within you.  

Seconds after he’s come, he’s rolling off you, exposing you to the chilled air of the room—but he doesn’t want to crush you. As if reading his mind you say, “I like you on top of me, like the weight.”

He chuckles at the sleepy lilt in your voice.

“I know babe, I just don’t want to crush you.”

“You won’t.”

Namjoon doesn’t argue. He knows you become stubborn when you’re sleepy. Instead, he rolls you gently onto your back and comes to press himself almost chastely against your lips. You smile into the kiss, sliding your hands into his hair.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers into your shoulder, giving you a gentle bite before pulling back to look at you. He wants to spend the rest of the week in bed, tracing the features of your face like this: relaxed, blissful, unquestioning. Instead, he savors your expression for one final moment and brushes a sweaty piece of hair out of your eyes. Namjoon rolls off the bed and walks to the bathroom where he grabs a clean towel and dampens it. He almost doesn’t recognize his reflection in the mirror, hair unkempt, cheeks flushed, skin glistening with sweat—and something unrecognizable in his eyes. He splashes his face with water before returning to the bedroom where he sits gently on the edge of the bed. You’re already starting to fall asleep, but he runs his hand over your forehead and your eyes flutter open.

“You did so well for me baby,” he coos as he first wipes your brow before moving down your body and wiping away the mixed cum from your still-dripping cunt.

“Yes,” you mumble, lids heavy with sleep. “‘M good for you.”

“Yes, good for me. So good for me. I’d even say you earned yourself a reward.”

“Can my reward be you cuddling me?” You reach out, eyes closed at this point, trying to grab at him.

“Sure, baby.”

He reaches up to cup your cheek, running the rough pad of his thumb over your warm flesh. You sigh into his touch, nuzzling closer. He tosses the wet towel in the direction of the bathroom and climbs into bed, pulling you gently into his chest.

“Mm, love you, Joonie.” He feels more than hears you mumble into his neck.

“I love you too.”

|| masterlist || ao3 ||

[stiltonbasket]

For your arranged marriage au, I would love it if you can do some domestic scenes between them. Basically things like hair brushing and braiding or making dumplings together, etc 🥺

(brief author’s note: please please reblog if you can, since that’s how we get prompts for future chapters!)

Wei Wuxian has a crush on his husband. 

It’s been months since they were married, but he’s only just now admitting it to himself. His heart skips a beat whenever Lan Zhan hugs him, and he stops breathing whenever Lan Zhan brushes his lips along Wei Wuxian’s in a kiss, and his stomach rolls delightfully when he sees his zhiji and their children together; but he has to get a grip on himself, and soon, because Lan Zhan is sitting right next to him and helping him make dumplings for lunch. 

When did their marriage get this way? Better yet, why is Lan Zhan making Wei Wuxian weak in the knees with his touches and caresses, rather than the other way around!?

Lans only love once, his third shidi told him, before he left Lotus Pier for his wedded home that spring. Hanguang-jun cares for you very much, da-shixiong. Give him a chance to make you happy.

Well, he’s certainly getting it, Wei Wuxian thinks, watching his husband fluttering around the kitchen like a graceful white crane before he comes straight back to Wei Wuxian and attaches himself to his side again. I don’t remember the last time I felt this happy, actually.

“How should we begin?” Lan Zhan asks, once their ingredients are all lined up in front of them. “I have some knowledge of cooking, but I have never tried making dumplings before.”

“Well, we need three kinds of fillings,” Wei Wuxian hears himself say, trying not to quake when Lan Zhan slips an arm around his waist to reach the jar of salt. “What about chestnut and bamboo shoot and a tofu-mushroom filling for you, and a spicy pork and fish one for me?”

“Perfect,” Lan Zhan murmurs, looking into Wei Wuxian’s eyes so tenderly that he has to fight back the impulse to ask just what his husband finds perfect here. “Will Xiao-Yu like them?”

“Xiao-Yu can eat anything,” Wei Wuxian shrugs, blushing a little as Lan Zhan brushes a curl of loose hair off his forehead. “He tried to eat a clump of cat fur once, and all he said when I took it out of his mouth was that it tasted bad.”

Lan Zhan winces. “I remember that. We took him to the healers to make sure he had not injured his stomach.”

Fortunately for Lan Zhan, Wei Wuxian has plenty of stories about their children that don’t involve one or both of them eating things off the ground, and he works his way through about a third of them while assembling the the bowls of dumpling filling. “A-Yuan cut his teeth on Chenqing, you know!” he laughs, mixing garlic and pepper into the meat before helping Lan Zhan chop the mushrooms. “I had to wash it about three times a day until he got them all.”

“When he was with me, he liked to chew on Liebing,” Lan Zhan offers, before sliding so close to Wei Wuxian that he can feel the warmth drifting off his friend’s solid body. “Xiongzhang had to remove the tassel to make sure he wouldn’t choke on it.”

Wei Wuxian thinks of a little A-Yuan nibbling on the end of his uncle’s xiao, and laughs so loudly that a flock of birds fly out of the plum-blossom tree in the garden. “A-Yu’s never been one for putting things in his mouth, though. He only tries to taste things he thinks are food.”

“He did try to eat a raw yam last week,” his husband recalls. “Earth and dust and all.”

“Yams are good for babies,” Wei Wuxian says merrily. Next to him, Lan Zhan starts stirring oil and water into a heap of soft flour, just as Wei Wuxian finishes pounding the water chestnuts into mush and combining them with salt and shredded bamboo shoots. “We’ll have yams in our congee tomorrow for breakfast, since Yu’er likes them.”

“En. And for lunch, chicken soup with white radishes in it.”

“Aiyah, sweetheart, you’re making me hungry! We still have to finish making the jiaozi before we can eat, you know.”

Lan Zhan’s ears turn pink at the endearment, and he leans over to kiss Wei Wuxian’s lips and then the dark mole under his mouth, lingering there for so long that Wei Wuxian can feel his heart thrumming in his breast by the time his husband pulls away. “I will not abide my beloved being hungry. Shall I fetch the leftover mantou for you?”

“No, I’ll wait,” Wei Wuxian disagrees, with a radiant smile. “We’ll eat together, with A-Yuan and Xiao-Yu, and then I’ll go back to the cold pond to fetch water for my talismans.”

“And I will wait for you to get back,” Lan Zhan murmurs, wrapping his arms around Wei Wuxian’s waist and looking impossibly satisfied when he gasps in a strange, sweet combination of embarrassment and delight. “Don’t take too long, my heart.”

It takes them another hour to finish preparing the jiaozi, but Wei Wuxian doesn’t mind. 

(Kissing Lan Zhan is better than making dumplings, anyway.)

[electrictoes]

All We Are

For @dailysvu’s Sonny Carisi Week

Day 4:  “What is this between us?  Relationship: Amanda Rollins  / Sonny Carisi​

Read on AO3

They don’t define this thing between them - it just is.

After a week, Sonny thinks maybe they should - but he’s so happy, and he doesn’t want to break this calm comfort they’ve found in each other by putting labels on things that have never needed to be labelled before.

Everyone around them is so curious though; other people want it defined. And it shouldn’t matter - shouldn’t be anyone’s business but their own. But it isn’t that simple. Their friends and family make no secret of the fact that they've been waiting for this almost as long as he has.

He skipped out on most of Memorial Day weekend with his family for the first time in his life - only putting in an appearance in his parents’ backyard late on Monday afternoon, a white lie on his lips; that he’s been stuck at work - a lie his mother sees through in an instant.

He can’t stop checking his phone; types and deletes a message to Amanda - an I miss you that he can’t bring himself to send, because it’s so ridiculous. He sends her a photo of the backyard filled with family instead, and smiles down at his phone when she sends him a photo back - the girls at the park, ice cream cones in their hands, sprinkles and chocolate sauce already trailing down Billie’s arm.

He tries to duck out of sight to call her a little later, but his mother catches him as he creeps up the stairs to his childhood bedroom; she stands at the foot of the stairs, hands on her hips, a scolding frown on her face - he hears the Dominick before she says it, and slinks back down to the hallway without a word, thinking about how he’s a prosecutor and he faces tougher opponents than his mother on a daily basis, but no one can reduce him to his thirteen year old self like she can.

His mom doesn’t let him slip back out to the party, her grip on his arm is firm as she tugs him into the kitchen, “Alright, out with it,” she says and he feigns confusion.

“I don’t-”

“It’s either a girl, or it’s something bad,” she says, arms crossed over her chest, a shadow of worry on her face. “And your sister told me you broke up with-”

Sonny sighs, resisting the urge to fold his own arms. He hadn’t actually told Bella that at all, just relayed one of the many arguments he and Nicole had had before they’d called it quits, but he wasn’t surprised that she’d drawn her own conclusions. “Bella needs to stop gossipin’ about me.”

“Tell me.”

“There’s nothin’ to-”  His mother fixes him with a look that would have had him running to his bedroom as a kid; he resists the urge to bolt now. “It’s new,” he says, and because his mom doesn’t so much as blink, he adds. “Rollins.”

There’s a part of him that’s almost giddy at the way she reacts - the way her posture softens and she smiles up at him. He enjoys it for half a second before the questions start coming in thick and fast - he deflects, but she ploughs on.

“So the two of you are-”

“Figuring that out,” he says. He listens to her as she talks about not wasting time, tells him he’s not getting any younger, reminds him his grandmother’s engagement ring is still sitting in her jewellery box upstairs just waiting for him to need it.

“Way too far ahead of yourself, Ma,” he says - too far ahead but still visible there on the horizon.

The closest they come to having the what is this? conversation in those early days is the is this a secret? conversation.

“I don’t want it to be,” Sonny admits, “But if you wanna wait until-”

“Until what?” Amanda asks him, “I’m sure,” she says. “If you are.”

They’re on the couch, the girls fast asleep down the hall and her feet resting in his lap; it’s casual and domestic and not really all that different from the way things have always been, but he lets himself take it in, appreciate the way his world is changing. He rests his hands on her shins as he smiles over at her, “I’m sure,” he says. And that’s it.

Everything left unsaid passes between them in looks, kisses, and touches. They don’t need more.

They don’t advertise it; there’s a time when they’ll have to - disclosure paperwork and conversations about professionalism and objectivity as though they haven’t been managing just fine up until now. But Sonny’s diligent - he’s checked the paperwork - he might have checked the paperwork over a year ago, when she’d left him at his desk with a sad smile and he’d spent the next forty-eight hours kicking himself, only for a global pandemic to stop him calling in that rain check  - and he knows they have time.

They do arrive at the precinct together one Tuesday morning a couple of weeks in; he has a meeting scheduled with Liv first thing and he hasn’t been back to his own apartment in three days. They’re not so blatant as to hold hands, but they do work with some of the best detectives in the city, so it isn’t a surprise that they’re caught out within minutes.

Fin gives them look, but he doesn’t say anything. Sonny’s sure he’ll get a comment in at some point, but while everyone knows Fin enjoys a gossip way more than he lets on, he’s good at keeping his questions to himself until the moment that best suits him.

Kat doesn’t follow suit. She’s nothing but questions and Sonny tries to escape under the guise of waiting for the captain in her office, but Amanda grips his jacket sleeve, silently telling him not leave her.

“How long?” Kat asks, “And what exactly-”

“Our business,” Amanda says; she’s smiling at Kat, no malice in her tone, but no room for argument either.

Jesse get a pass. Because she’s Jesse. And because this affects her just as much as it does Sonny and Amanda. For the first two weeks of waking up to Uncle Sonny sleeping in Mommy’s bed she doesn’t ask any questions - it surprises him, because that first morning waking up beside Amanda his second thought had been that they would have to figure out how to explain his presence there to Jesse and Billie. When Jesse had raced into Amanda's bedroom, though, she had just greeted him like she was used to him being there, and he’d wondered if they’d ever actually need to sit them down and explain.

Eventually she does ask, one night after he’s tucked Billie into bed with a kiss so it’s just the three of them awake. He leans in the bathroom doorway while Amanda gives Jesse her bath. She’s been unusually quiet, and there’s a thoughtful look on her face, “Mommy,” she says after a while, blinking water out of her eyes as Amanda washes her hair, “Is Uncle Sonny your husband now?”

Amanda coughs as though she’s the one with a face full of water, turning to look at Sonny with a startled expression. He gives her a soft smile, but he doesn’t have the answers either.

“Not yet, baby,” she says, and Sonny can’t help the grin that comes over his face, however wide Amanda’s eyes go at her own words.

“You’ve gotta have a weddin’ first,” Sonny adds, and Jesse beams over at him; he sees a dozen questions forming, but Amanda pours more water over her head, rinsing out the shampoo and buying them more time in the same moment.

Once she’s out of the bath, dressed in her pyjamas and ready for bed, Jesse throws her arms around his legs, hugging him tightly, “I’m glad you’re gonna have a wedding with Mommy,” she says, and tips her head back for a goodnight kiss before skipping to her bedroom as though she hadn’t essentially just told him to get on with proposing to her mother.

Amanda’s mother shows up unannounced at her apartment one Sunday morning, and it’s Sonny who answers the door - not expecting Beth Anne Rollins to be standing in the hallway, an impatient look on her face. “Oh,” is all she says when she clocks sight of him, her gaze travelling down the worn t-shirt and pyjama pants he’s wearing, his bare feet on the wooden floor. She pushes past him into the apartment, not greeting him or stopping for breath, “What are you doing here? Amanda finally admit she’s got a thing for you?”

He closes the door behind her and follows, not answering her questions. Billie scrambles down from the dining table to run and hug her grandmother, abandoning the cereal he’s spent the last ten minutes trying to coax her into eating, while she’d stubbornly refused and told him she wanted garlic bread for breakfast.

“Where is Amanda anyway?” Beth Anne asks, turning to look at him again. He feels self-conscious with her gaze on him, the soft clothes, untamed hair, shoeless Sonny Carisi was reserved for Amanda - and by extension the girls - certainly not for his possible future mother-in-law.

“Takin’ Frannie for a walk,” he says, “Jesse’s gone too,” he adds unnecessarily.

Beth Anne nods, still eyeing him with suspicion as she reaches into her handbag and pulls out a lollipop for Billie, who grabs at it gleefully.

“No-” he starts, but Beth Anne is already unwrapping the treat, and he sighs as Billie puts it in her mouth. “She hasn’t finished her breakfast,” he sighs.

“And who says you get to tell me what my granddaughter can eat?” Beth Anne says, smiling indulgently at Billie.

Sonny shakes his head, “I’m gonna… if you’re here I’m gonna get dressed,” he slips away to the bedroom, taking jeans and a shirt from the drawer he now has in Amanda’s dresser. While he changes he hears the sounds of Amanda’s return - Frannie barking, Jesse yelling a greeting to her grandmother. He hears murmuring as Amanda questions Beth Anne’s impromptu visit, and when he returns Amanda and her mother are at opposite ends of the kitchen, Amanda leaning back against the counter with an unimpressed look on her face.

“And then he tries to tell me not to give Billie candy-”

Amanda shakes her head, “He's right. It’s barely 9am, Momma.”

“Well, is he your boyfriend now or not?”

“Momma,” Amanda starts, but cuts herself off when she spots him hovering just beyond the kitchen, she gives him a warm smile, “We’re together, that’s all that matters,” she says, meeting his eye - all she feels and all that goes unsaid held in her gaze for him to see.

They fill in the disclosure paperwork that evening; they don’t have to just yet; they’ve still got time, Sonny’s been keeping the deadline in his head, but Amanda leaves him on the couch and goes out into the entryway where her work bag is; she returns a moment later, a manila folder in her hands that she passes over to him as she sits down. The form inside is mostly filled out - all their basic information already there in Amanda’s handwriting, the only empty boxes are Date of Disclosure, and Nature of Relationship.

“Time to make it official?” he asks, and she pokes his arm gently.

“It’s already official, Carisi,” she says, “Unless you’re thinking otherwise.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head at her, “You got a pen?”

“We’ve got to decide what to write in that box,” she tells him tapping the Nature of Relationship box with the pen she’s just grabbed. “Whatever we’re calling this,” she gestures between the two of them.

“According to Jesse, I’m your future husband,” he says, only half-joking.

Amanda just laughs at him, “I think you’d need to write fiancé,” she says, “But you’re not getting off that lightly - you need to propose to me yourself,” she tells him; she glances away as she adds, “Not yet, though.”

Someday, he thinks, leaning over, a hand reaching for her face, turning her back towards him so that he can kiss her; she lets him, kissing him right back for a minute or so before she puts one palm to his chest, pushing him back from her, “Carisi, let’s finish this first.”

He sighs as he pulls away, but it’s worth it not to have missed the impatient smirk on her face.

“I got it,” he tells her, resting the sheet of paper on his knee as he adds one word to the empty box. Partners.

[sigillaria-svt]

Apartment Dates

One-Shot Scenario

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x Reader

Word Count: 1,789

Genre: Fluff, slice of life ▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

You put your bag down on the sofa, looking around at the apartment that you haven’t visited in almost half a year. Due to your work schedule, it has been a bit difficult to meet each other. Now that you finally managed to convince your boss to give you a weekend off, you spend the day at his apartment.

You lay on the sofa and stare at him.

"Just as soft as when you last visited, right?" he says cheerfully. "Did you miss me?"

"Of course, I couldn't have survived without you," you smile. "Can I get a hug?"

He laughs and hugs you. "It's been too long," he says.

You sigh. "Too long is an understatement, it's been months. I really, really miss spending time with you."

He frowns and hugs you tightly. "I'm sorry, I should've visited you sooner."

You sigh again. "And get in trouble for sneaking out again? The last time you did that, your manager almost went crazy.”

He laughs.

You say "Let's go and make lunch. I heard you've been learning how to cook pasta recently. "

"Yeah, I learned how to make pasta from Joshua.” He smiles. “I’m still learning, don’t get your hopes up. I think I still have some ingredients left from the last time Joshua and Jeonghan came over.”

"How about we head to the supermarket nearby? Let’s get snacks for later.”

He lets out a small groan. “But we just got here…”

You hold his hand and look up at him. “Cookies and cream ice cream? Please?”

After a big sigh, he grabs his bag and hurries over to the front door.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” You say with a wide smile.

You quickly get up from the sofa and the both of you walk out to the grocery store nearby. You hold on to his elbow as you walk, looking around at the bustling city. On your way to the store, you start to reflect on your relationship.

You never thought that you and Cheol would end up together when you first met. To be honest, you hated each other's guts because neither of you wanted to back down. It wasn't until later on that you realized that he had a great sense of love and protection for his friends. As the leader, he had to make sure that he stood his ground, but only because he had to do what was best for the team.

Later on, you figured out he was a kind person who just likes to have fun. You knew he would be the first one to help you out if you were in trouble because that's just the kind of person he is. When you messed up a job a few years back, it was Cheol that came running in the middle of the night to help out. You would've never thought he would've done that and that's why you realized just how much you actually liked him.

The both of you arrive at the grocery store. You look around and see that there's hardly anyone else around.

"Let's go into the bakery section," you say. You browse through the pastries while Cheol grabs a few. "Let's get some garlic bread. It'll taste great with the pasta. "

"Yeah, and it'll help me survive the garlic breath I'll have for a week," he laughs.

You and Cheol look at each other and laugh as you both find the garlic bread aisle.

"Oh come on, you're not going to have garlic breath for that long."

"I sure will!" he laughs again, "You’ll be tasting garlic bread for the entire week too.”

He winks at you.

"What?" You say, slightly flustered.

"Let's get some ice cream.” He grins as he heads to the ice cream aisle, satisfied at his attempt to rile you up.

"What are you talking about?"

He leans in and whispers into your ear. "We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You can't help but blush at the thought. It doesn't help that you always seem to wear your heart on your sleeve. The thought of this makes you feel embarrassed and vulnerable. But with him being the way he is, you always expect him to do something weird like this so you don't really know how to react.

You try to not smile or make eye contact and look down as you grab the pint of mint chip. "Let's get out of here."

"I got you a bit excited, didn't I?" He said teasingly. "You're so shy. I'll have to work on that."

"Shut up," you say, not wanting to have this conversation for multiple reasons.

The both of you make your way to get the snack aisle. However, Cheol's hands never seem to leave your waist, making you even more flustered. You want to pull away, but you also don't. He's being especially close, even more than how he was this morning. You got shy whenever he did this in public, but he seems to enjoy getting a rise out of you.  He gives you a small smirk when he sees how red your face has become. Although you missed him so much, you never seem to get used to public acts of affection.

“You’re going to be mine for the rest of the weekend.” He says

"Don't say that in public, what if someone heard you?!" You try to hush him.

"What's wrong, are you ashamed of how much you miss me?"

"No! I just... don't say things like that out loud!"

You two eventually get to the counter and Cheol takes out his wallet to pay. He takes out enough money to pay for everything.

“You’re paying for all of it?” You ask.

“Why not? I’ve got money to spend.” He looks over at you and nods. “If you want to pay for anything, you can do it later at the apart—”

You pinch his side and give the cashier an awkward smile. The cashier puts the food into two bags and gives them to you.

"Thank you."

The both of you make your way back to the apartment. "You're welcome," he says with a wink as you both walk out of the store.

When you arrive back at the apartment, you put the ice cream in the fridge as Cheol prepares the ingredients for your lunch. The scent of garlic and onions fill the apartment, making your stomach grumble. You walk into the kitchen, seeing Cheol chopping up the garlic and onions. You roll up your sleeves and help him with boiling the pasta.

The whole time he's flirting with you, he begins to move closer to you.

"Why are you acting like this?" You ask him.

He takes a deep breath and speaks, "Why not? Don't you like it?"

You stop what you're doing and stare at him.

He continues, "I thought you said you wanted to spend the weekend with me. If that’s the case, let’s spend it like we’re spending two months together.”

"No... It's not that I don't like it. I love you, I really do.” You couldn’t help the thought that’s been disturbing you for the past few months. You didn’t want to bring it up because you knew that it would just make everything awkward.

Still, you take the shot. You love him too much to hide what you really feel from him. “Don’t you ever get tired of me?”

"What do you mean?" He says while stirring the pasta slowly.

"It's because of me that we haven't met in months. I was the one who decided on my work schedule, and even when I didn't have work, I stayed at home all day to sleep. "

He stops stirring the pot and looks at you. He then goes back to stirring.

"If I wasn't ready to deal with all that, I would have broken up with you a few months ago when you first told me about your new schedule," he says. "But I didn't."

You say nothing to this, it's obvious he's willing to put up with a lot because of how much he loves you.

"I love you," he says as he gets closer to hug you.

"I love you too."

He puts his arms around you and lays his head on your shoulder. Over the next few hours, you and Cheol enjoy your time together. What was meant to be a peaceful lunch turned out into a rollercoaster of topics. You talked about everything that you couldn’t over the phone. At some point, you shared about this coworker that’s been getting on your nerves, almost riling Cheol for a fight. There was so much to talk about, and yet so little time.

Eventually, the both of you had to clean up after three hours of talking. After cleaning up, both of you snuggle over at the sofa as you watched a movie. The two of you laugh when certain scenes came up and you hit him when certain ones came up. You didn't really realize movies could make you laugh so hard, but you enjoyed it. But to be honest, you only enjoyed it so much because it was with Cheol.  Without him, you wouldn't really find anything about this movie all that funny.

After the movie, you and Cheol head over to his room to sleep. You drift off to sleep with a smile on your face. After a few hours, you wake up. You look at your alarm clock. It's 8 AM.

You look over to your right and find Cheol soundly sleeping.  You hesitate to wake him up, happy to see him sleeping like a log. A loud buzzing noise makes you jump up. You look around and find it to be your alarm clock.

You quickly turn it off, but Cheol ends up awake. He looks at you with a smile.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." He says, half-awake.

"I should be saying the same to you," you respond, sitting up. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Mmmm." He replies, pulling you back down to the bed for more snuggles. “Five more minutes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. For such a tall man, he was always like a child when he just got up from bed. You decide to spend the rest of the morning with him in bed.

“What am I going to do with you, Choi Seungcheol?” You say as you stroke his hair.

He snuggles more into you at the sound of his name from your lips. In moments like this, it made you remember why you fought to keep this relationship in the first place. You wouldn’t trade him for anything else in the world. - END -

[abarbaricyalp]

Vampire/vampire hunter au? Sam/bucky or sam/steve/Bucky <333

Omgggggg I know you've been waiting for, like, six hundred years for this. And I know it was supposed to be a drabble.

But.

I like monsters.

I'm putting the first section here, on account of it's 16,000+ words total. The link to AO3 will be in the reblog

Put Your Teeth Into My Beating Heart

“Man, what the hell are these things?” Sam asked as he wrenched another stake out of a decaying ribcage. Moonlight streamed down the stake until it hit the dark blood on the end. Not as gory as a fight between a handful of vampires and two hunters could be. Still unpleasant.

“Ancient,” Steve said while he wiped down the shield with holy water, ground garlic, and silver flakes. “They’re not pure bloods, they were turned. But it looks like they were turned closer to Varnae than Morbius. Much closer.”

Sam pulled another stake free and then started collecting the much smaller silver spear-heads. “So why are they emerging now? Clearly they have no preservation skills. They ran right at us with no attack plan.”

“Could be anything. A decoy. A mind-controlled army. Something that’s been slumbering and has only just been awakened.”

Sam’s lips curled up in distaste and he finished sheathing the stakes. No sense in cleaning them yet. There was always more to do before the sun rose. “Why is it only the ancient ones that slumber? Why can’t they all decide to take a really long nap right now?”

Steve laughed, though it was not as light as Sam had heard it before, and clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Next time we find ourselves in front of the Council, you can suggest that to them.”

Sam kneeled down to break off bone fragments and teeth to take back with them. There were usually answers in vampire bodies, if someone knew how to read the text. Luckily, Sam knew vampire bodies very well.

He and Steve had been hunting vampires for years now. Sam had to admit, a walking World War II icon was not who he expected as an ally in vampire hunting. To be fair, though, he hadn’t ever really thought about vampire hunting in the first place. He’d only been looking for one. He found Steve instead.

Steve seemed to be looking for all of them with a wild sort of vengeance driving him. At first, Sam thought Steve had been bitten, between the strength and the regeneration and the fact he still looked twenty five after almost a century on ice. But that was just the super soldier serum, which was a good thing because Steve hated vampires and Sam was pretty sure Steve wouldn’t still be around if he’d been turned.

The extent of Sam’s knowledge about Steve’s history with vampires was that Dracula had something to do with the battlefields of World War II. They had teamed up to keep armies off of the grounds of Transylvania. Then Dracula and some mad scientist named Ravencroft began experiments on soldiers and that was around the time Steve vowed to stop all vampires. Sam assumed the three gouges that ran down the length of Steve’s face contributed to his hatred as well.

Sam was a soldier. He knew the look of a person who had lost someone important to them. He just couldn’t get Steve to say who it was or what had happened.

Then again, Sam had his own secrets, so he didn’t push too hard.

“Hey, Steve, come look at these hearts,” Sam called and wrenched a punctured one free.

“What about them?” Steve asked from across the room, coming over slowly so he could examine each body between him and Sam, as if he could see hearts through skin and ribcages.

“They’re full of blood. But there’s none in the rest of the bodies. I thought they just hadn’t fed when I first saw them but…” Sam dragged a silver knife down the arm of the vampire in front of him and found only skin and bone and dry muscle. “This just makes them easier to kill. No chance of reanimation when the stake is removed.”

Steve hummed and scratched his neck absently. He did it all the time. Sam thought he was checking for puncture wounds. “I’d say husks, but you don’t have to feed husks.”

“What about mules?” Sam asked suddenly.

“What are mules?”

“I mean, what if they’re just being used to move blood from one place to another.”

“That’s a lot of work in a world where blood banks and the technology for them exists freely,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, but think of how often we’ve staked out blood banks to catch a dozen vampires in the act at a time. All hunters know to do that. Ambulances have stakes in them now. The world is evolving. Maybe vampires need to too.”

“If they’re mules, where are their shepherds?” Steve asked gravely. The thought sent a chill down Sam’s spine. “And why use ancient vampires?”

“If they’re reanimated, maybe someone found a mass grave. Besides, the longer something’s dead, the easier it is to control it. Or, like you said, they came up on a sleeping nest and overtook them all at once.”

Steve grunted and kicked a body. It dissolved into ash.

Something flashed behind Steve and by the time Sam really understood what he was seeing, he didn’t even have a chance to cry out. He leapt forward, putting his body between Steve and the vampire melting out of the shadows.

“Sam! No!” Steve shouted as the vampire tackled Sam down onto the ground. He didn’t have time to worry about his head hitting the tile because the next second, the vampire’s teeth were in his neck. It hurt like a bitch every time.

It hurt more when Steve tackled the vampire off of Sam and the vampire took a not insubstantial chunk of Sam’s skin with it. Sam was just about to throw himself into the fight, to protect Steve again, when he realized the vampire was spitting out his blood, staring at Sam wide eyed. The hands on Steve’s shoulders were only pushing him away, disregarded.

Steve also wasn't fighting. His wide eyes were focused on the vampire. It was a beautiful creature. Eyes so blue, Sam felt like he was getting frostbite just looking at them. Long hair that curled against his neck. Pale skin with blue veins snaking down strong features and long, elegant fingers. Lips so red-- Oh, right. That would be blood.

“Bucky?” Steve breathed.

The vampire looked away from Sam long enough to scan Steve’s features. “Who the hell is Bucky?” he asked and finished shoving his way out of Steve’s hold. “And what the fuck are you?” he asked Sam. “You’re not the Daywalker, but you’re not all vampire either. Why does your heart beat?”

“What? Buck-- Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Don’t you remember who you are?”

Again, the vampire--Bucky, apparently, he was much sexier before Sam knew that--tore his eyes from Sam like it was the last thing he wanted to be bothered to do. “I don’t remember anything,” he said, like he’d said it a million times. “I don’t remember anything from before I was born.”

“Turned,” Steve said and held onto Bucky’s shoulders tightly. “You were turned. You were born a human, in 1917. Your parents’ names were George and Winnifried.”

“This information isn’t important to me,” Bucky said and wrenched Steve’s hands off of him.

“You have a metal arm,” Sam said and Steve jumped like it was the first time he was seeing it too. Sam kept a wary eye on him, trying to remember the stories Steve had told him on long night stakeouts and over painful breakfasts the mornings after brutal hunts. Bucky tickled something at the back of his head, but he couldn’t bring it forward. Mostly he was thinking about the blood seeping between his fingers on his neck.

“Observant. A vampire hybrid and you’ve got eyes. Wonders never cease,” Bucky said drily. “I assume you weren’t moving these things,” he said, and kicked a vampire body the same way Steve had. Again, it collapsed into ash.

“No,” Sam said evenly. “Which I assume means you weren’t either.”

“I was trying to track them down,” Bucky answered. “To kill them,” he added, as if that wasn’t clear.

“A vampire vampire hunter,” Sam said.

“We’re a fine pair.”

“What are you talking about, Buck? Sam’s human. Even more than me.”

Bucky barked out a laugh and Sam saw his fangs retract in the split second. When Bucky stepped towards him, Sam stepped back, which only made him pull an unimpressed face before he reached for Sam’s hand at his neck and pulled it away.

“It doesn’t work that fast,” Sam said, though he knew his skin had stitched together at least a little bit. His neck itched like crazy.

Bucky produced a cloth from one of the half dozen pockets in his jacket and wiped away the blood from Sam’s neck. It did not start bleeding again. Of course it didn’t, why would anything ever go his way?

“Sam, what the hell?” Steve asked and stepped over too, running his fingers over the fine skin where the wound had started to heal.

“Your friend is a hybrid,” Bucky said and shoved the cloth back into a pocket before the blood had finished dripping off of it. “But not one that I’ve ever seen.”

“Sam…” Steve said, looking to his friend for answers that Sam didn’t have. Unlike Bucky, he knew who he was before he was turned. It was the turning he didn’t remember.

“I just know it was the Claws that found me,” he said. “Or, at least, a handful of them. My partner got shot down, I went after him. Landed hard, got disoriented, got picked up by these weird things with total body wraps and orange eyes.”

“On account of the sun,” Bucky pointed out.

“Shut up, vampire. I was delirious by then and I don't remember anything else until I woke up in a pop-up military hospital by myself. Everyone else was dead and there was an icebox of blood bags next to me. That’s all the introduction into this life that I got.”

“What the fuck?” Steve said. “How did you fail to mention that?”

“Well, Steven, if you recall the first time I saw you, you were stabbing a vial of holy water into a vampire’s eye. Forgive me if I didn’t want to come clean immediately.”

“Badass,” Bucky said.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Steve snapped at him and then looked back at Sam. “What are you then? Why--How did you know you weren’t a full vampire?”

Sam shifted from foot to foot. “My heart still beats. And I can drink the blood of other vampires.”

Bucky’s head snapped up and it was his turn to take a step back. “Stay the fuck away from me,” he said.

“You already tried to eat me, asshole,” Sam snapped.

“No, I was trying to kill you. I had no desire to drink from you.”

“ I can touch silver. The sun doesn’t affect me as much,” Sam continued, ignoring the sexy but ultimately very irritating vampire next to him.

“A lot of hybrids take and leave the original characteristics. But I’ve only ever seen a beating heart in the Living Vampire and his creations. And he’s not actually a vampire,” Bucky said. Those light eyes landed on Sam again, thoughtful, studying.

“I’m not like Morbius,” Sam said tightly.

All three of them snapped their gazes to the door and the shadow pacing outside it. “We can continue this conversation later,” Steve said, face hardening for the encroaching battle. Sam turned to hand Bucky a wooden stake, a wordless truce, but the vampire was gone by the time the door burst inwards.

Again, there's more to this story. Much more. Link in the reblog.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mission of Mercy: Thirty-Six

“Sam,” you call, as he walked through the house from the bathroom, “Make sure none of those knuckle heads throw their back out trying to set up that tripod.”

“On it,” he said, glancing out the Cabin’s screen door to see Joe and Cooksy having a very animated argument about how to set up the aforementioned piece of equipment.

Natasha and Sharon watched him go and Natasha turned back towards you, “Jesus Christ.” You were sweating and Natasha was fairly certain you’d started cooking some time around 5am and hadn’t stopped since. “How?”

You shrug and wipe the sweat out of your eyes with a towel slung over your shoulder, “It used to be my mom, my grandma and I. Then Grandma died and mom stopped coming so…Here we are.”

You’d like to cry. You’re tired and your back hurts and you can feel the muscle cramps from standing in one spot for so long trying to get everything done. But you don’t, you just resume chopping to try and get things on the stove so you can finish things over the fire. Camping is work. Something no one else really seemed to understand.

Sharon drifted out to go be with Sam and you take a deep breath, tossing your knife into the sink with more force than was probably strictly necessary before adding the onions, tomato, and garlic into your waiting, perfectly seasoned cast iron pot.

Natasha squeezed behind you to get to the sink and started washing. She wasn’t entirely sure if you wanted help but. She didn’t blame you for being irritated by the male voices outside bellowing laughter while you were stuck inside trying to feed everyone you’d planned to feed AND the people that had decided to come along.

She couldn’t feel the tension in the air but she’d worked with you long enough to see it ratcheting down on you. It was like someone was twisting a corkscrew down your neck. And she’d be lying if she said it didn’t break her heart a little. She wondered, in the back of her mind, how long it had been like this on these little excursions. And if it was always like this or just the added pressure of having to also feed gods, supersoldiers, and other sundry heros.

______

You stood on the porch watching the goings on for a minute and sighed. There was still cornbread to be made but at least that you could do outside. It was hotter than hell in the kitchen and the breeze off the lake felt like heaven as it cooled the sweat on your forehead. You hefted the pot slightly closer to your body and started down the steps carefully.

“Move,” you snap. You’re hot and this pot is heavy and you really don’t have the patience to be polite and wait for someone to listen to you.

Sam started and pulled Sharon out of your way quickly to let you through and you sigh, starting across the grass to adjust your fire and get the chili on properly. You can feel people watching you and it rankles. Honestly with all the strong ass men that have been drinking and laying around all day, you’d appreciate it if someone would have at least ASKED if you wanted the extra set of hands.

You wrestle the cauldron sized pot into place and wipe your forehead on your forearm, swaying slightly on your feet. “Can someone-” you start the sentence but. You can’t really seem to find the rest of the words. No one’s looking at you. They’ve all gone back to doing… whatever. And all you want to do is cry. There’s still so much left to do. And you realize that if you wanted to work this hard all weekend you could have just stayed home holed up in your office.

But. Your boys like corn bread. And it isn’t their fault that Tony rented out what feels like half the lake. So. You turn and go to get the things you need to make it. Just the way your grandma did. Because she learned from her mom. And so on and so forth. It was the only thing Joe ever asked for and you were going to make sure he got it.

Bucky watched you disappear back into the house and frowned. He’d not seen you all day. Not since you slipped out of bed to make sure Cooksy got his pancakes and there was breakfast waiting on everyone else. But even from a distance, you looked wrecked. And he didn’t miss that you were limping just a little. He wasn’t sure if it was your old injuries or a new one. But he whistled to Lucy all the same and started back up the beach.

_____

He stopped at the kitchen door and watched you for a minute, watching you mix batter and talk to the dog who was sitting very patiently to have her ears rubbed just like she liked.

“Are you having fun?” you ask, kneeling for just a minute to lavish attention on her, “Out there exploring? I’m gonna have to check you for ticks tonight before bed.”

“You okay?” Bucky watched you look up and his stomach twists. You look hot and tired. And even Lucy seems to know that all is not right. Her tail, which usually wags nonstop when you talk to her is still and she’s frantically burrowing into your chest like she can will you into feeling better if she wipes enough eye boogers on your shirt.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, catching yourself on the counter as you waver on your feet trying to stand up straight.

“Now say that and don’t fall over,” he said folding his arms.

“I’m not arguing with you, I’ve got too much to do,” you tell him, pouring batter very carefully into your freshly greased pan.

“Sweetheart,” he started.

He wanted to put an arm around you and make you sit down but when you brush past him, pan in hand, he had no choice but to follow you. And watch as you knelt by your fire to make sure everything was exactly how you wanted it to be.

“Something smells good, kid,” Joe said, lowering himself into a camp chair with a groan

You make a soft sound but otherwise, you don’t answer. It’s still hot, this close to the fire but at least you can feel some of the breeze of the lake at your back. And you’re not standing up. That’s good. Standing hurts. Kneeling like this hurts too but at least it hurts new muscles.

“Cornbread is an art,” you explain to Lucy, scritching her neck.

“Damn straight,” Joe agreed, chuckling when the little dog waddled her way over to investigate her pop up dish for treats.

Bucky came and took a spot on your other side and leaned over to kiss your head. Your hair is damp with sweat and he can see the tremors in your hands when you reach out to carefully adjust pans. “Thirsty?” he asked softly.

“And hot. And hungry. And tired.” you answer.

“Baby-” Bucky starts. But he stops when you shake your head. You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want anything. You just want to be done. And you want to go home. Bucky gets to his feet and kisses your head again, going to get dishes and find an ice pack to put on your back when you decide to stop being grumpy and let him help you.

By the time the corn bread is all done and the chili has simmered into it’s perfect state, fireflies are drifting over the grass. You straighten up slowly and set the last pan on the wooden table with a clang.

And that’s the last thing you remember.

At least until you roll over and dry heave into the grass for about a minute.

_________

Bucky saw you waver for a second and he’d never been more thankful to be fast in his life. He didn’t quite manage to catch you, but he did manage to keep you from smacking your head on the concrete right behind you.

He isn’t sure who handed him a cold cloth and he honestly doesn’t really care. All he knows is that he’s kicking himself for not sticking closer to the house. And that there are several team mates he’d personally like to strangle.

“Easy,” he cautioned, wiping tears and snot off your face with a clean handkerchief and putting an arm behind your back to help you sit up.

“ ‘m okay,” you protest weakly.

“Get her inside,” Nat said quietly, nudging Bucky. Most of the party hadn’t really seen what happened. And Nat figured you’d probably like it to stay that way.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Bucky murmured, nodding.

You did. Too disoriented and tired to do anything else. And Bucky carried you carefully into the bedroom that you were sharing, laying you on the cot. You whimper just slightly and Bucky takes a second to run practiced hands over your limbs feeling for anything broken.

“Easy,” he repeated, putting a hand on your chest to keep you still. “Someone bring me some cold water. And rags.”

Your skin was the wrong temperature. You were too hot and too cold all at the same time. Heat exhaustion then, not heat stroke, he decided and pressed a kiss against your forehead. “You gotta take it easy,” he scolded gently, taking the ice water and a stack of wash cloths from Joe and Natasha before shooing them out.

__________

Bucky sat on the floor by the bed and watched you sleep, stroking your hair. He was afraid to sleep next to you, worried that you’d get too hot. He hadn’t even wanted to let Lucy sleep with you but the poor puppy had cried like someone was killing her when he shut the bedroom door.

“You’re not doing anything tomorrow,” he muttered. “All you’re gonna do is lay in the shade and watch those chuckle fucks figure out how to feed everyone.”

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 24

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger!

Keeping busy makes the day go by.

Martin and Jon discuss household chores.

Martin took great care to not make too much noise as he walked down the stairs. He still avoided the creakiest steps, and down he went as quiet as the house would allow.

He didn’t wonder whether the night before had been a dream. His dreams weren’t like that, so vivid and specific. They weren’t narratives he could make sense of, if he remembered them at all. On waking, he was usually left with the anxious certainty that he had made a horrible mistake or had forgotten to do something important. But that night had been real.

Still, when he made it to the ground floor he peeked in the downstairs toilet to make sure Jon’s clothes were hanging on the shower rod along with the small bag he’d been carrying. Those items were present. What he didn’t find was the seal skin.

Martin continued to the living room door. Curled up into a tight ball, Jon remained buried in the blanket and couch cushions. Martin let loose the breath he’d been holding. He continued on to the kitchen to make his breakfast in silence.

It was nothing to dwell on. Jon must’ve stowed the coat somewhere while Martin was asleep. They hadn’t known each other that long, so it wouldn’t do to keep something so important openly hanging in the shower when Jon had had such a scare with the thing. He’d trusted Martin enough to tell him the truth. It didn’t matter that Jon had squirreled the skin away in the dead of night.

Had Jon believed what he’d said about his mother leaving? Was it suspicious that she was gone?

Toast popped up hot and ready, making him jump. He looked back into the living room, checking if the noise had been enough to wake Jon, but the man was sound asleep in his little cocoon. Perhaps all of the caution wasn’t necessary with someone who was sleeping well for the first time in weeks. Longer, if his habit of calling without any thought to the time was any indication. 

He should’ve checked on Jon. Even if he hadn’t had reason to suspect anything it’s what he would’ve appreciated in Jon’s place. Just because he hadn’t felt like making the effort-

Would it have helped, though, if Tim and Sasha were ready to cover things up? What excuse could they have given except that Jon had lost his mobile or switched numbers and hadn’t given out his new one yet? He hadn’t had a real reason to pry into Jon’s business. A barely established friendship didn’t count.

He could have tried anyway. Hopefully letting Jon stay would make up for it, even if there was no bed to offer.

While he wasn’t against letting him use his own bed in theory, Martin knew he was too bloody tall to sleep comfortably on the old couch all night. If things went on long enough it could be discussed, but it was better for both of them to get sleep.

Hers didn’t count.

Thinking that far ahead wouldn’t do any good, so he pushed his mess of thoughts to one side and focused on eating breakfast and scribbling onto a small piece of paper.

‘Jon,

Help yourself to food. Be back in the evening.

-Martin’

Martin considered the note for a moment, then scribbled his number at the bottom. 

‘For emergencies.’

What emergencies he could help with he couldn’t say, but he left his number all the same. The chance of Jon having it memorized was slim to none and it wouldn’t have been fair to keep Jon with no contact at all. It was the best excuse Martin could hope for.

He gently laid his plate in the sink in one final attempt to keep the silence, and got ready to leave.

--

Jon didn’t call him at any point that day. And rightly so, following prior agreements of safety and secrecy. It was fine, no calls meant no emergencies, but as the hours passed it was easy to forget the outside world and its greater goings-on. The window on the front door wasn’t much of a reminder, not with how tiny and far away it was, and not with the crappy weather blocking any light other than what could seep through the endless grey. 

The wall clock was placed in an awkward location from where he sat, so timekeeping felt like guesswork. He’d stopped checking the clock often to avoid the disappointment of finding himself only five minutes closer to leaving. It could be any day of the week if he kept his mobile out of sight. 

But he could feel lunch time. He could feel when he was to climb the stairs and complete his tasks by muscle memory. And he knew in his bones when he was meant to leave.

In the dark of the evening the timelessness clung to him. It wasn’t until he got to the bottom of the cliffs and saw the windows lit up from the inside of his home that he felt himself settle back into the present. There was a person in his house, and for a while he stood back by the forest path and stared at the little square of light that was his kitchen window. 

He felt like an intruder, a spy peering in through his own kitchen window from afar, and it took a particularly large gust of rain-splattering wind in his face to get him moving again.

It was his house. There was just a person in it other than himself.

The smell of cooked food was the first thing he noticed when he walked inside, even before he saw the small and scuffed brown shoes on the rug, or the thin jacket on the end hook he normally used. Something was being cooked, fried, and he spent a minute on the front rug not knowing how to proceed.

From the kitchen, he heard a tentative, “Martin? Is that you?”

“Oh! Yeah, it’s me.” Finally placing the damned coat somewhere, he slipped off his shoes and walked toward the kitchen. 

Jon peeked his head through the kitchen doorway, wariness falling from his face as he saw Martin for himself. “Barely heard the door open over the wind outside. How were things today?”

“Fine, I guess? What’s-” Martin looked over Jon’s head and saw a pan hissing on the stove, alongside a boiling pot of water. “What’re you making?”

“Something easy and not made of fish,” Jon replied, heading toward the stove top. “Hope you don’t mind, I used some of the chicken in the freezer and box pasta. Should be enough for the both of us.”

Head running on empty, Martin could only nod and take a seat at the kitchen table, threading and unthreading his fingers in front of him. It felt wrong to be sitting there in his own kitchen without a task, but Jon had already put in the time and effort to make dinner. Still, his hands were painfully idle in his lap.

He said quietly, “Smells good.”

From the stove, Jon raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes on the pan in front of him. “I’d hope so. Can’t go much more basic than this.” He lifted the pan to show breaded chicken frying away.

“Still, it’s nice of you. Thanks.”

“Mm.” He flipped the stove off and went to strain the noodles. “Anyway, now that I’m awake, thank you for letting me stay the night. Hopefully this helps make up for my sudden appearance.” 

“It’s no trouble. Would’ve liked more warning, though.”

Jon frowned. “Well… I would’ve called if I could.”

It didn’t feel like a purposeful accusation, but it stung anyway. “Can’t change things now. Speaking of calling, though… Did you want me to get in touch with Tim or Sasha about this? I know you said you wanted to wait until they were here, but I don’t know when that’ll be.” 

“No, not yet.” Jon placed a strainer full of noodles back over the pot and leaned against the counter. “Call me over-cautious, but I don’t trust anything traceable right now. I’d considered calling Georgie over your phone line to pass on a message, but I don’t think her going in a second time would fly under the radar.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Martin said, “So until they get here…”

“Until then, I’d like to stay here. We can explain things to Tim and Sasha, figure out your situation, and then-” His face fell. “I’m not sure what comes after that.”

In the silence that followed, Jon busied himself with assembling two plates of food, turned in such a way that Martin couldn’t see his expression. It was an uncomfortable quiet that ate away at the composure he’d managed to pull together throughout the work day. 

When Jon set the plate down in front of him, he jumped in his seat.

Jon’s brows scrunched together. “Are you all right?”

“Just… tired, is all.”

“Right. So-” Jon set his own plate down and sat on the other side of the table, a perfectly natural choice of seating. “We didn’t talk for long last night. I know part of what you’re going through isn’t- it’s not by business, but if I’m going to help then I need to know if you’ve noticed any changes, with the lighthouse or with- with other things.”

Martin stared down at his dinner. It was plain, breaded chicken with noodles. Smelled a bit of lemon and garlic. 

“Everything’s fine. Nothing’s changed besides what you already know.” 

It was fine. The taste was about what he would’ve expected from the smell, and it was better than anything he’d been planning to make with his remaining energy. It was a nice thing for Jon to do. He forced each bite down through the sting of his throat.

“It tastes all right?” Jon asked casually. 

Martin nodded with a raise of his eyebrows, taking another bite of chicken.

“Good. I’m not out of practice.” 

After that, the only sounds remaining were those of clinking silverware and the beating of rain on the kitchen window.

It should’ve been nice, but as Martin ate the pain in his throat only grew, spreading through his head and upper chest. It was nice that Jon had made dinner, and he’d kept it simple enough that even Martin could pay it back in the future. Something as tiny as this shouldn’t have made him feel anything other than full. Instead his head pounded behind his eyes.

“You… You don’t have to eat it,” Jon said. When Martin looked up he was met with an expression of mild exasperation. “It’s fine if you don’t like it. I’m not holding you at gunpoint. Though if I’m going to be living here we should probably settle what we each don’t like.”

“What?” God, that wasn’t a pleasant sound, especially with food still in his mouth. Martin swallowed down hard, realized he had nothing to drink, and stood up. “I need some water. You?”

Thrown off somewhat, Jon sputtered, “N- Well, yes, but-”

“Great.” Martin strode across the kitchen and grabbed two glasses from the cabinet to fill in the sink. As he held one under the faucet, he noticed there were no dirty dishes underneath.

From behind he could hear Jon shift in his chair. “It’s really not a big deal if you don’t like it.”

With two full glasses he returned to the table, taking a sip of his own and then setting them both down. “What is? No, right, yeah, dinner tastes fine. Don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Martin, that’s not very convincing when you were just staring at it like it was a lump of mud.”

“I wasn’t-” He took his seat and reached internally for some excuse with no luck. What kind of faces had he been making? Reaching for his fork, he said, “It’s fine. Good. It’s good.”

“There’s something else, then.”

“I… The food is good. It was very nice of you to make it.” His throat went tight and he said no more.

Frowning at his meal, Jon said defeatedly, “Okay. If you say so.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence. If he made any other sour faces then Jon ignored them, and Martin did his best to be more aware of what his eyes and mouth were doing while eating as quickly as he could manage. 

It wasn’t soon enough, but he finally finished and put his plate in the sink. God, he’d barely gotten home and was ready to run upstairs and hide away for the night. Was eating dinner with someone always so exhausting? The answer came easily to mind, but this felt worse than meals spent with stubborn silence or bitter exchanges. 

Jon had wanted to be nice, and-

“So, we should discuss… things. Not the food-” Jon said from directly behind him, dirty dishes in hand. He inched around Martin to place them in the sink. “-but we need to talk about how it’s going to work, me being here. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

Martin cleared his throat, taking a step to the side to give Jon some room. “You’re not a nuisance. You didn’t have much of a choice in this, if any.”

“And you didn’t ask to have me knocking in your door. Here, let me-” Jon rolled up his sleeves and got to work scrubbing the dishes.

Martin bristled. “You don’t have to-”

“I’m the one who made dinner.”

Martin’s face scrunched. “I don’t think that’s how it works. You made dinner, so I should clean up.” He watched with some irritation as Jon continued his task.

“Next time, then. I already got a head start this morning.”

An even better reason for Martin to be the one to wash up after dinner, but that ship had sailed without him apparently. 

“Look, I’m-” He pushed through the tightness in his chest. “I’m glad you’re here, all right? Better than you getting eaten by a shark or something.” 

Jon squinted at him. “So… we’re fine?”

“What? Yeah, ‘course we’re fine!” In spite of everything, a laugh crept into Martin’s voice. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

A troubled look crossed Jon’s face. “No, you’re right. The last few weeks got to me I think, not seeing people.” 

With some hesitation, Jon continued, “If it makes you feel better, I’m glad to have something to do.” He paused, sudsy glass in his hand. “Sitting around all day doesn’t come naturally to me, and I’ve been all but useless for weeks.”

Ah. Martin felt the indignation seep out of his jaw and shoulders, leaving him rather deflated all of a sudden. All that bristling on his part and Jon had only been bored to the point of doing chores.

“That’s... not your fault,” Martin replied quietly. He leaned back against the counter top and tapped his fingers on the rounded edges. “But okay. Sorry.”

Resuming the job at hand, Jon kept his eyes down and stayed quiet. There wasn’t much to wash off of the plates, but he was diligent in scrubbing down the frying pan until not a speck of grease remained. His fingertips began to prune.

Eventually, he spoke up. “As I was saying before, we should talk about me staying here because of situations like this. If you have… particularities with housekeeping, I should know.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “It’s not a- whatever, do what you like. I suppose it’s better to live with someone who keeps clean.”

“As much as the average person,” Jon said, rinsing off the last bit of soap from a plate. He reached out to grab a hand towel. “Don’t expect me to always be this eager for chores.”

“What, is the excitement wearing off already?” He’d been aiming for a light, teasing tone but ended with dry judgment.

“You know me, always looking for the next thrill,” he deadpanned.

Martin leaned back on the heels of his hands. “Jon, you’re a professional ghost hunter.”

Jon tossed the towel back onto the sink. “I am not. I research the paranormal and complete necessary field work.”

“By looking for static in recordings and breaking into buildings.”

“That’s not- your situation is a special case. I assure you, my regular days are based almost entirely around paperwork and fact-checking.” He walked into the living room and with a scowl plopped onto the couch. After a moment his mouth untwisted into a small frown. “They were, anyway.”

Martin followed behind and looked at him, looked at the lines on his forehead and under his eyes, at his bouncing knee. He looked better than he had the day before, but it would take more than a single good night to make up for weeks of wandering and disconnection. Another apology sat behind his own lips, but he let it die as the useless thing it was. 

There was one thing he could help with. Walking over to the ancient desk in the corner, he picked up a bulky old laptop from the drawer and brought it over to the couch with him. “Probably should’ve mentioned it in the note, but I do have wi-fi. Technically.” 

The laptop was old. He’d bought it for himself years back but with the weak signal he got it wasn’t easy to deal with, and in his mind the very concept of social media was never going to work for him. So, it was largely a clunky and underused alternative to his phone. It sat heavy on his lap and he remembered why he rarely bothered with it.

Jon’s eyebrows shot up, and he scooted closer on the seat. Voice dripping with relief, he said, “I’m shocked you can get a signal down here.” 

The sudden proximity made Martin’s heart skip. He opened the computer on his lap and focused on the screen. “Mind you it’s not good wi-fi, but it should help pass the time. Still has a disc drive as well.”

It took far longer than he would’ve liked for the thing to boot up, but against all odds it reached the desktop with its default background and sparse folders. He really hadn’t done much with the thing, had he? Perhaps when everything was done with he could sell it.

For the time being, though, Jon was clearly itching to get his hands on it, so after a quick check that it still connected to the internet he passed it over. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that he immediately hopped onto a site for sifting through journal articles, but Martin stifled a laugh. Whether pushed by professional diligence or personal interest, Jon was too engrossed to notice. 

With a small sense of accomplishment, Martin pushed himself onto his feet and moved toward the hall. He made it halfway across the room before he was noticed.

“You’re not going to bed already.” 

The tone of the sentence sat between incredulity and a statement of fact, and it gave Martin pause. When he glanced back, Jon was still looking at the laptop screen. 

“I mean… no, I was just going to get into pyjamas?”

“Okay. There was a short documentary on architecture I found when I was still doing research at my flat. It might be helpful to our ends.” He typed something and made a face. “It might also be complete bunk, but I should be able to track it down while you’re upstairs.”

It was enough of a dismissal that Martin could only say, “Oh. Um, all right?” Then he left the room in a hurry, as he apparently had things to do that night.

Back upstairs he went with a new if unexpected purpose to change out of his work clothes, still skipping the loudest steps as best he could.

Around the time he’d managed to slip on some flannel pyjama pants and an old t-shirt, tears had leaked from his eyes and then ceased almost immediately. There were no sobs to choke back, just streaks of warmth on his cheeks that dried as quickly as they’d formed.

He rubbed his face with the back of his hand, grateful that his eyes wouldn’t be red and puffy, and then walked back downstairs.