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[the-winds-of-destiny-xxx]

.

[hereforhalstead]

home.

Spencer Reid x reader fluff!

thank you SO much for the love on my first post, I’m so glad you liked it! Ill be honest, I started this with a completely different plot in mind but, here we are! Enjoy!

*****

5 days. That’s all it had been, but to him it felt like a lifetime. 

The more he thought about it, he realised, it was the longest you’d ever been apart.

You’d been asked to stay for a week in London with Garcia and Morgan to assist on a case that Emily so lovingly emailed over late last week. 

One minute it simply words on a screen in your inbox, the next you knew you were on a plane over the Atlantic.

Every night you and Spencer had spent as much time as possible on the phone, some evenings only getting 5 minutes but others being hours. But it still wasn’t enough.

You missed him. More than ever.

The case was tough and starting to take its toll on you, it felt never ending and you started to wonder when you’d actually be able to return to the place you called home.

The truth is, London was your actual home. Being born and raised there until your early 20s when you transferred over to the BAU unit and the rest was history.

Yes, it was nice to be back in familiar territories. Moaning about tourists blocking the pavements, stopping every 2 minutes to take photos of a bird sitting on a fence..

 The god awful weather still going strong as you were now on your 5th day of rain, wondering if you would actually see a glimpse of sun before you left.

But home wasn’t London anymore, it was wherever Spencer was. 

And he wasn’t here. 

****

You’d taken the papers back to your hotel room, the sheets all spread across the floor in a disorganised manner yet you still knew where everything was and that worked for you.

You were still in the same clothes that you had put on about 26 hours ago, cold coffee in hand, staring at the black text on the papers as if the answer would just jump out at you if you continued to do so.

Your phone ringing is what brought you out of your trance, letting out a loud yawn before answering it.

“How’s my favourite girl?”

Was all he said and it had you melting, bringing your knees to your chest as you leant back onto the bed.

“Hey Spence” you mumbled back, you could practically hear his smile on the other end of the line forming, just at the sound of your voice. 

“What time is it there?” You added 

“about 2 ish” 

Shit. That meant it was 6am for you, and you didn’t even realise. 

High praise for the blackout curtains in the room I suppose.

“And you’re still awake?” Your voice was sturn

“So are you?” He hit back. Fair play.

“I could’ve just woken up, you don’t know”

But he did. He knew you, sometimes better than you knew yourself.

“This is me you’re talking to baby, do you want me to hang up and ring back so you can see my name on the screen again?” 

Again, you could practically see how he would be sitting. Arm folded across his chest, either book still open in one hand or a hot cup of tea hooked onto his thumb. Smile as big as could be.

“Point taken” you mumbled 

“Tell me about your day” he was quick to respond, you hated yourself for how there was a quick second of the feeling that you couldn’t be bothered. 

You were exhausted and missing him.

You didn’t want to be talking to him over the phone about the same thing you’d been discussing with endless people all day. 

You wanted to be back at home, enveloped in his arms as he pulls you back into him as you try to leave the bed.

Or running your fingers absentmindedly through his hair as he tells you yet another fact about how despite its significance, London was actually the smallest city in the UK.

You missed the little things, you missed him.

“Y/N?” His voice broke the silence as you sighed, words leaving your lips before you had a chance to even process them 

“I miss you, Spencer” 

There was yet another pause, almost a huff coming from his end of the line as he replied

“I miss you too, sweetheart” 

“Spence, honestly I’m drained” you began to ramble 

“I’ve been staring at these same pieces of paper for days, I’m starting to think I’m just wasting their time being here”

He could hear you throw some of the documents onto the floor, bringing your hand to your forehead to relieve some of the tension.

“He’s killed 5 women since I’ve been here Spencer, 5. How useless am I that these women are literally depending on me and here i am, failing them” 

He was hurting, he was hurting because you were hurting. 

“Baby, don’t talk about yourself like that” he assured, you could feel tour bottom lip quiver as the tears formed in your eyes 

“You know they asked you to be over there for a reason, you’re good at your job. You deserve to be there with the best of them and don’t forget that” 

“But I do-“ you tried to cut him off but he was quick to interject “uh uh”

“I will stay on this phone with you until you can tell me you’re good at your job, I don’t care how long it takes, Y/N. I want to hear you say it”

“What about if I don’t say if, just to get you to stay on the phone with me?” You lightly chuckled, heart fluttering as you hear his huff of laughter you so dearly missed.

“I mean, I have to be on the jet in 6 hours so if you’re happy for the whole team to hear our conversation then that works for me”

“Spence, I just feel as though I’m losing my mind. Tell me what I’m missing” you almost pleaded, knowing that if he was here he probably would have this case solved by now and back on the plane home. 

“You know the most important thing? Honestly, it’s what I do all the time and it truly does work”

You sat up in hope, waiting to hear his groundbreaking methods of solution.

“Sleep, Y/N”

You huffed, returning to your hunched back, cross legged position of defeat.

“That’s not fair” you scorned, his light laugh flooding through your ears “I thought you were actually about to help” 

“I mean it sweetheart, you can’t give your best to something on no sleep. I’m worried about you and if I can’t be there to look after you, I need to know that you’re looking after you” 

His words hurt, you knew he was worried but never thought he would just come right out and tell you.

“Fine” you huffed, crooking your neck to keep the phone in place at your ear as you start to get undressed.

“I’ll have a quick shower and then I’ll get into  bed” you assured “then I’ll text you in the morning with how many hours sleep I had”

You waited to hear his laugh but there was nothing.

“Can I ju-“ his tone was filled with doubt, like he was second guessing what he was about to say 

You let the line go quiet, waiting for him to finish his thoughts 

“Can I just stay on the phone with you?” 

You felt as though your legs could give way at the pain in his voice, the desperation to just have more time with you had you filling with guilt.

“Of course, Spence”

There was a hum of happiness and content, practically seeing how he slumped back into the headboard of the bed in the comfort of your words

“Why don’t you tell me about your day?” You questioned, giving up on the idea of the shower as you climbed into bed

“Oh! Funny story actually. Hotch had….”

There it was, the voice of such piece and familiarity that you so badly missed. 

He was your home.

[kbagraces]

us. - LN4

Lando Norris x ex girlfriend reader

After your break up you battle with missing him and hating him. You’d always been his secret so why isn’t she?

Loosely based on us. by Gracie Abram ft. Taylor Swift

Note: not proof read, I wrote this on the train so it could be awful! It’s a little angsty be warned, I just love this song atm!

masterlist🏹

You had both agreed to not stay in contact after your break up. You both agreed it’d be easier for the both of you. You’re not sure if it was but you wouldn’t be the one to give in, always being strong minded.

You fear that trait was what made Lando fall for you was actually what caused the demise of your relationship. You never felt the end of the relationship was near, you were willing to put up a fight for the relationship, Lando however seemed to give in a little more easily. Going silent in the arguments, ignoring your attempts to salvage the relationship.

The relationship was a secret to most to grieving him was hard, lonely and the sadness you felt quickly turned to anger. You were filled with resentment as he left you hidden but he had no problem showing off his new ladies.

Your one best friend who knew about the whole deal was tired of your wallowing and ranting decided to take you out for the night, an attempt at a distraction was anything but that.

The alcohol acted as a fuel for your rage filled yearning for your ex boyfriend. As soon as your friends back was turned your fingers slipped to the account of Lando on instagram. Having him blocked on every other social but you still kept tabs on his successes in the sport.

You typed the sad open ended message and hit send,

Y/n: I still don’t understand why you didn’t fight for us

An almost instant reply chimed up on your phone.

L: I couldn’t fight for something that was draining us both

Ouch

Y/n: I deserve an explanation not in the form of your ghosting. 2 years ending in one night doesn’t make sense.

L: I’m in London for fashion week if you needed to meet. I can meet you at the cafe.

You agreed, maybe you’d regret it in the morning but his every word seemed like lies to you now. Every good word he said about you, every time he pulled you out of pits of insecurity, you feared every i love you was a lie.

I show, you don’t.

How long was too long to wait. You sat abandoned once again at the cafe you used to once hold close to your heart, the spot where you first met was tainted once again by his lack of respect for you. After 45 minutes you lose all hope. Angry, hurt and embarrassed.

You’re a coward.

Seen 2 mins ago

Coward.

Later that night you’re scrolling mindlessly on instagram. Beautiful celebrities filling your feed from fashion week.

How much heartbreak could you take?

Newsource: Lando Norris spotted watching his alleged new flame walking at the Dior show this afternoon.

She’ll play her show and you’ll be watching

You’re fuming. How dare he? He’s making a mockery of you. Dedicating your time to him when he can’t even warn you of his absence. No explanation no apology, only to virtually go public with his new girlfriend when you were barley even allowed to tell your closest friends.

What he once told you was a protection tactic from his busy lifestyle fell into him actually being ashamed of you. How could he hide you for so long and now go public with a girl he barley knows?

And what seemed like fate, give it 10 months and you’ll be past it.

You slowly healed, after fully blocking him you began to move on with your life. Becoming more self assured, admitting to yourself that his actions shouldn’t reflect how you felt about yourself. You sometimes slipped into missing the good times, to quickly remind yourself you can’t always reminisce on the sometimes.

You can’t help but feeling partial joy when catching glimpses of the demise of his short lived 10 months he spent with his model girlfriend. You wonder if he regretted the day at the cafe, if he regretted the secret of the two of you. But that was his problem to deal with now.

Until missed calls were on the line. A Monegasque number rang through your phone, there was only one person it could be. One person who now regrets his actions all too late.

That night, you were talkin' false prophets and profits

Lando admitted to himself a long time ago that he made a huge mistake losing you. Using random models to distract himself from the guilt that surrounded his every thought. He knew he was a coward. You weren’t wrong. He couldn’t face you. He couldn’t explain his reasons to you. He never wanted you to be a secret, it began out of fear for your well-being but became a habit. When you begged for his attention he had too much pride to go back on his word.

Now, nearly a year on his misses you more than ever. He found himself in his nightly routine of fighting the urge to call you. The night he gave in he was met with his biggest fear as the line rang out. No answer. He pictured you in his head, he imagined you scoffing as his new number popped up on your phone. Watching as his call rang out.

He wanted to messaged you, he was desperate to hear from you. Maybe he could undo all his damages.

Do you miss us?

You laughed at the question.

Another call rang through, but this time you answered.

He gave you numerous shitty excuses, about his pride, acknowledging his lack of awareness for your feelings, him being caught up in the lifestyle.

“I spent so much time wondering if you regret the secret of us. It’s too late Lando. You completely shattered my self worth. I begged for you, your attention. It was always work and money above me. If you had just read up on the signs perhaps you could’ve learned something.”

“I loved you best I could at the time I know it wasn’t enough but I know what I want now. I can be better.” His voice was small, the tables were turned on him now. He now knew this was how you felt all the times he put you second best.

How ironic.

“You’re incomparable Lando. Fuck. I spent every day chasing how you made me feel when we were good but it wasn’t enough I need 100% from someone. I’m worth more than your half assed love, excuses and an apology which was frankly far too late.”

“I know I didn’t give you enough. But it’s us. You and me, we’re chemical y/n/n. It’s meant to be us.”

“It’s not Lando, it was. And it could’ve always been. You took me for granted and I’m not letting someone make me feel that way again. I wish you everything still. And you’ll do great things just without me.”

*

Mistaken for strangers, the way it was

Years had past. You both flitted between separate lovers. No one compared. Both of you spent time regretting the secret of you. You hated him for not giving you his all and he felt the same was about himself.

You began to open up to your friends about the failed relationship, never naming him but acknowledged that he would always be the one you wanted but would never have.

When you saw him again it was beyond painful. Like strangers who knew everything about each other.

The London club lights shadowed his face, you wondered if he recognised you with your shorter hair.

He watched your every move. Turning away when your eyes glanced his way. You were more beautiful than ever if that was even possible. He was still celebrating his win. He’d concoerned the partying scene in Monaco and now was celebrating with his UK friends and team.

He has imagined you being in the crowd as he stood on the podium and wondered whether you were secretly proud of him. The champagne clouded his judgment. He rarely drank so the impact was almost instant. He left his private table making his way over to you and your friends.

You had your back turned as you felt a hand on your bicep, your friends had glazed looks over their eyes as they looked as if God himself was stood behind you.

“Y/n/n.”

“Lando.” You smiled as you felt your friends, shriek at the interaction. Confused as to why this Formula 1 driver new you on a first name basis.

“Congratulations. You did it.” You broke the gap between the two of you pulling him in for a hug. You were proud. You still wished everything for him and were extremely over joyed when he won his first race. Something he’d be dreaming for your entire relationship, perhaps a factor that got in the way time to time.

“You know?” He was slightly surprised, unsure if you kept tabs on him anymore, probably not in the way he does to you.

“Of course I do. I’ll always be proud of your achievements. Especially this one.”

“Do you miss us?” He whispered looking into your eyes, the close proximity clouding his thoughts more than the alcohol was before.

You didn’t reply immediately, unfortunately the best times of your life was with him, but also some of your worst were because of him. It was the best kind of love, well sometimes.

“Do you regret the secret of us?”

Note: as always plz lemme know ur thoughts good or bad <3

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 | FINALE

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc's beautiful face buried between your thighs.

Content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations.

Word count; 17k (guys I'm so sorry)

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS]

Your face, small and pinched and dirty, looks back at you from the tiny mirror in Steven’s loo. The unflattering fluorescent lights aren’t doing you any favours. Eyes wide and strung out. A burst bottom lip. You look dreadful. 

Your clothes are soggy and cold underneath Marc’s somewhat drier jacket, mucky with grime and mud (and god knows what else), clinging wetly to your skin. 

You look like something the cat dragged in. 

You shiver. The idiom feels a little too on the nose, considering you were dragged across East London’s dirty concrete not even an hour ago. Just… not by a cat.  You shiver again, harder this time, trying not to think about it.

A shower. Marc sent you in here to take a shower. “Go get clean,” he’d said, “Warm up.” 

Right now you feel like you’ll never be warm again.

Marc’s jacket comes off first, and you hang it carefully on a hook, running two fingers over the cuff. You stare at it for a moment, fighting the urge to clutch it to your chest and bury your face in it. On autopilot, you reach out to undo your wristwatch instead, fingers running over the bare skin for a moment, searching, before you stare down at your wrist in confusion. 

Right. Your watch is gone. 

Or… not gone. Probably still out there in the alleyway, lying face up, cracked glass and all, on the concrete in the rain… next to the carcass of some invisible monster.  You shake your head, pushing away the image. It’s as good as gone, then, isn’t it? You’re certainly not going back out to search for it at this point. You’re bloody well never going down that alleyway again if you can help it. Hell, even going outside ever again might be off the table.

Pulling the shower curtain aside, you start the shower and peel off your ruined clothing, letting everything plop in a solid, sodden mass on the corner of the bathroom floor.

The muscles in your arms and shoulders are stiffening up and threatening to cramp up as the last bit of adrenaline abandons your system, leaving bruises and all-encompassing exhaustion in its wake. Your knees throb with the leftover pain. The water stings your scraped shin when you step under the spray. 

At least it’s warm. 

The heat of the water feels like a balm on your aching limbs, and you close your eyes, tilting your head back under the spray, trying to let the comforting warmth relax you.  

In the darkness behind your eyelids, the shower sounds like rain. Your nakedness feels like vulnerability. Like maybe you never made it back. Maybe you’re still out there, in the narrowness of the alley, under threat from an otherworldly creature that you cannot see, let alone fight. 

Your chest squeezes painfully sharp, and your eyes fly open, half expecting to see the hazy moonlit sky overhead. But no, there’s nothing but the expanse of the blank white ceiling. 

You’re still here in Steven’s shower. Safe, or as safe as it gets right now.

Dropping your gaze, you watch the blood and muck sluice down your legs and onto the tiled floor in rusty red-tinted waves to pool on the tile floor. The dirty water leaves lines of fine grit behind as the rest is sucked down the drain. 

You feel strangely numb. Like some part of your brain (probably an amenable survival mechanism) is trying to block out what happened so you don’t go mad. But maybe it’s too late for that. After all, you were a hair's width away from meeting your maker tonight at the claws of an invisible blob monster. 

It’s impossible to not think about. An irritated half-healed scab itching to be scratched. You turn it over in your mind, trying to process the fact that the supernatural is real—or those creatures were, at any rate. And apparently Marc dons a mummy costume and goes out into the night to battle them like he’s magical girl Sailor Moon. 

God. All of this is right proper insane, isn’t it? You want to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.

You almost died; your understanding of the world as you know it has fundamentally changed; yet none of it feels real. The world itself doesn’t feel real. 

The water by your feet is running clear now. The dirt and grime finally washed off, but the film of exhaustion still clings to your limbs. Turning off the tap, you step out, grabbing the towel Marc left for you in the corner by the door. Your eyes linger on the set of clean clothes waiting for you underneath, folded into a neat square. 

You can't reconcile the man who does this for you with the same man that pummelled a supernatural monster into a whimpering pulp without hesitation. Didn’t recognise the Marc you thought you knew in the man in the alleyway standing over the creature and curb-stomping it into the ground with cold and blank disdain in his eyes. Couldn’t see that man in the Marc who escorted you home and gently bullied you into the shower. 

Reaching for the clothes, you quickly dress and pull aside the accordion door only to find the very man you were thinking of right outside the door, arms crossed and back plastered to the closest wall as he stands guard.  

You barely cross the threshold before he's already pushing away from the wall and moving in to guide you gently but firmly towards the kitchen like a particularly insistent herding dog.

There’s a fairly extensive first aid kit laid out on the counter, well used by the look of it, and you try not to think too hard about why that might be. 

"Up," Marc commands, curt as ever, swatting a hand down on the surface of the countertop, and you feel like a lamb being rounded back into the pen. 

A ‘please’ wouldn’t have hurt him, but you let it go with just a glare as you shuffle over, too drained to put up a fight over something so small.  You lift your arms to brace against the countertop, getting ready to hop up, and flinch a little as your shoulders twinge and ache. 

Marc is in front of you in a heartbeat, watching you with worried eyes and a furrowed brow. His hands hover, like he wants to help but doesn't dare to touch, and any testiness in you fizzles out at the sight of him.

You give him a small nod, barely able to complete the motion before his hands come down on your waist, lifting you. Even though you’re expecting it, the loss of ground beneath your feet feels sudden, unbalancing you, and you gasp, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. 

Part of you expects him to drop you, but he doesn’t. Marc’s warm and solid under your palms, strong muscles bunching as he perches you on the counter. 

Blood rushes to your head with furious speed. It must be from the sudden change in altitude. That’s what you tell yourself no matter how doubtful that is considering the standard kitchen counter height is not even three feet above the floor. You're not exactly climbing the Himalayan mountains. But you don’t want to think of the more probable reasons right now. 

You're still reeling from lightheadedness when he lets you go in favour of busying himself with the large tin box on the counter, rifling through the arsenal of medical supplies, and sets down what he needs next to you. Then he's dragging a nearby chair to position himself in front of you. Sitting so close he's practically nestled between your legs. 

It does nothing to help with your newly discovered vertigo symptoms. 

"I’m going to check you over for injuries now,” he says perfunctory, pulling you from your thoughts, “Left leg.”  

You stretch out your leg into the air, glancing down at him, unsure of where to rest it. There’s no space on the tiny kitchen stool. Do you just… put it down in his lap? On his crotch?!?! Or–

Marc's hand wraps around your ankle, and his executive decision-making ends your flailing, as he gently guides your foot to rest against his thigh. Then his head ducks down, and he starts to inspect the patch of scraped skin on your knee, dabbing gently at the scattered dots of blood with a square of clean gauze.

With how tender and swollen everything feels, you expect it to hurt. That at the slightest pressure on your skin, it is bound to sting and snag and tear. But it doesn't. Marc is gentle, barely pressing down and showing such minute care as he tends to you that you barely feel the brush of the cloth at all.

It's such an impossible contrast. The tenderness of his touch as he fusses over you, placing a plaster on your knee, compared to the brutality you’ve now seen him capable of.

You still can't make sense of it. What happened, or what that invisible monster in the rain was. Why Marc was out there. Or what he meant by that being "what he does." 

"Marc," you start tentatively as you lean forward to get his attention, "What happened toni--"

“Wiggle your toes,” he interrupts. 

His odd demand cuts off your line of thought. “What?”

“Try to wiggle your toes for me”, he repeats, without looking up. “Want to make sure you didn’t get any nerve damage.”

You frown, you’re not blind to the fact that his request conveniently just cut you off from asking a question that undoubtedly Marc doesn’t want to answer. Still, you comply, angling your foot upwards and wiggle your toes for his inspection. 

Whether you passed his ad hoc medical examination, Marc’s expression isn’t giving you any clues. His face is as stoic as ever as he sets down your foot. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over to your right side to draw your other foot into his lap. 

Marred with bruises, looking like something that got mangled in a bear trap. Your right foot does not make for a pretty sight. It’s swollen and bleeding sluggishly from long gashes where the blob monster’s claw-like grip must have broken through skin. 

It's a gruesome picture, but miraculously, the injury doesn’t seem to be too serious. It stings more than it actually hurts, and it’s not even bleeding much anymore. Not even worth a trip to A&E really, as you doubt it’s deep enough to need stitches. 

At least that’s the assessment based on your own limited medical knowledge. If you based the severity on Marc’s reaction, you’d think it needed amputation. 

The line of his shoulder is pulled taut and reminds you of a live wire. Mouth set in a grim tortured line. He has the expression of a doctor about to give the nearest kin some heartbreaking news as he’s staring down at your foot with haunted guilt in his eyes. 

"I'm all right. I’m sure it just looks a lot worse than it is," you tell him. 

He doesn't meet your eyes or reply for that matter. Instead, he begins to gently tend the wound. Mouth pressing down so tightly his lips go pale white from it. He dabs away the oozing blood, carefully applying antibiotic ointment to the worst of the broken skin, and covering them with large squares of gauze that he tapes in place. It’s all quite professional, really, the practised ease that only comes with repetition. 

You wonder how many times he has done this before. You wonder how much harder it must be for him to suture his own gashes and gaping wounds. Wonder how long he’s been doing this by himself, fighting these hellish creatures. These things that you still have no bloody fucking idea as to what they are. 

"Marc,” you start tentatively, “what was--" A ticklish sensation rushes through you. In panic, you think a centipede is crawling down the sole of your foot. You instinctively jerk your leg up and away, nearly kneeing Marc in the face before you realise what’s happened. 

Your eyes fly downwards to Marc who is entirely unfazed by the close call as you stare at him in shock. His index finger rests on the arch of your heel and you blink up at him in a dumb stupor, not believing your eyes.  

Did he just– did he just fucking tickle you?!

There’s no hint of wrongdoing in his expression. No grin, or crack in his stony facade. He is unflappable as always as he continues cleaning your wound with a straight face. 

"Needed to check if you still had sensation in that foot," he offers up as an explanation as if he thinks that tickling was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do in the circumstances. 

You frown, biting down the tart comment bubbling in your throat. You want to call him out on it, that you know what he’s up to and he’s acting like a child. But you know that the moment you do, the conversation will derail into an argument and in the flare of your temper, you’ll lose track of your questions. You’re pretty sure Marc knows you well enough that that’s exactly what he is aiming for. 

Gathering a deep calming breath into your chest, you steady yourself before you take a second shot. 

"What was that thing in the rain?" you ask again. 

He acts like he doesn't hear you. "Roll your ankles side to side," he requests instead. 

Irritation prickles your face. This bastard is still trying to evade your questions. 

"Marc," you start again, "what was--"

"Press down your weight on my hand with your foot."

"Marc!" you bark. 

He finally drags his eyes upwards to meet yours without bothering to lift his chin, seemingly as detached and reposed as ever. But there's something else in there too. A tiny flicker as you hold his gaze, and he has to look away. 

He looks… scared. 

Scared of what you don't know. The man practically single-handedly beat three monsters straight out of a Lovecraftian horror story with his bare fists tonight. With strength like that, you don't think anything should ever be capable of scaring him. 

"Can we talk about what happened tonight?" you ask again, trying to keep your voice even. 

His head ducks back down again, and he busies himself by rechecking the bandaids on your injured ankle. 

“There's nothing to talk about,” he murmurs offhandedly, but his hands betray him. 

There's no mistaking it. Even though his shoulders are obscuring your line of sight, you don’t need to see it in order to feel how unsteady his hands are. How his fingers stutter against your skin as they trail over your ankle.

He’s not letting go, as if he’s afraid that if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d get up and walk away.

Gazing down on him from your vantage point of the counter, Marc doesn’t look as imposing as when you were looking up at him from the rainy concrete in the alley. From up here, he looks small and scared even. 

Even though there is nothing in this flat that should intimidate him. No invisible monsters lurking in the dark shadows behind Steven’s piles and piles of books. The scariest thing in Steven’s flat is dust mites. 

No, the only thing Marc is scared of, you realise, is this conversation. 

That’s what Steven told you, wasn’t it? That 'there are things that Marc hasn't told you.' That 'once you know everything,’ Marc thinks ‘you'll walk away'. 

It’s the final puzzle piece, slotted into its rightful place, and you can finally see the picture that was blurred out before, crystallising in startling detail. 

This is it. This is the big secret. The thing that Marc hasn't told you. 

You get it now. Why he has avoided you all this time. Why he stayed away even after you told him you love him. 

Because how on earth would anyone even begin to explain what happened tonight to someone who wasn’t there? 

How could he possibly have explained any of this to you before now? How would he possibly convince you those things out there (whatever they are) were real without dragging you into danger, head first, to see it with your own eyes? 

Didn't you struggle with the very same thought when you’d first tried to tell Marc what you’d seen in the alley on your own before all hell broke loose? The fear that he wouldn't believe you. That he'd think you were insane. 

Even if he had managed to explain and get you to believe him– what then? 

You can understand it. Why he was convinced that you would leave not just him but Steven as well, causing further collateral damage, if he told you everything. You can see from where he was standing, why he’d worry. 

But this is where Marc is wrong. You still want this. Him. Them.

"What happened tonight, it doesn't change how I feel about you," you start, and his hand on your foot spasms, grip tightening. It’s how you know your guess was right on the button, so you press on. "What I told you on the phone, I still mean it. I–"  you hesitate on the word. 

The last thing you want is to spook him away again by repeating it. It might be too much too soon. Instead, you settle for second best. 

"I want you to come back. Steven and I both do."  

Marc lets go of your foot. You can see his hand shaking despite Marc’s attempt to make it stop. His fingers flex and curl in agitation until he gives up and reaches up to drag it through his matted curls in frustration. 

“You don’t want this,” he says quietly, and his face is still turned downwards, staring at the floor refusing to look up at you. 

Knowing Marc, you know that he could very well mean the situation or himself. After everything that’s happened tonight, the part that upsets you the most is that he still feels this way about himself. 

"I do," you counter, saying the words with the whole of your chest. “I. Want. You. I want all of this.”

In the face of your certainty, he flinches, face pinched as if telling him you want him is a physical slap that pains him. It takes him a second to recover, to shake his head in refusal as he stares down at the floor like it committed a great wrong against him. 

"You want a normal life. Steven can give you that if it’s just the two of you. I can't,” he tells you. His voice, low in that weary and tired tone you overheard in the bathroom. 

"I don't need you to give me a normal life. What does that even mean? ‘Normal,’” you say derisively. “I don't need or want normal if it means you're not there Marc. That's not the life I want.”

He's still not looking at you, biting the insides of his cheek, and you can almost see the walls closing in around him before your very eyes. 

"You said you wanted me safe”, you say, ducking your head to try to catch his gaze, and you manage to see his eyes peer up at you from his lashes, as you continue. “And happy. I'm telling you now, I'm not going to be happy if you're not here."

Marc’s eyes widen with alarm. “You were awake?”

"I–" you start, but he cuts you off before you finish. 

“You were pretending to be asleep?” 

"No, I thought I was dreaming, I–"

“What else did you hear,” he asks. There’s panic in his voice, and he’s already rising from his seat in preparation to flee the room. 

Fuck, how are you fucking this up this badly this fast? Seeing his distress almost makes you want to backtrack, to fold it up and call it a night, try again tomorrow maybe. Because you know in his mind Marc is already bolting for that door, ready to leg it and put as much distance as he can between you and him. 

But… your mind flashes to the weight of his gentle touch on your shoulder. To his fingers brushing away the hair on your forehead. To his quiet voice as he whispered, 'I love you too'. You know what you heard in the dark: a testament of Marc’s feelings for you, and it emboldens you. 

“Marc.” You lean forward, reaching out to take his hand in yours. He stiffens with a jolt as your fingertips brush up against his knuckles, and you can almost see the line of his shoulder vibrate. But he doesn't make any moves to pull away at your touch. 

“I want you. Do you want me?” you ask. 

He stills. Marc looks at you for a long unflinching moment. It’s the same conflicted set in his jaw when you were standing next to him in front of Gus’ tank. The same hesitation written over his face when you were watching him through the back window of the taxi as it pulled away from him in the night. That same pained look when your eyes met in your office before he fled from you. 

His mouth parts with hesitation, but then he bites down and grinds his jaw hard enough that you think you can hear his molars grate from where you sit. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he answers you stubbornly. 

It's enough to make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back and forth and scream into his face. 

“It does!” you say, almost half-shouting. “Of course it matters. You matter.”

"Don't. Don't do that.” Marc shakes his head, and he moves his free hand over yours, gently prying it off of him. “Save that for Steven. He deserves it. Deserves… you. I… I don't.” 

“And what about what I deserve,” you demand, fed up to the gills with his tendency for self-sacrifice, “What I want? Don’t I deserve to decide for myself?” 

That seems to catch him off guard. For once he doesn’t have a ready response, just glares at you, his jaw still set at that impossibly stubborn angle, but his eyes are full of so much pain that it hurts you to see it. You reach out again and cup his cheek.

"Remember that night Gus died? You came to me for help. You said I was the only one you could think of to ask, and it made me so happy that you did. I want you to ask me for things.”

There’s another moment of indecision in his eyes. The upper half of his body tilts in your direction, almost like he’s reaching for you, even if he won’t let his hands do so.

"I just want to be with you,” you continue, “I want to be your person. The person you come to when you need something. Can’t that be enough?"

His eyes are glued on you, mouth gaping open. For a moment you think you've succeeded, managed to stun him into silence and maybe even convinced him. 

It doesn’t last. 

He closes his parted mouth and clamps it shut until it’s compressed into a thin determined line. Then before you can react, he’s abruptly pulling away, turning with wordless efficiency, and walking away from you.  

"Marc?" you call after him, but his determined stride doesn’t even falter,  "Marc!"

Oh goddamnit! 

You hop off the counter, your sore ankle twinging when you land on it, but you ignore the dull ache as you run after him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Marc!" you shout. Slinging your arm out, you only just manage to catch him by the back of his shirt. Your fingers grip onto the fabric for dear life to stop him from getting further away, "You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to be alone. Steven and I are here. Stop running away from us! We want to support you. Please! You can lean on us.” 

He stops, turning about sharply, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The fuse of his already short temper burnt to a crisp. 

“You and Steven were never supposed to know about me or get caught up in any of this,” he snaps. “I’ve– My life is dangerous. It’s not safe.” 

“Yeah, I noticed the red flags already, you dunce. I still care about you regardless!”

“I don’t want you to care!” Marc roars, and it hits you with the force of a punch to the chest. 

You suck in a sharp pained breath, and he must see the hurt in your face because his eyes soften slightly, but his voice is no less emphatic, “You can’t go poking around in my life. Running out after me in the middle of the night. It's dangerous! You got hurt tonight. You could’ve been killed!"

And that does it. The pain of his implied rejection, the scolding tone, the way it feels like he’s blaming you for getting yourself hurt. It all rubs you the wrong way. All of the patience you had in you up until now evaporates, replaced by a fiery heat burning up your chest until it comes to a boiling point.

“Me?” you bite back indignantly. “What about you? Running around in a bloody Halloween costume in the middle of the night. Fighting invisible monsters? What if you got hurt? What on earth were you doing out there?”

“This is exactly why you needed to stay away from me. You do not want or need my fucking mess, okay!?"  

“Yes, I bloody well do! I'll take your fucking mess, Marc—every speck of it—as long as I get to have you too.”

His gaze bores into yours, eyes dark like spilt ink and brimming with anger so stark it practically sparks. 

“You really want to know what I do? Why I was out there tonight?” he asks, voice quieter, but the anger is still there, simmering just below the surface waiting to erupt. 

The sudden change feels like a gauntlet being thrown down, challenging you to a metaphorical game of chicken, daring you to back away and run for the hills while you still can.

You stand your ground, heels digging into the floor as you nod, swallowing the anxiety you feel pressed up against your throat like an acidic heartburn.  

“I serve Khonshu. I’m his avatar,” he says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world. As if any of this is supposed to make sense to you. 

It doesn’t. It makes no fucking sense at all. 

Your mind scrambles to connect the dots. Khonshu? Avatar? What the hell is he on about? Avatar as in James Cameron’s Pocahontas in space? And Khonshu? What even… You can’t even begin to think of what that is supposed to mean. Don’t recognise it save for a passing familiarity that it’s a word that Steven has used when passionately serenading you with facts on Ancient Egypt. The connection between the two is lost to you. 

“What is… ‘Khonshu?'” you ask, and this time, you don’t have to drag the answer out of Marc. 

He answers you willingly and as plainly without varnish as before. “Khonshu’s the ancient Egyptian god of the moon. Years ago, I was stabbed and left for dead. He saved my life and in return, I work for him now.” 

There’s no hint of emotion as he says it. He’s not pleading for you to believe him despite how fantastical it sounds. Not trying to convince you of anything. Marc is leaving it to you whether or not you believe him, almost like he wishes you wouldn’t. Like this bizarre rambling will hopefully finally send you packing and out of his life. And that’s… how you know he’s not lying to you. 

“Work for him… how?” you ask. 

His eyes flick upwards, grinding his teeth as if he’s biting down on a curse, before his gaze settles back on you. 

“I swore to protect travellers of the night.”

And once again, that tells you absolutely nothing. What does that even mean, ‘Travellers of the night’? As in prostitutes?! 

Marc’s obfuscation and frankly dodgy-as-fuck explanations have your blood boiling. You’re almost positive he’s doing this on purpose to get you hacked off, and he’s succeeding. 

“Can you speak in plain English?”

“I take care of bad guys so they don’t harm good people. Protect civilians who can’t protect themselves.”

“So you’re… what? Like a supernatural police officer? A monster hunter? A guardian of the night?”

He grits his teeth. 

“Something like that.” The answer is dismissive, and so is his attitude. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to distance himself from you, casting a glance at the door. “Satisfied? We done here?”

“No! No, we’re not ‘done here.’ We are the furthest thing from done. I already told you, Marc. Nothing that’s happened tonight changes how I feel about you.”

He shakes his head, jaw set mulishly, before tearing his eyes away and turning towards the front door. 

And that just won’t do. If you let Marc walk out now, you know he’ll do everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of his life.

Moving quickly, you dart around Marc and slide between him and the door. In your single-minded hurriedness, you bump into the small table by the door, sending several things clattering over and probably adding yet another bruise to your already abused body, but you don’t care. You cannot let him leave. Plastering your back to the door, you stand tall and raise your chin, prepared to act as a physical barrier if you have to.

Marc’s eyes narrow into slits, a snarl of pure exasperation erupting from the back of his throat.  

“Move,” he orders, taking a step closer to you, but there is no real threat behind it. He doesn’t reach out to touch you; doesn’t grab you or shove you out of the way

He just looks at you like you are an actual obstacle he cannot surpass. But you know that he could move you by force if he wanted to. It’d be easy for him to force his way out of the flat with little effort. 

Between the two of you, physically he’s the stronger one. You’ve witnessed him take out supernatural monsters tonight. If he wanted to, he could shove his way straight through you. Carry you into another room and lock you in. Could easily snap every bone in your wrist in the blink of an eye.

But he won't. After all this time, if there is one thing you’ve learnt about Marc, it is that harm is only ever his last resort. 

The man is squirmish at the prospect of physically harming a goldfish. Would rather visit all the pet shops in all of London in the middle of the night to find a mythical one-finned fish to avoid that outcome. At the core of him, he wants to shield and protect, not break. 

And towards you? He would never use brute strength on you. Would never hurt you. Would give his very life to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. Happy.

In front of you, Marc takes another step forward, closing the distance. His commanding presence crowds you in against the doorframe until there’s barely any space between you anymore. 

Marc is angry. Jaw tense, shoulders tied up in a tangled knot, nose flaring like an angry bull emitting a bright and blaring warning signal for you to move. But you stay put because if he’s a bull, then that must make you a matador, practically waving a red cape at him to come charge you.

He’s staring down at you again. That look in his eyes, like he knows what is best for you. That same stern gaze when he swore you to secrecy, deciding what was best for Steven. The determination there that tells you that this is not up for discussion. 

It’s a recurring pattern with Marc. He decides what he thinks is best for everyone else, with no consideration of what the person in question actually wants. 

“Last chance,” he warns, through gritted teeth, “I won’t ask again.”

Marc probably thinks this is a threat. But it’s only because he can’t see himself, the pain-filled eyes that look back down at you. Nothing is menacing about it. 

“I’m not moving,” you tell him. 

It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch his eyes flickering to your lips. A near-growling sound tears out of his throat, and then he’s moving forward further into your space.

What is he–?

His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you to him, and then his lips are on yours. 

Oh.

Marc Spector is kissing you.

It’s hard and demanding, his lips crushed to yours, clearly driven by the frustration and anger that seems to vibrate just under his skin. But it doesn’t matter. You have dreamed of kissing this man for so long. Even with the harshness, you can’t help but respond to him, meeting the brutal press of his lips with your own more eager one. Mouth parting in invitation for him. 

Something shifts. 

All the fight goes out of him, leaking away like hot air out of a punctured balloon, whatever anger was there fizzles out of him, and you feel him melt against your lips. The kiss slips into something softer, sweeter. Something that steals every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. 

You don’t know how long it lasts, the only thing you know is that it doesn’t last long enough. If you could have the choice, you’d want it to last forever. 

It doesn’t of course. Marc retreats from you with an unsteady step. His eyes are etched with shock as you take him in, brows pinched and pupils wide, and you already want to kiss him again. 

The two of you have been here before. Staring at each other from so close a distance that your foreheads are inches from touching. Except this time it’s not in front of a fish tank with an imposter goldfish between you. A stray curl falls into his eyes and tickles your nose. It’s the hint of clean linen, the note of coffee you brew for him every night that he will unfailingly drink because you made it for him. It’s the smell you wake up to embedded in Steven’s sheets. 

You want this man, all of him, to be yours. 

Your face tilts up to him. So close, his lips ghost over yours.

“Marc,” you whisper, and his eyes flicker over your face. “Stop running.”

Part of you expects him to stop you again. That he will pull back, eyeing you like you’re something dangerous, the way he did that night in front of the fish tank. 

He doesn’t. 

You tip your face forward even further, your nose dragging along the bridge of his.

“I love you.” 

You can hear the sharp inhale just like last time you said it over the phone when you did not know if he was on the other end or not. When you didn't know if the sound was imaginary or real. Now you know. 

You couldn’t see his face then, but this time you get to. The pinched furrow between his brow, that look in his eyes that makes your heart seize in your chest. There’s no doubt about it now. 

"And you love me,” you say. 

His lips part, and you brace yourself for another protest or denial, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head does the slightest tilt forward. A nod, you realise. 

“Yeah.” He whispers it so quietly you nearly miss it at first. 

You smile. Happiness surges through your insides, weaving through your ribs until you think that your chest might burst. 

Marc Spector loves you. 

You swallow in relief, smiling even as you feel a sting prickle the corner of your eyes. Then Marc leans down and closes that infinitesimal space between you, bringing down the final barrier of separation that he has maintained since you met him. 

It’s a soft press of his lips to yours. So soft, it’s scarcely there, but it feels perfect all the same, a fluttering warmth that you can feel down to the curl of your toes. 

It’s an admittance. An invitation. A sign of trust. 

Marc kisses you again and again with lingering kisses that he deepens with each gentle press of his mouth to yours. His hand moves to cup your face in his palm, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 

You feel like you ought to be surprised by how gentle he is, but you’re not. Not at all, because of course he’s gentle.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Marc’s hardness is all smoke and mirrors, hiding the vulnerable softness that lies under the hardened skin. Beneath it all, Marc is protective and caring, kind even. 

And now, you finally get to have him in all his confounding complexities. This stubborn, kind, impossible idiot, right here in your arms. 

You pull him closer, even as you keep kissing him, fingers twisting into the brushed cotton of his shirt, and he lets you. Head leaning down as he adjusts his angle so he can slant his mouth fully over yours. He’s pressed up against every single inch of you, from his knees to his chest, your lips fused and somehow it’s still not even close to enough for you. You tug his collar, encouraging him to come even closer and he does, obedient, in a way that you’ve never known him to be before. 

Stepping forward, he follows your lead, inching closer, until the solidness of his chest presses you flush to the door. His arm comes to brace the side of your head, hand cupping behind the back of your neck, and you realise only belatedly it’s the reason why your head isn’t colliding with the hard wood behind you. 

Not that it would matter if you did. You don’t even think you’d notice if your head went through the wall right now. Too focused on the softness of his lips. Too lost in the quiet, near-silent humming sound he makes as he kisses you that sets your nerves alight. 

God, he’s perfect. His closeness is heady. There’s a growing hunger in your stomach that makes your limbs shake and tremble. After all the time he's been away, hiding from you, you feel starved for this. For him. You want to bite his neck, lick along the protruding line of his collarbone and swallow every inch of him down to the marrow if he’d let you. 

For all the gentleness that Marc is showing you, you have no intention of returning the favour. Your teeth sink in, biting down on his bottom lip, and he lets out a quiet involuntary gasp into your mouth. Your veins burn at the sound. Fuck, you want him to make that noise again, that careless pitch of pleasure that sounds so unguarded coming from him. You want to bite and nibble and scratch and claw and have him make every noise known and unknown to mankind. 

You drag your teeth along the swell of his lip, and he shivers, eyes squeezed firmly shut like he’s teetering on the very edge of his self-control. Then you nip down again. 

His hips stutter forward involuntarily, and he curses, the sound breathless and raw, like you tore it out of him before he was prepared. It’s all you want. To hear that sound again and again and again. You want to hear his tiny moans in your ear, the involuntary muffled growl as he buries his face into your neck trying to keep quiet, hear him gasp ‘fuck’ in barely audible decibels. You want everything. 

Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, you haul him closer as if he wasn’t already pressed alongside your body. Thighs nestled between yours, the coarseness of denim scraping against your bare legs. You can feel the hardening bulge trapped between you, and you want him to grind against you, to rut into you mindlessly until you can feel his cock twitch against the softness of your belly. 

But Marc isn’t showing any signs of obliging you in that department, and you’re not willing to stop kissing him in order to give him directions. Instead, you arch your back away from the wall, tilting your pelvis until you rub up against his crotch. He jolts hard at the contact, the line of his body wracked in shivers with a gorgeous groan that is cut off too soon. 

"Shit!”  

His hand leaves your neck. Then he’s pulling back and away from you in retreat. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, reaching up to try to chase after the loveliness of his lips, but he stops you. A gentle but firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pinning you against the wall. 

You stare up at him, and you’re not sure you’re breathing anymore at the sight of him. You should be used to how preposterously beautiful this man is by now. But you never are. Each time feels novel and so much worse–no, better than the last time. The collar of his shirt is stretched and askew. Curls a mess against his forehead. Lips, slick and kiss-swollen as his mouth hangs open, chest heaving as he pants. 

As stunningly pretty as Steven is when you’ve succeeded in making a mess out of him, to do it to Marc is something else entirely. This orderly, neat freak of a man who makes it his life mission to repress his emotions and jam them shut inside of himself with a tight lid. You did this. You’ve made a mess of him. It’s electric, your veins buzz with the thrill, and your brain is screaming for more. 

Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through his hair as you reel him in by the back of his neck. Your mouth finds his, kissing him hard before he has time to overthink it or, god forbid, change his mind and try to bolt again. His mouth parts, and you swallow the soft oomph of surprise that escapes his throat and lean in, licking desperately into his mouth. If this is all you get, you want to try to savour him. 

Marc doesn’t stop you this time. Instead, his hands settle on your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he’s pulling you closer. It has the whole of your back from the base of your spine to the tip of your nose tingling. 

This time he’s the one grinding into you, the hard outline of his cock pressed tight between you. Even through the thick layer of denim, you can feel how hard he is, and you shiver pleasantly.

You moan into the kiss, rising on your tiptoes to meet him. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch against your hip. 

And fuck, fuck– that’s– 

You need to get him in bed now before you hitch your legs and clamber onto his thighs to climb him like the trunk of a tree. Why the fuck did the architect place the bedroom section at the opposite end of the flat.

Stepping one foot sideways, you tug at the neck of Marc’s shirt to steer him towards the bed. There’s no resistance. He shows you the same obedience as before, easily letting himself be pulled by you as you start walking blindly backwards, navigating the two of you through the junkyard of Steven’s mess. 

Any second now you’re expecting to trip over the damn ottoman, except this is Steven's flat, not yours. And this isn’t Steven; it’s Marc in your arms. Steady and composed in his every step, with none of the charming incoordination of Steven. No, Marc steers you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms bracketing your side to make sure your hips don’t bump into any hard-edged furniture, preemptively pushing back a teetering book from the shelf before it even has the time to leap off the ledge. 

Marc—beautiful, stubborn Marc, who is as immovable as a rock in his decisions—is letting you pull and tug him in whatever direction you’re choosing to go. Kissing you with each unbalanced step backwards, like you’re the only air he ever needs to breathe. 

There’s a flicker of light as you pass Gus’ tank, and it dims when you move past Steven’s desk and the telly. God. It’s a journey of fewer than 20 feet that should take you less than ten seconds and not the eternity that it seems to take. 

When you finally feel the fine, gritty sand beneath the sole of your foot, it feels like victory. The soft brush of the sheets pressing up against your calves is the rope of the finish line that you’d never imagined you’d reach. 

You want to memorialise this moment somehow. Etch it into your memory so you’ll never forget. Carve it into the wooden beam structures of this very flat so it’ll outlast you both. 

Marc’s hands on your hips guide you gently to a stop, and you realise with a rush of giddiness that you’ve finally reached your destination. You break the kiss long enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, and you don’t even need to tug at the corner of his sleeve for Marc to dutifully follow you down. He helps you lay back and leans in after you, the firm weight of his body settling over you, pressing you down into the mattress. 

The weight of Marc feels perfect, as his head tips down to your face, kissing over the curve of your jaw to your neck. He’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat and the swell of your chest. It’s tender. Reverent almost.

Marc is unbothered by the cotton layer of clothing that separates his mouth from your bare skin as he goes. His mouth grazes your knuckles, kissing the inside of your wrist. He’s soft yet insistent. Hungry but slow. God, he’s slow, infuriatingly so, to the point where you wonder if he’s taking the mick out of you. 

His lips trail a row of devoted kisses against the bare skin of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, barely lifting the hem up and letting it ride up against your ribs as he puts his mouth there too. If it didn’t feel so good to have his mouth on you, you’d consider it torture with the pace that he’s going. You’re aching, everything inside is pulled so taught and tight you might burst out of your skin.

Those cotton soft curls tickle against your thighs on his way down, and you spread them for him in a not-so-subtle invitation. But Marc doesn’t pay you any mind, that earlier obedience that had endeared him to you is nowhere to be found now. He continues down, knees sinking into the sand lining the perimeter of the bed until he’s kneeling down in front of you on the bed. 

Then he stops. 

You hold your breath waiting for him to continue. But nothing happens, and your first instinct is that he’s changed his mind again. You’re almost lunging after him. Fully prepared to tackle him down with a wrestling move you’ve seen on the telly and pin him against the sand and wooden floor. 

But he’s not moving away from you. 

Opening your eyes to peek, you lift yourself on one arm, tilting down your head to find yourself staring back at those pitch-dark eyes. 

You’re not prepared for the sight of him. Of Marc on his knees, peering up at you through his lashes, like you’re a solemn prayer that he’s clinging onto by his fingertips. The vision of him flattens your lungs, taking any oxygen away with it. He’s looking at you like you’re something to be protected and cared for. As if you’re all he’s ever wanted and would never allow himself to have. 

Marc’s bending down again, lips brushing your skinned knee as his warm breath ghosts over the raw skin. He goes over every scrape and scratch with his mouth. It’s his way of atoning for ever letting you get hurt. 

And as good as that feels, as much as you never want him to stop. You need more. More than this torturous, drawn-out pace that he’s giving you, or you think you’ll tear your hair out by the roots and go mad with it. 

“Marc.” You’re trying to say it with urgency, maybe even hint at your annoyance, but it comes out as a high-pitched, delirious plea, “Marc please, I need–” 

He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, his hands come to the side of your hips, fingers slipping into your sleep shorts, hooking the hem of your knickers with them as he pulls them down. 

“Lift,” he commands, in the same brusque way he had before when ordering you to sit on the kitchen counter. But this time you’re only too eager to comply. 

You’re so excited you nearly deal a high kick to his face, miraculously missing him by only a couple of inches. 

From the corner of your eye, you swear you catch an amused half-smile quirking the corners of his lips. But before you can take a better look to confirm it, he ducks his head back down, even though you think you can see the line of his shoulders shake from what might very well be laughter. 

But your mind doesn't get to linger on it for long. His hand curls over your thigh, and he settles your leg on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the inner side that his mouth can reach. Then he hooks your leg over his back, and sharp heat settles deep in your stomach.

His warm breath fans against the bare skin raising goosebumps in its wake. He continues to lick  over the softness of your belly. Nipping at your hip and the insides of your legs, covering every inch of you he can reach with his mouth. Purposefully avoiding the slick ache between your legs where you need his mouth and tongue most. 

Fuck, you could kill him for that. 

“Marc.” His name is a whine between your lips. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but you don’t care. You’re not above begging. Not if there’s a chance it will get you more of this, of him. 

“Please, Marc, just– I need you to–” 

“Baby,” he murmurs, cutting off your pleas. It’s almost reproachful, but it doesn’t matter because that’s not what your mind is focused on. This is the first endearment Marc has ever used for you and it sounds so sweet on his lips. Makes you feel loved and cared for despite the admonishing tone. 

“Be patient,” he scolds, but there’s so much fondness in his voice for you, it makes you lightheaded. “I’m gonna take my time with you.” 

There’s only a brief second as you catch a peek of the pink tip of his tongue, glistening against his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he dips down. Heat crackles throughout your limbs, and your lungs pull tight in anticipation. The air around you thins, and for a moment as you try to desperately swallow down the air in your throat, the room seems to tilt. 

Then he gives you his mouth, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s heaven. A long, controlled press of his tongue through your wet and slick folds. Endorphins rush through you to the top of your head, and you can’t help how your body reacts, arching up against his mouth with a gasp that is punched out of your lungs. 

Then he does it again, and somehow, though you can’t even fathom how it’s not defying the laws of science and time as you know it, he goes even slower. The velvet softness of his tongue drags with an unhurried press across the seam of your pussy until he reaches the apex and licks with a silken glide on your wet clit. You nearly swallow your tongue to tamper the whine trapped in your throat. 

This is not the pace you were expecting. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part, but you thought he’d be impatient. Almost anticipated that his movements would be sparse and efficient like every other aspect of his life, pushing you to a high-speed climax like a carcrash.  

This is not that. This is Marc taking his own sweet time. His tongue is a slow decadent drag against your clit, and you feel his warm breath ghost over you, inhaling the scent of you as he takes you in. 

Sweet heady pleasure climbs up the back of your thighs, filling your stomach with it. It’s so much, you don’t know if you can fit it all within, all the emotions that are welling up in your chest to spill out of you. Your fingers grip his solid shoulders to anchor yourself. You roll your hips against his mouth in an attempt to urge him on, but he refuses to take the hint. His tongue makes a slow, thorough exploration, interrupted only by the open-mouthed kisses that he presses against your mound, your hip, your cunt. 

You can feel the tension in his shoulder under your thigh. Can hear it in the quick rasp of his breath, but still, his pace remains slow and measured. Steadily kindling the smouldering heat beneath your skin, lick by torturous lick. 

It’s perfect. Hot as sin and twice as glorious, but you could scream with how agonisingly glacial the build-up is. A strange, high-pitched sound escapes you. An unflattering blend between a moan and a sob. It sounds like you’re in pain when all you feel is pleasure, and then you hear Marc shushing you again. This time softer, comforting even. 

“It's alright. You're alright. You can take it for me,” he says into your skin, mouth pressed against your clit with a warm hum that rumbles through your flesh. Your veins drip with something sweet and honeyed at his tone. 

Marc is so exacting, not at all like Steven’s wild hunger. His tongue laves at you, warm and wet, with an unceasing gentle pressure, gliding over and around your clit. Decadently slow, but never stopping. The feeling is intense and unrelenting. Somehow dragging you closer and closer to the edge but never quite enough to push you over. 

Digging your heels into his back, you tilt your hips as far as the strain in your muscles will allow you to get closer. You rock yourself against his mouth, and Marc groans, a pleased, encouraging sound, even as his hands grip the flesh of your waist and hold you firm against the pillowy softness of the bed to make sure you don’t try to ride out your own pleasure against his face at a faster pace than he has set for you.  

You could scream with frustration. If the left hemisphere of your brain responsible for speech wasn’t so severely compromised by Marc, you would be screeching until your throat goes raw with it. Instead, you hiccup a broken sob, his name quiet and cracked on your lips. 

"That's right. You're alright," he soothes, as he presses his forehead against your stomach. If you didn’t know better, his voice almost sounds a bit shaky, slurring on the last word as he bends back down and puts his mouth back between your thighs, onto your sensitive flesh and gently sucks. 

Those unruly curls tickle against the soft skin. You only meant to brush his hair away, but as soon as your fingers curl into the soft heat of them, you can’t help but grip tighter at the silky touch. Carding your hand through the curly locks. 

You don’t mean to tug, but the careful drag of his teeth against your clit sends a sharp electric jolt up your spine, short-circuiting your lungs and sending you clawing at his curls for dear life. It should not feel this good, and yet you find yourself chasing the sensation, nearly buckling over, as your heel digs into the firm muscles of his back to anchor yourself. 

You can’t even look anymore. Why torture yourself with the sight of him buried between your legs. Cheeks dusted crimson, and those breathtakingly expressive eyes burning into yours as if he’s trying to memorise every minute detail of your expression. You can see his jaw working on your pussy. Can feel him as his tongue keeps sliding hot and insistent without reprieve against your overstimulated clit. 

It’s so much. Too much. All your senses feel overloaded. Your vision goes blurry. You’re not sure if it’s tears that are stinging behind your eyelids or if they cross at the back of your head as everything dims and darkens, like a fuse box blowing out. It’s all too much, and you’re being dragged under and drowning in the sensations. You need to pull up above the surface to breathe again or you’re sure you’re going to die. 

You grab at Marc’s hand like he’s your life preserver, and he weaves his fingers between yours. It’s surprisingly intimate, as he squeezes your hand back, pressing your intwined hands to your hip bone, reassuring you he’s right there and—fuck, it’s… It’s so much, too much. 

It’s chaos. A mayhem between your violently beating heart and burning lungs. You think there must be something wrong with you. Can’t possibly contain the pleasure that keeps pouring and pouring into you. For a fraction of a second, as your mind is torn apart by the sensations, and you are convinced that you must be having a heart attack. What other explanation could there possibly be?

“Ma–Marc, I–I’m– Fuck, oh god, oh fuck."

Marc eases back, “It’s okay.” He presses his mouth to your clit and kisses it, and the slick sound his mouth makes have you trembling and shaking so hard you’re convulsing against the sheets. “You’re okay,” he soothes. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me.”

Warmth floods your veins touching every part of your body, humming through every nerve and cell as your orgasm washes over you. It’s hard and unforgiving. Your body is trying to claim revenge on you for allowing it to take so long as it did. Everything else around you disappears, pulling you under with a vengeance that blots out your vision and all sounds with it. 

But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to you anymore is how everything in you tingles pleasantly. It lingers long after it’s over, and you can still feel it from the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes as you come down on Marc’s tongue. 

His face is still buried between your thighs. His tongue curled against your entrance as he laps every drop of slick out of you. Drinking you down and swallowing every trace of your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for long moments until finally he’s satisfied and drags his head up your body. 

“Did so good,” he praises, voice raspy and raw as his tongue trails a long affectionate line down your femur. 

He presses his mouth to your knee with the same gentle care he did when he’d applied plasters. It’s intimate. Sweet. 

Part of you feels silly to feel this affected by such a simple affectionate gesture considering what preceded it, but your heartbeat flutters at the touch. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely just come down from your orgasm or that you’re still throbbing and sensitive between your legs. Limbs so wrung out, they’re tingling and numb. You’re already craving the closeness of him all over again. 

“Marc,” you call out for him, arm outstretched in an invitation for him to join you on the bed. 

He doesn’t move, and it takes you a few moments, your mind fuzzy around the edges with the afterwaves of your orgasm to register that something's wrong. Everything is blurry and obscured by a warm haze, and you have to blink through the watery periphery of your vision before you can see him a bit more clearly. 

Still on his knees, Marc’s mouth parts slightly open, like he maybe wants to say something but he doesn’t know how. There’s hesitation there in the tenseness of his jaw as his eyes flick away from your gaze, as if there’s still some invisible barrier that he won’t let himself cross.  

It is a little bit ridiculous. After all, what barriers between you are there possibly left to cross? You and him nearly died together tonight. You love him, and he loves you too. Bloody hell, he’s just spent the better half of this night with his head buried between your thighs. There’s no stone left unturned.

But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried under his skin and flesh and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along. Making him doubt himself and his place with you. It doesn’t matter how far you two come. He might always struggle with letting himself have what he wants guilt-free. Because he still doesn’t think he has a right to, that he doesn’t deserve it. 

You plant an elbow on the mattress to raise yourself. But your arms have turned into boneless gelatine, wobbling under your weight, and you nearly topple over. Marc moves so fast, you only register a blur of movement, before he’s by your side. Steadying you with his hands on your shoulders. 

“Easy. Lie back,” he says, eyes narrowed and worried, as he’s ushering you back down. The man’s got a protective streak a mile wide. 

“Marc, please—” you start, but you don’t have to finish. 

He breaks with your plea, and his knee dips into the bed, fully climbing in. His arms brace your sides as he lowers himself onto the bed. 

“What, baby? What do you need? Tell me.” He says it like you only have to speak the words, and then your every wish will be his command.  

There’s no fight left in his tone anymore. Voice gone soft. Any internal doubts have melted out of him. The look in his eyes as he gazes down on you tells you that Marc would give you anything you ask for. This man would insist on throwing himself under a double-decker bus if he thought it would make the ride a tiny bit smoother for you. 

And oh… You get it now. 

It’s taken you far too long, but you might have finally solved the puzzle that is Marc Spector. For all his aversion to let himself have even a morsel of happiness, there’s always been one overriding drive. There’s one thing that towers above the shame and guilt. One thing that’s more important to him than everything else. It’s in the way he’s always trying to meet the needs of those he cares for. Their happiness. Steven’s. Yours. 

All you need to do is ask for him. 

“You. I need you. Want you. Please.” 

You can see it in real time as it happens. How the last traces of hesitation in him crumble, replaced by a determination that carves into those rich brown eyes. He drops forward, then he's sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.  

It's everything.

Marc leans back again, fingers hooking into the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it off over his head in a single fluid motion. There’s no tangling of fabric, and it doesn’t get snagged as he tugs it over his head. There’s none of the clumsy adorableness of his alter. Marc undresses with practised ease like it was choreographed for the sole purpose of making your heart race faster. 

Good fucking grief, you might’ve already seen this man before you naked on more occasions than you can count. But as he towers above you, skin golden in the dim light, the sight of his bare chest feels novel in a way that has your heart dropping to your lungs that must be entirely medically unsafe. You can’t help but stare shamelessly. 

Chiselled and hard from the top of his head to his toes. You remember being surprised by how fit Steven was the first time, but somehow on Marc, it seems right. His physique reminds you of mythic Greek heroes memorialised in marble, and you're taken aback at how soft and warm he is under your hands. That he's human, made out of flesh and bone, and that he shivers as you drag your palms across the bare skin of his chest and stomach. 

The anticipation crackles in your thighs, burning with a searing intensity at the thought of undressing him, gingerly unwrap him like a decadent present. But you’re greedy and have none of Marc’s patience. You wrench at his belt with little to no finesse, reaching down and wedging your fingers along the hem of his jeans to shove them down forcefully against the generous curve of his ass. You tug hard enough that you hear Marc choke out a wheezed breath, but you’re not even paying it any attention. 

His hardened cock slaps against his stomach with a heavy thud and everything in you roars to attention at how thick and swollen he is for you. You feel heavy with need at the sight of it, and your brain is on autopilot, acting without conscious thought as you’re already reaching forward. Your knuckles skim down over his stomach before greedily wrapping your hand around his cock. 

A deep groan tears out of his chest, and his hand snaps up to grab your wrist, holding you still. He clamps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, inhaling heavily through his nostrils, breathing in and out with great struggle.  

As much as you enjoy getting a rise out of him, you’re not trying to make things difficult for Marc on purpose. At least you don’t think you are. But you can’t look away from his cock. You can feel it straining and twitching in your hold, can see the trickle of glistening precome welling up from the flushed tip. 

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, practically salivating as your thumb gently drags over the slick wetness there. The touch has his hips bucking, stuttering into your hands with a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whimper. Your cheeks burn and tingle, your whole body flashing hot. 

“Fuck,” he snarls and knocks your hand away, “You fucking ruin me, you know that?”

You want to retort that he’s the one to talk. Point out that he’s left you a dripping slick mess that’s soaked into the bedsheets and mattress and made them unsalvageable; that your thighs are an aching mess and you’re still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. But all vocabulary flies out of your head at the sight of him, as he replaces your hand with his own, wrapping one large hand around his cock.

Your heart stutters somewhere in your chest, and the breath in your lungs still with anticipation as he drops down to settle himself into place between your legs, knees nudging against your thighs to spread you wider for him as he notches the fat tip against your slick entrance. 

His eyes lock on yours, the tip of his nose brushing alongside yours. He leans down to kiss you again, mouth warm and slick. You can still taste yourself on him, tart and almost sweet. Then he pushes inside of you, and your mind goes numb.

The first slide of him inside you is perfect. A sweet filling stretch that threatens to blot out everything else into nothingness.

Even though it’s your first time with Marc, your body already knows him. Craves every inch of him, and he’s willing to give that to you now, inch by slow maddening inch as he eases inside. Large hands clutching your sides, as his hips press forward and he works himself inside you. His cock pushes deep until he’s buried  to the hilt. Then he stills, shuddering. 

“Shit—,” he groans, dipping his head to press his face into your shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.” His voice sounds shaky and strained. You’re not entirely sure what he means or what he finds so implausible. If he can’t believe he’s finally inside you after all this time or how good it feels. You just know you can’t believe it either. 

It's flawed logic, but you’re not exactly coherent at this moment. Lungs squeezing tight in your diaphragm, you’re only capable of sobbing nonsensically at the consuming sensation of him filling you. Can barely focus on the warm tingle on your spine that settles over you. Your mind has been filled with cotton, soft and hazy as he’s completely sheathed inside, as deep as he can physically be.   

Marc holds there for a long moment, his breath hot on your skin where he pants against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Hips pressed flush against yours, taking his time to let your body adjust to the girth of him. 

His mouth is on your bare skin, pressing kisses to your lips and then the apples of your cheek, before he drags himself downwards to mouth at the side of your neck, and under your jaw. Hands roaming along your ribs and hips like he cannot stop touching you. It’s devoted, loving even, the gentleness to his touch. It makes everything all the more overwhelming for you. He’s ruining you, with every caress on your flesh, and kiss to your skin, and he has barely even moved yet. 

And god, you need him to. 

"Marc."

He doesn't seem to hear you, mouth continuing to dot lazy kisses across your clavicle. 

"Please.” You arch your back towards him, but you don’t get very far with his weight flattening you down against the bed. 

“Marc, need you to move," you try again, voice high-pitched and needy, but you could be pleading to a stone wall for all the good it seems to do. His hips don't move from his position, immovable like a boulder. Instead, his palms fan out against your ribs, fingerprints permanently searing into your skin with the heat of his touch. 

You can’t take it anymore, everything inside you is screaming, bursting at the seams for more and you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to force him deeper. To move. 

Your heels dig into the rounded curve of his ass, and he jerks and gasps. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, as those stupendously gorgeous eyes flutter open. He’s looking at you again, stirred from the spell and the soft expression on his face hardens with determination. 

"Yeah, baby. I got you," he says, and he finally complies. His hand comes to rest on the small of your lower back, tilting you up to him as he moves again. The hard drag of his cock slides out of you until only the blunt tip rests inside, and then he thrusts back, unhurried and deliberate. 

Slow simmering pleasure bubbles up in your veins and you have to swallow it down with a hiccup of a sob. It's still the same ruthlessly slow and thorough pace. The one that tells you he won't be rushed, won't be hurried, even as he's giving you exactly what you asked him for. 

Stubborn. Unreasonable. Maddening. You won't survive him. 

The next thrust is demanding. It strikes heat along your spine and squeezes the air out of your lungs, until there's none of it left so you can fit more of him inside. A strange squeaky noise punches out of your throat, and in panic you clamber onto him.

He does it again. Hips dragging back as he pulls himself away, altering the angle of your hips with a small adjustment as he cants your hips upwards again. This time he lifts you further up than before and he pushes his way in with an almost testing stroke. His eyes narrow as he gazes down on you, brows furrowed in concentration and you realise what he’s doing. 

Marc is slow and exacting, studying your every reaction, learning the best way to intricately pull you apart. 

Staring up at him like this feels like you’re witnessing your own demise as it unfurls. Those unwavering eyes are focused on you, watching your every expression. He’s tilting the angle of his thrusts until he drives the pleasure deeper inside you with devastating precision until there is nothing left of you. Until tears are stinging in the corner of your eyes because you’re sure that you can’t fit more within you — the pleasure and him— and then he does somehow. 

He catches your leg, hitching them higher so that he can slide a few inches deeper. The angle shifts, striking against something raw and overwhelming. You think you go blind with it and you swear you see stars collapsing behind the darkness of your eyelids. 

"Yeah, there we go." His voice in your ear is calm, but he also sounds proud and pleased, and you're not sure if it's with himself or you. It’s all you can hear, and then he’s moving again.

A rich pleasure fills you at the slow glide of his cock dragging out of you, and then he pushes inside again, deep and determined, until his cock is kissing that deep perfect spot that robs you of your ability to breathe. 

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Can feel–” he groans, rolling his hips into yours, and it’s fucking devastating. 

Your mind goes blank. A clean slate with no thought left in you except how good it feels. All you can do is moan and whimper, hands clutching desperately to his shoulders. "Oh– Oh, god. Marc, I– oh!"

He groans, slanting his mouth over yours and swallows the words down, cradling your head with his fingers. Soft doting presses of his lips to yours. 

"Fuck, you feel so–" His sentence is cut off, and you never get to hear the rest of what he was going to say. 

His mouth is on yours again and it’s nothing like the starved and overwhelmingly eager kisses you’re used to from these lips when it’s Steven who’s kissing you. This is slow and measured. Patient and deliberate as he takes his time with you. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to tell you a secret. Like he’s entrusting you with something important, to protect and to keep for him. 

His finger rubs small circles under your ear, his hips slow and consuming as he fucks his cock into you. His arms never leave your side. Mouth never lifting from yours. His whole body pressed as deeply into you as he physically can. 

It feels like a confession. 

The ‘I love you’ that he can’t bring himself to say in front of you and can only admit to in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep. 

His kiss is a soft and devoted touch. A complete contrast to the rest of him, as he continues to thrust into you, fucking his cock deeper inside you and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up. 

It’s pleasure. It’s aggravation. It’s love and a defeat and a million other contradictory emotions between you and Marc that may never be resolved. 

And you’re not going to try to. You’re happy to take him as he is, cracks and all. You accept it, his lips pressed against yours. Accept his demanding rhythm as he drives himself into you deeper and deeper. Accept the insistent heat that curls at the base of your spine, until it is a searing and smouldering burn and sparks like ember, numbing your legs with it. It is threatening to consume your very being and burn you into ashes as it flares bright in your lungs and you can no longer breathe as the pleasure of it is ready to overspill, and—

“Baby, you close again?” 

And fuck, that’s—that’s— Your stomach tenses up again. The warmth spreads, twining and branches out along every single vein flooding it with blinding bliss until you’re dizzy with it. 

You’re trying to say yes, trying to nod, but your body isn’t responding to your will anymore. It has a mind of its own, and all it wants is to be closer to Marc, to grab onto him and never let go. Your limbs are wrapped all around him, legs locked around his waist, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders so hard you know you’re breaking skin. The only thing you’re still in control of is to helplessly squeeze down tight on his cock as it slides thick and heavy in you. 

“Oh fuck, that’s–” his voice sounds pitched and almost vulnerable, the arm curled around your leg, squeezing tighter. 

Pleasure builds in you like the tide, rising slow and steady but inexorable, filling you until there's no room for oxygen or thoughts or anything else except the consuming push of Marc’s cock inside of you. 

And then it breaks, ecstasy streaking out along your every nerve, overwhelming and inescapable, threatening to wash you away with it, except that you’re pinned, held safe by the grounding weight of Marc’s body and the reassuring press of his forehead against yours as you come on his cock.  

You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at him, still bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. You can only make out the colour of his eyes, the dark ink of his hair. But blurry as he is, you’re intimately aware of how he can see all of you. The glazed look that you must be holding in your half-open eyes as wrought out with pleasure as you are. The hair plastered to your forehead. The absolute mess of a state he’s left you in, and how debauched you must look in front of him. Face to face, all of you bare and uncovered, there in its unembellished form for him to see. 

But that means you can see Marc too. As your vision clears, you can pick out every small detail of his expression. The subtle tic of the muscle in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. How his mouth is slack with pleasure. Those rich eyes of his are blown wide open until they’re left exposed. You can see it clearly now, how he’s clearly trying and struggling to hold back. The vulnerability that he’s been trying to hide from the world the entire time you’ve known him. 

Not for the first time, as he holds himself above you, you find yourself marvelling at how beautiful he is. Identical to Steven, yet worlds apart. 

Steven is hope and light and the curve of a gentle smile. Marc is sharp lines and dark shadows and heat behind his pained eyes. Jagged edges to Steven’s soft curves. Jaded cynicism to Steven's cheerful enthusiasm. Dark secrets and carefully hidden skeletons lurking in closets to Steven's forthright honesty.

And god help you, you love them both beyond measure.

The weight of his body is pressing down against you now. Every inch of the smooth golden skin pinned against yours, warm and flushed against your heated flesh. He grinds himself against you, needy, and desperate. There’s no longer any rhythm or logic to it. Just an instinctual primal need to get closer. You spread your legs as wide as you can to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can even as your thighs ache in protest from overexertion. 

His mouth moves against yours, stuttering and trembling, and it takes you far too long to register the words that are coming from him. 

“Fuck, baby, fuck I’m–” he chokes out brokenly against your lips, his hands on your hips holding on tighter. 

He stills, and you think maybe this is it, that he’s about to come. Anticipation rises in your chest, and you hold him tighter, body clenching down in preparation. 

But he doesn’t come. Just holds himself there, shuddering against you, his forehead against your chin, panting breaths, hot and humid, against the base of your neck. His cock is pulsing where it’s buried thickly inside you. Thighs quivering and barely able to keep them upright where they’re pressed between yours. You know that he wants to come. Needs to come. You just don’t understand why he’s refusing to give in. 

“It’s okay, Marc. You can let go. Come for me,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your voice hoarse and scraped raw in your throat. 

There’s a long moment of stillness, then he heaves a sigh so weary it makes your heart clench, as he starts shaking his head.

“No,” he grits out, voice low and determined as it so often is.  His head comes up, dark, fuck-drunk eyes meeting yours, jaw set at that stubborn angle you’ve come to know so well, and he says it again. 

“No. I– I’m not–“ He cuts off, shaking his head again. “Not yet,” he says. Then he rallies through, lifting his body away from yours and drives himself deep inside you with a shudder. “Not ready for this to end.”

It sounds like a plea, and you’re not sure who he’s pleading with, you or himself, and there is a pang of pain in your chest for him. Because this idiot still doesn’t get it. 

It’s like he’s never known softness. Hardness forged from a lifetime of a man who’s always had to hold himself up without respite. There’s a loneliness in it, of being the one who always has to take care of everyone else with nowhere to put down his burdens. 

Fondness swells up in you and there is nowhere to direct it except for the object of your affection. You wrap your arms tighter around him, smoothing one palm over the sweat-slick, heaving muscles of his back, and whisper reassurances into the hair above his ear. 

“Marc,” you breathe out and at the sound of you calling his name, his eyes snap up to yours. “Nothing’s ending.” 

His arms buckle and he lets out a small choked sound that almost sounds like a whimper. He looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.  

“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his. You kiss the arch of his jaw and mouth at the column of his neck. “Have had me for a long time.” 

He tenses at your words, whole body trembling above you. But he still refuses to let go. 

How many times will you have to keep reaching out to this impossibly stubborn man before he starts believing that you mean it?

Your hands come to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, cradling this face that you have fallen in love with twice over. Not just because it is Steven’s face. Not just because he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. But because it’s Marc too. 

“I love you.” 

At your words, those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze.  

His head tilts slightly, a movement so small it doesn’t register at first that he’s nodding. Then his face drops closer, pressing his lips to yours. The line of his shoulder softens under your locked arms, lowering himself down onto you. His hips sink into you, his cock dragging thickly inside you as deep as it goes. 

You watch in awe as his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and you can feel it as he comes inside you. Pulse after devastating pulse. 

And god, he’s so beautiful like this; unruly curls wild and ruined, cut cheeks a faint crimson, skin slick with glistening sweat in the dim light. So perfectly undone and at peace. The pulse of his cock inside you as he spills himself deep inside you is almost secondary.

You bask in it. The warmth of his arms caging you in, his forehead pressing down firm against yours. The feeling of him so deep inside you, you’ll happily drown in the feeling of this man after waiting for him so long. His body slumps, dropping his weight on yours, completely depleted. 

His cock is still hard, arms still trembling when Marc shifts on top of you, trying to raise himself on one elbow. It's too soon for him to move, you don't want him to move, want him to lie on top of you forever.

Logically, you know it’s out of consideration. He’s probably worried that he’s squishing you, but an irrational fear swoops low in your stomach at the idea that he’s going to leave again. Your fingers dig into his forearm, dragging him back towards you. 

He lands on top of you with a quiet and tired grunt in your ear, but there’s no other protest from him. Marc lets you, shifting ever so slightly to make sure that his elbow doesn’t jab into your ribs as he settles on top of you. Then he stays, and you get to listen to the slow steadying of his breath, as the erratic rise and fall of his chest ease into something more even. 

The two of you stay this way for a long time, staring up at each other, with half-lidded eyes worn from exhaustion without speaking, and you catalogue his face as it cycles through a series of micro-expression with each second that ticks by. 

If this was when you’d first known Marc, at first glance, each expression would have looked the same to you. But you know him well enough now that you can tell that the tiny pinch of his brow means something is troubling him. That the narrowing slant of his eyes means he can’t find the right words to express it. That him biting the inside of his cheeks means he’s hesitating on whether he would be offloading on you. Every detail says just as much as Steven’s openly variable animated expressions. 

His eyes blink in quick succession, and Marc takes a deep heaving breath as if bracing himself. Then he’s lifting himself up and away from you by his forearms, slipping out of you to a sharp pained hiss as you whine in response at how empty you feel at the loss. 

He rolls to the side of the bed next to you and settles there, and you feel a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next, because you don't know what is going to come.

“Is this still what you want?” Marc asks. 

He’s looking at you as he says it, but somehow you feel like he’s looking through you, eyes not quite meeting yours. His voice sounds impassive, and if you haven’t spent so much time with him by now, it could easily be mistaken for disinterest or even boredom, instead of the defence mechanism that you know it is. 

“Yes, of course, it is,” you say without hesitation.  

There’s no response from Marc, he’s lying so still next to you. So quiet you can’t even hear him breathing anymore. If it turned out that he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open you wouldn’t be surprised. 

You turn onto your side so that you can scoot even closer to him as you watch him. One sole stray curl is draped across his forehead, and it’s fallen into the line of his big gorgeous brown eyes. So ridiculously pretty, this one. 

Yeah. This is definitely what you want. Him.  Steven. Both. All of them. 

“You’re– okay with all this?” he asks hesitantly, and he looks genuinely puzzled as to why you would be. “With... what happened earlier too?” 

A breathless huff pushes its way up your chest. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word here, Marc. I’m not sure how to deal with the revelation that gods and monsters are real, and there’s a very high chance I’ll freak out about it tomorrow or next week. But…”

You press a kiss to the side of his cheek as you draw your eyes up and meet those rich expressive eyes of his. There’s no mistaking it, you feel it, in the same way that you do for Steven. Even if it’s different… there’s no doubt in you, haven’t been for a long time about this. 

“What I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. You and Steven. No matter what. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said. I want to be your person as well as his. And– and I hope you can be mine.”  

Marc tentatively draws his hand towards you, fingertips searching across the length of your arm until he finds your fingers and weaves them with his. 

The palm of his hand is warm and sturdy, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation across the back of your neck. It’s your favourite thing in the world, whenever Steven does this, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to be your shared favourite when Marc does it too. 

“Yeah”, he finally says after a long moment, “I’d like that.” His voice is soft and quiet, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies swoops your stomach at his warm tone filled with affection.  

Tilting your head upwards, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his. It’s sweet and tender as his hand cups your cheeks protectively, like a promise that he’s not going to run anymore and it makes your toes curl into the sheet until you’re giddy.

You clutch at him, hands cupping the back of his neck and lace your fingers into those ridiculously soft curls of his. Marc shivers against you, and you smile like a loon as he ducks his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck contentedly, and exhale deeply. 

Who would have guessed that post-sex, the man would be the world's most grumpy cat turned soft and cuddly, asking to be petted. You comb through the matted locks and the blunt tip of his nose nuzzles into your damp skin. He makes a quiet, content little sound somewhere from the back of his throat like he doesn’t want you to stop and who are you to deny him? 

Your fingertips trail his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head, when it occurs to you that you should probably be more careful with his head. 

He was flung several feet in the air and landed head-first into a concrete wall with a bone-cracking sound that still makes you sick to your stomach. You continue to card through his hair, mapping him out in search of any signs of injuries, but you can’t find any and your fingers still. 

It doesn’t make sense. You weren’t put through the ringer in any way near what Marc was tonight and you’ve still ended up with your fair share of scrapes and bruises. But there’s nothing on Marc. 

No swelling, no bumps. No wounds. 

On top of it all you’ve spent the better part of this evening, pulling and tearing at his hair. Your nails had been digging so deep into his shoulders you might as well have been excavating for gold and he hasn’t so much as hissed or flinched in pain even once. 

There’s a faint muffled sound of complaint from Marc as he lies on top of you. It’s so distorted that it takes you a few moments to appreciate that they’re words.

“What's wrong?” Marc asks. 

“You don’t have any injuries. You were hurt.” 

“I was wearing the suit,” he answers in his typical deadpan manner. No background information, no context, no painting out a scene for you. To Marc, the limited information he’s given you should make perfect sense to you. 

You grimace, and you’re just about to have a moan at him, when Marc seems to realise how confusing that explanation must be. He lifts his head from your neck as he continues. “Khonshu’s ceremonial armour. It protects me. Heals me when I need it.” 

An image of the swirl of bandages wrapping itself around Marc’s body to form an otherworldly magical suit plays out behind your mind, and you can’t resist teasing him. 

“So you transform like Sailor Moon and then fight evil at night?”

Marc lifts his eyebrow inquisitively, with a completely blank expression. “I don’t know what that is.” 

“Really? Sailor–” you sputter, shocked he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Steven would know that reference.”

“Steven has too much free time,” he sighs, but the fondness hiding under his gruff tone is unmistakable. 

The playful jab at Steven brings a small smile to your face. The levity of it is a nice change of pace from the whirlwind of seismic events and paradigm shifts tonight, because there’s been a lot to take in. Much of which, you’re pretty sure you haven’t fully taken in… Don’t even know how to start to process it. 

Ancient Egyptian gods are real, and your boyfriend—(boyfriends? Just exactly how involved is Steven?)—is some kind of indentured fighter priest who battles invisible monsters—also real—for one of them. 

What is the correct reaction to a revelation like that? How does one even begin to mentally process that? 

“Any other questions? Now’s your chance,” Marc says. 

There is no hostility like before and this time you don’t have to drag it out of him with the persistence of a detective in an interrogation room interviewing a suspect as you ordinarily have to. 

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that, except that you’re a little bit stunned and you realise that something has shifted between you and Marc. 

He’s… opening up to you. 

You look up at him, and he meets your eyes steadily. There are a million things you still want to ask: What’s the deal with his and Steven’s mum? What did he and Steven go through while they were away? How did he almost die, and how on bloody earth did he manage to just stumble upon an ancient Egyptian God to end up in his service?

Marc hasn’t moved from the spot as he observes you. Still seemingly expressionless, except… 

There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, isn’t there? And he’s too still—even for Marc… It hits you all at once he’s holding his breath, the line of his lips set in a thin nerve-biting straight line.

He’s waiting for you.

Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, there’s only so much his body language can repress. The ring of his eyes is dilated and vulnerable. 

He’s nervous. 

Marc’s jaw tightens in anticipation and maybe something a little like fear, and it makes your chest ache with an overwhelming need to protect him. Those other questions can wait. You have all the time in the world together. Right now you want to make him feel as safe and cared for as you do. You want to make him smile. 

"So..." you begin, and you see him stiffen, watching as he braces himself like he’s expecting a blow. It’s how you know you’re making the right decision. "Do you actually like my coffee?"

His eyes widen and he sputters out "You– Your–" then barks out a laugh. 

Even in the dark, you can see it, a soft smile on his face that illuminates the darkness of the room with it. A gentle curve, as the dimple of his cheeks carve a deep dent into those hollowed cheeks, the soft crinkle of lines around his eyes. It’s like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s bright and uninhibited. An electrical socket has been plugged in and every nerve in you is flicked alight with excitement. 

It stuns you and takes your breath away, and for the longest moment, you forget about everything else. 

Because god, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 

It takes you several seconds, maybe even a full minute to compose yourself enough to ask him again. 

"Well...?" you prompt, and you’re gifted with the pleasure of watching him try and fail to hide that perfect smile.

"It's… a little more complicated than that," he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look playfully peeved while tampering your own smile that’s twitching at your lips and failing.

"I like that you make it for me," he tries.

"That wasn't the question, though."

Marc shifts in the bed, scooting closer to you until he’s brushing up against your knees. That small but near-magical smile is still on his face. 

"Tell you what,” Marc murmurs, as he tightens his grip around you, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat-slicked curls tickling your nose. “Tomorrow, let's make it together." 

His voice is so assured, it feels like he’s promising you a certainty, and you trust him with every inch of you. 

A warmth spreads in your chest, and you can feel the dopey grin pulling at your lips until your cheeks almost hurt, but you can’t stop yourself and you don’t think you want to either. 

There is so much that is still unresolved, so many more things you need answers to, but it’s a good start and that’s good enough for tonight. After all, as Steven would tell you: you have all the time in the world.

“That sounds perfect,” you tell him. 

When you wake, the morning light is filtering in through the large windows. The sun is blinding and makes it difficult to see anything at all. 

Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You’re alone in bed again. 

Marc has really got to stop fucking doing that. 

“Marc?” you call out, but there’s no response. You hesitate for a second before adding, “Steven?”

“Here.”

Then you hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen, and the tension in your chest melts away at the sound of porcelain clinking together. There are no folded clothes by your side, but to your surprise, your watch sits on the nightstand, cracked face turned up, waiting for you. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your stomach warms at the sight. Marc must have gone back to retrieve it while you were asleep. 

You sit up on the bed, bending over to grab a discarded shirt from the floor as well as your knickers from last night, and pull them on, smiling to yourself as you start to make your way across the flat to join him in the kitchen. 

The familiar sweet, bread-like smell wafts out to greet you, and you falter.

Pancakes? That isn’t right. Today’s not Sunday. 

In the bright morning sun, you see him standing, with his back turned against you over the kitchen stove. Wearing only his jeans, bare from the waist above, the carved muscles of his back flexing as he flips the frying pan with a dramatic flair. Even before he speaks, you already know what’s happened.  

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greets you. He's turning his head just enough to throw you a quick glance, and a one-sided crooked smile. 

You stop in your tracks. The cadence is alien, the smile off, but you recognize it immediately. 

Not Marc. Not Steven. But you have met this man before. 

That first night at Steven’s; the man you woke up to who looked at you like you were a stranger; the man who followed you to the lift to return your watch; the same man who towered over the invisible creature with nothing but cold contempt in his eyes as he snuffed out its time on earth with precision and brutality.

All this time, you thought that the first night you’d spent with Steven was also your first encounter with Marc. 

But Marc doesn’t call you sweetheart. Marc doesn’t flirt. Marc doesn’t smirk like he’s trying to imitate something he’s seen on the telly. 

This is detached and impersonal, like he’s not really smiling at all. When Marc smiles it’s snow thawing in the spring.

 It’s funny how you didn’t see it until now. Marc was never the wolf. 

You cross your arms against your chest, planting your feet firmly on the floor, standing up straight and tall as you confront the man before you. 

“You’re not Marc, and you’re not Steven,” you say and you shift on your legs, puffing out your chest in a display of put-on courage. “Don’t you think it's time you introduced yourself, seeing that you’re in my boyfriends’ flat?” 

The man huffs out a laugh, and his accent is different when he speaks again. A New York accent, you think, but almost cartoonishly so, like he’s watched one too many Martin Scorcese movies. It’s oozing out of every word as he speaks with a slow and nasal hum. 

“Nothing gets past you, does it, sweetheart?” 

He sets down the frying pan on the stove, turning it off before he wipes off his hand on a flower-patterned tea towel and extends it towards you, a polite invitation to shake. 

“Name’s Jake Lockley.”

You take a step towards him, and maybe you should be nervous—afraid of this stranger wearing your boyfriends’ face—but the panic and fear from that first night you met him is absent. That painful pounding in your chest is no longer there. 

You accept his hand, looking up into this man’s familiar eyes that are staring down at you in an entirely unfamiliar way. Not Steven’s wide and adoring gaze. Not Marc’s protective and gentle attention. No love resides in those eyes for you at this moment, just curiosity. 

But you’re not scared this time. 

Because come what may, you already know the most important part. Whatever happens next, whoever this Jake turns out to be, it’s not going to change your mind about Steven or Marc.

You’ll take them as they are. Red flags and all.

THE END.

Author's notes

This is the end. I wish I was more coherent to write a meaningful and heartwarming message about what this story has meant to me. How grateful I am to everyone reading it, but I do not think I have any words that can do it justice.

The only thing I can say is thank you. Thank you for reading this, whether you've read this from the first chapter, or whether you only read the first chapter or you've only read bits and pieces. Whether you've commented or liked or reblogged or simply just lurked-read, from the bottom of my heart thank you for giving this story your time, I'm really grateful to you all.

A big thank you to my friends who have listened to me whine and bitch and moan and generally emotionally terrorised them with this story, and especially thank you to my cowriter: thirstworldproblemss who has been put through the ringer with this story and suffered alongside with me. I love you the moooooooooooooooooooosetest

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[loverhymeswith]

hello🙈 i’ve been thinking about a mini story based on “exile” by taylor swift with one tommy shelby… former lovers. shelby sees her at a party with a new beau and gets jealous (“i can see you starin honey, like he’s just your understudy, like you’d get your knuckles bloody for me”) it’s a back and forth dialogue type song IDK i think it would be slay

Exile

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F!Reader

Summary: A familiar figure stirs up feelings you'd rather not face

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: Mention of drugs.

A/N: Thank you Anon! I love this song and it fits Tommy SO well. Also, I wrote this on a beach. No idea how the setting ended up being NYE. Thank you @a-reader-and-a-writer for the beta read and the ending ❤️

I've added my existing taglist but please note this is not part of the Let’s Be Alone Together universe.

Him

It's fast approaching midnight at The Savoy Hotel. The dawning of the new year is almost within reach. Tommy Shelby drains his glass of champagne, wishing for whiskey instead as he slowly scans the room.

Tickets for the party tonight had been akin to gold dust, a chance to rub shoulders with the upper echelons of London's elite. But Tommy would rather be anywhere else in the world. 

Preferably, Birmingham.

He'd take a bottle of homemade gin, tucked away in the quiet familiarity of Charlie's yard in a heartbeat over this stuffy champagne-fueled ballroom. But no one ever said success was easy.

Tommy had come here tonight for one reason and one reason alone. If his plans to move into the world of politics had any chance of coming to fruition, he would need to mingle with the privileged crowd. To learn their weakness. Their darkest secrets. To take advantage of the liquor loosening their lips.

He's managed to withstand maybe a handful of hours at best before growing tired of all the posturing and arrogance, the not-so-subtle self-aggrandising and the congratulatory back slaps.

Looking for a way out but willing to settle for a distraction, his gaze continues to drift along the sea of tuxedos and expensive dresses.

Unexpectedly, he falters.

These days, it takes a lot to catch Tommy Shelby off guard - between France and his more recent ventures, it would be fair to assume he had developed nerves of steel - but off guard is exactly how he feels when his attention lands on the beautiful woman standing by the bar.

He'd recognise her anywhere. Sometimes, he thinks he searches for her in his dreams. 

Tommy feels the muscles in his jaw clench before he's able to compose himself. A foolish sign of weakness that he can’t afford to display. Not here. 

But it's difficult. A test of his usually unwavering resolve. Because she's not alone. 

There's a man. Younger than Tommy; tall, dark-haired, and slim, the old-money practically oozing off him. Any closer and Tommy would be able to smell it.

Tommy grabs another glass of too-sweet champagne from a passing waiter. Something to occupy his hands, and just in time. Old-Money's arms are wrapped around the woman's body, a possessive gesture and one he recognises well.

Once upon a time, she spent her nights in Tommy’s arms.

Five whole years might have passed - evidently long enough for her tastes to change - but it feels more like five minutes since she walked out of Small Heath and out of his life, a hastily scrawled note declaring she'd had enough.

Three simple sentences. One for each year they had been together. At the time, Tommy had replayed the words over and over until they no longer held any meaning, but liquor and bloodshed had long since turned those memories to slush.

It all boiled down to his plans for the future. Her fear of the potential enemies and danger which those plans might beget.

Whoever said that love would conquer all?

Tommy doesn't taste the sparkling wine as he tips the glass back, draining it in one mouthful. 

The champagne just won't do. He needs something stronger to take the edge off, but his path to the bar is blocked.

Biding his time, Tommy watches the couple. In fact, despite the sourness growing in the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to look away.

Old-Money leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispers something that even Tommy’s lip-reading skills cannot decipher. 

What is plain to see, however, is her lack of amusement. She tenses, discomfort evident in the clench of her jaw and the tightness of her shoulders. Her laughter, when it comes, is forced, never reaching her eyes.

A lightning bolt of unfiltered rage burns through Tommy’s veins, dulling his remaining senses like Arthur’s cocaine, but he quickly tempers it down. It’s not his problem. She's not his problem. 

She's not his to defend.

Not anymore.

Her

It's almost midnight. Ever since your arrival at The Savoy, your attention has been drifting to the clock on the wall. Waiting for the bells to chime and free you from this misery.

The party had been his idea, your date for the evening clearly operating under the assumption that money makes a man more attractive. An assumption which couldn't be further removed from the truth.

Though The Savoy might be the hottest ticket in town, everything about tonight makes you miss Birmingham - Small Heath, to be precise. New Year's Eve at The Garrison. The excitement. The unpredictability. 

The Peaky Blinders.

Your stomach involuntarily flips at the intrusive thought. You've come too far now to be thinking about the Shelby brothers. All memories pertaining to your former life belong firmly in the past.

Ignoring another pompous comment from your date, you glance up from your drink, desperate for an escape. Perhaps you can slip away in time to avoid the awkward but obligatory midnight kiss.

That's when you see him. 

A ghost - a demon - from your past, seemingly conjured into existence by the power of your thoughts alone.

The very same piercing blue eyes that have long haunted your dreams now stare you down, unblinking, from across the room. His full lips are drawn into a hard line.

Thomas Shelby.

Despite your brain knowing far better, your traitorous heart still flutters.

He looks good. Too good. 

Unfairly good.

The expensive dark suit is sinfully cut to his powerful body and his once-severe haircut has been allowed to somewhat grow out. 

Clearly, he's come a long way since the days of bruised and bloody knuckles. In the presence of polite society, he looks like he belongs.

The last five years may have been kind to your former fiancé, but with a start, the realisation dawns that the same can't be said of you.

Because five years later you still haven't recovered from the incurable affliction of loving Tommy Shelby.

Despite what some might say, you hadn't walked into the relationship blind. You'd known the head of the Shelby family for long enough to accept that a life together would be full of surprises, and not all of them good. But for love, you'd given him half a dozen chances.

Honesty. 

That's all you'd ever wanted. To be treated as his equal. His partner. To not be kept in the dark about decisions which could potentially put you both in harm's way.

Yet still he'd schemed and plotted. Twisted and manipulated. Deceived. He had told you it wasn't lying. That for your own safety, he was simply withholding the truth. As if that somehow made it ok.

Inevitably, after three years together, your patience reached its limit. Making good on a promise to yourself, you'd left, starting a new life for yourself in the capital, far away from the demons of Watery Lane. 

But you'd been foolish to believe that any amount of miles could repair the damage done to your heart. Arguably, damage of your own making.

His name has followed you like an ever-present shadow. His handsome picture staring back at you from newspaper articles. Even in black and white, those beautiful eyes just added insult to injury.

And now he's here in the flesh.

Tommy's stare is unwavering, but he makes no move to come over. Still, it's only a matter of time before he seeks you out. After your cowardly way of leaving, it's easy to imagine he has some choice words for you, but you’re not ready to speak to him. Not here, where manners and decorum are all the rage.

Willing yourself to break eye contact, you notice a side door to your left. Relief washes over you. Freedom or at least a small reprieve. Anything is preferable to this form of slow torture.

Him

Tommy watches her leave - a recurring theme, it would seem - her hurried exit presumably on account of his unexpected presence here tonight. She definitely spotted him amidst the crowd and she did not look pleased.

He should let her go. She's not his problem. She's in his past.

Isn't she?

A minute passes before, not entirely of his own accord, Tommy finds himself following in her footsteps. He's always been inexplicably drawn to her. Apparently, even heartbreak isn't enough to change that.

When he finds her in the lobby, her back is turned but she whips around as he murmurs her name.

"Tommy."

The earlier surprise he saw flash across her delicate features has been replaced by a  carefully rehearsed indifference. One he recognises all too well. 

She's at pains to pretend his presence isn't affecting her. A feeling to which he can certainly relate.

"I didn't expect to see you tonight," she adds when he doesn't immediately respond. "I didn't think this kind of thing was your scene."

He doesn't miss the accusation in her tone. 

What she really means is why are you here?

Slowly, Tommy inclines his head, lest she notice the falter in his gaze. Impossibly, she's even more beautiful than he remembers. It's surely a cruel twist of fate that brings her here tonight. Just when things were looking up for him. Just when he thought he'd put the past to rest.

"Likewise," he agrees. 

"Business or pleasure?" She wonders aloud before scanning the lobby, keenly on the lookout for another escape route.

The words, driven by a lingering hurt, fly from his lips before he can check himself, his attention not so subtly shifting to the blonde woman entering the lobby. "There's no reason it can't be both."

Her

Of course, he followed you. It's a problem you could really do without. You're walking a thin line just by talking to him. Experience tells you there's only two ways this will play out. 

Wondering whether there's any possibility of getting away unscathed, you offer him a polite smile and gesture towards the blonde woman now loitering in the corner. "Well, I'll leave you to your… pleasure."

He studies you carefully, his sharp features set into a cool mask of apathy, but you recognise the hurt hidden behind his icy eyes. 

The hurt which you caused.

"I'd tell you the same, except I doubt your friend knows how to pleasure a woman. You looked miserable back there." 

Despite the sentiment, there's no trace of concern in his cruel words.

"My choice of date for the evening isn't up for debate, Thomas," you tell him curtly, despite silently agreeing with his observation.

"Nothing ever is with you, is it?" he muses, his lips slightly pursing.

And there it is. 

Clearly, he's not going to let you get away until he has aired his grievances. 

Perhaps you owe him that courtesy at the very least.

Dropping your own mask of indifference, you take a step towards him and take his warm hand. To your surprise, he doesn't resist.

"I had to leave, Tommy. You were never going to turn things around. You were never going to change. But for what it's worth, I am sorry about leaving the way I did. I should have been better. I should have been braver."

Tommy shakes his head, keeping his tightly guarded emotions at bay. "You left without warning. You never even heard me out."

"Without warning? God, Tommy. How can you stand there and say that? How could you possibly have missed it? I left you so many signs."

Tommy looks away, his eyes rapidly searching for something just out of sight. The only indication he's feeling anything at all. "I guess I never learnt to read your mind."

"You never learnt to listen," you fire back. "Or communicate at all for that matter. Would it have killed you to be honest with me? To tell me what you had planned?"

A muscle in his jaw ticks. "I was trying to keep you safe."

The realisation that he's never going to change his tune stings more than it should. You drop his hand. "I wish I could believe that." 

The truth, in your eyes, is that he never trusted you. He's never trusted anyone. How could you be expected to give your heart over to a man who would never let you into his own?

There's a beat of silence. Enough time for you to regret letting this conversation play out for so long. Nothing good can come from digging up the past. You should go your separate ways before any further irreparable damage is done.

"Was it worth it?" Tommy asks finally, a bite of frustration slipping through his calm facade. "Leaving everything behind for this?" He gestures around. "Are you happier now?"

"Yes," you lie, but your resolve is rapidly weakening under the intensity of his blue gaze.

The door to the ballroom swings open and a small gathering of revellers spills into the lobby, saving you from admitting the very thing you've been afraid of. 

That leaving Birmingham had been a mistake. 

Tommy reaches for your arm, tugging you away from the crowd and into a recess by the cloakroom. As a result, the two of you have infinitely closed the distance.

His chest, broad and still so inviting, is now inches from your own; his calloused hand is still wrapped firmly around your wrist, his thumb pressed against your pulse point.

Can he feel how fast your heart races?

"For all your talk of honesty, you won't face the truth yourself, will you?" He sighs lightly, something like disappointment coating his words.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You scoff, feigning ignorance as a last resort.

Before he can respond, a loud cheer erupts from within the ballroom, saving you once again.

"That's midnight," you murmur just as Tommy glances down at his elegant gold pocket watch.

"Midnight," he agrees, his eyes flicking back up to your own. "Happy New Year."

You stare at him for a long moment, taking stock of his defining features. Long, dark eyelashes, the kind that would ordinarily be wasted on a man - but not Tommy; razor sharp cheekbones and a jawline to match. Crystalline blue eyes you could so easily drown in.

Almost imperceptibly, he shifts closer, large hands finding your waist with ease.

"Do you still believe in tradition?" He wonders, but it's a rhetorical question. You both know he doesn't need an answer.

Your last sensible thought before he leans in to kiss you: God damn Tommy Shelby and those ocean eyes.

Taglist: @a-reader-and-a-writer @crysxtal @shynovelist @amberpanda99 @globetrotter28 @dragonsondragons @butterfly-lover @sunshineyourethebesttime @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @breezy2and2freezy

[hearta54]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 (𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐞𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

Summary: You have a long-lived crush on Cench, the boy across the road, piano is one thing you share. At a piano examination, you find out if your persistent feelings are reciprocated.

Notes: Originally was going to write about Tae-Moo from Business Proposal; thought this suits Central Cee better. Plus he's hot as f!ck.

Warnings: alcoholism, abusive father, a little swearing

Word Count: 2 453

When you played the piano it was like the notes were emitted from your finger tips, rather than from the instrument you love. You closed your eyes and let memory lead into the crescendo of Fur Elise. Playing the piano was a form of ecstatic escapism; it allowed you to transcend reality and exist in a void untouchable by what drained you.

Dad could drain a pungent bottle fast, even faster than he could drain you. Drifting into the decrescendo the melodic keys helped you block the intrusive thoughts you had about him. He used to be better, a memory which was slowly fading from memory. But if you were to be honest … those days when he embodied something other than an absent and sorrowful father were lost in a network of messy incidents, spurred by the violent man he became under the influence.

Sometimes dad was cordial and added to a pleasant ambience but this didn't overshadow his bad days. On these days, you would crawl within yourself, barricaded in your room playing until your fingertips felt numb and your hands lost their supple dexterity. Feeling a need to escape as your parents argued downstairs, mother was made timid by him; so she tread carefully, but even then he was so volatile. So temperamental.

So mother lived in crippling fear: That a chair would be thrown too hard, or that dad would drink too much alcohol. Extra shifts at the hospital was how she coped, running and adamantly refusing to confront - this tainted you with disappointment. Piano was the way you fought. But in rare instances when your favourite composers didn't ease your worried mind you turned to Oakley, the boy across the road.

Placing your sheet music atop of your keyboard you allowed yourself to sink into an inviting daze. Oakley Neil H.T Caesar-Su is it weird that I know his whole name, his friends call him Cench, Cench was an anomaly he made rap music and dressed in tech fleece but under the guise of his demeanor he was one of the best pianist you had witnessed … Grade seven.

When Cench played it was riveting, unconsciously tilting his head to the side and getting lost in the keys he looked like a worthy muse. You digressed, thinking about the way his plump lips upturned when he smiled. The way his dark curls caught the sun when she watched from afar. Afar... because Cench barely registered your existence.

Last week in music class, late as always; he bumped into you. As he retrieved your folder you thought you had glimpsed a twinkle in his eye. But it must have been the glare of the sun because your eyes lingered and his were unbothered; turning away. Changed into your satin PJs you switched the lamp off - some dreams were best left for sleep.

...

Morning had arrived, but as the sun rose smoothly you were ruminating. Casting your memory back to last night, you revisited the way your hands had glided over the keys. Each note seamless and crisp melting into the songs you had beautifully played. You hoped you would play as effortlessly today. Today was a pinnacle and would hopefully affirm the hours of practice and offer a haven which floated more away from what was happening at home and into your future at The Royal College of Music.

Doing your therapeutic morning skincare, you thought listlessly of life there and the endless respite it unlidded. Today you had chosen a white turtleneck layered by a wooly grey cardigan and cute pleated skirt, with opaque tights - for the glacial London winter - and legwarmers. Leaving your room you slipped on your Doc Marten's - a complementary staple in your closet.

They had not been cheap, but with the aid of your part-time job which was not overly lucrative; you were able to secure the shoes and cover the significant costs of piano tuition. Walking down, you treaded softly on the worn carpet, you could hear the wretched sound of beer bottles clinking in the kitchen. Clinging to the bannister you steadied yourself; Cench would be at the piano exam. So you put on a façade of bravery and nonchalance even though you knew it was erosive.

"Hi y/n slept well," his words weren't slurred yet. You were flummoxed, dad was usually rooted in self-interest. When did he start looking beyond himself?

" Dad..." Your words caught in the static air, it sounded so raw.

"Mmm."

"Do you think you can drop me to my piano exam it's a bit far by bus, mum is working and -" Glass smashing to smithereens startled you; you covered your head instinctually.

"Who do you think I am. A fucking taxi, take the bus. You and your God damn piano," he was seething, as he turned around you took in his bloodshot eyes. So temperamental. He wouldn't have been good to drive anyways. Rigid and shaking you rushed up the stairs hurriedly and stuffed your bag blindly with your sheet music. Your eyes were too watery. You shut the door behind you with trepidation, not wanting to spark another polarizing outburst.

Tears streaming endlessly down your face you breath caught as you saw Cench leaving his house across the road. Seeing you he seemed perturbed like he'd seen something he shouldn't have. You watched aghast as he put his earbuds in and pulled his quintessential Trapstar hoodie to shroud his possessing curls. Walking down the street with your eyes downcast, you felt mortified, you felt Cench had seen a part of your life you worked so hard to hide.

You bumped into something unmoving, "ugh," you scoffed exasperatedly. Could my day get any worse? Glancing upwards you were dumbfounded by who stood in front of you.

"Hi y/n, you alright, everything calm yeah?" Cench was looking directly into your eyes, his earbuds out.

You nodded, clutching at fading conviction. How could you tell Cench your problems when he barely knew you? So dishonestly you made it seem like everything was fine; insecurity hoodwinked you into believing he would think you were 'too much.'

Almost smirking, he rolled his eyes tilting his head to one side like he was lost in demanding piano piece.

"Why do girls always move shady? I can tell your not fine, you were tearing up and that _ " he sighed seeing the resolve you had in being stoic.

"Alright then y/n, your fine I guess. The piano exams are time away, taking the bus is mad _" he was stopped short by a honk from a car blaring rap music.

"Anyways good luck, don't stress too tough, your piano skills are hard," Cench said this as the car drove away erratically.

Piano skills? Cench knows about my piano skills? Maybe you're not so self-deluded.

...

Raveled in the chaos of the morning, walking into the revered and coveted Royal College of Music was an exhale. The school was the cornerstone of all your dreams, you could always visualize it vividly. And now here you were for a piano exam, it was a reminder that it was real and not just a conjuring of your escapist imagination.

Walking through the hall you took in the surreal architecture and basked in its splendor. I could get used to this. Peeking at your crumpled pamphlet you realised the auditorium was on your left: 'Auditorium 9B.'

You sat down in a velvety plush seat and felt yourself inflate with hope, a place hear would be a gateway to magic. A piano piece began softly, enthralling the dozens of other pianists scattered in the vast, gilded auditorium. Flicking your eyes heavenwards you saw him, playing as gracefully as ever. Sometimes you thought to yourself Cench was born solely for this very thing.

Cench's POV:

I have played this piece a thousand times before now; I perfected it and made it radiate real talent even. Just so that when I got on this stage, I could stare at y/n and absorb her beauty. I committed every detail of her face to memory before the eighth bar - What can I say I'm a quick learner innit. The truth is I am worried about y/n, I know her dad is an alcoholic, I just don't want her to know I know. She'll get embarrassed and hurt, and I don't want to see her like that, ever. This piano exam is important, grade eight is what I need to come here; so why is all I can think about how to tell y/n I like her? I shake these feelings off as the keys fade for the end. These man are tapped if they say I didn't make Grade 8.

...

Y/n's POV:

Speechless and hypnotised is what you are. Making your way up to the mahogany stage, butterflies battle for dominance in your stomach. This mix of nervousness for the performance and the fact Cench will be watching is both nauseating and intoxicating. You inhale filling your squeezing lungs. The conductor motions for you to begin, the sheet music you have on the ledge... It's not Fur Elise, like you were assigned it's the one you've been experimentally writing. Horrified you close your eyes. Lost. You begin to play anyways. Confront don't run. You play until the amounting crowd is rendered delirious with applause and Cench is peering funnily at you in the audience, you brush it off. That's probably the look of disinterest.

As the curtains closed you saw your future becoming narrower... and narrower. There was an office which you were meant to report to promptly, to hear results. Practically tiptoeing in anticipation you felt yourself drown in dread. Not commencing to Grade seven meant bidding this school a sorrowful goodbye, before you even had a chance to enroll! It wasn't just the prestige, or the vigor which made this school shine in a pearly light, it was the love for music and adorned opportunities it created. For some a school like this was a pretty ornament on a promising resume, but for you, this was your youthful life's work.

Now standing outside the tastefully decorated office, you heard two adults discussing tersely, the conductor and examiner. Knocking lightly on the door, you were further unsettled at how swiftly it swung open. For the millionth time that day, you sat in a seat powerless; while others dictated your fate.

"Ms. y/n last name, we were shocked when you played the piece that was not assigned to you, but it appears you wrote it, yes?" The conductor drawled.

You cleared your throat hurriedly, looking intently at the poker-faced men.

"Yes sir, I did," it came out a near whisper.

"Excellent, welcome to grade seven, I look forward to seeing you at the Royal College of Music in the very near future."

...

You were beyond ecstatic. You honestly had no words to describe this feeling it was bliss and euphoria intertwined. The rain sprinkled predictably as you walked to your bus stop: You couldn't help but romanticise life at times, but this moment was a smidgen of actual romance in your life. Your gentle musings of how much you loved the piano led way to someone you might adore just as equally.

You could hear fast steps behind you through your beige XM4s, thinking it was just another jogger it didn't faze you.

"y/n..." your name caught in Cench's throat. Hearing his voice made you rip your headphones off. Ugh So unsubtle. You stopped to see what he had to say, Cench was only a few inches away. But you wished he was closer... Closer still. As close as possible.

"Hey y/n I saw you walking, can man walk with you," he said this confidently but his eyes were slightly down cast.

"Yes, of course," you replied, letting your heart soar with the possibility of this being the day you would turn a new leaf together.

You walked together to the bus stop talking about piano and your shared dream school, until you could see the tall, red bus blinking at you in the distance.

"There's my bus, see you in music class, Cench," you tried to mask your disappointment as you reluctantly climbed the steps.

"Where do you think I'm going, we live on the same street still," he chuckled rolling his eyes; exciting the butterflied entrapped in your stomach.

"Oh okay," you smiled awkwardly.

Cench's POV:

I am sitting so close to y/n in the bus right now. What if I just leaned in and... Truthfully I am overwhelmed with nervousness right now. This never happens ever. I don't want to talk to her about what happened this morning; she doesn't seem ready and the way she's smiling right now and just looking around the bus. Man she's so cute. Bu there are things to discuss..

"Y/n.."

"mmhmm," she was looking into my eyes and I thought my mind would go blank.

" I - I actually like you a lot... I have for time, I can't lie." Holding my breath. I'm hoping... I hope she responds the way she does in my head.

Y/N's POV

The air left your brain, the moment felt ethereal. You had pictured and edited this moment innumerable times in your imagination. And you always thought it was just remain a figment. Looking into Cench's dark, enamoring eyes you could see he was waiting for your answer.

"I like you too Cench... I have since forever." Your smile turned impossibly large and you faced the front, excited for what's yet to come and beaming.

"Since forever huh, babe don't be silly," Cench's smile was a reflection of a sunny day.

"It's true - " you mumbled realising what he has said. Babe.

Cench placed a warm hand on your cheek. His lips were soft like you had always envisioned; grazing over yours slightly - searching for reciprocation. You opened your eyes wide in awe and surprise, pressing your lips against his. You could feel Cench smiling into the kiss; his lips were sweet and fit yours perfectly. Slowly his hand trailed to grip your waist while the other stayed on your face. Moving your lips together he pushed his tongue in your mouth and roamed everywhere he could; you saw a different galaxy.

Gasping quietly you both pulled away grinning stupidly.

"You're so beautiful y/n you don't understand," whispering for only you to hear, he wrapped his arm around you moving closer. You put your head in the soft spot between his neck and the edge of his shoulder closing your eyes. You thought about love. Love for piano and Love for Cench.

....

THE END

[emkayewrites]

Lukola fanfic scenario, Luke POV: Luke and Nicola are in the middle of filming Season 3, and Luke has just realised he is infatuated with Nicola. Only problem is he's in a relationship and so is she. During a short break from filming, he catches up with his parents, who have some sage bits of advice for him...

(Excerpt taken from my fanfiction 'Curtain Fall')

31st October 2022 – Salisbury (UK)

“Oh my God, it’s Colin from Bridgerton.” He heard their hissing whispers before he saw them.

Two young women stood at the entrance of The Bell and Crown pub, trying desperately to appear nonchalant.  They were wrapped up warmly in thick coats with hats and gloves and holding an array of shopping bags.

In a situation like this one, he had decided he would follow suit and pretend he did not notice them noticing.  He sensed this might be hard to achieve as they were partially blocking his way into the pub, but he did his best to try to manouevre past them with his head down.  The brunettes’ eyes widened at the realization that their paths were about to cross.  Luke watched as she nervously took a few steps back from him, the back of her legs hitting the giant ornamental pumpkin that was placed on the ground behind her.  She had barely let out a squeal as she started to tip backwards before he reached out and grabbed her by the arm, steadying her.

“Woah, careful.” He gave her what he hoped would be his most reassuring smile. 

Regardless, the colour drained from her face.

“Oh m-m-my God, I-I’m so sorry.” She sputtered.  She looked like she was going to be sick.

“We’re really big fans!” Her friend in the mustard-coloured coat behind her suddenly burst out, her eyes widened with excitement.

He was not sure how to receive their two very different energies.

“Thank you.” He replied, again hoping that he came across kind.

“So, you guys are filming up at Wilton House, right?” Mustard coat continued.  “We love it up there, it’s so gorgeous.  Are you guys there for the rest of the week? Oh, wait, you probably can’t say! Or wait, can you say? You probably can’t say what you’re filming though.”

“Yeah, we are. I’m sorry, I’m going in for some lunch.” He gestured to the inside of the pub.

“Oh! God! Look at me going on and on. Of course, of course.” Mustard coat shuffled away, pulling her friend away with her.

He knew the whirlwind of emotions that you could experience when you encountered someone famous, he had been the fan many, many times in his life.  He hoped he had never been the embarrassing fan though.  He had also been recognised before, but this was the first time in his life that he had found himself being recognised this often. 

In fact, just a few weeks ago, he and Jade had been drinking in a London bar when a group of girls had realised who he was and had encircled them.  The situation had turned incredibly awkward when they started talking about how hot he was and then one of the girls tried to give him her number.  It did not help matters that the girls were a group of European models celebrating their last night of work in the city.  He had watched Jade’s face go from mildly annoyed by the inconvenience to viscerally angry.  They had ended up cutting their night short and heading home; Jade had remained stoically silent the entire way.  It had worried him.  He knew she did not blame him for the reactions he was getting but he wondered how much she would be able to tolerate.  How much could any woman’s self-esteem tolerate seeing other women throw themselves at their partner?  He had reminded Jade that it had been public knowledge that he and Nicola were this season’s protagonist and ever since filming had started; fans of the show were constantly awestruck when they saw him or Nicola out anywhere.  The reactions were even bigger when the two of them were spotted out together.  He had hoped it would reassure her somewhat that this was the Bridgerton effect.  He felt a need to remind not just her but also himself that he was not the one changing, it was the situation.  He had not suddenly become hot, whatever that meant.

If things are like this now, what will it be like when the season’s out? He thought.  He could hardly fathom it.

He thought about the ways Nicola had reassured him about what was to come.  In her typical, unflappable way, she had told him it would be hilarious, and they would get through it together.  It was silly advice but because it came from her, he believed it. Those words had been keeping him grounded.  No matter what happened, she would be with him, and they would surely navigate it all together.

Now though, he felt as if that certainty was threatened.  He had been having dreams.  Then out of nowhere, Ezra had shown up.  He could feel deep in his bones that he was agitated about what Ezra’s presence in Nicola’s life meant more than anything else.  He also knew that was wrong.  This should not be occupying so much of his brain.  He was also aware that he was not very good at hiding how wound up he was feeling.  It was becoming apparent in his body language, and sometimes it was slipping through in what he said.  This was why he was so grateful for an afternoon away from everyone and everything, and to be around the two people who always helped him gain a sense of perspective.

He walked through The Bell and Crown, taking in its historical features that included wooden ship beams suspended from the ceiling and stone floors.  The smell of fried food and woodfire hit his nostrils as he spotted them seated at a mahogany table right at the back. 

“Mum, dad!” He greeted them with a small wave as he made his way to them, pulling off his jacket as he did so.

His parents were sat with an assortment of small plates before them and three glasses: one with water, one with wine and the other with beer.  His mother, Sharon, was a petite woman with short blonde hair that was scooped up into a ponytail with a fringe.  His father, Lee, sat opposite her; his sandy brown hair was covered by a dark red beanie hat. 

It was too easy. Luke thought, as he yanked the hat off his father’s head and took a seat next to his mother. 

 “Thank you!” Sharon exclaimed, putting her hands together in a praying gesture. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Lee looked from Luke to Sharon, and then back at Luke: “Do you want to sit here with a man with hat hair or a man with a hat?”

“It’s ungentlemanly to wear a hat indoors.” Sharon shook her head at her husband. “Just smooth it out.”

“Why aren’t you using that hair gel I got you for your birthday?” Luke added, amused.

There was no escapism like being around your parents and watching them bicker over the smallest things.

“I’m not using any ruddy hair gel!  I’m a fifty-nine-year-old man Luke, not a member of One Direction.” Lee snapped back, making Luke roar with laughter.

“We ordered for you.” Sharon nodded at the food in front of them. “We knew you wouldn’t have long before you would have to head back and service here is woefully slow.”

There was something to really love about the predictability that came with your parents’ habits when they reached a certain age.  He had all but compiled a bingo card in his mind of the things he knew were going to be coming up during this meal.  At the top of the list was his mother picking fault with the service in the pub – never mind that the pub was five-star reviewed.  His mother could make Gordon Ramsay look soft.

“Thanks mum, I do have to get back in about an hour.” He popped a fry into his mouth.

“How are you, my love?  You look a lot more tired than when we last saw you.” Sharon eyed him carefully.

“You do look a little rougher around the edges.” Lee added, some concern in his voice. “How many hours are you doing on set?”

Luke was appreciative of how much his parents cared for him.  Even though Lee was not his biological father, he had always treated Luke like a son – in fact, Luke was sure he was treated better than most sons were by their biological fathers.  Lee had also been in the entertainment industry and had taken great pains to ensure Luke was protected and well supported as he sought to make a career for himself.  Luke was sure that he would not have been half as successful if it had not been for Lee’s wisdom.

“The hours are fine; I’m just not sleeping too well.” Luke replied, surprising himself with his own admission. 

“It’s a lot to be carrying a whole season your back.” Lee said sympathetically.

“Well, how’s Nicola? She will be a good one to help you through.” Sharon advised, taking a sip from the wine glass.  “She’s done it all before with Derry Girls. Although I imagine this will be on an even grander scale…”

He had not wanted to talk about Nicola.  He knew that between Ezra and his dreams, the topic was too loaded for him.  He had wanted to come away for a nice meal with his parents to get a break from those thoughts.  Yet, talking about her and about him seemed irresistible to him. 

He could barely stop the words exploding out of his mouth. “Oh, I don’t think she’s losing sleep. She’s got a distraction right now.”

The words came with a little more emotion than he had intended them to.  His parents knew him too well not to pick up on it. 

“Oh really?” Sharon raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“She’s got this… guy friend who’s visiting and she’s all over him.” Luke stated, he hoped he sounded less bothered than he was.  He picked up his knife and fork and began to make a start on the giant battered cod that sat on his plate. 

“Guy friend?  Is that what you millennials call boyfriends?” His mother laughed.

“They’re not calling themselves that… yet.” Luke grimaced.

He caught the exchange of looks between his parents out of the corner of his eye.

“So, I take it you don’t like him then?” Lee asked.

Luke realised there was no one around that could judge him for his real opinions on the matter.  He had had to put on a mask on the Bridgerton set but around his parents, he could be honest.  He felt liberated.

“I just don’t get what she sees in him.” He replied. 

“Oooh, that is really tough.” Sharon made a face. “But she isn’t just your friend.  She’s also your scene partner, you can’t upset things at this stage of filming by saying anything too honest.”

“I know.” Luke felt the frustration rise again slightly. “Believe me.  I’m swallowing it.”

“Nicola’s got a good head on her shoulders.  He might not be as bad as you think.” His father shrugged, slicing into his steak and taking a bite. 

Luke shook his head emphatically at this.  “No, this guy is everything we would make fun of.”

“Well, matters of the heart aren’t always a straight line.” Sometimes, Lee doled out predictably vague dad wisdom.

“I don’t think you should be making fun of anyone.  It seems cruel.” Sharon added, wrinkling her nose as she frowned.  Sometimes she said predictably mum things.

Luke pulled out his phone and with a few swipes on the screen, he pulled up an Instagram page and held it up for them both to see.  “This is him.  LOOK at him.  Skinny jeans, v-neck white t-shirt that’s too small for his arms, standing in front of designer luggage with the caption CEO mode.  Am I going mad or is this man not a parody of himself?” 

Sharon threw her head back in laughter. “Oh God, yes, he’s quite something.”

“And Nic – she’s the opposite.” Luke continued.  “She’s down to earth, she’s not flash, she wears designer clothes but it’s tasteful, it’s not like this-”

“I’m sure she is the wonderful, thoughtful friend you know but she’s also a woman.” Sharon interrupted him.  She surveyed the photo on the screen with a smirk. “You know, as a woman, I get the appeal.”

Luke made a disgusted face and looked at Lee for some help in the matter. 

Lee stopped, his fork mid-air, and moved his face closer to the phone screen.  He eventually shrugged. “He's a fine specimen of a man.  Sorry, I’ve got eyes, Luke.”

“Ugh.” Luke groaned, taking his phone off the table.

“But hey, this is good, isn’t it?” His mothers’ eyes twinkle with realisation. “You can knead your concern for your friend into Colin’s concern for Penelope.  They are keeping the love triangle element?”

“You know I can’t say script specifics, mum.” Luke said dismissively.  He could feel the simmering annoyance that had now settled in.  He needed to change the topic.

Just then, Sharon reached forward for a napkin that was in the center of the table and her hand knocked her wine glass, causing it to tip onto the table and onto the sleeve of her cream cardigan. 

“Oh, Jesus!” She leapt up in her chair.  Luke grabbed at the remaining napkins and started to pad the table dry, and Lee started to get to his feet to assist.

“It’s alright Lee, I need to wash this out in the ladies.”  Sharon gestured for him to sit. “Thank God it was only a white wine.” She grabbed her handbag and walked away from the table.

Luke continued to dab at the table, which was now drier but also stickier.

“Word to the wise, focus on the girlfriend you’ve got.”  Lee’s voice interrupted him, making him stop. 

He fathers’ words took him slightly aback. 

Lee took in his reaction and continued: “Look, Nicola’s a very beautiful girl. It’s easily done.”

“I’m not… nothing’s being done.” Luke responded, but his voice cracked as he spoke.  He knew he was lying to himself and Lee by pretending not to know what his words meant. 

“It happens, you know.” Lee spoke calmly. “I saw it all the time. Feelings getting intensified and confused on a shoot like this.  I’m just saying, keep the work as work and don’t neglect your real life.”

Luke felt the weight of what was being said.  As always, Lee was able to read him better then he could read himself.  Yet, the feelings felt too raw to be exposed like this.  He could not rationalise them so he did what his instinct told him to: deny them.

“I’m not.” He repeated, firmer this time. “Nothing’s getting confused.  She’s my friend, I just don’t like the guy.”

“Well, then do a better job of it.” Lee’s voice was equally stern.

“Better job of it?” Luke was confused.

“Of acting like you’re not.” Lee shot back. “You know, acting? The thing you’re good at but seem to be completely unable to do when it comes to this.”

Luke felt himself getting flustered.  He knew he was having a hard time hiding his feelings but was he really being that obvious?  Before he could respond, Sharon had appeared behind him, and she was carrying what looked to be a mountain of paper towels.

“Jesus, did you leave some for the rest of the restaurant?” Lee exclaimed.

“Very funny.” Sharon rolled her eyes. “What are you two looking so serious about?”

“Plotting your Christmas present.” Lee spoke before Luke could.  That was the signal to say that particular conversation was over, and Luke could not feel more grateful.  It was hard enough denying those thoughts and feelings to his father, let alone his mother.

“Oh, I already said I don’t want a big fuss.” Sharon sighed. “Don’t you dare let him make a fuss, Luke.”

“Well, I don’t control the man, mum.  I’ve already got him to downsize the gift from a trip to the Maldives.” Luke teased.

“The Maldives?” Sharon gasped.

Difficult as it was, Luke tried to enjoy the distraction of winding his mother up for the rest of the lunch hour.

[cicaklah]

A life update

If you weren't here earlier, Tuesday morning I came about 30 minutes and one annoying Google search away from dying

It's a long story but turns out that flu I thought I had was sepsis/blood poisoning

Slightly longer story, my kidney had a stone, stone decided to try and go to my bladder, stone was too big and blocked up the drain, none of the shit my kidney was draining had anywhere to go so my blood became a sewer

Meanwhile this happened: https://www.england.nhs.uk/london/2024/06/04/nhs-london-statement-on-synnovis-ransomware-cyber-attack/

So my team are not able to get my lab work because the fucking lab system has been taken hostage.

I had a stent put in to bypass my kidney and restore the flow, but this leaves me with the poison blood. The stone is still in there.

I got moved down from critical care to the ward on a vague "you'll go home in a few days" story which was shockingly naive.

Anyway this evening my fever started to spike again so they need to find out what is happening asap. But it's 3am and I'm on the ward and my neck hurts and I can't sleep and I read too many sepsis websites about learning to live after you've lost four limbs.

Anyway it's 3am and so I'm making it all your problem now.

[elisysd]

I’ll Get the Coffee -Kathryn Gallagher

Masterlist - Previoulsy - Next Chapter

God, you look so good in the morning God, you look so good on me And I can't hear nothing but your heart beating God, it sounds so good to me

It was with a mixture of apprehension and excitement that Lyanna waited for Charles at the arrival’s terminal. It was late, the night was dark and it was a totally deserted London that she had crossed in her taxi. And yet she had never felt so awake. Finally, the landing of Charles's flight from Japan was announced. Lyanna wasn't sure what to expect. She was happy to see him again at last; it had only been three weeks, but even though they had called each other frequently, nothing could replace physical contact. She couldn't wait to finally be in his arms and hold him close. She knew he needed it, even if he was too proud to admit it.

Nervously, she checked her phone, waiting for a message from Charles, which soon arrived.

I get off the plane, pick up my suitcase and I'm all yours. Hang on, love.

The various incoming flights were starting to arrive and Lyanna frantically searched the crowd for the Ferrari pilot's face before catching sight of him. He was wearing a cream-coloured jumpers and sweatpants as well as his glasses. If she hadn't known he was supposed to be in London, she would never have recognised him. But what worried her most was the exhaustion on his face. He was drained. It was hard to know whether this was because of the long flight, the recent races or a mixture of both. She waved her hand to indicate her presence. When Charles finally noticed her, his face lit up and he hurried towards her. He readjusted his backpack on his shoulder and approached her. Once he was face to face with her, he put an arm around her waist and held her close before placing a light kiss on the side of her head.

“God, I missed you so much.” He whispered against her skin.

“I missed you too. How was your flight?” she asked taking out his suitcase from his hand. He tried to argue but seeing the look she gave him made him stopped quickly.

“Awful. Thanks for asking.”

“You seems exhausted, let’s go home so you can rest. It’s pretty late.”

He simply followed her with a nod. The ride back to Lyanna's flat was a silent one. She could feel Charles dozing off and on. He had laid his head in the crook of her neck and she could feel his breath against her skin, making her shiver. She took hold of his hand and simply traced small circles as she gazed out of the taxi window at the city. Once she was outside her apartment block, which wasn't far from Hyde Park, she set about waking him up. It made her heart ache a little when she heard him groan and it was almost by automatic command that Charles got out of the cab and followed her.

The flat was plunged into darkness, the only light being the natural light of the moon. Charles clumsily got rid of his shoes, while Lyanna left him for a moment to put his suitcase in her bedroom. When she returned, she was surprised to find him standing by the window, holding something Lyanna knew only too well.

“You play guitar?” he asked, surprised.

“It’s been a while.” she answered. “I used to, but now it’s more like a decorative object. I think it's detuned anyway.”

“That can be arranged. You’ve never told me that you played. You told me about piano but never guitar.”

“Well you’ve never asked me. And I’m full of surprises mister Leclerc.”

“Well, I can’t wait to discover them all, miss Michel.”

She smiled gently at him before sitting on the sofa, silently asking him to join her, which he did.

“Do you want something to drink? Water, tea? Or to eat. I have biscuits or I can make you a sandwich.”

“I’m not hungry. I’m sleepy.”

“So let's get some sleep. Do you want me to prepare the guest room for you? It might be a better place for you to get a good night's rest. I move around a lot in my sleep sometimes and I don't want to wake you up. I know that sleep is important and...”

He silenced her with a long and tender kiss.

“There's no way I'm sleeping away from you. I thought about this moment the whole flight. And there's no way I'll wake up tomorrow without you by my side.”

“So bossy. I wasn't going anywhere don’t worry. I cleared my schedule for tomorrow. I’m all yours. And for your information, I really want to wake up in your arms tomorrow too.”

“Perfect. Let’s go to bed then.”

Charles stood up and grabbed both of the actress's hands to pull her towards him. At the force and suddenness of his gesture, she let out a little scream that made Charles smile. Without giving her time to understand what was happening to her, Charles put both hands under Lyanna's thighs and lifted her, pressing her against his chest.

“What are you up to?”

“I'm taking you to bed.”

“You don't even know where my room is!” she exclaimed, laughing.

“Well, guide me then.”

And so Lyanna did. Once in front of her door, Lyanna untied her hands from Charles's neck to open it, and he entered the room, closing the door with a heel strike. Lyanna put her hands back behind Charles's neck and noticed his gaze on her. So intense and piercing, as if he were trying to bore into her soul.

“What?” she asked shyly.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you were?” he blurted out, as if it were urgent for him to say it.

“Not really. I think it’s actually the first time you say it.”

“I should say it more often, then.”

“You don’t have to. It kind of makes me uncomfortable” she let out with a laugh to hide her embarrassment.

“Don’t be. Please. You are beautiful Lya. And I’m not just talking about your physical appearance. You have a beautiful soul, too.”

If it hadn't been pitch black in the room, Lyanna could have sworn Charles would have seen her blush from ear to ear. Embarrassed, she wriggled to get Charles to put her down, which he eventually did. She cleared her throat and slipped into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom to change before coming back a few minutes later.

“The bathroom is all yours if you want to take a shower. I’m going to make room for you in the closet so you can put your clothes there instead of letting them in the suitcase.”

He nodded before leaving her on her own to collect her thoughts. When he returned a few minutes later, she was putting a clean pillowcase on a pillow. Without a sound, he approached her from behind and hugged her waist before placing butterfly kisses along her neck.

“I thought you were sleepy” she said letting herself lean against him, exposing a little more of her skin to Charles's lips.

“Well now I’m very, very awake. It’s supposed to be the morning in Japan.”

“Charles…” she whined. “Let’s get to bed. I want to sleep.”

He reluctantly let her go. She took the opportunity to slip between her sheets before inviting Charles to do the same. He let her settle comfortably before joining her. Once perfectly settled, she on the right by the door and he on the left, she turned off the light. Plunged into the half-light, she took the opportunity to press herself against him, slipping one of her legs between his. Charles put an arm around her shoulders and held her close. He could smell the vanilla scent of her hair tickling his nostrils and took comfort in the warmth of her body. Resting her head on his chest, he played nonchalantly with her hair. Soon he felt the actress breathing softly and evenly against him, and concluded that she had fallen asleep. Her arm rested on Charles's stomach and he caught himself thinking that if he could experience this every day for the rest of his life, he would be the happiest of men. For the first time, winning a championship was no longer the only thing that mattered to him. Lyanna had joined his list and had moved to the top of his rankings. It was with this thought that he too fell asleep.

When he woke up the next morning, he was surprised to find that the actress had not moved and was sleeping just as soundly. She looked so peaceful that Charles had no desire to move or wake her, even though he could no longer feel his arm. He tried to draw her a little closer to him, which had the effect of making her twitch slightly. She moved her arm up a little further up and placed it just where Charles's heart was beating. Even though the pilot found her beautiful, he still felt the need to get up.  

He placed a kiss on the top of her head before running his lips over her eyelids, her nose, and her cheeks. He moved down her neck before moving up to brush his lips against hers. A gentle smile played across Lyanna's lips before she wrapped her arms around Charles's neck and pulled him to her.

“I see someone’s awake” she whispered, still half asleep.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He said with a peck on her lips.

“No kisses. I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

“As if I cared, Lya.”

“Let me just go to the bathroom really quickly” she pleaded him.

As she was rolling to the edge of the bed, Charles grabbed her around the waist and quickly put her astride him.

“Where do you think you are going?” he playfully asked her.

She shook her head in disapproval and smirked. She in turn leaned towards him, stopping only a few millimetres from where Charles most wanted to feel her. And without a word, moving just as swiftly as Charles, she put her foot under the pilot's thigh, her arms around his neck and positioned him so that he was on top of her.

“Where did you learn that kind of things?” he exclaimed, surprised.

“I’m a woman of many talents.”

They spent the rest of the morning laughing together, like two teenagers. It was like those few weeks they'd been apart, and any tension that might have arisen between them had never existed. They cooked together and ate together before deciding to spend the afternoon walking around the town.

“You were kind enough to show me your Monaco, now it’s my turn to show you my London.” She told him when he asked her what she wanted to for the rest of the day.

“I can’t wait.” He replied.

====

author's note: A smaller chapter BUT a cute one. I wanted them to be cute so I wrote them cute. I really love them together. I hope this chapter made you as happy while you were reading it as it made me while I was writing it. As usual, feedsbacks are appreciated. And let me know your thoughts and what you think is going to happen in next chapter! Do you think there is going to be drama? If so, what kind of drama? Do you think it's still going to be cute? I'm not gonna say anything but I already love next chapter. Take care of you and see you next chapters!

taglist @zendayabelova @purplephantomwolf @ru-kru @dakotali @blueflorals @aundercover @ruleroftheuniverse @fangirlika @writerscurse

[sofasoap]

Miss Stardust

Pairing : Kyle “ Gaz” Garrick x F!reader Summary: What will become of this broken friendship? In comes Ghost the wingman/shit stirrer. Part 4 to Miss Sunshine series. Warning: Mature theme. Violences. I am not military personnel, nor action movie writer, ignore all the errors in the fics pls.

Gaz route for my Mini MacTavish verse.

As always, Thanks to mother of my Mini MacTavish @saltofmercury for lending me the character “Mini” from her story. Go read her “The Favorite MacTavish”  !

“Masterlist” for other stories to this Mini MacTavish expanded verse.

Gaz never felt so miserable in his life before. He couldn’t believe himself. How could he freeze? He had the perfect chance to confess to you right there and then! The devastated look on your face keeps replaying in his mind. The guilt stabbing him, over and over.  

How he wants to bury himself in alcohol, drowning himself in sorrow. But knowing himself, his alcohol tolerance is close to zero, and he isn’t putting himself or his team at risk on the field in a half sobering state either. 

“Didn’t believe you could get even more serious with that face until now.”  He jumped a little as he felt the couch dipped beside him. When did Ghost slip into the room? 

“I heard from a little bird that you mess things up really bad.”

Gaz head shot up, how does he know?

Pulling his mask up a little, sipping on the tea slowly. Gaz swears he could see a smirk on his lip. 

“You think you are the only one that she has been talking to?” 

Jealousy flared up within Gaz. Is that a challenge??? “Worker harder if you don’t want her to be taken away from you.” Ghost drained his tea, stood up, slapped him on the back and left the room. Leaving him with the mystery words.

He tried to message and ring you for weeks after that. No responses at all. You even ended up blocking him afterwards. Does he have the right to be jealous? The two of you aren’t in a relationship. Just friends. More than friends. But he ruined it. So who else to blame but himself?

“Intel just came in,” Price half shouted over the sound of the helicopter and he started the briefing. “Metro police requested an assistance report of terrorists holding a group of civilians in a London shopping centre.” “ So far we know there are about ten hostile targets and twenty civilians. Bomb squads are on standby. Police already cleared a five kilometre radius as exlusion zone. We are not sure how much explosive they have packed into the building.“

Price shot Soap a look before he brought the video up on the screen. “... but we do know they have strapped a bomb onto one of the hostages.”  Gaz heard a visible gasp from Soap before seeing his face going red with rage. Terrorists were making their demands of ransom and releases of the political prisoners. The video zoomed into a woman, tied onto a pole, strapped full of explosives on her vest. 

It’s YOU. Bloody and battered. What have they done to you? 

“MINI.” Even he can hear the strain in Ghost’s voice. Gaz clenches his fist, trying to keep his head cool and concentrate on listening to Price dishing out the information.

“...They’ve given us until midnight tonight to meet their demands.” Price paused the video. It is clear what they will start doing if they don’t get what they asked for by the time limit. Gaz eyes went back onto the screen. Even in your dishevelled state, the determination and resilience  showing through your eyes, not one to give up. They are going to get you out. In one piece. No matter what it takes.

Four of them storm through the building like mad men. Few of the bomb squad specialists followed and quickly dispersed into the cleared zones, working on disarming the explosives. 

“Alpha 1-0 to Actual. Visual on hostages. East wing mezzanine level. Only one with explosives strapped. Rest grouped towards the back left corner away from the staircase.” Reports coming through the sniper, stationed on the rooftop  next to the building. “ Positive ID on the main suspect. Please advise.” “Actual to all stations, need confirmations on explosive status.”” “Confirm disarmaments.” 

“All stations. Standby.” Price gave his men a look, three of them nodded their heads. “Clear to shoot Alpha 1-0.” Sound of shattered glass echo throughout the building, and the screams of hostages. The men swiftly move up the staircases, taking out the rest of the targets. “Confirm targets KIA. I repeat, targets KIA.” Soap ran towards you as soon as all clear was given. “ Mini!!!” “ Johnny…” you replied with a whisper.  “Fucken steaming Jesus… they really got you good.” Looking down at your thigh, that is still trickling with blood.  Soap was furious. He wishes he could revive those terrorists and shoot them dead again. No one hurt his family. Ghost and Price were ushering the rest of the hostages away downstairs as the rest of the SWAT team swamped in.  Gaz came up beside you, starting to cut the binding off your hands as Soap quickly looked over the explosive vest that is still strapped onto you. 

“... I can’t just take this off. It’s booby trapped.”  he swore. “ They basically want you dead no matter what.” Soap made a quick call into the com, requesting the specialist for backup. “Mini.” Gaz called out to you. You turn your head, finally to face him. Biting your lips,he can see the tears welling up in your eyes, trying hard not to let it fall. “We will get you out.” Gaz heard Price’s voice behind him, with Ghost and two specialists following behind. Soap and Gaz quickly move away from you to let them do further assessments.

“ Good news is… well, Soap is right about booby trap,” You rolled your eyes. “ There is a way around it. The bad news… “ All the men look at the specialist,. “ …. As soon as you try to disarm it, you will trigger a timer,” they point towards a little red light on the side, obscured underneath tangles of wire. “ I would say you only have about five to ten seconds before it explodes on you.”. You grabbed onto Soap’s arm, dreading the possibility. “Just leave me, don’t risk all the lives for me.” Gaz’s heart shattered. Why are you trying to be the hero? “Don’t be a bampot Mini, how am I going to face Ma and Da if I leave you here?!!” Soap retorted. Taking a deep breath, the group deliberated, trying to come up with a plan.

So now, you are standing close to the balcony, the two specialists on your side, ready to cut the wires in sequence. Ghost standing behind you, back to the balcony, holding onto the top of your vest, ready to pull it off as soon as the disarmament is complete. Price and Soap kneeling down on the side, ready to cut the straps.  While Gaz stands facing you, ready to pull you in.

“ Ok. Remember the sequences. On my count.. Three, two.. One…”  Price and Soap started cutting, and Ghost pulled up hard, with the two specialists yelling out in sequences. “ FIRE IN THE HOLE!!!” Ghost yelled as he yank the vest up above your head, throws it over the balcony, down towards the ground floor, turning around, pushing himself behind you, into Gaz’s embrace, along with the others, forming a shield , protecting you from the exploding and the fragments flying up. Gaz can feel you trembling away, as you grab onto his tactical vest. He held onto you tight, trying to keep you up right.  Not a word from anyone for a few minutes, only sounds of debris and glasses shattering and heavy breathing from everyone trying to calm down from the adrenaline high. “Come on, we need to get out of here, the building is not safe.” Price was the first to break the silence. Ghost pulled you out of Gaz's embrace, he immediately misses your warmth. You stumbled a bit as you tried to stand, Ghost was quicker to scoop you up into a bridal hold. Pinch of sadness as Gaz sees you curling into Ghost’s chest, like a little broken girl, seeking for warmth. Ghost eyed Gaz for a quick second, before he turned and marched downstairs.

Gaz later found you sitting on the stretcher,leaning against Soap, looking down and totally zoned out. Ghost appeared behind him, pushing him towards you. “Last chance. Go talk to her.” as he turned and yelled at Soap, diverting his attention away from you both. Gaz silently snuck in as Soap gave you a kiss on the forehead and walked towards Ghost and Price. “Hey.” you snapped out of your reverie as Gaz called out to you, looking down at the spot Soap just vacated. You nodded your head, giving him the go ahead to sit. “You alright?” You asked him after a brief silence. He chuckled a bit. “I should be the one asking.” Gaz called your name. “I am sorry.” “ For what?” “ For being an idiot.”  You know what he is referring to. Pressing your lips tight. You didn’t reply immediately.  Gaz could see droplets of tears falling off your chin. “You did nothing wrong Gaz.” hands playing with the bandages around your thigh,” It was me who had the wrong idea. I am sorry I made things awkward between us.” “But you didn’t have the wrong idea.” You turned slowly, a twinkle of hope in your eyes. “ I was an idiot. I didn’t pick up on your hints. No, more like I was scared to acknowledge the hints.”  Gaz turned away with shame. “ I was a coward, I…didn’t think I deserved you..” reaching out for your hand, “ I was happy to stay in this little comfort zone, not wanting to burst the bubble, risking losing you.” “Can we be friends again? Please don’t lock me out. I want you in my life.. I..” “I don’t want to be your friend Kyle.”  Gaz froze. “ I want to be more than that.” Gaz’s body slumped with relief. He tilts his head down, pressing his forehead against yours. Sliding your hand up his arm, you tried to turn your body fully to face him. Letting out a whimper as you move your leg, Gaz immediately moves one of his arms underneath your thigh, and another around your waist, to pull you into his lap. “...Ghost knows all about this?” “... Ya… what’s with that pout Kyle. I started talking to him because he was asking for my advice.” Gaz’s eyebrows shot up. “ Advice?” Now that is interesting. “.... he wanted some dating advice.” He burst out laughing. And to think he got jealous of Ghost talking to you. “Can we not talk about him? Hurry up and give me a kiss before the others come back.” Who is he to deny your request? Holding your face softly, he closes the gap and gave you a tender kiss. Snaking your arms around his neck, you press yourself against him tightly, deepening the kiss. “Now how we going to tell Johnny.” “..... Please don’t remind me.” 

The biggest challenge, greater than terrorist attack, telling John "Soap" MacTavish. tag: @deadbranch @lia0-0 @josephquinnswhore

@voxyin

[vickyvicarious]

I wanted to see if I could figure out what Dracula is up to on the 17th. I know there are various theories (especially about the drugged wine), but looking at what we see in Lucy's diary/memorandum, here's what I get from it.

First off, he's been held at bay for four days, through a combination of the garlic flowers and van Helsing's presence. This is following a second failed 'fatal' bite. In fact, all told it has been ten days since he started actively trying to kill her (rather than just drinking/killing her much more slowly if at all), and he's had his progress undone three times via transfusion, and been blocked more and more consistently. On the night of the 16th, he was in bat form flapping at the windows and yet was ignored by Lucy as well as others. He's frustrated at this taking so long. He's especially annoyed at anyone denying him, so he's determined to kill her once and for all.

This is how it seems to go.

After Lucy fails to answer his call the night before, he goes to the zoo and picks out a wolf during the day of the 17th. He makes Berserker break out and come with him to Lucy's house that night.

He tries bat form, banging at the window. Lucy wakes up and doesn't come. He tries to put her to sleep, but the garlic flowers/delay of four days lessens his influence and she fights off sleep. She calls for help, but goes back to bed alone.

Dracula sets his wolf howling. Mrs. Westenra comes in, but he continues banging at the window in bat form anyway.

No one comes to the window, so he sends Berserker in. Mrs. Westenra's heart gives out, allowing him entrance, and she clutches at the garlic wreath, allowing him access to Lucy.

He enters in dust form, hypnotizing the dazed Lucy, and bites her once. He also releases/dismisses Berserker around now.

The maids are woken, possibly when all that sound was happening. They only arrive a short while later. Dracula hears them coming and stops draining Lucy, hiding himself in the room.

When they come in and scream, he slams the door shut behind them (using the wind much like he did for Jonathan on 30 June). I think he originally was going to kill them all here. He's had enough of being denied and is no longer trying to be subtle.

But then Lucy tells them all to go have a glass of wine and he gets an idea. He opens and slams the door as he goes rushing through it (in dust form?).

He goes ahead of them and drugs the wine with laudanum. Then returns to the room with Lucy, where he watches her write her memorandum in his dust-speck form.

He feeds on her again, longer this time.

I feel like Dracula's actions were probably not so much part of a grand plan so much as him getting pissed off about being denied again and again. He abandoned the subtlety that has been his methodology in London thus far as soon as he went to get a wolf. And he went scouting for that during the day, meaning he probably didn't know van Helsing wouldn't be there with her when he did so. (Since van Helsing told her in the morning that he'd be gone today, and Dracula usually isn't around for that.)

He lucked out with Mrs. Westenra joining Lucy and then dying, but honestly, I'm not so sure he planned for that at all. I'm not sure what his plan with Berserker would have been if van Helsing were still there... maybe to kill her protector and rip off her garlic garland, so Dracula could have enough influence to lure her to the window again? Honestly, it would be really unsubtle regardless.

But given how he (I presume) used his magic to shut the door and keep the maids inside with Lucy, it felt like he was building to killing them all ala the Demeter anyway. The garlic flowers already tell him that someone at this house knows how to defend against him somewhat, but the fact that they haven't taken the fight to him yet shows they don't know how, or at least where he is. And the rest of the public would obviously find such a massacre newsworthy, but they wouldn't know Dracula was responsible. If van Helsing or Jack had been there, the maybe Dracula would even have gotten rid of the only ones who seem to know any ways to counter him at all.

But when he gets an idea to be able to keep things mostly on the down-low, he lets the maids live after all. The question of how he knows about the laudanum remains, but if he has been preying on Lucy for so long, he may well have gotten the information from her, or observed it while flying by. (It's also unclear why he would need to open and slam the door when we've seen dust-form vampires go through closed windows; maybe just for effect, or maybe specifically to scare them and slow them down so he can get to the wine first.)

Of course, if he decided to call off the murder rampage and go back to more subtle methods once he knew he had Lucy fully within his power, why did he allow her to write the memorandum? He absolutely had the time to see her writing it. Well, I ascribe it to more of his cruelty, akin to what we see with Jonathan. He leaves it to let her feel like she's gained some tiny victory, and to taunt those who know enough to try and save her (demonstrating to them the extent of his power and how they cannot hope to win against him), before directing her to destroy the evidence.

This doesn't quite fit with how he otherwise tries to destroy evidence right away, but it's the best I can think of to explain him letting her write it/not destroying it himself.

[thepinkwriterr]

Capricorn Season Chapter Thirty-Four Part 2

Word Count: 3k Table of Contents:

Peter woke dripping and wet, plagued with sweat. The white cotton of his night shirt clung to his chest. His eyes fell over the A/C unit that spat out perfect cold air. The room was probably 18 degrees. He pushed the duvet off his heaving frame. 

He dug himself from the sheets and crouched down at his suitcase. His breaths were thick and labored. He pawed in his suitcase, looking for two matching garments. 

His hand fell over a chunk of letters. He pulled them out to see Gloria's fluid penmanship. The letters detailed their banal goings-on and Warren's newest interests. Stories from home and school. He was struck by the comforts of home. He was pained. He wanted to call but didn't have time. He wished to hear her sweet voice but couldn't, so he was poisoned by loneliness. He longed for her. 

He wore a dress shirt and jeans. 

 --

He joined the group for breakfast. This was a ritual they started on this tour. They were still working out the kinks. Chief of all these kinks was Gwen. She was tall, reaching mid-chest, with long red hair, and a gap between her large front teeth. She had a Cheshire smile and a loud voice. He was never fond of her, finding her brash and annoying, and his disdain only grew with each day. He knew that she was plotting while he wasn't looking.  It was from the corner of his eye that he caught her--a glimpse of her second face--the one she tried to hide. As his gaze swept across the landscape of a room he would see her morph. Other times, very rarely, he saw her plainly. She would smile and nod as she spoke to him or perhaps others in the group but would lower her mask and taunt him. He didn't know how she did it, but only he could see it. Sometimes he could see her shrouded in fire, her features swept by a glistening image of fury and mayhem. She was a sign of bad things to come.  --

He was raised in South London by his mother, Dorothy, in a small, lower-class household. They were the poorest house on their block. Despite their poverty and absence of help, Dorothy did her best to get by. She felt that she was failing Peter, unable to give him the life he deserved. With no father, no money, and the dark clouds of war looming, she troubled over his future. 

She was terrified of what could happen to them. She was a single Jewish mother. She worried what would happen if they didn't win the war. Her family had come to Britain to escape the Anti-Semitism that began in Russia at the end of the 19th century. The fear had haunted her like a Spector in the rear-view mirror since girlhood. Now it was back, front and center, with no end in sight.

She wished to give him a good education so she could set him up for a better life than she'd had. When the war came to a head, she shipped him off to Surrey to continue his schooling, hoping that it would be better for him. She was promised a world-class education, a fighting chance at white-collar and picket fences.

But it didn't. He returned as a shell of the vibrant and naive boy he'd once been. The older boys were relentless and cruel. They bullied and beat him, draining any sensitivity he had. They called him poor, and a Momma's Boy. The professors were worse—giving him daily caning, whether it was rightly deserved or not. He was left hardened and hollowed. 

He used to cling to her leg and cry into her shoulder, like when he was dropped off for his first day of school. Now he was distant and nervous. The sound of the fireplace crackling or a car starting would sent him into a spiral. It took many years for him to build a callous around the horrors he'd experienced. Even worse was what awaited him at his return. Dorothy met a new man. 

She met him at a bar in Wales. Dorothy had gone to stay with her sister, Sofia, after Peter left. She thought with every passing day that her house would be destroyed. She was delighted at the thought of dissipating this worry in Wales. The countryside was much safer than London. 

Thomas was tall and solidly built with a head full of salt-and-pepper hair. He was sweet in the beginning, as all terrible men are. They met dancing. He had swept her up in a frenzy of feeling. She was charmed from the start. He wasn't Jewish, and she liked that. He wasn't as flat and dry as Peter's father. He was passionate and free. She felt safe with him. 

After the war ended, Thomas told her that he would help to pay the bills and cure her loneliness. She wasn't apprehensive. She said yes right away. She thought Thomas could be a great father figure for Peter. 

They spent their evenings in the small kitchen, dancing by moonlight and listening to the radio. Their love almost drowned out the blitz, bombs, gas masks, and 30,000 civilian deaths. It all changed once Peter arrived. No longer did they have romantic dinners, late-night dances, or even sex. She spent all her time working and fawning over her lump of a boy. 

It didn't take long for things to get bad. It started to heat up two weeks before Peter arrived home and boiled over when he returned. Thomas was jealous. He wanted the attention Dorothy gave to Peter and was willing to do whatever he could to get it.

He became enraged nightly, using his size and volume to intimidate her. Sometimes it would start at the table during dinner and other times Peter could hear the violence melting through the walls. He never turned his rage against the boy, but he was affected still. He suffered frequent night terrors and daily anxiety. Thomas's rage followed him like a shadow, looming over him at all hours.  That was the stem of his anger issues, although he could not connect those dots. He figured the rage was just a fixture of his brain, a product of his South London upbringing or his job. Whatever it was, it helped him become successful. His anger was an untapped flow of power, something he had never felt before entering the entertainment business. No longer would he be pushed around or sidelined. Now he was the one calling the shots and getting things done. It made him feel important.

-   "Good morning, Mr. Bonham," Gwen simpered. Something was churning in her face, "You're looking rather peachy." "Don't you fuckin' start!" Bonzo groaned. He gripped his head. It pounded with a thousand acupuncture needles stuck in his skull.  "Start what?" 

Peter rolled his eyes. 

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You are always a bitch in the morning. Is it your time of the month or something?"  "Fuck you, John. I was just trying to be nice for once."

"Alright, that's enough!" Peter slammed his hands on the table. This startled everyone and caused them to look over at him. Bonzo's top half was crumpled on the table, his head still in his hands. "I've fuckin' had it with you."

She was beginning to fire him up. His neck was burning, working its way down to his hands and throughout his body. Images forced their way into his brain, scenes of violence and screaming. These images fractured him and caused him to falter. He was flustered and his chest began to cave in. His hands began to sweat and he stood up, forcing his chair to the ground. Everyone was startled again and he spoke with a frightening tone, "There will be no more fighting or I will personally throw you off this tour. I am sick of your constant jabs and picking fights," Gwen opened her mouth and started to defend herself but he steamrolled over her, "I don't care about Bonzo, he's part of the band. I don't care about what he does or says. You are working for him and for me. Get it together or fuck off."  She stood, not as forcefully as him, but placed her hands on the table and leaned toward him, "I actually do not work for any of you. I am providing you with a service, one that is helping your image. So go ahead, try to throw me off. I would like to see you try."  Hot anger flushed through him. She wouldn't back down. She parried his every move. She was a bitch, a ruiner, a killjoy. She brandished an ax and entered the pen that held his prized pigs, ready to slaughter his show hogs. He could picture her surrounded by their blood and relishing in the deafening sounds of their squealing.  After this scuffle, they parted ways. Jimmy and Gwen went to their room and Bonzo followed Peter to his. He was just as angry, his nostrils were flaring and he spoke loudly. "I am sick of this cunt. She is fucking it all up! I want her off. I want her off now!" As much as Peter agreed, he knew she was right. He couldn't just kick her off. Jimmy would go off with her and never come back. He couldn't have the band splinter off. Not now. They had built something so good. They all needed this band in different ways. 

"It's her or me." Bonzo stood with his hands on his hips, lips pressed together in a flat-ironed grimace.  "Don't fuck around with me, Bonz, we both know you ain't leavin' the band."  "I've done it before, I'll do it again. I'm the best bloody drummer in the world and I could easily find another band. In fact, I'll go make some calls right now."  "No, you won't," Peter stepped closer to him, half to intimidate and half to empathize, "I'm going to get her off the tour and you're gonna stay." This seemed to quell the angry drummer and he left the room. He didn't know exactly how he was going to get her out, but he was sure he could.  He was stricken by terrible bouts of feeling, uninterrupted by anger. He felt low like the pits of despair or hell were churning, opening for only him. He heard the familiar demons calling, whispering maddened insults and taunts. Flashes of faces, some of them known, others unseen. Gwen was there, Thomas and Dorothy. A boss from the nightclub scene, and Gloria too. They were chanting, singing, and screaming every way he was a failure and a fraud. The ghosts of his past were unrelenting, visiting at all hours and never leaving. Perhaps he was doomed, he thought. He was destined to be followed until the end of time. He was fated to remain a graveyard. 

- He could hear his mother's voice, prodding and poking him for treating a woman so poorly. He just rolled his eyes and waved her off. It didn't take. She remained, glaring over him as he drove.  This feeling stayed until they got to the venue. The concert hall was large and square, holding up to 15,000 people. The guys hadn't sold out the venue, but it was close. They were charged and excited, just as they always were. The discourse between Peter and Gwen hadn't dampened the mood. Even Bonzo was hyped.  Their joy was infectious. They giggled and jumped around, bashing away excitedly at soundcheck. As Peter watched them he giggled. Even with Gwen in such proximity he was giddy.

-   The next morning they had another fight. This time it was Jimmy and Peter before they had breakfast and barely before the sun came up. "You need to quiet your fucking mutt, Jim. She is going down a dangerous road with me, one that will not be pleasant." Peter was trying to remain quiet but it wasn't working. Gwen was three feet from them, slumbering. He wondered if she really was asleep. But, he figured, if she were awake she couldn't have stayed quiet longer than the ten minutes he'd been here.  "What on earth are you talking about?" Jimmy asked.  "She keeps stirring up trouble. You need to tell her off. Be a man!"  "Tell her off? Peter, it's 1970, we have a partnership. I'm not going to tell her off anymore than she would do to me. You sound ridiculous."  A fury swept his features. It was hard to quiet the flames once they were lit. And she had lit them, all right. She stripped off her clothes and used them as kindling. "No, you're going to tell her off. You are going to tell her if she doesn't stop fucking things up she's going to be off the tour. I don't care if she is our bloody photographer or your girlfriend." He didn't say anything, just looked at Peter with that angsty stare. "You'll tell her or I will. I don't think she'll find my delivery as nice." 

He glared down at the carpet. 

"Ever since she came on board you've had a real attitude problem." He poked a finger into the guitarist's chest. He towered over him. 

"Maybe because she's shown me that I don't like how things are around here." Peter opened his mouth, sucking in a breath, and prepared to scream so loudly the walls shook. But he didn't--- because Jimmy turned at the sound of Gwen's grumbling.  Peter rolled his eyes as Jimmy sunk to the ground next to their bed and spoke softly into her ear. He was growing impatient. They had been working his last nerve since this whole thing started.  "You don't have to do that. I'm getting up soon. I have to mail my film reels so I'll be up and about anyway." She mumbled just loud enough that he could hear her. 

A terrible thought pricked his mind and he spoke up at once, "I'll do that, don't worry." He remembered a conversation he'd heard just a few days ago, a warning from her boss.  Her words echoed in his mind, the ones that told him everything he needed to do. If she missed another deadline she risked getting fired. She was teetering on the edge and Peter was prepared to push her off.  They looked at him in awe. He wondered what they thought and tried his hardest to delve into their minds. Certainly, they were curious as to why he was being kind. He tried to clear their suspicions with a smile. It came out hard-pressed and forced.  "That would be great," She said and dropped her head back on the pillow. 

"No, don't worry, G, I can do it," Jimmy said with an apprehensive glint in his eye.  "Nonsense, I'll do it. A little peace offering."  "I don't care. Someone do it." Gwen mumbled. 

Jimmy shuffled back to Peter and they continued their talk. Jimmy spoke slower now, confused and suspicious of his manager. He was curious about Peter's motives, knowing they were bad but not understanding how.  He snatched the envelope and went downstairs. The sun was dimmer than the day before but it was just as hot. The earth was scorched. The smell of heat in the air. He breathed out a pained breath as he stepped onto the pavement outside. His wisps of hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead. His shirt clung to his torso. He was trying to hurry.  Before sealing the envelope he pulled out his keys and the film reels one by one, peeling the bottom of the canisters off to expose them to the light. His back was turned to the entrance of the building and people filed in, pushing past him but not giving a second glance. 

When he was finished he pushed the bottoms flush to the canister and sealed the envelope. Before he dropped it in the blue collection box he looked around to make sure no one had seen him. He pulled back the hatch and pushed the heavy envelope in. It landed with a thud. He walked through the front door and went back up to his room.

The day was a day like any other. He woke up and went about his business. He had tea, he made conversation, he even had a quarrel. It was nothing special. But, even on a day so ordinary as this one, he ensured the safety of his band. 

It was another day protecting their success and keeping them nestled in a pocket of unbothered glee. Even if Jimmy couldn't, he was going to. He'd made them a promise that he was going to be the best manager they'd ever have. Even if Jimmy couldn't see it now, or if he'd never from his perspective, this was the best choice he could have made. This was the only choice.  So, he laid his head on his pillow and soon went to sleep. And, for the first time in months, he didn't fight with agentless voices or ghostly faces. He didn't see Gwen, or Thomas, didn't see his frowning mother or crying wife. He just saw peace, just fell asleep. 

---

Taglist:

@anothercanyonlady​ , @jonesyjonesyjonesy​   @paginate54 , @seventieswhore , @jimmypages , @jimmys-zeppelin​ , @jimmysdragonsuit13

[bokafix]

London's Top 5 Plumbing Emergencies and the Solutions to Get Them Sorted!

Tired of madly searching for "emergency plumber near me" or "London plumber" whenever a plumbing issue happens? We’ve got the solution for you.

Even with a plumber booked and en route, waiting for them to arrive can feel like an eternity when you're facing a burst pipe or a clogged drain. It's an anxious race against time as you try to minimise the damage and keep your cool. Fortunately, we've got some tips up our sleeves to help you hold your pipes while you wait for your local Fixer to come to the rescue. 

Don't let plumbing problems dampen your day! Let's dive into the top 5 plumbing emergencies in London and learn how to keep things under control until your plumber arrives.  

Burst Pipes: From Drips to Disasters

Picture this: water gushing out of a burst pipe, flooding your home, and turning it into an impromptu swimming pool. It's not a pretty sight, but keep calm! If you can safely access your main water supply, shut it off to minimise further damage. Use buckets or towels to contain the water, and mop up excess water to prevent slips and falls. Our skilled plumbers specialise in emergency repairs and will arrive equipped with the right tools to fix that burst pipe and prevent further water damage to your property.

Blocked Drains: Bye-bye, Drain Drama

Blocked drains can be like unwanted visitors who show up at the most inconvenient times, causing slow drainage, odd odours, and even flooding. According to a 2019 study in the UK, 48% of people said they put oil and fat down their kitchen sink, which is one of the main reasons for drain blockage.

While you wait for the plumber to arrive, try using a plunger to clear the blockage. Avoid using chemical drain cleaners, as they can damage your pipes. Our experienced plumbers will arrive with specialised tools and pressure techniques to unclog those drains, leaving you with smoothly flowing water once again.

Leaking Taps: Drip, Drip, No More!

Leaking taps can be irritating, wasteful, and even damaging to your property. According to Wired, London loses more than half a billion litres of water to leaks every day. In the meantime, you can try turning off the water supply to the affected tap and placing a towel or bucket underneath to catch the dripping water. Our certified plumbers will diagnose the cause of the leak and fix or replace any needed components, putting an end to that annoying drip-drip and restoring it to function perfectly.

Toilet Clogs: The Dreaded Blockade

A nightmare for any homeowner: a clogged toilet that refuses to flush. According to Water UK, people flushing wet wipes down the toilet account for 75% of drain blockages in the UK. So, next time, don’t forget to #BinTheWipe.

Also, bear in mind that a single faulty toilet could leak more than 400 litres of water in a single day. While you wait for the plumber, avoid flushing multiple times, as it may cause the toilet to overflow. Instead of panic flushing (don’t worry, we’ve all been there), try using a plunger to loosen the blockage. Our expert local plumbers are equipped with the right tools and skills to tackle that dreaded blockade.

Water Heater Issues: No More Cold Showers!

Stepping into a cold shower on a chilly London morning is not a pleasant thought. Before anything, check if the pilot light on your water heater is lit. If it's not, try relighting it following the manufacturer's instructions. If that doesn't work, avoid tampering with the water heater further and use the Bokafix app to instantly book a certified gas engineer. 

If you're unsure whether your boiler needs replacing or just fixing, make sure to check out our blog post ‘Is Your Boiler Ready for Replacement? The 7 Common Warning Signs’, you may find it useful. Once at your house, our qualified local Fixer will correct the issue, ensuring you have hot water flowing again in no time. 

What To Do in Each Emergency

Plumbing emergencies may be stressful, but Bokafix is here to make things easier! In just a few moments, you can book qualified plumbers or gas engineers who can tackle Londoners' most common plumbing emergencies with expertise and efficiency.   

So, say goodbye to the "emergency plumber near me" search. Download Bokafix today and bid farewell to plumbing troubles….help is just a few taps away! 

[awakenthemusic]

Suptober 2022 Day 6 - Parody

Destiel, Short fic, 1,371 words, Fluff, Humor, Rated T for language

Gabriel's back, Baby! And he won't let Cas and Dean rest until they sort some things out.

Under the cut or on Ao3

Parody

“You wanna remind me why bringing Gabriel back from the empty with us was a good idea?” Dean asked as he decapitated yet another Pattinson-esque sparkly vampire.

Cas shot Dean an annoyed glance as he fought off his own vamp, but didn’t try to defend his brother.

“Seriously,” Dean yelled at the sky, not expecting an answer. “What is the point of this?”

Wings flapped behind Dean as Gabriel suddenly appeared. He pulled a lollipop from his mouth and said, “The point, Deano, is that you two are trapped in this screwball parody of your lives, and you’re going to stay trapped until you work your shit out.”

“What ‘shit’ do you expect us to work out?” Cas asked, complete with air quotes.

Rather than wait for Gabe’s response, Dean growled in frustration and brought his machete down on his neck. The blade bounced harmlessly off with a cartoonish ‘B-Boing’ sound. Because of course it did.

Gabe raised an annoyed eyebrow at Dean and deadpanned, “Really.”

Dean shook the vamp blood off his machete, shrugged, and said, “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Gabe looked thoroughly unimpressed. He sighed and said, “Alright, just because I’m even more bored with this whole mishegoss than you are… Why don’t we cut to the chase.” 

Gabriel snapped his fingers and Dean immediately found himself behind Baby’s wheel… while doing about 80 miles an hour down the middle of a deserted highway.

Dean swerved and swore before he managed to bring Baby safely back to the middle of her lane. A glance in the rearview showed… Was that a Beverly-Hillbillies-style truck full of werewolves behind them?

Dean exchanged a look with Cas and called out to the whole lotta nothing nearby,  “Cut to the chase, Really?”

The radio kicked on and the chorus of "Werewolves of London" blared out of Baby's speakers at full volume. Baby swerved again as Dean tried to block his ears and steer at the same time while Cas dove for the controls.

Cas had just gotten the volume down to a reasonable level when Gabriel suddenly appeared in the back seat and announced like a gameshow host, "This can all be over for the low, low price of digging your heads out of your asses, fellas."

Dean’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as glorious fantasies of wringing Gabe’s neck filled his mind.

Meanwhile, Cas actually growled, then said, “Enough, brother. Just tell us what we have to do to end this.”

Gabe rolled his eyes and muttered what sounded like, “Spoil-sports.” He sighed dramatically and said, “Fine. Everyone knows that the older Winchester is an emotionally constipated wreck, so this is all on you, Cassie. All you have to do is confess your undying love for Deano here and you two can drive happily off into the sunset."

Cas tensed, then turned his face toward the window, but not before Dean caught the flash of pain that crossed his face. 

Dean had never felt more like ripping Gabe's intestines out through his nose than he did at that moment. He glared daggers at Gabriel in the rearview mirror and said, “Hey, dickwad. You maybe wanna butt the fuck out of other people’s business?”

Gabriel froze. His mouth dropped open as he stared back and forth between Dean and Cas. The manic playfulness had drained from his face completely as he asked, “You knew?”

Dean glared back, beyond done with dick archangels and their stupid games. He said, "Yeah, so if you'd just let us get back to our lives, that'd be great…"

"Why haven't you said it back?" Gabe demanded.

"What?"

“If Cassie here spilled his guts, then why aren’t the two of you a slobbering pile of feelings, emoting all over each other, Dean?”

Dean felt his face flush all the way down his neck. He spluttered incoherently.

Gabe grinned like a shark sensing blood in the water. He grinned and sing-songed, “Why, oh why haven’t you said it back, Deanie?”

Dean felt his blush deepen as his hands went slick around the steering wheel. He shot back defensively, "Well, maybe if you'd leave us alone for five fucking minutes…"

Gabriel’s eyebrows rocketed upward as Cas spun to face Dean. Dean stared resolutely out the windshield as he blushed so furiously, he felt it burning in his ears. This was not how he'd wanted to do this.

After what felt like a small eternity, Cas breathed out a shocked, "Dean," at the same time that Gabriel said, "Shit," and snapped himself right out of the back seat.

Silence descended over the car like a physical weight. Dean idly noted that Gabe had taken the crazed bunch of hillbilly werewolves with him.

Dean slowed the car to a more reasonable pace but didn’t dare pull over. Dean needed the solidity of Baby's wheel beneath his hands to keep him from shaking apart.

Cas gaped on the seat next to him, clearly struggling to find words.

Shit, Dean should pull over while he said what he needed to say. He pictured the sweet agony of looking Cas in the eye, maybe even holding his hands, while he poured his heart out all over the asphalt. He kept driving.

There were so many things he needed to say, so many feelings Cas deserved to hear him actually say out loud. As usual though, the words became static in his ears and formed a solid mass in his throat.

“I— You— I—” I love you, how fucking hard is it to say three fucking words?!? Dean thumped a fist into the steering wheel and silently cursed his own inability to talk.

Cas whispered gently, “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

The words loosened some of the tension that had gripped Dean’s chest. How did Cas always know what to say? How could he just say things like that and make everything better?

‘Cause he’s not Dean fucking Winchester, that’s how. Most people aren’t all (what did Gabe call it) emotionally-constipated, or whatever. 

Damn, he was an idiot. Cas deserved so much better. He deserved someone who could make speeches like the one he’d made to Dean. He deserved someone who could say all the things that Cas needed to hear. 

After all these years, Dean couldn’t even tell Cas the one thing that had become such a bedrock foundation for him that the thought of Cas being gone had sent him into a tailspin so bad, he almost hadn’t made it back out. 

All Dean needed to do was say three measly little words, words that he should have said a long time ago. All he had to do was open his damn mouth—

Dean gasped as an idea suddenly occurred to him. He yanked the steering wheel over, squealing Baby's tires as he pulled over to the side of the road before he could overthink it.

Dean’s face flushed impossibly warmer as Baby’s engine ticked in the silence. He pried his shaking hands off the steering wheel, stared resolutely out the windshield, and raised his hand toward Cas, clumsy fingers slowly fingerspelling in ASL. “I L O V E Y O U"

All the world fell silent and Dean drowned in it. It mocked his inability to speak. How could such a pitiful excuse for words ever be enough? Cas had poured his heart out to Dean, such amazing words that still resonated behind Dean's sternum. Words that Dean would carry with him for the rest of time. How could his clumsy inability to even speak come anywhere close to meaning the same?

“Dean,” Cas choked and Dean’s eyes flew to Cas’ automatically. He found such love and awe staring back at him that it stole his breath away. Tears stood in Cas’ eyes as he smiled and said, “Thank you, Dean.” No trace of irony or sarcasm tinted the words and the strangeness of the response was just so Cas that Dean laughed in relief.

Somehow it was enough. Somehow the world kept on spinning. Somehow Cas was still by his side.

And maybe somehow, someday, Dean would be able to say the words out loud. He reached out and shyly tangled his fingers with Cas’.

It was enough.