#just rarely tapping into the truth of things the way her music does

[miekasa]

any spare levi headcanons tonight????? 😁😁😁😁

Sure, why not, he is the love of my life after all. These are pretty random, and fit in some sort of generalized modern boyfriend au. Hopelessly domestic, as that is the nature of nearly everything I write for Levi, anyway. Also still terribly obsessed with the idea of him with a motorcycle, so there’s that.

He owns at least six black blazers. They’re nearly identical; slight differences in texture and cut, one with lapels, one that’s boldly all leather that you swear you’ve never seen him wear. They’re kind of his go-to staple, other than a sweater.

That being said, he doesn’t exclusively wear all black. His closet leans towards more neutrals, sure, but he’s not allergic to color. You might not catch him wearing neon orange on the average day, but he’s not averse to a nice shade of green, any shade of purple that suits his mood, even a softer pink.

He has towels and rags he sets aside especially for you when he comes over. He always washes them and put them back in place when you leave so that they’re ready to go for next time.

Claims to not have any attachment to the shows/dramas you watch, but he’s totally backseat watching. Halfway into every single series, he starts sitting down when you turn it on, and scoffs at dumb decisions the characters make.

He splurged on one of those frame TVs that look like a painting when they’re idle. It was a good investment in his opinion.

He doesn’t hate Starbucks drinks—there’s worse things out there in terms of quality of tea. What he despises about the establishment is the way they call out names for you to pick up your order. He’s learned that mobile order ahead is the way to go.

Has slippers for around the house, so consequently, you have slippers for walking around his house. He keeps both pairs (and a few extra for friends and guests) tucked neatly beside the door for easy access; yours always go next to his.

Does not understand the purpose of a robe. Buy him one tho and he will suddenly find an excuse to wear it: making breakfast, lounging around watching TV, doing some light cleaning and dusting. It’s comfy, alright, he can admit that much.

The little puppy you got him that he swore he was not going to warm up to now gets the royal treatment. The best doggie goods and treats, top rated shampoos, cutest drying towels, even a miniature couch he constructed just for the pup. They’re best friends, there’s no breaking that bond now.

Speaking of the puppy, affectionately named Captain, Levi can be found walking him every day shortly after work. They have a few different routes, but they always pass by the local vendors/market, who enthusiastically anticipate their appearance every day. Some of the older ladies running stands have even taken to bringing a few treats with them for Captain—after bundling up some goods for Levi, too, of course.

Captain also has a special doggy backpack Levi uses for when he’s on his motorcycle. If you follow anybody on TikTok in his area, you’re bound to see at least one video of the pup while Levi’s out riding. He’s become viral on social media without even knowing it.

(When you show him a video someone posted of him and Captain with well over 100k likes, and a million views, he only rolled his eyes. But remembers that particularly day; remembers the folks had a kid who politely asked to pet the dog, so he let him. He also maybe asks you to send the link to him).

On the subject of the motorcycle, there was a good few weeks he wouldn’t let you on it. Always found an excuse, a smart reply that was punctuated with gentle push on your forehead and calling you too clumsy for it. Later, you found out it’s because he’d ordered you a helmet; didn’t want to risk you riding without one.

He always keeps it in the storage compartment should he make a stop to pick you up while he’s riding; and he usually wears at least two layers to have a spare to wrap you in before you get on.

When he cooks, he always makes sure there’s enough for leftovers and/or to give you some later. He also bakes frequently, and at least once a week, he stops by with some kind of treat for you—“Trying out a new recipe, let me know if you think it’s missing anything.”

On the subject of food, he won’t police what you eat to annoying extent; he knows that not everybody has the time or will to make pasta from scratch like he does. But, he will smack your wrist if you consider ordering fast food when you’re over at this place. Give him 30 minutes and a single pan, he’ll make something much better than whatever you can find on Uber Eats.

Really, though, he doesn’t mean to obnoxious about the homemade food thing, it’s more habit for him. Growing up, he had to learn to be resourceful, so buying fast-food isn’t ever at the forefront of his mind. Cooking for you also turns out to be something somewhat intimate that he enjoys, so just let him.

Once bought an Apple Watch because he liked the look of them, it wasn’t insanely expensive like other high end watches, and it could connect to his other devices, so why not? A week later he returned it, the ping of his notifications were in one too many places for his liking.

You tried to convince him to keep it—“At least for when you’re jogging! It can track your activity and calories!”—but he clicks his teeth. He’ll survive without keeping track of them.

He learned the hard way that jogging with Captain is no good. His legs are too tiny and Levi ended up carrying the puppy the entire time. Captain is more of a walk dog… or ride on the back of his bike dog.

If you changed anything in his phone settings—like the ringtone for you contact, or the sound his keyboard makes—he wouldn’t go back in and try to figure out how to reset it. Unless it was something obnoxious, like adding an autocorrect shortcut to say something lewd.

He doesn’t really listen to music when he’s just walking. When he’s on a run, that’s fine, but he somewhat prefers to just… hear the environment around him when he’s on a stroll or a break from work. The only reason he’d have headphones on in public is to take a phone call, but even then, he’d prefer to wait until he’s somewhere more private.

He likes having you over at his apartment and has contemplated asking you to move in. He doesn’t want to rush anything, though, so he’s content with your sleepovers for now. (Though he really cannot fathom that you call them “sleepovers” like you’re 14. Please).

He speaks to his mother at least once a week, and she always asks about you. Levi tells her that you’re fine, gives her small updates about you, but Kuchel really just wants to know when the wedding is. He pretends to be busy whenever she starts asking and conveniently ends the call.

Occasionally, he’ll stop by and take you out for lunch. Depends on how much time he has during the day for himself, but he always enjoys sharing a meal with you.

Whenever you’re out with your friends drinking, Levi will pick you up. Even if you already told him that you’d Uber home; as soon as you text him that you’re going to leave soon, he’s already on his way.

He makes pretty good cocktails himself. Teases you for running his alcohol supply dry when the truth is he has more of your favorites in his cabinet than his own. He secretly likes the way you flirt with him when you’re tipsy.

You don’t always cuddle on top of each other when you sleep together. You can just lay by each other and that’s enough; but sometimes, you catch Levi turning towards you in his sleep, reaching for your hand. His body seems to search for yours subconsciously, and you swear there’s a hint of a smile on his sleeping face when you put your hand within reach.

Do not try to pay for dinner when you’re out with him. He’ll pull the “I’m going to use the restroom” move and pay the bill behind your back if he needs to. Open your own doors, maybe; pull out your own chairs, sure if you want; but not this.

He flosses very diligently every night. Mostly because he fucking hates the dentist, so if he takes the extra steps and is extra careful with his teeth, he doesn’t have to go as often, right?—Wrong, it’s the one time the roles are reversed, and you and Hange have to wrestle him into the doctor’s office.

On the flip side, if there are any doctors you routinely avoid and/or forget to schedule check ups for, fear not, because Levi will do it for you. He’ll drive you there, too—the only caveat being, that he usually doesn’t tell you where you’re going until you’re almost there. You think he’s doing the mysterious man surprise date thing and then boom, he’s pulling up to the ophthalmologist. Good luck.

He’s purchased a physical, paper copy of the news on every one of your anniversaries, birthdays, and other special occasions. He keeps them all neatly tucked away in a drawer. Sometimes, he looks back on them—sees what was happening in the world around you on that day. Maybe someday he’ll cut them up and bind them together in a book for you.

He doesn’t like having headphones in when you’re home with him, and preferred if you didn’t either—unless it was for work or school. He welcomes you to use his speakers and play your music aloud; he likes listening to what you listen to. If you look closely, you can catch him humming along or tapping his foot when he really likes a song.

Saves pictures you send him in an album in his camera roll. Occasionally can be found scrolling through them—particularly if you’ve been away on a trip, or he hasn’t gotten the chance to see you because of conflicting schedules.

He takes relatively short showers and doesn’t have a strong preference for the water temperature, so he lets you shower first. Unless you want him to join you, of course.

It’s not hard to tell when Levi wants you. He becomes noticeably more touchy, even if that margin isn’t too wide by anyone else’s standards; and he rarely tries to hide it. It only happens in the privacy of your apartments; but he’ll come on to you—leaning a bit further into conversations, a hand on your knee, a kind of cloudy look in his eyes.

Sometimes he forgoes the attempts at being subtle, just kisses you out the blue, carefully backs you up against the wall, puts his hands on your hips. He can be awfully direct when given the opportunity.

[ellsbclls]

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of  Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here. 

Your secret hideaway. 

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response.  “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare. 

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you. 

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice.  “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way. 

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her?  “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?  

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” 

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb.  “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach. 

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking. 

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening. 

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake. 

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss. 

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines. 

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse. 

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears. 

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill. 

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open. 

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene —  opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

��You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you. 

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that. 

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you.  “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings​

[shepherds-of-haven]

I hope you’re having a great day Lena! I was just wondering if we could have any fluff facts about the shepherds as a whole! Like fun tidbits of how they interact with each other, what some of them do if they have the same day off, does anyone host weekly game nights?? I hope that makes sense! Reading the recent short story on Patreon I love seeing how the characters interact with one another and now I need moreeeeeee🙏

Ooh, great question! I’m feeling curiously tapped dry at the moment, so I’ll probably have to reblog this as more ideas come to me; I’m so happy you’re enjoying the short story, btw!! 💖

Some group dynamic headcanons:

Many of them steal clothes from each other. Briony wears a cute sweater of Shery's (she asked), Ayla gets cold so she just takes one of Red's jackets from a chair (she didn't ask), Chase gives Tallys his scarf one day and Riel corders Trouble a pair of gloves from a fashion line he favors because his old ones are holey and they get into an argument about it... This leads to some recruits mistakenly thinking that the captains are all involved in some sort of mass relationship because they keep walking out of each other's rooms wearing each other's clothes. (The recruits believe a lot of really dumb stuff, if you couldn't tell. They LOVE gossip. It's like a competitive sport in the compound)

There is a weekly card game night, initiated and organized first by Chase, but it grows bigger over time, with snacks, cakes, drinks, and new games being procured! I'd actually say it's more like every ten-fourteen days or so than on any set weekday, and is typically proposed by anyone who senses that they or others need to blow off some steam. They all tend to meet in a private common room and either just chill and play some card games and casually drink and listen to music, or they get LOUD and raucous and play more risque non-card games (like Question or Command/Truth or Dare). The loud nights are more like once a month or bi-monthly, though! They take place in the captains' lounge so dumb recruits don't get to join! It's rare that they're in there all doing the same thing, though: maybe half will be at the table playing card games while others will be broken up into smaller groups, say arm-wrestling in the corner or playing chess at the smaller table or reading, but they're all there! Game nights are almost never held unless everyone is there, which is extraordinarily difficult to schedule, but they all make an effort to make it happen--even those who first had to be dragged into it, like Blade or Riel!

Speaking of chess games, Red and Riel have a standing game where they complete at least four more moves every night that they're around and able to meet up after dinner. Planning their next move helps them both break up the monotony of the day, and it's something they enjoy immensely. However, whenever he gets called away on a mission, Red gets sick with worry that Riel's been cooking up all sorts of schemes while he's been gone, so sometimes on the road he has, like, a schematic that he doodles on trying to anticipate Riel's next move, and it's very nerdy and ramps up in joking Anxiety. Riel, graciously, goes easier on him on nights after he comes back from long trips, though he denies it

Similarly, Blade and Trouble have a standing training session once a week where they just beat the crap out of each other. This is generally where they do the majority of their talking

Briony and Ayla first had an agreement that they would get the other one up if they overslept (Briony tends to be the one who oversleeps while Ayla is better about being up at dawn, but Ayla is really grouchy if she went to bed late and Briony is the only one who can handle her), which morphed into doing runs and sparring together at dawn and having breakfast frequently!

The girls have a standing spa night once a month where they all get together in a room (usually Shery’s) and basically do sleepover stuff and relax and chat and catch up for a few hours. This also sometimes involves showing each other new outfits that they bought that month! Sometimes there are even group baths in the big common bath, but these are rarer because Shery is shy and Tallys doesn’t like sitting in hot water getting pruny

Chase and Trouble drag Red and Halek to go drinking with them around once a month; sometimes Blade is persuaded to go if Trouble can get the drop on him and punch him hard enough to wind him. It’s complicated

Riel and Shery, of course, have tea together once a week! You’re not allowed if you can’t bring a chill vibe (Riel’s rules). Tallys, Lavinet, Halek, and Red are occasional visitors; Briony is allowed on a good day. Blade would be allowed but he has 0 interest

Similarly, Lavinet hosts a weekly brunch, either in a courtyard or at some restaurant in town! Typically it’s a girl thing and Ayla, Briony, and Shery are the most consistent attendees, but Chase has snuck his way in there often, and Riel, Halek, or Red pop up occasionally!

Tallys and Halek cook together! It’s not all that often and doesn’t seem to have any set way of materializing--it just happens somehow--but they both very much enjoy it! Sometimes they cook dinner for the whole group and have a little dinner party that they both secretly get excited for! Sometimes Shery bakes the dessert!

Riel noticed that Tallys has a little garden that she spends time weeding, so he sends gardening tools or special seeds when he thinks she needs them and she leaves baskets of vegetables or vases of flowers in his office. All of this is done without exchanging a word

Chase sporadically teaches Briony acrobatics and things like tightrope walking, just randomly whenever they’re both idle. She teaches him how to gut people with bare fists and also sometimes they paint! 

Caine caught Red grazing in the pantry late one night and now it’s like a Thing where they pass each other in the kitchen and Red sort of just looks the other way re: Caine’s bedtime and what on earth he’s doing up so late and Caine doesn’t tell anybody that Red is just absent-mindedly eating a loaf of bread at 2 AM because he was too busy working to remember to eat dinner. It’ll be like, “there’s some turkey leftover from dinner in the cold box” “oh hey, Caine. thanks. ...so, what’s the news from the midnight watch tonight?” “i’m going to go hunt ghosts on the seventh floor with my friends!” “...okay! have fun!”

Lavinet has a monthly shopping trip where she updates her wardrobe, and it is very common for others to accompany her around the city and just shop while they drop! Common partners are Shery, Briony, Riel, Chase, and once memorably Blade, who didn’t know what he was in for!

Trouble and Ayla are wildly competitive and keep arm-wrestling each other for money; this becomes a bi-weekly sporting event that is eagerly attended and bet upon by third parties

There was ONE group karaoke night. ONE. Most of them got so blackout drunk that they swore to never do it again. Even now, several of them go green whenever they hear a popular bar song (“Don’t Piss Where You Plant Your Flowers”) being sung, especially badly

The game of "telephone" gets really bad in their group. It's like, Shery will say to Briony that she's worried because she thought Riel looked a bit peaky and feverish. Briony will say in passing to Trouble that Riel is getting sick and Shery is worried. Trouble will say to Tallys that Shery is worried sick because Riel is bedridden. Tallys will be mixing herbs and Chase will ask what for and Tallys will reply that Riel is sick, but because she's mixing herbs, Chase will surmise that the sickness must be quite advanced, and will later say, "Damn, have you seen Riel? Seems like he's really sick." Red will interpret this as "I have seen Riel for myself and have determined that he's extremely ill." At least four people will bust into Riel's room, expecting him to be on the verge of death, despite the fact that they saw Riel that morning. Riel will be fine and very annoyed at the intrusion.

They rarely go out as a group to bars and establishments outside of the compound (too chaotic as well as risky, for one thing, and also, recruits don't need to see their superiors like hanging out of bushes and dancing on tabletops drunk out of their minds, and also, "Mages can't drink" (lol)), but when they do deem it a worthy occasion (Trouble's birthday, say), the girls are very punctual when getting ready, and the boys are almost always extremely late due to various shenanigans (Chase forgot that he put a booby trap on Red’s door, covering Red with flour, or a cat somehow slips into Trouble’s room and steals, like, a detonator or an important key, and they have to go chasing it across the city). This has led to the girls coming late on purpose in order to even out their arrival, but mysteriously, this has only led to even later start times, meaning they often don’t get started until like 10 or 11 PM when the most well-intentioned souls meant to be in bed by midnight... that never happens, either!

One such night once led to them ending up on a ridge in the Sun’s Embrace, like a mile outside of the city, in order to watch the sun rise together, because hiking in the dark while blasted out of their minds sounded like a really good idea. They all made it, and the dawn was spectacular, but the moment was ruined when Tallys said softly, “It’s the beginning of a beautiful new day--” punctuated by Trouble abruptly throwing up in a bush and Riel just flat-out passing out

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone’s Symphony | Prologue | Hades

Hey lovelies— this will either be a long fic or a short series, depending on how it best plays out. I decided to upload a sneak peak— let me know what y’all think and do enjoy!!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: Mentions of death, at times semi-graphic, eventual smut

Word count: 2.5k (and counting)

Next

Master List

“Barnes, you’re on protection detail.”

He must be dreaming— he must have fallen asleep with the tv on again. That’s been happening a lot lately; he’s trying to catch up on normal life. On all the shows and movies and music he’s missed throughout the years. He’s trying to catch up. Or maybe he’s just trying to drown out the silence. It doesn’t matter why, to be honest, all that matters is that he is asleep and what he is hearing and seeing are the workings of a bad dream. There was a marathon last night. Yeah, there was. Movies— a few of them. Something about bodyguards. He’s just dreaming about the movies.

Right?

Wrong.

“You’re to make sure she is secured at all times during the next three days— do not leave Miss Y/l/n’s side under any circumstances. Understood?”

Bucky blinks twice, his brows creasing as he stares down his commander, a stubby, burly man with beady eyes. It’s a trial run— he can’t say no. He wants to, he just can’t afford to. Not if he wants a job. Still, he sees no reason for this to be on him. He’s a soldier— a good one. A dangerous one. Watching over little girls isn’t in his job description. He’s a fighter— a monster.

“I need an affirmative, Barnes.”

He bites back a scowl. He’s not trying to get demoted, he knows he’s on thin ice. But, like, isn’t there anyone else? Hell— Wilson is right next to him! Surely he’s better. He’s charming, at least. A flirt. He would be perfect! Wilson would keep her safe. So would he— maybe. Definitely from the threat. From himself, though— well, three days is a long time to avoid sleeping. Even for him.

“Barnes!”

Damnit.

“Understood, sir.”

Wilson’s amused chuckles sound from beside him, his hand landing like a ton of bricks on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky contemplates the repercussions of punching the smug bastard in the middle of a briefing. It can’t be more than a pay dock. He isn’t making that much anyway, it wouldn’t be a huge loss. It would be worth it to wipe that grin off his face. But, no, he can’t. He’ll have to do it later.

“Someone’s on babysitting duty.” Wilson snickers, pressing his fist to his mouth to hide his goading from the commander. “Remember Barnes; no candy after seven.”

“Shut up, Wilson.” He grunts back, just barely stopping his metal arm from flying out and smacking him— from squashing him like the bug he is.

“Think she has a bedtime?”

“Think you could shut up?”

Wilson flexes his fingers, holding them up slightly. Just enough as to not get caught ignoring the briefing but also enough to make sure Bucky notices. “Woah—” he says under his breath, that stupid smirk still heavy in his tone— “someone’s touchy today.”

“It’s a bad decision and you know it.” He says it simply— gruffly— it is the truth after all. He’s dangerous.

Wilson’s face softens, the glee filtering from his tone. “You’ll be fine, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, he just clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to have another conversation about this. You’re a good person. You didn’t mean to do it. It’s not your fault. It might not be his fault but he still did it. He still feels it. That makes him bad— if not morally than at least physically. He’s a liability.

“Y/n Y/l/n—” Bucky focuses back on the commander; he may as well learn what he needs to do— “the twenty-five year old heir to the biggest communications technology manufacturing companies in the world. They do dealings with a range of chief institutions including our own White House—”

If Bucky’s teeth weren’t pressed together hard enough to make him wonder if they’re going to disintegrate, then his jaw would be on the floor right now. She’s the what? Did he just say twenty-five? He can’t even remember what he was doing at twenty-five— whatever he was doing it certainly wasn’t that. Granted, he probably doesn’t really want to remember what he was doing. Soldier things. Dangerous things. He shakes his head, huffing out a breath of air.

“Her immediate family have all turned up dead within the last six months—”

Bucky flinches— this time his jaw does drop.

“Holy shit.” Wilson mutters from next to him— Bucky can only nod. No more jokes about babysitting then.

Some pictures appear on the screen behind the commander, each one more gruesome than the last. It is nothing overtly sinister— nothing he hasn’t seen before— nothing worse than anything he’s seen before. Or worse than what he, himself, has done. He shivers, staring at the photos. Two men and a woman, each with a scarlet circle blown through their foreheads. What the fuck.

“Other executives have been found dead as well—” more pictures, more bullet holes— “She is the last one. We don’t know who or why— our mission is to find out, execute, and above all keep Miss Y/l/n alive—”

The pictures change, finally showing the woman who is to be in the soldier’s care, and his heart stops. Not for any normal reason, though— not because of how obscenely beautiful she is or because of the way her eyes pierce through the junky projector as though she were actually in the room with him. Not because of how soft she looks or how he can see the pink sheen of her lip gloss or the way those glossy lips are curved into an open mouth smile— like the picture had been taken mid laugh. No. His heart stops because of how god damn fragile she looks.

In the picture she seems to be at a University with some friends of hers. They’re backed against a brick facade, shoulder to shoulder like some sort of preppy mugshot. It’s probably supposed to be comical— Wilson lets out a hmph next to him, clearly seeing it as well— but Bucky can’t find it in himself to laugh. Not given the circumstances. Regardless though the picture gives him the information he needs to know; that she is a head shorter than the males in the picture. That seems normal— a head isn’t much in the scheme of things. The size difference is nothing.

Nothing unless, of course, you’re a giant super soldier whose genetically modified to be larger, stronger, and faster than the average man. Deadlier than the average man. He won’t be just a head taller than her— he’ll be at least two. Maybe more. And that’s just the height— he doesn’t even want to think about the rest. He is going to be stuck for three days, in what will most likely be a cramped safe house, with a girl who he could potentially break by bumping into her too hard. He can see it now: he takes the corner too fast and the next thing he knows she’s sprawled at his feet, her limbs bent at grotesque angles and her glossy lips flattened. All because he didn’t think to check.

This is going to be a long three days.

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

As it turns out, there are no safe houses— not legitimate ones at least. What there is, however, is the Wilson’s old family home in Delacroix, Louisiana— a semi falling apart, two-story build with robin's egg blue, fading paint. It is nestled deep into the bayou, hidden meticulously between towering trees. It is miles from any main roads and on the bank of a mostly dead river. Foot traffic is scarce and boats rarely pass on sunny days, let alone during the rainy season— the season it just so happens to be. Perfect.

Well, the location is perfect. The rest is a god damn shit show.

“You ready?” Sam doesn’t look at him— he knows better than that, opting instead to continue staring out at the bayou from behind the wheel.

Bucky, hunched over in the passenger seat, eyes also locked on the blue home, shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Sam sighs and Bucky tries not to tense at the sound. Please, not another lecture— not right now. He tries to ignore the man, gaze pouring over what he assumes is supposed to be a charming porch. Under a dim but sturdy awning there waits a white swing with a long bench seat and some floral pillows. Across from it are two rocking chairs swaying softly in the Louisiana breeze. One has a matching blanket draped over the back. It is supposed to look cozy— he knows it’s supposed to and he is sure to everyone but him that it is cozy. To him, though, it looks like everything he doesn’t have. Like warmth and sunny days and peace. Things he wants and things that make his skin crawl because of how foreign they are to him.

“You’re not going to hurt her.” Sam taps his hand on the wheel, sounding out a pattern that plays more like bullets ricocheting through the cab of the truck than whatever melody it actually is.

Bucky grinds his teeth together. Now he’s looking at the window beside the porch. Is it a kitchen? A mudroom? A den? He isn’t sure, there’s a white curtain pulled across the frame, blocking his vision from whatever waits for him on the inside. Blocking his vision from her. For a moment he thinks he sees the curtain move— a shadow of a hand passing along the edge. He turns away— he doesn’t want to scare her if she’s trying to size him up before they meet. It’s the least he can do. God only knows how terrified she already is.

His stare lands on Sam— an invitation for the soldier to finally look away from the bayou. “But I could, right? That’s what matters here— I could hurt her.”

“No, Buck, you couldn’t— you wouldn’t. You aren’t evil or whatever it is you think you are.” Sam raises a brow and Bucky scowls— it always feels like he’s in his head.

Of course he would never tell Sam Wilson that— like a dog left to fend for himself, he would rather fight.

“Don’t pretend like you have any idea what I think.” He can’t find it in himself to feel guilty for snapping— isn’t that what wild animals do?

Ever the patient animal rescuer, Sam rolls his eyes at the bite. “You’re a good man, Barnes.”

Bucky stares back for a minute, not sure how to even broach an answer, before breaking, snapping his gaze back to the inviting home— his kennel for the next three days. He clenches his jaw, trying not to slam his head against the dashboard for being an idiot. Even Bucky understands that it’s bad when he breaks the stare first— he’s been told before that he has a staring problem. He just doesn’t want to look Wilson in his eyes and explain to him exactly why he’s wrong. Maybe it’s just easier to let him think what he wants.

“Whatever.”

Maybe he wants just one person to truly believe that he isn’t the bad guy— even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

“I thought old people were supposed to be mature.”

Bucky flashes him a forced grin, one that tastes like the three hours of sleep he got last night and the five hours of self-loathing, shoving open his door and following it with his foot. “That’s me— the mature one.”

Sam barks out a laugh; either Bucky’s grimace— grin— worked or Sam is choosing to ignore it. “You’re old, not mature— there’s a difference, pal.”

“Hmph.” Bucky jumps out of the truck, yanking the duffle bag over his shoulder as his boots sink into the spongy grass.

His skin dampens immediately, a combination of the marshy climate and the grey clouds hanging above his head. A few droplets fall against his face and he slings a hand over his brows, turning towards his fate for the next three days. Without the barrier of the truck between him and the house, he almost feels like a normal man again. The weak, destructible kind. Theoretically, if the house were to fall on top of him right now he would survive. He would be pinned under the rubble, yes, but alive. It just doesn’t feel like it— it feels like he would be crushed. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end— his hackles rising as he tries not to bare his teeth— or fangs— at this new kind of threat. If only people could see him now; The White Wolf afraid of a charming, bayou home.

What a joke.

He shakes his head, pushing the passenger door shut with a sharp clang. Of course he isn’t afraid of a house— then he really would be an idiot. No, he is afraid of something else entirely— something much more sinister. Bucky is afraid of suburbia; of normalcy. What, with a metal arm and a brain hardwired to kill— it only makes sense he would also be programmed to steer clear of anything half-way decent. Especially pretty, fragile girls with glossy lips. Fuck. He squeezes his eyes closed, his vibranium fingers clenching around the strap of his bag. What is he even doing here?

A familiar, mechanical buzz fills the air and he cracks an eye back open in time to see Wilson leaning his head out of the passenger window. “Look, man— it’s three days. The fridge is full, the wifi is on, and it’ll rain so much she’ll probably nap the entire time. Pretend you’re at home doing whatever it is you would normally do. You’ll be fine.”

Bucky nods, sticking to his guns and letting the soldier believe what he wants. He tells himself again that it is because it is easier that way. “I gotta go, Wilson.”

With that he pushes his way to the door. His feet sink further into the grass with every step, curling around his ankles as though trying to warn him against entering the house— or trying to save the poor girl inside. He can’t decide. Warning or trap. Both. A warning for her— the princess; the little girl in the forest— and a trap for him— the rabid wolf. He steps onto the porch, his boots echoing off the concrete. To him it’s booming. He doesn’t want to think about what it must sound like to her, especially with everything the commander said she’s been through. A giant coming to kill her is his guess. Movement to the left catches his eye, the curtains shifting again, and his neck flushes.

“Hey Buck?”

He sighs— again— and turns over his shoulder for what he hopes is the last time— he just wants to get this over with. “What, Wilson?”

He knows before the man speaks that the cheshire grin on his face can mean nothing good— still he waits for the answer.

“Remember to tiptoe.”

[vibraniumwing]

wildest dreams.

a steve rogers x fem!reader wherein the reader falls in love with the super soldier who can’t seem to let go of the past. 

WARNING: angst, one-sided relationships, set four years after the snap. 

A/N: hello !!! this is the first marvel fic i’m posting and i am very nervous about it aha. i hope all of you would like it though !! i’m kind of back into the flow of things for writing (since im on a one week break from school) but im still trying to maneuver through it. this is inspired by wildest dreams; complementary tissues are here if needed.

word count: 3.7K.

---

Your attitude died the same day your little brother turned to dust in your arms four years ago. The fear and pain his face had was burned into the back of your mind, haunting you on a daily basis; his cries echoing in your head.

But things seemed to change when your aunt introduced you to the talks the remaining Avengers had weekly for the people who were still struggling with the sudden loss of their loved ones; seeing and meeting people who were going through the similar struggle as you helped a lot in coping with the eternal torture that you had. 

That’s when you met him; the man who held your heart in the palm of his hands. Steve Rogers. 

---

“How come you’ve only started going to these meetings after four years?” Kenzie, a girl who’s a few years younger than you asked, causing everyone in the meeting circle to look at you. Your eyes widened at the sudden question, feeling a slight tinge of pink creep up on your cheeks at the attention you’ve gained. 

You bit your lower lip as you contemplated whether or not to answer the question, “I- I had a hard time accepting my brother’s gone since he's my only family. I locked myself up for the last four years, rarely talking to anyone until my aunt forced me to get into these types of things and well now I go here whenever my days get really bad. I had to move on somehow.” You answered, tone laced with truthfulness, giving her a small smile. 

“Well we’re both glad and proud you’re here and that you’ve decided to move on from what happened.” Steve spoke up, making everyone look at him, including you. His blue eyes peering into yours, giving you a small nod which you reciprocated, the eye-contact causing the others words of agreement and encouragement to be drowned out. 

The rest of the meeting flew by as normal as the superhero continued to talk about how everyone should move on from what happened一  accompanied with the occasional stolen glances Steve gives you一 and soon enough, everyone was giving each other hugs and bidding their goodbyes until the next meeting.

You were grabbing your jacket when someone tapped your shoulder, looking back you saw the super soldier look at you with a somewhat nervous glint in his eyes, “You’re Y/N, right?” He asked, showing you a small grin as he pushed his hands inside of his pocket. 

“You have the right person, Mr. Rogers.” You answered, unsure of why he would suddenly come up to you.  It didn’t even take you a second to register the rather homey smell of laundry detergent and a hint of a manly perfume you couldn’t put a name on that he sported. 

“I’ve been seeing you a lot in these sessions一 I, I was wondering if you would like to go grab some dinner sometime?” He asked awkwardly, unsure of how to sentence the thoughts that were inside his mind. 

Your eyebrow quirked at the male who was normally eloquent and sure of his words, is now fumbling over how to ask you out for dinner but who were you to say no to such a rare opportune to spend some time with the male, “I… I would love to.” 

And that was the start of it all. 

--- 

At first he was worried about the situation the both of you had, fearing that you might be hated for once the word goes out to the public that you were dating him so you compromised, telling him that no one has to know what the both of you do; that it was okay for him to keep you as his secret, admitting that all of this gave you a thrill.

Until eight months later, Steve had finally said he had enough of hiding and offered to take you to the Avengers compound where he introduced you to the rest of the heroes who were working hard to keep everything intact after the tragic event that happened a little well-over four一almost five一 years ago.

“Steve, do you think they liked me?” You had asked him, eyes trained to the ground as the both of you walked around the Facility, hands tucked behind your back as the cool air of the setting sun wafted around the both of you. There was silence on his end before he spoke up, “Nat wouldn’t have choked on her drink at that joke you made if she didn’t.” 

You looked up at him, a hopeful smile adorning your lips, “So does that mean I’m accepted here, then?” It was kind of ridiculous to ask that question after hearing him just say that Natasha laughed at your joke, but all he did was nod and wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you in. 

“Even if they didn’t, they have no choice. You’re stuck with me.”

The mere memory made you smile as you drove into the facility, having the intention of surprising him with a gift you had made him; a painting of the first photo you two took together, at Time Square.

You and Steve were on another spontaneous road trip; he was free for the day and had asked you to accompany him to drive around New York and before you could even decline, he was already knocking at your apartment door, ready to pick you up. 

The day was filled with quiet laughter as you introduced him to newer music and those timeless masterpieces that he missed out on during his 70 year freeze. “I can’t believe you don’t listen to Queen! That band is a whole icon!” You called him out as you started to play Bohemian Rhapsody in the background. “I’m introducing you to the basics.” 

“Hey I don’t have as much free time as you, you know.” Steve said, stepping on the gas as you two finally entered the rather empty streets of Times Square. 

Your day was filled with laughs and banter as you continued to introduce him to newer songs, occasionally playing some older tunes that he could enjoy himself and talked about how his life was before he was dunked into the ice. “Must’ve been a real hard time for you to grasp on to everything suddenly being so modern.” You commented, looking up from your phone to give him a small smile. 

“Oh trust me, it gave me quite the shock waking up to see everything so… new and foreign. But I had to learn一adapt even to what happened.” He started off, slowing down the car for him to look up at the large skyscrapers. “I had to move on or else I would still be miserable until now.” He said, tongue clicking at the top of his mouth. 

The car came into a full stop making you look at him in confusion. “Why’d you stop the car?” But he didn’t answer, instead he got out and jogged around the car to open the door for you. You stepped out, brows still furrowed. “We didn’t have the luxury to take that many photos back in the day and I would regret it if I didn’t have one with you.” He said, rubbing the nape of his neck. 

Breaking out into a smile, you agreed almost instantly and pulled your phone out, quickly opening the camera. “This is a selfie, alright?” You said, not forgetting to tease him, earning you an eye roll from the male. “I’m not that outdated!” he retorted, pulling you into him as he motioned you to take the photo. 

You were snug in his arms as you put the phone up, “To more memories with you, Captain.” 

You were all smiles the moment you parked your car and grabbed the canvas from the trunk, heading inside the compound where Nat instructed you to go around when you bumped into Rhodey who was quick to recognize you, “Hey you’re Cap’s girl, right?” which made you shake your head hesitantly, causing the other to look at you with a bamboozled expression. “What do you mean ‘no’?” 

“Well, Steve hasn’t asked me out officially but that’ll change soon enough. I made him this gift and will actually ask him. A bit odd I know, but if neither of us would make a move then this would probably drag on.” You confessed, grinning at the soldier excitedly who now had an amazed expression on his face. “Alright then. He’s in the office with Romanoff so knock yourself out.”

You were nearing the office when you overheard the conversation between assassin and Steve. 

“So when are you officially going to ask Y/N out?” The female asked, making your heart race in anticipation and hope that he might actually ask you to be his soon. However, the quietness that followed made your excitement go down and your heart to drop to your stomach; the giddiness you were feeling was replaced with worry as negative thoughts started to infiltrate your mind. 

A sigh was finally heard from the other end, “Nat, I haven’t been completely honest with you. I… I don’t think I ever will.” The latter started off, heaving another sigh as a shuffle of feet was resonating through the quiet room. “It’s just… Y/N’s a great girl you know? I thought I could love her but she’s一 she’s not like Peggy.”

You could hear Nat scoff lightly, probably in disapproval, “Then why’d you lead her on like this? That’s an asshole move from you, Steve.” and you couldn’t agree more. Your mouth was held over your mouth as you tried your best not to make any sound, wanting to hear more from his side before you make your presence known; in foolish hopes that he might be able to move on and be with you instead. 

“I… I honestly don’t know how to bring it up to her. She seems so happy with me and I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t like her the same way she does with me.” He answered, voice laced with regret and guilt that he made you believe in something that wasn’t even possible in the first place.

That’s when your dreams of being with him was shattered; the visions you had of being in a family with him and living the rest of your days together were turned into dust. You were aware of the history Steve had with the woman; how he met her before subsequently falling into the ice that would freeze him. He made you feel so loved and convinced you that what you were feeling was reciprocal to his but you were wrong. 

So damn wrong. 

Suddenly, the promises he made of being with you until time permits became a blur to you, those late night talks of imagining what could happen if he and the others were to save the world and him bringing back your younger brother seemed like a far-fetched dream which shattered you even more. 

So with every strong fiber that you had left within you, you re-emerged from your hiding spot and looked at the two heroes, Steve being the first one to see you, the color from his face drained. “Y/N I could expl一” 

“Save it. Delete my name from your contacts, Rogers. I’m sorry I was foolish enough to think you would like me.” You told him, walking over to where he was to give the painting you worked so hard on, shoving it into his hands and mustering up the courage to look at him again. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I couldn’t be your best girl.” 

And then you ran, pretending not to hear him calling out for you; you ran all the way to the parking lot and by the time you could lean onto the door of your car, you were breathless and choking on the tears you fought hard to not spill but it was all too much. 

As you drove away, a part of you hoped he ran after you but you were foolish enough to even hope so because he never did.

---

You sat by the window of your brother’s room, looking out into the empty streets of Manhattan. After the incident with Steve, you were left to fend for yourself again and it left you feeling lonelier than ever. He never contacted you, not even once after everything the two of you have been through. It seems like you were just a memory that was easy for him to forget. 

Tears threatened to fall from your eyes once again when you heard something swoosh from the other side of the room. Snapping your head to the side, you could see something or someone form from dust and that’s when you realized it was your younger brother. 

Rising to your feet, you sprinted over to where he was, “Xavier?” You whispered, choking up on tears as your little brother’s doe eyes looked up at you in disbelief and fear. He was only five years old when he disappeared into nothing and it looks like he hasn’t aged even a day. His arms immediately sprung up to ask for your embrace to which you complied with. 

You scooped the toddler up in your arms and hugged him tightly, fearing he might disappear again. Then you heard it, the streets outside were filled with screams of confusion and terror as people started forming again one by one, chaos ensuing outside of your quiet home; but you were tranquil, because you knew Steve had kept his promise of giving you your brother back, of making everyone else return. 

---

It's been a good week since everyone has gone back, people still trying to process everything that has happened. Families were and still are reconnecting, businesses and government officials are trying to get a hold of things together. 

Your life was slowly going back to normal. Your little brother was back meaning the small house you live in is starting to be filled with joyous laughter again as the little tyke's energy was bursting at the seams. 

You and your aunt watched as Xav played with the teddy bear she got for him upon her visit, "Everything seems so much lighter with the little troublemaker around, isn't it?" She asked, glancing at you as she continued to knead the dough of the cookies she's making for you and your brother. 

"It definitely is. Suddenly this place feels like home aga—" Your sentence was cut in the middle when a loud knock came from your door making your brows furrow. 

"Oh were you expecting anyone?" Your aunt asked, you shook your head in response but before you could answer her your brother's voice resonated through the house. "I'll get it!" but what you expected next was the last thing you could have ever expected. 

“Y/N! It’s- It’s Captain America!” Xavier’s voice was a pitch higher due to his excitement upon seeing the superhero then his laughter soon followed. Your aunt gave you a surprised yet knowing look, motioning you to go to the door. “You better go and ask the man what he wants from you. I’m not listening to your excuses, go.” 

You knew better than to argue with the woman so you slowly made your way to the front door where you saw Steve who sported a few wounds to his face carrying your little brother, his smile wide as he answered questions the child asked. “I think Cap has had enough questions to answer, Xav. Go back inside.” You told him, much to the five year old’s dismay. 

“But Y/N! I haven’t asked一” “I’ll be back later to answer those okay? Go listen to your sister.” Steve was the one to answer now, setting Xavier down and patted his head. He gave the super-soldier a thumbs up and ran inside, giddily telling your aunt that he got carried by the blonde. 

The two of you stared at each other quietly, before you decided to speak up. “How about we go to the backyard and speak there, yeah?” You offered, making some room for him to enter the house, to which he agreed with, entering your humble home. Upon closing the door, you whispered a quiet “let’s go” to him and led him to the back of your house. 

You sat down by the lone tree that stood in the middle of your garden, patting down the space next to you. “So what brings you here?” You asked once he sat down, turning to the male with a small yet hesitant smile. 

“I’m returning the infinity stones tomorrow but before that I want to apologize.” Steve started off, looking into the distance as he couldn’t bring himself to look into your E/C orbs that he once found comfort in, fearing that it might be filled with hatred for him. “I’m not sure how much you heard that night but I have… no excuse for what I did to you. I thought I could love you, that I could move on but I guess I’m still stuck in the past.” He admitted, tone quiet and soft like the rustles of the leaves that hovered above the both of you. 

“I came to you because you reminded me of Peggy. It was selfish of me to even approach you with that intention in the first place but I can assure you that every moment we shared together is something that I cherish deeply. Even一 even the first kiss we had right under this tree right here.” He finished, a sad sigh following his sentence. 

It was a cool night and you were drifting off to sleep when you heard something tap the windows of your room, causing you to sit up and walk towards the source of the noise to see Steve gathering more rocks. Opening the window, “Steve? What on earth are you doing here?” You asked, amused at his antics that seemed too out of character even for him. 

“I came to see you! You aren’t going to the session tomorrow, right?” Steve said, motioning you to come down. His smile was big as the moon shined over him, defining his facial structure even more despite the darkness of the night. 

You shook your head in disbelief, you had told him that you weren’t going to attend this week due to the fact that it was supposed to be your brother’s tenth birthday today and you had every intention to celebrate for him. “Go to the back! I’ll meet you there.” You told him, motioning to the garden at the back of your childhood home. 

You quickly threw on a pair of pajama pants and headed down, grabbing a few snacks from the kitchen pantry before heading out to the backyard where you saw him sitting down by the tree and waved for you to come on over to him. 

You plopped down next to him and his arms were instantly around you, “How old is your brother by tomorrow?” He asked, squeezing you to him gently as he placed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. His familiar scent greets your senses, causing you to completely ease up in his touch. 

“Xav’s supposed to be ten tomorrow. I promised him I would take him to the beach for this tenth birthday so I have every intention of doing so even without him here.” You answered, the familiar feeling of sadness forming in your chest at the idea of spending another birthday without him; it was too painful for you. 

Comfortable silence then wrapped the both of you before he spoke up again, “I promise I’m getting your brother back. I don’t know how we can do that, but I promise you I will.” Determination was dripping through every word, making you look up at him as hopefulness filled your eyes. Your gaze met before you leaned in to connect your lips with his for a quick kiss. 

Realizing your actions, you looked at him in shock as a hand hovered over your lips. “Steve I’m so sorry” but you were quickly silenced when his plush tiers met yours for another kiss, this time longer and filled with more emotions. The both of you kissed until you had to break away due to the lack of oxygen, resting your forehead against his. 

“Don’t be sorry, Y/N.” 

You chuckled softly at the memory, a sad smile on your lips as you decided to speak up, “Did you ever regret meeting me, Steve?” You questioned, staring off into the distance as the feeling of defeat consumed you. There was a shift in his position as his hand cupped your cheek, making you look at him. 

His brows were furrowed as he shook his head, “No, I could never regret meeting you. The only regret I have is with myself. For making you love me when I couldn’t even love you back.”

You leaned into his touch as tears flowed down from your eyes, your sobs following as your heart broke more. There was no denying you had fallen for him, that you had fallen quite hard for him but you couldn’t keep him to yourself; not when he’s still in love with the woman he met decades ago. “Thank you for giving me a chance to love you.” You whispered, thankful for the time he spent with you; for making you feel like he was yours for even just a fleeting moment. 

No words left his mouth as he leaned in to give you another kiss. Unlike the many you’ve shared, this one was chaste and had guilt written all over it. “I have to go.” He then said, hugging you for the last time as he stood up. 

Your hand stopped him from going any further, he looked back down at you with a curious gaze. With the last strong thread that you had, you mustered up a big smile at him. "I hope you still remember me; us. Even if it's just in your wildest dreams." before letting him go. 

“I’ll always remember you, Y/N.” 

---

TAGLIST: will be fixed soon!

[i-write-newsies]

A/N:

(Y/N) - Your Name

(L/N) - Last Name

(N/N) - Nickname

(H/C) - Hair Color

(D/N) - DEEZ NUTS!! /j Deadname

(E/C) - Eye Color

(H/L) - Hair Length

(Y/A) - Your Age

Ships Included:

- Jack x Davey

- Spot x Race

- Finch x Smalls (Platonic)

- Albert x Elmer

-Katherine x Sarah

- Spot x Reader (Brotherly Platonic)

- Race x Reader (Brotherly Platonic)

Summary:

You have always dreamed of living in the world of your favorite characters, to escape from whatever rotten life you have and make friends with the people you love. One day, fate decides to give you a chance. But when you're not prepared to be rushed into that universe, it becomes a roller coaster of balancing good and bad emotions and events.

Good luck, Reader!

!!TW!!

~ SELF HARM

~ TRANSPHOBIA

~ MAJOR INJURY

~ ABUSE

~ ARGUING

(Y/N) POV:

I'm (Y/N) (L/N). I'm (Y/A) with (E/C) eyes and (H/L) (H/C) hair. At least it used to be (H/L). I cut it all off today. I can tell my mom just found out because of the loud cursing and stomping. "GODDAMMIT, (D/N)!!" she yells. What scares me the most about this situation is the fact that I'm kinda used to this. I hear her coming up the stairs to my room and rush to the door and lock it. As expected, the door handle starts rattling violently, "(D/N) YOU LET ME IN RIGHT NOW, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SH!T!" She starts banging on the door, stressing the lock.

I sigh. Today was one of the worse days. I slip on my noise-canceling headphones and press play on my musicals playlist, consisting of:

- Waving Through A Window

- On My Own

- A Little Fall Of Rain

- Angel of Music

and of course...

The entire Newsies soundtrack.

By the time I get to 'Seize the Day', it's twilight outside. I lift one of my headphones to check if my mom is gone. I hear nothing. I look out the window and don't see her car. Perfect.

Unplugging my headphones and letting the music play, I walk over to my dresser, open it up, and reach deep in the back. Aha!

I pull out some bandages (A/N: DO NOT ACTUALLY BIND LIKE THIS OK BYE). I take off my shirt and try not to look in my mirror, fearing what sort of feminine body I may see. I start wrapping my chest to the point that it gets a little hard to breathe. This kinda hurts, but my dysphoria is stronger than my need for comfort and, let's be honest, safety.

Slipping my shirt back on, I look into the mirror and smile, satisfied with my flat chest and somewhat choppy short, (H/C) hair. I jump onto my bed and plug my headphones back into my phone which is now playing Santa Fe. Santa Fe honestly makes me think. I'm only, what, (Y/A)? And I still go through all this BS. I need out. Somewhere my mom can't tell me I'm female. Somewhere like...Newsies. I mean, Race is canonically trans, right? Not to mention all of them are definitely fruity. They'd accept me. The fresh, bandaged cuts on my arms are the only things keeping me in reality right now

As the song ends, I realize that I've been crying. God, why am I stuck in this wretched place? The question as well as thoughts of Newsies reverberates in my skull, a sort of white noise until I fall into a much-needed sleep.

"Aye, kid! Watcha doin sleepin on the street?"

"Especially in a place this..."

Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω

Jack POV:

I yawn, rubbing sleep from my eyes as the circulation bell drones on an' on. I let my eyes adjust to the view of the sunrise from my penthouse in the sky.

As I try to get up to get ready, a pair of arms drag me back down. "Jackieeee" a half-awake Davey groans, "come back down, it's freezing up here." "Dave, we gotta get to work. The boys can always count on me being at the gates early, so if you don't get up, I'm leaving you behind." This seems to wake him up a little more, "Alright, alright fine." he shivers as he gets up. I throw him his top shirt and vest and he desperately claws them on to gain warmth. Carefully, we climb down the ladder.

"What'd I tell ya, Dave? Even in the middle of summer, the night's always freezing." Davey rolls his eyes and does a little shiver "I know, Jackie, now c'mere and warm me up" I grin and move in closer, holding his hand, as we start walking to the gates. "Still not warm enough!" Davey said in a singsong-ish voice. I sigh and feign annoyance, leaning in to give a short but sweet peck on the lips. I think he's satisfied now. We're not usually this lovey-dovey, but I think we're both touch starved and subtly begging for a hug.

Davey, being the amazing boyfriend he is, stops by Jacobis to get us some breakfast. "Dave, you really don't hafta-" "I insist, Jack. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he says in an almost snobbish voice. I give him a small smile. That's my smartass Dave.

As we get to the gates, I notice a small figure leaned up against it. By now, the sun has come up some more over Manhattan 'n Dave 'n I don't have to walk as close to warm ourselves up. The figure seems to be sleeping, a newsies cap over their eyes. I think it's a kid. Maybe a new newsie looking for work?

I crouch down in front of him lift his hat, and start tapping his shoulder, "Aye, kid! Watcha doin sleepin on the street?" "Especially in a place this..." Davey notes. The kid seems to wake with a start. He rubs his eyes, and I chuckle a little "Whatsa matter? Ya look like youse seen a ghost." He doesn't seem to find this funny and repeatedly switches from looking at me then Davey with some confusion and shock in his eyes.

"I um-" he stutters over his words, "Aye, aye, kid, calm down, you ain't in trouble or nuttin." He takes a few deep breaths. "Okay... I'm (Y/N). I'm just freaking out because This isn't where I fell asleep, and- and I just- feel like I know you..." "Well, (Y/N) it sounds like you're one of da Newsies now," I say with a grin, "Now, we gots ta give you a nickname, we rarely eva call someone by their real name, 'cept Dave 'n Albert of course," The kid stays silent, clearly still shocked from waking up in a foreign place. "I feel like I know you.." he says, barely discernible. "Maybe ya do, maybe ya don't, Dave here's the only one good with faces." The kid looks up at Davey, who seems deep in thought, "(N/N)" he exclaims, "Ah, sorry, what I meant was your nickname should be (N/N)!" "I like it! But why (N/N) exactly?" I question, "Well, *insert reason why here*" "Well ain't you a clever boy, Dave!" I say, ruffling his hair. Davey shies away, "Jack! Now I have to fix my hair!" he complains, "Sorry, sorry." Davey then leaves to fix his hair in front of a shop window nearby, leaving me and (N/N) alone.

(N/N) seems to want to say something, but as soon as he opens his mouth, he shuts it just as quickly. I try to fill the awkward silence, "So, what's wit' da bandages, kiddo?" He freezes, "Nothing, just a ploy to get people to buy more papes..." he trails off. I have a feelin' he's not tellin' the truth, but I go along with it anyway, "Ha! What an idea, I wonder how I neva thought a' that before." he smiles, seeming satisfied with the praise. Davey returns from the shop window, "Alright! Ready to start the day?" (N/N) nods, and so do I.

Newsies start gathering, some glancing at (N/N) and some anxiously peering through the gates. I look at the headline for today: New Newsie Price! "Aye, Dave, you seein' this shit?" "Language- and yeah... what in the world was runnin' through Pulitzer's head when he thought of this??" I look at (N/N), whose mouth is a thin, pale line but whose (E/C) eyes are glinting with determination. "Heh, kid, what's that look for?" He looks at me, a little startled, but quickly regains that same tough expression, "I have a feeling that this ain't some silly little joke. And I'm worried 'bout the kids that may get hurt in the crossfire." I laugh, "Youse just bein dramatic! Surely, they wouldn't be as dumb as to underpay their own employees." I walk over to Weasel and slap down a penny "100 papes please!" "That's gonna be dime, Kelly."

My heart almost stops, and it takes all my strength not to break down in front of the boys. I fake a laugh, "Surely you're joking." "100 papes costs a dime, take a look at the headline." I hit the money box out of anger, "Then we'll just take our business to Brooklyn." Someone pipes up, "The same thing's happenin' there." "Then we'll go to Rushing!" Specs jogs over, seemingly out of breath, "I'll save ya the walk; it's the same everywhere."

Fuck.

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Y/N POV:

A sharp pain in my chest temporarily distracts me from the situation at hand. Ah. I almost forgot. I still have to bind. This sucks. I feel a pair of eyes on me and turn just in time to see Racetrack Higgins avert his eyes. I give him a confused look and turn back to Jack singing "The World Will Know" I forget all about his weird staring and get back into the determined beat from before.

Soon, the newsies and I make our way to Jacobis for some...water I guess? I do happen to have some extra money in my pocket so I think I can treat all the boys to some seltzer. I sit down on a hard wooden chair in a slouch. The room is buzzing with excited talk of the strike. I give a small, sad smile. These boys have no idea what they're getting themselves into. Crutchie sits next to me serving a wide smile just as Jacobi enters with a tray full of waters, "And here's one for you, and for you, and for you- who's the big spender that ordered everyone seltzer?" shyly, I raise my hand, "That's me, sir." "You know these cost a quarter each, right?" I pull out a handful of quarters with a cheeky smile "and I got more where that came from." The boys go wild, "Where did ya get all that money, kid??" Davey, being the concerned mom, asks "Please tell me you didn't steal that." I shake my head, "I used to live comfortably, but my mom kicked me out for...reasons." my grin falters for a second, but no one seems to notice.

"Well!" Jack stands on a table, "Here's to the strike! And, of course, (N/N)" He gestures towards me with a wink as everyone cheers. As Katherine enters, I start to zone out and stare at a speck of dust on the ground. After all, I know the plot all too well. I perk up, though, as soon as Jack asks who's goin' to Brooklyn. My hand shoots up, "I nominate me and Race!" I exclaim. I look over at Race, who's staring at me, blushing and jaw dropped a little. I grin at him and look back at Jack, who's a little shocked. "A-alright! Me and Dave'll take the Bronx, I guess."

*Timeskip to after the restaurant scene*

I walk down the Manhatten alleys blindly, no clue where I'm going, when I hear someone come up behind me. "Hey, (N/N)! It's me, Race." I smile weakly, "Oh, hey." "I always sell my papes at Sheepshead in Brooklyn, so I know where to go."

It's almost completely silent except for the clicking of our shoes on the paved roads. "So... how'd ya get here as a Newsie, (N/N)?" "Well, Jack 'n Davey found me sleepin' on the street just this mornin'" He laughs, "Wow! So you got used to the Newsie life real quick!" "Yeah, I did.." I let out a small chuckle as well. Race pulls out a cigar and clamps it between his lips and goes to light it but hesitates. "Uh- Wanna cigar?" "Wow, Racetrack Higgins giving me one of his own cigars? I'm flattered!" I joke, "But, yeah, I need smoke." He digs into his pocket and hands me another cigar, "You eva' smoked before?" he stares at me as I put the cigar in between my lips. I grin sheepishly, "No." "Okay, maybe we should stop for a second. Coughing while walking ain't the most fun thing in the woild."

We lean up against a wall as Race lights first his, then my cigar. I inhale and immediately spiral into a coughing fit. Race smacks my back, "You good, (N/N)? I ain't neva' seen a fella cough that hard on the first puff." I roll my tear-filled eyes and continue coughing.

Once my coughing fit subsides, I feel a wave of relaxation. "God I should do this more often." I groan, Race grins, "Yeah, once you get past the whole blowin'-your-brains-out part of smokin', it's real nice. Anyway, shall we continue?" he gestures to the streets ahead. I nod my head and take another puff, "Yeah, it's gettin' kinda late and we do NOT wanna wake up the Spot Conlon." Race nods in agreement and we hurry along. Even though I know Spot is kind of a softie, that doesn't stop me from being intimidated by his prowess.

We reach the Brooklyn lodging just as Race's cigar burned out. Race takes a deep breath and gives three solid knocks on the door. A kid younger than me answers the door, "State ya business" "I'm here to let Conlon know about some very important news." The kid squints his eyes but responds "I'll ask him if he's willing to meet with anyone right now. Who should I tell him is askin'?" "Race. Higgins." He says somewhat awkwardly.

The kid closes the door. Race and I stand quietly waiting for the OK to see Spot. Suddenly the door swings open to reveal Spot. "Ra-" he notices me and coughs, "I mean- Higgins, would you like to step in to discuss the important news?" I almost laugh at the way he went from totally in love to distinguished gentleman. I shoo them away, holding in laughter, "don't worry, I'll wait out here and give you lovebirds some space." (A/N: or should I say sprace) I see them both go tomato red.

I sigh as they head inside. I take a drag from the cigar and start thinking. How did I end up in the newsies universe and act this calm about it? This feels so surreal. But I want to stay here forever. Far away from my sh!tty mom and all my responsibilities.

Lost in my own head, I barely notice as Racetrack storms out of the lodging, clearly pissed. "C'mon (N/N), we're leaving." he grabs my hand and angrily powerwalks to the next street over. Once we're there, he lets go of my hand and sighs harshly, walking slow. "I assume it didn't go well?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "Not. Well." "Wanna talk about it?" he shakes his head and starts walking "No, thanks. I think we's better get to bed before Jack gets worried." he stops. "Do you have a place to sleep?" I look down, "Not really..." "Well!" he grabs my hand again with a big grin, "Looks like youse bunkin' wit' me." I start to protest, but realize it'd get me nowhere with this stubborn SOB, so I let myself get dragged along. Oh, well. I might as well get rest for the strike tomorrow, goodness knows I need it.

As I settle down into the rough sheets, the gentle snoring rocks me to sleep with thoughts of the strike. One thought flashes through my mind before I fall asleep; God help us all.

I wake up to someone poking my face. My eyes flutter open and I almost fall off the bunk at the sight of Race's face right in front of mine. "JESUS CHRIST, RACE, YOU SCARED THE SH!T OUTTA ME!" He backs off, putting his hands up in surrender, "Sorry, sorry, it's just that Jack said you had to be up and out in 10 minutes so we can have an organized strike or whateva'" Race rolls his eyes, "I'm startin' ta think that Davey's rubbin' off on 'im a lil' too much."

I groan, tempted to slide back under the covers, but get up anyway. I slept with my clothes on so I don't have to do anything about that. As I look into an old, rusted mirror and comb my fingers through my now tangled hair, I feel another sharp pain in my chest, accompanied by a dull throbbing. I really should have taken off the bandages while I slept, but now it's too late. I take one last look in the mirror and, ignoring my eyebags, quickly head out the door to join the others. As I get to the gate, everyone's waiting with anticipation, faces grim but hopeful.

Everything happens in a blur. One moment we're striking, and the next we're beaten into a pulp. I manage to soak a Delancey in the eye when suddenly a familiar sharp pain fills my chest and wince, faltering. Morris takes this as an opportunity to knee me in the stomach, forcing me to the ground, where their take turns kicking my chest and body with those damn steel-toed boots of theirs until my clothes are torn and the cuts on my arms reopen. Suddenly, there's a small crack as my body swells up with pain and the taste of metal enters my mouth. I let out a blood-curdling scream as the pain registers in my brain. In my blurred vision, I see the Delancey's walk away, ready to torture their next victim; Crutchie.

I try to get up and reach out, try to scream at them not to hurt him, but all I can do is weakly move my hand in their direction and spit out blood. Suddenly, a small but rough hand reaches out and drags me into an alley. "Dammit, (N/N) what were you thinking?! Fighting in a gawddamn binder, and a makeshift one, no less!" "R-..Race..?" "Not now, (N/N) I have ta get youse to safety foist." I watch as he chews on his nails in thought, "Dammit! The only way back to tha lodge is through the Delancey's again!" He sighs. "Brooklyn it is..." He gingerly picks me up and carries me as fast as possible to Spot's turf.

Setting my feet on the ground and propping me up against him, he bangs on the door. "Spot!" Please! This is serious, I need your help!" I can hear the tears in his voice. Spot flings open the door, obviously very concerned. He's confused for a second, then looks at me and his eyes go wide. "GET THE MED KIT AND A COT OPEN, WESE GOT SOMETHING HORRIBLE THAT'S HAPPENED" he yells behind him. Race, now more calmed down, takes me in his arms again, but seems to refuse to look at Spot, who looks away as well, but more in shame.

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Race POV:

I watch as some of the Brooklyn newsies take (N/N) and lay him on a cot, anger surging through my veins. I take a deep breath "I'll take care of him. You guys don't have to worry about it." As they leave the room, I look down at (N/N) and can't help but feel guilty. Like this is my fault. I only got away with a black eye, but he got all this?

I regain my composure and start by taking (N/N) shirt off. I can already see the bruises starting to form and cringe. I take off his binding bandages and see his chest expand immediately. Poor kid. He must have been hurting in more way that just one. I take the gauze from the wooden box and gently wrap his torso with it. Maneuvering around his arms, I notice something. The bandages on him arms. When he was wearing them before, Jack said it was a marketing ploy, but now I see red bleeding through the white gauze.

I unwrap (N/N)'s arms and gasp. Hundreds of tiny, but deep cuts litter his forearms and wrists. F#ck. He was hurting so much more than I could have ever known. I wrap them with fresh gauze and treat the rest of his wounds, stepping back to admire my handiwork. That's when I start to cry. Full-on tears falling, face in hands crocodile tears. I turn my head with a start to see Spot, standing over me with a hand on my shoulder, looking apologetic "I'm so sorry..." Suddenly this sadness turns to rage. I grab him by the shirt collar and drag him outside to an empty alleyway. "SORRY?? SORRY, MY 4SS! (N/N) AND SO MANY OTHER 'HATTEN NEWSIES ALMOST DIED OUT THERE BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T WANT TO JOIN UNTIL YOU KNEW WE WOULDN'T "CAVE" WELL, WE DIDN'T CAVE, AND LOOK WHAT F#CKING HAPPENED! AND DONT YOU SAY SORRY TO ME AND EXPECT ME TO FORGIVE YOU JUST BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, THAT'S FOR CROW TO DECIDE." Spot seemed silent at first, but now I could see his anger building up; "WADDAYA THINK WOULD O' HAPPENED TO MY BOYS, HUH?? I WANTED TO WAIT TO SEE IF WE WOULD BE THE ONLY ONES FIGHTIN IN THIS BATTLE AGAINST PULITZER."

I open my mouth then close it. He has a fair point, but doesn't he trust me and the udda newsies not to bail in their hour of need? I sigh, pinching my nose. "I'm sorry Spot, I just-... I just wish you trusted me a bit more..." I look up at him to see tears in his eyes. "OH, SPOT HONEY, ITS OKAY, I'M NOT MAD, DON'T CRY, DON'T CRY" I shush him, pulling his head into my chest, which isn't tough considering his height.

As he lets go, the adrenaline rush from today dies down. God, I'm so tired. My knees nearly buckle and Spot notices, "Aye, aye! Tony, you doin' okay?" I nod at him, but the bags under my eyes are making them droop, "Race, honey, you need to get some sleep, okay?" I shake my head but soon fall into Spot's arms as my legs give way. "Fine..." I mumble. I can feel him grinning, "Good, we gots an extra bed for youse to sleep in." I sigh, grateful. I can feel Spot picking me up, the rhythm of his boots tapping along the ground, a pause and shift as he opens the lodging door and kicks it closed behind him as I fall asleep.

I wake up in a cold sweat. (N/N). I need to see (N/N). I need to check if he's okay. I climb out of the bed Spot laid me in and let my eyes adjust to the dark before maneuvering around all the other sleeping kids. I make my way as quietly as possible to where (N/N) is resting. I crouch down and take his hand in mine. How could I let this happen? And how did I not notice his suffering? I press the back of his hand to my forehead, closing my eyes. My body is so tired right now, but my mind is too tortured with guilt to let me sleep.

By the time my thoughts finally leave me alone, the sun is rising in the sky. I'm finally drifting when- "Race?" I turn my head to the voice, "Oh, jesus, you look horrible!" Spot exclaims, "did you even get any sleep last night?" I shrug, to be fair, I lost count of the hours. Spot sighs, "Race...go sleep. At least for a few more hours. I can watch (N/N) if that makes you happy," I nod, rubbing my eyes. I stumble back to my bed amongst all the Brooklyn newsies and fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

My mind dreams of talkin' cigars and bloody bandages. I see Crow propped up against the wall, smokin' a cigar. "(N/N)! (N/N)! Oh my god, I'm so happy that you're okay!" (N/N) doesn't answer, I slowly starts walking towards him, "(N/N)...?" he starts laughing. Softly at first then roaring, and the laughing turns into a heavy coughing fit. As (N/N) coughs, red smoke pours out of his lungs and clouds my vision. I swipe at the air, trying to brush away the fog, "(N/N)?? (N/N), where did you go?!" suddenly, the smoke clears and I see (N/N) bruised, damaged, bleeding body at my feet, I gasp and step back. (N/N) slowly turns to face me, and in a painful, teary, almost sickly whisper asks, "Why did you let this happen?" Tears start spilling down my face, "I- I didn't me-" "You did this to me Race. Race. Race. Race! Race! RACE! RACE!--

Spot POV:

--RACE WAKE UP!" He wakes up with a gasp. He looks around wildly, tears dripping from his chin. I've never seen him like this. He must care for him like a brudda. To be honest, I'm worried as well, not only about (N/N) but now that we know 'Hatten isn't gonna back down and we join the fight, what's gonna happen to the newsies in general? Kids could get hoit. Bad.

"Spot?" Race starts sobbing, clinging to my shirt fabric, "Please...tell me it'll be okay..." I can't. Race, I don't know if it will. I almost start sobbing on the Spot ( A/N: heh...), but I hold my composure and smile at him, "It'll be okay, Tony...we're all gonna be fine" He seems to believe this, at least a little bit. "Now, don't you gotta meet up wit' da udda newsies?" He retracts his head from my chest, eyes wide. In a nasal voice, he goes "AW SHOOT, I 'MOST FORGOT" I watch him with a small smile as he rushes to get dressed like the goof he is. God, I love 'im.

Race POV:

Silence. I got there too early. Fuck. I can't just be alone with my thoughts, but at least I have some extra money to... I don't know? I walk up to the bar, where the owner of Jacobi's is cleaning out glasses. I sigh and sit down, "Got anything to help forget? At least for a little while...?"

"Ain't you a little too young for that, kid?" I give him a look and push my money over the counter to him. He quietly collects it, "So what can I get ya?" I'm silent for a bit "Fireball." I say with some demand in my voice. He disappears behind the counter and comes back with some shot glasses and a Fireball bottle, pouring it out into the glasses as I watch. I notice as he sighs, "Feel betta, kid." Can't promise that.

I pick up a shot glass, watching as the orange liquid spins around in it. I take in a breath of spicy cinnamon before letting the liquid slip down my throat, leaving a trail of a burning sensation. Soon, one turns into another, and another, and another and before I could comprehend it, the room starts to spin and blur. Eventually, the room fills with newsies, mumblin' 'bout how crappy the strike went. I do my very best to fit in and not act drunk, but the time zooms by and I find myself singin' 'bout bein' the king o' new york. At some point in the blurry memory, Katherine suggests getting drunk and I throw my hands up and cheer. More free Fireball! But then she clarifies that it was a metaphor, to which I am very disappointed.

The rest whizzes past me and soon I'm stumblin' my way to Brooklyn. I knock heavily on the lodging door, then lean on it. Unexpectedly, the door opens and I'm left to fall flat on my face at the feet of my boyfriend, Spot Conlon. "Race! Darlin', you okay? Youse fell flat on ya face!" He extends a hand that I receive and pulls me up. I giggle, "Ahhhh, my Spotty! Always carin' 'bout uddas. Pshht! Yeah, I'm fiiiine." I flop my hand down to wave off his concern. He wrinkles his nose, "You reek of cinnamon....and alcohol." He widens his eyes and I let out anudda giggle, "Race! Tell me you didn't jus' get drunk!" he whines, I grin, "Okey, 'you didn't jus' get drunk'" I imitate him in a deep voice and he sighs, "Jesus Christ, Racer.." he grabs my hand pulls me inside, eventually laying me on a bed, face red with a giggling fit. "Goodnight, my liege," I giggle some more, "and you my Prince," he gives a small smile before covering me with a blanket. I fall asleep before it's up over my shoulders.

Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω

I wake up with my head feeling like it's going to explode.

Fuck Life.

I groan and sit up. "Mornin' Sleepin' Beauty" Spot smirks and hands me a cup of water, "Shut the fuck up" I whine and grab the glass, "Ooh feelin' feisty today, huh?" I shoot him a look that could rot a squash with one gaze. He holds up his hands in defense, "Alright, alright, my bad," He shrugs. I sigh and take a sip of water, which turns into me chugging the whole thing. "You betta get ova this hangover fast, hon" I groan, not ready to do anything at all today, "We gots the meetin' wit' Jack."

End my life.

"No, I don't think I will," "fuuuuck did I say that out loud?" I let out a small wail, and Spot chuckles a little, though you can tell there's somethin' on his mind still, "Yeah, ya did sweetheart." I grumble something incomprehensible and look down, red. He smiles, "Get dressed and drink as much water as possible, okay? We can't have you hungover for the big meeting, right?" I nod...which causes my head to hurt. Ow.

I sigh and decide to take my sweet time getting dressed. This sucks. "Spotty!" I call, then cringe after a new wave of pain hits, he pokes his head through the door "Yeah?". "I don't have the energy to deal wit' all dese gawddamn bandages. Help me?" He blushes a bit but agrees to help me bind. All I focus on is not hurting my head again. Spot ties the bandages and stands back to admire his handiwork but quickly notices my cringin'. "Do you want somethin' cold?" he asks gently, I nod as gingerly as possible.

*Timeskip to after the newsies meet n greet bcuz I'm power-finishing this at 12am and my mental health is steadily declining*

My hand shakes as I bring a fresh, unlit cigar to my lips.

Jack. That sellout, that traitor.

A sharp pain knocks me out of my angry thoughts. Ah. I burned myself.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, "Racer.." says a gentle voice, "You okay? that's your 3rd cigar in the past 2 hours or so." I look up to see Finch leaning over me as I sit on the ground, a concerned look on his face, "You're gonna run out all too soon" I give a bitter laugh, "Yeah, I guess I will." Finch can see that there's not much he can do to help me. He gives a weak smile and turns to walk away.

I see Davey run off somewhere. I wonder where they're going? I sigh and turn my head back down to the ground. Who cares? Without a leader, the strike'll just fall apart and Pulitzer'll win. Who was I kidding when I bragged abt being da "King o' New York"? I'm just some nobody kid without a nickel to my name. The bigger guys always win, so what's with me tryin'?

Jack POV:

I can't let any more kids get in this much danger. I visited (N/N) today. I found out about all his... injuries, as well as whatever he was born as. He's been through so much before all this, he doesn't deserve it.

It's my fault for being so ignorant. For not noticing anything was goin' on. My fault for inciting this stupid strike. For getting all these kids hoit. and Crutchie...poor Crutchie, locked up in that godawful place. I know he ain't helpless, 'e's a cheeky little bastard, I'll give him that, but the Refuge breaks down even the biggest of smiles and smothers the brightest of people. I will never forget that hell I went through. I went in a cheeky fightin' kid with a deep, strong flame, and came out with the embers barely glowing. It took years just to spark it up again. I'm terrified as to what'll happen to him.

I lean over the railing of my penthouse, not even noticing as it shakes and squeaks, making way for a young boy a little younger den me. "-Jack! JACK!" "Jesus Christ, yeah??? Oh, it's you, Dave..." I look away shamefully, he's probably here to chew me out and tell me we're done and gone. "What the hell was that?" I wince, I knew it. "Waddya mean 'what the hell was that?'?" "You know what I mean, JACK KELLY." I'm fucked. "YOU BETRAYED US FOR MONEY?!" "I WOULDN'T HAVE FELT PRESSURED TO IF I WADN'T DEALIN' WIT' A FLAKER!" Davey gives a bitter laugh and balls up the front of my shirt in his fist, tugging me towards him. "Ohoho! And if I wasn't your 'best friend' you'd be lookin' at me through one swollen eye!" "Oh, yeah? Well, don't let that stop ya, huh? Gimme your best shot!" something soft roughly pressing against my lips. The only thought at the moment is; 'Well, this is new... and passionate, 'specially from Dave' there's a heavy, awkward silence.

I back away from him, knocking over my drawings in the process. One specific drawing rolls out seemingly by fate. It taps on Davey's shoe and he looks down. His eyes widen a little as he reaches down to get it. "Is this.. the Refuge?" he puts a hand over his mouth, "weren't you stuck here once? Rats, cockroaches everywhere, 6 kids to a bunk? Holy fuc- I mean fudge." If the moment weren't this tense, I might've laughed. "Jack..." I feel a hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to tell me if you're not ready." I shake my head and he drops his arm understandingly. "Either way, we could use this. Heck..." Davey seems deep in thought before his face lights up, "We could make our own newspaper!" I look at him in disbelief, he notices, and speaks again "think about it, Jackie! Kath's a real talented writer! This art could change the perspective of hundreds! We could write to tell all the workin' boys to go on Strike tomorra'! And we could expose Snyder in the process!" Hey, that's not too bad..."But, Dave, how're we gonna print it?" His face falls, "I didn't think about it...we're banned from every printin' press in New York.."

Oh no. Ohhh no. "No. Noooo." I whine, Davey chuckles, amused "what?" "I know a printin' press that no one would ever think of!" Davey grins, "Then what are we waitin' for?" He puts my drawing back into the case, and slings it over his shoulder, getting ready to climb down. Suddenly, a thought strikes me, "Wait-" "Yeah?" "Dave- what are we exactly? Like I know how we act to each other n' everything, but we've never really said out loud what we are..." Davey giggles, "Jackie-" "No! Tell me right now, are we... in love? Boyfriends, I guess?? Or am I just something for your own experimentation?"

He cups my face in his hands, "Jackie..." he kisses my nose, "Of course I love you! And yes! We are in love! Dating! Boyfriends! Whichever way you want to define us!" Soon we're both grinning ear-to-ear and blushing. "Now!" he exclaims, hopping up, clearly on a high from the whole kiss and convo, "Let's get to it!" I laugh and stand up as well, following my over-enthusiastic boyfriend down the ladder. As Davey said; Let's get to it!

(Y/N) POV:

'My head hurts...' I think groggily. I try to open my eyes, but my vision is blurred and wonky. I sit up. Nevermind. Everything hurts. As my vision starts to clear, I see a very tired Spot Conlon sitting in a chair in the corner of whatever room I'm in rubbing sleep from his eyes. He fixates his eyes on me for a second, and I can see the sleepiness and confusion in his eyes turn into shock and joy. "(N/N)! Ohmygod! I'm so glad you'se awake!" I can see him go to wrap me in a bear hug before holdin' himself back after he remembers all my injuries. Wait. My injuries. "Does this mean you know about...?" I vaguely gesture to my arms and Spot nods sadly, "And..." I cringe and gesture to my chest, now only lightly bound with medical tape, but tighter than needed for a typical injury. I smile to myself. That must've been Race. He's like a perfect older brother, not only thinkin' about my physical health, but also my mental well-being.

Spot notices the look on my face and sees me lookin' down at my chest, he chuckles, "Yeah, Race decided on that. He wanted you to feel as comfortable as possible while you heal." I start grinning even harder. Spot spoke up again "Don't forget that even boys born seen as boys don't have perfectly flat chests, so binding as tight as you did wasn't necessary or safe, for that matter." I give him a look, is Spot really trying to be the cis savior right now? He gives me a look right back, "What? I know what I'm talking about." He lifts his shirt up to reveal two scars on his chest. I gasp, "But you're only *insert years/months* younger/older than me! How did you even know that this was an option, as well, how did you do it?" He smirks, pulling his shirt back down, "Thought so. Anyway, I don't really know. I needed them off desperately and randomly thought of it. As for the how, Buttons is AMAZING with scissors and blades. Like, scary amazing." He shivers. I blink. Damn.

He gives a shy grin "Do I really pass that well?" I look at him enviously "Of course! But... how do you look so...masculine?" "Well, I tried my best to copy the behavior of other boys I saw. And the whole working out didn't hurt." I nod, taking a mental note. Behavior, got it. Can't promise sticking to a workout, though. Spot scoots closer, taking my hand in his, "But the most important thing to understand is- behavior, body type, and a powerful reputation doesn't define being a true boy. What does is what's in here-" he taps my head, "-and here." he points to my heart. Spot looks me in my eyes, "You could wear dresses, skirts, use a 'girly' name, hell, even go by she! and you'd still be a boy in my eyes." I feel my eyes water, and Spot opens his arms to me with a sincere look. I fall into his arms and cry tears of joy. Spot and Race are the older brothers I never had, helping me at every fork in the road of my transition.

(A/N: I noticed that a big issue in trans fanfics was that the cis person was always the one to condescendingly teaching the helpless trans kid how to bind properly. I decided to make both of your mentors trans, had them both know what they're talking about, and made sure that you weren't completely useless or clueless, only that you needed guidance seeing as (Y/N) is a trans kid with no former knowledge about his transition. As well, I kinda wanted this fic to be of help to any newcomer trans men. Anyway, on to the last of the story!)

"So how are your ribs feeling?" Spot asks after we both calm down, "A little sore, but pretty much moveable. Is it really this painful to bind? I mean, the past few weeks I had the binding stuff on was my first time." "It shouldn't, I mean, lookit Race. He seems energetic and flexible even when he's binding." I think he sees my insecure face because he speaks again, "What I mean to say is- if you have more experience binding, you'll know how to mix mental and physical comfort. Either way, what fucked up your ribs wasn't the binding, it was the Delancey's. Not saying the way you were binding wasn't bad and wouldn't have caused lasting damage, of course."

I see Spot have a flicker of thought behind his eyes, he pulls out an obviously stolen silver pocket watch with the initials H.A. engraved on it to check the time. "Almost time..." he mutters. I give him a suspicious look, "Almost time for what...?" he looks sheepishly at the ground, "Nnnnnothing." I let out a noise halfway between a snort and a scoff, "Uh huh." "Fine." he sighs, "All the newsies and workin' boys is comin' together today. We'se hopin' ta finish up this strike Once And For All."

"Let me guess, I shouldn't go because I'm still healing." He nods, "Spot!! I need to do my part in this strike! I can't miss the most important day of my life." he gives me a weird look, "You don't even know what the outcome'll be, plus I promised Race that you wouldn't get hurt." "Please, I've been bedridden for WEEKS. And I won't get hurt" I protest stubbornly, he sighs exasperatedly "FINE, but I'm gettin' you right outta there at the foist sign o' danger, okay?" "Okay!" I say, content with the compromise. "We should prolly get you up and used to legs again before the strike--" my stomach rumbles harder than Les when he sees the chocolate croissants in the Pastry Shop window, and that's seriously saying somethin', "--and something to eat, too."

Spot holds my hands as I get out of bed and basically learn to walk again with wobbly legs. You could just paint my back with spots and call me a baby deer. Once I get my legs to work with me, Spot leads me to a tin tub. I give him a 'seriously?' look, "What am I doin', goin' ta church?" he laughs sarcastically, "Ha, ha. (N/N), you haven't cleaned yourself since the last time you were conscious. I also need to refresh your bandages since those haven't been touched since Race changed them in the foist place." "Fiiiine" I growl.

Spot unwraps my arm and chest bandages, but when it comes to me taking off the rest of my clothes, he looks away (not even for my privacy, but just because he is highly repulsed to the idea of naked bodies) I add enough soap suds on top of the water to cover my body so he's comfortable.

He grabs some soap and lathers up my hair with it, soon rinsing it. He also lathers and rinses my face, removing the built-up dirt, grease, and sweat, which accumulated surprisingly quickly for only spending a month, or was it two, here. Spot brings out a small piece of scrap fabric and a bottle of some liquid, then gently grabs my arms. "This might burn a little," he said empathetically. He dampened the cloth with what I am assuming is disinfectant and started pressing it against my healing cuts. I tried to hold in my pain but let out a small hiss when the cloth reached the deeper cuts on the backs of my arms. Spot stopped temporarily, letting my arms adjust to the sting a little, before continuing. Once he's finished, he hands me the soap and leaves the room to let me bathe myself in peace and picks up my dirty clothes and old bandages. "Holler if you need anything!" he yells on his way out.

I create a lather in my hands and stand up so I can actually wash my body. The air is chilly compared to the bathwater, so I do my best to be quick as I let my soap hands travel gingerly over my body. I look down, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel ashamed. Spot words echo in my mind as I smile softly; 'You could wear dresses, skirts, use a 'girly' name, hell, even go by she! and you'd still be a boy in my eyes.' I guess, for now, I'm confident in my masculinity.

I sit back down, enjoying the warmth, and rinse myself off. I step out of the bath and look at the grey-ish brown-ish water. Ew, was I really that dirty? As the cold air envelops me once more, I realize I don't have a towel. Or clothes. "Spot!" I call out, "Yeah?" I hear a faint voice, "I need a towel and some clothes!" I answer. There's quiet, then a series of rustling sounds that slowly get closer. The door opens a crack and I see a tan, muscular hand slide a pile of clothes and a towel in my direction. I smile gratefully, "Thanks, Spotty!" "Aye! Only Race can call me dat..." "Okay, fine."

I dry my hair as much as possible, before continuing to my body. There's not much actual rubbing rather than patting because of my injuries, so when I get my pants on and slip my button-down onto my shoulders, they get a little damp. "Spot?" I call out again, "Do you think you could help me with my bandages?" "'Course!" He casually picks up the chest bandages and binds it pretty much perfectly- Tight enough to make a difference in my chest size, but loose enough to let my ribs heal. Spot then starts re-bandaging my arms, "Can I ask you a question, Spot?" "Sure, (N/N)" he says nonchalantly, "Why is it you are repulsed by fully naked bodies, but you're perfectly casual and fine about helping me bind my chest when I'm half-naked?" he clears his throat as if he was ready to spin a whole story, "Well, Race used to live with me and we started trusting each other a lot more than when we first met. He trusted me enough to teach him the best way to bind, and he trusted me enough to feel comfy without a top on when around the house, so I'm kinda desensitized. But when it comes to people being naked or bein' overly suggestive, I just..don't like it. At all."

'Asexual,' I think, 'Knew it."

"Anyway, you ready to fight off the bulls and get our rights back, (N/N)?" He stands up and offers a hand to help me up, which I receive. I catch my reflection in the dirty bathwater. I can see crystal clear, that I am dapper, strong, and ready to kick some Delancey ass.

But first, Lunch.

Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω

I arrive at the strike on Spot's shoulders, hyped for the happy ending they all worked so hard for. Spot sets me down gently and scans the crowd for someone. It seems he found them because his face lights up. I see Race run over to us. "(N/N)! Oh my god, I'm so fuckin' glad that you're awake! Especially today of all days!" however, his enthusiasm is soon replaced with concern, "But is ya sure yer okay? You must've woken up just today, so are you feeling good? Yer injuries don't hurt too bad, you're not dizzy, hungry, thirsty?" "Calm down, Tony, I gave him a bath, changed his bandages, gave him food n' water, even a pep talk, so you don't need to worry!" Race takes a few deep breaths, "Okay, okay, yeah I'm fine. But that's great!" He engulfs me in a firm, but gentle hug. I look around the crowd and see some familiar faces, Katherine seems to have brought another girl with her, who I'm assuming is Sarah, Davey's sister. I see Albert and Elmer tightly holding each other's hands. I see Finch and Smalls exchanging jokes as a form of distraction. I look back at Race and Spot, who are being so romantic, it's almost gross. Almost.

The adrenaline still hasn't left me so when people start getting as excited as me, it just hypes me up even more. We look up at the window of Pulitzer's office and see Jack and a few others standing there, waving. I wave back vigorously. Not too long after, Jack, Davey, Pulitzer, and The Governer appear on a balcony, Jack at the front. "Newsies of New York City..." cue the pause for dramatic effect, "WE WON!!" The crowd of newsies roars with joy. I watch as Crutchie limps out and beats Snyder's ass as the abuser is dragged away, I don't understand why so many people see him as an angel, it's obvious that he's a cheeky lil' rat bastard.

Suddenly, it's like everything is in slow motion. I look around once more and see Katherine and Sarah kissing, same with Albert and Elmer, Finch and Smalls are hugging each other tightly. I look back up at the balcony and see Davey and Jack gettin' it ON. I look once again to Spot and Race, who just finished kissing. Spot reaches down and hoists me onto his shoulders to cheer. And as I take in this momentous victory one sense at a time, I realize in a moment of pure bliss-

I finally found my true family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Word Count: 8190

(A/N):

This took VERY LONG (approx. one month, I just finished after working from 9 pm to 5 am) I know it was supposed to be a simple one-shot, but since there was no one to help narrow down and shorten the plot for me, I got carried away. I am, however, pleased with the length of it. This may be the longest fic I've ever written. As well, I hope any underlying advice or tips mentioned in the story helped you to understand/realize something.

I would love it if you were to vote, give me some constructive criticism, and/or request something for me to write! Don't forget- I live to write that one fanfic you can never find.

Love y'all!

~ Race

[pastelwitchling]

Somebody to You (Chapter 2/4)

               Isobel was not even a little bit what Alex expected her to be. She flipped her hair as he’d imagined she would, and she had the same sneaky smirk that Michael did that made Alex’s heart ache, but as they strolled the museum halls, passing painting after sculpture after painting after ancient pieces of New Mexican history, her remarks were never teasing but genuine.

               She seemed fascinated less with the actual artwork and more with what Alex thought of it himself. As if she hoped to unravel the mystery of him by knowing his opinion on the mundane.

               “What about this one?” she pointed at a piece. “And that one? What about this?”

               “Isobel,” Max panicked, “don’t touch that!”

               Alex hid a smile. Max and Isobel had the relationship he’d always secretly wished he had with his brothers, despite their differences. Despite their father trying to get in between them and pin them against each other.

               He should’ve been sad, should’ve felt left out as he usually did when Michael started flirting with a girl when they were hanging out; like everything was a reminder of how much he didn’t fit, but . . . Max kept looking for his reactions, and Isobel kept her arm hooked around his and glaring at anyone that gave the only gay kid a sideways glance, and both of them felt the need to fill Alex in on any inside joke they had.

               By the end of the museum visit, Alex realized the entire trip had been listening to more of the Evans’ stories than knowing anything about the pieces they’d seen. It was nice, like being with Liz and Kyle, except one of them kept watching him, raising an inconspicuous brow whenever Alex pulled his phone out and the other kept giving him covert glances and smirking, like she knew something Alex didn’t.

               Alex almost wanted to tell Isobel that he knew about Max’s feelings for him, as surprising and out of character as they were, but couldn’t bring himself to confess to them. They’d feel real, like he was humoring Max instead of the truth, which was pining and loving his brother and forever miserable at the strange distance Michael seemed to be taking with him now.

               Too lost in his thoughts about Michael, Alex didn’t even realize that Max was holding a smoothie in his face until his nose hit the cold cup.

               Alex blinked, startled, and Max smiled softly. “Sorry. Pineapple’s your favorite, right?”

               “Yeah,” Alex said slowly, taking the cup. Isobel was holding something aggressively pink and Max’s own was a deep blue. “How’d you know?”

               An unreadable expression crossed Max’s face for a split second, but it was gone so quickly that Alex was sure he must’ve imagined it.

               “I asked Michael,” he said, gaging Alex’s reaction as he took a sip.

               Alex had no idea how much it felt like he was suffocating until he had something cold and delicious trickle into his chest, like a window was open to his heart and he was able to breathe.

               His eyes fluttered and he sighed, content. Max’s smile widened.

               Alex pulled off the straw and looked down. He was used to being watched, but people’s interests usually quickly faded. Max, on the other hand, seemed to stare more and more.

               He cleared his throat, swirling the yellow smoothie. He glanced at Isobel, to make sure was busy harassing the enamored girl behind the desk about her right to have more granola. “Can I ask you something?”

               “Me?” Max blinked. “Yeah!”

               “Why now?” Alex asked. “I mean, we’ve been around each other since middle school.”

               Max seemed to think about this a moment, then, “I guess I just never looked at you that way. I mean, you’re – you’re my brother’s best friend.”

               “But that hasn’t changed.”

               “No,” he agreed. “But . . . Michael told me you play the piano.”

               “So?”

               “So,” Max swallowed, “I didn’t know that. I never even imagined it. You have this whole emo thing going, but . . . it feels . . . like . . . there’s more to you, I guess?” He shut his eyes. “Which I know is so stupid to say because I don’t know you that well, but I – I want to. I want to . . . know the guy that looks like he could rule the Underworld and still plays beautiful music on his piano and who laughs around his friends and who’s always there for the people that need him. You’re just good, Alex.” He turned red and wouldn’t meet Alex’s eyes when he continued, “You’re – you’re cute and you’re good, and . . . I don’t know, that feels like the best kind of story.”

               Alex stared until beads of ice water fell down the side of the cup and over his fingers. He blinked, and looked down. He should’ve been angry that some stranger would claim to know anything about him, but only Michael had ever been able to tell when Alex was angry about his father, and rebelling in everything from his clothes to his makeup to his words. When he found comfort in the dark aesthetic, but everyone else was uneased by it. Alex was scary and unapproachable. Only Michael had ever known of how weighed down he could be by others’ aversion to him, how much mattered to him. And now, it seemed, so did Max.

               Alex swallowed thickly, running through the million things he would say. How’d you know? Don’t read my mind like that. How did you so easily say what Michael never seems to want to? In the end, however, he settled for, “Oh.”

               *

               Watching Alex and Isobel together was . . . not unpleasant. Far from it, actually, Max found himself laughing when Isobel eagerly tugged Alex along every few blocks to gossip about who-knows-what, and Alex scrunched his nose every so often in a way that made Max’s heart flutter. It was either giggle a little breathlessly at his reactions or press his hand over his chest and question what his racing heart meant.

               “What’s so funny?” Alex asked at one point.

               Max blushed at the idea of confessing, but he figured it would help his case, so he murmured, “You’re kind of adorable,” and took a long gulp of his drink, refusing to look at Alex for his reaction.

               They walked along the neighborhood for a long time. Isobel treated them each to a beer, and if Alex was annoyed by her at all, he definitely didn’t show it. In fact, he looked amused every time she spoke, and it made something in Max’s protective heart melt.

               Stop it, he scolded. This is fake, this is all fake. Remember your mission.

               When the time came for them to part ways, Max insisted on walking Alex to his house.

               “Ooh, Max,” Isobel hooked her arm around Alex’s. “Such a gentleman! Ready to go, Alex?”

               But Alex, Max now realized, had faltered.

               “Erm,” he gently removed his arm from Isobel’s. He looked, for the first time that Max had ever seen him, nervous. “Th-That’s okay. I like walking by myself.”

               Max shook his head. “Alex, it’s really late, I can just –”

               “It’s fine, okay?” Alex said with some edge, walking backwards. “Seriously, I don’t need help.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Thanks though. I had a lot of fun. Really. Goodnight.”

               “Goodnight,” Isobel murmured back, her brows pinched, and when she looked to Max, he saw the same confused concern on her face that he felt. He’d thought everything was going fine. He’d thought offering to take Alex home would be a good thing. Had he said something wrong?

               When he and Isobel made it back into the house, they stopped in the corridor that separated their rooms. Isobel leaned her shoulder against her door a moment, and with a gentle smile, she said, “I like him.”

               Max pursed his lips. The same words were on his tongue, but they felt wrong to say. Isobel didn’t know that all of it was an act, that he had only gone out with Alex to help get rid of his feelings for Michael. The softness of her blue eyes forbid Max from confessing to that truth.

               So all he did was hum, mutter a goodnight, and open his door. When he stepped in, he found Michael on the edge of his bed, leaning his elbows on his knees, his hands interlocked tightly.

               Finding Michael in his room at ungodly hours was no surprise, but Max rarely saw him so distressed, his jaw clenched, his eyes focused ahead as if he barely noticed his brother, his thumb carving into the back of his other hand, his foot tapping restlessly on the hardwood floors.

               “Hey,” Max said warily, closing his door.

               “How was the museum?” Michael said in lieu of a greeting.

               Max understood, closing the door. “Good. Great, actually, you don’t have to worry.” He sat down next to Michael with a sigh. “Isobel came with, he had a lot of fun.”

               Michael dropped his head into his hands, his fingers tugging at his curls. “Great,” he said hoarsely.

               Max stared a long moment, and his shoulders slumped. “Michael, you got to stop this. Just talk to Alex –”

               “Stop it, Max,” he ground out.

               Max shook his head. “What happened? I thought Saturdays were for you and Alex, why’d he call me?”

               “I . . .” he growled and stood, kicking a dresser. Max said nothing as his brother paced the length of his room.

               “It’s okay,” he finally said. “He couldn’t hate you, no matter what you –”

               “You didn’t see his face,” he said. “I said – I can’t believe I . . . but it had to be done. I had to . . . he wouldn’t have called you otherwise.”

               Max swallowed. He didn’t know why, but the idea that Alex wouldn’t have called him if Michael hadn’t pushed him to do it upset him more than it should.

               “R-Right,” he said and cleared his throat. “Look, would you just sit down please?”

               Michael sat down with a  huff, his foot still tapping. Max gripped his knee firmly. “Hey,” he said. “I can tell you what he did.”

               Michael nodded, eyes wide and afraid. “O-Okay. Yeah, okay.”

               So Max told him everything, from the moment Alex had come over, to Isobel inviting herself along, to the museum trip, to the smoothies they had, to the beers. When he told Michael about offering to walk Alex home and Alex’s reaction, Michael didn’t look the least bit surprised. If anything, he looked angry all over again.

               “Asshole,” he grumbled, rubbing his face with one hand.

               “Hey,” Max said heatedly, “I tried to –”

               “Not you,” Michael rolled his eyes. “Alex’s dad. Jesse Manes.” He sighed. “If he gets even a feeling that Alex might be dating a guy, he . . .” he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

               “It does,” Max said, remembering the fear in Alex’s eyes when he had offered to walk him back. “Michael, he was freaked out –”

               “I know,” Michael cut him off firmly. “Just . . . let it go, Max. There’s nothing you can do. Just don’t let his dad see you together. No matter what. Alex will be the one paying for it.”

               Max swallowed, thinking. He had rarely seen Jesse Manes around town, knowing only that everyone admired him for his military service. Max had never had an opinion other than the fact that Jesse had seemed too cold to approach, but he was nothing like Alex.

               With Alex he saw a warm light. With Jesse, there was none.

               Nonetheless, he just nodded until Michael stopped looking worried about it, and brought in another pillow and blanket for his brother to sleep in his room.

               When he laid there in bed, he pulled his phone out, scrolling mindlessly for fifteen minutes before he convinced himself that pulling Alex’s number was a good idea. He didn’t think he wanted to or should call, but . . .

               Get home okay? he texted, and regretted it the second it sent.

               “Shit,” he whispered, his eyes falling shut. Michael was asleep against the wall, snoring away. Max tapped the edge of the phone when he got no response, then shut it off, leaving it on his nightstand and not at all expecting a response. Then –

               Ting!

               Max swallowed and grabbed his phone.

               Safe and sound, Alex’s message read.

               He bit his lower lip, hesitated, then typed out, Good. Sweet dreams.

               Now that was the one he regretted. Sweet dreams? He groaned, turning his face into the pillow and tossing the phone aside.

               He stared at it from where it sat on the carpet, not expecting an answer, or maybe for Alex to make fun of him or tease him for it. Then the screen lit up and he almost fell off the bed.

               You, too, Max.

               It was stupid. It was so, unbelievably stupid, but a smile tugged at Max’s lips and a chuckle escaped before he even realized it had formed. He could almost hear Alex’s voice, soft and amused, saying his name. What if he thought Max was cute? Or kind? Or unique? What if he was just humoring Max’s ridiculousness? It didn’t matter. He hadn’t laughed at him, he hadn’t ignored him. It made Max smile.

               “You really are good,” he murmured into the night. Michael slept on.

               *

               As soon as he woke up, Michael half-groggily reached for his phone, expecting to find texts and pictures that Alex had taken on their Saturday together. Just before he opened his screen to a single text and picture from Isobel, he remembered that he and Alex hadn’t actually spent any time yesterday with each other.

               Michael deflated entirely, his phone in front of his face as he thoughtlessly clicked on the message. He sat up at once. It was a picture of Isobel taking a selfie with a begrudging Alex on her arm, laughing in that cute way he did when his nose was scrunched and his eyes narrowed.

               He swallowed. This was supposed to be him and Alex yesterday. But what really caught his eyes was Max in the corner. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but at Alex, and the look in his eyes . . . the way he smiled . . .

               Michael had never seen that before. He looked at Max, still sleeping soundly, and thought about this plan to bring his best friend and brother together.

               His thumb tapped the edge of his phone. He wasn’t bringing them together. He was just diverting Alex’s affections for a second. And then Max would go after Liz, the person he actually wanted, and all of this would be over.

               Max doesn’t have a crush on Alex, he told his half-asleep mind, trying to calm himself down as he stepped out of bed. He doesn’t.

               Then for no reason at all, Michael typed out a text to Alex, asking him to meet in the park nearby. Max murmured something in his sleep, and Michael snapped out of his thoughts. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. What was he doing? He was so close now. He couldn’t stop this.

               So he fixed his text. He asked Alex to meet both him and Max. Alex took an entire half hour to answer, and Michael knew he was an early riser, so he tried not to feel panicked that his best friend might be too angry to respond, and when the text came that Alex would need twenty minutes to get there, some relief settled in Michael’s chest and he went to wake Max.

               “Huh?” Max sat up, alert, his eyes still closed. “What – what’s happening?”

               “Get up,” Michael said with a heaviness and unwillingness he forced himself to push aside. “We’re going to see Alex.”

               *

               Alex swung back and forth on the swing, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, waiting for any other word from Michael. He was convincing himself that he was excited to see him, but the memory of his words yesterday had gone from the back of his mind to the forefront, and he couldn’t help but still feel hurt that he’d been dismissed so easily.

               “I’m just trying to have a little fun here. Am I supposed to turn down a hot girl for you?”

               Alex’s fingers gripped the swing’s chains tightly, his eyes burning. Like Alex was some nuisance, a second thought. He’d never imagined those words leaving Michael’s lips. He’d never imagined Michael, of all people, making him feel so . . . unwanted.

               Then, before he could help it, his thoughts wandered to Max. Max, who had hurried him away from the large mansion only because he was terrified his sister would scare him away. Who had been eager to get Alex’s opinion on every painting, sculpture, and relic, and actually listened when he spoke. He’d never been able to speak to strangers so easily, but sometimes it was hard to remember that that was what Max was supposed to be. It was just so easy to talk to him . . . and so easy to forget the bad things around him . . .

               Alex shook himself of those thoughts. What was wrong with him? Max was just a cuddly teddy bear, someone who had helped out once when Michael was too busy. No matter what he said or confessed to, he’d get bored and tired of the chase soon enough. He’d get bored and tired of Alex, just like everyone else did.

               When he looked up, he saw Michael first, and started to stand. Then he saw Max, and his shoulders fell.

               “Are you fucking kidding me?” he murmured, and heaved a sigh as he sat back down. He wasn’t going to just run back into Michael’s arms when his schedule allowed him to remember they were supposed to be best friends. Ruining the only day they might’ve had alone was the final straw.

               “Hey,” Michael smiled wide, and Alex’s heart started to flutter. It made him want to cry. It was so unfair, especially when he knew that Michael used that smile on every pretty girl he saw. Until yesterday, Alex had believed he was different.

               Alex ignored Michael’s greeting and glanced at Max instead, who was sleepily rubbing his eyes. Alex faltered. Had Max gotten out of bed just to see him? The thought made him soften. It wasn’t fair, after all, to blame Max for Michael’s behavior.

               “Hi, Max,” he said, and Max blinked, clearly surprised at being spoken to.

               He put his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “Uh – hey, Alex.” Another glance at Michael. “Y-You look nice.”

               Maybe Max was waiting for Michael to approve of this compliment, to tell him how smooth he was being with his crush, but Michael’s eyes were focused on Alex, his expression solemn.

               Max seemed to sense the tension because he exhaled slowly and pointed at the swing next to Alex’s. “That swing taken?”

               Alex couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, no matter how brief, and he shook his head. Max took the swing and swung back and forth as if nobody else was there.

               “Come on, Alex,” Michael murmured, kneeling in front of him. “If this is about yesterday –”

               “If it’s about yesterday?” Alex scoffed humorlessly. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”

               Michael looked hurt. “That – that’s not fair.”

               “No?” Alex shook his head. “Saturdays are supposed to be ours, Guerin, and you treated me like some brat you had to put up with!”

               “I didn’t –” Michael’s mouth opened and closed on several sentences, seemingly appalled at the idea. “Alex, I just –”

               In a voice too quiet for Max to hear, Alex said, “You invited Maria. Was that just to hurt me?”

               His eyes widened. “No!”

               “Did I –” Alex faltered. “Did I do something to piss you off, or –”

               “Alex!” Michael couldn’t seem to believe that Alex would go down that road.

               Alex clenched his jaw. “Well, what was I supposed to think? I can’t believe you would even talk to her again after what she did to me! I –” he broke off with a shaky sigh, looking away from Michael and Max to keep them from seeing the tears fill his eyes. “I thought you were my friend.”

               “Don’t say that,” Michael said hoarsely, taking Alex’s hand in his. Alex hated the shivers it sent down his body. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I – I just knew that it hurt losing a friend like that, and I thought that it would make you feel better if – if I could fix it –”

               “The only person in the world I care about losing is you,” Alex argued, and Michael said nothing for a moment. Alex realized his mistake at once, and he looked down, his face heated. “I thought I was losing you yesterday. I thought you’d . . . forgiven her for what she’d done. Like my feelings didn’t matter as much as a pretty girl.”

               A moment of silence. Even the creaking of Max’s swing had stopped. Then Michael tugged on his hand.

               “No one . . .” Michael started and abruptly cut himself off. Alex looked back at him to see his expression was conflicted. Before Alex could ask what was wrong, what had been wrong with him lately, Michael forced a smile to his lips. It was a play at his usual light one without any of the lightness.

               “You know the fair’s going on until next week,” he said. “Why don’t – uh – why don’t we go together? Tomorrow? Just you and me?”

               Alex should’ve been thrilled at the idea, but something . . . something was off. Michael looked like he was more miserable at asking for it, and Max was looking at them strangely solemn.

               Realization dawned. Michael was hesitant to go out with Alex alone when he knew his brother had feelings for him. Alex glanced at Max again. He would’ve preferred to be on his own with Michael, but the idea of going with Max didn’t seem so bad either.

               He internally sighed. “Max,” he turned to him, “why don’t you come with us?”

               Max raised a brow. Michael stopped pretending to smile and his brows furrowed. Alex didn’t understand. Wasn’t this what he’d wanted?

               Then Max smiled, and Alex’s attention was caught. “Yeah? You really want me to come?”

               Warmth bloomed in Alex’s chest, and something like a breath of relief escaped his lips, his first real breath since he’d gotten Michael’s text to meet. Maybe Max would get tired of the chase, but . . . better to get the inevitable over with sooner than later, right?

               “I mean, if you want to,” Alex played at a shrug. Max chuckled and looked down.

               He nodded. “Yeah, yes, I do.”

               Alex realized he and Max were just staring at each other. He blushed and looked back at Michael, expecting to see him overjoyed. But his smile was tighter than ever.

               “Great,” Michael said. “That’s just . . . perfect. Exactly what I was hoping for.”

               *

               “Okay,” Max plopped down on the bed, feeling filled up on lunch and something else he’d been feeling since Alex had invited him along with them to the fair tomorrow. “What’s wrong?”

               “Nothing,” Michael sniffed roughly, replacing his jacket with another one of his own that he’d left in Max’s closet. “It’s all going according to plan, right?”

               “Yeah,” Max nodded, “so why do you look like you’re two seconds away from clocking me?”

               “What?” Michael looked over his shoulder with pursed lips, without actually looking at Max. “I’m not. It’s great, right? He invited you all by himself.”

               Max smiled to himself at the thought. “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft to his own ears.

               Michael finally met Max’s eyes for a long while, studying his expression. Then he turned, smiling with narrowed eyes. “Are you . . . you’re not . . .?”

               Max raised a brow, waiting for his brother to elaborate.

               “You’re not . . . starting to actually like Alex, are you?”

               Max’s eyes widened and he scoffed. He started to say that he absolutely wasn’t when he caught himself. He thought of Alex’s kind eyes and his laugh and the hurt in his voice when Michael ignored him. He thought Alex had had enough people dismissing him behind his back.

               “Of course I like him,” he said. “He’s nice, you know? There’s nothing wrong with him.”

               “Yeah,” Michael said with a nod, as if reassuring himself. “Yeah, I mean . . . you like him like you like Kyle, right?”

               Max hesitated. “Michael . . . do you like Alex?”

               “I love Alex,” he said at once. “Just not like that.”

               No, Max silently agreed. Not like that. Michael’s feelings seemed more . . . possessive, though he didn’t want to talk about things he wasn’t sure of. All he knew was that Michael wanted Alex to himself. He didn’t know how to tell him that that wouldn’t work with the plan.

               “I’m sure he just brought me along because he felt bad for me,” Max placated, though the idea made him want to curl up on his bed. “You know, you did bring me along for no reason.”

               “No,” Michael said with that same forced lightness, turning back to his clothes. “No, this is good. Like I said, it’s great! Alex is starting to want you along. The plan is working perfectly.”

               “Yeah,” Max muttered, noticing the way Michael roughly tugged his sleeves down. “Perfectly.”

               *

               “This is a bad idea,” Kyle said as soon as Alex had called to tell him his plans for tonight. “I think you’re forgiving him way too easily.”

               Alex’s phone sat on speaker on his nightstand. He sighed, fixing his hair so that it looked less like he’d walked through a hurricane, but the strands remained windswept and messy and he gave up.

               “He made a mistake,” Alex said for what felt like the millionth time. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

               “Not that kind of mistake!” Kyle argued, his frustration evident. “Alex, he invited Maria!” Alex flinched at the name and was glad his friend couldn’t see him. “That’s like if I invited Jared!”

               “Jared Wilson is a homophobic ass,” Alex argued at once, and calmed the edge in his voice. “It’s not the same thing.”

               “Both of them made life a lot harder for you when they realized you were gay.”

               To that, Alex had no response. He didn’t care. He loved Michael, and being angry with him felt wrong. He didn’t want it.

               He sat on his bed’s edge and played with the buttons on his black cardigan. It was new, something he wanted to wait to wear until he and Michael were alone, because Michael always liked hugging Alex as they walked and clinging to his side, and Alex had wanted Michael to feel soft and warm when he hugged him. It should bother him that he did so much of what he did with the worry of how Michael will take it, even though they’re not dating and could probably never date, but every so often, that traitorous bit of hope would claw its way to the surface and tell him that it could still happen.

               Maybe all it took was Michael knowing how he felt. It didn’t matter. Alex could never do it.

               “I don’t want to lose him,” he said quietly. Kyle didn’t answer. Alex half-wished that he hadn’t heard him, but he doubted it.

               Finally, Kyle sighed and said, “I know.” A pause, then, “What about Max?”

               Alex blinked. “Max?”

               “Yeah,” he said. “Seems like he really likes you.”

               Alex wanted to scoff, but what left his lips instead was, “Yeah?” Kyle chuckled and Alex blushed. “N-Not that I care! I just don’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.”

               He hummed. Alex hated how he could hear the amusement in his voice. “Okay, well,” he said, “don’t count him out just yet.”

               Alex was about to retort when a door suddenly slammed outside his bedroom. He heard the heavy footsteps of hunting boots and swallowed thickly. He tried to keep his light voice as he turned off his speaker and held the phone up, “Hey, I-I’ll see you at school, okay?”

               “Uh –” Kyle was clearly thrown off by the sudden change in conversation. “Sure, but are you –”

               Before he could finish his question, Alex hung up and put his phone aside. Then he caught himself in the mirror. His eyeliner. He was already wearing it.

               “Fuck,” he breathed.

               His heart hammered in his throat as the footsteps stopped outside his room and the door swung open. His father stood there.

               “Did I hear you talking to a boy?” he demanded.

               “N-No,” Alex said at once, cursing his stammering. “I mean, yes, but it was just Kyle.”

               Jesse hummed. Alex’s heart sunk into his stomach when Jesse closed the door behind him and stayed inside.

               “Dad,” he started, “really, I was just –”

               “Come here,” Jesse said with a wave of his fingers. When Alex didn’t move, Jesse fixed his son with his cold blue eyes. “Alex, come here.”

               Alex swallowed and resisted the urge to cower away. If his father hated disobedience, he hated a coward more. So Alex marched up to him swiftly as he was trained to do, his shoulders straight despite his lowered eyes, and the second he was close enough, Jesse grabbed his face in one hand, his grip painful.

               “What is that,” he said coldly, “on your eyes?”

               Alex clenched his jaw, trying not to whimper even as his dad’s hand nearly broke his jaw. Even as he knew what was coming. Not for the first time, as his fingers trembled on his dad’s wrist, he wished Michael could be here to protect him.

               *

               Max was in Alex’s class, and it was rare that a Manes was late, but Alex didn’t show up until halfway through the first lecture. He had a black sweater on with a collar that hid most of his chin and long sleeves that fell past his fingers, despite the fairly warm weather. His arms were stiff at his side, and his eyeliner was smudged a little bit.

               The math teacher said nothing to his most brilliant student about being late, and just gestured at him to take a seat. Max lifted his head off his desk and tried to catch Alex’s eyes, but Alex was staring straight ahead.

               Liz turned around in her seat, her brows furrowed. Max didn’t hear her murmurs, but whatever she said, Alex merely nodded once in response, his smile small. Liz didn’t look reassured, and Max realized he was inching out of his seat.

               “Yes, Mr. Evans?” the teacher said.

               “Uh – nothing, sir,” Max said and sat back down. “Sorry.”

               Some of the other students snickered, but Max didn’t care, because at least Liz was looking at him. He swallowed and pointed at Alex, the silent message clear. Liz nudged Alex’s arm softly and gestured with her chin at Max. Alex looked over.

               Max didn’t know what to do but raise his hand in a little wave. Alex just looked away again, his shoulders scrunched as he almost folded in on himself. He looked out the window and didn’t seem to pay attention to another word of the lecture.

               Max tried to catch Alex in the hall in between classes, to ask him if he was all right, but Alex just shrunk away from him.

               “I’m fine,” he muttered.

               “Alex, wait a second,” Max tried, instinctively reaching for his wrist.

               He’d barely touched him when Alex flinched away. “Don’t do that!” he snapped, making the entire hallway of students stop and turn to stare. Alex looked furious and terrified all at once. “Don’t ever, ever grab me!”

               Max stood frozen with his hand outstretched, stunned, and the hall filled with a heavy, tense silence. Alex didn’t seem to care. He kept glaring at Max a moment longer, his breathing quick like he was on the verge of crying, and he whipped around to where a startled and concerned Liz was ready to guide him away.

               Murmurs broke out over the crowd, and Max heard more than a few people call Alex a number of things, all ranging from “freak” to “psycho,” before they came to check that Max was okay after that outburst. Max could only be offended.

               Alex was clearly suffering with something, didn’t anyone notice or care?

               When Max got to lunch, Isobel was already standing. She looked as she rarely did; her bright smile gone, replaced with a solemn frown. “Hey,” she tugged Max down as soon as she caught sight of him. “What happened with Alex in the hallway? Rosa said he suddenly started screaming at you?”

               Max shook his head. “Something’s wrong with him,” he said.

               Isobel’s frown deepened. “Hey, don’t say that, you don’t know what could be –”

               “No,” Max cut her off, indignant that she could assume he meant the worst. “I mean, something’s wrong with him, like something must’ve happened. He’s usually a lot nicer. And he showed up late. He never shows up late.”

               Isobel rubbed her jaw as she looked over at Alex’s table where both Liz and Kyle were encouraging him to eat something, the concern evident on their faces.

               “I mean, it’s not exactly new, right?” she muttered. “He’s freaked out like this before.”

               Max pursed his lips. Alex had seemed so excited yesterday when Michael had asked him to the fair. What could’ve happened from then till now? Had Michael done something? No, he would’ve warned Max.

               Then he remembered something Michael had told him about Jesse Manes . . .

               His shoulders fell. “Shit.”

               Isobel seemed to realize he’d figured it out, and eagerly asked, “What? What is it?”

               Max hesitated. “You can’t tell anyone. I mean, not even the Ortechos. No one, Isobel.”

               “My lips are sealed,” she quickly promised.

               Max licked his lips. “Well, remember how nervous he was when I offered to walk him home the other night?”

               “Yeah?”

               “Michael told me about his dad,” he said. “Apparently, he really, really doesn’t want his son to be gay.”

               Isobel’s eyes widened with horror. “Alex is scared of his dad?”

               “He’s wearing long sleeves, and he’s sweating through it,” Max said darkly by way of saying what he didn’t want to outright.

               Isobel gasped. “You think he . . . hits him?”

               Max shook his head, not wanting to believe that Alex had that kind of father, but . . . “I’ve never heard Michael so unnerved by someone outside of his foster parents.”

               “Oh my god,” Isobel whispered, her wide, glassy eyes turning to Alex who was sitting slumped in his chair as if allowing himself a few seconds to stop pretending he was fine. “Oh my god,” she started to stand, to go over to him, but Max grabbed her arm and sat her back down.

               “Don’t,” he warned. “Michael didn’t want to tell me, and I doubt Alex wants anyone to know.”

               “He’s beating him!” Isobel whisper-yelled through grit teeth. “We – we have to tell somebody!”

               “Not if Alex doesn’t want us to,” Max argued.

               “Max!”

               “He has brothers,” Max said, and Isobel fell silent. “The last thing Alex needs right now is for the only family he has to hate him because they think he told on their dad. Not if Alex doesn’t want us to.”

               Isobel clenched her jaw, her eyes miserable, and she nodded. It was clearly the last thing she wanted to do.

               “I don’t know how you can bear it,” she breathed, looking over to Alex like she wanted nothing more than to hug and protect him. “He’s so sweet, I don’t know how you can bear it.”

               Isobel, of course, couldn’t see Max’s clenched, trembling fists beneath the table as he watched Alex start to eat despite himself, start to smile like he was so used to the beatings that he’d learned to work past them after a while, wondering the exact same thing.

                 Technically, Michael’s official house was an airstream at the junkyard where old man Sanders had let him stay while he had a part time job after school. Max wished Alex hadn’t known the whole story because then at least, as they went together to the auto shop, Max would have something to say instead of wallowing in the awkward silence between them.

               In fact, awkward wasn’t really the right word. Heavy seemed more appropriate.

               The weather was cooling quickly, making it more bearable for Alex’s sweater. Max half-wondered what Alex would do if he reached down and looked for his fingers underneath the sleeves.

               “I’m sorry,” Alex mumbled, and Max snapped out of his thoughts. Alex had said nothing on the drive over, nodding quietly in thanks when Max had offered to drive him as they were both going together, but his eyes were on the ground now.

               He looked so shy for once that Max was caught off guard.

               “Huh?”

               “For yelling at you,” he went on, even more quiet. “I didn’t mean to . . . I just don’t like . . .”

               “Being grabbed,” Max finished. He stopped, and Alex did the same. “Alex, I would never hurt you, okay? I wouldn’t.”

               Alex wouldn’t look at Max, but Max could see his breathing getting quicker, his jaw clenching tighter and tighter.

               “What did Michael tell you?”

               Max tried to school his features. “Nothing.”

               He was sure Alex would snap at him, would turn right around and cut off his friendship with both him and Michael. Instead, he scoffed wearily. “You’re just as bad a liar as he is.”

               Raising his chin and pretending that it didn’t cause him pain to fix the bag on his shoulder, Alex forged on ahead. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

               Max followed in silence, but only for a minute. “My mom knows someone in the state council, I could talk to her –”

               Alex whipped around, his eyes wide and terrified. “Don’t! You can’t, Max, please, don’t ever –”

               “Okay!” Max took Alex’s hands to calm him. He was rambling, his fingers shaking. “Okay, I – I won’t, Alex, calm down.” When Alex had been reduced to a trembling figure, Max pulled him in gently against him. “I won’t tell, I promise. Just calm down, okay? Please, calm down.”

               Max’s chin was on Alex’s head. He had a hand in Alex’s hair – it was so much softer than he could’ve imagined – his other hand running up and down his back, trying not to scare him again with any sudden movements.

               “It’s just me,” Alex croaked out against Max’s chest. “It’s only me. Because I’m . . .” He shook his head. “He doesn’t hurt them. They – they don’t care about enlisting. They’re happy to do it. I don’t want to ruin their lives, please –”

               “Okay,” Max whispered into Alex’s hair. He smelled like vanilla. “Okay, Alex, it’s okay. I won’t tell, I promise. I promise.”

               They stood there like that for a long time, Max’s fingers raking through Alex’s hair, taking in the way each strand felt against his fingers. He felt the strong muscles of Alex’s back even through his sweater. He couldn’t help it. Everything about Alex was a mystery, and the more he uncovered, the more he wanted to know.

               A breath escaped his lips, and Alex tensed. He stepped back, unwilling to look at Max, his face tinged pink.

               “S-Sorry,” he murmured.

               Max nodded, putting his hands in his back pockets to keep from reaching out for him again. “Me, too. It’s – uh . . . been a long couple of days.”

               Alex sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. Max resisted the urge to ask how bad the pain was underneath the sweater, but if he was being honest, he didn’t think either of them wanted the answer to that question. So he nudged his head towards Michael’s trailer, and waited for Alex to lead the way.

               “What’s your favorite fair treat?” Max asked before they could get to the door. He didn’t know why, but he wanted just a few more seconds before Michael joined them.

               “What?”

               “Fair treat,” he repeated. “You know, they sell a lot of snacks at fairs. They’ll be selling a lot tonight. Which one do you like best?”

               “Uh . . .” Alex thought about it. “Cotton candy? I guess? The, you know, big swirls?”

               “Okay,” Max nodded, grinning. “Then I’ll buy you the biggest swirl they have.”

               Alex’s eyes widened and he turned pinker. It was so cute that Max had to giggle.

               “I have my own money.”

               “So?” Max shrugged. “I want to get you something. I thought about winning you a prize during one of the games, but that feels a little cliché, you know?”

               Alex opened and closed his mouth on several sentences, and Max wondered if Michael had ever offered to buy him anything with the promise that it meant something more.

               Alex looked away with a shake of his head. “You’re silly,” he muttered, and opened the door, climbing inside.

               Max followed, still grinning. They found Michael dressed and looking for the keys to his truck.

               “Hey!” Alex said a little breathlessly. “You ready to go?”

               Michael froze, looking over his shoulder. Max’s smile fell at once. Oh no . . .

               “Crap,” he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Crap, we said we were going to the fair tonight!”

               Another act, Max thought. “Michael,” he said quietly, a private warning, “today really isn’t the day to –”

               “I don’t get it,” Alex cut him off, his brows furrowed. “If you – if you forgot about the fair tonight, then why’re you in such a hurry to leave?”

               Michael shrugged, glanced at Max, and said, “I have a date.”

               Alex was silent a moment. “You . . . have a date.”

               “Yeah.”

               “But –” Alex shook his head. “The fair was your idea. Why’d you ask me to come with you if you knew you were going to be busy?”

               “I didn’t know when I asked you,” Michael said, and Alex stared. Despite his hidden fingers, Max did not miss the way they curled to fists.

               “So you –” Alex cut himself off abruptly, smiling incredulously, like he couldn’t believe his other half had stooped so low. “You made plans with someone else when you already had plans with me?”

               “Alex,” he huffed, exasperated. “Are you gonna get like this every time I’m meeting someone? A very attractive friend asked me out tonight, I said yes.”

               “But you’re my friend, too,” Alex argued. “When we make promises to each other, we’re supposed to follow through on them, it shouldn’t matter if you have a ton of friends or not.”

               “Well, it’s not my fault you don’t have any friends, Alex.”

               “Michael!” Max stepped forward, but Alex held a hand up. He didn’t look tense or frozen to the spot. He looked like every horrible thought that had ever crossed his mind about his friendship with Michael, every doubt that had ever haunted him, every fear of being unwanted or not good enough, it was all coming true.

               To Alex, Michael didn’t consider him worth anything.

               To Alex, Michael wasn’t protecting their friendship. He was shattering it beyond repair.

               He looked resigned and exhausted. Michael seemed to realize that too late.

               “W-Wait,” he tried, “I didn’t – I didn’t mean –”

               “You’re my friend,” Alex quietly defended. “You’re . . . you’re my . . .” He shook his head, like it didn’t matter anymore. He turned to Max. “D-Do you – uh – do you still want to come with me? To the – the fair?”

               He was clearly terrified, clearly unwilling to go at all if Michael didn’t want to, but wanting to prove that he was unhurt. That he wouldn’t break. Max was in awe of his courage.

               “I was just going to ask you the same thing,” Max said.

               A brief, barely-there smile tugged at Alex’s lips before it was gone. Without another word or glance at Michael, he left. Michael stared at the open door like he wasn’t even in the room, like he was numb and out of body. He’d gone too far this time.

               Max shook his head. “You were so terrified that he was in love with you . . . that you decided to make him hate you instead.”

               “I told you,” Michael said hoarsely, his eyes filling with tears. “He’ll only hate me for a little bit.”

               “And you’re willing to bet on that?” Max tilted his head. He promised Alex he wouldn’t tell anyone else what his father had done to him, but he leaned in anyway and said, “Because if I were you, I would think a little harder instead about why he’s wearing such a long sweater near the end of spring.”

               And with those final words, Max turned and left, catching only the realization in Michael’s eyes before he shut the door behind him. Alex was already in the car, hugging his arms and staring out the window.

               Max got in and shut the door. He exhaled slowly, “Alex –”

               “Just drive,” Alex said hoarsely, like he’d been crying for hours though his eyes were dry. “Please just drive.”

               Max swallowed and turned on the ignition. He didn’t want to be a hero here. He didn’t feel like one. The only reason Michael had hurt Alex this badly at all was so that he could swoop in. But this seemed like too high a cost.

               It didn’t matter in the end. Max did as Alex wanted, and drove.

                 The fairy lights were already strung up when Max and Alex got to the fair, plenty of booths already up with lanterns lighting the way, showering everything in gold. It looked more like a market with a few chances for the kids to win toys, but Max watched as Alex eyed each booth and necklace and dress like they were the only good parts of a bad memory.

               “My mom used to bring us here a lot,” he said, “back when she was around.”

               “When did she die?” Max asked quietly.

               “She didn’t,” Alex said simply. “She left. But this fair . . . it’s my favorite time of the year. Michael knew that.”

               “Alex,” Max shook his head. “I’m sure . . . I’m sure he had a reason for what he did.”

               Alex scoffed, but the press of his lips was both sad and sincere. “I know he did. But god, what could be worth all this?” he gestured at his own face, the exhaustion and misery there. “I can usually read him, but this time I just . . . can’t. I hate not knowing.”

               Max thought about that, and realized he was the same way when it had to do with someone he loved. How was he going to save someone who didn’t want to be saved?

               “Tell me something you do know,” he offered. “You said your brothers are happy to enlist. Does your dad make them all?”

               “No,” Alex sniffled. “No, dad would never make any of us enlist. He pushes it hard, and all the time, but . . . no, if you don’t want to enlist, then just don’t bother coming back home, you know?”

               Max hesitated. “Have you ever . . .?”

               He expected Alex to laugh it off or be indignant about anyone even considering that he would ever enlist, but he only sighed and confessed, “Sometimes.”

               Max stared. “S-Seriously?”

               Alex shook his head, smiling, and for once, he didn’t look sarcastic or amused. He just looked sad. “You don’t know what it’s like there. Or how bad it gets, and – and sometimes I think . . . I couldn’t afford a place of my own. I could escape him though. I could rise in ranks, I could beat him –”

               “Beat him some other way!” Max argued, and a few heads turned to look. Alex didn’t look like he cared, he never did, but Max stepped closer. “You can’t enlist, Alex.”

               Alex looked away. “I said I thought about it, okay? Only when things get really, really bad. It doesn’t mean I’ll do it. I’ll find some other way.”

               He didn’t sound sure, but Max couldn’t have been more sure of his abilities and talent. Alex was the strongest and smartest person he knew, he could easily make it out there. And what if . . . what if he had Max there with him? Supporting him? Helping him? The two of them together in a small apartment in New York or something –

               Max shut his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to think like that. This wasn’t supposed to be long-term. Soon enough, Michael would tell him the truth, and it would all be over. Alex might even hate him for it. He didn’t want to think about that though, so he bought Alex the biggest blue cotton candy swirl, got one for himself, and laughed with Alex about the sizes.

               About an hour in, Alex seemed to really be having a lot of fun. He was laughing at Max’s stupid jokes and tugging on his arm to show him little ceramic toys for sale and even a small aquamarine necklace that glittered in the moonlight with a gold chain so thin it was almost a silk thread.

               When Alex wasn’t looking, Max bought the necklace, and snuck up behind him, letting it rest in the dip of his collarbone.

               “W-What –”

               “For you,” Max said.

               Alex touched the stone, still stunned. “Max, I’m not – I’m uncomfortable accepting so many gifts from people.”

               “I’m not just people though,” Max said simply. “I’m your . . .” he caught himself, “f-friend.”

               Alex looked at him. Max may have been wrong, but he could’ve sworn Alex had seemed disappointed for a moment at the use of the word friend.

               “R-Right,” he murmured. “Still, no more gifts, okay?”

               “No promises,” Max grinned, and his heart jumped when Alex’s face turned that same shade of pink. He was starting to wonder if he could turn it any darker when Alex glanced up and froze.

               “Oh my god,” he breathed.

               “What?” Max followed his gaze, and understood what it was that had terrified him. Making their way towards them was some man in uniform, and beside him was Jesse Manes, hands folded behind his back with his medals shining on his uniform jacket, smiling at booths and laughing with children who ran past.

               That, Max realized, was the most frightening part. Who would believe Alex if he told them their beloved sergeant was a monster?

               Alex stepped back, already trembling. He turned, but the crowd had gathered around them. Even if he stood in the shadows outside the lanterns’ light, he was still visible to anyone passing by, especially if his dad was looking through the booths. He would see Alex here, and just the implication that he was here with Max would get him hurt again.

               Alex hugged himself. “Think, Alex,” he whispered to himself, looking around frantically for a hiding spot. “Think.”

               Max looked back at Jesse. He was getting closer. He couldn’t stand seeing the usually intimidating Alex so frightened now. He had to protect him.

               He took Alex’s hand in his own and pulled him into the shadows, up against a booth. “Is your dad uncomfortable with PDA?”

               “What?”

               “Is he?”

               “Uh – yeah!” Alex shook his head, confused. “He hates it –”

               “Good,” Max breathed, taking Alex’s face in his hands, and before Alex could ask what he was doing, Max closed the distance between them and covered Alex’s mouth with his own. Alex stood frozen against him, but Max wouldn’t pull away, his body blocking Alex’s from sight.

               Half of him was silently urging Alex to play along, if only long enough to get his father’s attention away, but as Alex whimpered softly against his lips, his body melting against Max’s, his hands coming up to Max’s chest, clutching his shirt, Max suddenly forgot all about Jesse Manes.

               He forgot about the fair, he forgot about the booths around him, the crowd of people. He couldn’t think of anything but how soft Alex’s lips were, how perfectly he fit in Max’s arms. Max wanted to taste more of him, so he slipped his tongue in. Alex moaned, pressing unbearably close, and Max could feel him. His toned chest, his flat stomach.

               Max had never wanted to feel another man’s chest until this moment, to claw down his stomach, to feel the muscles of his back. Max tilted his head, bringing his hand around the nape of Alex’s neck and reaching his fingers through his hair, tugging a little on the strands.

               Alex’s hands came up to Max’s face, one hand reaching into his hair. Max wanted to tilt his head, to deepen the kiss, to put his hands up Alex’s shirt and feel his skin. He wondered if it was as sexy as the rest of him – he knew it had to be – and his hand had just fallen to Alex’s hip, tugging at the hem of his sweater, when he heard someone behind him scoff –

               “Ugh, disgusting,” a voice said, and Max snapped out of his thoughts.

               He pulled away, pressing his forehead to Alex’s, the both of them panting heavily. Alex’s eyes were closed, and Max took the opportunity to trace his deeply red cheeks with the tips of his fingers, his rosy, kiss-swollen lips.

               “Wow,” he breathed.

               “Yeah,” Alex swallowed and opened his eyes. They fluttered again as Max traced his thumb across his lips for the second time. “That – that was –”

               “Wow,” Max finished.

               Alex huffed a breathless chuckle. “Are you okay?”

               Max shook his head. “Wow.”

               Alex started to laugh, but seemed to remember they were supposed to be hiding. He covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide. Max wanted to hear his laugh, so he looked over his shoulder for any sign of Alex’s dad, but he was so far down the path that by the time Max had tilted his chin up to get a better look, Jesse Manes and his friend were completely gone.

               When he nodded to Alex, Alex’s grin widened and he laughed happily into the night. He jumped into Max’s arms, his own wrapped around Max’s shoulders.

               “Thank you!” Alex said into his shoulder, his voice muffled and filling Max’s chest with butterflies. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He heaved a deep sigh, probably the deepest he’d had in a while. “Thank you, Max.”

               Max wrapped his arms around Alex’s waist, keeping him close and steady against him. In the back of his mind, he could hear Michael’s one, big warning about Alex.

               “Don’t kiss him.”

               But now, in this moment, as he could still feel Alex’s soft, warm lips against his own, as he could hear his moans and smell his sweet scent, he couldn’t remember why.

               He smiled into the crook of Alex’s neck and said, “You’re welcome, Manes.”

It’s finally here! Please please please comment and reblog/share if you enjoyed reading even a little bit, it always makes the world of a difference 💗 I’m going to bed.

[soukokuwu]

could i please get a super soft scenario of just being on a date with dazai? maybe he had a bad day, so the reader decides to treat him for dinner, letting him choose their meal. afterwards, sitting on the grass at a park, with a blanket around them and watching the sunset. him cuddling into her, while she runs her fingers through his scalp and kisses his head. tysm :) i love ur writing and u seem like such a cool person irl

LOVEBUG.      genre. fluff      synopsis. people can change, even the most unlikely ones.      word count. 1.4k      author notes. this took so long for me to get out i’m so sorry!! but thanks for waiting, if you’re still here, and tysm for your kindness anony <33 hehe someone thinks i’m cool :3

times change, and so do people.

you are the catalyst of dazai’s change, the one that takes over him akin to a hurricane overwhelming a small city. but whereas a hurricane leaves a destruction in its wake, you grew flowers in the barren soil which was his life. where he would once rather drown in the ocean, now he drowns in thoughts of you, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

there was a time where he would rejoice in being alone, to stop putting on a facade. because truth be told? it’s tiresome. but funny enough, where he deigns to be himself on a day-by-day basis, he deems it worthy when it’s with you.

because how can love be real when he doesn’t bare himself?

which is why when a case earlier that day reminded him of the only loss he ever grieved, he gets the overwhelming urge to just see you, to hug you and inhale the scent of your hair, the scent that naturally calms.

it’s a wednesday, and he usually doesn’t come over on work nights, but he can’t help himself. dazai allows himself to drag his feet over to your apartment uninvited.

tap. tap. tap.

slow, and weak, on the mahogany door.

you only just settled down after a long exhausting day at work, but already an unwonted visitor. you stifle a grumble, socks muting your harsh stomps against the marble floor, but any trace of irritation is carried away by the wind when you feel the familiar texture of bandaged arms brushing against your skin, and the subtle elation under his controlled murmur.

“i’m so glad to see you.”

you take a moment to collect yourself, before you return his hug. you stop yourself from asking the obvious ‘are you okay’ because you think it redundant. for dazai to go out of his way and visit you out of the blue? something is definitely bothering him. but it isn’t your place to pry — you know it’s impossible for him to talk about his cases (you deduce that it’s the only factor in the current that would make him feel this way). however, there is one thing you can do as his girlfriend.

make an effort.

you drag your boyfriend inside and shut the door behind him, observing as he flings himself down onto the sofa, the perfect embodiment of exhaustion. whatever it is that managed to bring him down this bad just means you have that much more work to do to pull him back up. and no, you don’t mind at all, actually. on the contrary, you love being the one he entrusts these particular notions to. you know he would rarely ever let anyone else’s actions dictate his mood. except yours.

in that honeyed voice of yours, you lean down and let your thumb ghost his lips, earning yourself a pout from your boyfriend as he looks up at you. “tell me anything you want for dinner, i’ll whip it up for you,” you offer.

dazai grins, sitting up and presses the tip of his nose against yours, a glint in his eyes. “i know just the thing i want.”

“are you sure this is all you want?”

dazai chuckles at your skepticality, offering only a grin in response, jabbing his fork down onto the meat and swallowing it readily.

now it’s your turn to giggle. it still baffles you how this is his idea of a perfect dinner: crab from a can with bottled sake from the supermarket. he’s aware that you can cook up a much better, high-end version of this, with your knack for fancy plating and wanton knowledge of compatible herbs.

but you know better than to question it. his answer would probably be much too complicated for you anyway. so you roll with it. not everything has to have an answer. you know when probing is unnecessary. this is one of those times. it isn’t too difficult to just be content with what you have. because you are. very. just lounging with dazai, sitting on the floor eating on the coffee table.

it’s simple. homely.

the both of you have a lively debate on the alleged corruption of one of the state senators, occasionally being sidetracked by the music playing on the television. by the time the two of you finish up, you notice the sun sinking lower and lower against the sky. you glance at your watch, twenty-three minutes left, give or take.

“what is it?” dazai asks with a simple head-tilt and wondering eyes.

now you grin in reply, “come on, let me take you somewhere.”

fifteen minutes later you’re leaning against his side, sitting on the freshly cut grass, watching as the sun sets on the horizon, the orange resembling fire hearths and tangerines. you feast your eyes on the sight before you as the rich hues of orange blends with purples and crimsons.

you always liked sunsets. they remind you of fresh colours brushing upon a blank canvas, leaves you wondering how something so beautiful managed to exist in the first place.

“a masterpiece, isn’t it?” you subconsciously ask, your gaze fixed on the sky before you, an unobstructed view thanks to your many-a-times spent wandering around the park near your home.

“yeah, it is.”

dazai isn’t agreeing with you though, not completely. because while you’re admiring the scenery, he’s admiring you. you’re the only masterpiece in his eyes, a timeless existence being captured in the lock of your gaze. he shifts his pupils back to the centre before you can catch him staring at you, though.

but he finds that that mere few seconds of admiring you isn’t enough. so he casually lays his head on your thighs, much to your surprise. you try to lean back, aware that it isn’t the most flattering angle for him to see you in, but he reaches up to move your face back into place.

“you’re beautiful, belladonna, don’t hide that.”

you can feel a heat creep up on your cheeks as you sheepishly smile back at him and give in. besides, when have you ever been able to say no to him?

and maybe now you do understand why he prefers the simple things. because as the blanket of the velvety night signals the end of the drowning sun, a thought pops into your head.

there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. because it’s not about what you’re doing, it’s about who you’re with. and never did you think you’d ever be enough for someone as prodigious as dazai osamu, but that isn’t important. what matters is that he thinks so, and he does. you know it. he’s shown it to you countless times, even if they are through subtle, unconventional means.

so you text your boss to request a sick leave tomorrow, something you have never done so just because you’re the hardworker that you are. but when you peer down at your beloved boyfriend’s blissful face, you think that some things deserve more weightage in your life as opposed to corporations that largely looks at their workers as being replaceable.

that night you wrap the blanket you prepared around the both of you as you shift to lie down on his chest, letting the steady pulse of his heartbeat envelop your ears. you call out to him, only to get his rhythmic breathing as a response. slowly, you flicker your eyes up to peek at him. he’s already asleep. and you exhale a silent laugh at how absolutely harmless he looks in this state.

he was the one that came to you seeking refuge from his troubles, so how did it end up helping you blow your own negativity away? he really is a remarkable person, you think.

“i love you,” you whisper to him, before you let yourself fall prey to your enervation.

and as your consciousness slips away, you think you hear the faint rustle of sleeves and the muffled murmurs of someone trying to tell you something.

“i’d stay alive forever if it meant i could spend an eternity with you.”

but you’re already fast asleep, and it’s okay. because the man with the voice responsible for such earnest words knows. he knows he’s going to spend his entire life convincing you so.

tags. @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes @smoochi-dazai @animatedarchives @chihxru ask me to be added/removed <3

[cosmiclatte28]

00′s Love (Sungchan x you)

a/n : I DID IT!! @starsfly01091711 this one’s for you! A second part to 90′S LOVE

SECOND PART OF 90′S LOVE (Thank you for the much love this story received)

warning : some mentions of forced dietary (not allowed to eat), slight angst, HAPPY ENDING!! I kinda liked the ending, so please if you’re okay with the theme go on read this and tell me what do you think about the ending!

here we goo

Moving on was hard, even when you have been hurt by the past and the present is waiting for you to reach for their hand and walk forward to the future with them.

Mark Lee was your first crush, and everything about a first crush makes it harder for you to realize he was not the one and that you should stop gawking over him and his boyfriend. They look cute, as much as you hate to admit it, Haechan brings a big smile to Mark. A smile you could never see when he is with you.

“(Y/n)!” your instructor yells one more time at you. You shake your head from the daydream and stutter “Yes?”

“Dozing off again? Are you sure you can follow today, you seem a little bit under the weather.” Your instructor skates to you and plants his palm over your temple.

You laugh dryly, “No, I’m okay. I am not sick,” you drop your tone, but deep inside your heart you want to add up “I am not okay, imagine learning your crush has a boyfriend, you have to prepare for the state championship, and you’re just not feeling well inside your heart.”

“Okay, we can take a break if you really need it, but buying more time is what we need. The championship is in three months and its been your dream to participate in one.” He tries to cheer you up.

You nod, “I got this, shall we repeat from the top?”

He nods and turns the music on. You begin dancing on ice, over the soft song of A Silent Voice (Koe no Katachi) and with the sad violin music you close your eyes as you feel the sad song and let your body do its magic on ice.

Your routine ends, all the jumps are perfect and all the spins are gracious. You have to thank yourself for pushing your younger self to the limit in order to reach this point. But something is hollow in your heart, something is missing.

You end the routine and open your eyes, only to let a teardrop fall.

“That was good, your techniques are wonderful but where is the emotion?” your instructor asks as he skates next to you. You wipe the tear and look to your feet.

“I am sorry,” you mutter

“You do know just a great technique won’t help you right?” Taeyong Lee, your best choreographer and instructor sighs.

“Clear your head, you really look … I don’t know… you’re not like you. I will say you take a break today and tomorrow come back only if your heart is okay.” He dismisses you like that and you have your head down while entering the locker room.

“Hey (y/n)~ why the long face?” Sungchan taps your shoulder and goes shocked when he sees your hollow eyes.

“Oh Sungchan-ie,” you force a smile to your face.

“I miss Ten hyung,” Sungchan calmly says while taking out his practice gears from the locker.

You froze in track, oh so someone did miss Ten too. Ten hyung left you to pursue a dream he was chasing. He was offered a scholarship to train and be one of the professional hockey athlete in NEO University. Your parents of course sent him away, with all the proud and happy faces sending their first son to a prestigious school while you, you’re staying here with them alone living through cold nights.

“Can you stop hogging the dinner table, you won’t be going to the championship with that eating behaviour.” Your mother looks at you with disgust as she takes away your plate.

You wanted to complain, how could one let her own child starve, but here you are. Forced to count your calories intake for your upcoming championship. Well, you had to thank her she just wanted the best for you, but what she was doing was a bit over the line.

“Oh my, I was a figure skater myself, and let me tell you we skip dinner.” Your mother said as she cuts you an apple.

Your father always come home late, he has to work extra hours to pay for Ten’s extra living costs, while also supporting your school and athletic life. Mom was a figure skater back then, a great one, until she reached the age of stopping skating. She opened courses for beginner skaters, but she doesn’t want to teach you herself. Mainly because she said a younger trainer will know more than her. Weird? No its also because you don’t want to be tortured by her.

“Now, finish up the fruit and go study or do some more stretches.” She stood away from the table and preoccupied herself into other things.

You missed your old family, where four of you would sit around the table, eating joyfully over luscious or even simple dish. But now, you rarely have anyone to sit with even worse forced to eat just fruits.

“Yeah I also miss Ten.” You finally speak about the truth today to Sungchan.

“When is he coming back?” Sungchan asks you and he has already put on his hockey costume, you didn’t notice that! Taeyong was right why are you so out of your head today.

“He is trying to come home on my competition day.” You fiddle with your hand, suddenly feeling how cold your hands are. You shrug it off as the skating rink’s fault

“Cool, by the way the boys and I are going to grab some tteokbokki after practice, want to join?” he nicely invites you.

You want to go so bad, but imagine the calories and no even worse what will mother say if she saw you eat? But Sungchan has been trying his best to always look after you, especially after he said Ten personally pleaded for Sungchan to look after you.

“I’ll see, if mom is not able to pick me up yet, I can wait and probably join.” You try to make the tall guy smile, he is the sweetest person you have right now. Might as well hold on to him and not let him go, right? Luck was in his side, your mom cannot pick you up that early so you waited for the boys. Your eyes most of the time are focused to Sungchan’s tall figure, but still a glance or two on seeing Mark won’t hurt right? Apparently it hurts. A lot, even more as you think of how silly you looked like to Mark.

“Thank you for waiting,” Sungchan pinches your cheek first thing first after the team laughs along their way to the locker.

You shrug your shoulder “What else can I do?”

Sungchan notices the way your cheek feels different, “Yak why are your cheeks gone?” he quirks an eyebrow

You raise your brow, bewildered that you actually loss weight to that point, “Uh is it? No. you’re just imagining things.” You push him to change with the others and he joins them, but when you take a glance to your reflection you cannot disagree him.

“(y/n) you should eat!” Mark notices how you were quiet when they were shouting of what to order.

You jolt in surprise, “Ah yeah, don’t mind me, I will just order later, not that hungry now.” You smile to him.

“No way a person can stay sane after a skating class. You eat, don’t refuse.” Haechan suddenly speaks ending all of your thoughts. He ordered one for each and you just lose it, “I am in a diet!”

“Just one portion won’t hurt!” Haechan desperately puts his puppy eyes on for you.

“She can share with me, if that makes her more comfortable.” Sungchan calmly glances at you and raises his brow.

“She will share with me,” Sungchan speaks for you when you do not let out any rebuttal.

He understands, Sungchan is magical, in a way that you don’t have to speak your mind out loud, but he can grasp what you want to say. Words you speak in silence, within one look of an eye he understands. Does he secretly have the ability to read mind?

When the hot meal was served, the boys all quickly savour the hot food in front of them. They look super happy and you gasp when Sungchan hands you a fork with tteok in front of your lips.

“Eat up!” he smiles and that makes you finally open your mouth and eat the first yummy food in two months.

“I can eat by myself” you blush when the other members throw both of you a cheesy smile.

“Mark me too! Feed me too” Haechan attempted aegyo and that only earned him a smack from Jeno.

“It’s cute when (y/n) and Sungchan did it, but not you.” Jeno teases the couple and that make the team laughs, you cannot hold your laughter too and somehow laughing makes your shoulder feels lighter.

“You just finish two bars, please at least eat four for me…” Sungchan pleads when he finishes his half or more like three of a quarter. Yang yang is already eyeing your side of the plate, still full of fishcakes and tteoks.

“I am full,” you put your fork down but before you can say anything Mark already poke a fork on one of the red bars and offer it to your mouth “If you do not want to eat for you nor Sungchan, eat for me.” His hand is still hovering, and you glance to Haechan, who just sends you a nod of approval, “You don’t have to do this,” you sigh but take the fork instead.

“You eat, or we will do that one by one.” Said WInwin.

Your eyes pop open “It’s embarrassing! Okay I’ve had three! It’s enough… really… I beg you all, thanks.” You smile when they give up

The team separate way and Sungchan walks with you back home.

“Have you always been like this?” Sungchan asks as two of you walk under the moonlight.

You smile and he answers himself “No, you like tteokbokki. Is it because you still cannot move on?”

You smack your lips “I’ve moved on. Just can’t eat much because of the upcoming competition.”

Sungchan stops in track and looks at you deep into your soul “Mother?”

You force a smile “Aiya no way, how could a mother starve their children?! What will the world say?” you laugh out loud but Sungchan stays serious. He shakes his head and holds your hand tightly “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.” He glances to your shaky hand in his bigger palm, “You were starved!”

You roll your eyes “Not starve. You exaggerated that one.” Though you secretly want to yell and ask him to just bring you foods everyday… but you know you’ll get embarrassed if people find out your mom did this to you.

“I just have to hold on for some months Sungchan, don’t worry.”

He gives up convincing you to eat more when you’re out with him, but he failed. And for once he wanted to turn back time and blamed himself for not forcing you to eat whenever he has the chance.

--

“You were too sick for practice” Sungchan worriedly sits on your side when you’re tying up your skates. His practice is always after yours, but for the last two months he had been coming to cheer you up on your practice and bring you small foods.

“I am not sick,” you chuckle and wipe a sweat that falls over your head.

“You’re having a cold sweat (y/n), this is not right.” He rummages his bag and takes out one piece of apple “Please,”  he pushes his hand out to you and you shake your head “I can’t. I have to warm up, see you prince.” You lean in to kiss his cheek and his eyes twinkle for a moment but its soon gone when he sees your fragile poorly fed body slides on the ice rink.

Yes he has brought the relationship up by a notch with you 2 months ago. he’s been a wonderful supportive boyfriend and you would not change him for anyone, not even mark!

Sungchan knows you like his own little sister, he knows your behaviour and he knows how you hide your emotions well. What he doesn’t like is how you can perfectly lie into his face and sometimes he bought it. Like now, you lied about being okay but he can clearly see you looking super tired in the rink.

Sungchan leaves the benchmark and runs when he sees you stopping in the middle of your routine.

“You should eat.” He forces you a bar of chocolate when you reach the chair and finishes a glass of water. “Please eat for me.” He unwraps the bar and pushes it into your lips.

He did not let you eat half, he didn’t want to regret more. He’s been frustrated about your health and he wants to change it. Now it looks like you’re already affected by your mom’s unhealthy diet and he doesn’t want his girl to fall sick or even ruin her body with this kind of lifestyle.

When the bar is done, he offers you a sweet tea and you shake your head refusing his drink. He sighs “Come on, do I have to force this into your mouth?” he twists the bottle open and almost gulps down the drink and you quickly shake your head “I DON’T WANT.”

He quirks his brow “What? You think I’ll force this mouth to mouth? Sexy but nahh I’m not doing it here, there’s minors.” He wiggles his brow and you punch his shoulder.

“Is that all you got? Gosh (y/n) that punch is so weak. Eat more.” He teases you when you angrily grab the drink and gulps half of it.

You feel better, your sugar level is back to normal and you no longer feel cranky. Well, earlier you were cranky to your trainer and that must be because of this.

“Better now?” he asks when you lean into his shoulder. You nod “I was mad earlier, coach kept on telling me I made mistakes.”

Sungchan rubs your hair “Did you though?” You blush and fiddle with your skirt “Well I did. I am just too tired to repeat everything.” You lean your whole body into him and straighten your legs.

Sungchan grabs your hand and kisses the palm “Come on, your sugar level should be better now. Go nail the practice and I’ll bring you for a good dinner. We can have one cheat day right?” he winks and you laugh. Tempted so much by the dinner and feel fluttery because Sungchan can never stop surprising you with small cute romantic actions.

“I know your mom won’t be mad for one meal. I’ll be the one responsible if she is mad!” he sounds so sincere and you can’t hold back your laughter.

“I found myself a great man, didn’t I?” you pinch his cheek and he only kiss your hand “And I found myself a cute princess to take care of.”

Your mood is boosted and you get up from the chair “Watch me prepare for top three! Or Gold as mom said” you roll your eyes and ump down into the rink.

Sungchan stands on the side of the rink and gives you a thumbs up “I am aiming to see you enjoy ad express yourself on ice!”

Your heart softens at that, that was new! Everyone always encourage you for Gold or silver, or perfect performance.. but Jung Sungchan, the star who waits for you when you’re too engaged with the moon. The star in your dark night, the star of your heart, love of your life? He comes up with a new motivation. Not gold, not silver, not even bronze. He did not ask for a perfect performance, but for you, the love of his life, to enjoy and express yourself on ice.  

You can’t wait to nail the rest of your practice and wait for his hockey lesson to finish. Well, you will have to kiss him for his encouraging words, thank him for a great dinner (though you did not know yet what you’ll be eating, but you know it’s gonna be great with him) and of course for reminding you the purpose of life. To enjoy and express yourself.

Your coach heard that too and he comes to whisper “So, I guess you did find the right one. Ready to start over and enjoy yourself?”

You nod and stare into Sungchan with stars in your eyes, “Ready.”

Epilogue

“WHEN I SAY ONE CHEAT DAY, I DON’T MEAN THIS.” You stare in horror at your boyfriend who brings you to an all you can eat restaurant.

He shrugs his shoulder “I am hungry, and you said I can choose.”

You shake your head “Not like this…”

He hugs your shoulder and drags you away from the restaurant “Even when I say dinner’s on me?” he brings you to watch the marbling meat a person is grilling next to the window.

You gulp “It’d be a waste.”

He giggles and ruffles your hair “Fine. We’ll keep this for your after performance. Now what do you want?”

You tighten your hug on his arm and smile “Tteokbokki sounds nice.”

Sungchan smirks “I knew it, you are weak for tteokbokki, that’s why I was super confused when you refuse to eat back then.”

You blush “Stop bringing that up.”

He giggles and bops your nose “Okay darling I’ll stop, anything to make you smile and be happy.”

“I love you Sungchan!”

“I love you most, (y/n)!”

 fin.

tell me what do you think?? it’s happy ending right ;D

[btsmakesmehappy]

Palate Cleanser | 1

Genre: Agent au, friends with benefit (sort of), Stranger to lover, Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut

Pairing: Agent!Taehyung x Baker!reader

Word Count: 5,6k

Rating: 18+ (M)

Warning: broken heart, cursing.

Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 completed

Summary: Taehyung needs something to take his mind off his broken heart. His best friend, Jimin, suggests that he should meet another woman and the first woman he met was you. Would you help him even though you have your own problem, that you hate men?

a/n: Hello again! This mini series is a continuation from Broken Vase. You can read it as as a standalone, but it’s better if you read it first for better understanding! As always, english is not my first language, so I would really appreciate if you give me correction or any suggestion. Please tell me if you want to be added on the taglist!

Also this is gonna be a part of The Company series (Click it for agents’ description!). Please look forward for it!

Taehyung walks mindlessly in the city. It is already noon, but still, he doesn’t want to go back to the company. The sun shines brightly like it is mocking him. And how the roads are full of couples, it is like hell to him. He hates it. He wants to be with someone too. Someone whose hand he can hold in the middle of a busy street. Not just someone, but someone he truly loves. That particular one who chooses Namjoon over him. He knows that the girl loves Namjoon deeply. He always knows it. Yet he refuses to acknowledge it. He thought that if he stays with her by her side, she will reciprocate his feelings. But it is just a mere hope. Love is not that simple.

His phone vibrates inside his pocket. He looks at it only to find Jimin is calling him. “What do you want, chim?” He then moves to the sidewalk, to take the call. His back leans onto a brick wall.

“Hello to you too. Where the fuck are you? The meeting is in 5 minutes, you know!” Jimin yells from the telephone. Taehyung taps his foot impatiently, waiting for Jimin to stop his blabbering. “Just come here fast!”

Taehyung interrupts, “I am not coming.”

There is silence on the phone and when Taehyung wants to turn his phone off, Jimin yells again. “Are you crazy? The meeting is about our mission in Hawaii. All of the agents who worked in it must be present. Our boss and that girl are gonna ask me about you.”

Taehyung can feel his heart stop for a bit after hearing about that girl. The girl he loves. But still, he doesn’t want to meet her. He is not ready. She will be together with Namjoon in the meeting. A sight he never wants to see. “Just act like you don’t know anything! I am hanging up!” Taehyung hangs up before Jimin replies back. He then turns his phone off and puts it again inside his pocket.

Yes, he thinks that it is not professional for him to avoid Namjoon and the girl. He doesn’t hate them, Hell no. Namjoon is one of his best friends and so does she. But he still needs a moment to mourn, to finally moving on. He sighs and walks again. His stomach grumbles. He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday. He doesn’t even believe it himself. He thinks that only women will have anorexic as a breakup phase. But it seems, losing appetite applied for every human being who is brokenhearted.

His feet stop in front of a small bakery. It has a blue color outside and yellow inside, a rare combination since some people think that blue is not an appetizing color. He decides to buy some bread and eat it in the park, he is not in the mood of any rice right now. He just needs something to fill his empty stomach. The bell in the door rings as he opens it.

He is welcomed by delicious smells of freshly-baked bread. He takes a tray and walks around. Somehow the smells make his stomach growls even louder. After many considerations, he chooses a bread with red bean paste and butter and also an egg sandwich. He also takes a coke from the chiller and walks to the cashier.

He puts the tray in the cashier and his eyes wandering around the small bakery. The bakery itself is cozy, with some corners full of cute photo spots. There is only some seating area in front of the cashier. Taehyung is nodding at the rhythm of the music when his eyes dart at a little placard with a hand-written scribble beside the cashier.

Girls get 50% off

Taehyung frowns his brows and asks. “Why do only girls get 50% off?”

You raise your head. “Because all men are trash.” You reply dryly.

Taehyung gawks with that sudden explanation. “I’m sorry, what?”

Just before you say anything to the random guy, someone hit your head. “What the fuck, Hani? Why did you hit me?” you touch your head and look at another girl, Hani, who holds a rolling pin in her hand.

Hani then grabs the placard and tears it into pieces. “How many times did I tell you not to use this stupid ‘girl only’? You want us to go bankrupt?” She then throws it into the trash can. Hani turns to the man in the suit in front of them. “I am really sorry sir.”

“Why? I said the truth!” you shrug. Hani then glares at you, which shuts you up. “Fine. You handle this then.” you then walk to the back, to the kitchen, while Hani handles the cashier.

Taehyung is flabbergasted. His eyes following your back. What a weird girl. “So, how much?”

Hani then smiles, “2700 won. Would you want to pay with cash or card?” Taehyung gives her an exact amount. “Oh, this is a free cookie for you. It’s a new recipe.”

Taehyung takes the paper bag and nods politely. “Thank you.”

“Thank you! Please come again!” She yells to the girl as Taehyung walks out of the door. He can hear how the weird girl is being yelled at. Somehow he finds it amusing and funny, not at all weird.

He walks to the nearby park and sits on the bench. He puts the paper bag beside him. He looks at the bag. Palate Cleanser. A weird name for a bakery. It should be used for an ice cream parlor or that kind of stuff, but instead, they use it in a goddamn bakery. Well, not only the people working there are weirdos, the bakery itself is weird too.

He chuckles. Taehyung loves unusual stuff. He was once scolded by the higher-ups when he showed up in the Company in a pajama set and the other time in a suit with some doodles on the back. It is just his fashion sense, and everybody in the Company just looked at him like he was crazy. Why can't he be the unique one? It’s not that he bothers anyone with his habit nor his fashion sense. He opens the sandwich first and bites it. Not bad. Maybe he will come to that weird bakery again.

“What the fuck, Y/n? You almost scared him away!” Hani yells at you. She puts her hand on her hips. It may be the fifth time she yelled at you about this, this week.

You shrug. “So what? That is my intention anyway.” You open the kitchen cabinet and pull out a sack of flour, chocolates, caramel, and a bottle of peanut butter.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “He just wanted to buy some bread for god sakes. Not making a move at you!”

You look away and walk to the kitchen island to make another batch of cookies. “Men still are trash.” You said as you rolled your sleeves.

Hani just shakes her head. “Not all men are trash.”

“They are!” you yell. “You lucky you found a good one.”

“Enough with the stubbornness!” She sighs. “Fine then, just think like that. But don’t you ever put that placard again! People would think that this bakery is a lesbian crib, you fucker.” Hani stomps her foot to the front, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

You sigh. I hope I am a lesbian, maybe It’s just better that way. You begin to measure the cookie ingredients. Your mind wanders freely as your hands work. You have done this for almost 5 years now, and you can measure a basic cookie dough subconsciously.

It’s because of Youngjae.

It was maybe the lowest point in your life. You found Youngjae naked in the bed with your college friend who you thought was your best friend. But frankly, she was just a bitch. Youngjae was your boyfriend for 3 years, you dated him in the last year of high school. He was kind, handsome, and smart, basically a grade-A boyfriend. You thought you were blessed for having a nice boyfriend. You gave all of you to him. But apparently, he cheated you all the time in your relationship. For 3 fucking years.

You are glad that you have a nice family and friends to help you through it. You cried, starved yourself, and did not take a bath for weeks in your break up. Hani is one of your friends that supports you in that hard time. Instead of just depressed and sad, she helped you move on. She was the one who printed huge ass banners that said ‘Youngjae got herpes’ with his photo and stuck it on every surface in your college. It probably cost you some dates but you were happy and satisfied. You were relieved that you got out of that unhealthy relationship. But still, you despise all of the men in this world.

You studied hard after that, took patisserie classes, not bothered by guys and dating. You get on your feet and finally, you open a bakery in the middle of the city with your best friend. It is like a successful revenge. Even that jerk ruined your life, you still have your best friend and a great job that you have always dreamt of.

You always love baking since you are just a little kid. You love the moment when you wait in front of the oven. You love to see how all the raw ingredients turn into an edible one. And you love to give your food to people, you love seeing their reaction. There was even a time when you made bread with a miso paste fillings. It was a horrible combination that made Hani and your family throw up. But you love trying new things, or just watching them trying your disgusting food.

You put the cookies in the oven. This time you made a batch of sumbitches, cookies filled with peanut butter, chocolate, and caramel. It is your bakery’s special and most favorite one because your customers are mostly girls. Who says that the girls need love? Well, who needs love if you can eat chewy, sweet, salty, and crunchy fresh baked cookies while watching Netflix?

Taehyung decides to go back to the Company after his lunch. He is racking his brain to avoid the other guys. He looks at his watch. The meeting should be over in an hour. He better moves faster. He speed-walks to his cubicle, nodding at everyone in his way. It is not that he has a job to do. He hasn’t got a new mission yet, so he basically can slack around. He sits on his chair. It’s been a while since he moved back to this city. He always chose to be located in other countries as an asset. He loves to interact with new people and to be in a new environment, not stuck in this tiny cubicle in a suit. But after that Hawaii Mission, the boss orders him to return to the head office, and well, he can’t refuse. Even Yoongi, who was an asset in Hawaii, ordered his return too.

He moves his chair around. He is bored. Maybe he is going to ask Jungkook to play with him. Oh but Jungkook is at the meeting. He sighs as he props his hand under his chin.

“Tae! Where have you been?” It’s the voice he wants to avoid the most. She walks to his cubicle with her bag on her shoulder. He can see the scar on her cheek is not as red as before, since it was from two weeks ago. “You are lucky, the Boss didn’t ask for you!”

He smiles sheepishly. “Ah, right. I kinda forget. So how is the meeting?”

She looks at him suspiciously and puts her arms across her chest. “Yoongi found that Ji Seok had contacted some people before he came to Hawaii. So, we need to investigate them. They sound suspicious from what Yoongi told us before. We thought that they might be the newest members of the Black.”

He tilts his head. “I’m sorry. We?” He is fine with another job to save him from boredom, but to work with her again? It’s just uncomfortable.

She laughs, “Oh, I am sorry. I mean you, Yoongi, Jin, Jimin, and Hoseok. Everyone except me and Namjoon. Can you believe that?”

Taehyung raises one of his eyebrows. At some point, he feels relief that he won’t work with her. “What? Why?”

“Namjoon is getting his ‘punishment’ and sent away to teach the recruits and as for me, I have finally decided to go on therapy.” She smiles proudly.

His jaw drops, “Oh my God! I am so glad you decided to do that!” He stands and hugs her tightly. “What makes you change your mind?”

She returns the hug. “Well, Namjoon kinda talked me into it. I was afraid I would get fired, at first. But he told me that if I get fired, he will leave too.” She laughs. “And after that, I gathered all of my courage to tell our Boss. Fortunately, he doesn’t fire me and encourages me to go to therapy. They told me to think about myself first.”

He gulps and gives a faint smile. “I am so happy for you.”

She then releases his hug. “I want to talk to you more, but I must go to my first session. Talk to you soon, okay?” she then waves and walks to the tall man standing beside the door. The tall man smiles and then puts his arms behind her back and walks with her happily. She never smiles like that before and if Namjoon is the only one who can make her happy, he will gladly let her go. Even if his heart aches whenever he sees her with Namjoon, he will be happy for her. He tries to be happy for her.

He needs to move on. He must let her go.

He drowns in his thoughts, not realizing Jimin walks to him. “Hey, bro. How are you?” Jimin has always been his best friend. They both went to college together and finally decided to work in the same place, Taehyung works in the field area, whereas Jimin works as a handler. Her handler. And Jimin was the one who introduced her to Taehyung.

Taehyung sighs. “So-so.”

Jimin pats his shoulder. “I know. You are doing good, by the way. I am so proud of you.” Jimin always knows about Taehyung’s love for her. It’s not that he is not supporting it, but Jimin has always known that the girl loves Namjoon, since a long time ago. Basically, he is stuck in between helping Taehyung, his best friend, or helping the girl. But love is not that simple, and can’t be controlled with a mere human being like him. It just goes with the flow like a log in the river. And unlucky for Taehyung, the log flows to another stream. “Just tell me if you want to hit the strip club okay? Hoseok is waiting for it too.”

“Haha. Yeah right.” Taehyung shrugs. “Maybe next couple of years.”

“Dude. Why are you so pessimistic about it? You are going to move on soon.”

Taehyung glares at him. “I have loved her for 3 years, okay? It’s not that simple to unlove someone you love.”

Jimin sighs. “You know what? I think you need a palate cleanser.”

Taehyung knits his brows. “What? Why do I need that bakery?”

“What bakery?” He asks back. “No, what I mean is you need some sex to help you get over her! And then you can get ready for a new one.”

“So, you suggest that I should hook up with a prostitute?” He crosses his arms across his chest, finding Jimin’s suggestion to be amusing. Amusing as Jimin who is a hopeless romantic and has been in love with his childhood friend since he was a kid suddenly told him to get a one night stand.

“Eww. No! Just look for a girl, you stupid. Hang out more.”

Taehyung chuckles. “Shouldn’t it be easier to find a prostitute?”

Jimin’s nose scrunches in disgust. “If you say a prostitute again, I won’t ever talk to you.” He then drops a binder on Taehyung’s desk. “Anyway, this is the data for our mission. Jin said that we would have a meeting tomorrow, so you should study it. Oh, did I mention that I am joining the fieldwork too? Finally, I don’t need to stay in front of my computer. I am so thrilled!”

“Wow, congrats bro.” Taehyung pats his shoulder and takes the binder and opens it. “But you should practice your gun skill more then.”

“Right! I think I will practice after this. Alright then, if you need other data just tell me, okay? I’ll see you soon.” Jimin then walks away.

Taehyung drifts his attention to the binder. It looks like there are 3 suspects. They have been contacted by Ji Seok for at least ten times in the last 3 months before Ji Seok is caught. The First suspect is Byun Baekhyun, he went to the same college with Ji Seok, now working in a restaurant in the city. The contacts all happened in his restaurant, with no telephone trace. The second suspect is Park Chanyeol, he lived in the same neighborhood with Ji Seok. He now works as a journalist in a food magazine, last seen with Ji Seok at a work party. The last suspect is Jung Eunji, she has no connection with Ji Seok, but her credit card was used to buy a plane ticket to Hawaii.

His forehead furrows. There is still not enough data to capture them, which means they needed to go to the field to investigate. Another troublesome mission. But at least, he won’t be stuck in front of his computer.

It is the morning. You wake up lazily. You are not a morning person. Even though you have a job which requires you to go to work at 6 am for years, you still go to bed after midnight. You always have other activities that make you busy, either you watch movies or read books. Well, not books. You have been using Tumblr for almost 10 years now. That application has occupied your browser history for almost 10 years, and that is the only reason why people never get to see your phone, there are too many links to your favorite smut authors. There is no way people can see that. Basically it’s just like porn, but you always think that it is more than that. Smut is just full of artistic things too. You love how the author writes such a poetic description of humping with emotional touches which make you cry until 2 in the morning. Well, you did other stuff too besides crying. Let’s just say that not only your face is wet.

You take a quick shower before you go to work. You wrap your body in a towel and pick your clothes for today in the closet. You never go to work in classy clothes, usually, you just wear a t-shirt and jeans, you have to change into your kitchen clothes later after all. You wear your black t-shirt and your ripped jeans quickly, then after tying your hair into a messy bun, you grab your jacket and your purse on the couch. You should go now if you don’t want to be late, or getting scolded by Hani. You shudder in reflex.

It is still chilly in the morning. You keep thinking to yourself, why you hate morning so much when you love the morning weather and how empty the road is, like you own it. You yawn. Well, you hate the wake-up part in the morning. You hate to leave the comfort and the warmth of your blanket.

The walk from your apartment to your bakery is not that long. You are lucky to find such an affordable apartment in the middle of the city. It is small, but it is still livable and pretty. It is close to many things, like the market, train station, and even your bakery. It is a pity you don’t live with Hani. You were going to be Hani’s roommate when you first moved to the city, but now she lives with his boyfriend, Jackson. That’s why, when you first saw the ad of your apartment, you called it without any further thinking.

You arrive at the bakery as you sigh in relief for not seeing Hani’s head inside. Lucky to you, she won’t scold you for this morning. You unlock the door and go straight to your locker room to change your clothes. You then skillfully sweep, mop, and wash all the dishes. And after an hour, you begin to prepare your today’s bread. It’s just your usual menu in your bakery. While you are preparing the dough, your mind wanders, where the hell is Hani?

It’s almost 9 am, and you still can’t find Hani anywhere. You wanted to call her, but as clumsy as you are, you left your phone in your apartment. So you just hope that Hani is fine but her ass will not because you are gonna kick her ass for letting you prepare the bread alone. You sigh as you walk to the front door to turn the sign to ‘Open’.

It has always been a hectic morning for two people to make, display the bread, and handle the customers. And now you are the only one here. It is basically like a war. You still feel lucky, to have people loving your bread. But after 2 hours of working alone, you are admitting defeat. You change the sign on the door to ‘Still baking’ and run to the kitchen to bake some more. It is the only thing you could think of right now. All the bread this morning has already sold out, after all. You are never a multi-tasking girl. So it seems fair for you to work in this type of situation or you will go insane.

Your next batch of bread is already in the oven, and you finally can take a breather. You look at your clock on the wall, it’s almost noon, and Hani is still nowhere to be seen. You begin to worry, but it’s not like you can leave the bakery alone. Then the bell on the door rings. You almost run to the front to yell at Hani for coming so late, but instead Hani, it is a guy.

It’s a guy from yesterday.

He wears a different suit from yesterday, now he is wearing a navy one. His curly hair falls on his forehead smoothly, framing his frowning brows. “Are you close or something?” he asks after he observes your display area.

“My friend is a little late, so I work alone right now.” You give a half-smile, a business one. “If you do mind, you can come back for an hour for the bread. Can’t you see the sign on the door?”

He turns his sculpted face to the door, “Oh, right. Sorry.” He then walks to the seating area, “Can I wait here?”

You bite your lip. But before you say anything to him to forbid him, your alarm in the kitchen rings. You snarl and walk back to the kitchen. “Your call.” You begin to pick your bread and put it to the cooling rack. You then put the already cool one to the plastic back to put it on the display later. Your eyes leer to the guy sitting casually in the seating area in front of the cashier. The presence of a man close to you is kind of uncomfortable.

Taehyung looks at you from the kitchen window. It is a big glass window to show what’s going on inside the kitchen. And that noon, the window lives to its purpose, he can see what you are doing inside. He can see how uncomfortable you are. How you fidget every time you have nothing on your hand. How your eyes sometimes leer at him. It is his ability to know body language, he is an agent, after all. He knows that you are nervous.

Since you told him that all men are trash yesterday, he still thinks of you as a weird girl. Somehow he is drawn to you. At first, he thought it was just a joke or a prank, but seeing how awkward you are when you see him, he realizes that you do hate men. And he thinks it’s really adorable.

You then go out from the kitchen with a pan of freshly baked bread and walk to the display. You put them neatly, quietly, trying not to mind him, while mentally praying for Hani to come sooner.

“Wow, you really do hate men, don’t you?” He asks abruptly.

His deep voice startled you. Your empty pan falls to the ground as the impact, making a loud noise in the room. You then give him a dirty look. “Pardon?”

He walks to the display area, casually observing the bread. He then takes a piece of bread. “I thought it just a joke when you said all men are trash.” He walks back to his chair, opens the plastic, and bite the bread.

You raise one of your eyebrows. “So?” You ask without batting an eye.

“Nothing. Just find it amusing.”

You walk to the chair in front of him and pull it. You sit there facing him. “You have a problem with that?”

“No.” Taehyung throws his last bite to his mouth and chews it quickly. He inches forward to your face. “Let me guess. Hm.. You got dumped, didn’t you?”

You widen your eyes. “No, I didn’t! I was the one who dumped him!” You put your hand on your mouth. What the hell are you doing telling strangers that?

He hums and folds his arms across his chest. “Okay, let me try again.” He studies you for a bit. “Your boyfriend cheated on you with your friend?”

Your jaw drops and you can feel a flush crept on your face. “How do you know?” You ask in a shock.

He smirks and shrugs confidently. “I am just that good you know.” He chuckles. “Actually no, I just guessed it.”

Just when you wanted to reply to him, the door opened harshly. And there you find your best friend rushing towards you. “Oh my God, Y/N! I am sorry.”

You observe her from the top to her feet, well, she seems fine. That’s the important thing. You sigh. “Where have you been?”

“Jackson got sick so I took him to the hospital. I have been calling you for a hundred times, where is your phone?” Hani asks. You can see her face is bare, she didn’t even draw her eyebrows.

“I left it at home. Is Jackson okay?”

Hani takes off his jacket and rolls her sleeves. “Yeah, just a little infection, he will be fine.” She looks around the bakery. “I can’t believe you open this yourself, I feel terrible.”

You wave your hands. “It’s okay. But I think we should hire a part-timer. It has been a hell for me.”

She rubs her chin. “Yes, I think it is time for us to have a helper.” Hani then looks to the side to find a man there. “I am sorry. Am I interrupting something?” She smiles.

Taehyung smiles back and laughs. “Not really. We just discussed about her hatred of men. I got free bread for guessing the reason right!”

“It’s not free-“

You are interrupted by Hani’s laughter. “It is ridiculous, right? I talked to her all the time that not all men are like that.” Her voice then quieten. “I even told her to find a palate cleanser, you know. And, this is a lil bit TMI. But actually, it’s the reason why we use that name for our bakery.”

Palate cleanser. Taehyung then remembers what Jimin said to him yesterday. And an idea comes to his head.

You push Hani’s back to the locker room. “Alright, alright. Just go change already.” She follows your instruction as she waves to Taehyung.

Taehyung looks at his watch and then gathers his stuff and rises from his chair. He walks towards you and he holds out his hand to you. “I am Taehyung.”

You take his hand after many considerations. “Y/N.”

Taehyung smiles. He then takes his wallet out from his pocket and pulls out a card. A black name card. “This is my number. If you are interested in the palate cleanser thing,” he then forcefully puts the name card on your hand, “please give me a call.” He winks and Taehyung walks away to the door, leaving you speechless on the spot.

You are stunned, seeing the card on your hand. After a few seconds, you realize. You ran outside to catch him. “Hey, you haven’t paid!” but Taehyung has vanished in the crowded road.

“Finally!” Jimin yells. All of the 5 members gather in the meeting room, with Jin in the middle. It’s already 15 minutes past the meeting time. Taehyung walks faster and sits beside his friend.

Jin sighs, “I swear to God, if you are late one more time, I will kick your ass in the practice room.” He shifts his eye to Jungkook beside him. “Actually, I will ask Jungkook to do it.”

Taehyung being such a brat, like he always does, shrugs. “Fine. I am sorry. Please continue the meeting.”

Jin pouts and rolls his eyes. “What I am saying is, we need to gather as many pieces of information from the 3 suspects and they should know nothing. The Black is still an influential organization. We must be careful not to attract any attention.”

Hoseok raises his hand. “But actually, haven’t we attracted the attention already by capturing the leader in Hawaii?”

“That’s true. But most of the new members seem to be a rookie in this field, they haven’t been that loyal to him. For short, they are terrified. They will do whatever they take to throw all of the evidence that shows they’re in the organization right away. That’s why it’s our chance to dig a little deeper.” Jin continues.

“So what is the plan?” Jungkook asks.

Yoongi rises from his seat and connects his laptop. He then shows all of the suspect’s profiles. “Jin and I already talked to our boss. We think that we should divide ourselves into groups to tail them.”

“So, Jimin and Yoongi will investigate Jung Eunji. Taehyung and Hoseok will investigate Park Chanyeol, and the last, Jungkook and I will investigate Byun Baekhyun.” Jin folds his hands across his chest. “You will be needed to submit your report every single day at 00.00. Just tailing, no harsh approaches. If they suspect something, you will retreat and report to me. We don’t need another attraction. Are we clear?”

All of the members nod and rise from their seats as Jin dismisses them. Taehyung walks to Hoseok. “So do we get a stake-out van?”

It is almost midnight but you still can’t fall asleep. You move your body anxiously on the bed, trying to get comfortable. Finally, you surrender. You pick your phone, scrolling on Tumblr. It is a bad idea actually. You always think that reading some stories will make you go to sleep, but instead, you feel excited and end up reading fifteen chapters of 10k stories. But tonight, you can’t find other stories to read.

You sigh. Your mind begins to wander. And suddenly Taehyung pops out in your mind. A palate cleanser, huh? It is tempting actually. He looks nice. Well, nice doesn’t do justice to him. You have never found a guy as handsome as him. It really makes nonsense to you. His beauty is beyond words. And to have such a guy to offer you such service, you must be dreaming.

Or, is he a prostitute? That’s why he looks so ethereal!

You turn your headlamp on and walk to your purse, where you kept his name card. You look at it carefully on both sides. It is just a simple card, with simple ‘Kim Taehyung’ written in gold in the center, with his email and phone number under it and ‘The Company’ on the other side of the card. It seems too sophisticated for a prostitute’s agency, well, not that you ever got it though. Or is he like an exclusive prostitute?

Should I just text him? You sit on your couch. You input his number on your phone and hit the message button. What should I send? You tap your phone on your chin. You have never texted a guy since college. It is lame actually. Whenever you got a guy’s number, you always ignore it. But now, you just got the feeling that you can ignore Taehyung.

You walk to your pantry, pouring a glass of wine, and bring the bottle to the couch. You begin to type.

To Taehyung: Hey...

You knit your eyebrows, what are you? A high schooler? You can do better than this. You delete and begin typing again. You gulp the wine in one shot and pour another glass.

To Taehyung: Dear, Kim Taehyung. I was happy to receive your number and I hope to see you again.

Are you his business partner? Damn, woman. Just type casually. You drink your wine again. Typing and deleting, and drinking. For several hours. Until you fell asleep on the couch with the phone on your hand.

And just like the safety slogan on the road, ‘Don’t Drink and Drive’. You need a new one.

‘Don’t drink and type’

[shutupaboutandraste]

“  you  keep  using  that  word.  i  do  not  think  it  means  what  you  think  it  means.  ” for Adaar x Dorian? Welcome!

Excellent choice let’s goooo! I mention another Adaar Inquisitor in this little drabble and that’s because my Inquisitor is brother to my friends’ Inquisitor so I usually try to include them both ^u^

Words: 1565

Pairing: Dorian/Inquisitor Adaar

For @dadrunkwriting​ 

Tramping around Ferelden was hardly Asaara Adaar’s favorite activity. In fact, he would consider it one of his least favorite. The entire country seemed to be made of mud and mountains with nary a plain or decent stretch of flatland to be found. Weather in the Free Marches was far more predictable, more comfortable, far better than anything Ferelden had to offer. Yet, his distaste didn’t have anything on Dorian’s. ​

“Inconceivable!” Dorian hissed, for probably the fifth time since they had started their trek through the Hinterlands. Asaara rubbed his palm around The Mark, reminding himself that at least Dorian was easy to look at.  

Varric laughed, “Sparkler, believe you me, it’s conceivable.” 

“The King of Ferelden can’t be chosen by single combat,” argued Dorian, “That’s horrible politics. Hilarious, but horrible.” 

“It’s how they do it here, I swear!” promised the rogue, adjusting Bianca over his shoulder with a winning smile, “Hell, I think Hawke would have preferred that too. Not that they ever got the chance to become Viscount.” 

“Didn’t they kind of prove that by beating the Arishok?” asked Asaara, turning his head slightly to ask. It was always a way to check if their last companion was still around. Or, at least, if it was visible. When his teeth grit at noticing the very obvious lack of Cole, the spirit hybrid appeared at the side of his eye. Good. He was getting better at reminding them that he was there. 

Another deep rumble came from Varric, “I guess you’re right!” 

Dorian scoffed, but said nothing. Clearly, the ways of the South were too much for his delicate sensibilities. Asaara didn’t mind it--his mind wandered to his elder brother Arug, who would have reveled in such simplicity. In another life, the two might have been Arvaraad and Sarebaas, but Asaara liked to think their own style of mage and protector worked out just fine. Fine enough that Arug had felt comfortable staying back at Skyhold at any rate. 

Besides, it was hard to actually talk to Dorian when Arug hovered. Magic unsettled Arug on a good day, but Dorian seemed to do so in particular. And, whether Asaara liked to admit it or not there was something undeniably charming about the Tevinter altus. (Not magister, he had to remind himself, just the son of one.) 

To be fair, it could be hard to talk to Dorian in general. The man was proud, charismatic, and bold like a pristine sunset that reflected itself back in a lake. He talked quickly, usually in circles around other people, but not Asaara. He could hang on every word like gospel. It had begun with inquiries into the time magic that Dorian had studied. Devouring the information had been thrilling, but Asaara came out with plenty of notions. Notions such as the obvious understanding within Dorian’s eyes, but that his speech could twist the truth to get even the best to believe in his work. Or, perhaps, more worryingly, that Dorian’s eyes sparkled when he was excited. That his smile made Asaara’s heart twist ever so slightly. Asaara was rarely tongue-tied, but he had to focus on his words more when Dorian was around.

Still, it didn’t mean Asaara had endless patience. Dorian could be a vain, proud braggart who thought that he was the Maker’s gift to magic. Once one knew him better, that shed slightly, but he could still be pretentious. And, Asaara reminded himself constantly, Dorian was still of Tevinter while Asaara was a Vashoth Qunari. 

 The conversation moved, Cole whispering to himself. Asaara was glad of it-- Cole was muttering his thoughts again. His fingers gently tapped Cole’s wrist which got the other to stop, apologizing quietly. There were many people Asaara found easy to be angry at, but Cole wasn’t one of them. Where he could argue with Vivienne until they were both blue in the face or ignore Cassandra until she looked ready to hit him, Cole was just trying to help. Not berate him with opinions or Chantry nonsense. That didn’t always make what Cole had to say easy to hear. 

So, when Dorian exclaimed, “Inconceivable!” again over something very conceivable-- something about Ferelden fashion and shield maidens-- it was Cole who said Asaara’s thoughts out. 

“You keep using that word,” hummed Cole, “I do not think it means what you think it means.” 

“...Pardon me, Cole?” 

“The word,” Cole continued, “Not believable. It blocks the idea of possibility. An unending wall for the dream of something strange. You use it for things that have already happened that you simply don’t understand. But Adaar understands the difference.” 

“...So are these thoughts your’s or his?” asked Dorian, directing the question toward Cole but looking at Asaara. He grimaced. 

“They were his…” admitted Cole, “But I began to wonder, too.” 

Asaara shrugged, trying to offer Dorian a charismatic smirk, “He’s not wrong. You aren’t using that word correctly.” 

“Yes, I am. Varric--” Dorian’s face dropped as Varric gave him a sheepish smile. He huffed, “Alright then, I’ve been made a fool of. Let’s move along through this horrendously massive forest before a bear decides to go after The Inquisitor again.” 

His face twisted into a mockery of a pout. After knowing Dorian for some time now, it was easy to pick out expressions. This one was embarrassed, his eyes darting toward the trees to avoid looking at any of them, but with his chest puffed out like a peacock. Perhaps, Dorian was too easy to look at. Most people couldn’t watch someone as if they were an exotic animal, learn their habits, learn which lines of their face crinkled certain ways to show their feelings.

Two mages and two rogues were also probably not the best equipped to fight Ferelden wildlife, which made Dorian very right in that regard. Asaara admitted that after a long morning-- Cassandra bleating at him, Iron Bull’s hearty laughter starting to grate his ears mixed with Blackwall's preference for traveling with Sera who was her own jar of bees-- he had probably made a mistake in a hasty party. Not that he minded. Each of the three were the most pleasant of his company. Still, he didn’t want to have to fight more bears. 

They pressed on, hoping to reach one of the camps before nightfall while they looked for herbs for the healers. Once that was all collected and the farms checked on, they could be on their way. Still, a gentle silence hung over them. Fennecs raced by them as the headed upward through a mountain. What Asaara hadn’t expected was for Dorian to softly break the silence between them while Varric animatedly began discussing something with Cole. 

“You’re quite intelligent, Inquisitor,” he remarked. 

Asaara’s lips twitched as he forced himself not to scowl, “For a qunari, I know.” Bastard. It was always the pretty ones who ended up being bastards. 

“No, I mean.. Yes, but no!” Dorian realized his fumble as he began to search for words, “Kaffas. I mean in general. Most people aren’t as smart as you are.” 

Asaara rolled his eyes, “I think the members of the Inquisition each have a plethora of intelligence.”

“Do not bullshit me, Inquisitor,” huffed Dorian, “It doesn’t become you.” 

Asaara whipped his head to look at him, surprised, “Doesn’t… Then what does become me?” A curl of suggestiveness pulled at the side of his mouth turning into a bit of smugness. 

For a moment, he watched Dorian’s eyes soften. Edges rounded as a smile ticked up softly. Those two perfect lips pursed before a twisted, pleased smile of his own graced Dorian’s face. If the wind felt knocked out of Asaara by that soft sudden change of face, he did not let it show. He had become quite good at that over the years. It came with pretending not to be bothered that everyone thought you were just another stupid Qunari-- or that you were just another violent Vashoth. 

“That smile for one,” said Dorian, “I should like to see it more often. Perhaps over tea in the library once we get back.” 

Had he heard that right? Koslun’s balls, Maker’s ass, Andraste’s shitty mabari, and Fen’harel fucking take him he had. Perhaps his own eyes brightened. Perhaps, he gave a little too much away as his cheeks darkened up, unused to the kind of attention Dorian had just bestowed upon him. Perhaps, it was just enough to keep Dorian interested since his expression didn’t change. Asaara let out a breathy chuckle, keeping his voice even as he nodded at Dorian. 

“I look forward to it,” he said, “So long as you’re not throwing books around in a huff again.” 

Much to his delight, he saw Dorian’s eyes sparkle.

Earlier today, if someone asked him if he thought Dorian would ever look his way, he might have replied ‘Inconceivable’ without hesitation. Now, that prefix has been dropped entirely. Dorian flirting with him was entirely and completely conceivable and right in front of him. And, maybe, just maybe the Hinterlands looked a little more beautiful, a little less muddy. 

He paused, adding, “And, so long as you call me by my name. Inquisitor is so dreadful on the ears after a while.” 

“Asaara, then,” agreed Dorain, giving him a polite nod, “An almost musical name, really. You will have to tell me what it means.”

Inconceivable, indeed.

[dreamer213]

Broken Machines: Lights The Dark

Chapter 8: The Charming Things You Say

Penny was feeling uneasy as she finished up her patrol and began her walk to the station. She had brought up what had happened at the end of her lesson to her dad during dinner that night and expressed her confusion with Whitley’s shift in tone. Once she repeated what she’d said about Weiss and Winter her dad told her that she may have unknowingly brought up some bad feelings for him. When Penny questioned how she had done so Pietro just said “ Well how would you feel if you spoke to one of my colleagues and they only know you were my child but because they found out on their own and not because I told them?”. She thought about it a moment and the idea that her own dad, her only family, would not speak about her to his colleagues made her feel so sad and unloved. He then asked her how she thinks Whitley must have felt actually hearing that and she’s felt absolutely horrible ever since. How could she not have notice how cruel her statements had been. Before she had just thought it was odd that she had never heard about him but after seeing his reaction and her dad’s explanation the truth of the situation was all too obvious.

She was still thinking about during the train ride and in the car on her way to the manor. By the time she was at the main entrance and being lead to a lounge room by a maid, Yuko, she gone over dozens of possible apologizes in her head, trying to come up with something to convey how sorry she was about her callous words. She was determined to make things right but she just couldn’t find the right words to say for something like this. She’s still contemplating when she enters the lounge room where Whitley was sitting on the sofa, waiting for her.

Whitley: Good afternoon Ms. Polendina.

Penny: Good afternoon.

There tense in the air as Penny takes a seat at the other end of the sofa, placing her belongings down by her feet, and pulling out the notepad and pen.

Whitley: Ready to continue from yesterday’s session?

Penny: Yes.

Whitley: Alright then, Rule Number 6, when confronted with someone who’s been continuously rude towards you walk away towards the nearest group of people socializing. If the person persist when they get close question them on why they’re following you and polity ask them to stop. Do this loudly enough that people around you hear. Don’t shout, speak clearly, keep your pitch at a normal range but increase your volume. The negative attention the statement will draw towards them should be enough to get them to walk away. Rule Number 7, never interrupt someone, especially when in a group conversation, wait until they’ve completely finished their story or statement then chime in at the first opportunity. Rule Number 8, take a few breaks during longer events like galas or evening parties. If you chat for too long you’ll seem like a gossiper or just plain nosey. Granted there are people known for that sort of behavior in high society but they’re usually more infamous then famous for it. Now this last rule is of a topic of its own all will most likely take up the rest of-

Suddenly Whitley’s scroll rings. He pulls it out and looks at caller id, it’s Octavia.

Whitley: Excuse me for a moment, I have to take this.

He gets and walk out of the room leaving Penny and Yuko alone. Penny looks around and tweedles her fingers still thinking about how to go about apologizing as Yuko watches over her.

Yuko: Would you like to watch some television while you wait for The Young Master to return?

Penny: Hmm, oh no thank you I’m fine.

Yuko: Then would you like some refreshments? Perhaps some tea and cookies?

Penny: No I don’t need anything but thank you for offering Yuko.

Yuko: Of course Ms. Polendina, please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.

Penny thinks for a moment, Yuko was one of the manor maids and had probably work at the manor for some time if she was assigned to watch over a session. So maybe she knew more about the situation with the siblings and could help her try and fix her mistake.

Penny: Actually, there is something I’d like to ask you.

Yuko: Yes?

Penny: How long have you work at the manor?

Yuko: Five years and seven months. Why do you ask?

Penny: I just wanted to know if you knew anything about the relationship between Whitley, Weiss, and Winter.

Yuko’s eyes go wide for a moment, she hangs her head and takes a few deep breaths before answering.

Yuko: That is a very Very touchy subject, so much so that the Master has forbidden the staff to even mention his daughters’ names unprompted, less they be fired immediately.

Penny: And Whitley?

Yuko: As far as I know Young Master and his elder sisters have never been close. Though he doesn’t share the Master’s visceral reaction to the mention of them, it is still a very uncomfortable subject for him.

Penny: Oh..oh no.

Penny puts her hands in her face and her head in her lap. The situation was far worse than she thought, things were so bad between them that their own father didn’t even want to hear their names anymore. And she had brought it up the first week of her etiquette lessons. As if this weren’t already painful enough.

Yuko: Ms. Polendina? Are you feeling unwell?

Penny: I mentioned it. To Whitley yesterday I thought it was just something she didn’t tell me because we don’t talk to each other much. I didn’t know it was this…this…I feel so mean.

Yuko: (Sighs) Please calm down Ms. Polendina, while it was not wise to say anything about them Young Master is quite forgiving. He’s not the type of person to hold an innocent mistake against someone.

Penny: That’s good because I want to apologize but I don’t know if-

Yuko: Then apologize the next chance you get. Waiting and acting pitiful does nothing to fix the situation so don’t delay it.

Penny pulls her head back up and smiles at Yuko.

Penny: I’ll be sure to apologize before I leave today. Thank you for your help Yuko.

Yuko: Of course Ms. Polendina, I am here to serve.

At that moment the door opens again and Whitley walks back in. He still has his scroll out as he walks directly to Penny. He stops in front of her, a small smirk planted on his face.

Whitley: I have some good news for you Ms. Polendina. I just go off a call with Octavia Foxglove, the daughter of one of your suspects. And she’s agreed to have you at her monthly tea party in a couple weeks.

Penny: Really?! That’s amazing! I’ve only been taking lessons here for a three days and you’ve already found an event with someone so close to a suspect so quickly!

Whitley: Well it’s not a hard task when you have connections with every important person, family, or business in the range. But back to the topic at hand I’ll be sending you some details on the party and your target after our lesson but before we can continue Octavia wants a picture of you in advance. She likes to have custom table settings made for each guest with their face printed on the placement cards. And since she’s not a very patient person we need to send it as soon as possible. Now stand up.

Penny obliges and gets up from her seat, while Whitley takes a few steps back and opens the camera app on his scroll. He points the camera at her face while Penny stands at attention, hands behind her back, and smile on her face. After a few quick snaps the picture is taken but as Whitley inspects it he finds it to be very unsatisfactory. While the picture is clear and Penny’s face is in full focus the wall of the lounge room had been so dark that it made everything look desaturated.

Whitley: This won’t do, the walls are far too dark. It’s draining all the color out of the photo.

Penny: Really?

Whitley turns his scroll around to show her the front screen. Penny eyes widened at the sight, though she rarely saw or took pictures of herself Penny could still tell something was off about it. The walls had indeed made everything look much darker, the worse of it being around every piece of black on her body. It was a half body pic so her bow, collar, and the top of her waist were all blending into the background with little bit of the surrounding green, white, and gold of the rest of her outfit peeking through.

Penny: This does look very bad, how do we fix it?

Whitley: We just need better lighting. let’s go the ballroom, if the currents are drawn it should be nice and bright right now.

Yuko already has the door open while Whitley walks towards it, Penny follows behind him and all three leave the lounge. They make their way to the ballroom where sure enough the currents have been drawn however it’s the mid afternoon and the marble floors seem to have just been cleaned and the white pillars waxed. With the sunlight beaming through the windows, shining on clean floor and off the pillars, the room has become very very-

Penny: Bright!

Penny, Whitley, and Yuko cover their eyes shielding their eyes from blinding light bouncing off the freshly clean surfaces.

Whitley: So it’s fairly obvious that we can’t possibly take a picture in here!

Penny: Yes, the camera lens won’t be able to pick up anything with this much light.

Yuko: Then may I suggest we go somewhere less blinding!

Yuko grabs them by an arm each and rush them out of the ballroom. Soon their back in the main hall and begin searching for a better location. They are headed towards the music room where they run into Mary and Sue standing outside the door, Sue spots them first.

Sue: Good afternoon Young Master.

Mary: Good afternoon Young Master and Ms. Polendina, is there something you need from us?

Whitley: Hello Sue, Mary, we’re passing through to use the music room for a moment then we’ll be on our way.

The moment Whitley utters the words “music room” Mary and Sue share a worried look, Sue starts nervously tap her foot and Mary rubs her temples before they turn back to trio.

Sue: I’m sorry Young Master but we can’t allow you to do that.

Whitley: And why is that?

Sue lets out a nervous chuckle then elbows Mary in the arm. She turns and looks at her pleadingly and Mary decides to give in and do the talking for her.

Mary: There’s been a several accidents throughout the manor today. This morning while cleaning the music room someone waxed the floor while others were still working and a maid tripped while carrying a number of different cleaning liquids spilled onto the instruments and the chemical reaction of the now mixed cleaners caused some damage. The repairs being done so no one can enter the room for now.

Whitley: (Sighs) I see, and the others?

Mary: Some equipment in the dance studio had a short and caused a small electrical fire and Mistress fell ill in one of the libraries after brunch.

Whitley: Meaning you couldn’t get her to eat enough food with her wine this morning and she projectile vomited again. Wonderful. That’s truly unfortunate.

Sue: B-but if there’s anything else you need we’re here to hell however we can do to.

Whitley: It’s fine we just trying to find a good location to take a photo, we look elsewhere.

Sue: A photo of what?

Penny: One of me.

Sue: Oooh.

Sue walks up to Penny, hands crossed behind her back, and pushes her face close to Penny’s. Sue circles around the redhead and looks her over. Once she’s done she returns to Mary with a smug smile on her face.

Sue: With her complexion and colors, she’ll look best in natural light with floral/woodland backgrounds.

Sue makes the camera sign with her index and thumbs in front of her right eye.

Sue: Though city night skylines could work to if the lightings right. But since we probably can’t wait for sunset there’s the only one place in the manor that could work with her looks and that’s the garden. With today’s good weather and the right angle, light, and posing, the green and white of her clothing could look very warm and calming plus the sun on her face could really make that red hair look radiant and her eyes pop on camera.

Everyone but Penny stands in stunned silence and looks at Sue, confused by her sudden musings.

Sue: I’m a photography major.

Whitley: I see…that’s good to know.

Mary: She is right though, the garden looks rather nice this time of day and it’s vacant at the moment, so it would a be the perfect option for this task.

Whitley considers it for a moment. After a while he gives them an approving nod the waves over Penny and Yuko and the three starting walking towards the garden. Sue and Mary hang back for bit, Mary looks down at Sue and whisper to her.

Mary: (whisper) Feeling better now that you’ve redeem yourself for your little chemical spill?

Sue: (whisper) That was 98% not my fault and you know that!

Sue then runs to caught up with the rest of the group while Mary trails on slowly behind her. Once at the double doors of the garden Yuko and Sue take a door each and open them, reveal the beautiful greenery of the Schnee Manor Garden. There’s nothing but flowers and trees as far as the eye could see with a white tile paths lining the ground as they enter. Penny skips ahead to go wondering, entranced by the beautiful of the grounds and all it’s foliage while the others are strategizes a plan for this mini photoshoot.

Whitley: Well we’re here, now how are we going about this.

Sue: That’s the hard part of photography, we need to find the right angle and light to put her under to get the shoot. And we also need to consider what kind of scenery we want in the-

Suddenly Sue stops, she staring at something with an intense gaze. The others turn their heads to see what she’s looking at only to see Penny squatting down with her elbows on her knees, balanced on her toes, and hands propping up her head while she stares dreamingly at a patch of pink crocuses.

Sue: This is it. This. Is. The. MOMENT! Young Master get over there, get out your scroll, get within half a foot away from her, get down to her level , and center the camera directly between her upper body, face, and the flowers! NOW!

Whitley quickly complies and goes over to Penny, while she’s absorbed in the flowers he pulls out his scroll then he squats down awkwardly. He’s lining up the shoot, trying to get the lens to focus and when it finally does he’s awestruck. Through his scroll’s camera he see Penny smiling sweetly and sniff the flowers. The warm glow of the sunlight brightening the curls of her bright orange hair, and gave a soft glow to her spring green eyes. The pink of crocus highlights the pinks of her lips and the contrast made her freckle dusted cheeks more pronounced and cute. She looks so natural amongst the flowers like a fairy lost in her own world of warmth and happiness.

Whitley: She looks peaceful, so happy, so-

Whitley shakes his head, there’s no time for this they’re already falling behind schedule. they need this done now.

Whitley: Ms. Polendina, please look over here and smile.

Penny turns her head towards him and gives him a gentle smile. Eyes glued to her gaze, Whitley is taking a few photos when suddenly he feels his heartbeat quicken and once he’s done he still can’t take his eyes off her.

Penny: Does it looks good?

Her question pulls Whitley out of his trance and he stands up heart now ponding in his chest. He turns his scroll around to show her the photos. While they’re looking over the pictures Yuko sneaks up behind Whitley. She stands about a foot away and starts waving her hand over Whitley’s shoulder and in Penny’s direction. Eventually Penny catches her waving out the corner of her eye, when she cox her head to get a better look she sees Yuko mouths “ Now’s your chance”. She’s confused for a second but then she remembers what they talked about earlier and decides to go for it.

Penny: Whitley.

Whitley: Yes.

Penny: I….I am very sorry for what I said yesterday. I did not know that you’re relationship with your sisters wasn’t good I just thought I wasn’t close enough to either for them to tell me about their home lives. I promise you I would never have said anything about them if I knew it was such uncomfortable topic, please forgive me for my rudeness.

Whitley is once again stunned, her integrity was admirable. It takes a lot of courage to admit fault and apologize, something very few people in his life had the capability or desire to do. To have someone so strong be so vulnerable and sincere with him felt….surreal.

Whitley: It’s fine Ms. Polendina, it was an honest mistake I know you didn’t mean any harm. Besides it not like I speak about them too much either, I suppose it’s just the nature of our relationship. Anyway now that we’ve gotten a good photo we can return to our lesson.

Whitley turns around and addresses the maids.

Whitley: Yuko! We’re done here, time to head back to the lounge. Sue and Mary, thank you for your help.

Yuko: Yes, Young Master.

Mary: Of course, Young Master.

Sue: Thank you, Young Master.

Whitley quickly walk towards the doors, Penny and Yuko follow behind him leaving Sue and Mary behind in the garden. Soon they reenter the lounge room, get seated, notepad out, and they’re ready to continue their lesson.

Whitley: Now that that’s been taken care of we can finally get to the most important topic of today’s lesson. Especially since you’ll need to know this subject well to successful at the tea party. Now this subject is something you probably already do in your day to day life but I highly doubt you know how to do it and use it properly. The topic is……how to compliment a person.

Penny: Huh?

Penny tilts her head a little confused but Whitley just smirks and continues.

Whitley: Now I know this sounds very rudimentary but compliments can be a powerful tool when dealing with elites. This is due to one of the major values in high society, vanity. Most elites are extremely vain and thrive off validation. They need people to know and admire how rich, how classy, and absolutely fabulous their lifestyle is, making most weak to flattery and praise. With a little praise you can make uptight elites feel at a bit at ease with you. However there are some rules you must follow to use this value successfully, the first is timing. The first compliment should be given after the first greeting, if your address a group give a general compliment like “You all look absolutely lovely today!” or something similar. If it’s a single person you can be more specific, which can be rather simple if you pay attention to how the person’s behavior and movements. Those who thrive on this kind of validation will make themselves noticeable by wearing the most eye catching outfit and accessories possible, even at most casual of events, and will show off their new pieces to garner even more attention. They’ll play with their rings and hair, twirl around in their dresses, and anything they can think of to show off what they have. This gives you easy objects to identify and praise, for those who aren’t so obvious look for them over discreetly first then compliment whatever you think took the most time, effort, and money to prepare. Now the second rule is the most important to remember, never give to much at once. While compliments are a good tool it can be a double edge sword, too much and you’ll seem like a brown nose, too little and you’ll seem petty.

Penny puts her pen down and raises her hand, Whitley acknowledges this and points to her hand. He can guess what she’s about to ask.

Penny: What does complimenting someone have to with color of my-

Whitley: Brown noser is the term for someone who give excessive praise and compliments in order to gain a person of high standing’s favor. The “brown nose” comes from the less polite term of ass kisser which is derived from the idea that this kind of people were so desperate to get the approval of someone in a higher position that they’d kiss their rear ends if it might they’d something out of it. The “brown nose” comes from the idea being that close to someone’s rear would get a bit of….well you know the only brown substance human creates down there. It’s just a negative metaphor for someone how praises and flatters someone of higher standing in order to get something.

Penny: Oooh. Ewwww.

Whitley: I know, and in order to avoid appearing like one of those people after you’ve payed your first compliment don’t give another for the rest of the conversation unless they actively try to impress you. For that situation set a limit of five compliments for women and three for men.

Penny: Why is there different amount for men and women?

Whitley: Because men don’t need as much validation.

Penny: Is that true?

Whitley: It’s what social norms dictate and in high society that’s all that matters. Now I’d like to see how much you’ve learned today, I want you to compliment three aspects of my physical appearance using my lecture as a guide.

Penny almost drops her pen at Whitley’s outlandish request. Now there was no lack of things Penny could say about his appearance in fact it was quite the opposite. There was so much she could say about him, from his snow white hair to his elegant figure and jewel like eyes there was almost nothing about him Penny didn’t find beautiful. Penny decides to focus on his instructions, he said to look the person over and comment on what most likely took the most effort. Penny stares over at Whitley, who’s sat on the other edge of the sofa, legs crossed with one arm propping up the other as he rest his head on it as he stares back her, waiting patiently for her to speak. Penny feels the drumming in her chest returning but she powers through and continues to ponder until she gathers the courage to finally speak.

Penny: Your outfit looks very nice, it’s very well put together and formal but casual.

Whitley: Well it should, the vest alone was quite an expensive piece. Continue.

Penny: Your haircut is very neat and your hair itself is very pretty. The color and texture reminds me of silk.

Whitley:.…My stylist is known for their skill and I do best to get it right when I have to.

Penny: That’s not surprising you seem very diligent with the up keep of your appearance. Besides your hair and clothing your nails are also nicely manicure and your skin is soft and smooth without any blemishes. Overall you’re truly a beautiful and dashing young man Whitley Schnee.

Whitley slumps forward and face palms. Penny tries to ask what’s wrong but he puts up one of his hands and motions for her to stop.

Whitley: Would appear that I overlooked an important point in my lecture. Rule three, compliments should be a short statement commenting positivity on an aspect of a person’s appearance or personality. It should never be more then a sentence or two and as a young lady you should never give such detailed compliments to a man of any age. It can come off as flirtatious and that is highly improper and inappropriate.

The information hangs in the air for a moment until it finally sets in and Penny realize what he’s insinuating and her face bright red as she becomes overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Penny: I-I didn’t-I wasn’t trying to-I really don’t know-

Whitley: It’s fine, just don’t make the same mistake again, others won’t take it so lightly. You’re dismissed.

Penny: Okay! Goodbye see you tomorrow!

Penny quickly grabs her things and runs out of the room not even waiting for Yuko to escort her, leaving her and Whitley behind in an awkward silence.

Yuko: That was…interesting. She’s a rather odd girl isn’t she Young Mas- YOUNG MASTER!

Yuko looks over at Whitley in shock, his face, neck, and arms, they’d all gone beet red! Yuko rushes over to him, trying figure out how he gotten this way.

Yuko: Young Master are you alright? You’re breaking out into a fever. I’ll call the doctor down immediately! Please-

Whitley: I’m fine Yuko, I just need a minute to breathe. Please give me some space.

Yuko: Yes Young Master.

Yuko leaves the room, once he’s alone Whitley throws his head into his lap as he tries to contain a scream. How could Penny say such things so earnestly! What was she possibly thinking spouting such praise like that!

Whitley: Why? Why did she say all of that! It was a simple task, “compliment my appearance” that was it. There was no reason for her to go into that kind of detail! Was she trying to act like a kiss up or is that really how she sees me?

Whitley was confused by how anyone could say such things so easily. For most of his life kind words had a few uses. They were used for personal gain and control by most elites, sparsely used by the staff as part of their jobs of caring for the manor’s inhabitants, and almost entirely nonexistent with his family. Yet this girl he’s known for such a short time had chosen to praise him so sincerely. She had been there less than a week and had already proven to be far more odd and unpredictable then Whitley could have ever imagined. However as much as he wanted to be annoyed by her actions a part him can’t help but long for tomorrow and their next lesson.

[vaguely-concerned]

R-r-r-rewatch thoughts for The Mandalorian S2 Ep2

(or Chapter 10 as they seem resolved to call it)

- can I just express my joy for a moment that in one episode we get peli, the answer to my pleas for female representation in the ‘sketchy middle aged car mechanic’ niche, and a female alien designed with no consideration towards sexiness. (I mean I’m sure there’s someone. There is always someone somewhere on the Internet, is the bitter truth history has shown to us. but it’s not the intention behind the design haha)  

- they do take great pains to deliberately show you boba’s armour several times both in the recap and in the episode itself, so never despair he is very likely still on his way onto our screens once more

- this dude holding the baby hostage wanting specifically the jetpack in exchange is the one (1) break this whole episode gave din lol 

also the Patented Mando Finger Curl of Stress while he talked softly and calmly to not promp this asshole to make a sudden move... the most endearing character tic, I love my space cowboy dad so much 

- fun continuity detail: din is all out of whistling birds now, and you can see it here!

I wonder if he could still use the same mechanism with different ‘ammo’, it’s just not as effective? from the way the armorer spoke whistling birds seem quite rare and it would be an inefficient use of beskar if that’s the only thing it can be loaded with

 - I love how after the last episode, a 50 min epic with a bunch of original trilogy significance and impressive technical achievements and exciting character reveals, I was like ‘yeah okay I suppose that is quite interesting’, and this mess/comedy of inconveniences is the thing that fully makes my brain tip into the obsessive ‘BABY AND DAD SHOW!! BABY AND DAD SHOW!!!!!’ mind state lol

- ah the traditional ‘mando trudging slowly but steadily through the desert’ montage we all love to see (I hope this is going to be a Thing for the second episode of every season from now on) 

Also I assume his suit has some sort of temperature regulation built in and that’s how he didn’t, y’know. die under the blazing desert sun

-

CAT FIGHT CAT FIGHT man I love the jawa. also mando doesn’t even glance over at them, really emphasizing how he’s like. done with this entire day (and it’s all barely even getting started din! i’m sorry)

 yodito’s look in this scene tho... he’s like ‘we’ve Seen some shit lady’ (actually I think he’s staring at ‘dr mandible’ like O___o. it’s been a long day for a lil boy) 

you get to see dr mandible’s cards a few times, so I assume anyone who knows the rules of... sabacc? probably? could figure out beforehand that he was in a bad spot. (the star wars fanbase is one of those where I KNOW the rules exist somewhere, and I know people who know those rules exist too)  

- that sound the baby keeps making -- the ‘boo-a’, sometimes with a p-sound at the end -- if that’s the precursor to him saying any variation whatsoever of ‘dad’ or ‘papa’ or ‘baba’ or even ‘buir’ or anything, I will die. I will sink to the ground in a heap and never get up (the way he keeps seeking out gaze contact with the helmet and seems perfectly satisfied with it too... fasdhfaskdjhl my FEELINGS)

- it seems confirmed in this ep that the mandos who died on nevarro did so while holding off the enemy so the rest(probably especially the children) could get away; some of them appear to have escaped. which I guess is a small relief

- 

frog lady stepping out of the shadows and into our hearts

I like that her firm nod after Peli translates ‘her husband has seen them’ lets us know she understands... basic? is that the common tongue thing in star wars there’s just so many to remember across fandoms lol? perfectly well, even if she can’t speak it. 

- mando might be running low on ammo for the pulse rifle, if the fact that he hasn’t replaced the missing cartridge on his... bandolier belt thingy is any indication

ETA: actually ignore me this has been a thing since the literal first episode of the show my brain just had a hiccup lol

- so baby seems to use a little bit of the force to pull the eggs towards him -- I wonder how often he ‘taps into it’ or if it’s always ‘on’ in the background for him. if so I guess there’s no wonder he’s so hungry (but also... kid you can’t end this lady’s entire family line like that one cat who singlehandedly made extinct a whole species of bird! D:)

- din so rarely gets openly angry, he just gets passive aggressive and grumpy. and that’s probably not the healthiest way to deal with things but I love him

- frog lady reacts so strongly to when din sends the ping when nothing else woke her up, I wonder if she can hear more frequencies than a human

- 

hello darkness my old frieeennnddd

- 

proof nr 1508 that din does not starve this baby you guys, he even has his own little tray just the right size for him! as it happens the baby simply seems to prefer eating things that are... still alive in some capacity. which, uh. maybe they can invest in some form of non-sentient crickets or something for him to hunt down and.... oh dear

- 

Look how they massacred my boy

By the way I finally managed to put into words why the Razor Crest -- and particularly the way it keeps getting beaten to hell and back and patched up again --  is so symbolically important and meaningful to me in this show in this post over here! it’s always a great relief to me when I can finally understand what the hell I’ve been going on about all this time and this was one of those lol

-  honestly if it weren’t for frog lady and (more importantly) the baby I think there’s a slight chance din would’ve gone ‘well I had a good-ish run of it for a while there’ and just let the ice claim him haha   

- “Why don’t you come over here and give me a hand. Make yourself useful” This is the one time in the episode I think he crosses the line into just being a dick for a moment (but noticeably the baby isn’t just a little hurt at this reaction, he’s clearly surprised and confused, which means this really does not happen often. after the time mando’s been having recently I guess a moment’s snappishness is understandable haha. he does follow up right after with being much more responsive and attentive when the baby toddles away from him, so it feels like it’s going to be okay)

also the ‘boo-ap’ sound is there again when he’s trying to get din’s attention. just sayin’ 

when din comes over to see the footprints baby makes a declarative little meep like ‘see??? I did tell you!’ haha

- it is very funny that mando is using all his technology meant to track down dangerous bounties in the grungy depths of the criminal underworld... to find a naked lady just chillin’ in a hot spring 

- 

cue the ‘father is evil?’ memes fsadfda. actually the funniest thing about this moment (apart from the fabulous finger acting) is that din actually snatches a few eggs out of the baby’s reach more subtly right before, and that baby only whines for ALL OF ONE SECOND before he goes to sniff around for other food possibilities fkadfhjkds. from my experience with human children he’s a lot less prone to tantrums. yodito doesn’t get mad, he gets even 

- baby running towards din through the hatching spiderlings like ‘DAD I FUCKED UUUUUUP’, din’s little strangled ‘ngh’ sound as he picks the baby up and watches all the creepy crawlies come out... *chef kiss* impeccable 

(that little ‘ngh’ and the soft shocked ‘ah ah AH!’s from when he goes flying at the beginning of the episode... pedro pascal and his voice work for this character gives me so much life. in some ways din has this sort of dignity and grace and in other ways he uh extremely doesn’t. he gets to be cool but also vulnerable in ways a lot of male main characters don’t and it’s probably why I love him so much) 

btw here is that moment when din moves to hold the baby tightly against him with both hands as the big spider appears, because it gets me right in the heart... it such an instinctive thing of holding on to the dearest thing you’ve got before something bad is about to happen

fdsafhsdakjlfhsdkjlhfsdajhf oh my god the baby is clutching din’s finger with his little hand during the chase!!!! 😭😭😭

this FUCKING SHOW has just WEAPONIZED putting in small details everywhere to convey the love and tenderness and attachment felt by a little muppet doll even where only weirdos like me will frame by frame their way through the video to see it I am so MAD

- frog lady going ‘fuck this’ and bounding along is  e v e r y t h i n g 

- din is an amazing shot, though, he doesn’t seem to miss a single one in this whole scene (then again there’s something to shoot at basically everywhere one can take aim so lol)

-

baby hiding behind/half hugging din’s boot as he tries to get the doors closed hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I can’t breathhhhheeeee 

honestly every single one of the baby’s proximity seeking behaviours in this ep has me on my knees 

- it’s very unfair to play the heroic happy mando music like everything is going to be fine and then have a huge fuck-off spider drop down from the ceiling and break it off mid-tune, the mandalorian, you have trained me in certain ways and now do you betray me??? how can I trust again

- the camera work in the scene with the new republic guys gives such a good sense of the discomfort of being judged from on high by someone or something you can’t really see -- the glare of the lights blocking out everything in the shots from din’s pov makes it feel like a tense interrogation (the new republic dude who is actually dave filoni has such a look of fondness as he watches din tho it’s kind of sweet)

- ...oh no I think baby was actually considering munching on that dismembered spider leg YODITO NO JUST EAT YOUR KRAYT DRAGON BABY

- hngh this is a weird filler episode and it has my entire heart. I suspect we might get some episodes of a more stationary baby between active ones like this -- you can tell a little bit in this episode that especially having him running around fast is quite difficult to have look natural, they likely save that effort up for when it best serves the narrative  

[ada-mike]

The Truth Always Comes Out - Digimon (Davis/Yolei)

Hey, guys, long time no see. Hope you’re all doing well, all things considered. I decided to dust off this blog and post a little FanFiction for a change! Fancy that. Why FanFiction for a fairly rare pair in a children’s cartoon from twenty years ago? Good question. I was honestly inspired by the work of a truly amazing writer @tanyatakaishi and their incredible story Innocent Games, whose sequel is currently in progress and definitely worth the read whether you’re into Digimon or not (but you should be into Digimon, i mean seriously?) But yeah, drop by and give Innocent Games a read, drop a comment and a kudo too while you’re at it. This short story I’m posting myself is so inspired by Innocent Games, it’s pretty safe to call it a FanFiction of a FanFiction, doesn’t really fit into any canon, and is just something I had rattling around my head that I needed to bang out. Please give it a read and let me know your thoughts! Stay safe, ya’ll.

- Mike

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In hindsight, he really should have known better. Yolei had always possessed an inquisitive streak to put it lightly (whether or not the matter being investigated was her business was rarely a concern) and she was typically about as adept at snooping things out as Davis was poor at hiding them.

And really, on his laptop of all places?

Davis, along with the rest of their friends, had spent his fair share of time around – as well as inside of – computers, but regardless, they were still Yolei's domain through and through, her expertise. And as his father had once told him many years ago, during a family trip to the supermarket where Davis had denied, despite being caught, that he'd tried to shoplift a pack of gum down the front of his shorts: The truth always comes out.

His thoughts were scattered though as they stumbled through the front door and into the blackness of the dorm he shared with Ken. Yolei was strung over his back like a long-legged, lilac-haired knapsack – having mounted him during the elevator ride, laughing, the liquor in her belly turning her playful.

The haze of alcohol still hung heavy in Davis’s mind too, enough so that his legs wobbled dangerously as he carried her through the blackness to where he approximated the futon was.

“Is Ken here?” Her breath was warm in his hair and the heat climbed up his neck to settle in the tips of his ears.

“Nah,” He said. “He’s with his parents this weekend.”

“Perfect.” She purred.

Davis picked up the pace, stumbling over a pair of soccer cleats in the dark. He spun in a circle, pulling a fresh laugh from Yolei, before depositing them both on the sagging futon cushion. Yolei sat pinned behind him, a little squished, but regardless it was the perfect position to plant sloppy kisses on his exposed neck. Davis squirmed, his heart racing.

“It doesn’t smell in here, does it?” He asked.

“Only a little.”

“It’s the trash, I bet. I haven’t taken it out since Monday.” He moved to rise, but she pulled him back into her lap, near growling:

“Leave it.”

“Mmm,” He hummed. “You like the funk, huh? It sets the mood for you?”

“You’re about to ruin the mood if you don’t shut it.”

“Such a way with words, love.”

Love.

That word. It was enough to diffuse squabble that had been sparking.

Davis sunk back into her and she wrapped her arms around him, feeling up and down his chest, then down his gut. He seized one of her hands and brought it to his mouth, kissing her sharp knuckles, the pads of her fingers, her wrist. It was surprisingly tender for him.

And it drove her absolutely wild.

Her free hand had just wrapped around the buckle of his belt, when the door to the bedroom creaked open.

“Davish?”

They both flinched as tiny feet pounded on the floor, leapt, then thudded lightly on the futon by their side. Yolei reached and flicked on the lamp switch by her head.

“DemiVeemon!” Davis was grinning at the sight of his partner, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I thought you’d still be sleeping, buddy.”

“I had a dream that we were on a boat! I wanted to tell you about it!” The in-training Digimon clambered onto Yolei’s knee. “Yolei, your face is so red you look like a tomato!”

“It’s hot.” She explained. And it was, the compounding moments of passion followed by DemiVeemon’s interruption had them both sweating slightly.

“Where’s Poromon?” The Digimon asked, unperturbed. Fresh from his nap, he was ready to play.

“Um- He’s spending the night in the Digital World.” She dug her nails into Davis’s side, causing him to wince in pain, the soft touches suddenly gone. “I kind of thought you’d be there too.”

“Nope!” Chirped DemiVeemon. “But we could all go now!”

“Tomorrow, buddy.” Davis brushed his hands over DemiVeemon’s ears. Even if a trip to the Digital World could be fit into their agenda, the phantom feeling of Yolei's hands on him was fresh and that very likely meant that standing up anytime would be a bad move. “But hey, you know, I think I still have some Udon in the fridge from yesterday. Ya hungry?”

“Yes!”

As DemiVeemon scampered away, Davis sighed and lifted himself out from between Yolei’s legs so he could sit beside her.

“Sorry about that,” He settled his arms on her shoulders, leaning close. “But where were we?”

“Davis, no.” She pushed him back. “I told you that I was taking Poromon to the Digital World so we could be alone tonight. Why didn’t you do the same?”

“I was going to. I just – I dunno, felt bad about dumping him there.” Davis rubbed his nose. The alcohol's buzz was fading from him now, much too fast for his liking. “He’ll be in a food coma in twenty minutes though, I guarantee it. Then we can get back to -”

“Hold on,” Her eyes sharpened into knives behind her glasses “You think I dumped Poromon in the Digital World?”

“No, I-”

“I did not dump him,” She continued, shifting further away on the cushion as she sat up straighter. “He’s helping out in Primary Village. I’ll be there to pick him up again tomorrow.”

“I know!” Davis felt a fresh wave of heat roll up his ears, annoyed that she was picking apart his words tonight of all nights. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.”

“I have no reason to feel guilty.” She folded her arms and sank back, eyes settling on the kitchen where DemiVeemon’s ears were casting shadows up the wall from the light of the open refrigerator. “He’s fine, just – dammit, Davis.” A heavy sigh billowed her lips, then: “You and I just got back together, what? Three days ago? And between school and everything, you and I haven’t had time… We needed a night like this.”

It was true. This most recent “break” of theirs had been a rough one and longer than any previous up to now. Almost an entire two months had passed where they barely spoke a single word to each other, only interacting when strictly necessary for Digimon matters, or the occasional late-night message over their D-Terminals.

Davis slumped back too.

“Tonight was a good night.” He said lamely.

She just nodded.

They sat in silence for a minute as DemiVeemon finished rummaging for food. He eventually waddled past them back to Davis’s bedroom, a warm bowl nearly as big as he was balanced on his head. All dreams of boats forgotten for the time being. Whether or not he had heard the beginning of their spat, Davis wasn’t sure. Regardless, he now wished his partner had stayed to break some of the tension that hung heavy in the room.

What he really wanted was another drink.

What he needed to do was apologize.

Instead, he lurched forward, propping himself on one arm as he reached over Yolei. She opened her mouth, ready to rebuke him again, until he reached past her and snatched the clunky laptop that sat on the end table.

It was five pounds heavier and just as many years outdated for anything Yolei would have considered satisfactory, but Davis had got it for a good price in a resale shop and desperately needed a computer for school. He grunted as he settled back in his seat and flipped open the lid, determined to find a way to break the awkward silence.

“Can I – um, play some music?”

He was already scrolling through his rather extensive music library, not waiting for an answer, but Yolei nodded anyways.

“Just no dub-step, please for the love of God.”

He chuckled and something in her chest unwound. He eventually settled on something, and with a double-click the room was filed with smooth guitar and steady drums. They listened, Davis nodding his head in beat and Yolei watching him.

“The speakers on that thing are awful.”

“Yeah.”

The song transitioned, adding more varied guitar and aggressive vocals.

“I haven’t heard this one before.”

“Ken showed it to me.”

“It’s good.”

“Yeah.”

As the song started to fade, Davis reached, without looking, and rubbed a line up and down Yolei’s thigh. She unfolded her arms, but before she could move further towards him, he was lifting the laptop from his lap and moving it into her’s. He stood up.

“Gotta take a piss.” He muttered, trudging towards the bathroom, tripping over the same pair of cleats as he went.

Yolei watched him leave, long nails tapping on the plastic laptop chassis. After the bathroom door closed and she heard him emptying his bladder into the toilet through the thin wall, she sighed and began flicking through his music.

She had gotten a little too defensive earlier and she knew it.

The truth was, she did feel a little guilty for parting ways with her Digimon, even if it was only for a night. Despite the lack of crises in the Digital World needing their intervention, it sometimes felt like she was shirking responsibility by turning more attention to other aspects of her life.  

But she was older. She was busy – they all were.

Breaking up with Davis a few months ago had been a mistake, a rash decision after a stupid fight.

Drawing a good night out by coming home with him and arguing tonight had been a mistake. The wounds from the breakup were still fairly fresh. They couldn’t exactly just pickup where they left off.

Hell, maybe getting back together had been the mistake.

She wasn’t even reading the list of songs anymore as she scrolled. Her ring finger tapped a little too quickly on the arrow keys and the music program locked up from overestimation. Grumbling, she tapped more—even though she knew better—and the window was suddenly minimized, and then she was confronted with the egregious mess of folders on Davis’s desktop.

What immediately caught her eye was the folder labeled ‘Sexy Sexy Sexy’, and with that, any thought of innocently returning Davis’s music library vanished up in smoke.

Eyebrow quirked, she clicked and opened the oddly-named folder without hesitation. Of course she knew that most every guy had that particular folder stashed away. Having it on the desktop was definitely bold though.

What she saw though almost made her guffaw, and she struggled to steel herself.

The folder contained pictures upon pictures of different styles of ramen, most likely purloined from some high-end bistro’s online menu, judging by the nearly indecent high quality and their tiny watermarks in the corner of each. Nearly every photo was accompanied with an adjacent text document, containing what Yolei astutely guessed were Davis’s attempts at parsing out the recipe by looks alone.

This ramen folder was probably more organized and cared for than the one he used for homework, and a quick visit back to the desktop and to a directory simply dubbed ‘hw’ confirmed this.

Yolei glanced at the bathroom door. Things inside had gone silent, but if history and the number of sliders he ate at the bar were reliable indicators, Davis would probably be preoccupied for a few more minutes. She had plenty of time.

Yolei cruised through the rest of his desktop in record time, finding nothing of note outside of a few folders containing game roms, a second folder of his own home-brewed ramen recipes, and much to her surprise: an alarming amount of digitized Shoujo manga, definitely pirated. She filed that away for teasing ammunition later.

Now, to find the really good stuff.

Her practiced fingers danced over the keyboard, running a shell command to search for recently accessed items. Buried in several sub-folders was one entry that caught her eye, a single folder with a timestamp indicating it was opened just an hour or so before he’d picked her up for their date earlier that evening.

The folder was named ‘yolei’.

A swirl of emotions flooded her as she opened the file with her namesake, and she found it was a dumping ground of yet more photographs.

Instead of gratuitous snapshots of food however, they all featured her.

Yolei immediately recognized a series of selfies she’d sent him herself – some as early as when they had first started their on-again/off-again relationship years ago. It had never occurred to her that Davis would be the type to save them anywhere but his phone. It was surprisingly sentimental of him.

An image of Davis lying in his bed, clicking through and lovingly studying a slideshow of her, sprung to mind and she felt a warm swell of affection for him. She had done something similar on occasion, when their respective university work had kept them apart for multiple days on end.

There were other styles of pictures too. As she scrolled further, she found photos they had taken together at her high school graduation ceremony, shots of them at a beach trip, and one from her recent birthday where he’d tried to wrestle her face into the cake. She couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

She came to a stop at one photo in particular, the image’s age betrayed by how grainy it’s quality was.

They couldn’t have been older than thirteen. Davis was round-faced and grinning in the middle, one arm slung over Ken to his left and the other over a mildly miffed Kari. T.K. stood on Kari’s other side (Yolei had forgotten about that silly hat he used to wear) and on the opposite edge stood Yolei herself, all spindly limbs and thick, round glasses—stained brilliant white from the flash of the camera.

Their Digimon partners stood huddled around their feet and Yolei felt a fresh pang when her eyes fell on Hawkmon.

She scrolled further, perhaps more quickly than necessary, but then came to a screeching halt.

“Bastard.” She hissed, an angry blush spreading across her cheeks.

“What?” Davis had somehow exited the bathroom and was halfway back to his seat. Yolei had been so engrossed in her recent discovery she hadn’t even heard him flush.

Without missing a beat, she twirled the laptop around and pointed the screen at him accusatory.

“What the hell is this?”

To his credit, Davis had learned since the gum smuggling attempt in his youth that it was best not to lie when he’d be caught.

“Oh,” His mouth formed a perfect O-shape. Now he was blushing too. “I can explain-”

“You better!” She rattled the laptop at him, the hinge wobbling dangerously. “I told you to delete these, Davis!”

It had been her one demand when they had broken up most recently. He had listed several himself, including the unconditional return of the multiple sweater-shirts she’d swiped from his dorm. She considered this a devastating blow, as they made the perfect sleeping shirts in her opinion. But to be fair, he actually needed them more than she did, his winter wardrobe being sparse as it was.

“I did delete them!” He shot back.

“Oh—that is so obviously not true.” She flipped the laptop back around so she could look at them again. The photos were definitely there, present and accounted for, completely not deleted. Her eyes were flashing as she glared back up at him. “Why did you keep these?!”

“Look, you specifically asked me to delete from my phone,” He explained. “And that’s what I did.”

“Oh, so you thought you could keep these on a technicality, huh?”

“We’re back together now so why does it matter?” He threw his hands in the air. “They’re not even that bad of pictures.”

“They’re disgusting.”

Davis chose not to argue with that. Certainly most of the photos could be construed as less-than appealing.

His laptop currently contained the only copies in existence of seventeen candid photos of Yolei, caught in various stages of sleep, sickness, and general foulness.

It had started as kind of sweet. On one of the nights she had slept over he’d woken first, and had snapped a quick picture of her face as she slept rather serenely, messy hair splayed over his pillow. When he’d showed her the picture later, he’d called her beautiful. She made a show of rolling her eyes, but smiled and blushed all the same.

For the second photo, he’d caught her while she was trying to subtly pick her nose.

It had kind of snowballed from there.

“Why were you even going through my laptop anyways?” He demanded in turn.

“I was looking for music.” Yolei turned her nose up matter-of-factly.

“In my pictures? Yeah, Right.”

“You’re missing the point.” She waved her hand as if his words were a fly buzzing by her ears. “This is a major breach of privacy.”

“Now that, you’re right about.” He stepped forward finally and reached for his laptop, but she pulled it to her chest.

“I mean my privacy, you jackass.”

“I took those, so they’re actually mine.”

“But they’re not pictures of you, are they?” She looked down, scrutinizing one of her in an unseemly, homemade guacamole facemask, filename: ‘she-hulk’. She had seen all these pictures before at one point or another, usually accompanied with some gentle ribbing at her expense, but seeing the collage now felt entirely different. “Davis, how could I ever trust you again? You promised me that you’d get rid of these.”

She was right of course, and that caused the words to sting all the more. Davis was near a hundred percent sober now, but his vision still blurred. Hot tears of shame, and a heaping dose of frustration, pricking his eyes. He fought and managed to keep his voice level, mostly:

“Yeah, well... how am I supposed to just go around like it’s nothing when you could be sniffing through my drawers every time I turn my back?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

A half minute passed where neither said anything. The music from the laptop was still playing passively, shuffling through Davis’s library automatically and currently playing some upbeat video game OST Yolei didn’t recognize. Eventually he moved and sank down onto the futon with her again, a few inches of space between them, and both their eyes settled on the gallery of photos still on display on the glowing screen in Yolei’s arms.

Davis remembered telling his friends oh so recently that he and Yolei were back together. Tai and Izzy had exchanged a quick glance, a silent exchange of barely-contained, mild exasperation. He imaged them placing bets on how long he and Yolei would last this time and pictured money exchanging hands when he broke the news that they were surely once again parting ways-

“That was the most sick I’d ever been in my entire life.” Yolei muttered suddenly, indicating one of the pictures. “I literally thought I was dying.”

He chuckled despite himself.

“Your nose is so red there.”

“Yeah, the tissues from I-Mart were like sandpaper. They still are.”

“Red looks good on you though.” Their eyes met then, and Davis continued quickly, stammering slightly. “I mean, not many people can pull off crimson flight pants, but- um… you did.. for years.”

Her face had an unreadable quality to it, and it seemed as if she might respond with something, but then she turned away and began scrolling through his computer again. He noticed her eyes weren’t focused though and he didn’t have it in him to try and dissuade her from searching still. There was nothing else to find anyway.

“Why do you even have this folder?” She asked, eyes forward.

He debated with himself for a few seconds, then decided on the truth.

“I like… having photos. You know, of you.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And when we broke up last time, and you told me to delete all those ugly pics of you, I did.” Yolei’s mouth opened to object, but he continued before she could interject. “I really did. I honestly just forgot that they were on my laptop with everything else too, and when I saw them later, I just… couldn’t get rid of them.” He stared at her profile, tracing with his eyes the lines of her cheek, the bump on her nose. “I really thought this last time was the real deal.”

“Me too.”

“Do you think we should break up again?”

“I don’t know.” Even though they weren’t quite touching, Yolei felt him stiffen by her side. She closed her eyes, and said her next words to the blackness of her eyelids. “I don’t want to.”

He breathed out, the air leaving him as if released from a balloon.

“God, me neither.”

She twisted on her seat, opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry for looking through your laptop. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay.” He responded quickly.

Yolei continued anyways.

“If I’m being honest too, I was looking to see what kind of porn you had saved on here.”

“What?” Davis balked. “Seriously? Why would you think I had… that stuff… on there? I don’t even…” He shook his head, the image of incredulity. “I don’t even watch that.” Yolei watched him steadily, a single brow raised. “What? I don’t!”

“Sure. We’ll talk about that some other time.” She was only half teasing.

The promise of ‘some other time’ bolstered his spirits quickly. He eyed his laptop in her hands, suddenly loathing the pathetic thing and how he’d used it to hide away the secret vestiges of what he had once thought would be all that remained of his and Yolei’s relationship. She had owned up to her transgressions.

What he needed to do was apologize.

Standing, he pulled the laptop from her slack grip before she could argue, and looking her dead in the eyes, gripped each half of the computer and snapped it in half along the hinge. The music died with a pitiful wheeze and splinters of plastic flew everywhere, a few bouncing off Yolei’s glasses to disappear into the fibers of the rug at her feet.

“Davis!”

“I shouldn’t have kept those pictures.” He discarded the broken halves of the computer, speaking passionately. “I want us to start over fresh, okay? I don’t want any dumb secrets or anything like that to cause any problems. I want you to trust me, because I trust you – I really do.” He swallowed hard. “I still love you, Yolei.”

Her eyes shone and laughter bubbled in her throat.

“But you computer-”

“I needed a new one anyways. You can help me pick one out!”

“Yeah, but,” She wiped her eyes clear. “What about all the other pictures? My graduation, the Digimon?”

“I still have those on my phone, no worries.”

“And your homework?”

“My homework?” It took a second for Davis’s brain to catch up. His eyes passed from one broken piece of the laptop to the other, then his hands rose to bury themselves in his hair. “Oh shit, shit. My mid-term paper is saved on there...”

Yolei wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, but instead she reached out and pulled him to her. She gently unwound his fingers from his hair and twined them with hers. She kissed him and kept pulling until he was climbing onto the battered futon with her, then over her.

In the morning, she would take off the back panel of his broken computer and pull the hard drive. She’d help him recover his homework and maybe, just maybe, a couple of the more agreeable photos that she would allow him to keep.

For now though, he didn’t need any of the digital keepsakes. As far as either of them were concerned, any number of pictures paled in comparison to the real thing.

For now though, she held him close and breathed in his ear.

“I love you too.”

When DemiVeemon bounced back into the living area sometime later, he found the pair asleep and huddled under a blanket together on the futon. The small Digimon took in the mess on the floor, the couple’s mussed hair, their slow and steady breaths, chests rising as one. Of course, he had heard every word of their argument from Davis’s bedroom, but he was used to the ruckus by now and too preoccupied with his noodles to care. Anyways, no doubt there would be many such squabbles in the future for him to witness.

He decided to let them sleep for now and bounded to the kitchen in search of a mid-night snack. He would just have tell Davis about his dream some other time.

[boonki]

falling in love in a-one, two, three

also found on ao3 here 

Obi-wan is grateful that he’s able to blame the flush of his cheeks on the wine cradled in his hand when Anakin strolls in through the grand entrance. The crowd parts for him naturally, his azure silk top with puffy, long sleeves and tight-fitting black pants allowing him to fit in amongst the senators and royals, the force creating the tiniest golden shimmer around the edges of Anakin’s honeyed curls. Anakin lifts his head to scan the crowd, a note of recognition passing through his features when he locks eyes with Obi-wan. He looks ethereal, a sight to behold--

“Come here often?” Anakin teases, lifting an eyebrow at Obi-wan, who is undoubtedly staring at him, blushing at him, even. He’s had far too much wine.

Obi-wan blinks hard, the lovely image of Anakin shattered entirely, and purses his lips, shooting the man a withering glare. “The symphony? Why, yes, I do love coming here in all my copious free time. I frequent the symphony hall in between naps and walks in the park.”

“It’d be a great place for a date, too. You should invite Ventress next time.”

Obi-wan raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he hums, “maybe the music will quell her homicidal tendencies.”

Anakin snorts at his sarcasm, and their attention shifts to skimming the crowd, cataloging each and every face mingling in the swarm of people.

The council had sent them on a diplomatic mission to steer a neutral planet into siding with the Republic. Separatist forces are growing stronger day by day; no planet has the privilege of remaining passive if the Republic is to win the war. However, before anyone could edge around the topic of politics and war, the Queen had insisted on inviting them to a symphony, followed by a ball to celebrate the Republic’s successes in the war so far. The festivities seem frivolous to Obi-wan, and a waste of time, but citizens do need joy, semblances of normalcy to cling to in the midst of dread, he supposes.

The chimes signaling the beginning of the symphony ring out, loud and heavy, and Obi-wan and Anakin regard the ceiling, noting the noise.

“Time to find our seats, it seems.” Obi-wan murmurs, letting his hand fall into the small of Anakin’s back as he guides them to the right entryway, trying to ignore the firm muscles barely concealed underneath the impractically thin top. An usher stands at the entrance, scanning the tickets as guests filter in.

“You still have our tickets, master?” Anakin holds a hand out, and Obi-wan, a little too tipsy for his own good, almost grabs it with his own before realizing Anakin is asking for his ticket. Force, what is in this wine? Obi-wan rifles through his pants pocket and procures their matching set, handing one to his former padawan. They are seated side by side, so it doesn’t really matter which one he took. The usher barely gives them any thought, grabbing their tickets, checking them in, and handing them back without so much as a peek at their faces.

And then they are inside, and Obi-wan feels the surge of emotion flood through Anakin at the sight of the symphony hall. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the planet’s most impressive wonders and heroes, gold flakes etched into the perimeters of the creature's faces. A massive chandelier hangs brilliantly from the center of it all, illuminating the hall with a golden, hazy, twinkling light, casting dim shadows into the corners of the room. Despite its massive size, the place feels intimate, cozy. Obi-wan already wants to pull at his collar, unused to wearing anything but Jedi robes or armor, let alone elegant civilian clothing. But the mission had necessitated delicacy, and the natives of the planet respect elegance, refinery, so it was important to the mission that they look the part. Anakin had laughed when the council had passed that along: “You’re a perfect fit for this, master. Maybe you can brew them a cup of tea while we’re there.”  

Obi-wan nudges Anakin’s hip, using his chin to signal that they’re holding up the flow of traffic. Anakin takes one last look around the room before gliding forward, checking his ticket one more time for the location of their seats. The lights darken not too long after they’re seated, the tranquil hum of conversation fading in anticipation. Obi-wan allows a glimpse over at Anakin, who is pretending very hard not to be excited. But Obi-wan knows him, can see the way Anakin’s eyes are a little too wide, his back a little too tense, his presence in their bond a little too electric.

A quirk of a smile catches his lips. Anakin has never been to a symphony before, has he?

A piano starts out in soothing, rhythmic undulations, washing over the crowd in whispers of comfort, followed shortly by the deep tones of a cello. Obi-wan closes his eyes, soaks in the feeling of peace, contentment, stillness. For the most part, where it counts, he is a good Jedi, proficient in wrangling in his emotions and being a lifeline of calm to those around him. But there are two things that grabbed his heart, sunk their greedy little fingers in and never let go: Anakin, and music. There is no one alive that knows this about him, for he could never live down the embarrassment, let alone the retribution of the council. And yet, he loves.

If he had been standing, he would be swaying in time with the waltz.

He leans into Anakin’s brain a bit, tugging on their bond, just enough to snag glimpses into his emotions, but not so much that Anakin would be disturbed by his presence. A wave of contentment, heartache, longing, love, washes over him. In surprise, Obi-wan cracks an eye open at him, peeking at his face.

Anakin is completely smitten. His fingers tap in time to the music on his thighs, a light smile ghosting his features, eyebrows furrowed ever so, his gaze cemented on the group of musicians on stage. Obi-wan fights the urge to brush his curls behind his ear, instead gulping down the rest of his wine in one go. Anakin does take note of him then, shooting his master a bemused look, which Obi-wan counters with a jump in his eyebrows and a daring smirk, feeling blood rise into his cheeks at their eye contact.

Siths hells, they are never going to make it through the night.

Correction: he is never going to make it through the night.

Obi-wan isn’t quite sure what’s gotten into him, but he isn’t going to fight the warmth that seeps through his bones, the pervasive happiness that comes so rarely these days. ( Love? Maybe.)

As they settle back into the music, Obi-wan’s mind wanders. He supposes it makes sense that Anakin never had the chance to come to a symphony before, or hear real music like this live, given that the music at the temple was rather limited and generally missions had them frequenting dive bars and nightclubs. It’s a shame, Obi-wan thinks, Anakin deserves so much more than he had been given in life, and Obi-wan is suddenly filled with tender softness for the moment laid out in front of him. He wishes he could bring the man more happiness like this in the day to day grueling onslaught of war. Obi-wan wonders how often he’ll be able to sneak them away to events like this before the younger man, and the council, catches on. He’ll need a good excuse. Thankfully, half-truths and omissions are his specialty.

He tips his head back, letting his presence in the force extend out around him, and treads through all the input: the crest and fall of the music, the wine churning in his stomach, Anakin’s warm glow through their bond, his own thumping heart, threatening to beat in time with the music and fall more deeply in love with the man in a-one, two, three. Anakin’s proximity in his mind is like a fire, incandescent, and Obi-wan leans into it, catching fleeting images of Anakin’s thoughts: a shuffling of people, quick steps, a warm body pressed against his. Anakin wants to dance. Flashes of auburn, sturdy hands and strong arms, crinkly grey-blue eyes-- oh. Anakin wants to dance with him.

No one could pay Obi-wan to release his emotions into the force right now. They’re all his to cherish.

__________

“No one ever taught you how to waltz? Maybe I did fail you, my dear padawan.” He says this with fake disappointment, mirth cushioning the words.

“Oh right, dance lessons in between ‘saber training and sorting the libraries, the usual.”

They’re lingering by the drinks, another glass of wine somehow finding its way into Obi-wan’s hands. In theory, they’re surveying the crowd again, taking mental note of who is dancing with who, what intel could be floating around the room. In practice, they are patiently waiting to join the throng of moving people, looking to find an excuse to join in on the festivities for a moment or two. Obi-wan had suggested Anakin find a pretty senator to charm and Anakin had mumbled something about not actually knowing the steps into the rim of his glass.

“Fighting is another form of dance, and dancing can be another form of fighting. Never underestimate the usefulness of a good dance in politics.”

“Alright master, next time we see Grievous I’ll offer my hand to him for a waltz.”

This earns a genuine bark of laughter from Obi-wan, surprising them both, and Anakin doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin. Obi-wan turns to him, setting his wine down on the nearest table and offering a hand out to the man. “Come on, then. It’s not hard.”

Anakin’s eyes widen almost comically, gawking at Obi-wan like he had just suggested they fly blindfolded through an asteroid field. “Here? Right now?” He looks around self-consciously.

“It’s a good time as any, and if we’re to go on future missions like this, I will not have you kark up negotiations just because no one ever taught you how to dance. Now, come.”

“Language, master.”

He levels Anakin with a stern glare, giving a come-hither motion with his hands, and watches with pure amusement as the man steps closer. Anakin holds his hands out in front of him, glancing over at the crowd to find an example of what he should be doing, where they should go. Obi-wan takes his mech-hand and rests it on his lower back, grabbing the other hand in his right and holding it up in the air, letting his left settle on the firm corner of Anakin’s shoulder.

They’re awfully close.

“So I’m going to step backwards with my left and you step forward with your right-- yes, just so-- and then it’s just like walking, right, left, right, and then I’ll step backwards with my right and you-- precisely .” They both chuckle when Anakin manages to step on his feet a few times, but always a quick learner, he picks up the steps after a few minutes of practice. However, Anakin’s upper body is terribly rigid and all wrong.

“You’re learning a dance, Anakin, not combat training, loosen up.” He leans into Anakin’s space, a giant shit-eating grin on his face. He can tell how bewildered Anakin is. Obi-wan doesn’t know if it’s truly the wine or the fact that he’s dancing with a man that he should not be in love with. “Try to woo me.”

Anakin stills, gaping at him, the faintest blush tinging his cheeks, barely visible on his naturally tan face. For once, he doesn’t have a clever comeback. “I have been.”

“Not with this posture, you haven’t been. Listen, slide your hand down a little farther and hold your shoulders up, and for forcesake, Anakin, relax .”

Anakin ignores him. “Trying to woo you, I mean.” He swallows the spit in his mouth, still staring at Obi-wan’s face, not moving his hands or shoulders at all.

Everything in Obi-wan tenses, unsure of the seriousness of his statement, and he steps away from Anakin, aware of the residual heat lingering where Anakin’s hands had been. The entire room narrows down to the press of the floor into his feet, the way the belt of his pants sits a little too tight, the scratchy hem of his shirt collar, the faint prickle of sweat on his brow.

He looks so eager, so intent, and Obi-wan knows he’s being truthful. What that means for the both of them is a different matter entirely; there will be the council to deal with, the war, force, this is hardly the time to start a relationship, especially with another Jedi- Anakin, of all people. Obi-wan forces the anxiety down, neatly shutting it away in a box to be dealt with later. With it gone, hope, optimism, euphoria blooms in his heart, a whole bouquet of joy growing into a meadow in the hollow of his chest.

With more courage than he thought he had, he offers out a hand.

“As have I,” he says. “Care to dance?”

Obi-wan has seen the man take on armies, a Sith, the council’s discipline with a grin on his face- the Hero With No Fear - but right now, Anakin is staring at the hand hovering in the air between them with the fear of death in his eyes.

Anakin takes his hand gingerly, leads them out onto the floor near the edge of the dancers, and Obi-wan gazes at where their hands meet, following the line up Anakin’s arm to his strong shoulders, the back of his neck, his dark curls. He’s quite caught off guard when Anakin turns to meet him, drawing him in close and waiting a beat before pulling Obi-wan into the rhythm of the waltz.

Everything is a blur, and Obi-wan feels like he’s floating, feet moving in time to the cadence of his own heart. Distantly, he catches brilliantly colored swatches of fabric, open smiles, and rare pearls of genuine laughter from the crowd swirling around him. There’s no time to think about how he and Anakin must look and what will get back to the council, so Obi-wan simply moves, letting himself be washed in the radiance of his dance partner, soaking in the happiness bleeding across their bond. Emotion swells in his chest as he glides, and he finds himself inching closer to Anakin with each step, until they’re flushed together, chest to chest.

They move together as if they are one person, drifting across the floor seamlessly. This is better than joint meditation, better than sparring, better than fighting off enemies back to back, because Anakin is so close to him, and Obi-wan can study the grooves of his face, the gleam in his eyes, the fullness of his lips. They’re both a little out of breath from the quick steps of the dance, and Anakin’s cheeks are tinted red.

He looks so beautiful like this.

When the song ends and the crowd slows to a stop, Obi-wan holds onto Anakin, who is staring down at him, something tender in his eyes.

“Have you been properly wooed, master?” Anakin asks gently, teasing.

Instead of answering, Obi-wan surprises them both and leans in to press a chaste kiss on Anakin’s lips, pulling away before Anakin has time to respond.

“I’m not sure I have sufficient data on the matter. Another dance would surely help me decide if you’ve done it properly or not.” Obi-wan schools a fake look of contemplation on his face, and if his hands were free he’d be running fingers across his beard.

Anakin rolls his eyes.

“Six years of trying and you still need another dance.”

“You’ve had feelings for me for six years?”

“Pining for six years and another dance, unfortunately.”

“Careful not to step on my toes then during this next one then, we can always make it seven years and counting.”

“ Master.”

“I’m only kidding.” Obi-wan tightens his grip on Anakin, leaning into him a little bit, reveling in the way Anakin’s eyes dip down to his mouth and back. “I promise I’ve been properly wooed .”

Anakin’s smile is blinding.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 10: Premonitions]

Several weeks and depressive episodes later...I’m BACK! 😃

And guess what: we’re officially approximately halfway done with BYCNL! (There will probably be nineteen chapters total.)  

The Queen/BoRhap fandom is feeling extra quiet lately, so if you’re still out there I’d LOVE it if you dropped me a comment/message/etc to let me know! I appreciate you all so much and hope you are finding things that bring you happiness, fulfillment, and peace. 💜

Chapter summary: Roger makes a purchase, Freddie makes a friend, Y/N makes an unsettling discovery, John makes a bewildering request.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies (but not your babies...or are they?!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 😊

“Roger, this is too much.” Your sandals click on the marble tile floor, a sandy gold like the beaches of Ostia. You peer up at the winding staircase, the Tudor-style diamond windows, the chandelier dripping with crystals. “This is way, way, way too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much,” he parries merrily. “And look!” He pulls back an armful of sheer white curtains that had obscured the backyard. “The pool has a slide!”

You smile because you have to; he’s so elated, so young. “Roger, baby, unless you’re planning to acquire a literal harem of women we will never have a use for six bedrooms.”

“Sure we will!” He counts on his rugged fingers. “There’s one for us, and one can be the guest bedroom for when my mother or your parents visit, and then there’s one for if Chrissie ever wises up and leaves that wanker Brian and requires a place to stay between husbands, and one for when John needs an escape from that mind-numbing domestic purgatory of his, and one for Freddie’s overflow cats...” Roger trails off. He’s lost track.  

“That still leaves one unnecessary bedroom.”

He grins. “One for Roger Junior.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s a wonderful home for children,” the real estate agent chimes, flitting around rearranging pillows and dusting off tabletops. “Plenty of space to spread out in, lots of bedrooms, fenced-in yard, security gate, spectacular school district...and such a lovely garden to explore! Does your wife garden?” she asks Roger.

“Girlfriend,” he corrects. “And no, she’s thoroughly useless in the agricultural department.”

You laugh and shove him away. “I have other talents.”

“You certainly do.” He growls as he grips your waist, inhales you, bites playfully down your neck and collarbones. The real estate agent raises her eyebrows, but politely averts her gaze and pretends to check if an artificial fern needs watering.

It’s the downturn of August, 1976. The sun is glaring and hot and spills in through the windows, setting the metallic flecks in the marble floor alight. It makes you think of the Yellow Brick Road, of fantasies built piece by piece into truth. John and Veronica bought a house in Putney, Brian and Chrissie a far larger one in Chelsea, Freddie and Mary a posh flat in West Kensington. Roger has his heart set on nothing less than a Surrey mansion. On the rare occasion that Queen has been home since the start of the A Night At The Opera Tour, you and Roger stay in his shabby—dodgy, you remind yourself—old apartment and pack boxes late into the evening, giggling over all the random and ancient relics you stumble across, sticks of Freddie’s eyeliner and dust bunnies tangled in strands of Brian’s spiraled hair, crumpled up spheres of paper with excerpts of songs scrawled on them, fossilized crusts of grilled cheese sandwiches beneath the couch. Queen is preparing for a brief UK tour at the start of September, including a free concert in Hyde Park organized by entrepreneur Richard Branson. Then it’ll be back to the studio to record their next album, a highly anticipated album, an album that will make millions regardless of what’s on it; and what’s on it, in your humble and musically unlearned opinion, is pretty goddamn great.

“Seriously,” Roger prompts, quietly now. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it. I love it. I just don’t need it.”

He grins. “I know you don’t need it. But I do.”

“That list of yours is getting awfully long.”

“You have no idea. We haven’t even started on the exotic pet collection yet.”

“There’s a marvelous koi pond out in the backyard,” the real estate agent says. “You could add turtles, and frogs, and all different types of fish. I can recommend sturgeon, they have such an alluring primeval sort of look to them, and the shimmer on shubunkins is just delightful...”

“You heard the lady.” Rog stretches his right hand like he does when his arm bothers him, when the bone that will never fully heal aches like something ancient and irredeemable, like hunger, like unrequited love: fingertips sprayed outwards, then folded into his palm, then outwards again.

“Rog...I don’t know.”

“Come on, baby! It has everything. Roman-style master bath. Bedrooms with mirrors on the ceiling. Space for my own studio. Land. Enormous refrigerators. You’ll have abundant room for John’s drawings.”

“Ohhh, now that’s true.” John is always adding to your collection, slipping you sketches as the boys scurry around getting ready before a show, during songwriting sessions that last long after midnight, when the band and its expanding circle of friends and family gather for birthdays and holidays. You don’t ask him about You’re My Best Friend, or, come to think of it, any of his other songs. You don’t ask him how he feels about his new life as a husband and father. And in return, John doesn’t ask whether you’re ever going to marry Roger, if you even want to, if you worry about what the future holds. It’s a loaded peace, but a comfortable one. A safe one.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Roger asks suddenly. “The girlfriend thing. The not-wife thing.”

“No,” you reply, smiling. “Of course not.” Roger isn’t someone who pens love letters, recites all the reasons why he cannot live without you, sings love songs. He rarely speaks of love at all. Roger is as he always is: all action, all energy, eyes forever looking forward. But he does love you; you’re sure he does. Everything he does bleeds with love.

“Good. Because there’s no one I’d rather acquire a harem and zoological park with.”

“Okay,” you relent. “But no lions or tigers or bears. I’m quite attached to your limbs, and you’ve come close enough to ruining them already.”

“Deal.” He taps the Canon that hangs from your shoulder by its strap. “We should document this momentous juncture. One day we can pull out the photo album and show Roger Junior. ‘Hey look kid, this was the day Mum and Dad bought the house you were conceived in.’”

You laugh, almost positive that Roger isn’t serious. “I can guarantee you that precisely zero percent of children would ever want to hear that.” Nevertheless, you ready the camera and hold it as far away as you can, the lens aimed towards you.

“Don’t forget to smile!” Roger trills in his high, victorious voice as he rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone.

You snap the photo. The flash bursts through the kitchen of the Surrey mansion, blinding you both. The artificial bluish light dissipates like smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~

His name is Laszlo, and he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen...even when he’s not especially well-mannered.

Currently, Laszlo—an Eastern European moniker from somewhere in his mother’s comically vast family tree—is whimpering and squirming against Veronica’s chest as she pats his tiny back and sighs wearily. Veronica, ever the good Polish Catholic wife, is already pregnant again. Chrissie smirks triumphantly and puffs on a cigarette, her rings glimmering on her left hand, her dress violet and new and very expensive. Brian is lost in some deep intellectual conversation with Richard Branson, gesturing with his long nimble hands and nodding empathetically, his dark curls rustling in the breeze like the lithe branches of a willow tree.

“Thank god you’re here,” John calls as you and Roger approach. “Freddie is about to get this concert cancelled.”

“I’m about to make this concert fabulous, darling,” Freddie objects. “We need pyrotechnics, we need sparklers and explosions and fireworks!”

Mr. Branson shakes his head. “Can’t do it, Fred. The embers could travel and set the trees on fire.”

Freddie groans. “Tell him, Roger!”

Roger shrugs, grinning, resting his elbow on John’s shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t burn down Hyde Park.”

“You’ll be under a huge orange canopy, right over there.” Mr. Branson motions with a sweep of his arm. “You can’t do anything aerial. Flashing lights, sure. Fog, sure. But no fire. No explosions. Oh, and there’s technically a noise ordinance, but we’re working out a deal so the city won’t enforce it on the day of the show.”

“Orange?!” Freddie squeals.

“How will the acoustics be in a tent?” Brian asks, troubled.

John smiles mischievously. “Yes, how dreadful if no one could hear the extraneous guitar solos.”

“I have a gong, Rich,” Roger says. “Everyone will be able to hear my gong, right?”

“Your gong?” Freddie whines. “What about my voice?!”

“I miss stadiums,” Roger grumbles. You exchange a knowing glance with Mary and Chris and Veronica, who is imploring Laszlo to take a bottle. Our boys are difficult, aren’t they?

“The acoustics will be fine,” Mr. Branson snaps. “The tent color will be fine. Everything will be fine. You don’t need any fucking fireworks. Please for the love of god just tell me what kind of sandwiches you want.”

“That’ll be an ordeal as well,” Chrissie quips, and you all laugh; even Laszlo perks up, stops wriggling, glimpses around the open green space with curious greyish eyes like John’s.

Some teenage employee carrying a tangle of cables trots over, sweat dripping down his flushed freckled cheeks. “Mr. Branson? There’s someone from the city here to see you.”

Richard Branson smacks his forehead. “Jesus christ. Okay, I’ll be right there. Hey, Steve, hey, have you seen Dom? Go find Dom and tell her to come over here, okay? Thanks.”

The teenage employee nods and disappears into a sea of bustling people ferrying equipment, fliers, chairs, messages.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Mr. Branson says. “These city bastards are out to crucify me. You’d think they’d be a little more grateful that Queen of all bands is willing to put on a free concert in their backyard, but alas. Hey, Dom, over here!”

He waves to a petite young woman with a glossy shock of black hair and olive Mediterranean skin. She’s wearing all yellow: shorts patterned with daffodils, a tank top the color of butter, a headband like a sunbeam. One of her trim arms is cradling a notebook; the other reaches out so she can shake hands with everyone. The gesture is courteous but somewhat unnatural.

“This,” Mr. Branson begins, “is my personal assistant Dominique. She’s wonderful, she’ll listen to all your pretentious tales of woe and do it with a smile, because she’s a true professional. Better yet, she’s going to ask you the tedious questions I was supposed to so you don’t have to wait for me to finish sparring with the city council. Okay? Okay. Have fun. I’ll be back.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Dom says placidly in a heavy French accent. So that’s why her handshake was off somehow, stilted and weak; the French usually kiss as a greeting. You choke back a snort as you imagine Veronica’s reaction to that. Mr. Branson stalks away muttering about litigious twats.

“Oh, aren’t you just darling!” Freddie circles Dom, admiring her outfit, her hair, her gold hoop earrings. He wafts his cigarette around flamboyantly, completely forgetting to smoke it. “The French are so tasteful, aren’t they? You simply must connect me with your stylist.”

“I would be happy to, Mr. Mercury. But regrettably, I am my own stylist.”

“Ahh!” Freddie exhales, enamored. Mary lifts Laszlo from Veronica’s tired arms and cradles him, tickles his nose, beams down into his fresh and inquisitive face.

Dom pulls a pen from her shirt pocket. “May I ask your sandwich preferences for the day of the show?”

She immediately receives four very different answers, and she raises an eyebrow, her pen hovering over the lined paper of her notebook.

“I’m so sorry about them,” Chrissie says, and Dom chuckles civilly.

“Ham and cheddar,” Freddie tells her, synthesizing the responses. “Bacon, fried fish, steak and onion jam...and something for Brian. Cucumber maybe. Could we get some cucumber sandwiches, dear?”

“You’re a vegetarian?” Dom asks Brian, jotting down notes.

“He’s morally superior to us in every way,” John sighs dreamily, and Rog and Freddie cackle.

“I’m not a strict vegetarian,” Bri clarifies. “But for the sake of the animals and the planet, I try to limit meat when I can.”

Roger adds: “And I order twice as much of it, just to spite him.”

Dominique leads Queen around the portion of Hyde Park where the concert will be held, runs through the itinerary, fields a litany of questions and complaints. And you decide that you like Dom; she’s professional and reserved, yes, but she’s also patient with Freddie, smiles at his jokes, compliments his black-and-yellow striped shirt (“We match, and you remind me of a...oh, what’s the word in English? That bug...it flies around buzzing...buzz buzz...a bee!”), asks him what he’s planning to wear to the show. She assuages Brian, listens to John, takes the time to chat with the women about children, makeup, homes, what it’s like to be in love with rock stars. But Dom mostly ignores Roger, dodges his grins, remains staunchly undazzled. And that would worry you—because Roger loves the chase, you know that firsthand—if he hadn’t already taught you how to trust him, how addictively flawless and exhilarating life with Roger Taylor could be.

When Laszlo begins to fuss in Mary’s grasp, you take your turn holding him; and he blinks up at you with eyes that are wide and clear and seeking, and you find yourself feeling like you always do when you’re around your godson: like maybe you have a stronger opinion about wanting children than you thought you did, like you can’t stop envisioning a baby with Roger’s eyes instead of John’s.

That evening—after leaving Hyde Park, after dinner, after drinks mixed out by the koi pond—as you doze in a sweltering bubble bath and steam curls through the air, you hear Roger’s voice floating from the kitchen downstairs. You rise out of the tub, towel yourself off, slip into a white silk robe as rivulets of bathwater slink down the back of your neck. You tread gingerly towards the kitchen, keep silent so you can hear, lurk in the shadows of the hallway with your palms pressed flat against the wallpaper.

“Hello, is Dominique Beyrand in?” Roger says into the kitchen phone. “I’ve been trying to track her down. Sure, I’ll wait. Thanks.” After a pause, he continues. “Hi, Dom! It’s Roger Taylor, from Queen. The irritating blond one. I was just wondering if you’d happened to stumble across my wallet since this afternoon, I seem to have misplaced it. Oh, you haven’t? Bloody hell. Well, thank you for taking my call. Aw, that’s so kind of you, I’m sure I’ll locate it eventually. I’ve got a terrible habit of losing things. Okay, thanks so much. Goodnight to you too. See you soon. Cheers.” He hangs the phone up as you step into the kitchen. His smile is bright and innocuous. “Hey, baby!”

“Who was that?” Your tone is similarly casual; or so you hope.

“Just Richard Branson’s assistant. That French woman Dominique. I can’t find my wallet and thought I might have left it at Hyde Park, but no dice. Oh well.”

Roger begins rummaging through the drawer full of business cards and address books, tapping his foot, humming to himself. And surely he isn’t trying to avoid my eyes. Your gaze skates over the marble countertop. There, by the refrigerator, just a few feet—a meter, you correct yourself to be properly British—from where Roger stands, is his black leather wallet.

“It’s right there, Rog,” you say, pointing. And now your voice isn’t so nonchalant.

Roger spins to check. “Oh my god, I completely missed it!” He snatches up the wallet with a celebratory chuckle. “I’m such a twit sometimes. You’re too fucking smart, you know that? You’re making me look bad.”

He rushes to you, takes your left hand, bites your knuckles lightly like he did outside Massachusetts General Hospital under dawn skies over two years ago. And then Roger whispers to you, nuzzling your neck scented with lavender soap and doubt.

“Let’s go to bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a knock at the door. John is standing on the front porch of the Surrey house with his hands in his pockets and a vague sort of smile on his face. He’s in a black suit.

“Get ready,” he says. “Do your hair, throw on some earrings. Maybe the pearls Roger got you last Christmas. We’re going shopping.”

“Why do I need to look fancy to go shopping?”

John shrugs, feigning indifference; but the puckish glint in his eyes gives him away. Yet there’s something a little sad and weighty in them too, isn’t there?

Your own eyes narrow. “I’m onto you, bassist.”

He laughs as you tug teasingly at a lock of his downy hair. “You always are.”

John takes you to a dress shop on Bond Street where the corsets trickle with gemstones and the designers all have Italian names: Armani, Prada, Abate, Cerruti, Valentino, Biagiotti. He sinks into a leather chair just outside the fitting room and lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, points to you with the lit end.

“Go ahead. Go wild. It’s a blank check.”

“Really?!” You glance around the shop, your pulse racing. “But I don’t know the occasion. I don’t want to be underdressed or overdressed or whatever. Although I don’t think I’ve ever been overdressed in my life.”

“Yes, you can’t seem to shake those pragmatic service industry roots, can you?” Another drag. “You need a dress and matching shoes. Formal, but not too formal. Think a record company party. Elegant but exciting. Lots of sparkle. Slightly slutty, if you’re so inclined.”

“This is an unconventional bonding activity,” you tell John, trying to conceal your nerves.

“Love, this isn’t something you can fail at,” he says, gently now. “You’re going to look amazing no matter what. So just have fun with it. This isn’t a test. This is one of those adventures you’re always searching for.”

I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage; that’s what Roger once told you. But maybe you don’t always want to be quite so free, so unmoored. “Okay. But you have to swear to give honest opinions. I don’t want to show up looking like a wombat because you were too nice to say anything.”

John just chuckles to himself, shakes his head, devours cigarette after cigarette.

With the assistance of one of the shop employees, you climb into a pastel pink dress with a full ruffled skirt, an emerald green dress with an empire waist and loose sheer sleeves, a shimmering metallic silvery dress with a form-fitting silhouette. John nods at all of them, wholeheartedly approves, defers to your judgment. He periodically consults his wristwatch as he taps his cigarettes on the rim of an ashtray, and deflects your questions when you ask him why. Then you step out of the fitting room—balanced on gold heels—in a white dress with a hem that hits just above your knees, a halter neckline, a slim keyhole down the center of your chest; and John’s cigarette tumbles out of his fingers.

“That’s the one,” he breathes, soaking it in. Then he asks the employee to cut off all the tags and whips out his wallet. “Toss your old clothes and shoes in a bag. We gotta catch a cab.”

“We’re going straight to the party?”

“We certainly are.”

“What the hell kind of ridiculously lame party starts at 3 p.m.?”

John smirks craftily. “The kind of party we’re going to. Let’s rock and roll, Florence Nightingale.”

John gives the taxi driver an address and you sail through the streets of London, splashing through shallow evaporating puddles, squinting when sunlight ricochets glaringly off the slick pavement. The taxi rolls to a stop outside of a grand stone building with columns and intricate carvings of leaves and flowers. The sign outside reads: Kensington and Chelsea Register Office.

You turn to John. “Who’s getting married?!”

He just smiles, a deep harbor of secrets.

“It’s Fred and Mary, right? Jesus christ, John, you can’t wear white to someone else’s wedding, Mary’s going to strangle me—”

“It’s not Mary’s wedding.”

Slowly, your jaw falls open. “No,” you whisper in disbelief.

John darts out of the taxi, jogs around to your side, and opens the door for you. You gape up at him senselessly, struggling to remember how to form sentences.

“John...this...this is some bizarre and elaborate joke, right?”

“Nope.” He offers his hand, helps you out of the taxi, leads you up the front steps of the Register Office. Inside, everyone is waiting: Freddie and Mary, Brian and Chrissie, Veronica with babbling baby Laszlo, Roger’s mother and sister...and Roger, of course, in his best black suit and bleached blond hair and trademark guaranteed-to-dazzle (unless of course you’re Dominique Beyrand) grin. He flies to you and takes your hands in his.

“You look incredible, baby.”

“Roger, what’s going on...?”

“Don’t freak out,” he commands, and instantly your panic vanishes. There’s a pink rose pinned to his lapel. “I know we don’t feel like we need to get married. I know we agree it doesn’t mean anything.” Is that still true? “So don’t think that this is about trying to trap you or control you or bullshit white picket fences or anything. And of course you can say no, I won’t be mad, no one will hold that against you, we can find some other reason to party. But the simple facts are that I’m a British national with a mansion and a plethora of perpetual royalties and you’re an American here on a work visa, and the law gets a bit thorny in this situation. And I want to make sure you’re taken care of if something happens to me. That you can carry out my wishes. That you can stay here with the band as long as you want to. So, I’ve got your passport and birth certificate and everything else we need...and some overly-enthusiastic witnesses. Are you cool with signing a piece of paper today?”

“Of course she bloody well is!” Freddie exclaims, and everyone laughs. Mary is carrying a basket full of champagne flutes, Chrissie several bottles of pink champagne, Roger’s sister a tub of ice. Brian has been entrusted to chronicle the event with your Canon. Veronica is more giddy than you’ve ever seen her, even more animated than she was at her own wedding. Well, I suppose she doesn’t have to worry about any illicit pregnancies or condemnatory great aunts this time around.

“Okay,” you tell Roger. And you wish you weren’t beaming so broadly your cheeks ache, because it feels a little pathetic to be this happy about an admittedly meaningless wedding. But it does make you happy, your general aversion towards conventionality be damned.

You sign papers and you toast glasses and you giggle uproariously in the lobby of the Register Office with the best friends you’ve ever had, guzzle pink champagne, pose for photos, take your turn holding Laszlo, kiss Roger beneath the stone arch of the centuries-old building.

It doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, suddenly very aware of the missing weight of a ring on your left hand. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.

But you catch a few furtive glances between Chrissie and Bri, the twist of a frown on Freddie’s face when he thinks no one is watching, the distance in John’s shadowy eyes as he inhales champagne like air.

It doesn’t mean anything.