#motley fic just feels so familiar. this is probably the only thing i know how to do well

[vincess-princess]

we, the psychos

ch. 4

Word count: 2253 Warnings: - A/N: i always knew this fic is destined to be continued. the only question was when.

“You are a fool, Sixx,” Mick said tiredly as he sat down onto the bed where Nikki lay. “Plain and simple.”

“I know,” Nikki sighed, looking down at his bandaged legs and his right hand that had acquired three brand new stitches. It won’t be soon until he can squeeze his fist properly. “I just… you know how it goes. The first cut, you get scared. And then it’s down the emotional rollercoaster. Have you ever been on a rollercoaster, Mick?”

“Barely heard about it,” Mick said. “Is that something Russian-related?”

“Me neither. I’d like to take a ride on there. You’re up in the air – and then you’re falling, but it’s safe falling, it won’t hurt you. Because every time I fall, I end up in the med wing.” He waved at his bandaged legs. “And yeah, I think it’s something Russian-related. Not sure how. Could you get me a book here, Mick?”

“You know Dr. Duren won’t allow that,” Mick shook his head. “He’s already mad at you, I think. It’s been weeks since your last relapse – you made progress, and now this.”

“Oh, don’t you chastise me too!” Nikki rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t, okay? I couldn’t. I was thinking. And it always ends bad.”

“About what?”

Nikki turned away from him and said nothing.

“About what, Nikki?” Mick stretched out his hand, gripped Nikki’s chin and turned his face towards himself to look him in the eyes. Then realization dawned on him.

”Don’t say it’s that Wharton bastard!” he groaned. “You said it was over! You were done! What did he do to you? What did he say?”

Nikki looked away, lips sealed tight, afraid Mick will feel the bitterness filling his mouth.

“You quarreled?” Mick insisted, putting one hand on Nikki’s thigh and squeezing it slightly, making him wince. “What else that was now?”

Nikki swallowed forcefully. He wished nothing of his affair with Vince leaked to the rest of the asylum, but Wharton liked to brag, sometimes overlooking basic safety measures. He could be sure Mick wouldn’t tell anyone, but how long will it be before other patients or, God forbid, nurses suspect something?

“What was that, Nikki?” Mick shook his leg. “You wanna stay silent and keep wallowing in your misery or figure out what to do together?”

“Definitely the second,” Nikki curved his mouth into a bitter smile. “My, well, situation with Vin- with Wharton is none of your business. I appreciate the concern, though.”

“Oh no, that’s where you’re wrong,” Mick looked so indignant Nikki had to hold back a laugh. He’d never seen old man redden as much. “It is exactly my business, and you know why? Because I don’t wanna go to your funeral, and don’t you even hope I waste my money on a wreath for you. You get me?”

“Yeah, yeah. The usual threats.”

“You damn better believe them!” Mick rose from his chair and crossed the room, standing in front of a barred window. “You don’t wanna tell me anything – fine. I’ll find out myself. I heard Wharton is in a padded cell now, but once he’s out you bet I’m gonna ask him. And he ain’t gonna get rid of me that easy.”

Oh god. Mick considered it above himself to speak to Vince, but once he set up on something he was unstoppable. Nikki couldn’t allow him to intervene in their relationship.

“I’ll speak to him myself,” Nikki said hurriedly. “We have some things to resolve. And them I’m gonna be good. I promise.”

Mick smiled. “Now you’re talking different.” Damn manipulator. He knew how to force Nikki to do what he didn’t want to do, and used it constantly. For Nikki’s sake, of course, but what Nikki needed and what Mick thought Nikki needed were vastly different things. “You do that right when he gets out, and tell me how it went later.”

“Sure, sure.” Whatever Vince was gonna say was definitely not what Mick would wanna hear. Nikki needed to invent some palatable lie after their talk.

“Alright.” Mick turned to Nikki. “I’m gonna work the med wing for one more week. You need to come for bandaging again in two days, then in a week we’ll be removing stitches if everything goes well. After that you won’t have any allies here anymore, and the local nurses don’t really bother caring for self-harmers like you. So you better keep your hands to yourself. Got me?”

“I appreciate everything you did for me, Mick.”

“Sure you do! Now, I’ve still got a couple patients to attend. Off you go.”

“Thanks again.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.”

Walking was painful – the bandages grinded on stitches and irritated them. Maybe it would be better to take them off altogether – when the wounds would close enough to not bleed through his pants randomly. Which they yet haven’t.

A nurse escorted Nikki to his ward. He used to share it, but his cellmates didn’t like his pacing and talking when manic, so he was transferred. Now he almost missed those manic spells – at least he was feeling great about himself during them. But the last one was seven months ago, and since then it’s only been deeper and deeper into the darkness.

On the other hand, he was manic when he and Vince decided to hook up the first time. Weren’t for that, he’d never approach the sex-obsessed narcissistic ticking bomb that Vince was. Nikki knew him better now, and that description fit even more.

He stayed in his cell until lunch, when Dr. Duren was to see him. It was boring inside, and the stitches began to itch underneath the bandages. Nikki knew better than to scratch them with his nails, but it was extremely hard to keep his hands away. The couple hours he had to wait seemed an eternity.

Hudson came to escort him.

“Yeah, man, you’re in deep,” he told Nikki right off the bat. “Dr. Duren is very disappointed.”

“Thanks, that’s very encouraging,” Nikki muttered. “What’s it gonna be?”

“No idea.” Hudson shrugged. “C’mon. He’s already pissed today. Heard what Wharton did?”

God, what was it again?

“No, I wasn’t at breakfast, remember?”

“Oh, if I’m gonna remember where all of you bastards were and when I’ll have no memory left for my stuff.” Hudson waited until Nikki shuffled out of his ward and closed the door. Together they headed down the hall. “He got in a fight! Again! And that’s right after being released from the padded cell! The fucking audacity!”

Nikki’s heart skipped a bit. “He sure has enough of that. Who was the sorry fellow?”

“The newbie. You probably haven’t seen him yet. Looked feeble, but did pack Wharton a punch.”

Was that the laughing guy? Nikki didn’t dwell on it much, though. Vince’s fate was much more interesting to him.

“And what of him?”

“He’s back to his ward. Duff said it’s real fancy, with curtains and carpet and all. Who even is that guy?”

“No, I mean Wharton.”

“Oh, him? Probably back to the padded cell. Simmons talked some about a cold shower too. Maybe that will bring him back to his senses.”

Vince underwent such “therapy” at least on a monthly basis, and it kept him relatively docile for a couple weeks after. So docile that he didn’t even want to fuck, which was always alarming. Nikki didn’t like him docile. That wasn’t what he liked him for.

“Don’t you think it just makes him worse? Being treated like that?”

Hudson looked at Nikki like he was cra- oh, right.

“C’mon, Feranna. You’re a smart guy. You should understand that some patients simply do not understand humane approach. It’s the nature of their illness. They only respect those that can show who calls the shots here. And people who treat them well – they just use them.”

Nikki knew that, yes. But Vince wasn’t like that. Or rather, he was, usually. But not with Nikki.

Or maybe Nikki was just fooling himself as usual, and Wharton just used him like Hudson said. Who knows.

Nikki pushed the thought in the back of his mind. He had other problems now. They stood in front of Dr. Duren’s door.

“I’m fucked?” Nikki half-asked Hudson.

“Thoroughly,” the nurse said honestly. “Well, in you go. I’ll wait here to escort you to the canteen afterwards.”

Nikki nodded and knocked on the door. His hand slightly shook, and he clenched it into a fist.

“Come in,” he heard. Nikki inhaled and walked in.

***

It had rained, and the garden looked especially unappealing this cold autumn day. What month was it, October? It hadn’t snowed yet, but it was already getting dark before dinner. Yeah, probably mid-October.

Mick had lost count of days long ago. It was all approximate now: snow fell first in mid-November and melted in April, the first birdsong came in March (Mick could hear it because he usually wasn’t sleeping in early morning), the sun rose before breakfast starting early May. His whole world was based on the asylum routine. It was not bad, really. Brought predictability into life. And Mick preferred to know what would happen in the foreseeable future.

Except sometimes it was disrupted. A patient would leave – some were cured and discharged, some died. The first case, those didn’t usually stay long at the asylum anyway so Mick didn’t really care. The core of the asylum population remained relatively the same for the last couple years – the sickest of the sickest, those that wouldn’t survive on their own or those that would make it hard for everyone else in the outside world. Some of them spent years in the asylum. For them, cure was considered unattainable and the only way out was death.

Mick was one of them – not the worst, though. Staff knew he was one of the calmest, most reasonable ones and were rather lax with him. Doesn’t hurt himself or others? Doesn’t shit his pants or throws plates at others in the canteen? Great patient, no special attention needed.

That’s why no one bat an eye when he wandered away from the main group that was cleaning up the yard from the fallen leaves. Nurse McKagan cast an occasional look in his direction, but that was it.

Now nurse McKagan was occupied talking with a patient. Mick hadn’t seen him here before; more than that, he wasn’t wearing an asylum robe, but rather fancy though simple trousers, an unbuttoned coat hanging loosely off his bony shoulders and a shirt with puffy sleeves underneath it. The sleeves looked ridiculous, but the guy managed to pull it off. He was young, way too young to be here, though Wharton was probably his age. He belonged here as much as a flower belonged on a heap of cow shit.

He was probably the one that arrived in a carriage at night. Mick hadn’t been at breakfast, but he heard the new guy already got into a fight with Wharton. While Wharton deserved that, it didn’t instill much hope in the new guy. He seemed to have gotten off the hook this time – though not without a bruise on his swelled cheekbone.

Well, he beat Wharton’s ass at least, and the bastard truly needed it.

Mick plucked a lone brown leaf off a branch in front of his face. It was always harder in autumn and winter – now everyone could see through the trees circling the asylum territory, and the feeling of an intent gaze on Mick’s skin intensified when outside. He rubbed the spot, but it didn’t go away. It never went away.

Mick tore the leaf into tiny pieces and watched them float to the ground. When he turned around, he saw McKagan right in front of him. He realised it was McKagan a couple moments later, after he already swung a punch.

McKagan yelped indignantly. He dodged at the last moment, and the fist barely grazed him, but it was probably unpleasant anyway.

“Deal! The fuck you doing!”

“Don’t sneak up on me! You know I can’t handle it!” Mick yelled back and breathed in deep to calm his racing heart.

“Alright, fair. I should’ve called you.” McKagan was the only nurse who could ever admit he was wrong, and patients appreciated him for that. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been at the asylum long – a couple of months at this point. He was too kind for this place. Psychos couldn’t handle kindness.

“What do you want?” Mick tried to sound friendly, to make up for his bout of aggression, but didn’t succeed much. McKagan didn’t take it too close to heart, though.

“I wanted to show Tommy,” – he pointed at the new guy standing a bit aside, eyeing Mick carefully, - “the grounds, but Stanley is sick today, and we don’t have enough staff to look after the main bunch. You’re a rather reasonable fellow, and you know everything here, so I thought you could show him around.”

“Me?” Of course, Mick was on good terms with most of the stuff, but McKagan definitely had too much confidence in him. Mick was a patient for a reason, after all.

“Yes, you.” The nurse smiled. “I’ll tell him not to sneak up on you.”

Well, that could be interesting. The new guy had hardly talked with anyone so far. Everyone must be dying of curiosity. And Mick here got a chance to learn as much about him as possible.

“Alright,” he said. “Will you introduce us?”

[n00dl3gal]

Like Old Times (Father-Son Bonding AU)

A direct sequel to the “Expiration Date” fic, which I’ll link in a reblog. I’ve also posted all my fics in this AU to AO3!! Thanks again to @thetriggeredhappy for their help and just generally being a cool dude, and the Scoutsune Discord server for indulging my brainrot

No warnings beyond family schmoop!

Less than an hour after the bread monster incident, the Administrator called for a ceasefire. “Only while your base is repaired,” she said over the TV screen. “BLU is quite disappointed in this negligence- as am I. Regardless, you may use these three days as you see fit. Go home, stay here- whatever you do, no more bread monsters.” The screen turned off with a click. 

Scout exhaled through his nose. He was thankful there was no mention of him or Miss Pauling’s woodchipper. 

Spy decloaked behind him. “Less time than I wanted, but c’est la vie.” Scout looked at him over his shoulder. “I’m meeting with an old contact during our break,” Spy said in Italian. “Would you like to come along? It’ll be like old times.” 

Scout’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. At least this way, he’d get out of helping Engie and Heavy with repairs. And possibly meeting Miss Pauling’s woodchipper. 

“Excellent. Our flight is at 7 AM tomorrow.” 

“We’re flying commercial?” Scout asked, also in (more hesitant) Italian. 

“Our destination is continental. We’ll leave the base by 5:30.” Scout groaned as Spy started to leave. But- wait, he hadn’t- 

“Oi, where are we going, anyway?” he called back in English. 

Spy paused to look at him and smile. “Boston.” 

“Why do we always get the ass-crack-of-dawn flights?” Jeremy asked groggily, reclining his seat.

“They are the ones with first-class seats available,” Raphael replied. He took a sip from his mimosa. 

“Yeah, cuz God forbid you fly coach for once.” Jeremy shifted, trying to get comfortable. “Hey. Have I ever been to Boston before?”

Raphael didn’t answer immediately. His lip sucked in, as if in thought. “Yes. When you were very, very young. You wouldn’t remember.” 

Jeremy nodded. He wanted to ask more, there was something Raphael wasn’t saying but… well, he was never a morning person. He fell asleep before the plane even took off. 

. . .

It was mid-afternoon by the time they landed in Boston. Jeremy was never fond of long flights; having his legs cramped like that for extended periods of time was murder. He was half tempted to take a jog around Logan International. Raphael, on the other hand, was ushering them both to the car rental. “Can’t even get a stretch in, huh?”

“Unfortunately, we are expected by 4, and I would hate to keep my contact waiting,” Raphael explained in French, accepting the keys from the girl at the counter. “She’s not a very patient woman, in some regards.” 

Jeremy huffed but didn’t argue. He just followed his father to the rental, tossing his suitcase in the backseat. “Y’know, the girl at the counter-” 

“We will not have time for you to go out on a date, Jeremy.” 

“No! No, it was- her accent’s kinda like mine, it’s weird,” Jeremy said. Raphael started the car. “Cuz I’ve only been here as a baby, and I got mine from TV and shit. It’s just… really strange, is all.” 

Raphael made a quiet noise of agreement. “Some of the shows you watched as a child were filmed here. It’s not as complex as you think it is.” 

“Yeah, probably not…” 

The pair lapsed into silence as Raphael drove. Storefronts and high rises morphed into houses. It had been a while since they were in a residential area. RED, for understandable reasons, kept away from civilians. 

Raphael took the roads with practiced experience. Sure, it had been implied he knew the area. If he had a contact here- one with a house, presumably- he must’ve spent time here. But this- this was far too familiar. A bit suspicious, actually. 

Eventually, Raphael slowed in front of a more rundown Brownstone. Still quite nice, just needed a little work. It felt… welcoming, in a way Jeremy couldn’t name.

“Lotta cars,” he observed as Raphael parallel parked. “Must be a party going on somewhere.” 

“Hmm, perhaps,” Raphael said, turning the car off. “Would you mind ringing the doorbell for me? I need to grab something from the trunk. Ask for Sara Jane.” 

OK, now Jeremy knew something was up. He was never the one to make the first contact, that was always Dad’s job. Jeremy might be a full-grown adult, but there were some things that didn’t change. This was one of them. 

Still, he nodded. He climbed up the front steps and ringed the doorbell. He heard- multiple voices from inside, predominantly male, but they quickly silenced themselves. A TV, perhaps? They really ought to get that flower box on the second story window fixed- 

The woman who opened the door was a bit shorter than him, though not by much. She was wearing a simple dress, hoop earrings, and flats. Her hair was dark, curved to her chin. But her nose and earlobes felt… achingly familiar. Like Jeremy saw them all the time. 

“Um, hi, I’m looking for Sara Jane? My name’s-” The rest of his speech was knocked out of him as the woman launched herself at him. Jeremy braced for an attack, but quickly realized she was… hugging him. 

She was hugging him, sobbing, and choked out the word “Jeremy.” 

Wait. He knew that voice. He had only heard it a few times in his life, few enough he could count them on one hand, but he knew it. “M-Ma?” he whispered. 

The woman- Sara Jane- Ma looked up at him, still crying. Her hands found his face as she observed him. “Y-yeah, sweetie, it’s me, it’s-it’s your ma,” she said. 

“Ma!” he laughed, tears of his own dancing down his cheeks. He hugged her back, practically lifting her off her feet. “Oh my God, Ma! I-I never thought I’d-” 

“Oh Jeremy, sweetie, look how tall you’ve gotten! Last I saw you, you fit in my arms! My baby, my handsome baby,” she spoke over him. She rubbed circles into his back as they embraced. It felt so, so right. 

Jeremy laughed even harder. “Are you kiddin’? I got it from you, you’re beautiful, Ma!” He stared at her, trying to commit every mole and wrinkle and perfect flaw to memory. “I can’t believe- oh my God, I’m actually meeting you!” 

“It was long overdue,” another voice said, as Raphael joined them on the front stoop. “I had put it off for safety reasons, but considering our current, ah, situation… I felt it was worth the risk.” 

Sara Jane squealed, pulling Raphael into the hug as well. “You’ve been taking good care of my boy, you promise me, Raphael?” 

“Don’t worry Ma, he’s the best dad I could ask for, considering,” Jeremy teased. 

“Oh, don’t I know it. Called me up last night and told me to get the whole motley crew together. Even managed to get Melvin to bring his twin daughters, bless his wife’s heart,” she explained. 

Jeremy blinked. “Uh- Melvin? Daughters?”

Sara Jane laughed. It sounded so much like Jeremy’s it practically hurt. This was his mother. Lord, he’s finally seeing her. “Melvin’s your older brother, sweetie. Eh, sixth oldest. Bobby’s the oldest.” 

“I have a brother?”

“Oh honey, you’re the youngest of eight,” Sara Jane said plainly. 

“...fuck,” Jeremy whispered. 

. . .

He didn’t just have seven brothers. He had seven brothers, four of which brought their wives, one who brought his boyfriend, and three who brought their kids. And the kids totaled to an additional six, counting the babies. 

It was… an admittedly tight squeeze in the living room. 

Sara Jane introduced Jeremy. Jeremy had been expecting to be treated like a stranger. He had vanished when he was a baby, after all, and his younger-older brothers probably wouldn’t remember him at all. 

And yet, it was like he knew them all his life. 

They teased him and punched him playfully and acted so friendly, so familial it nearly made Jeremy break down. He was still crying from meeting Ma, but being dogpiled with so much affection was suffocating. In a good way. He had seen on sitcoms the intrinsic bond between family, and while he felt it with Dad, they also risked their lives nearly daily. But it was real, it was here, and it was wrapping him in a warm blanket. 

Despite the chaos and the sheer number of people, Jeremy didn’t feel overwhelmed. He laughed and played along with their jokes, cracking some back when he could get a word in. Scott ragged on his dog tags, he countered by pointing out the hole in his pants. Michael told him he was still a shortass, he replied with “it takes one to know one.” Elliot and Ricky were the closest to actually getting hurt, and that was only because Jeremy elbowed them both so hard they nearly fell over. 

For the first time in 25 years, Jeremy understood what “home” meant. 

The kids were especially curious, eager to meet their uncle and step-grandfather. Within seconds, young Rebecca- only four years old- was challenging Jeremy to a race around the house. “I’m the fastest kid in the world,” she bragged, puffing out her chest. 

“Oh yeah?” Jeremy asked. “That a fact?”

“You wanna test me? I beat Johnny Three-Legs at running, and he’s got three legs!” Jeremy laughed and stood from the couch, letting her lead him outside. “On the count of three, OK?”

“You’re on, pipsqueak,” Jeremy teased.

“Onetwothree GO!” Rebecca yelled, taking off in a sprint. Jeremy knew that, by all accounts, he should beat her. His legs were longer, she didn’t have the proper running stance, and it was his job to be fast. That’s what he got paid to do. But some small voice was telling him to let her win, so he did. “Ha! I told ya!” 

“Ya sure did,” he replied, mock panting. “Look at you, a freaking blur on the green. You’re goin’ to the Olympics, kid.” 

Rebecca beamed and hugged his leg. “Promise, Uncle Jeremy?” He nodded because, after that display, there was no way he could speak without squeaking like a chew toy. 

Rebecca skipped back inside, past Raphael, who was watching on the stoop. “You’re a natural with children,” he observed. “I used to do the same thing when you were that age.” 

“Wait- wait, really? You sure fooled me,” Jeremy said. 

Raphael rolled his eyes. “What’s my job again, mon lapin?”

“Yeah, yeah…” Jeremy leaned against the railing, watching Raphael’s cigarette smoke in the wind. “Hey. Uh… thanks for arranging all of this. You really didn’t need to.”

“But I did. I meant it when I said this was overdue. I’ve been wanting to introduce you to the rest of the family for a while, but have been unable. Then that whole ordeal with the supposed tumors, and-” Raphael exhaled slowly. “It wouldn’t have been fair to you if you died without knowing them. I would’ve never forgiven myself.” 

Jeremy punched his shoulder lightly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, pops. It all worked out, we’re still kicking, and that roast chicken Ma’s making smells incredible. Everything’s perfect.” 

Raphael finished his cigarette and smiled. “Oui. It is.” 

. . .

While Sara Jane had been able to get the rest of the family here, it was a school night. Kids needed to be tucked in by 9:30, so most of Jeremy’s brothers were gone by 8. Elliot was staying overnight, as was his boyfriend. Otherwise, the house quickly went from bustling to barren. 

It gave Jeremy a chance to explore his would-be childhood home.

He made his way upstairs, pushing open one of the doors. It led- to little surprise- to a bedroom. It was set up like a nursery, with a crib in one corner and a toddler bed in the other. Toys were scattered about across the floor. 

He heard Sara Jane sigh behind him. “This was your room, you know.” Jeremy turned to look at her as she flipped the light switch. “That crib… I had put you to bed the night your father planned to fake his death. I was in on the whole plan, naturally. He wanted to hold you one last time, so I said OK. When I woke up the next morning… you were both gone.” She exhaled slowly, grabbing onto his shoulder. “I wrote both of you off as dead, but I knew what had happened. Honestly, should’ve figured it out before then. You hadn’t woken me up crying,” she joked. Her eyes were watering. 

Jeremy hugged her, pulling her close. “You never took the crib down?” 

“By the time I was ready, Bobby’s wife was pregnant, so I kept it up for my grandbabies. I knew- I knew you were out there, sweetie. Both of you.” She kissed his cheek, squeezing him.

“I-I never got to be a normal kid, really,” he confessed. “I mean, Dad did his best, gave me comic books and board games and stuff, but-but I never went to school or made friends or anything like that. I-I didn’t even know I had a family. It took me forever to even realize I had a Ma. An-and everything I did-” The tears were flowing again, more freely than earlier. “Ya missed me losing my first tooth, and potty trainin’, and all that stuff parents should know about. I-I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Sara Jane wiped his cheek dry. “Don’t apologize for what your father did, Jeremy. And definitely don’t apologize for me not potty training another kid. Besides… hold on, I’ll be right back.” She made her way down the hallway. Jeremy didn’t follow, instead deciding to examine the crib. This was where he grew up. It was a simple crib, obviously well-used. Not worn-down, mind, just… used. It had a history. A history that Jeremy wanted to decode, but unlike his dad’s ciphers, he didn’t have the key. 

“Took me a second to find it,” Sara Jane said. She handed him what appeared to be a scrapbook. “Raphael- he wrote when he can. Taught me some basic codes, would send out letters whenever you’d leave a town. Never left a return address, but…” Jeremy flipped through the pages, moving to sit on the small bed. The letters were all coded but appeared to be about how much Raphael missed Sara Jane. Updates on Jeremy’s growth. Letters from a father to his lover and son’s mother. 

One page jumped out to him, though. “I remember this,” he said, running his fingers against the paper. It was a simple drawing of a young boy, holding a catcher’s mitt, and a taller man next to him. “I drew this after Dad took me to my first baseball game, for my eighth birthday. I thought I lost the drawing after we skipped town, but- he sent them to you?”

Sara Jane nodded. “And I kept them all. Oh, honey, the day I first heard your voice on the phone- Mikey can tell you, I damn near fell over. You sounded so happy, and even if I couldn’t see you, that’s all a mother wants.” Jeremy leaned against her and she shut the book. “That’s all a mother wants, sweetie. To see her kids be safe and happy.” 

“I am, Ma,” he assured her. “I promise.” 

They sat like that for a while, with Sara Jane commenting on various letters and drawings in the scrapbook. Apparently, Raphael sent her money when he could- more frequently now that Mann Co. paid so well. She also had a rough idea of their current occupations. “I figure, if you and your father are working for the same company- with his skills, there’s gotta be a whole lot of nonsense going on out in that desert.” Jeremy laughed at that because she wasn’t wrong. “But I also figure since he raised you right, he’ll keep the both of you safe.” 

“I keep him safe too, don’t worry,” Jeremy added. “Uh- listen, it’s touching and all you kept the crib, but I don’t have to sleep in it, right?” 

They both had a good chuckle over that. Their laughs were in perfect harmony. 

. . .

The next two days were a mix of learning the family history and exploring Boston. It was the offseason, so there weren’t any games going on at Fenway, but Jeremy still got a picture in front of the park. Sara Jane took the pair to a restaurant that served “the best damn clam chowder in the contiguous United States.” Which, incidentally, led them to discover Jeremy was allergic to clams. Thankfully they didn’t have to go to the hospital- he just sort of immediately got sick before it passed- but it did suck.

It was damn good chowder, though. 

They went down to the harbor where the Boston Tea Party happened. It was crowded with people, resulting in them not staying long. Jeremy was a bit better with crowds than Raphael, but neither was great with them. Came with the job. Getting overpriced memorabilia from a nearby gift shop, though, went over much more smoothly. 

When not out on the town, Sara Jane dug out more scrapbooks and photo albums, catching Raphael up on what his stepsons had been up to. She showed Jeremy pictures from Ricky’s first school play to Scott opening up his butcher shop. Graduation pictures, wedding pictures, baby pictures- it was all there, and Jeremy devoured it. He wanted to know these people. He wanted to know his family. And he did. He learned about Michael’s stint in the Navy, Melvin meeting his wife, how Bobby’s son could dribble a basketball for twenty minutes straight. He learned about how his parents met. How Raphael loved each of Sara Jane’s children, even if they weren’t biologically his. How Jeremy wasn’t planned- few of the kids were - but they were both so, so happy to realize he was coming. 

He also learned that, while diner food would remain the undisputed king, homemade meatloaf came pretty close. 

. . .

The only problem came when it was time to leave. It wasn’t that Jeremy didn’t want to return to work, or leave his Ma behind. Sara Jane wasn’t even torn up over losing her son and lover again. It just felt like there was so much left to say, to do. There was uncertainty as to when they’d be able to return. “We get time off for Smissmas, I know that’s months away but I’ll be here, I promise,” Jeremy swore, hugging Sara Jane for the eighth time. 

“You better,” she said, squeezing him tightly. “You have 25 years worth of gifts to catch up on, not to mention birthday gifts-”

“Ma, you don’t have to go that far,” he whined. He was touched, sure, but the thought of that much luggage was truly frightening. Oh God, he was going to have to get gifts for everybody, wasn’t he? What do kids even want for Smissmas? 

“Hush, let me spoil my baby,” Sara Jane told him, kissing his cheek. “Oh, Jeremy…” 

Jeremy nodded. “I know, but I’ll call. I’ll write, too. Send pictures if I can.” 

“I’ll make sure he does,” Raphael assured her. Sara Jane stood to kiss his lips, with Jeremy looking away pointedly. “You have my word, ma petite chou-fleur.” 

“Alright, alright- now get going, I don’t want you two missing your flight. That boss of yours sounds like she’ll tear you both a new one if you’re late,” Sara Jane said, shooing them away. “Love you boys!” 

“I love you too, Ma!” Jeremy shouted back, for the very first time. 

The drive back to the airport was quiet. Jeremy stared out the window, watching his hometown- he had a hometown- pass by. “Hey, dad?” he asked, still looking outside. Raphael grunted to acknowledge he was listening. “One of these days, our contracts with Mann Co. are gonna expire. We’re gonna have to find new jobs.” 

“Yes, that’s correct,” Raphael said. He tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel. 

“And-and I was thinking when that time comes… maybe we could come back to Boston. Find some gigs out here,” Jeremy suggested. 

Raphael sighed. “Unfortunately, being a spy means that you don’t have the option of retiring, Jeremy. Not until you’re unable to complete your job. At that point, though, you’ve probably died a dozen times over,” he explained. “Even if I could retire, settling down somewhere so close to people I care about- I would still have enemies.” 

“Right. ‘Course,” Jeremy said. “It’s OK.” 

“That being said,” Raphael continued, “you have the luxury of youth and not being tied down to such a career. If you want to find a job in Boston after we finish with RED, there’s nothing stopping you.” 

“But people will still be after me, since I’m your son. And you wouldn’t be around.”

“Every child leaves their parents someday. And you’re strong, Jeremy. You can protect yourself and your family.” Raphael smiled. “I don’t believe Sara Jane needs much protecting, but I do worry.” 

Jeremy laughed. “I mean, did ya see the muscles on Scott and Michael? Guys can probably bench press a tractor!” 

They both chuckled before settling into quietude. Eventually, though, Jeremy had to break the silence. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, mon lapin.”

“...so your nickname for Ma is fucking ‘little cauliflower?’ What the hell, Dad?” 

[awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands]

Laid out cold, now we're both alone (part 2)

A/N: Hello, this fic is very important to me because I tried my best to give justice to such a cool idea and I hope I did a good job. Plus I don't do multichapter ofter, so this was a challenge. 

I wanna thank the lovely @livdonna for proofreading my work, you're literally the best <3. 

P.S. If you want to get tagged in the next chapters, let me know.

Summary: Nikki visits Mick to give him a very important task.

Warnings: Major Character Death,Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Drug Use, Angst, Overdose.

Pairing: Nikki Sixx x Tommy Lee

Chapter 1

Taglist: @slashscowboyboots @witchytombstonesmile @arnold-layne @emometalhead​ @i-dont-like-rice​ @nikki-sexx​ @smokeandmirrorz​

Mick was supposed to not give a shit about Nikki. He and the stupid drummer had tormented him and his wife for months on ends, making the whole tour a living hell and he didn’t need to have even more things to worry about. So what if his bassist decided to get addicted to heroin? He was a fucking dumbass but it wasn’t his problem.  He would end up killing himself and it wasn’t like Mick could have done something, not when his whole body was torturing him.

The only problem was that he cared, deep down. He cared about the fucker and hearing the news that he was gone forever hit him.  He lost one of his friends and the band all together in a day, what would have happened? He hated to admit he was scared about the future, it was hard to imagine Motley Crue without Nikki.

He sighed, turning off yet another discussion about his death. They didn’t call him yet but something was telling him that they had to release a statement soon.  Doc was probably freaking out somewhere crying for all his millions of dollars lost.

“Fucking Nikki, you had to die at the worst moment, didn’t you?”

“Yeah… sorry about that, man” A voice incredibly similar to Nikki said, making Mick jump up.

Nikki didn’t feel anything, one moment they were in the ambulance and the other they were on the beach.  He was confused for a moment before he remembered that Mick had a beach house, and stared at it for a bit. He didn’t know much about the guitarist, maybe almost nothing but he respected him so much.  He was one of the strongest dudes he had ever met.

The weirdest thing about all of this was probably how he was only able to feel certain things, no cravings or sand under his feet as he was walking, yet he would still feel guilt, fear, love, worry… it didn’t make sense but he wasn’t in the mood to question the universe’s rules.

People can’t see you until you decide to show yourself. You have to remember or otherwise they can’t hear or see you.

The voice still freaked him out, but at the same time he was grateful for it to be there… it made him feel less alone, which was great considering how he felt lonely for his entire life.

“You’re not alone Nikki, I’ll always be there with you, through highs and lows”

“God it sounds like a marriage vow, T-Bone”

“Well if I could I’d marry now…”

He shook his head, trying to get the memory out.  It wasn’t the time to be sentimental and risk fucking everything up, so he walked ( more like flew) through the front door and found Mick sitting on the couch.

“Fucking Nikki, you had to die at the worst moment, didn’t you?”

“Yeah… sorry about that, man”. The bassist hoped that he was heard, otherwise it would have been pretty embarrassing.

Mick visibly jumped at hearing Nikki’s voice and quickly turned around to look at him.  From his widened eyes and confused expression, he knew he probably looked fucking transparent.

“Okay first of all why the hell are you here talking to me if you’re dead? Then why the fuck can I see myself through you ?”

The black haired man just realized that he had no idea how to explain everything and be believed, he just went along with whatever the voice in his head was saying, but now it was different. He fumbled with his hand and realized he couldn’t feel them, while he tried to come up with the best way to explain to his friend how he was a ghost and why he was there.

“I died… I have no idea how I came back but I have unfinished business and I need to talk to you!”

The guitarist looked at him up and down, clearly skeptical.  However, there wasn’t much arguing… Nikki’s ghost was literally standing in front of him.

“Okay I have no idea if this is a dream, I’m dead or in a coma, or simply I drank too much but now I’ll grab some vodka and you’ll spill your little secrets as you like”.

Nikki smiled a bit… He honestly felt normal for the first time since he was brought back.  Having Mick joking was so familiar, usually Tommy was the aim of his jokes and they all laughed because they were all so unexpected…

Tommy. Thinking about him still hurt, again he wondered if he was okay and how much he missed him… but it wasn’t his time now.  He had other things to talk about as Mick came back into the living room with his glass.

“Mick… you gotta promise me that you won’t let Motley Crue die, that you will fight to keep the band’s legacy.”

The older man looked at him surprised, rolling his eyes.

“Well that’s a bit hard when our bassist and songwriter died!”

Rage and resentment were heavy in his voice but there was more : fear and sadness. Nikki felt guilty and he fucking hated it, it was so unlike him but he couldn’t help it… Mick cared about the band as much as he did.  He always said the band was his life, before heroin came into the picture, but it was also Mick’s and he probably destroyed everything.

“You will find another one, another bassist who is also a songwriter…” The words felt so foreign coming from his mouth.  They even hurt a bit but they were necessary.

“I know you care about this band as much as I do, Mick. I know how much you’ve worked your ass off in shitty bands, trying to find the one that was going to break… I might be dead but Crue can’t have the same fate”.

Mick scoffed, taking a long sip of his vodka.

“It’s not easy, it’s not like we can find the perfect match like we did. Plus, everyone will probably hate him for replacing you!”

The frustration was almost tangible, but there was something else… Mick was scared, he knew everything was about to fade away because of Nikki’s actions, he was already looking at the boat sinking. Nikki started to panic because his band had to live, even in his death! It was pointless and selfish but that was the only thing people could remind him of.

“If you give up, then Vince and Tommy will do the same! I know that you think no one will take you, but the truth is they will. Crue is what it is because of our vision, you are part of it and I’m asking you to keep it going. Think of this as my dying man’s wish… even if I’m already dead”

The older man’s grip on his glass got tighter, his eyes lost in thought as he was pondering Nikki’s words. It was hard to take in, hell that was an understatement, it was fucking insane and probably wouldn’t work but the bassist needed to have this false hope.

“It’s so fucking weird, you know? To realize you’re fucking dead yet here talking to me.”

He was deflecting, Nikki knew it, but didn’t want to push it too far. He learned to know Mick, he kept his promises and he was a hard worker and with a good dose of luck and jokes, you got him to your side.

“Yeah, do you remember how I said you weren’t going to make it in that interview? Well, karma hits like a bitch!”

“Mick might not make it , he drinks a little too much and it looks rough” Mick quoted, trying to imitate Nikki’s voice.

“Yeah and then you said something like I heard what you said and you’re dead, fuck I guess you were right” He laughed but Mick didn’t.

Oh c’mon so what if he was joking about his death? It’s not like anyone really cared about him.  They just saw him as a burden, which he was. Not his mom, nor his band or his Tommy would have really missed him… they would eventually move on.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” He said annoyed but his lips formed a small smile.

“I know, I know. Mick… please promise me that. If Crue is going to end, then my whole life didn’t mean anything! Ple…” He stopped himself, he was so fucking close to begging but he couldn’t. Nikki Sixx didn’t fucking beg, not in life or death.

“I’m thinking about it!”

He really meant the first part. He spent all his teenage and adult years creating the band of his dreams and making sure they conquered the world.  This band was his escape; his attempt at redemption after his shitty childhood. Nobody loved Frank Feranna but he didn’t care, he would become Nikki Sixx and be super fucking famous!

He didn’t need anyone’s love, except that he did.

“ I love you, Nikki.”

“ No you don’t, nobody does, T-Bone”

“Well I fucking do. You gotta pass on my dead body before you’ll hear me not saying it over and over”

His heart might have stopped, but he still felt the big wave of nostalgia hitting him. He couldn’t do it, he would have never been ready to see him again.

“Okay, I will. But listen to me, it won’t be easy and I’m an old man with a fucked up back, so don’t send demons against me if I fail!” The little spark of determination in his eyes relaxed Nikki, he was on board.

“I fucking knew you were the best, Mars! If I wasn’t dead I’d probably tattoo your face on me as a thank you!”

“Oh gross, never say that again!” He pretended to be disgusted but his eyes betrayed him, the small softness in them told Nikki he felt touched.

“Who knows, maybe in hell they have tattoos for the ghosts. God we used to hate each other and now we are two peas in a pod.”

“I still hate you.”

“Ugh, you crushed my heart Mick”

The guitarist flipped him off, rolling his eyes. Nikki desperately wanted to keep talking, if he did then he could have pretended nothing changed, right? He didn’t have to face Vince and Tommy and go through the light… everything would have stayed the same or he could fool himself that it would.

I think it’s time to go to the next person.

The voice was demanding yet still calm. Nikki knew that he couldn’t stay forever, they had to prevent spirits from just lingering into the real world like that, it made him a bit angry but he understood it. It wasn’t like he could have done much anyway…He was just a shell of what he used to be.

“I gotta go Mick…” He wanted to punch himself because he sounded so fucking pathetic, but the other man gave him a compassionate smile.

What he fuck are you, a little small puppy? Oh look Frankie is scared to leave his illusion of a family.

Mick walked him to the other without saying anything, but before turning the handle, which was pointless because Nikki could have just passed through the door, he broke the silence.

“Try to give us some signs, okay? Show us that you’re there… but don’t you fucking dare spill my vodka or I’ll make you two times dead!”

“Oh that’s exactly what I’ll do, thanks for the suggestion!”

He stepped outside and looked at Mick one last time.

“You promised, alien. You gotta do it!”

“Yeah yeah, you better repay me when I come to join you there…” And with one last look, Mick closed the door.

Nikki felt all of the weight crushing down on his body, even if it was made of air. He simply stood still, his mind racing like a freight train, trying to take everything in but also getting ready for his next move… being overwhelmed was an understatement, he felt peeled down like an orange and this was only the beginning. He felt like a fucking coward but he just wanted to get over it, was it that bad to accept his fate and disappear without facing anyone?

You are going to abandon him again? You know why you need to talk to Vince, and you know this will be your last chance to see him, asshole!

He went to kick the sand, but he couldn’t touch it. God, how frustrating was that!

So where are we going next?

Nikki would have wanted to scream at him, give him the middle finger and just run away but it wouldn’t have been helpful, would it? So he forced himself to be as neutral as possible.

“Vince Neil. Take me to his house.”

[loveinterestcastiel]

erosion

I wrote some endverse fic based on a @lateral-org post asking a FANTASTIC question:

When/why/how did endverse! cas get rid of the trenchcoat and what was dean's reaction?

Rated M. Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence. Word Count: 4.1k

tagged some mutuals and people I thought might be interested in this under the cut, if you want tagged in this/future fic or want me to remove your tag dm me!

erosion

Of course, Sam said yes in Detroit. So why dream about that? He lived it every day. The redundancy was irritating at best.

Where the fuck did I leave my boots last night? Cas cursed under his breath and embarked on a thorough search of their cabin, the coarse words warm and familiar on his tongue as he yanked on his socks. I really am starting to sound like Dean.

Dean’s boots were already gone, his gun and thigh holster absent too. He’d left his green jacket behind, tossed carelessly aside last night and hidden under the trenchcoat on the floor at the foot of their bed. He slipped his coat on over his clothes and shoved Dean’s jacket into their pack- he knew he’d want it later, even if it was just for the drive back. He slipped on the worn coat, habit- he’d stopped wasting Grace on its upkeep a while ago, but it was still important. It felt like comfort, in some strange way, so he kept on wearing it despite the worn-through elbows or the stubborn little bloodstained spot on the hem.

He’d dreamed of Detroit, last night, again. He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to dreaming, as unsettling and involuntary as it was. It felt like the unfair hijacking of an otherwise enjoyable human bodily function, and he resented it altogether. He snagged a bit of weed from his stash and tucked it in next to his flask, sweeping out the cabin door and into the frigid morning sunshine, giving Chuck a lazy wave as he ambled past his cabin to the truck lot, kicking little pebbles across the packed dirt at imaginary targets with a super-human precision that grated strangely on him today.

“Big run today,” Chuck said with a tentative smile, his hands clasping a chipped mug filled to the brim with his ridiculously indulgent tea, wafting a cascade of steam out over the railing of his cabin porch before dissipating into the air. “Don’t forget the perishables if you can get at them, ok? We’re seriously low on-”

“Toilet paper, milk, cheese, butter,” he interrupted, “plus sugar, flour, canned fruit, hygiene products, toothpaste, toilet paper, coffee, meat if we can get it, .35 and 9mm ammunition, mechanical oil, gasoline, propane, rubbing alcohol, gauze, surgical tape, toilet paper, paracetamol, and oh, toilet paper again!” Cas recited dryly, rolling his eyes. “You gave us a written list yesterday. Twice. Couldn’t fuck up blackout drunk.”

Chuck snorted, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “Just doing my job, Cas.”

“We’ll do ours,” he called over his shoulder, continuing down the central path briskly. “We’ve all got our part to play.”

What was it Lucifer had said to Dean, that night Zachariah stole him out from under Cas’s nose and threw him into the future? No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter… we will always end up here.

It certainly seemed like he was right. Most days, it seemed like they were all hurtling towards the exact same place Dean had caught a wretched glimpse of, once, with the brakes slashed and emergency failsafes offline, and no indicator that the impossible choices they were making every day were anything but inevitable. He knew that Dean still had nightmares about his ending, but he didn’t know much else about Dean’s nightmares anymore but what little snippets he could garner from what Dean mumbled and cried out in his sleep. He’d lost the ability to dreamwalk a while back. Three nights after the Croatoan virus wiped out Fort Worth and they were forced to fall back, he tried to enter Dean’s sleep to watch his dreams in the dubious refuge of a closed down Motel 6 off of interstate 70 as they ran west, to see if there was some piece of information they’d missed, some new choice they could make one day that could change the path they were on.

It simply hadn’t worked. He mourned the loss of one more skill in the darkness of their room that night as Dean slept uneasily in the bed beside him, one more thing which, in its absence, made him ever more useless to Dean, much like the loss of his ability to time travel, or to smite their enemies with ease. Flight was becoming difficult by the day, and he knew in some part of his mind that his wings would be the next to go, and he would be grounded, permanently, on Earth and not in Heaven.

And so it goes.

Anyway, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice about anything these days. Once Michael had taken Adam, they lost their only trump card. Heaven didn’t need Dean anymore, but Hell desperately needed Sam. It was a shame, it really was, that Sam’s gamble hadn’t paid off.

It was a miracle Lucifer let Dean go. He had brushed him off as a non-threat. Unimportant on a cosmic scale, however important Dean was to the vessel. To Sam. So Dean walked out of that run down building alive, and he was the most beautiful, terrible thing Cas had ever seen. His soul shone brighter than even an archangel’s grace in his rage and trembled with the fierce sharpness of grief, and it was glorious, righteous.

Godly.

Even as Cas’s memories softened and blurred, becoming tinged with a mortal haze, that memory of Dean remained in a sparkling clarity. He could imagine no life, no moldable version of the past, in which he did not choose Dean. From the very first moment his soul had reached back to cling to Cas’s Grace in Hell, Cas had fallen, was falling, would fall, for Dean. It was inevitable, his love. They were inevitable. They fell together in the time after Detroit, into battle, into bed, and into cosmic obscurity. Soon, too soon, their losses began to outnumber their wins, and they had to make more and more certain regrettable sacrifices just to stay alive. Cas was used to collateral damage, far more than Dean was, but whatever the other humans in their ragged camp believed of him, he wasn’t unaffected. Just the opposite, in fact. He had never felt anything before, not for billions of years, an incomprehensible existence of light and intent and obedience and war, and now he felt everything. That- not Dean’s disappointment, or the slow loss of his Grace, or his Father’s unyielding silence- was undoubtedly the worst part of becoming something like human.

Some days were better than others, of course. Some days he took precious little blue or white or green pills, all different shapes and sizes and he felt good. Numb, pleased, far away. Quiet. Others, fewer than the days he had his pills, he took shrooms, LSD. Molly, twice. Often he took nothing at all, craving the wicked pain and emptiness it created in him as his sobriety enhanced the ache his dwindling Grace left behind, needing the punishment to feel real before forcing himself into a tumultuous sleep after days spent horribly awake with half a bottle of rotgut sloshing in his stomach. He still liked joints, rolled meticulously, their verdant smoke curling up deliciously in his lungs and setting him up on a lovely little metaphorical cloud the best, and then, they were even more so lovely when he shared them with Dean. There was nothing, nothing like passing it between them, before transitioning into trading hit after hit between their mouths, brushing against his soft lips, breathing his air, watching Dean’s cheeks flush a stunning pink and holding tight to his deep golden hair, dragging him down into slow, languid kisses that desire deepened and turned into a precious sort of holy consumption as the high hit its stride in them both.

He was sober today, mostly, just riding out the last of some gorgeous pink pill from a nearly full bottle he’d just scavenged out a few days before. It made him feel floaty, focused, fearless. He felt almost like he did two years ago, before his reeducation stint in Heaven. Angelic. It was nice. He’d take another, later. Maybe Dean would want to take one, too, and they could fuck high out under the stars on their quilt again like they did last October and feel like the real Gods of this stupid little planet, on top of the world, on top of Dean, cradled in the soft embrace of his thighs, and worship each other.

Take that, brothers. Castiel smiled viciously at the sky. You’ll never fuck God like I have.

Standing impatiently among their motley caravan of vehicles in the sickly yellow light of a midwestern April morning sun, his back to Cas, Dean’s silhouette and the flashing imprint of his soul- the only one Cas could still see clearly- caramelized into a sweet union of tangible and not that pulled at his stomach and swept him into the siren song of Dean’s being and woke up the hungry creature that lived in his heart and craved DeanDeanDeanDean.

No one else was there yet, probably all still dicking around at the camp mess and drinking shitty chicory. His feet fell silently on the earth, leaving behind the sound of the universe and the vibrant humming of Dean’s soul- and oh, he hoped he could always hear that symphony, even when all the rest of his powers had run dry.

Just as he reached out to take Dean by the shoulder and turn him around, Dean moved with a sudden burst of energy, like a coiled snake striking out. He whirled around and met Cas’s eyes, took him by the neck and the waist, and kissed him. His lips moved with a gentleness that contradicted the intensity of the grip of his cold-fingered hands as they worked their way into his hair, wormed their way under his trenchcoat, and touched the bare skin they found where the hem of his t-shirt met his jeans. He met the kiss eagerly, licking teasingly at the seam of his lips, biting down gently and coaxing Dean into opening his mouth. He pushed Dean back until his back hit the nearest rusted army-green truck with a small thudding noise, pressing himself up against Dean and tugging on his hips so they were pressed flush against each other, the contact sending and electric thrill racing up his spine.

“Cas,” Dean gasped out at the sensation of their bodies meeting, the air punched out of his lungs.

“Mmm, morning,” Cas murmured between kisses. “You’re out here early.” Dean’s neck was uncharacteristically bare above the neck of his rough brown sweater, creamy and invitingly unmarked. Cas indulged in the impulse to change that, working his way over the tender skin, sucking and biting until a bruise began to bloom below the junction of Dean’s jaw and neck, worrying it with his teeth until it was a deep reddish-purple.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean whispered, letting his head fall back against the truck window, baring his throat further, and closed his eyes. He seemed almost happy, today. He seemed to light up in the lead-up to their more dangerous missions, and Cas didn’t want to think about that right now. Didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Didn’t want to wake you up,” Dean elaborated.

“I appreciate that.” Satisfied with the rather outrageous hickey he’d created on Dean’s neck, Cas pressed it with one last kiss. “How’d you know I was behind you?” he asked, pressing their foreheads together and slowly grinding their hips together lazily, just breathing Dean in.

“Felt you,” Dean said, bringing their lips together again briefly. “Always can.” One more little kiss.

“Dean, last night, when you couldn’t sleep, I dreamed again about Detroit-” Cas started to confess feverishly, almost against his will, Dean stiffening up at his words in his arms, and was interrupted by the sound of people approaching, footsteps, voices, and an earsplitting wolf-whistle directed at their compromising position.

Dean’s face shuttered immediately, and Cas felt every scrap of easy bliss flee his body.

He pulled back with more than a little reluctance, his stomach twisting as a fakely jovial grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Let’s go, fearless leader. We’ve got a mission to run, don’t you know?”

“Don’t start with that fearless leader shit,” Dean said tightly, rolling his eyes away from Castiel’s face and fixing on a point somewhere over Cas’s shoulder. “Who’s driving?”

“Looks like Cas is driving,” Joe called out mischievously.

Risa smacked him in the chest. “Get in the truck, idiot.” She turned her gaze to Dean, an odd glint in her eye. It felt sticky and wrong in his core but Cas stamped the feeling down. “Group brief over the radio on the way?” she asked.

“Yeah, at 8,” Dean said, sliding into his unshakeable militaristic persona with a firm nod. “Should be fairly straightforward in and out supply grab. Intel says the Croats cleared out of Roanoke a couple days ago, left major infrastructure and commerce sites relatively untouched. It’s a good thing too,” he added, “we were getting spread a little thin with most goods.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

———————————————————————

It was not, in fact, easy.

Their intel was wrong, so wrong, and Cas didn’t know how the fuck it happened, but they were fine, they were almost finished, closing up the trucks in the alley behind the supermarket and waiting for Dean and Trish to return from sweeping the perimeter, when out of what seemed like thin air and with no more than a broken shout for warning there were more Croats swarming them than he’d ever seen in one place before, and Joe and Maya and Kris were dead, and Dean was nowhere to be found.

The Croats had the remaining seven pinned down against the main truck, snarling and screeching and reeking of blood and gore, strips of flesh and clothing that once adorned their companions now dangling from their teeth. Their single-minded need for the endless consumption of human flesh and that it was currently being denied drove them to a terrifying frenzy, but the hunters were starting to push back, and the Croat numbers were thinning slowly but surely. Cas thought he saw Allen get bitten, but next he glanced at him he looked fine. He’d need to check on that if they made it out alive. He resigned himself quickly to the idea of killing the man before they got back to Chitaqua- Allen was a nice enough man, quick-witted and skilled with a blade and a loom, but nothing was worth bringing a Croat back to camp. He owed it to the man as a human being to grant him a swift death if he’d been infected before Allen himself could realize it. A shot to the back of the head, unawares, had to be better than a clumsy battle and inevitable stab to the chest (Cas knew he would always have the upper hand against a human, even when he had fallen in full) with fear in his heart.

He buried his angel blade to hilt in yet another Croat’s throat, yanking it out and ducking out of the way of the spray of blood that followed in a well-practiced motion uncanny in its speed. They would win this one.

But still no Dean.

Cas felt a bubbly panic rise up in his chest through the haze of battle as it became clear to him that Dean wasn’t coming back. Even from the other side of the building or from inside, there was no way that Dean had not heard the commotion of such a large fight.

Something was stopping Dean from coming back to him.

“Risa,” he shouted over the din to the woman on his left. “Dean and Trish-”

“I know,” she interjected tersely, hacking the head off of a skeletally thin Croat in a tattered suit. “Retrieval? We’ve got this handled here as long as this all the fucking bastards around.”

“I’m going in,” Cas said quickly, slicing at a particularly bold (stupid) Croat trying to charge him. It crumpled to the ground and twitched once, and was still. Some of its companions fell on the body ravenously, and were subsequently cut down in turn as they began to tear at the corpse. “Leave as soon as you’re able; I’ve got the keys to the main truck. Cover your right,” he warned Risa, and, sensing an opportunity in the parting sea of Croats before him, ran.

He was through the service doors of the building before the Croat hoard could even begin to respond to his escape, and their noises were quickly muffled by the service door as it locked automatically behind him, leaving him in relative quiet.

There were a surprising number of crates and boxes remaining in the storage and unloading zones, either empty or nearly so, and he quickly ascertained the area was, apart from himself, devoid of life or anything of interest to the camp.

Cas.

Dean's sudden prayer hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut.

Aisle... his mental voice trailed off for a second into indistinct sounds, colors, and waves of pain. Aisle seven. It's bad.

Cas shoved through the access door into the freezers, and out into the store with a recklessness he would have been ashamed of had he been so terrified.

He turned down aisle seven and skidded to a halt, frozen at the sight that greeted him, and tried to make sense of the hideously macabre tableau.

Trish's decapitated body lay the furthest from him, her ribcage torn open, her organs spilling over her arms and scattered in pieces over the floor. Three dead Croats, all headshots, around her remains. Then a bloody lake on the cheap linoleum tile, thick and viscous and so, so red, two more dead Croats, clearly more hard-won victories, their arms hacked at, heads partially removed, and nearly blocking the last body from view, wedged up against the shelves and bloody as it was.

"Cas," Dean wheezed, lifting his head laboriously to meet his eyes, blood bubbling up between his lips and staining them. "Cas, I'm so sorry-"

"No, no, don't talk like that," Cas said desperately, kneeling beside Dean. He took their pack of his back with shaking hands and shoved his angel blade somewhere inside. "We can fix this. You'll be okay."

"Cas-"

"You will!" he said, too loudly and startling himself.

"My ribs," Dean panted out in pained little gasps. "Broken. There's something in my back." He twitched minutely as if to show Cas the problem and immediately convulsed involuntarily at the pain the movement caused him, a horrible rattling moan in his throat. "My leg. Right one. Broken too." His jaw was clenched so tightly it was a miracle he could speak at all through the teeth-grinding pain he was in.

"Okay," Cas said faintly.

Cas...

Oh, he hated feeling. Sometimes he thought it made him useless. He missed being cold. Brutal, uncaring about pain or death. But this was Dean, and he'd never actually been particularly good at being a machine, anyway. "Okay. Dean, I need to see your back," he warned him, before moving him as gently as he could and angling his body so that he could get an unobstructed view of his back.

There was a crude metal stake wedged just an inch to the left of his second and third thoracic vertebrae, rusted, twisted and cruel-looking.

"Dean, I- I have to try to heal you," he said slowly, knowing that Dean wouldn't want him to be wasteful with his Grace. But this was beyond what human field medicine could help.

Dean didn't respond. He'd fallen unconscious.

"Oh no, no, no, baby," he babbled under his breath, trying to figure out the best way to extract the bar of metal. "Hold on," he muttered, grasping the stake firmly and bracing Dean's body against his own, trying to avoid fucking his broken ribs up more.

"Father, please, if you're still here, if you're listening, if you care at all," he begged, "help me."

Of course, his Father didn't answer. Gritting his teeth, Cas yanked out the stake and tossed it aside, immediately covering the wound with his hand. He summoned his Grace together and it responded sluggishly, but his hand was glowing and Dean's back was knitting back together.

As the skin merged into a puckered, raw-looking pink scar, Cas dropped his hand away from the wound and found himself utterly breathless, gasping for air and drained.

Dean was still unconscious.

He leaned Dean back up against the shelving and took a moment to figure out what to do next. Dean was still dying. He was still in danger. He couldn't be moved, nor could they stay put. He quickly opened up their pack and realized in horror that all the medical supplies were with Risa and AJ on the trucks and so, so far away by now.

He yanked his coat off with a twinge of regret. It was bloodied and worn and what he was about to do with it felt like a milestone he was loathe to reach.

He shredded it into long, wide strips, not letting himself think of how it was the last piece of Jimmy Novak, or how he had repaid the man's sacrifice by being party to the end of the world they both wanted to protect, or how Claire Novak had stopped praying to him weeks ago, now. He got on with the job, this is just a job, I can fix this-

He managed to wrap Dean's leg up decently tight, straight and stiff, but he had quickly discovered it was broken in several places. He didn't know what he could do for Dean's ribs, and he felt, as if from a distance, how Dean's breath was coming shallower and shallower, and he made his choice.

He laid his left hand on Dean's broken leg, as gently as he could. Leaning forward, he smoothed the wispy little baby hairs he loved to tease Dean about back, off his sweaty, pained, precious face, and, placing his right hand on Dean's crushed ribs, near his heart, touched their foreheads together. He looked at Dean's soul, his shining, beautiful (fading) soul and knew.

"I love you," Cas whispered, his voice wrecked. With that finally said, he grabbed his exhausted, weary Grace, and though it fought him and slipped through his grasp, he got hold of it and he pushed everything he could, everything he was into his hands, into Dean.

When he had done it, when he had drained himself down to mists and vapors, and had saved Dean, he gathered him in his arms, and carried him back to the truck on numb feet, leaving the scraps of Jimmy's coat behind in aisle seven.

When the truck broke down thirty miles from Chitaqua, and their radio too, he turned to Dean, pulling on a blue-ish jacket they'd picked up earlier during the run. It fit well.

"It's a good look for you," Dean said gruffly, staring at Cas with an expression he could not recognize. There was blood still smeared on his cheekbone, he noted absently.

"Oh. Yes. Well, thank you," Cas answered, adjusting the sleeves.

Dean tugged at the tan fabric strips on his leg, wincing at the pressure.

"You did a good job, Cas. With this fabric splint from your coat-"

"I know you won't be able to walk it," Cas said quietly, unable to meet his eyes even as he interrupted him. "I did what I could, but you'll be weak for days. You need time."

"You can leave me, Cas," Dean said, a strange, pinched guilt-pain-tenderness on his face. "You can come back for me."

"No," Cas said, smiling, and choking, and took Dean's cheek in the palm of his hand with a terrible ache rising in his throat. "I can't."

April 19th, 2012, under the peak of the Lyrids meteor showers, Cas flew for the last time, right up to the gates of the camp.

When they landed, a millisecond and millennia later, his wings burned away into nothingness in a wave of electric, minty-white pain that forced him to the ground. In the aftermath, panting and sweating and shaking in Dean's arms and clutching at his handprint on Dean's shoulder, he realized his Grace, or what was left of it, anyway, had consolidated into a bright little ball in his chest. Like a soul.

The realization was followed by another. Despite his earlier conviction that it would one day be lost to him, he could still see Dean's soul- behind his teeth, in his chest, radiant like a halo around his head, and worth, a million times over, and a million again, falling for.

Tagged:

@heller-jensen @sunforgrace @rambleoncas @adhdeancas @evermorecastiel @holmesemrys @plantdadcas @good-things-do-happen-dean @jeanne-de-valois @autisticandroids @sonder-stars @yana125 @faithcastiel @cascreamtiel @seffersonjtarship @i-sing-for-me @purgatorybi @bibelphegor @cowboyslikedean @gracefuldean @dimples-of-discontent @judaskissdean @wafflehousegothic @icaruscastiel @67chevyimpala67 @lesbianjenderenvy

[captainkappa]

Fanfic:: Falling

Besides, leaving means going back to an empty ship. Leaving means counting down the days until he saw Grogu again. Leaving means counting down until he could come with a good enough excuse to come back to Tatooine.

Din doesn’t want to leave. Not just yet.

AO3 Link

Do you remember this post I wrote about Din Cobb going to see Space Cherry Blossoms? Well I wrote a whole fic about it! It’s pure fluff and pining, I hope you enjoy!

And a huge thanks to @staranon95 for betaing!

-=-=-=-=-=-

“Do you want to go for a ride?”

Din hasn’t meant to offer it. He knows that opening that gate would open others, but in the shade of Din’s new ship the  Mudhorn , Cobb leaning against his speeder to say good-bye, it slips out. During the job this time, Cobb had finally put into words Din had suspected, that he’d had never been off Tatooine, which isn’t that surprising when you consider the culture of Tatooine is scraping by for your next meal.

Cobb freezes for a moment. “You sure? You don’t have someplace to be?”

“No, I can spare a few.”

He’s not wrong. He’s not on contract from the guild, he probably has a couple of days before Bo-Katan contacts him again for the saber, his calendar is blissfully free. Besides, leaving means going back to an empty ship. Leaving means counting down the days until he saw Grogu again. Leaving means counting down until he could come with a good enough excuse to come back to Tatooine.

Din doesn’t want to leave. Not just yet.

The smile that Cobb has threatens to blind him. “Alright, lemme comm the town, tell them I’ll be back a little later.”

Cobb steps away and Din takes this as his chance to take a breath. He’s doing this, he’s just going to bring Cobb up to see a brand new planet then back to Tatooine before Mos Pelgo can miss him.

That’s it.

He lowers the ramp and packs up the supplies he got while on planet. It’s busy work that he can use to distract himself from thinking about how Cobb fought today, ruthless in the face of the slaver camp they came across, how the new durasteel armor hugs him in all the right places. Taking inventory should prevent his thoughts from drifting to how Cobb tilts his head back to laugh, the way he smiles when he gets an idea, and how he held out his hand to help Din up after the fight was over.

That is, until a thought pops into his head. Not only a thought, a planet, a planet he thinks he might want to show Cobb, someone who’s only used to the sand plains of Tatooine. He none so gently kicks the final crate into the hold before going to the cockpit. He plugs the coordinates in, just to see how the hyperspace lanes look.  

He blinks at the screen showing them optimal for a quick trip. No traffic, no anomalies sending them off course. It’s the perfect storm for space travel.

He glances at Cobb, still talking with Jo or Issa-Or. He turns back and pulls out a busted datapad and checks one more thing about the planet in mind.

He was right; it’s peak season.

He leans back in his chair, allowing himself to be selfish and look at Cobb. Is this the Force? He’s had conversations with his son’s teachers since he got his frequency and he still doesn’t understand it entirely, but is this what the Force is? Pulling him to this conclusion that it’d be a crime to pass on the opportunity?

His thought process is interrupted by Cobb’s light steps up the ramp. His eyes wander the whole breadth of the ship, drinking it all in, before finally landing on him. His gaze is so bright, Din has to fight the urge to fidget.

“Alright, so what’s the plan, partner? Quick trip up and down?

“Actually, if you have time,” he starts, sounding more confident than he feels, “there’s a planet not too far away we could visit.”

Cobb tears his gaze away from the hull to look at him, eyes full of restrained emotion.

“Really?”

Din swallows, not knowing why his throat feels so dry. “Yeah. There’s a hyperspace lane freed up. Two hours there and back.”

“That easy?” And Cobb clamps his lips shut and Din can see where he’s coming from. The freedom of space is enticing. He’d be lying if there hadn’t been a day or two in his youth when he just wanted to forgo a bounty to just explore.

He nods, giving Cobb the time to consider.

“Two hours?” he parrots and Din nods again. Cobb considers this for only a moment before saying, “Ah, what the hell, once in a lifetime opportunity, right?”

“Alright.” Din hopes Cobb can’t tell how hard he’s smiling as he starts up the ship.

The ship rumbles beneath his feet, a familiar sensation. Cobb, on the other hand, jumps five feet out of his seat when the ship around them starts to move.

“Sorry,” Din says before Cobb can get a word in edgewise. Should’ve thought of that. “I’m gonna have us start climbing now, okay?”

Cobb manages a nod. Din pulls up on the controls and the ship is airborne. He lets the control tower know they’re leaving before pushing the ship to accelerate to break the atmosphere. He keeps turning his head to face Cobb, whose eyes are plastered to the viewport.

This time he warns Cobb what he’s doing, trying to remember how it felt the first time he entered hyperspace.

“It might… feel weird,” he explains as he plugs in the hyperspace coordinates.

Cobb snorts. “Very descriptive, partner, thank you kindly for the warning.”

Din huffs out a laugh before pulling the lever back, watching as the familiar blues of hyperspace fill the cockpit window. There’s a sudden gasp from his left and he turns to look at Cobb, to make sure he’s okay.

He hasn’t been expecting tears. Silent, quiet tears falling down Cobb’s cheeks. It makes Din’s throat close up with want. What he wants, he’s not sure. Want to bring Cobb with him? Cobb wouldn’t want that with his roots already set down in Tatooine; the politics of Mandalore wouldn’t appeal to him.

Or at least, that’s what Din tells himself, avoiding any consideration of the opposite because what if it wasn’t that Cobb wouldn’t leave Tatooine, but that he wouldn’t leave  with Din .

Din has had too much heartbreak for one lifetime. He doesn’t think he could handle much more.

He tells Cobb he’s free to wander the ship, but Cobb just nods, eyes transfixed. Din settles in himself. He’ll leave the cockpit if Cobb asks, but he really hopes he doesn’t.

-=-

As predicted, the flight is short and soon they are out of hyperspace. From space, the planet is a motley of colors, but Din angles for the dot of pink that grows larger and larger as they enter the atmosphere. Cobb’s eyes never leave the viewport as the planet widens before their eyes, details coming into focus. First, its coastlines, then mountains that disappear with the curve of the planet, then the natural borders of biomes, then thick forests of multicolored trees, until they arrive at the patch Din had thought of.

They touch down on a flat patch of earth, no official landing strip for miles. Din flicks the last switch before turning to Cobb. His eyes haven’t left the window, hands in fists in his lap.

“Cobb?”

Cobb jumps, turning to his voice.

“Are you ready?”

Cobb blinks. “We can head on the planet? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Din says, standing up. “There’s no major space port here, mostly uninhabited on this side. We’re not breaking any laws.”

The other man chuckles. “Not worked about law breakin’.”

“Then c’mon. There’s more to see.”

He nods and falls in step with Din, wide eyes never leaving the tops of the trees. Din allows himself a moment to look as well. The trees stand at least another person taller than both of them, branches full of fluffy bright pink blooms. Even with the branches looking as full as they are, there’s a thick carpet of pink under their feet, decompressing with every step.

Cobb finally breaks his silent awe. “Are they…always this color?”

Din shakes his head. “The flowers fall and grow back a different color for each season. Last time I was here they were blue.”

Cobb breaks away from their twinned steps to walk up closer to one of the trees. Din watches as he feels the bark between his fingers, reaches up to feel the silky textures of the petals and Din’s heart seizes with what could be; traveling together and visiting planets Cobb could never conceive of. Din wants to hand the galaxy to Cobb and ask where he wants to go, because if there is one person who deserves a little reverence and adventure, it’s Cobb, who cares so much for the people around him but so little for himself.

“Wait for me,” Din says, as he nearly loses sight of the man.

“We just landed on an alien planet, and you want me to wait?”

“Don’t want to lose track of you. I could easily mistake you for a tree.”

Cobb snorts, pushing on one of his pauldrons before breaking away, keeping a closer distance this time.

A breeze blows through and shakes the branches, loose petals are thrown into the air, twisting and twirling in the air, but Din only has eyes for Cobb. Cobb, with eyes wide, head tilted up to try and take it all in. Gentle pink petals catch in gray hair and that red scarf and Din can barely breathe for a second.

“It’s beautiful,” Cobb says, his gaze to the sky.

“Yeah,” Din says, eyes never leaving Cobb.

Cobb’s eyes sweep the valley before stopping on him.

He stifles a laugh. “I think you have some petals in your…”

Din looks down and sees the petals have caught in the junctures of his armor.

“Here, lemme help you.”

Din looks up and Cobb is suddenly much closer, fingers brushing in the spaces between armor, where the flight suit suddenly feels as thin as silk for all it keeps out the heat of Cobb’s fingers.

“There we go,” Cobb says with one last brush of his fingers.

“You too.” Pink dots Cobb’s salt and pepper hair. Before Cobb can move and before Din can properly think his actions through, he’s bringing gloved hands up to Cobb to gently brush the petals away. He’s thought of this before, but without the gloves on, hands lingering in the gray strands, wanting to know if they’re as soft as they lookl, or are there grains of sand lost between them?

Cobb’s eyes close for a moment and Din takes the second to drink him all in, at the freckle under his eye, the way his hair has shifted in the breeze. It’s only for a second before he’s looking into familiar hazel again.

And Din realizes just how close they’ve gotten.

“C’mon,” Din says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out rougher than he anticipates, “One thing I want to show you.”

Cobb’s face breaks into a familiar grin. “Something else? Mando, I’m startin’ to feel spoiled.”

You deserve it.

Din takes a step back, nodding, before gesturing to follow him. He leads them through the seemingly endless forest, guided by muscle memory of the last time a bounty brought him here and his HUD showing how the terrain changes.

It’s a short walk from where Din remembers it, the lake where he finally caught that bounty. The water is covered in petals so that it nearly blends in with the ground. Din pauses just before the ground turns to mud. He turns to explain the circumstances of finding the place, when he realizes Cobb is still walking forward.

“Wait!” Din throws out a hand to grab him by the elbow pulling him back. Cobb is immediately on alert, thinking there’s something dangerous. Instead of explaining, Din pulls a rock from the ground and throws it into the lake in front of them. The impact sends the petals on the surface rocking in the waves, revealing the dirty green water they had been covering.

Cobb blinks, staring at the ripples.

“Maker,” he whispers. “I ain’t never seen that much water, let alone covered like that.”

Din nods. Silence descends like the falling flowers as he lets Cobb explore the area, throw more stones into the lake, and watch how the petals shift on the lake.

Suddenly Din is reminded of something his buir taught him, back before the covert had relocated to Nevarro, when they were on a grassy planet with what felt like a million lakes.

He looks down at the shoreline and it doesn’t take long to find what he’s looking for.

“Cobb!” His head snaps up, rock slipping from his fingers to crash near his feet. Din bites back the smile on his face as he says, “Watch this.”

He crouches down, curls his finger around the flat rock in his hand, and lets it go. It skips twice on the water before disappearing. Cobb crows in delight at the first skip, eyes glued to its movements.

“What kind of Mando training lets you do that?”

“That’s not Mandalorian training,” Din says, helmet already tilted to find another rock. “Besides, that was shit. I can get nine skips on a good day.”

“Bantha shit,” Cobb says and Din looks up and sees a smile that looks like a challenge.

“Well, with the flowers in the way-”

“No, no, no backpedaling now,” he points a determined finger in Din’s direction. “You promised me nine skips, I want to see it.”

“Alright,” he says, stooping down to really start looking for the perfect rock. He pulls off his gloves in the process, sticking them in his belt.

He stands up with a couple of decently flat rocks. He weighs the first in his hand, before dipping low and letting it fly. It gets five skips before slipping underneath the surface. Cobb lets out a low whistle.

“Here,” he says, handing a stone to the other man. “Try it.”

Cobb hesitates only for a moment before taking the stone, fingers brushing. Din coaches him through the movements, shaping his fingers around the stone, showing him how to get the right angle by crouching down low.

Cobb’s eyes never leave his hands, but his first throw sinks like a rock. Din gets a good six skips.

“Try again,” Din says, already handing Cobb a new rock before he can let loose the expletive he knows is behind his tongue.

The sun is low in the sky, casting a warm red light over them by the time Cobb can skip the stone more than once and Din can get a stone to skim the water ten times before going under. The look Cobb gave him when he finally got a stone to skip once is one Din knows he’ll remember for a while.

The walk back is quiet, both men exhausted after a long day. Was it just this morning that he and Cobb flushed out a group of slavers? Can a day feel so long and yet so short?

What if he has more days like this?

He shakes his head as the ramp to the ship lowers. They’re friends, that’s all. He’s not about to mess up a good thing, one of the rare good things he’s managed to hold onto since giving up Grogu.

He’s about to step up when he feels a hand on his arm. He stops and turns to face Cobb, who looks so earnest in the light of the setting sun, it hurts.

“Din, thank you.”

“It’s no-”

“No, really. Thank you, for all of this. I never… I used to dream about leaving Tatooine as a younger man, but I-I could never think of anything like this.”

Din nods, because if he tries to clear his now dry throat, tries to string two words together, he’s going to regret it. He’s going to say something like “stay with me” or “can I go home with you” conversations that will end in disaster.

Or at least, that’s what Din tells himself as he watches Cobb walk into the ship. Din lets out a steady breath before following.

Take off goes smoother this time, Cobb being more prepared for the feelings and sounds. This time, Cobb breaks his gaze from space to ask about the ship, how it functions and its name.

Space travel has never felt so fast. It feels like the next minute he’s bringing the ship down onto the familiar yellow sands of Tatooine.

The ramp of the  Mudhorn  lowers, a small puff of sand kicks up. Neither man moves.

“Well, until next time, Marshal.”

“Of course, don’t be a stranger. And thank you, again.”

But still, neither one of them moves. Din’s about to ask if something’s wrong when Cobb steps close.

“Please don’t tell me I’m reading this wrong.”

Before Din can ask, Cobb reaches for his hand, bringing it up to his mouth so fast it looks more like he’s punching himself with Din’s fist rather than kissing his knuckles. Cobb pulls back just as quickly, back ramrod straight as he takes Din in.

“Don’t feel obligated-”

“I’m not-Maker, you are dense sometimes, aren’t ya?” Din’s about to contest that but Cobb keeps going. “I’ve damn near been in love with ya since you flew out of that dragon’s mouth! Your visits make my month and I… I wouldn’t be opposed if they weren’t always for business.”

“Cobb-”

He makes to pull back. “If I misread the situation, then my apologies, but-”

Din squeezes tight on his hand. “You didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I… I don’t show just everyone planets full of flowers.”

Cobb breaks into a grin. “Well next time you take me out on a date, let me know it’s a date so I can get dressed up.”

Next time . Din likes the sound of that.

“It’s a date.”

[thejollyroger-writer]

THE WASTELAND - INTO THE DEEP, DARK THICK OF IT (11/?)

Hey, everyone! It's been literal weeks since I've posted anything, but I'm coming at you today with chapter 11 of THE WASTELAND, my @cssns 2020 fic! (With lovely cover art by @spartanguard and chapter art to follow!!!)

Some triggers: this story is rated TEEN, mostly for violence. It takes place during wartime, and some of the characters go through some violence and torture. If you need more information about this, please just message me! 

SUMMARY:  In a world that has been saturated in war for as long as anyone can remember, Emma Swan has rebuilt her life as far away from the chaos as possible, opening her own maternity hospital after spending too many years in makeshift battlefield aid stations. But one night, a bloodied and battered soldier finds her hospital trying to get away from an enemy with a penchant for torture and a personal vendetta against him. With the help of Emma’s childhood friend Prince David and a motley collection of humans and magic-wielders, the quest to save Killian Jones’ life from the poison used by the enemy takes them to places even beyond the known world.

On AO3 (follow this link to get there!)

David pulls the map from the tree, holding it between his hands, and the rest of them crowd around him to look over his shoulder at it — except Emma, who keeps her distance. She doesn’t know if it’s from what happened in the Echo Caves or from finding half of their crew taken again, but she feels sick to her stomach, and taking slow, deep breaths is less than helpful in the thick, humid air of the Neverland forests. 

But she is still close enough to hear their conversation: 

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, Killian, but isn't that—" David says, only to be cut off prematurely by Killian. 

"The Dark Jungle? Aye."

Mary Margaret tries next: "And that's where you told us—" 

"Never to go? Uh-huh," he says bluntly.  

"But this map is leading us—” Robin tries, but this time, David cuts him off. 

"Directly into the middle of it." 

“And we’re walking right into his trap?” Mary Margaret asks. 

“I don’t really see another option, do you?” David asks, and Emma turns to them just in time to see Mary Margaret reach out and take David’s hand, sharing a small but obviously love-filled glance with him. Though she has seen it many times before, has been watching her two best friends share displays of affection for years now, this simple gesture makes her stomach turn again. 

She didn’t know she was such a cynic. Sure, she’s been having sinking feelings about the validity of true love and things like that, but she never once imagined actually saying those things out loud.

To Killian. To a dying man who pretty much confessed his love to her. 

But she did. She didn’t even know she felt that strongly about it until she was already spewing her secret in the Cave, but once the words were out, there was no way of taking them back. Maybe that was Pan’s plan all along, to cause a rift between just her and Killian, because it doesn’t seem to her like anyone else was as affected by the Echo Caves as they were. 

Milah clears her throat, and they all seem to remember simultaneously that she is there. As the rest of the group turns towards her, Emma focuses on Killian, watching his face change as he looks at her. A rollercoaster of emotions crosses his face, his features softening before hardening again, as if remembering everything she told them in the Caves. “I’ve spent a lot of time on this island, and have learned some of the ways around. This map is sending you right through Pan’s camp, where all of his henchmen stay. It’s almost definitely a trap.” 

With that, his features soften again. “How long have you been here?” 

“Not long after Liam was killed and I thought they killed you. Pan offered me a life away from the War, and since that was all I ever wanted, I accepted before realizing it was a trap to keep me here.” 

“That’s twelve years, Milah,” he whispers, and something in the way he says her name makes Emma’s heart stop — or so it feels like. Every inch of her is weighed down by it, by the incredible familiarity that every inch of him exudes. Milah hurt him so much, Emma could tell by his response to her in the Cave. She hurt him, yet he still seems to have feelings for her. 

That’s what she wants, she realizes, standing there taking it all in. She knows she crossed a line, completely disregarded Killian’s feelings, and she wants to be forgiven. She wants to go back to how it was before they went into the damned Cave, before Pan pitted them against each other. 

She only hopes it’s not too late. 

“And how do we know that whatever way you take us isn’t also going to be a trap?” David asks, and Emma is glad that someone else feels a little leery trusting the woman who just revealed herself to be the mother of Prince Baelfire. 

“I have no way of proving my allegiance to you,” she says. “Only that I have spent my time here — twelve years, if Killian is right, though it only feels like a few months — as Pan’s prisoner, and though time may flow differently here than in the regular places of the world, I have grown to hate him more with each day I have spent here. If I could do anything to get off this island, I will, but if defeating him is something that could happen in the process of that, I'll do whatever I can to help.” 

David turns to Killian, who just shrugs. “What do you suggest we do?” 

“It’s a bit of a more treacherous path, to be honest, but doesn’t cut through Pan’s camp. Hopefully we’ll run into less Lost Boys that way.” 

“Lost Boys?” Mary Margaret asks. 

Milah nods. “That’s what they call themselves. Or what Pan calls them, I’m not sure who started it. I’ve always felt that they were trapped on this island like I am, but I have no way of proving it. All the ones I’ve been able to talk to seem pretty content to be here.” 

They stay silent for a moment, shifting their packs on their backs, until finally, Killian says, “Well, let’s go, we’re wasting daylight,” before gesturing for Milah to take the lead and following behind her. 

Robin and Mary Margaret take off after them, but Emma pulls David back, keeping a few steps behind them all and out of earshot. 

“Do you really trust this woman?” 

“No,” he says, keeping his gaze on the woods in front of them. “But the way I see it, I don’t really have another choice, do I?” 

Emma shrugs. “I just… have a bad feeling about all of this,” she says, pulling down her ponytail to put it back up and keep the flyaways out of her face as best she can. She's never been to a place as humid as Neverland, and while she was never one to give much care to the state of her hair, she has been finding it much harder to deal with over the last few days. 

“So do I,” he says. “I’ve had a bad feeling about all of this, since that first day when you called me from the hospital. But if listening to this woman — to Prince Baelfire’s mother — is the best chance we have for saving Killian’s life, then who am I to fight it?” 

“You do have a pretty good track record for trusting those you probably shouldn’t,” she jokes, knocking her shoulder into his. 

He chuckles. “That I do.”

  "And who do we have here?" King George leers, glaring down at her from his throne. For the first time since he sat down beside his father earlier that morning, David feels pulled to look up.

He had no idea what to expect, but a girl no more than twelve or thirteen, kneeling on the marble-tiled floor between two armor-clad guards, is certainly not it, though that's what he finds. Though each of their hands extend far past the end of the girl's shoulders, they seem to be pushing her into the ground much harder than David feels is necessary.

She says nothing, only spits on the floor in front of her. He doesn't blame her, really; just by the looks of her, he can tell that her life has been nothing like his own, that she has spent most of her life living on the streets. 

The streets of his kingdom. Or, what will be his kingdom one day. He’s thought about the people who are lesser off than he is, thought about those who don’t live the kind of privileged life that’s been handed to him — but, somehow, these thoughts have never included the idea that people his age could be living on the streets. 

Right here, with this girl right in front of him, it hits him a little too hard in the face. A tremor quakes through his body. 

“Tell me your name, girl,” his father demands, but all she does is glare at him — at them, together on the throne. 

“We found her in the royal gardens, your majesty. Trying to steal food,” one of the guards says, his gloved hand flexing against her shoulder as it keeps her on her knees. 

“Stealing from me, eh? Do you know what the punishment for that is?” 

“Father, you can’t,” David says, surprising himself more than anyone else. 

This time, King George’s glare is directed at him. “Excuse me?” 

David clears his throat, gulps, trying to hide his embarrassment, his nervousness. “The least you could do is cut her a break. She doesn’t deserve to go to the dungeon.” 

“She stole from me, David. From us, from the royal garden. The penalty is a night in the dungeon, no matter who you are.” 

“Just look at her.” 

King George turns away from his son to look back at the girl kneeling on the floor in front of them. For a moment, he is silent, his arms crossed over his chest, before turning back to David. “Okay, fine. What would you do, son?” 

David sits up a little straighter, running his fingers through his hair, if only to try to get ahold of himself. “The first thing I would do would be to offer her a meal.” Though King George’s eyes are on David, the prince is watching the young girl, who looks up at him when he says this. “She’s obviously hungry, or she wouldn’t be stealing from the royal gardens. Gods know we have more than enough food.” 

King George nods, looking back at the girl for a moment. “And then?” 

“Why take any more action? There was no malicious intent. It’s our job to take care of our people, not throw the hungry ones in prison.” 

King George smiles at his son, and for a moment, he feels hope. Maybe, just maybe, his father will see the truth in what he is saying, will be fair for the first time in his life. 

But then he stands up, wiping his hands on his black dress pants. “And that’s why you’re not king yet.” He turns to the guards. “Take her to the dungeons. And give her a piece of bread or something, I suppose.” 

Before David can say a word, King George turns on his heel and walks out of the throne room. As the girl is hauled back to her feet, David tries his best to give her a look filled with sympathy, but he has no idea if she took it that way. 

One day, he’s going to be a benevolent king. One day, none of his people will go hungry, and they will certainly not be sent to the dungeons just for trying to get a bite to eat. For now, though, maybe all he can do is be nice to this one, single young woman. It really is the least he can do. 

  He waits until he is no longer under the watchful supervision of his father, until he has finished the rest of his duties for the day, but then he makes his way down to the kitchens. 

“Hey, Granny,” he says, knocking on the door to the kitchen, though it already stands open. He knows the woman has another name, must have been told of it at some point, but everyone just calls her Granny — except his father, who refers to her only as “the cook,” even to her face. In reality, though, she is much more than that. Though she does not technically run their household, she does most of the work related to it, from running the kitchens to making sure the maids and servants do their jobs as they should. David knows the household would fall apart without her, and therefore always offers her a smile when he finds himself down in the kitchens, or when he runs into her in other parts of the palace. 

“Good evening, your highness,” she says, turning her attention to him for only a moment before turning her attention back to the pot in front of her on the stove. As always, she is stoic, unsmiling, but he has learned that is just how she is, and not to take offense of it, even when the rest of their staff always manage a smile in his direction — and a fake one when his father is around. 

It’s no secret that the household staff prefer the prince over his father. Sometimes they even whisper amongst themselves about how someone as rude as King George could have raised a son like David, who has grown into a polite and understanding young man. 

“What brings you down here this evening?” 

“My father threw a young woman in the dungeons earlier for stealing from the palace gardens, and I would like to make sure she gets a nice, hot meal.” 

This pulls one of the very rare smiles across Granny’s face as she puts down her spoon and wipes her hands on her apron. “Gods bless you, sire.” 

“It really is the least I could do,” he says, leaning back against the doorway, his eyes watching the old woman puttering around the room but the rest of him unmoving. “I tried to talk my father into letting her go — all she wanted was a meal — but he threw her in the dungeons nonetheless.” 

“I was a little girl when your grandfather was king,” she says, adding a few pieces of bread to the tray. “And have lived most of my life in this palace, seeing firsthand how the citizens of the Gale have been treated.” When she turns to look at the prince, his eyes have fallen to the floor, so she takes the tray in her hands and stands before him with it, waiting for him to look up at her. “I’ve been waiting for a ruler like you my whole life, your highness. I only hope that I shall live to see you take your father’s place on the throne.” 

He smiles at the woman, taking the tray of food out of her hands. “The rumor around here is that you’re never going to die,” he says with a wink, then turns and leaves the kitchen, another small smile spreading across the old woman’s face as she shakes her head. 

  He’s happy to see that the guards placed her in the first cell, the one that gets the most light during the day through the old iron gate at the top of the stairs. She is sitting alone in the corner, as far from the door as she can get, and her eyes follow him in what’s left of the light as he walks the few paces down the hallway to reach the door of her cell. 

Neither of them speak, even as he sets the tray of food down on the ground and pushes it through the slot at the bottom of the cell. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, running his index finger along one of the cold iron bars, but then he sits down on the floor, his back against the bars, facing away from her. He wasn’t planning on staying, certainly wasn’t planning on making conversation with her, but there are words coming from his mouth before he can stop them. “My father is an unjust ruler, but there’s not much I can do about it for now. All I can do is go behind his back and try to be the kind of king I want to be someday when he’s not looking. Today was the first time he even asked for my opinion on something, but certainly not the first time I’ve spoken out to him about it, though you saw how he responded to it.” He doesn’t dare to turn his head towards her, but out of the corner of his eye, he notices that she’s slowly moving towards the tray of food, taking the sandwich off the tray. “I’m sorry for the way my father treated you today. I would really — I would like to help you, if you’ll let me.” 

Her voice is soft, but still the fact that she speaks startles David a bit. “You have helped me already.” 

David smiles, fully turning to her and happy to see she has accepted the food he brought as she takes a bite of the sandwich. “I mean once you’re out from behind these bars.” 

“What do you think you could do for me?” There is spite in her voice again, spite that must come from years of being on her own and learning not to trust anyone, David realizes, but does not want to push her to the point where she thinks he is overdoing it. 

He turns away from her again, hoping to keep her trust. “If you’ll allow me — and if you would like — I can try to get you a job working for someone at the palace. I could at least promise you a meal or two a day, though I may also be able to find you a place to stay, depending on what you would be willing to do.” 

For a while, she is silent, slowly eating the sandwich before she begins picking at the pile of grapes. “What would I have to do to have a place to stay?” Her voice is small, showing David a side of her that he doesn’t think very many people get to see, a vulnerability that he can tell she has learned to hide under a thick skin. 

“Have you discovered any powers yet?” He’s not sure how old she is, if he has become of age for her abilities to begin to show themselves. 

“No, not — not yet.” 

“And what about your parents? Did they have powers?” 

“I… never knew my parents. I was left on the steps of one of the temples when I was just a few days old.” 

He’s quiet for another few moments, thinking about it all. “I think the palace healers are searching for an apprentice, actually. I’ll go check with them this evening and come back in the morning to free you and see what I’ve come up with.” 

He stands to leave, not expecting anything else from her, so when he hears a very quiet “thank you” come from behind him, he can’t stop himself from turning back towards her, though he has nothing to say. 

“Why did you help me?” she asks, and he backtracks the three steps he’s taken away from her cell. 

“I would like to be the kind of leader who helps as many people as I can, and it’s never too early to start.” 

“You’re a good man, your highness.” 

“David. Please, just call me David.” He wants to ask the question that’s sitting on the tip of his tongue, but he’s also afraid to; he knows that sometimes orphans are left without a name, but he feels a deep calling to befriend this small, blonde girl currently sitting in his father’s dungeons. So he asks it anyway: “Would you like to tell me your name?” 

They share a smile. In this moment, Emma decides on a surname for the first time in her life. “Emma. Emma Swan. And thank you… David.”

  “Can we stop for a minute?” Mary Margaret asks, leaning against a tree right off the path. “Please?” 

None of them refuse. Killian even looks a little relieved, though he tries to hide his face from them as he digs through his pack, searching for snacks. Most of them dive straight into their supplies, searching for something, since Emma hasn’t yet honed the ability to conjure food like Belle and Merlin have — though, thankfully, most of them still have a fair amount of the food they packed in the first place because of the powers of their more magic-inclined friends. 

Water, however, she is more than able to conjure, filling everyone’s canteens and bottles as they pass them to her — even with Milah insisting that the water on the island is more than safe. 

"We don't want to take any unnecessary chances," David explains, handing Mary Margaret her bottle back. "Especially since we are no longer following the map Pan gave us. Who knows what kind of tricks he still has for us."

Killian, though he doesn’t seem to be listening to their conversation, has pulled the map out of his back pocket and has spread it across his legs, his attention on it instead the rest of the group. But his mind is very, very far away, the same place it has been for the last few hours, save when he has needed to point out something along the trail. 

He's torn. Torn between the choices lying before him, and torn apart by everything that has been thrown at him recently. He never imagined he would see Milah again, especially never imagined that he would have to choose between two women with Milah being one of them. Part of him — most of him, if he’s honest with himself — doesn’t know if he can even trust her, knowing what he learned in the Cave. The mother of the man that has become his enemy, the man who killed his brother and tortured him. 

And then there’s Emma. Days ago, even hours ago, he thought he was in love with her. His only question was whether or not he was going to make it off this island, whether he would have the chance to spend some of his life beside her. 

But now he knows their connection is fake — or, Emma believes it’s fake. Killian realizes, looking across the path to where she is sitting against a tree, her eyes shut, that, to him, it doesn’t even matter. Magic or not, prophecy or not, he’s in love with her.

Turning to Milah, he finds himself surprised by his lack of feeling for her, even as she smiles warmly at him. A smile that he has missed so much over the last twelve years, a smile he never thought he would see again. Still, he feels nothing. Not even hatred, not anger — just… nothing. 

Well, there’s his decision then. He’s not sure that he will ever get past Emma’s disdain towards their connection, but he at least knows that she is the one he chooses.  

If he makes it off this island. 

  A twig snaps behind David, bringing up the rear of the group, and he cannot quite move fast enough to simultaneously whip around and pull his pistol from the waistband of his jeans, calling for Emma's attention. At the last moment, he watches as the young boy that has appeared behind him knocks an arrow on his obviously-homemade bow, and he readies himself for the impact of the crude arrow into his flesh, his finger unable to pull the trigger with an enemy who looks so young. 

But the impact never comes. When he opens his eyes, Emma is standing in front of him, her hands out before her — and the hazy waves emitting from them are holding the arrow, mid-flight, in the air between them. 

Suddenly, a battle cry sounds in the forest around them, other young boys armed with spears and arrows (and David even thinks he sees a slingshot) appear from behind the trees. 

Their group stands unmoving, though their weapons are drawn, as the boys start to move around them, none of them able to bring themselves to fire their weapons at an enemy that looks so much like young boys. 

"They're enchanted, I told you this!" Milah cries, the only one of them unarmed, and she tries to cower behind Robin, who is having none of it. "They look like boys, but they're not!" 

Another one, this one significantly taller and older-looking, pushes through the trees, the smile on his face somehow calling attention to the large scar that runs down his cheek. "And I can assure you that nothing will hold us back from killing you." 

This is apparently the push Robin needs to act, and he releases an arrow at one of the closest of Pan's followers, catching the arm of his jacket and pinning it against the tree. He and Mary Margaret continue with this approach, successfully taking four of the boys out of battle, but it's almost as if they're immediately replaced with four more. 

And each of them are looking towards the tall boy with the scar for their orders. 

When Emma realizes this, she focuses all of her energy on him, though it takes all of the concentration she has to try to hold him still, her powers in battle still very new to her. 

They're still afraid to act, even as the boys begin loosing arrows in their direction. When Emma realizes that freezing their leader isn't helping, she releases him, trying to find somewhere better to focus her powers — and she finds it in a protective barrier around them, stopping many of the boys' arrows. 

But not all of them. Just as Emma begins to feel more confident in her abilities, she senses something came through anyway, and it almost breaks her concentration to turn her head for a moment in the direction she thought she felt it. 

She wishes she hadn't, though, because all she finds is Robin laying on the ground, the twig-end of one of the boy's crude arrows sticking out of the flesh of his thigh. 

"I can help!" she says, but the rest of the group seems to shout No! at the same time, and Milah kneels beside him. 

“Can’t you do something… more?” David asks, and Emma rolls her eyes. 

“I’m doing the best I can here.” 

“You’re doing great, love,” Killian mutters from beside her, bumping his shoulder into hers, then fires a shot at one of the boys, the first shot fired from any of their pistols. It just hits the side of the boy's leg, and he falls to the ground gripping it — but the rest of the boy's stop in their tracks, eyes wide and directed at Killian. 

Silence has fallen around them. 

"What is that?" the oldest of them, the one with the scar, asks, staring at the pistol in Killian's hand. 

It never occurred to them that the Lost Boys haven't seen newer, updated weapons. It never occurred to most of them that Pan would have boys on the island who can't age, who have been stuck here for gods know how long. 

"It's a pistol, you dunce," another of them says, aiming his bow once more — 

— and, somehow, Emma is overcome by a surge of power, emitted from her hands in a blinding flash of white light, sending all of the Lost Boys flying backwards and knocking many of them unconscious. 

"Bloody brilliant, love," Killian mumbles, knocking against her shoulder again as he returns his pistol to the holster. 

Emma whips around, first towards Robin before realizing that David has also come out of the battle wounded. 

"Alright," she says, helping David sit against a tree, her hand pressed against the scrape on the side of his ribs. "Am I allowed to help now?" 

She tries to smile at David, but it doesn't really take — and David certainly doesn't return it. 

Because when she lifts his shirt, the gash on his ribs has already started turning black. She glances over her shoulder, searching for him, but she knows he is seeing the same that she is. 

"Dreamshade," Killian mumbles, kneeling beside her on the ground. "What bloody luck." 

[slinglouis]

september fic rec!

this one is coming at you all very late, but here are my favorite fics from august that i think you need to read this september! i read a TON of fics last month so these are the ones i absolutely loved! (**  my FAVORITE FAVORITES) 

mine would be you by crinkle-eyed-boo, 115k

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

robbers and cowards by louistomlinsons, 33k

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think that you’re enjoying yourself.” The familiar voice immediately gets Louis’ blood boiling, shoulders tensing as he calmly spins around, trying not to draw any suspicion to the pair. “You don’t know me at all,” Louis spits, managing to maintain the polite smile he’s been wearing all evening. “You’re just some asshole who always ruins my nights.” “If I keep ruining your nights, why do you keep going home with me?” Harry asks, taking a sip from his own wine glass. “I don’t go home with you by any choice of my own,” Louis says. “I think you’re annoying and I have no idea how I keep ending up in your bed.” “You end up in my bed because you knock on my apartment door at two in the morning.” Louis wants to punch the smirk right off of his face. “Maybe you should move,” is what he says instead. or a modern day robin hood au where louis and harry (don’t really) hate each other but they hate greedy billionaires more

Need So Much of You by lululawrence, 47k

“Alright, I’m just going to get right down to it,” Jess said. “We were contacted yesterday by Harry Styles’ team with some information regarding his own schedule and promotion that is going to have some bearing on Louis.”

“Me specifically or all former members of the band?” Louis asked, confused.

“You specifically,” Jess said, looking at Louis with a heavy gaze. “Harry’s going to start his own promo for his second album in the coming months, which is going to include a coming out.”

“That’s great,” he said, nodding. “Is that it? Or is there more?”

Mark shifted in his seat and Louis watched his expression change. “We’ve discussed it and we think it would be best if you came out as well and had a promotional relationship with Harry for the album drop through both of your tours next year.”

Louis started laughing in surprise, but no one else joined in. Shit, they were serious.

Or the would-have-been canon compliant, fake relationship, friends with benefits, friends to lovers fic where Louis wonders if this thing going on with Harry is going to break him or change everything for the better.

waiting for the tides to meet by nauticalleeds, 60k **

Louis lets out a deep breath, thinking about Harry’s soulmate. Thinking about how Harry’s soulmate is probably as beautiful as Harry, some person that Louis cannot compare to, and how the universe has chosen them to be Harry’s. Fuck the universe. “Fuck you,” he calls out to the universe. He’s aware of how crazy he sounds.

Maybe he is crazy, with how he’s falling for Harry. And fuck that, too.

Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.

Featuring a lovely cup of OT5, a road trip down the coast, and a scene where Harry eats a whole head of lettuce. Don't ask why.

Spirit to a Dove by alienharry, 97k **

For as long as it’s been on the air, Harry’s been an avid watcher of Trivialities. He’s always imagined what it’d be like to compete on the show himself, and when the opportunity arises, he’s fast tracked to join the new cast for the show’s eighth season.

Alliances are formed, strategies are planned, and Harry finds himself with his very own nemesis. Between trivia and physical challenges, Harry’s making the most of his time in the house, but nothing could’ve prepared him for Louis Tomlinson.

Stranger Stars by shaylea, 212k **

Five years ago, Africa offered a grieving Louis Tomlinson an escape from an England he couldn't tolerate. Now it's become home as he leads overland tours across the continent with his best friend and driver Zayn Malik. What's meant to be just another ordinary six-week trip from Cape Town to Nairobi turns into anything but, when future lawyer/current photographer and songwriter Harry Styles and his friends join Louis' latest set of passengers.

another hazy may by deLILah, 41k **

louis is a terrible poet and harry lives in the now and they have six weeks to fall in love but, really, it only takes six seconds. bookshop meets military meets summer romance au ft. marlboros, the backstreet boys, and underrated literary devices.

Anonymous Said by alivingfire, 21k

When Harry was sixteen, he reached out for someone, anyone, to help him through the hardest days of his life. When Louis was eighteen, he answered. While they didn't know each other's names or faces or lives at all, really, it didn't stop them from falling a little bit in love.

And when Harry moves to Manchester for uni two years later, he meets a boy in a bookshop named Louis and wonders why it all feels so easy.

Or: two boys, two blogs, two years of anonymous messages, and a bookshop where it all comes together.

kiwi by fondleeds, 24k

With a stuttered mixture of a laugh and a groan, Harry lets his head droop, pushes his forehead against Louis’ chest and leans into him, fingers curled around the railing.

"You’re driving me crazy,” he breathes.

Louis lets out a puff of laughter, and when Harry lifts his eyes, the look in Louis’ gaze is one he knows too well, so distinctively coy and mischievous and gently charming, his lips quirked up with a smirk. Harry’s heart falls into the palms of his playful hands. “You’re into it.”

AU. Harry plays on Saturday nights at The Motley. Louis bartends on Saturday nights at The Motley.

It’s a thing.

True Love’s Gold by alivingfire, 28k

Gemma starts responding to every single one of Harry’s texts—regardless of subject—with i don’t care, talk to louis. Liam lets Harry complain to him for hours on Skype, pretending he’s not doing other things while Harry whines about his problems. Niall thinks the whole thing is hilarious, texting Harry links to articles titled So, you want your man to propose? and 15 ways to get him ready for the aisle! and follows each of these up with page upon page of laughing emojis. Harry tries everything, literally everything he can think of short of grabbing Louis by tattooed forearm and yelling, “PROPOSE TO ME BEFORE I COMBUST.”

Or, it takes a village to arrange a proposal, but that doesn't mean it's going to go as planned.

When It’s Late At Night by Rearviewdreamer, 26k

Louis has zero interest in an ex-boybander turned solo artist when his appearance on the show gets announced, but that's exactly who he gets stuck with when Harry Styles shows up at the Late Late show to promote the release of his debut album. For an entire fucking week.

you’ve set on me by lissome, 31k

Harry’s been completely blindsided, is the thing. Like a car without headlights crashing into him. It’s not that he thought he’d never see Louis again in his life. It’s just this. He wasn’t ready for this.

au. louis' in an obscure band. harry's an international popstar. their paths aren't meant to cross, not like this, but when louis' band signs on as harry's opening act, both harry and louis are forced to confront the open wounds of their shared past.

[runawaymarbles]

Good omens fic rec

A Letter from “Crawly” to Azirapil by mostlydeadlanguages | 500 Words | G

This remarkable letter of unknown provenance surfaced recently in the cuneiform collection of the University of West Wessex. Addressed to Azirapil from a Mr. “Crawly,” it appears to be begging for the other’s return to Ur from a western journey with another individual, Abiraham. The relationship between the two (brothers? business partners? friends?) is unknown.

404 Email Not Found by Dacelin | 700 words | G

The first the Metatron knew about Armageddon was when Aziraphale contacted him to beg for it to be called off. Being a professional, the Metatron murmured soothing things about it all being part of the plan and rerouted the call elsewhere instead of admitting he had no idea what the principality was talking about.

my black eye casts no shadow by gyzym | 1.5k | Not Rated, probably M 

If you cut humanity to the quick, split it open, found its soul, it would have dark red hair and bright wild eyes.

So You Need To Get Into A.Z. Fell & Co.; Now What? (A Guide For Unfortunate Bookworms) by arkhamcycle | 1.8k | G

London’s antique enthusiasts and rare lit nerds alike know that if you’re looking for a specific vintage or antique book, you have a good chance of ending up in A.Z. Fell & Co. as a last resort. And if you’ve ever been in (or are currently in) this predicament, you know how much of an absolute nightmare it is trying to even get in the door. Luckily, this handy guide, the fruit of a months-long collaborative effort to create the perfect formula for gaming the A.Z. Fell system, will tell you everything you need to know, complete with a comprehensive breakdown of what, exactly, the opening hours are. Compiled by pageknight and inky of the Rare Antique Forums.

Quiet Light by drawlight | 2k | T |

There are rules. The trouble with hearts is that they play by none of them.

between the shadow and the soul by absopositivelutely | 2k | NR

(alternatively: it takes 6000 years for crowley to realize that aziraphale could love him too.)

i just happen to like apples (i am not afraid of snakes) by gyzym | 2k | Not Rated

Written for the following prompt: "Someone write me Crowley the bitter lesbian who only gave Eve the apple because she thought feminism should be there from day one." As such, please be warned that this story contains some fairly radical reinterpretations of Biblical stories and themes; if that sort of thing is not for you, please give this tale a pass.

Secret Agent Man by Emamel | 2.3k | G | 

Edward was very good at two things: noticing things, and not being noticed in return. It was the sort of qualities that made you a good spy. These two never got the memo.

Ten Fathoms Deep On the Road to Hell by BuggreAlleThis | 2.5k | G

Aziraphale is given an assignment as a Captain in the Royal Navy and finds life at sea miserable. Crowley, on the other hand, is having plenty of fun as the Captain of a motley pirate crew.

Untitled Goose Fic by rattatatosk | 3k | T

It's a lovely week in the South Downs, and Crowley is at war with a Horrible Goose.

Anthony J. Crowley, Retired Demon and Airbnb Superhost by TheOldAquarian | 3k | G 

What are you supposed to do when you've been fired from your sweet job in Hell for thwarting the schemes of Satan, you've got a swanky flat in Mayfair, and you're looking for an excuse to spend all your time in someone else's bookshop? Obviously, you turn to the dubious world of short-term vacation rentals. The resulting Airbnb property has been variously described as "an instagram trap," "a vampire den but make it botanical," and "the weirdest bed and breakfast in the shared history of beds and breakfasting."

Salinity (And Other Measurements of Brackish Water) by drawlight | 3k | T | 

It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching.

Stopgap by RC_McLachlan | 3k | T | 

"Can you imagine ruining something so frustratingly perfect just to get a leg up with Management?" Crowley then remembers who he's talking to and why he's here in the first place. "Sorry, bad example, of course you can." A missing scene from Episode 6.

Wednesdays Are for This by magpiespirit | 3k | T

"D'you think we should have sex," he asks idly, pressing post on his addition to the exclusive How to Summon and Bind Demons forum. This one, he's sure, will both give Hell several annoying headaches and make a dent in the problem of demonology rising in the incel community. Bless, he loves having free time. "I think," Aziraphale replies frankly, giving Crowley a really, now look over the rims of his stupid glasses and the top of a first edition of something that probably uses a hundred words to say what could be said in five, "that should is a word best left to Heaven and Hell." And Crowley, who was only looking to fluster the angel a little, belatedly remembers that he's gotten commendations for Aziraphale's temptations.

build me a city, call it jerusalem by gyzym | 3.5k | T | 

Man begets man begets The Tales of Men, and there's nothing godly in that; Those Above and Them Below haven't any need for the stories humans have been hungry for since the snake and the Angel with the flaming sword.

The Plantom Menace by theinkwell33 | 3.6k | G 

There is an urban legend well known in this area regarding The Plant Man. Footage exists, blurry and ill-lit, of the trespassing fiend, but it never provides a good look at his face. He exists only as a rumor; a giggled whisper in someone’s ear at the pub, an inside joke at uni, and a viral sensation. None of these things mean he is not real. That being said, the only person who can corroborate the truth about the Plant Man is the man himself. And unfortunately, Anthony J. Crowley has no idea that it’s him.

get religion quick (cause you're looking divine) by brinnanza | 4k | G |

So it was fine. Even if Crowley couldn’t love him, he clearly liked him well enough, and that was almost the same thing. It no doubt would have continued to be fine, or at least fine-adjacent, were it not for a narrowly averted apocalypse and several bottles of a really quite nice Riesling Aziraphale had found in the back room of his newly restored bookshop.

to carthage then i came by Lvslie | 4k | T | 

‘You’re difficult to follow sometimes.’ ‘Difficult?’ Crowley echoes, feeling hollow. ‘Am I too fast? Am I going—’ And just like that, there’s something new in the silence between them, a tightening. The glass almost slips from his grasp, sliding from between languid fingers. His vision clouds. —too fast for you?’

Snakes and Stones (Never Broke My Bones) by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee | 4.5k | G

No one wants to say it, but the residents of Dorm A, floor 3, are collectively convinced Aziraphale Fell’s boyfriend does not exist. This is their story.

as the poets say by nikkiRA | 4.6k | T

Crowley takes a long drink of his wine and then says, before he can chicken out, “Aziraphale, I have always been sure about you.”

Re-Recalled by Jennistar | 5k | T |

Halfway through an argument, Aziraphale gets accidentally discorporated and doesn't come back. Crowley does the sensible thing and panics.

the bookshop nemesis witch by FlipSpring | 5k | G

The life and times of Nicole Percival Castings, Witch. Featuring: her ongoing love/rivalry with a particular magical bookstore, an Eccentric(TM) shopkeeper who keeps a huge snake in aforementioned bookstore, finding oneself and one's magical power, the cyclicality of life.

your smile speaks books to me by laiqualaurelote | 5k | T 

Aziraphale's bookshop becomes accidentally famous on Instagram, to his great distress. Since Crowley invented Instagram, it's also his problem.

it's a new craze by attheborder | 5.5k | G | 

CROWLEY: I try not to make a habit of gratitude, but I must give our appreciation to everyone out there who’s been listening and subscribing to The Ineffable Plan. AZIRAPHALE: Ooh, yes, we’ve become quite popular, haven’t we?CROWLEY: Yeah, just hit number eight on the advice charts … No advertising at all.  AZIRAPHALE: Mm. How … miraculous. CROWLEY: … Aziraphale. You did not.

your apple-eating heathen by katarzi | G | 5.7k

History is written without them, and Crowley’s no lady.

the blues have run the game by indigostohelit | 6k | NC-17 (more of an M)

Halfway between the Beginning and the Apocalypse, Crowley visits the court of King Saul, and runs into a prince, a war camp, and a songbook. 

the earth has never felt this old by brawlite | 6k | T

Crowley has a long history with holy places.

TwoFish by Grindylowe | 6k | T | 

A love story about angels and demons. Also, fish

A Nice and Accurate Lesbian Herstory Archive by badwig | T | 6.6k

More or less just the opening montage from 'Hard Times' but they're lesbians - a series of vignettes from the Garden to now.

parable of shepherds by Lvslie | 6k | T |

‘Aziraphale, you need to stop telling that goddamned story to everyone we stumble upon,’ she hisses. ‘I’m serious. You keep it up much longer, everyone’s gonna think we’ve gone and murdered that alleged husband of mine. ‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale says blithely, a serene smile plastered to her face as a familiar-looking man passes by, ‘Dear. That’s what I want them to think.’

Nothing Like The Sun by mirawonderfulstar | 6k | T |

One tended to go through a number bodies in six thousand years, even if one was as cautious or sturdy as Aziraphale. Crowley, who was neither cautious nor sturdy, had gone through a large number. He’d changed appearance so many times that in Aziraphale’s memory he was often just his eyes, for no matter if Crowley was tall or short, lithe or stocky, blond or raven-haired, his eyes stayed the same. 

Blessed/Cursed Retirement by DictionaryWrites | 7k | T

Liam Buttersby, a very normal, nine-year-old boy, makes a friend in the retiree who has recently moved to his village in the South Downs. The retiree in question claims to hate it, and is a liar.

the technology is neutral by Deputychairman | 7k | NC-17 | 

“Stand up?” he echoed, incredulous but too undone by sensation to express the full force of his disbelief. “I can barely even remember my own name after that, and you want me to stand up?” “Your name is Anthony J Crowley, apparently, although you never did tell me what the J stood for so I can’t help you there,” he said, not hiding his smile. “Do stand up, I promise you’ll like it.”

Part of the Plan by HardlyFair | 7k | T |

In which things do not return to the exact way they were Before.

Where Thou Art by Mottlemoth | 7.5k | M | 

A late-night bus to London, a few human comforts, and a long overdue confession... nothing will ever be the same for an angel and his demon.

The Ark by rfsmiley | 7k | T 

We’ve all been assuming that it takes them 6,000 years to figure it out, but what if it takes 6,300?

Or: the ineffable husbands evacuate a dying Earth.

Ad Astra by drawlight | 8K | NC-17

Some things can only be said in the dark.

except you enthrall me, never shall be free by curtaincall | 8k | T

It's a classic story: Angel meets knight. Angel volunteers to get beheaded by knight. Knight turns out to be angel's demon frenemy. Somehow, there is kissing. Based on the Middle English ballad Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Falling Rain by Aria | 8k | T |

Once upon a time, an angel and a demon hitched a ride on the Ark.

such surpassing brightness by Handful_of_Silence | 8k | G | 

The revelation that Aziraphale might have been in love with him for thousands of years is surprising. The fact that literal books have been written on the subject comes as even more of a shock.

Without Creativity by htebazytook | 8k | NC-17 |

Another Crowley and Aziraphale through the ages fic, with some heavy symbolism thrown in for good measure.

Exit Wounds by racketghost | 8k | T

“At least they were together for a time,” Crowley says, staring at the lit end of his cigarette, “maybe that’s enough.”

On The Matter Of Touch by Somedrunkpirate | 9k | T

“On the matter of touch,” Crowley begins, waving his teaspoon in what he hopes passes for idle curiosity. “Thoughts?”

and, so on by PaintedVanilla | 9k | M | 

Crowley doesn’t remember heaven, but Aziraphale remembers him.

Going Home by Daegaer | 9k | G | 

Aziraphale is recalled to Heaven, Crowley isn't impressed.

The future's going to break through by nieded | 10k | T

My take on South Downs: Aziraphale and Crowley decide to become professors. This is inspired by the headcanon that Crowley has 20 different degrees. He is the Serpent of the Tree of Knowledge after all.

Wings and How to Hide Them by triedunture | M | 10k 

Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends? Or: Aziraphale definitely fucks and isn't that just perfect?

The Gospel of Crowley by gutterandthestars | 10k | T

Crowley tempts Jesus in the wilderness! Turns out Jesus gives as good as he gets. Also Crowley pines over Aziraphale and has Big Gay Angsty Feelings because, well. Because Crowley.

A Nanny? In MY Summoning Circle? by pukner | 10k | Not Rated

(it's more likely than you think) Warlock "Lockie" Dowling summons a demon. Or, he buys a book off a suspiciously familiar bookseller and is convinced into demon summoning. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

damn.nation, now available on itunes by antistar_e (kaikamahine) | 10k | T

When lowly tempt-pusher Amphora (formerly of Stairwell 7B North, before she Fell,) gets the notice that end times are nigh, she gleefully quits her job and cancels her Netflix subscription and takes her place among the legions of hell. This, it turns out, was a bad plan.

Lie Back And Think Of Dinner by jessthereckless | 11k | M |

"Crowley, this is a disaster. This is everything I ever wanted. We’re in love. And there’s a picnic. And we don’t seem to be able to get…amorous without causing earthquakes.” Aziraphale attempts subterfuge. Crowley sees right through him.

Something to do with these sacred words by Solshine | 11k | T

Crowley confesses early, and Crowley confesses often. Aziraphale never knows quite what to say.

A Resurrection of Whales, and Other Omens of Varying Goodness by Margo_Kim | 11k | WIP | T

After the end of the world doesn't end anything, Heaven and Hell send replacements to Earth while the old representatives try to figure out their new normal.

Serpentine by sergeant_smudge | 11k | G |

Five ways in which Crowley is a snake. *And one more thing.

what's to come by PepperPrints, restlesslikeme | 11k | T 

Post-Apocalyptic AU. Even without the Antichrist, both Heaven and Hell insist on Armageddon. Aziraphale is missing and Crowley sets out to find him, driving through a scorched Earth with a witch in his passenger seat.

Basking by bomberqueen17 | 15k | NC-17

Crowley is extremely confused about how or whether celestial beings can experience physical sexual desire. He's also not fantastic at using his words. Things go all... snake-shaped.

Nanny Knows Best by DictionaryWrites | 17k | M

Being a nanny, that should be simple. Simple. Easy as pie. Crowley wished that were true.

One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan | 17k | NC-17

"All right, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Aziraphale says. "What exactly does this wager entail?” Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow. He grabs the bottle and swigs straight from it despite Aziraphale's tut of disapproval. "The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening."

Soft (A Love Story in Three Bites) by mia_ugly | 18.3k | NC-17

Crowley was an angel, once. Before she fell. Aziraphale was a warrior (she fell too. It just took a little longer.)

The Persephone Clause by Zetared | 20k | T |

When Crowley is forcibly recalled to home office, Aziraphale conspires with a denounced saint and strikes a deal with the agents of Hell to get him back.

in search of the wind by drawlight | 27k | NC-17

After the World Doesn't End, Aziraphale is not returned to his body. Crowley tries to find a way to get to Heaven's fast-shut gates. Aziraphale tries to find his way back from the sky (and back in time).

And So We Come Full Circle by Hekateras | 30k | T | 

"Angel. You know it's gonna be really bad, this time around," Crowley says slowly. "When the times comes, I want you to-"

Mirror, Mirror by ImprobableDreams900 | 44k | T

Adam, Eve, and Crawly flee Eden through the Western Gate, and it turns out that that simple decision makes all the difference in the world...

Slow Show by mia_ugly | 90k | NC-17

In which temptations are accomplished, grand romantic gestures are made, and two ineffable co-stars only take four seasons of an award-winning television program to realize they’re on their own side (at last, at last.)

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm | 100k | T

What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Eden!verse by ImprobableDreams900 | 550k | T-M

When Crowley gets captured by angels and dragged up to Heaven, Aziraphale knows he has to rescue him—no matter the consequences.

[rae-gar-targaryen]

only as alone as i wanna be | [bh]

A/N: Well instead of working on my Peter Parker writing challenge fic, Billy Hargrove won’t leave my brain alone. So here we go. 

I’ve retconned the Billy & Max relationship a bit for this, so it’s a lil au. Sorry!

Please let me know if you think I should continue!

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader (I’m still trying to get the hang of writing for the “reader.” Hopefully this is vague enough that you can imagine yourself. If not, send me feedback so I can get better!) 

Warnings: Language. Passing, vague mentions of sex. Some Billy Hargrove chain-smoking. Bad writing with a jumpy plot. Seriously, I think I’m way too abrupt. Please send feedback. This one is probably doomed for a re-write. 

Word Count: 2.4k of nonsensical, self-important musical references and haphazard, fleeting feelings.

Summary: The snarky record store girl does not like Billy Hargrove. Not at all. 

**NOT MY GIF!** 

—

Winter, 1984

The bell dinged above the door, a jarring interval between the wistful tones of Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Take Me Back. Prompting you to look up from your stack of records in mild annoyance. It had been such a productive day until now, and the vinyl wasn’t going to restock itself. 

Well. 

Had you known Mr. Born-In-The-USA-Bruce-Springsteen himself was going to walk in, you would’ve played something far less his taste than Siouxsie. Just to annoy him. Serves him right, right? 

He paused in the doorway of the shop, wrinkling his nose almost imperceptibly as the sound hit his ears, before striding on toward the “Pop/Rock” section of the store, thumbing his way through Motley Crue’s latest.

Figures, you thought. A man who douses himself with as much commercial-ass hairspray and cologne would like some commercial-ass garbage “metal.” Besides, you’d walked past the blue Camaro enough times in the school parking lot to hear the dulcet tones of whatever bland-ass hair metal he was currently into trying its best to blast the doors off of his beloved metal steed. 

You felt a twinge of guilt. You shouldn’t judge the customers for their musical taste so quickly– but between the old church ladies who came in for Handel’s Messiah or whatever they had heard over public radio that week, and the girls from your class riffing on Madonna, you had had just about enough. 

Hadn’t anyone experienced the true depth of Queen? Keep Yourself Alive, man!

You had been working at Hawkins’ local record store during the summers since childhood – Old Mr. Cohen who owned the place used to let you sort tapes into piles for cents on the hour until you were old enough for a real job. Immersed in the music since a young age, you appreciated the breadth and depth the shop had to offer– your favorites developing into pieces heavy on synth. Bonus points if the lyrics made you feel especially existential. You loved that moody shit. 

Now, at 17, you practically ran the place, Mr. Cohen comfortable with leaving you to your devices at the store, so long as the till was counted and inventory was properly stocked. You were grateful for the freedom– squeezing homework into slow nights and chatting about deeper portions of discography with regulars.

Billy Hargrove was not a regular. Neither did he promise a slow night, if the rumors amongst your female classmates were to be believed. Not that you partook in the Hawkins High rumor mill. 

He was a recent, but obtrusive, arrival in your high school’s social scene. Mere months into his appearance in your town and the age-in-kind female population had seemingly lost their brain cells faster than inhaling their usual clouds of hairspray could do it for them. 

Still, you had to admit, he was good-looking. The Springsteen comparison was apt. Billy Hargrove wore jeans like he was doing the denim a favor. His shirts usually two-thirds of the way unbuttoned, even in winter, which was not an unkind sight. His sun-kissed, California boy skin stood a stark contrast to the pallor of the Indiana natives you grew up with. His eyes were crystalline and swam like oceans of trouble and broken promises. 

My god. You were a moody-ass bitch. Waxing poetic about this jock-strap of a human being who you’d heard pummelled Steve Harrington and nearly drowned himself in beer and barely-legal pussy. Come on, babe. Get it together.

He strode up to you at the counter, his boots clunking against the store’s tiled floor. Shout at the Devil was clutched in his fist. 

He dropped the vinyl on the counter, eyes cast down and swiping a cigarette out of the packet in his jacket pocket and lighting up, the clink-thwip of his lighter meeting your ears before you could tell him to put it out. 

“You can’t do that in here,” you told him. 

He hummed in not-acknowledgment-acknowledgment, choosing to ignore you as he inhaled deeply.

“Seriously, dude. Old man Cohen hates that shit. Put it out or go outside and finish it. If your tits don’t freeze off. Since they’re, you know, halfway out of your shirt like that? You do know it’s December. In Indiana. Right?” You pressed, knowing full well you were being obnoxious. If only to make a point. Game recognize game, right? 

He looked up, ocean eyes meeting your own. His frown was instantaneous. 

“Fine,” he huffed. Before promptly stubbing out his cigarette on your freshly wiped counter, dropping the butt to the floor and twisting it under his booted heel.

“Ugh. Come on, man. I have to clean that now.” 

“You were so adamant about it before.” 

“Whatever man. Just the Motley Crue for you today?” You pressed. Why is he prolonging this interaction?

He rolled his eyes, his line of sight catching on the promotional sign above the counter. 

“Well, now, that says new vinyl is two for one. Which one can I get with this?” 

You dropped your head and exhaled deeply– So this was how this evening was going to go. You gestured at the New Release wall to the left of the front counter. 

“Anything from here, Pretty Boy. New vinyl.” 

Cool as you please, if you please.

Billy glanced at you, sensing your annoyance. A smirk graced his lips. He knew if he prolonged this interaction it would surely get a rise out of you.  

He held up Burning From the Inside, Bauhaus’s latest release. New, but not new.

“What about this one? Cover art is alright.” He gestured at the gothica aesthetic adorning the front jacket.

“That’s Bauhaus,” you informed him, as though that would explain everything.

“Bauhaus? What is that?” 

You snorted. 

“No, seriously. What is that? Is that like … a sex thing?” he asked, derisively. 

“It’s not a sex thing. It’s more of a not-your-kind-of-thing thing,” you stated primly. 

“And how would you know what my thing is, princess? I’m guessing by the black-on-black and torn fishnets you’d be all to familiar with whatever a Bauhaus is,” he retorted.

“Well….” You went to the used pile and grabbed Press Eject and Give Me the Tape, before putting it over the speakers. As Bela Lugosi’s Dead started to play throughout the store, Billy looked unamused. 

“They broke up last year. Gone too soon,” you explained, wistfully. You put your hand over your heart as though in mourning. 

He leaned one arm on the counter, Motley Crue seemingly long forgotten. 

“So, what is this song?”

“Bela Lugosi’s Dead? Like, Stairway to Heaven, but for goths, I guess,” you reasoned. “I’m guessing you’re more of a Scorpions kind of guy? We have Love At First Sting,” you gestured vaguely toward the wall. 

Billy quirked an eyebrow at you. 

“And how would you know what kind of guy I am, princess?” His voice lowering as he leans even further over the counter.

“Um. If the female population at our school is to be believed? Well, you get it…” you trailed off. “Plus, I don’t know, have you looked in a mirror lately? Scratch that. You probably don’t stop looking in mirrors. Should I cover the reflective surfaces in the store, lest you get distracted?” 

Billy at least had the decency to look shocked at your barb. 

But not before recovering quickly. 

“Maybe you just cover the reflective surfaces in here to hide the fact that you don’t have a reflection,” he quipped.

You were stunned. Your eyes widened.

“Was that a– vampire joke, Hargrove?”

Billy shrugged. “Well, If the post-punk bullshit shoe fits… I mean, what even is playing over the speakers right now? I’m in here enough to know Cohen lets his employees pick the music from the Used pile during their shifts. Though clearly I don’t come in often enough during your shifts.”

“Thank God for that,” you sighed. 

Deciding he’d had enough of the banter, Billy snagged Black Flag’s latest off of the New Release wall. 

“Two for one, right?” he snarked, slapping down enough cash for one album before grabbing his findings off of the counter and striding out into the wintery evening– the bell over the door clanging after him for good measure. Like an exclamation point on whatever the ever loving fuck that conversation was. Did you— offend him??

You decided, sweeping up the not-forgotten ash from his cigarette off the floor that you didn’t ever need to have an interaction with Billy Hargrove again. You were most decidedly not post-punk bullshit.

–

Billy Hargrove had never been so ruffled in all of his life. 

Throwing the two vinyl sleeves down in the passenger seat of his beloved Camaro, he slammed the door behind him.

Clink-Thwip.

Billy lit up, the chemical rush of his deep inhale-exhale instantly soothing his frazzled nerves. 

He flicked the lid of his lighter a few more times, for good measure. A nervous habit. Clink-Thunk. Clink-Thunk. Clink-Thunk. 

“ ‘Never stop looking in a mirror,’ my ass,” he grumbled, meeting his eyes in the rear-view before realizing what he was doing and looking away. 

He’d seen that girl before. She sat alone in the cafeteria most times, headphones on, reading a book. She seemed like the type to enjoy Slyvia Plath. Not that he knew enough about Slyvia Plath to really know what that type of girl was. He swore his mom owned a coverworn copy of some novel or another with that name on it. 

He drove away, tires squealing behind him, hair metal blasting from his speakers. Okay, so maybe you’d been right about his musical taste. It’s not like he’d give you the satisfaction. Besides, he’d bought BLACK FLAG, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t know him. 

But still, he couldn’t deny, there was something about your demeanor. Your witticism. Your bad type. And yeah, maybe he’d sneaked a peek at your ass when you came around from the counter to scold him for smoking. Sue him, he was only human. 

He knew there was more to you. A sweet undertone– like peaches and cream. Also maybe he liked ruffling your proverbial feathers. Just maybe. 

He had asked Tommy about you at school the next day. 

Tommy shrugged, but not before looking over at the corner of the cafeteria where you sat. 

“I don’t know man. She’s hot. But, like, in the way weird girls are hot. You can look, but touching may cost you.” 

Billy didn’t know what that meant. But Tommy was literally too stupid to insult. So he bit back a comment effectuating that he didn’t care and slammed the rest of his can of Coke. 

–

You had seen him before. From his tire-squealing entry into your town, you were certain you’d had him pegged from Jump Street. The chain-smoking, that infernal clink-twhip of his American Flag lighter. The keg stands. The raucous screaming in Steve Harrington’s face.

“Plant your feet, Harrington!”

Plant your feet indeed. Lest you be bowled over with unwanted, obtrusive thoughts of the potential depths of Billy Hargrove’s soul. If such a thing existed.

Seriously, though. Why would he buy a Black Flag album? If there was one thing Billy Hargrove was not, you decided, it was punk rock. 

You’d seen him take his sister to the arcade, and wait for her after school. Was it brotherly affection that motivated these little Babysitter’s Club moments, or was he forced to? Still, you saw the way that girl on the skateboard looked up at her seemingly cool older brother. Like he hung the stars. 

He did brush off Tina after the basketball game last week. And, he bought Black Flag. That man had never listened to Black Flag in all of his life. You were sure of it.

Could he really be all bad? 

–

The semester pressed on. Billy Hargrove at the fringe of your thoughts and your eye-line. Was he trying to talk to you in school?

You had the closing shift at the store again on Saturday. You were in the midst of carrying a box of tapes up the stairs from the storage room when you heard the ding of the bell above the door. You sighed, put the box down, and made your way toward the front to greet the customer. Upon seeing the back of Billy Hargrove’s perfectly coiffed, curly head, you were ready to turn back around and act like you hadn’t seen him. Too late. He clearly knew you were working. 

“Please don’t let it be you,” you groaned. 

“No promises, dollface.” 

You stood in front of him, hands on your hips. 

“So? What can I do for you?”

Billy smirked. “I can think of a few things, sweetheart,” he drawled, quirking a perfectly arched brow just so. You hated that you now noticed these things about Billy Hargrove’s perfectly stupid and stupidly perfect face. 

“I don’t have time for this, Pretty Boy.” 

“When are you off?” He asked.

“After close,” you said. 

“Go out with me.” Billy Hargrove said, now surely unsure of himself.

“And why in the ever-loving-fuck would I do that?” You had to hand it to yourself. You were doing a damn good job of looking like you didn’t care. Meanwhile, your insides were pudding and you were just sure he knew it, too.

“Because you want to. Because I want you to. Because– Because I want to. Because I listened to Black Flag. Because I get your whole thing, plaid skirt and all,” he stated, gesturing vaguely over your person. 

You rolled your eyes, choosing not to answer him. Instead, you diverted. Diversion is good, right?

“Where’s your usual crowd of hairsprayed hangers-on? Or are you always alone after school?”

“Only as alone as I wanna be, doll,” He drawled. 

You’d had to hand it to Billy Hargrove. He could definitely turn a phrase when he wanted to. His crystalline eyes could definitely see right through you. As the flush travelled through your body, taking in his artful smirk and powerful visage, you knew:

Billy Hargrove was going to be the death of you. Like the satisfyingly sweet pour of languid waves of syrup cascading over waffles, drowning you in a beautiful, thick avalanche of a saccharine dream. A powdered sugar kiss dusting over your better senses, coating them in the flush of dripping endearment. 

Surely you could be alone together? The crystal ball and the odyssey. 

Would you go?

tagging bc you inspire me:

@nappingtopknot @ayeayecaptaingally @hey-its-grey @tigerlilynoh @andallthatmishigas @oh-star-how-the-mighty-fall @youngmoneymilla @noturjacky  (If you don’t want to be tagged, feel free to ignore, or tell me firmly -- but possibly politely?? to fuck off) 

[storytellingape]

i've been waiting for you to come around and tell me the truth

WIP mcsackler fic about adam sackler and how he falls in and out of love with one thomas mcgregor. adam grows up, wises up, and eventually gets over himself and thomas, the new tenant who just moved into his building with whom he develops feelings. too bad that's when thomas decides to catch feelings though at that point in the story adam has no love left to give. or does he? dun dun dun... this was a fun story to write, i wish i got around to finishing it. maybe i will. who knows.  (6.5k words, rated M)

INTERLUDE

Adam has a key to Thomas’ apartment. It’s nothing special; he’s only allowed to use it during emergencies. Sometimes when Thomas is out on week-long trips, he has Adam come by to water Phyllis, his house plant. Thomas’ apartment is quaint and simple, with neatly-matching furniture and spectacular views that aren’t just brick and concrete. It’s the total opposite of Adam’s living space which is precisely why Adam likes it.

Thomas doesn’t have errant socks lying everywhere or bits of accumulated junk stuffed into every nook and cranny. He puts thought into organizing his belongings, using his own complicated system Adam can make neither heads or tails of. But everything has a place for certain: all his books and his clothing, his motley collection of vintage brooches.

When Adam is bored and he knows Thomas won’t be at home for a while, he hangs around Thomas’ apartment and looks at all the nice things he keeps in his drawers. He has a pair of reading glasses that he stores in a leather case in his bedside drawer that Adam has only seen him wear once when he was squinting at something on the back of cereal box. A prescription bottle of sleeping pills lives inside the medicine cabinet while a hardbound copy of A Very British Scandal sits primly on the windowsill bookmarked to page fifty-six with the corner smudged in what appears to be soy sauce. But Adam digresses. It’s probably a misprint: a blot of ink.

This is Thomas after all and he never leaves messes.

JANUARY

Neither of them really talk about that night but Adam remembers it with startling accuracy. Ever since he stopped drinking, his memory has been sharper though his sleep pattern is still shit: that was all the alcohol was good for in the end. Drink enough and he can feel less dead inside. Drink some more and his sleep will be dreamless.

Adam doesn’t do bars but there’s one he likes to frequent on account of how Hannah and her friends will never be caught dead there. It’s a place near Barclay’s Center and though he can’t drink anymore, he still allows himself the occasional pilgrimage. Sometimes he goes for the free peanuts; other times because he needs a place to stew. He doesn’t have a lot of friends because Hannah pretty much took his when their relationship fell apart as they were hers first and only his through osmosis.

That’s where he sees Thomas for the first time, scanning the crowd of people and looking for an empty booth. Their eyes meet briefly and Thomas elbows his way through a sea of people to ask Adam whether the seat across from him is taken.

It takes one, maybe two minutes for Adam to realize that he’s seen Thomas before. Something about him that’s so familiar then it all comes together: the accent, the hair, the dress shirt and slacks. He’s met Thomas a few times; he lives in the same building.

So this is the elusive Thomas, Adam thinks, relaxing his posture to something less hostile and more open. He’s the new tenant the doorman kept mumbling about, the one who complained about the structural integrity of the fire escape. Adam nods to the empty seat in front of him. Thomas shoots him a grateful look before taking the proffered seat and sipping from a complicated-looking cocktail. It has bits of pineapple in it. A colorful striped umbrella dangles cheerfully from the rim of the glass.

“I know you,” Adam begins, watching Thomas glance at the dance floor with some degree of trepidation. “I think we might be neighbors.”

Thomas blinks. He’s cute, in an uptight, fussy sort of way. The accent does elevate his charm somewhat as does the reds threading his brown hair. Thomas offers his hand to shake. His nails are buffed to a shine, well-manicured. Adam can already tell how loud he will be in bed which is very loud indeed.

“I thought I recognized you,” Thomas says, sounding abashed. “I’m rather good with faces.”

“Are you?” Adam takes his hand and they exchange requisite introductions. It’s brief and rote. Then Adam points to Thomas’ drink. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Thomas makes a face. “Oh, this and that, I’m not quite sure what this is but I asked the bartender for the most outrageous drink on the menu and this is it apparently. It tastes like breath mints and feet.”

“Which, as everyone knows, is a great combination,” Adam adds.

“Exactly,” Thomas agrees. His grin is fleeting. Almost just as quickly, he goes back to fiddling with a corner of a paper napkin.”So, er, do you come here often?”

Adam laughs. “Are you trying to pick me up?”

“What? What, no, I am not, I beg your pardon. I was just making conversation—“

“I do,” Adam cuts him off, to spare him the misery. “They always give me free peanuts here. I think the bartender on Tuesdays has a crush on me.”

“I’d like free peanuts too,” Thomas mutters.

“Then get ready to suck some cock.”

“What?”

“I was joking,” Adam informs him, cracking a peanut shell open and dropping one into his mouth. “Relax. You seem a little tense.”

“I’m relaxed,” Thomas lies, though his posture seems to be bely that statement, a little stiff and awkward. His shirt is buttoned up all the way. He keeps rubbing the side of his neck self-consciously, throwing glances at the table, his drink, the bar, anywhere but Adam. “I’ve just — I’ve never been to bars like this before. We don’t have a lot of them in Windermere, and the few places I’ve been to in London typically don’t have bartenders exposing their midsection for tips.”

“It is something of an acquired taste,” Adam settles on, barely managing to reign in a smirk. This is true: the place is a bit kitschy, those Yelp reviews can go fuck themselves, but the men are easy and he’s almost always guaranteed someone to take home. When insomnia hits the hardest, he’d rather be somewhere else with people than marinate in his own thoughts. He’s working on being comfortable with his own company but it’s an uphill battle when he doesn’t quite like himself and prone to breaking things when left on his own for too long.

They talk all night: Thomas is a chatterbox, loosened by alcohol, and he tells Adam he’s just moved here from the UK. When Adam presses, why America, why New York, Thomas tells him it’s because he wanted a fresh start, and the biggest city he could think of was New York. He didn’t like Paris; his French was terrible and he thought Parisians were snobs. He came here to escape. Adam envied him a little. He wishes he could escape too. He may live in a different neighborhood now but his fuckups still haunt him like vengeful old ghosts, the kind that can only be put to rest if he were brave enough to confront them.

Watching Thomas talk rapid-fire, listening to the soothing cadence of his voice, Adam wondered how long before he could take him home. He knows it’s a terrible idea; the potential for fallout and subsequent awkwardness are high mainly because they happen to live in the same apartment building, but the more Thomas said, the more Adam wanted to fuck him and shut him up preferably with his cock. He’s never been with a British person before.

“Hey,” Adam interrupts, already reaching for his jacket folded across the back of the booth. “It’s getting pretty late. Do you wanna maybe head home?”

Thomas’ face falls and then brightens again when understanding dawns. “Oh! You want to — yes, of course! I still have work tomorrow. We can share a taxi, split the cost…” he trails off.

Adam helps him into his double-breasted burgundy coat. He lets his hands linger on Thomas’ shoulders, brushing off invisible lint. Thomas lets him.

MARCH

Adam gets the call at two in the morning at which point he has two options: one, let it go to voicemail so he can sink blissfully into sleep after a fourteen hour day, or two, take it like he’s always been — for the last six months. Either option will leave him feeling guilty so he just takes the call anyway, mostly because he has zero self=preservation skills and somewhat of a masochistic streak.

When he swipes the screen to answer, Thomas’ voice fills his ear almost immediately, warped by white noise and static.

He needs a ride home.

*

Adam doesn’t consider Thomas a friend, at least not in the strictest sense. Thomas invites him over periodically for lasagna and drinks, just like normal friends do, but Adam can’t remember ever being seen in public with him in broad daylight even though they live in the same apartment building and there’d been plenty of opportunities for Thomas to ask him to accompany him to various daytime excursions. Not that Adam is big on daytime excursions, he wouldn’t even know what those entailed, but it would have been nice. It’s the principle of the thing.

Anyway: what does it matter when Adam’s fuzzy on the notion of normal friendship. He either tries to sleep with his friends or the friends of friends, or else they’re driven away by his general demeanor and lack of tact. Hannah had been a friend to him, someone he was actually invested in because her misery mirrored his, until their lives took them both different directions and he saw her for what she was: a receptacle for all the hang-ups he shouldn’t probably have lied about to his therapist. He still sees her from time to time; it’s a small neighborhood after all.

But Thomas. Well. This thing with him is different, by virtue of the fact that Adam has never had it with anyone else before. He just sometimes wishes Thomas stopped calling him in the middle of the night to pull him out of every fucking gay club in Brooklyn whenever things get a bit too much for him to handle. It’s been a year since Thomas moved to New York to escape the trappings of his old life and at this point you’d think he’d learned how to call an UBER for himself, but apparently he still needs Adam to act like his big scary boyfriend whenever he’s hit on by strange characters.

Adam shows up at the club half an hour later after dragging himself out of bed and pulling on the same clothes he’s worn the day before. It’s one of those clubs that’s deep in the basement of some building with a staircase that’s level with the sidewalk and an erratically flickering neon sign hovering above the entrance. The packed heat hits Adam like a wall of plastic sheeting, coating every exposed inch of his body. He hates it immediately; he hates clubs and crowds. What’s more: he hates crowds in enclosed rooms as people in large groups tend to do stupid things and this is doubly true if they happen to be under the influence of alcohol and other dubious substances.

It’s just as well that Adam locates Thomas quickly, standing awkwardly at the bar and getting chatted up. Adam watches him for a few minutes: how he laughs and touches his left elbow self-consciously, how he knocks back his drink in one smooth swallow before pulling out his phone from his back pocket and texting furiously. Adam’s phone pings in his right hand but he ignores it. The man next to Thomas isn’t even all that intimidating, not like the last one had been, truth be told; in fact, he maybe even Thomas’ type: well-dressed, neat, though he looks like he’s had some work done on his teeth. His clothes look expensive.

Adam approaches them, first with his hands jammed inside his pockets then out of them. The guy glances up at him in surprise before giving him a once over, lingering on his shirt which is tight, but also on backwards because Adam threw it on in the dark. The tag curls out of his collar like a lazy tongue.

“Adam!” Thomas looks relieved to see him, as if he hadn’t been the one to summon Adam and send him half a dozen panicked text messages every ten minutes.

“You ready to go?” Adam asks, offering his arm out to him.

Thomas glances back at his — date? prospective fuck? — companion before taking Adam’s proffered arm. “It was nice to meeting you, Lucas but I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Sure,” Lucas says, quirking his mouth in don’t treat me like I’m not an idiot way.

They leave without fanfare.

*

This is the part where things get a little hazy: their UBER arrives, they take the stairs up to Thomas’ floor, and Thomas invites Adam in because that’s what he usually does. Thomas is tipsy, which accounts for his loose mood. He’s not caustic, or hypertense, or kicking Adam out prematurely, but shutting the door behind himself before leaning his head against it with his eyes closed. “That was a close call,” he says. Adam simply grunts in answer.

Thomas has had a number of these so-called “close calls” and Adam is not sure it means what Thomas thinks it means. He thought the whole point of going to gay clubs was for Thomas to experiment, let loose, and explore a side of himself that he has kept locked up for fear of judgment and scrutiny by his peers. But maybe he isn’t ready for that anytime soon. Because he may have left his old life behind in another continent, but he still carries his hangups around like precious luggage.

Thomas’ apartment is just two floors above Adam’s. The building is an old walk-up with creaky banisters and the original wainscoting still in tact. Thomas had the interior remodeled entirely; the windows are new, all the furniture is modern, there are no pale shapes on the walls where old photographs once hung. In the open kitchen, Thomas pours himself a glass of water which he gulps down thirstily. He forgets to offer Adam anything. Adam doesn’t mind.

When Thomas stumbles his way to the bedroom without another word, Adam takes it a s his cue to follow. The bed, like everything else in the apartment, is new and it dips under their combined weight when they lay on it, Adam flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, Thomas with his back to him. Then Thomas rolls towards him, once, then again, until his right elbow is resting against Adam’s chest and he’s peering up at him from an angle, his head tilted towards him. Neither of them budge for a while resulting in a weighty silence that simply goes on and on. But Adam has been here before; he knows what comes next.

*

Adam has Thomas reverse-straddling him in no time, naked from the waist down, panting up at the wall. Adam’s jeans are pushed halfway down his hips and every movement scrapes his thighs with the most pleasant burn. Thomas’ shirt is matted to his back with sweat. Meanwhile, he’s shaking, and Adam thinks he probably has the most beautiful back he has ever seen. He has no objections to fucking him like this, mostly because he has a great view of Thomas’ tight clenching hole and he likes being able to grab handfuls of Thomas’ ass each time Thomas squirms down his dick. He’s so keyed up with lust it’s almost funny; his cock drips sticky dots of precome on the bed sheets and it fills Adam with perverse glee knowing it’s gonna be hell to clean up later.

Adam grunts, kneeling up behind Thomas to splay him onto all fours. Thomas catches his weight on his elbows, his cute little ass pointing upwards. Adam has fucked his way through all five boroughs, and he’s never met anyone whose ass he could ever call cute. Until Thomas. It’s springy, and almost all of it fits in one hand. And it’s always seems to be fresh as a daisy at least whenever Thomas lets him anywhere near it.

“Yeah,” Adam groans, bumping his cock against Thomas’ rim when he pulls out all the way. “You like that, huh? Riding my big fat cock?”

Thomas moans, cock leaking harder. He used to blush furiously at Adam’s dirty talk which Adam learned by watching filthy porn throughout his teens and occasionally up to present. But now Thomas takes it just as well as he takes Adam’s cock, that is to say with as much dignity as he can muster, with his face buried in the sheets. Adam reaches up inside Thomas’ shirt to cup a hand over his stomach: the skin there is soft and the small roll of belly quivers with every breath. Adam ignores Thomas’ straining dick and slides both hands around Thomas’ hips for traction, so he can fuck him in long hard strokes that leave him gasping like a swimmer running out of air.

“You’re never gonna get dick this good,” Adam says, and he doesn’t know whether that’s a taunt or a promise, but Thomas seems to eat it all up anyway: the cake and the whole damn plate, nodding his head frantically like he agrees, screwing himself down the length of Adam’s dick. He can act coy all he wants but they both know he loves cock; he went without for his entire adult life, and now can’t seem to get enough of it. It’s like giving sugar to a starving man.

Adam gives his ass a playful swat, then another and Thomas goes crazy, his whole body convulsing as he comes hard, streaking the sheets.

Adam follows not long after, shooting his load across Thomas’ back while Thomas is still slumped on his belly and catching his breath. They say nothing again for a little while, but Adam is used to these kinds of silences as they happen so often around Thomas.

Thomas glances up at him then, and something about his expression, or maybe the light from outside softening the angles of his face, makes him seem young and vulnerable. Tricks of the environment but it lasts just a moment, and then Thomas is yawning and bumping his ass against Adam in a subtle gesture to get him to move. Adam rolls onto his back next to him, flinging an arm over his overheated face. Sex with Thomas is like getting a full body work out, both often leave him vacillating between exhausted and then energized. He should leave, he knows, as it’s late enough already and he has to be in Queens by ten o’clock for an audition. It’s probably 4 am now. Adam tells himself he’ll go in a minute, maybe five, but when he opens his eyes again, a few hours have already passed. It’s morning: sun is slicing bright and hot through the slats between the curtains. Next to him, the bed is empty, cold. Fuck, Adam thinks, palming his face awake. There’s the smell of something cooking permeating the air. Bacon, he thinks, as he slips into his t-shirt from the night before, then his jeans. He can’t find his shoes for some reason but those are negligible because Thomas will end up finding them anyway and returning them the very next day. Adam has left a few of his belongings in his apartment before: a watch, his favourite leather jacket, a bottle of lubricant which they used a good portion of the first time Thomas asked to be fucked in the ass. Thomas returned each item in a discreet paper bag, including the very large fleshy dildo Adam had left on purpose as a kind of welcome gift into the world of anal fun. Adam thought it meant the end of their arrangement; apparently Thomas had simply been under the impression that the toy was on loan.

Adam finds him in the kitchen, wearing a silk robe with his initials monogrammed on the breast pocket, which is just par for the course. He looks freshly showered though his hair is free of any kind of product, soft and fluffy-looking though combed into submission. He’s made breakfast. Adam catches him laying out matching cutlery on the table. His plates all have gold trim on the edges, matching his saucer and cups.

“Tea?” he offers when Adam looms into view, halting by the doorway.

Adam blinks himself out of his stupor: no reason to be taken aback by a sight he knows all too well so shakes himself out of it. “I don’t drink tea,” he says, still not moving from his spot by the door. He curls his toes into the carpet. Thomas doesn’t look at him.

“I forget sometimes you’re American,” Thomas says, before pouring Adam a fresh cup of coffee from one of those expensive espresso machines which he happens to have just sitting in a corner. Adam ambles over to accept it, swiping the mug neatly from his grip before their hands can touch. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if that does happen: probably something stupid like lean over and kiss Thomas. Or say: thanks, babe, appreciate it. So instead he drinks his coffee in silence while Thomas smears jam and cream over his toast and reads the morning paper which he folds and unfolds in one hand.

To anyone else, they must look like the picture of perfect domesticity with the sun filtering in through the windows and catching the threads of the curtains, highlighting the reds of Thomas’ hair.

Adam beats a hasty exit before he starts feeling comfortable. He has somewhere to be after all. Thomas doesn’t even ask him about his shoes.

MAY

Because they live in the same apartment building, it’s only inevitable that they’ll run into each other at some point in time. On Thursday, just as Adam is returning from another failed audition, he spots Thomas walking up a flight of stairs, carrying a can of paint in each hand. Adam runs up to catch up to him, palm slapping dully against the banister over and over. Before he can think about it, he calls out a “hey!” in greeting.

Thomas squints at him in surprise, then mild suspicion.

Adam wonders whether Thomas realizes that his face is so easy to read. He can usually tell what Thomas is feeling though mostly in relation to him. It’s often a combination of ambivalence and horror when Adam tries something new in bed or eats something off the floor. Some of the time, when he’s softened by an orgasm and dumb with pleasure, he looks at Adam with something resembling fondness though of course that’s completely up to interpretation; it’s easy to evoke tenderness after giving someone a phenomenal blowjob complete with a finger up their ass.

“Need help?” Adam asks, taking the can labeled eggshell white from Thomas. It’s rather hefty, which makes him look Thomas up and down with newfound admiration. “Doing some redecorating?”

“I’m expecting a guest next weekend and I thought I’d repaint the walls.” Thomas shrugs. “They’ve been looking rather dull lately.I thought I should repaint them.”

Adam snorts. Of course Thomas “Neat-freak” McGregor will think that even if his apartment is completely spotless. “Aren’t your walls already white though?” he asks, just to be difficult.

“Well,” Thomas huffs, clearly affronted. “They can still be improved.”

“By making them even whiter?” Adam deadpans.

Thomas doesn’t deign this with a response, instead maneuvering the can around so he can reach into his back pocket and fish out the key to his apartment. He has a number of keys adorning a gold plated ring which has a Harrods charm dangling from it as well, just one of the many things from the store that he’d brought home entirely by accident. He worked at Harrods for ten years before moving to the countryside and he has an accumulation of various knick knacks to show for it: pens and t-shirts and castoffs from the gift shop plus a ton of other decorative odds and ends. He even has a black and white photo of the storefront sitting on his bedside table which Adam has never asked about though there’s probably a good story behind it.

Adam hands Thomas the other can once Thomas manages to wrestle the door open. Standing in Thomas’ living room always makes him feel strange because it puts him in the mood for sex though he and Thomas never fucked anywhere but in the bedroom before 10PM.

“You could make yourself useful you know,” Thomas says conversationally, beginning to put the can on the floor. Adam turns to him so abruptly that he makes himself dizzy, until he realizes that Thomas isn’t making a pass at him; he’s being straightforward, has an earnest, almost hopeful expression on his face. This isn’t code for sucking cock. “If you’ve got nothing better to do this afternoon, you could help me paint the walls.” Thomas gestures vaguely to the entirety of the living room. There’s plastic tarp over the sofa and coffee table, and the shelves have been moved aside in preparation for the paint job.

Adam raises both his eyebrows. “I won’t help you even if you paid me fifty bucks.”

“There’s a free dinner in there for you,” Thomas says, “And I promise it won’t be bagel bites and tomato sauce.”

Adam should really say no. He’s learning how to, is making progress, but today he backslides.

“You do know a way to a man’s heart,” he says, before making a quick detour to his apartment to change into baggy shorts and an old musty shirt he won’t mind getting paint on. The sleeves have been completely sawed off with a box cutter two summers ago during a heatwave, exposing the line bisecting his upper arms into two distinct shades. When Adam comes back fifteen minutes later, Thomas is already wearing an apron, a checkered bandana over his hair and a pair of clear plastic goggles which swallow half his face.

How he can look criminally attractive while looking like that Adam will never know, but stranger things have happened.

Thomas hands him a paint roller without fanfare, stepping back from the wall before adjusting his goggles. Adam tilts his head to look at him curiously, suddenly overcome with the intense desire to slot an errant curl of hair back into place. He manages to reign in the impulse and instead gestures to the wide expanse of Nordic white wall. There’s a lot of wall to cover; Thomas’ apartment is bigger than Adam’s with the added feature of a second bedroom so his rent is a little more expensive. Old newspapers have been set out on every square inch of carpet in case there are any stray drops of paint though Thomas may have gone a little overboard by covering the entire living room floor in newspaper. It’s a quirk of his: he likes to be prepared. Adam has flashbacks of their first hookup: the only time he can recall Thomas ever doing something brazen without thinking about the consequences. It had been messy and quick, dirty just the way Adam liked his sexual encounters: getting each other off with handjobs while the two of them were still mostly clothed, then fucking off after. The next morning they bumped into each other at Trader Joe’s and Thomas gave him a tight-lipped smile, a thanks but no thanks type of expression Adam is used to seeing by now.

Adam had chalked up the entire experience as a one-off, a fever dream brought about by a solid year without alcohol, but two weeks later, he ran into Thomas again, this time at a bar in Bushwick and they ended up sharing a cab home. There is a definite upside to being neighbors with Thomas but Adam had not accounted for his situation to escalate. It is in many ways like his relationship with alcohol: one minute he has a bottle of beer in hand, and years later he can’t ever remember a time he went to bed without one. Sex with Thomas has its own addictive qualities and Adam has always had a hard time fighting off his impulses especially when they make him feel good.

“Do I get goggles and an apron too?” he asks Thomas.

“I only have one pair of each,” Thomas says defensively. “I didn’t account for you helping me.”

“Right,” Adam mutters. “You’ve done this before though, haven’t you?”

“I read a book about it once,” Thomas coughs, “It should be easy, I suppose. I mean how difficult can it be, it’s just paint.”

The answer is: very, though this is largely due to the fact neither of them have ever painted a room before. Eventually, Thomas caves and they watch a video on Youtube which instruct them to pour the rest of the paint into a large bucket and invest in a bucket screen and $20 roller sleeves. Between the two of them, they manage to repaint the whole living room an even shade of white all the while getting the least amount of paint on themselves and the floor, a feat in and of itself.

Thomas pushes all the windows open to keep them from choking on paint exhaust but the result is a barrage of noise filtering in from the street outside. It doesn’t bother Adam in the least; he’s used to the holler of traffic and industry. He’s lived in New York most of his life and the mark of a true New Yorker is managing to sleep through sirens, earthquakes, and pretty much anything. Thomas, however, wrinkles his nose at the noise and shuts the windows immediately. He’s moved here early last year from London but Adam still doesn’t know what he does for a living. All he knows is that Thomas dresses impeccably and takes good care of himself; that he had a fiancé once, and has an allergy to blueberries.

Thomas is too tired to cook dinner so they order green curry from that famous place on Myrtle Ave with the best pineapple rice. They eat standing in the kitchen, crowding the counter, Adam straight from the box, hunched and leaning on one elbow, Thomas with proper cutlery. It’s peaceful, and for once Adam doesn’t mind the silence because it’s not laden with meaning and is just is. Then he finds his thoughts veering off into dangerous territory and he’s immediately uncomfortable, compelled to break the spell mostly by asking brazenly whether he could fuck Thomas after he finishes dinner.

It was a stupid thing to say; Adam regrets opening his mouth to say it. Thomas’ eyes nearly bug out of their sockets as he drops his fork in shock. He’s never fucked Adam without some amount of alcohol in him. “I don’t, I don’t smell so good,” he says and clutches the front of his shirt like he’s suddenly the heroine of a romance novel.

“I could fuck you in the shower,” Adam offers.

“What?”

Adam shrugs. “It’s sexy,” he tries.

“But one of us could slip!”

“Hey, I like to live dangerously—”

“Or break a hip,” Thomas continues, ignoring what Adam’s just said.

Adam wisely drops it as he recognizes it for what it is: a lost cause. Too much hemming and hawing from Thomas doesn’t make it seem worthwhile anyhow. He balls his paper napkin and tosses it onto the counter. “Forget it. I was just teasing you anyway.”

“Right,” Thomas scoffs quietly, regarding him with suspicious eyes. “Sometimes I never know with you.”

“Yeah, well, I like to keep you on your toes,” Adam says breezily. “Someone around here has to.”

JUNE

Probably Adam’s biggest flaw is that he acts first and asks questions later. Which is why when he sees Thomas leaving the apartment building accompanied by a pretty brunette, he throws caution to the wind and ditches his own plans for the evening to follow them all the way to the restaurant. If he were a better person, and more well-adjusted, he probably would have left them alone. But being none of those things, he has no compunction tailing them to their destination.

It’s a nice place, a little cramped, but what part of the city isn’t. Adam has lived in spaces smaller than the one he occupies currently, in one bed-room apartments with dead leaves on the windowsill and pill-bugs for company. He seats himself in a booth across Thomas, hiding his face behind the menu card which he clutches with a white-knuckled grip. Thomas’ back is facing him; it’s an ideal position for eavesdropping.

There’s a curl of hair at the base of Thomas’ neck that Adam suddenly wants to lick just to scandalize his present company, but he’s not that person anymore, he’s seeing a therapist, so he settles in and orders a ginger ale with nothing much better to do with his time. His stomach pinches up when it becomes perfectly clear that it’s a date. He should have known, he should have fucking known, but he didn’t want to jump to any conclusions.

And she’s pretty. Her name is Bea and she’s known Thomas a while judging from their conversation. She reaches out and covers Thomas’ hand in hers on the table and Thomas smiles at her and squeezes back. She asks him how he’s doing, and Thomas launches into an overlong story about his job in a store on Fifth Avenue, how it’s just like working his old job at Harrods but not quite the same. Bea laughs appreciatively at all the right pauses and they keep their hands linked the entire time. It occurs to Adam that he’s never seen Thomas like this before, laughing full of unbridled glee, his eyes shining with happiness. He’s patient with her; he waits before speaking. This is the Thomas that Adam rarely gets to see: who doesn’t have his guard up and makes ridiculous jokes.This is him, living, breathing, outside of his apartment where their entire relationship lives. They aren’t friends; Adam realizes this now with a kind of bitter resignation that sits heavily in his stomach.

It takes a while for Adam to realize he’s still staring at the back of Thomas’ head, lost in his train of thought. He finishes off his drink and orders himself another. After topping it off, he finally fucks off home. He walks all the way there. It’s only a few blocks and the night air helps clear his head. Back in his apartment, he strips down to his boxers and throws himself onto the bed. There’s a hot flash of jealousy creeping up his chest but he tamps it down before it can boil over. His eyes hurt. He digs his knuckles into them before slamming the heel of his hand over his forehead repeatedly.

He’s not angry. It’s nothing to get worked up over. Thomas is good at compartmentalizing different slices of his life which is probably why Adam has never seen or heard about this woman before. And why, Adam thinks, he and Thomas never interact much outside of bed. Adam is great at fucking; that’s all really Thomas wants from him.

Which is fine. Absolutely fine.

*

Adam doesn’t sleep that night. He takes two painkillers for his headache which he drowns with a glass of water, and takes his script with him out to the fire escape where he smokes a cigarette in a crouching position and watches a man walk his dog down the street. It’s a residential neighborhood: quieter than anywhere he’s lived in the last ten years though he can still hear the muted hum of traffic from not so far away.

Thomas’ light is on. Adam glares at his window as if he’s personally offended and then wonders what Thomas is still doing up at this hour. He doesn’t check the time on his phone until he’s jumping into a pair of jeans. Some hours before 3AM. Maybe Thomas can’t sleep either. He wouldn’t be the only one. Adam takes the stairs three at a time, leaping onto the landing before pivoting straight onto Thomas’ doorstep. He hesitates for a second before rapping on the door with his knuckles. It doesn’t take long before Thomas is answering the door and Adam glances up and he looks —

He’s wearing pyjamas and a wrinkled t-shirt, his hair is slightly askew. He squints at Adam accusingly. “It’s 4 in the morning, Adam,” he says by way of greeting.

Adam realizes that. He feels only half-awake, like he’s wading through water in a space suit. Probably the painkillers.“Couldn’t sleep. Wanted to see what you were up to,” he mumbles pathetically. He eyes the tumbler of whiskey in Thomas’ hand. “Wanna fuck?”

Thomas glances around the hallway before glaring at Adam. “Can you keep it down please?” he hisses, “Someone might hear you.”

“Sure,” Adam snorts, and is surprised when Thomas lets him in anyway. Once the door is shut behind him, he relaxes visibly. “Honestly, you have no tact whatsoever…”

“How long have you been seeing her?” Adam blurts out.

“What?” Thomas blinks at him, then he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Oh you mean Bea? How did you—”

“Saw you guys together,” is all Adam lets on, shrugging, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He probably should have worn a shirt, but he wasn’t thinking when he left his apartment five minutes ago, and wasn’t thinking then when he asked Thomas about his date. “She seems nice. How long have you two known each other?”

“Two years, eighteen months? I don’t know,” Thomas says, a frown tugging at his lips. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“It is when I’ve been fucking you,” Adam tells him.

“Are you jealous?” Thomas’ entire face changes but it’s an expression Adam can’t quite read clearly. He turns his back to Adam and starts pouring himself another drink. “I took a lovely girl to dinner, Adam. She was visiting. That was all there is.”

“Does she know you like men too?”

“What?”

“Does she know you like men,” Adam says, slowly this time, as he stalks behind Thomas and pins him against the counter. Thomas elbows him in the ribs but there’s no real effort in it and he’s more annoyed than reluctant. “You’re an arsehole.”

“Didn’t stop you from wanting to sleep with me.”

“You think this is charming, don’t you?” Thomas scoffs, turning in Adam’s arms and shoving at his chest. “Look, whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not doing to work. ”

And how could it, Adam thinks angrily. Nothing he ever says or does changes anything. He wants to scream, to put up a fight, curl his hands into his fists and beat himself bloody, too dumb to keep making the same old mistakes, and wanting people who won’t ever give him the time of day. He’s weak, and nothing will ever change that.

[aesthetixallyexo]

good vibrations ; pcy

word count: 1.6k

genre: smut

warnings: underground rapper!au, sex toys, overstim, edging, masturbation, oral sex

‘in which loey’s got some new songs. you enjoy them differently than others.’

**see end of work for more notes

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

  You had a ritual everytime Loey dropped something new. You’d wait for your boyfriend’s text saying his song was live, you’d grab your handy dandy toy, and find a whole new way to appreciate his music.

  The idea was all yours, kind of. Another fan of Loey had posted something online about this fantastic new vibrator that pulsed with the beat of your music. Given his deep voice and the heavy bass in the majority of his tracks, it seemed like a match made in heaven.

  He seemed a little apprehensive about the whole thing (you suspected that he felt like this toy was gonna replace him), but you managed to convince him how much fun the two of you could have with it together.

  Neither of you were strangers to sex toys; you’d played around with cock rings and the occasional cheap local-sex-store-bargain-bin mini hitachi wand (not to mention the secret box you’d stuffed in the back of your closet with a dildo and sample lube packets), but this was different.

  Despite his uncertainty, Chanyeol never knew erotic until he walked in on the sight of you coming undone to the sound of his voice and the vibrations it provided.

  You’d even convinced him to let you try it on him.

  Putting on the softest and slowest songs you had on your phone, you teased him with it over his boxers for well over an hour until he just couldn't take it anymore.

  All music from both of your respective libraries were at your disposal, and you found that the most sultry R&B tracks were your favourite to use against him. The slow tempo and soft voices meant steady vibrations until the song reached its climax. The two of you would go at that for hours; you massaging his cock through his boxers with the vibrator while he played with your tits.

  You favoured the slow pacing and the way R&B’s tease brought him over any genre you two had experimented with.

  All that being said, your boyfriend’s favourite type of music method of torture varied. Of course, there was no shortage of his music and that of other rappers in the scene that he’d produced for. It got to a point where you couldn’t listen to any of his music in public with feeling arousal.

  His new favourite was rock n roll; fast guitar, loud drums, and piercing voices meant you came fast and hard every damn time. As good as it was to cum to Kiss or Motley Crue, nothing was hotter to you than Chanyeol’s voice.

  You’d been at home all day while Chanyeol was in the studio. He was producing and featuring on a track for an up-and-coming new artist. Sending little snippets of a song wasn't uncommon, he valued what you thought and what you could add to perfect his music.

  Today was different.

  He’d sent you audio of a few new songs and a message.  

  from: chan

  to: you

  you know what to do, baby girl (;

 Giddy smile on your face, you put down your laundry and skipped to the bedroom. The vibrator was in the top drawer of your nightstand and the batteries were fresh. You plugged the cord into the base and pulled up the first untitled track while kicking off your panties. About four minutes in length, the song had a different vibe to his normal stuff.

  A high note introduced the song and it definitely wasn’t his voice. The toy whirred to life between your thighs unexpectedly and you squealed in surprise. This was definitely the song he was featured on.

i’m starting to draw it out

just like i saw

aren’t you sick

of all of the same shapes?

  The beat still hadn’t picked up yet, leaving a very soft pulse on your clit. You yearned for anything stronger. Whoever this new singer was, his voice was amazing. As the chorus began it’s build up, you saw a message from Chanyeol came through but you didn't want to stop and check it.

going on a path someone decided for you is no fun

a special wrong answer shines more

from now on, find the path that you want

go go go go

  That was more like it.

no more thoughts that are measured with a ruler

do whatever you want instead of what’s nice

just like how you feel right now

do it, do it, throw yourself

  You bucked your hips against the vibrator as you let out a long whine. Your fingers trailed down to your folds to collect your own arousal.

no more of what you don’t wanna do

do what you want instead of what’s typical

be free, yeah, have some lawless ideas

you’re still so young

  The vibrations picked up with Loey’s verse. You whined, hips leaving the mattress completely as you rut your hips against it. What you wouldn't do to have your boyfriend there with you, teasing you with the buzzing toy between your legs while his fingers pump in and out of you.

if you did what they told you to do

you wouldn’t be able to hear

if you only used your shoulder to put on your backpack

you wouldn’t be able to dance

thin out all the decisions you made by being cautious

  Collecting the juices from your pussy, you spread it across your sensitive folds. Cries of your boyfriend’s name tumbled from your lips as his voice brought you closer and closer to cumming. Your legs were shaking from the stimulation. The snippet of the song was fading out (and so were the vibrations), causing you to let out a sob.

  You could practically see the shit-eating grin on your boyfriend’s face. Part of you knew he did this on purpose; bringing you just close enough to the edge to make you cry when it ends. Next song starting abruptly after a brief pause, the vibrations startled you.

i can’t breathe,

it’s like I’ve been split in half

cocaine won't replace

hearing your voice, sounding so sharp

  This song was more Loey’s style; heavy bass, slow spoken words, deep voice. Again, your phone went off from somewhere on your bed, but you couldn't be bothered to check. Your orgasm washed over you in long waves and you felt your toes curl.

drunken calls

you’re makin' me high

i can feel it, a mistake

i need you by my side

  Even though you came, it wasn't close to enough. Including this one, you had two songs left and you felt like it would be a disservice to your boyfriend if you stopped now. You wanted more. He would've wanted more.

baby girl

i’ve seen you with him

suffering

just can't quite reach it

  The vibrations weren't quite enough anymore. You needed Chanyeol to hurry home. He always knew had to make you come undone in record time. Though it couldn't compare to his, you fucked yourself with your fingers in attempt to seek relief. Given your position, your palm pushed the vibrator against your clit and you sobbed.

  “Please, Yeol!” You knew he wasn't there, but you desperately wished he was. Maybe crying out his name would make him come home faster. Hips bucking wildly, you just about reached you peak when you heard a familiar sound.

  It was the click of a key in the lock.

  Chanyeol was home.

  And judging by the low chuckle and footsteps leading him to you, he knew exactly what you were doing. He found you fucked out; teary eyed, soaked with sweat, and hips rutting against your fingers.

  “My poor little baby,” He cooed, stepping towards the bed and brushed your bangs away from your face. “Do you need to come?” Chanyeol grabbed your phone and paused the music. With the vibrations halted, you let out a whine.

  Pure need radiated off you. “You still have a song left, right baby?” You nodded. Chanyeol smirked, selecting the final track. The vibrator was back in your hand and he was kneeling before your pussy. He finally dove in, dragging his tongue through your folds. The vibration kicked in and you squealed.

lovin that real love, something you feel love

turning me back to the old me

ride for my realla, i die for my realla

i give you respect like the OGs

lockin' me down like the police

  You could feel the smirk on Chanyeol’s lips. He’d planned this all along and you knew it. You tugged on Chanyeol’s hair with one hand and manned the vibrator with your other. “Oh my god, more! Please!” He more than complied, fucking you with his fingers while lapping at your pussy.

i'm all yours, when you really wanna take me there

don't let me go nowhere

i’d give it all up for you, i swear

only for real love

  Everything felt so intense. You were incredibly oversensitive from your last orgasm and you knew you probably weren’t going to last very long (especially if he kept his pace up). The vibrations became more intense with his parts of the song.

love is a high, we feelin’ alive

you lovin’ the size, 이 흐름을 타

i give you more, you feelin’ the flow

you never let none of them bring down the vibe

hustle to win, we be livin’ in sin

makin’ us two of a kind

  Without any warning whatsoever, you came. In fact, you squirted a little on the sheets.  As you basked in the glow of our orgasm, you could see the strain on your boyfriend’s pants. Perhaps you ought to pick some songs and return the favour?

THE END

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

vibrator in the story is called OhMiBod, liked here

songs in the fic are:

1. young by baekhyun ft loco (chanyeol has loco’s parts)

2. a mix of tempo, love shot, and stuff from a rap lyric generator

3. freal luv by far east movement ft. tinashe and chanyeol (chanyeol has f.e.m.’s parts as well as his own

[galaxystony]

fortune’s fool: peter parker III

peter parker x reader

A/N: multi-part fic based off of a twitter post which I won’t link until the end so as not to spoil anything :-) Each part can be read individually or as a series! (ps i’m dedicating this chapter to @rileywrites-parker bc i appreciate her very much and i’m still shook that she likes my story aaaah!)

requested: nope

Words: 3200+

Warnings: cursing, mentions of panic attacks, mentions of death, angst

summary: Two Empire State University students fated to meet, but just out of reach

let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list!

requests are open!

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | masterlist

3. Tragedy

23 year old Peter, 21 year old reader

When asked in the future, she’ll say that she can’t quite remember how it happened. She’ll say that everything occurred too fast, that every word, every breath, every second was a blur of color and sound, incoherent to her numb body. Perhaps, though, that was only an outcome of the slippery hands of time, that her own mind let her forget.

The truth was, when it actually happened, she was acutely aware of everything, every sense attuned to the sobs and heavy breathing on the other end of the phone.

“Dead on impact,” the crackly voice said. She’d heard it. Processed it. Internalized it. She understood from the moment that the words slipped out of that trembling, crying mouth. Gone. Forever. And then she hung up, booked a train ticket, and packed her bags. She didn’t cry.

6 Hours

The loud honking of a horn disrupted her from her reverie, causing her head to snap up from its buried position in her book. A smiling face greeted her through the open window of the car, beckoning her towards him.

“Hey, babe! What’re you doing out here?” Peter asked, leaning over the empty passenger seat.

“Studying,” she hummed, peeking through the window, her arms rested against the car door.

“In the rain? At eight in the evening?” he asked incredulously, eyeing her raincoat and dripping hair.

“I like the smell. It also means that nobody else is out here today. Plus, it’s not dark out yet,” she smiled, gesturing with a nod towards the indeed empty park where she’d just been sitting.

“You’re gonna catch a cold, crazy. Come on, get in. We can grab some coffee on the way home,” Peter offered, leaning forward even further to open the door for her.

“Fine,” she agreed, sliding into the heated car. “But make it a tea.”

“You got it, boss,” he grinned, pulling away from the curb and accelerating in the direction of their apartment.

Twenty minutes later, they were shaking their umbrellas out just outside their front door, making sure they were as dry as possible before they stepped inside.

She dropped her bag by the door, waiting for Peter to shut the heavy wood behind them before helping him out of his jacket, a routine they’d performed countless times since she’d moved in a year earlier.

Though she’d been adamant about living separately from Peter while still in school, she found herself accepting his offer to move in the moment she graduated.

“Only because I’d have nowhere else to go, though,” she clarified, and Peter laughed and pulled her into a tight hug.

Nothing had changed much from before she moved in. Now, though, she was expected to help with groceries and chores- beyond picking up after herself, of course- and most importantly, she had her own room.

It was the small back room that used to hold Peter’s punching bag but had since been transformed into a white-walled sanctuary with plants and candles lining her desk and windowsill.

At first, Peter protested that she didn’t need her own room. “You can just stay in my room like you always do,” was his reasoning.

“Peter, I’m not living in your room,” she frowned.

“But you always stay with me, anyway,” he argued, mimicking her crossed arms and defensive stance.

“Yeah, but that’s because I had my own room and my own apartment to go back to. Trust me, you don’t want me staying in your room for the foreseeable future.” And that was that. Two weeks later, she was moving into her own room, and suddenly, what once was Peter’s space was now hers, too.

There was an ease, she found, in living with her best friend. They knew each other better than the back of their hands, and so they were able to work together in harmony to keep their little home running.

She knew that Peter, as smart as he was, was completely inept when it came to anything that had to do with plumbing or heating or any sort of repairs their apartment needed, and he knew that she couldn’t cook something as simple as a grilled cheese to save her life, and so she took care of mending their home while he made sure they were both fed.

“We’ve got this whole ‘gender role’ thing all turned around,” he remarked once after she’d fixed a busted pipe underneath the kitchen sink.

“Hmm. I guess we do,” she agreed. Then she brushed a lock of hair out of her face and said, “Now go make me a sandwich” and he laughed, but complied.

Back in the front hall, she was shaking her wet hair out so that she could pull it up and out of her face when Peter called from the kitchen “What do you want for dinner?”

“Uh, do we still have that pasta from last night? ‘Cause I’ll just heat some of that up,” she replied, making her way to the small kitchen. She found Peter placing a bowl of cold noodles into the microwave before she was able to do it herself. “Oh, thanks,” she smiled, sitting heavily at the small round table.

Peter sat down in his usual seat across from her and she picked her socked feet up and rested them on his lap. “Long day?” he asked, watching her drooping eyes as she fought exhaustion.

“No, just tired. Med school sucks,” she groaned, propping her head on a clenched fist. “Why did I have to choose a medical major, again?”

“Because you want to help people? Especially people like your sister who need prosthetics to go about their daily lives? Stop me when I get any warmer,” Peter chuckled softly.

“Right,” she sighed. “I guess that’d make this all worth it.”

“Don’t sound so glum, smarty pants. In a few short years, you’ll be out there changing lives and you’ll hardly remember how much you hated all eight years of higher education,” he grinned.

She smiled, nudging his stomach softly with her foot. “Thanks, Peter.” Somehow he always knew what to say.

4 hours

“Y/N, are you going out tonight? I need to know whether or not to let Ned and MJ over.”

She was sitting at her desk, letting her eyes pore over the medical article she had pulled up on her laptop when Peter’s question pulled her focus away.

“Uh, no, I think I’m staying in,” she replied, clicking out of the website and shutting her laptop.

She heard his footsteps draw closer to her door then stop. Peter knocked then peeked his head through the doorway. “Studying again?”

“Yup,” she responded, pulling her legs underneath her and beckoning him inside. “Crazy Friday night, am I right?”

“Oh yeah, total rager. Everyone’s either gonna end up passed out or throwing up,” he said seriously, only breaking when she laughed at his expression. “Nah, Ned and MJ wanted to try out a new recipe, and they claim that we have the better oven, so I said they could come over. Sometimes I really regret buying them those best friend cooking lessons.”

“You’re right. I better study out there and make sure they don’t accidentally burn part of the apartment down. Again.” She got up, gathering her necessary books and her laptop, and she followed Peter into the living room.

“What about you? Any plans tonight?” she asked once she was seated comfortably on the sofa.

“Just the nightly rounds for me. Probably won’t stay out too late unless something big happens,” Peter shrugged, moving to the kitchen to grab the bowl of popcorn he’d set out.

“Okay. Be safe,” she reminded him, watching his reaction over the top of her computer to ensure that he was being sincere when he agreed, and not just saying so to appease her.

“Always am, babe,” he smiled, throwing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

The sound of the front door unlocking caused them to look in its direction, watching the knob turn until it opened to reveal the other half of their rather motley crew.

“Hey MJ, Ned,” she waved at their smiling faces. Both were carrying full plastic bags which they immediately dropped in the kitchen before collapsing into their usual seats on the sofa next to Y/N. “What’re we testing tonight?”

“Pumpkin bread. Just in time for Halloween,” Ned beamed, stretching an arm over the top of the cushions and pulling her into his side.

“It’s halfway through September, Ned,” Peter frowned from across the room where he lounged on the creaky recliner.

“Exactly. I’m behind this year,” he groaned. Y/N and MJ laughed, knowing full well that any holiday at all may not have even been celebrated if it hadn’t been for Ned.

“Yeah, I just agreed to the recipe because he begged,” MJ shrugged, a smile still shining in her eyes. “Anyway, we’ll start now so we don’t keep you guys up too late.”

“Wait, let me get out of here first. I don’t want to have to bear witness to the destruction you’re about to cause in my kitchen.” Peter pushed himself out of his seat and retreated to his room only to emerge a minute later in his telltale red and blue suit. “See you guys soon.”

“Be careful, Spidey,” MJ called from inside the kitchen, hardly looking up from her mixing bowl.

“Yeah, what she said,” Ned agreed.

Peter smiled, feeling a familiar warmth in his chest. The support his friends gave him made the bad parts of the job much easier. He was struck, not for the first time, by how thankful he was to have them.

“Later, gator,” Y/N declared from her seat.

“In a while, crocodile,” he responded with a smile and a little salute before checking both ways out of their open window and shooting a web at the building across the street when he saw that all was clear, pulling himself up and out with a loud whoop.

“Honestly, I don’t know how nobody in this building knows his secret. That kid is the furthest thing from subtle,” MJ stated, mixing her batter vigorously while Y/N and Ned laughed in a silent agreement.

1 Hour

It was after one a.m. Peter still wasn’t home. She knew she shouldn’t be worried. He was Spider-Man, for God’s sake. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

Still, no amount of reasoning could quell the raging storm in her mind as she watched the flickering lights of the city from the fire escape, hoping that she’d catch a glimpse of the familiar bright suit that would indicate his safety.

This had become a nightly routine for her since he’d come back several months ago at the crack of dawn with a broken arm and mild concussion.

“I’ll be fine,” he’d said. “I’ll be good as new by tomorrow morning, don’t worry about me.”

But that’s all she ever seemed to do now. Worry. Her mind took inklings of horrible thoughts and ran with them, which led to her thinking of every possible terrible thing that could be keeping him from coming home.

Most days, he’d come back a little after midnight without a scratch and a little spring in his step as he prided himself in his success. Sometimes, though, he’d come back later after a particularly bad fight, battered and bruised and looking for his best friend to patch him up.

She always did it without a second thought, not asking him for the details. She knew he’d open up if he wanted to, so she didn’t push.

Tonight, though, her heart constricted in her chest. She’d had a bad feeling all day, like a little whisper in her mind was saying “look out, look out, look out.” And so she sat on the fire escape and she looked out.

She watched as lights in the apartment building across the street blinked out one by one until every window was dark. Most people, she knew, were asleep without a worry in their mind. MJ and Ned certainly were after leaving about an hour ago.

It was these moments where she felt the most alone. Her best friend was out until ungodly hours of the morning saving the city, and her other two friends had their own separate lives from hers. All she had now were her thoughts which pounded relentlessly against her skull, like waves crashing and crashing against a sandy shore.

He better be okay, she thought sullenly, squinting at a slight movement on the street below. Nope, just an alley cat. She sighed, leaning her head back against the cold metal of the narrow steps.

She checked her watch. 1:45. She sighed again, closing her eyes tightly in an attempt to ignore the rising panic in her chest. Now was not the time for an anxiety attack. She hadn’t had one in quite a while, especially after meeting Peter who somehow always knew how to keep them at bay, but there were times when she knew that the dark little monster hiding in her shadows would win and she’d be out of commission for at least five minutes as she tried to calm herself down.

She checked her phone for the umpteenth time in the past few minutes. Still no text from Peter. With a groan, she shot him a message of her own in hopes that Karen would notify him of it and he’d respond.

Two minutes later, her phone chimed, and  she picked it up quickly, seeing the Incoming Call notification. She swiped her screen to answer, speaking worriedly into it.

“Peter, are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering me?” she demanded, an unprompted scowl gracing her features.

“Y/N, this isn’t Peter,” the voice on the other end spoke. She frowned, pulling it away from her ear to check the caller ID.

“Oh, sorry dad. I was expecting him to call. What’s going on? Why are you calling me at two in the morning?” she asked, digging a finger into a hole in the blanket she had draped over her shoulders in an effort to combat the biting wind.

“Y/N, something bad happened,” her father’s voice shook, and she knew he was fighting off tears.

“Dad, what happened? Are you okay? What’s going on?” she repeated, sitting up so she was no longer leaning against the cold metal.

“It’s your sister. She was in an accident. Someone hit her car when she was on her way home from work. The police said…” a sob cut his sentence off prematurely as her eyes widened in disbelief.

“What? What happened to her? Is she okay? Dad, you need to tell me what happened!” She was hysterical by now, pleading with her father to tell her whether or not her sister was alright.

“She’s dead,” he choked through another sob. “Died upon impact, they said.”

“No. There’s no way. She’s not. Dad, tell me you’re lying,” she ordered him, but she knew. She just knew. “Dad. I’m coming home. Tomorrow. I’ll be there, okay dad?”

She could hear his sound of approval, a tiny thing that cut through the sound of his crying. Her heart clenched when she thought about her poor younger sister who she’d left behind for the city, who always knew the right things to say and had a heart big enough to love everybody.

Why? she thought, clenching the wool blanket as she hung up the phone in a daze. Why her? She’d already gone through so much since the first accident. Why did she have to suffer even more? It didn’t make sense.

A clang from somewhere above her startled her out of her stupor and she looked up to find Peter in his tight suit climbing stealthily down the stairs until he was in front of her and pulling his mask off, allowing his too-long brown curls to fall in his face.

“Y/N? What’re you still doing up?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing at her unfocused eyes.

“Peter,” was all she said until she collapsed in his arms, eyes still wide and unseeing and free of any tears. Cry, she thought. What’s wrong with you? Why won’t you just cry?

Peter pulled her closer without a word, arms clenching around her trembling figure. “What happened, Y/N? What’s wrong?” he asked the same questions she had just minutes earlier.

“My sister died, Peter,” she spoke into his chest, squeezing him tightly to ground herself, scared that if she let go, she’d float away into nonexistence.

“What! When? How? Are you serious?” He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length to stare into her empty gaze.

“Car accident. Dead upon impact. There was nothing they could do,” she replied, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears.

“Oh my God. Y/N, I’m so sorry, what can I do?” he asked, gripping her hands tightly in his own.

“I need to buy a train ticket. I need to go home, Peter,” she looked up at his face which was twisted into a frown, concern shining in his eyes.

“Of course, Y/N, but do you need anything right now? Do you want to talk about it? She’s- was- your best friend. I know this is so hard for you,” he said, pulling her back into his embrace.

“I can’t talk about it right now. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like she’s gonna be meeting me at the station with that huge smile once I get there. I don’t know what to do and I don’t know what to think. I mean, I can’t even cry, Peter. What is wrong with me? I loved her more than I could’ve loved anybody else, but I can’t even cry for her,” she whispered worriedly.

“Just because you’re not crying doesn’t make you a bad person, babe. You’re just in shock, I think. I know that my uncle’s death isn’t even near the same as this, but I was the same way. But once I got past the shock, I was able to grieve with May, and eventually it got better. Trust me, Y/N, I know it seems like the entire world is fighting you right now, and that nothing will ever go right again, but it will get better, I promise you that,” he assured her, rubbing a soothing hand over her back. “Now come on, I’m staying with you tonight, and then first thing tomorrow, we’re buying two train tickets home, okay?”

“Two?” she asked, peeking at him through her eyelashes.

“One for me and one for you. You’re not alone in this, Y/N. I’m here for you. Always,” he promised, pulling her until she was through the window and collapsed on her bed with his body wrapped tightly around hers.

She stared blankly into the darkness as Peter drifted off, soft snores escaping his upturned nose. He pulled her close, nestling his face into the crook of her neck, but she couldn’t sleep. She just stared and stared and didn’t- no, couldn’t-  think. She stared until the dark became light, and she started as Peter bought her their train tickets, and she stared through the window of the moving train, and she stared through her dad’s car window, completely unable to speak, no matter how much Peter prompted her to.

She couldn’t stand to admit to him that she was not his Y/N anymore. She was not even her own. As far as she was concerned, she died in that car accident too, and nobody, not even Peter, could bring her back.

tagged: @multi-parker @cutie1365 @cersei-lannister @oswald-1998 @kawaiianime03 @lionfart @mrsdoradominguez-barnes @nonewmessage @co0kies08 @dec-snowy @sunshine-little-miss @cubedtriangle @triggerfingerfunction​ @dailygubler​ @dianadawson @frickflop @sparkle-dinosaur @theholyholland 

[plainclothesdisaster]

through the fog

adventure zone fic | read on ao3

Short meditations on what happened to Magnus directly before the static in his memories, and what happened directly after. Will probably be demolished by canon shortly, if it hasn’t been already.

---

Before.

Magnus picks at the memory of the days right after he returned to Raven's Roost like a scab.

He gets back to find his city abandoned. At the broken bridge where the craftsman corridor column once stood he falls to his knees. Through tears he looks to the wreckage far below, gnarled and scattered in the rocks, littered with ash from the firebombs. He doesn’t look for the splintered sign of the Hammer and Tongs. He doesn’t look for his tools shattered and broken in the crevices or his half finished carvings spread across the dirt. He doesn’t look for what else he knows is down there.

A soft voice comes from behind him.

“Magnus?”

He raises his eyes. A few stragglers with packs on their backs approach him. He doesn’t know the woman nor the two boys behind her by name, but he remembers them coming by the shop more than once. He remembers them coming out for the fight.

“What happened?” he manages to croak out.

“It was Kalen,” she says, “He came back, he-- he bombed the column seven nights ago.”

“And Steven? . . . Julia?”

The straggler shakes her head, blinking away tears.

Magnus swallows hard, something cold coming to rest in him where something warm once lived. “Everyone else?”

“Everyone fled. We couldn't know if Kalen would strike again on the other columns too. Not without, well, without you around.”

Magnus nods, a solemn gesture, and rises to his feet. He turns but she’s already gone. He feels a flash of remorse- he couldn’t help her- but, truly, he was already too late for that.

He cuts the horse loose from his cart and rides away, but not before reaching into the back and taking his chair, his stupid, beautiful chair, and hurling it over the edge.

///

Two towns over and he's at a bar, six beers in, asking about Kalen.

It's only taken him just shy of five days to catch up, following the trail of laid off mercenaries and Raven's Roost refugees scattered through the countryside.

The barkeep points across the room and Magnus turns over his shoulder. There in the corner, at the back of a crowd of ruffians and whores, sits Kalen. Laughing.

He downs the rest of his beer and rises to his feet, gripping the edge of the bar to keep himself from swaying. He'd never been much good at stopping himself from diving recklessly into dangerous situations, and had even less such reserve drunk and on less than two hours of sleep.

“Kalen.” Silence sweeps through the bar as he speaks the name. After all, he’d learned how to make his voice sound commanding. They lock eyes through the crowd.

Kalen smiles, his lips barely a sliver cut across his face. “So you lived after all. Can't say the same for the rest of your rebels.”

The cavalcade of thugs surrounding Kalen turn their attention toward Magnus. He watches as their dirty hands start to make fists and their dirty teeth start to form smiles and it doesn’t take anything more than that.

He punches clumsily, barely able to stay upright by this point. Still, the hit knocks the closest lackey a new one. He bloodies his knuckles as the man's nose erupts beneath them.

Kalen laughs behind the crowd as a chorus of shouts and jeers explodes through the tavern. Magnus hefts a stool at the next two goons approaching, bowling them back across the floor. He swings a fist to knock the fourth into a table, jabs a foot into the stomach of a fifth. The barkeep comes around and grabs his wrist but Magnus yanks it back and tosses him aside, perhaps with a bit too much force, but he doesn't care. The blood boils in his ears.

A scrawny guy jumps on his shoulders from behind. Magnus tosses him over the bar without looking. He storms toward Kalen, taking hits and giving them as he puts one foot in front of the other relentlessly, not even seeing the sea of thugs as he plows through them. He sees only the ashes of his home, only Kalen, laughing.

Magnus grabs for Kalen's disgustingly fancy robes when it hits him, a bottle to the face he didn't see coming. He reels back instantly, gripping his eye as a searing pain slices down his cheek.

First he feels the blood hot on his fingers. Then he feels the men grab him by the arms and drag him out the door. He rolls in the gravel street where the toss him, adding bruises to bruises.

He looks up through one eye to see Kalen, shrouded in golden light spilling from the pub door.

“Go home, Magnus,” he scoffs. “Oh, hmm, I guess you don't have one now, do you?”

The menagerie gathered at the door chuckles. Magnus feels his throat tighten.

“That's it then?” He jabs back, “You're just going to let me go, you coward?”

Kalen looks down his nose with a sneer that hits deeper than any of the punches.

“Oh don't be silly Magnus. I'm still going to kill you. Someday. But not now. That would be much too easy. For you.”

Kalen laughs again, each beat stabs Magnus like nails, and he goes back inside. The door shuts and Magnus is left alone in the dark.

He clutches his face in his hands, tears and blood a mess down his cheeks, curled up in the dirt, pathetic. He wants to shout but nothing comes out of his mouth, only breathless, silent sobs.

Stupid, stupid. He'd known he was outnumbered and outmatched in there. He'd known going after Kalen was suicide. He'd known and he'd done it anyway.

He wished Kalen had just finished it. He wished he were dead. He didn't want to kill Kalen, not really. He wanted Raven's Roost back. He wanted Julia back. He wanted this pain to end.

A warm hand on his shoulder catches him mid sob.

“You're hurt, friend, let me help you.” The voice is male, soft, entirely unexpected.

He nods, too beat to look up, too weak to protest.

On his feet again, he stumbles in a drunken daze, guided by unseen hands, into a warm, dark sitting room, lit only by a fire.

Slumped in a chair, hands offer him a wet cloth and guide him to press it to his face. It comes away bloody.

He closes his eyes. Feels the hands touch his bloodied knuckles, then his bruised sides. The pain begins to fade, the cuts start to close. Magic, he realizes. He was being healed.

The hands move the cloth at his face aside and reach toward his cheek but Magnus turns away.

“No. Leave that one,” he says, Kalen's sneering face still burning in his mind. “That one I need to remember.”

He looks up at the figure for the first time, blinking his one good eye into focus.

The figure pulls its hand away. Magnus sees a soft smile on his face, despite most of his features being shadowed by the hood of a bright crimson robe.

“Oh, Magnus. You will remember. You will.”

As if overtaken by fog, the room goes blurry, and then completely dark. On the moonbase, Magnus lies in bed, a cold sweat seeping into the sheets, wide awake.

///

After.

His name was Magnus Burnsides and he was walking toward Neverwinter.

He'd been on this road many times before, he knew that much. Where he'd been going or where he'd been coming from he didn't quite recall.

His name was Magnus Burnsides and he had an axe on his back, motley armor on his chest, a scar on his face. He'd been through fights. loads of them, he was sure. They came back to him slowly. He'd fought bullies at school. He'd punched riffraff at bars. He'd lead a rebellion. He'd loved a girl named Julia.

Julia. He nearly tripped over his feet. The wave of emotions that came with the name felt as raw as they did the day he lost her. That was good. That was something. That, at least, he'd never forget.

He thought maybe if he looked back, over his shoulder he might-- no. No. No, he knew he couldn't. Couldn't look back at whoever, whatever he was walking away from. His stomach twisted at the idea. But he didn't know why.

He felt his hand reach for the bandana around his neck. He looked down. Red.

Something about it felt right. Felt familiar.

In town he found his way to a tavern. He remembered how to do that much at least. He remembered how to order a beer. He remembered how to drink it.

He let the fog of the drink mix with the fog in his head. Tried to imagine it made it feel less unpleasant

“Hey. Big guy.”

He looked up. The barkeep was talking to him.

“Y-yeah?” He remembered how to speak. Just barely.

“You look pretty tough. You looking for a job?”

“I guess so. Sure.”

“Good. See, I suspect my rival barkeep across town of scammin’ our suppliers into upcharging me. I'm getting a rough and rowdy lookin’ crowd together to go see what's up. Nothing violent no, just enough to scare him straight.”

Was this... something he would do? Did Magnus Burnsides take questionable jobs from barkeeps with a certain knowing glint in their eye? He looked at the bottom of his cup. It didn't have the answers. He looked back at the barkeep.

“Who've you got so far?”

“Heh. Well, uh, that dwarf over there volunteered.” He pointed a meaty finger at a stubby old dwarf in a booth. He was flirting, very poorly, with the server girl. “Said he knew how to swing that hammer well enough. And uh, that elf.”

He tilted his head toward a slight figure perched on the last bar stool. It looked as if a stiff wind would blow him away, tattered robes and all.

Magnus raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Saw him doing some wizard shit that spooked some townie boys right good. He agreed to put on that little show again after I offered him three gold for the job.”

Ah, money. Did he even have any money? He patted his pockets discreetly, turned out a scant few coppers. “And does that offer stand for me as well?”

“Iffin it need to, it sure can.” He outstretched a hand to shake on it.

Magnus looked at the boys, looked at the barkeep and sighed. He was tired, or at least he thought he was, and could feel the edges of a headache creeping in quick. He couldn’t really remember what he was trying to do, but he knew the last thing thing he wanted was to get mixed up with a ragtag band of wayward folk just asking for trouble.

Still, he had this feeling that wouldn’t fade. Still, though he didn’t quite know why, he clasped the barkeep’s hand firmly, and shook.

“You've got yourself a deal.”