#ok I’ll stop waxing poetic in the tags now

[alchemocha]

It’s the middle of July and I cannot stop thinking about Stobotnik Christmas fics and ideas

[chans-room]

Craving Connection — 2

Warnings: reader has nickname Sugar Plum, an obnoxious amount of flirting and sexual tension, Chan and Sugar Plum are whipped for each other like. Bad. Mutual pining, explicit protected sex with: hair pulling, biting/marking, scratching, so much dirty talk, finger sucking, waxing poetic about Chan’s body, mutual choking 🥴, semi-abrupt ending, some self sabotage and self depreciation at the v end it’s necessary for plot ok

Length: 6.1k

A/n: I’m sorry this has taken 8000 years. The next few parts are all (mostly) texts and they’re already done so I’ll be posting those weekly (maybe? If y’all want that?) and I’m already working on the next big written part. The biggest thank you to @eureka-its-zico and @keytomars for encouraging me not to delete this all of the times I threatened to 🫠 let me know if you want to be tagged!

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October 1, 2019 – 6:49pm

The first drop of rain splattering on her bare shoulder stopped her in her tracks, making her look up at the sky in contempt.

“Come on, we’re so close, we might be able to beat it,” Chan said encouragingly, tugging on their intertwined hands with a smile. They’d decided to go out despite the brewing storm, choosing to walk to a nearby bar that would turn into a club as the night went on; the distraction of loud music and a room full of strangers was necessary to keep her mind from both dwelling on Christian and lingering on Chan.

But Chan had quickly wiped all thoughts of anything but him from her mind – all she could think of was the warmth of Chan’s hand in hers and the way his shirt stretched around his chest. With every step, she regretted her decision to suggest going out more and more. All she really wanted was to do was get to know him.

“You know, we don’t have to go,” she said weakly, her words betraying her attempt to conceal the desire to be alone with him — a desire that had been building all day.

Chan smirked, shaking his head in disbelief, “You were the one who wanted to go out because, and I quote, ‘How boring would it be to spend my last few nights in Sydney sitting in a hotel room.’” 

She rolled her eyes at his teasing, “I know, I know, and I still stand by that. I just don’t wanna get rained on and it’s definitely starting to rain.”

“Oh come on, Sugar Plum, it’s not even raining,” he teased, but it seemed as though his simple utterance had cursed them. Almost as soon as the last word left his mouth, it began to pour.

The shock of the cool October rain instantly drenching her pushed her forward, dragging Chan behind her to a stop under an awning. 

She could feel the fabric of her dress clinging to her and her hair plastered to her shoulders, sending rivulets of water down her back and in between the valley of her breasts. Chan wasn’t faring much better — his curls were flat against his forehead, the sudden onslaught of rain had made them both look more like they’d been thrown overboard in the Sydney harbor instead of ready to go to a bar. 

“Alright I’m calling it. We’re soaked, Channie,” she laughed, wringing out the hem of her dress for emphasis, “Let’s go back to the hotel, yeah?”

His frown deepened, eyebrows furrowing as he stared at the pavement. “But we said we wanted to go.”

“I know we did, but I don’t think either of us are gonna have fun if we’re cold and wet in a bar,” she rolled her eyes playfully, “If we go back, we can get some room service and watch some movies, doesn’t that sound so much better than being soggy and sad out in public?”

Chan chuckled dryly before nodding, “I guess you’re right.”

“There’s only one problem though,” she said solemnly, squeezing his hand. He raised an eyebrow at her in confusion. “We’ve gotta run back to the hotel now, and if you can’t catch me you’re buying dinner.”

She took off running in the opposite direction, laughing hysterically as she heard Chan sputter behind her. She’d never been more grateful she’d chosen to wear the chunky platform boots over the heels she had sitting by the door as she ran, puddles beginning to form on the concrete.

She hadn’t felt so free in so long — the entirety of her relationship with Christian felt so stifling and serious. He was always harping on her behavior, telling her she was acting childish or telling her to be an adult; she felt like she always had to be on her best behavior. But spending time with Chan made her feel light, unburdened in a way she couldn’t remember feeling in longer than she cared to admit.

She was so caught up in the feeling of it that she didn’t realize she had slipped on a particularly wet patch of pavement. The yelp tore out of her throat unconsciously, but before she could truly lose her balance, his arm was tightening around her waist and heaving her into his embrace. 

“Jesus, sweetheart, be careful,” he sighed in her ear, skidding to a stop under the awning. The sharp chill of the spring rain ran through her; it definitely had nothing to do with his lips pressed against the skin behind her ear.

“Sorry, I didn’t even realize,” she said breathlessly as he set her back down on the dry ground.

“No worries,” he shrugged, “I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt. I mean, you do owe me dinner now,” he grinned smugly. She gasped, reaching forward to smack his arm when he grabbed her hand, using her momentum to toss her over his shoulder, giggling as he straightened up. “Now I can get us back to the room without you trying to dart away again.”

The fluttering feeling in her chest came back even stronger then; she was partially grateful he couldn't see her face. Not only were his actions something she had only imagined to happen in rom-coms, but the way he threw her around so effortlessly made her ears burn. Images of him throwing her around, his hands on her throat and skimming across her body filled her head. 

She hadn’t realized they had made it back to the hotel until the ding! of the elevator door pulled her from her fantasies. “There’s nowhere for me to run away to now, Channie,” she laughed, kicking her legs. 

“Alright alright, quit squirming, I don’t wanna drop you,” he said, tightening his grip on her thigh. She bit her lip to keep the needy whine in her chest, her body locking up tensely – the feeling of his fingers spread across her bare thigh and the way he squeezed her tender flesh reignited the flames of desire that tickled in her chest. “Good girl,” he murmured, making her eyes roll back. She figured there was no way he didn’t know what he was doing to her – not now at least, with his hand trapped between her thighs, further up than was decent while praising her. And for the second time that day, she could see a future for them in her mind.

Chan lowered her to the ground gently, crowding her into the wall of the elevator with one hand on her waist, and the other on the wall behind her head. She shivered, staring into his eyes, his pupils blown wide. “Channie, what are you–”

“Sugar Plum, I just–” he rasped, brushing his thumb across her cheek, but his sentence was cut off by a startled gasp from behind them.

“What are you two little devils doing in here?” a high pitched, shrill voice rang out, “And why are you so wet?”

They looked at each other for a second before breaking into laughter, Chan taking his hand in hers as he pulled her out of the elevator, past the old woman as she huffed indignantly.

The maze of hallways and the endless void of doors sped past them as Chan steered them toward their respective rooms, only stopping once the door was clicking shut heavily behind her. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until they’d stepped into the frigid confines of the luxurious room, or that she was shivering until Chan’s warm hand made contact with her shoulder, almost making her flinch.

“We should both shower, get warmed up, yeah?” He suggested with a small smile.

“Y-yeah, that s-sounds good,” she chattered through her teeth, “M-meet back in my r-room?”

Chan nodded, steering her by the shoulders through the door that joined their rooms. “Just knock and let me know when you’re done, then we’ll order room service and watch a movie.” 

——

“Hey Channie, I need a favor,” her voice, muffled by the thick wooden door, pulled him from the mindless doom scrolling as he sat on the plush hotel bed. He pushed himself off the bed, shuffling the few steps toward where their rooms connected. Wordlessly, he pushed on the door, but it slammed back in his face, accompanied by a yelp.

“Sugar Plum, it's just me,” he laughed.

“I know, just don’t open the door! I-I need uh I need to borrow a shirt… if that’s okay,” she murmured. “Mine fell into a puddle and everything else is already being shipped to my new apartment and–”

“No worries, just give me a sec to grab one for you,” he chuckled, cutting her off. He already found himself endeared by her. He grabbed a shirt out of his bag randomly, sniffing it once to make sure it wasn’t dirty. “Sugar Plum, I have a shirt for you, but you’re gonna have to let me open the door to get it.”

He heard her huff, “Fine, but just–be fast, okay? It’s freezing in here and I’m basically naked.”

His mouth went dry and he could feel himself getting lightheaded — and hard — from the mere thought of her body on display for him. He wanted to know if she would be shy with her pleasure like she seemed to be in front of him, or if she would be loud and unashamed like he had seen glimpses of in her throughout the day. The fact that only 3 inches of wood were separating them weighed heavily in his mind – he could just go in there and find out for himself. But he couldn’t; he wouldn’t.

He forced himself to breathe, pushing the thought of her away as he cracked open the door and shoved the shirt through the opening. The tips of her fingernails brushed against the skin on the underside of his wrist as she took it from him. The small, breathy thank you, Channie made his heart race. He forced himself to take another rasping breath, adjusting himself in his shorts, before he pulled the door open the rest of the way.

Chan couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Rationally, he knew exactly what would happen when he handed her his shirt. That alone had been a test of his mental strength; but the sight of her in just a pair of tight black shorts, the expanse of her exposed back on display to him for a fraction of a second before the black material covered it was burned into his brain. It took every ounce of his self control not to pull his shirt right back off her body.

But she turned, looking at him over her shoulder with a smile, “Alright, come on, I promised you dinner. I’m starving,” she said, walking away from him.

For the moment, the illusion of domesticity filled him, being spun around his heart like cotton candy. Seeing her walk around the hotel room in his shirt, was a new level of temptation he hadn’t considered. Not only did it stoke an ugly, possessive flame in his chest, but the outline of her curves in his oversized shirt was going to send him to an early grave. That and her thighs. The soft, lush flesh was so unreasonably alluring he couldn’t think straight. He wanted to bury his face in between them, sink his teeth into the skin and leave marks that would last for days, feel them under his hands again, worship them for as long as she’d let him. 

“Channie, come on,” she said, calling him over to the bed with a wave of her hand. The menu was sitting open in her lap, “I think I want a sandwich, what about you?”

He was frozen, standing in the doorway for a second then nodded absently, shuffling across the carpet toward her and plopping down into her bed next to her. Chan realized to survive being around her — being her friend and nothing more — he would simply have to run on autopilot until he could get his shit together. She didn’t need him awkwardly thirsting after her while she had no one but Felix and their friends. Sugar Plum trusted him, and he refused to let her down, especially after meeting her ex.

“Channie,” she whined, flopping backwards onto the bed, catching his attention, “You’ve been staring through the menu for like a full minute. Am I that boring?”

He laughed, shaking his head, pulling the menu out of her grasp, “No, you're just hogging it and I can’t see!”

She gasped, her head shooting up off the bed to give him a playful glare, “Don’t test your luck, Christopher Bang Chan, or you’ll get no dinner from me, sir.”

He fought every instinct to groan at the way she said it, the word sir tumbling out of her mouth so brattily and prettily, choosing to roll his eyes and direct his attention to the menu in his lap. But the words on the page may as well have been in Russian – he couldn’t process a single thing. But he swallowed his feelings and waved his hand in her direction, “Find something to watch while I look, yeah?” She groaned, rolling her eyes. “Unless you want to stare at me while we eat,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

She let her head drop back again, eyes filling with tears as she cackled, “No, no, I’ll find something! Just hurry up, I’m fuckin’ starving, Channie.”

——

She had no idea Chan could be so cute even when he was totally in his own world. Truth be told, she barely even knew what the main character’s name was in the movie she had started – she was too entranced by the way his curly hair hung over his eyebrows, and how he narrowed his eyes at the screen every couple of minutes when something interesting happened. She hated it; how could he be so attractive by just existing?

It was only made worse by the tank top that showed off his incredibly toned arms – and a peak of his sculpted chest – and basketball shorts he had on that were constantly riding up his muscular thighs. By the time they had finished dinner she was practically salivating, and it was only getting worse by the minute.

At the 50th adorable nose scrunch and giggle combination, she finally cracked. “Hey, so, I just wanted to thank you, uh, again, for earlier. With Christian, you know, my ex. That really meant a lot to me, you know.”

He seemed to curl in on himself a little, almost shy as he fidgeted in his seat before replying, “It’s nothing, really. I fuckin’ hate that he did that to you. And I stand by what I said earlier; he’s lucky he ran into us, and not Felix, because that would have been bad.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, nodding at his assessment. “I’m not looking forward to telling him about Christian though. He’s going to want blood.”

“I mean, you don’t have to tell him, if you don’t want to.”

She shook her head, “No, I will. I can’t keep a secret from him for my life, not even when we were kids. He just looks at me and it's like he can see through me, you know?”

Chan nodded, “He does the same thing to me, I think that’s just his super power. He’s like a human lie detector,” he laughed.

“You’re so right,” she laughed with him, shuffling down in her seat and turning toward him, the movie abandoned in their periphery now. “One time, in like, primary school, I didn’t want him to know I had gotten in a fight with my friend who I knew he hated and I tried so hard to keep it together, but he took one look at me and he just knew.”

“He’s so good at that!” Chan giggled, “I was upset with Changbin and Jeongin for messing around too much at practice one day, and he took one look at me and knew! Like I didn’t say a word and he looked at me and was like ‘Don’t be too hard on them, we’re all just stressed about midterms, and practice is their time to relax and get away from the pressure.’ I was so stunned I stopped being mad at them all together!” Chan said, turning toward her, his eyes closed from his smile and dimples on full display.

Without thinking, she leaned forward, catching his lips with her own. His lips were just as plush and soft as she had imagined them to be. He smelled faintly like minty toothpaste but still tasted sweet like the ice cream they shared after dinner. His hands gripping her waist made her gasp and pull back, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry Chan, I didn’t mean to–”

Chan scoffed and surged forward, planting his mouth against hers firmly as he pulled her body closer to him, mumbling out, “Not sorry, wanted this all day, want you.”

She let herself sink into his touch, running her hands over the expanse of his broad shoulders and down his muscular back, allowing her hands to explore him the way she’d been dreaming of all day. He was so warm, heat radiating through his shirt into her palms.

Chan detached his mouth from hers, trailing his lips down her throat with small nips to her skin, “Pull my hair again, baby,” he sighed, tightening his arms around her waist.

“Okay, Channie,” she groaned, snaking her hand into his pretty curls. She applied a bit of pressure, pulling on the strands from the root. His shaking breath on her collarbone made her smirk, deciding to pull a bit harder. The breathy half-moan half-whine that tumbled out of his mouth made her mouth water.

“Fuck, so pretty, taste so good,” he groaned into her skin before sinking his teeth into the thin skin of her neck. Her hips involuntarily pitched forward, grinding against his length with a gasp. “Pretty girl,” he cooed, pulling back from her neck, “Do you wanna feel good? Want Channie to make you feel good?”

She nodded, swiveling her hips and chasing after his mouth with her own as he shimmied down the bed, her hands pulling at the neck of his shirt. She needed it to come off him — now.

“Be patient, baby, I’ll give you anything you want, you just gotta ask. Channie will do whatever you want,” he rasped, pulling his shirt off over his head before settling back onto the pillows behind him. The sight of his bare chest laid out below her had her stunned.

“God that’s not fair,” she pouted, staring down at his chest — the toned muscle of his abs was almost mocking, especially her paired with the firm yet plush pecs she wanted to sink her teeth into. She had to get it together; Chan was still a stranger. She didn’t need to broadcast how swiftly he turned her feral in less than a day; even though she was pretty sure he knew just how into him she was. 

“I’m not fair?” Chan scoffed, “you’re sitting on my dick wearing my shirt. If anything isn’t fair, it’s that.” The absolute conviction on his eyes as he stared at her gave her butterflies — there was no questioning if he meant it. But something about it felt like the nicest compliment she’d ever received. “Do you know how much of an impossible choice you’ve given me though? Because I want you to keep it on but I’m also dying to see all of you and this is a fucking problem.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking her head softly, “How about this?” She asked, ghosting her fingers down her sides to grasp the hem of the shirt, pulling it up slowly. His eyes widened, a hand reaching out to splay across her stomach almost chasing the hem as it drifted upward. She stopped just shy of exposing herself, Chan’s fingertips sliding under the fabric just enough to make contact with the skin of her breasts.

“You don’t have to, we can just—“ he began, but choked on air when she pulled the material higher. The crisp air conditioning and the hunger in his eyes gave her goosebumps.

“It’s called building anticipation, Channie. You have to work for it. I have to know you want it before I give you the whole thing,” she smiled innocently, taking the hem between her teeth.

He stared at her for a second, pupils dilating as they darted across her form, going from her face to her tits and back, unable to stay in one place. The way his eyes devoured her made her ears burn, and she could feel the fabric of her thong dampening where she sat, perched on his hardening cock. Then, his eyes locked with hers and a grin spread across his face, “Can I touch you?” He asked, making her nod, “Then stay just like that then, baby.”

His wet, pink lips making contact with her bare skin surprised her, pulling a gasp from her mouth. His fingers ghosted up and down her sides, eventually trailing down her back to rest on her ass, fingertips sneaking just under the hem of her shorts while his big hands kneaded into the dimpled skin.

Her arms tightened around him, holding him in his place as he sucked purple bruises into her chest; bright cascading marks across both of her breasts and sternum. Then, she felt his breath on her nipple, the warmth of it compared to the glacial air pouring into the room from the air conditioner was enough to have a fresh set of goosebumps break out across her skin. But his plush lips closing around the stiff bud made her squeal, accidentally pulling on his hair harder than she intended and forcing him to release her nipple with a wet pop. 

She looked down at him, an apology on her lips, but the look on his face stopped her. His eyes were shut, and his mouth hung open in a soundless moan. Only then did she feel the way his hands were grasping her, knuckles white as they knotted themselves in the fabric of her shorts. 

The image of him, so utterly wrecked under her hands, because of her, was burned into her brain. She would never forget the way he looked in this moment — it was electrifying. Her mouth dropped open in shock, the hem of his shirt falling onto the tops of her breasts, as she watched his jaw snap shut, the tendons and veins of his neck popping as his eyes flew open. His gaze seemed to pin her down as he heaved out a breath, refusing to break eye contact with her. 

The silence made her shiver, the wet spot on her shorts growing as the tension in the room seemed to thicken, “Are you okay?”

He nodded, eyebrows narrowing when he saw the hem of his shirt start to fall, covering her tits. “I told you to stay like that, pretty girl. Channie wants to make you feel good.” With that, he pulled the fabric back up, exposing her. 

The white hot burn of his words roared in her ears as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers again, slower this time, sucking her lip in between his teeth before giving her a sharp nip. The zing of pleasure pain ripped up her spine, making her gasp and eyes flutter shut. She felt the cotton of his shirt on her tongue, taking that as her cue to take it between her teeth again.

“Now, am I allowed to fuck you, my sweet Sugar Plum?” His syrupy voice made her head spin, the please she managed to whine out was muffled by his shirt. But his chuckle let her know he understood. 

For a second she was weightless before her back hit the mattress with a small oof. She opened her eyes, unable to suppress the giggle at the sight of Chan with a condom wrapper still stuck between his teeth as he rolled it on his cock, standing at the edge of the bed with his clothes strewn behind him. 

“Don’t laugh, you’re next,” he grinned, reaching over to her. Chan tugged her shorts and underwear off with a single decisive yank before flinging them behind him. 

He hovered over her, eyes roaming her bare form, his free hand tracing patterns into her skin. She could tell he was stuck in his own head — probably filtering through the same scenarios as hers was. She sighed fondly, pushing him off onto his back, making him lay down where he had been before.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him by crawling back onto his lap, perched perfectly over his cock. She had felt its size before, but now, feeling it against her without the barrier of clothing, it made her eyes roll back in pleasure. Chan seemed content to let her take control for the moment, hands free to roam and grasp whatever he desired as she trailed her nails up his neck softly, relishing in the hiss that came out of his mouth. 

She smiled, grinding down on him with an experimental roll of her hips, both hands gripping his chest, to both steady herself and to feel the muscle under her hands. The satisfied moan caught in her throat, the friction being nearly too much to handle after all the buildup of tension. 

“Fuck. You’re so good,” he nearly purred, one of his gorgeous, massive hands holding onto her hips. “So good for me,” he cooed, pushing the thumb of his free hand past her lips.

She ground down on his erection, spit leaking from the corner of her mouth lewdly as he pushed down on her tongue with the pad of his finger, keeping her head still while the other directed her hips.

“Gonna fuck you now, s’that okay baby?” He slurred, his head tipping back as he bucked his hips into hers unconsciously. She nodded, mewls of approval falling from her open mouth making him laugh. A pleased hum left him as he stared at her, removing his thumb from between her lips with a pop. “Ready?”

She nodded absently, too fixated on the golden expanse of his forearms to properly retain any of the words he was saying. Illuminated only by the long forgotten movie, his hands were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The veins and tendons coiling under the skin, wide palms that bled into long, thick gorgeous fingers, which just so happened to be holding something else long and thick, something she wanted nearly as much as his hands: his cock. Hard and leaking pearly beads of pre cum that made her drool and her pussy clench in excitement. 

“I told you, just ask and Channie will do it,” he smiled, aligning his cock with her entrance, the blunt head pressed against her firmly.

She nodded, her nails digging into his chest as her eyes rolled back, feeling him press into her slowly; the  stretch was almost painful but felt so satisfying. She choked on her groan, fingers tightening in his hair. She could have sworn she felt him in the back of her throat he was hitting so deep. 

Without thinking, she pulled herself almost all the way off him before dropping back into his lap forcefully, ripping deep, low moans out of the both of them. “Do it again,” he whispered as she began riding him desperately. 

“Fucking Christ, you’re unreal,” he praised, his hips meeting her thrusts evenly. Her mouth fell open, unable to stop the whines that poured out of her. 

“Channie,” she moaned shamelessly, her eyes fluttering shut as he pounded into her. All at once, she was overwhelmed; the sweat beading on her shoulders and the feeling of the ribbed cotton rustling against her sensitive, purple bitten skin. She struggled to grasp the fabric, fighting to pull it off her body, before pleading to him, “Need it off, please.”

She felt weightless for a second as he flipped them over, her back now on the mattress. She hadn’t even realized he had managed to pull the shirt off her until she felt the soft, silky sheets under her. “Good?” He asked.

Her simple nod was all he needed to resume. The sheer force of his thrusts forced the sounds out of her — desperate, whiny, needy little moans that would have made her embarrassed on any other day — the ability to speak no longer in her grasp. She could feel the knot tightening in her abdomen, turning to bury her face in the pillow to muffle her scream as she came undone but only found Chan’s wrist planted into the mattress next to her. 

She shook as the waves of her orgasm wracked through her body, a high pitched squeal wrenching out of her vocal cords. Without thinking, she bit down on his forearm, suppressing the obscene and delirious sound of her orgasm crashing into her. 

“Fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so hot,” he groaned, his thrusts shallowing as he worked her through her orgasm. 

The soft, genuine affirmations from him were more meaningful than anything she had been told in the entirety of her previous relationship. It made her heart flutter helplessly against her ribcage; she was smitten. Chan had wormed his way into her head and her heart and that simple fact terrified her, but for some reason, she was also put at ease. It might have been the fact that Felix trusted him, or the fact that he was so effortlessly nice to her without seemingly any reason, but she had no doubt Chan would never hurt her like Christian had.

Once the sparks of overstimulation faded, she sighed, opening her eyes to meet Chan’s soft gaze. “You okay, Sugar Plum?” She nodded, smiling up at him dazedly, “Do you wanna stop? Or can I—“

“Keep going, Channie,” she croaked, letting the soft buzzing glow of her first orgasm fade as he began to move. His pace was much slower than before, more deliberate and tender. It gave her the opportunity to study his face, hovering inches above hers. She wanted to memorize it all; the slightly overgrown slit in his eyebrow, the two small holes under his lip — one in the center and the other in the left corner — she assumed from piercings, the glint of silver in his nostril. The affection growing in her chest became overwhelming, tightening around her heart like a corset. She had to close her eyes, hoping it would stop the emotions from clawing up her throat.

“Open your eyes for me, Sugar Plum,” he pleaded into her ear, his teeth grazing her ear. “Look at me, baby.”

She keened, all of the sensations coming back to her at once as she opened her eyes. His fingertips against her scalp, the undeniable fullness, his sharp puffs of air against her cheek, his taught stomach against her thighs.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, hovering over her for a moment, staring into her eyes as he caressed her face softly, his dimples beginning to show. She couldn’t force words out, each one dying on her lips, so she grabbed the hand he had spread out across her ribs and pushed it up to wrap around her neck gingerly. He flexed his fingers experimentally, tightening ever so slightly. Her body reacted immediately, her walls fluttering against his length. In response, her hand slithered up his torso to rest against his thick neck. She could feel his heart racing under her fingertips, stretched out almost painfully wide against him. The shuddering breath she got from him was all the confirmation she needed. He shivered, and groaned, snapping his hips into hers before rasping out, “God you’re fucking everything.”

She felt him chuckle darkly as her second orgasm approached fast, her vision nearly going black with the force of its impending devastation as he resumed his thrusts. Her only tether to reality was Chan’s hand on her throat and hers on his.

“Fuck, kiss me, please,” she croaked, pulling him closer as her orgasm tore through her like a tidal wave.

He groaned, his hips stuttering to a stop as he collapsed onto her, his lips finding hers as if they were drawn together like magnets. “Fucking incredible,” Chan mumbled into her lips before dropping himself onto her like a weighted blanket.

They spent the next few minutes like that; he busied himself with casting a constellation of featherlight kisses up her neck and across her cheeks as she trailed her fingers down his spine, basking in the afterglow. The momentary disconnection from reality has stopped her brain to mouth filter from working, and she blurted out, “I’m glad you thought to wear a condom. Calling the front desk for new sheets would be a pain in the ass.”

Chan stopped mid kiss, raising an eyebrow in her direction as he looked at her through his eyelashes before his shoulders began to shake with laughter. “Why was that even a thought right now?”

“I don’t know! That’s just what I was thinking! I’m sorry you fucked the filter out of my brain!” She whined covering her face with her hands. 

“No, don’t be shy, the only reason I’m keeping my mouth busy down here is so I don’t say something stupid,” he cooed. She peaked at him from between her fingers, watching the realization of his words spread across his face as he cringed, then buried himself in her stomach. “Don’t laugh at me, I'm sensitive.”

Chan’s embarrassed mumbles into her skin and the unintentional hilarity of his, and her own, words made giggles bubble out of her. “No, it was cute, and I’m ticklish,” she argued.

His head snapped up, a devious look on his face. But before she could protest, Chan’s phone was blaring an unfamiliar ringtone from somewhere on the floor behind him. 

Suddenly, the bubble they had created popped, and the harsh reality seeped into her. Chan was still a relative stranger despite how trustworthy and genuine he seemed to be, she was still dealing with the emotional devastation of her previous relationship’s spontaneous implosion, and they had breached an unspoken rule less than 24 hours after meeting one another: Felix was still Chan’s friend and roommate, and the last thing she ever wanted to do was cause problems between them. And she knew all she ever did was cause problems. 

She had to shut off whatever part of herself that was developing feelings for him. He was too kind, too caring, and too wonderful for her to diminish. This one time would have to be enough for her, for them. 

“I should see who that is,” Chan whispered, planting one last kiss on her sternum. She watched him slip off the bed, finding his phone with relative ease before bringing it up to his ear. “Hello?”

The absolute panic on his face made her blood run cold — it meant only one thing. Felix was calling. 

“Yeah mate, you lost your room key?” His voice bordered on panicked, but she wondered if that was just her own panic seeping into her. “Oh, and they won’t give you one without her approval? Okay…” he nodded, gathering his clothes from the floor, an apologetic look cast in her direction before he froze. “You’re down the hall? Okay, uh, I’ll open the door for you, no worries. Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s asleep. See you soon.” He threw his phone on the bed, stepping into his shorts hastily.

“Go, and close the door behind you! He won’t ask any questions,” she hissed, pulling the sheet up to cover her body. 

Chan frowned at her, perching himself back into the bed on his knees next to her, “I don’t like leaving you like this, it feels wrong.”

She chuckled, feeling the bittersweet stab in her chest. In another life, Chan would have been her ideal partner. “I’m okay. Go, you don’t have time for this.”

He frowned, but nodded, “I know. I don’t like it though,” he whispered, before leaning forward, pressing his lips to hers again hurriedly. “Goodnight, Sugar Plum. I’ll see you in a few days.”

With that, he pushed himself off the bed, and jogged the distance to the connecting door, throwing one last look at her over his shoulder before disappearing. Leaving her to mourn the what-if’s and what-could-have-been's alone. The way she’d always been. 

---

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[georgescatcafe]

heaven can wait (we’re only watching the skies)

rating: t warning/s: slight internalized homophobia pairing/s: dreamnap genres/tags: high school au, friends to lovers word count: 6,639 summary: Dream was initially going to go to prom with him. Not, like, as a date, but… as a friend. Just two guys hanging out together. They’d go together and hang out and make fun of the people there, maybe, and they’d eat food that neither of them trusted to be good and they’d see if the punch was spiked and they’d have fun. Together.

And then Sapnap had checked the school website to find the rules changed. Only students from their school allowed, no exceptions. And Dream was homeschooled in a program completely separate to the school.

It sucked.

And now here Sapnap is, emptily drinking soda and watching a basketball game featuring teams he honestly doesn’t even care about. And thinking about Dream.

+ao3

;;

“Dude,” Sapnap says into the phone, staring blankly at the school’s website, “I have, like, zero interest in prom now that you can’t come. That rule is so stupid.”

“It is, but you’re not sneaking me in and getting suspended,” Dream replies.

“That’s only if I get caught,” Sapnap argues, “which I won’t.”

“Don’t even risk it.” Dream sighs, and Sapnap lets out one of his own in agreement. “Just go, and think about what we can do the next day—ice cream, maybe a drive to the beach, hey! Monday is Skip Day, right? Let’s stay the night at the beach. That’s awesome, right? Prom and then all that?”

“Prom without you, though?” Sapnap isn’t convinced.

He can see Dream’s frown crystal clear in his mind. “Don’t throw away unforgettable experiences just because of me. Besides, aren’t some of your friends going?”

“Our friends,” Sapnap corrects, even though that’s not entirely true. In freshman year, before, they were always more Sapnap’s friends than Dream’s, and even then, there weren’t that many in their group—just Sapnap, Dream, a guy from chess club, and two guys from the egamer group that met once every too many months.

Dream lets out a breath. “Our friends,” he agrees, nonetheless. “So isn’t that enough?”

“It’s just not right,” Sapnap says. “You belong in my unforgettable experiences, Dream.”

“Don’t go waxing poetic on me, Pandas,” Dream scolds, though it’s hard to take him seriously with both the nickname and the fondness creeping into his voice. 

“I’ll do it,” Sapnap repeats, “sneak you in. I’ll do it and I’ll get away with it and it’ll be fun. For both of us.”

“Sapnap,” Dream tries one last time, and he sounds so tired, so utterly exhausted, that Sapnap cuts him off.

“Fine,” he says, “you win. You’re not going, and I’m going without,” Sapnap swallows, “without you.”

;;

Come the final day to buy tickets, however, and Sapnap is still without one for himself, and without a suit, and without a date, and without a plan on getting to prom. He eyes the ticket booth warily, knowing if he chooses not to buy one today, it’s over for him.

Janson, one of the guys from the egamer group, takes a seat at the lunch table next to him. “Are you going?”

Sapnap stares at the booth for another second before shrugging. “Not really my scene.”

“Your scene?”

“Loud,” Sapnap replies, poking halfheartedly at his soggy rice, switching to the fruit drowning in juice. “Lots of people. I don’t really care.”

“Is it ‘cause you don’t have a date?” Janson asks. “Because yeah, that sucks, but no one actually cares, dude.”

Sapnap glances over at him for a second before shrugging once more and finally taking a bite of his weird blueberry mush. “I know. It’s not ‘cause of that. I just don’t really want to go.”

Janson studies him before nodding and stirring his own blueberry mush around with a spoon. “Suit yourself. We’ll miss you, though.”

At that, Sapnap laughs. “You don’t have to lie for me. But thanks, man.”

Janson gives him an easy smile. “Any time.”

;;

The hardest part is telling Dream.

But Sapnap wasn’t lying when he told Janson prom isn’t his scene. It is a lot—lots of people, lots of noise, lots going on in general. He doesn’t care about nor want that. He’d rather take a quiet night at home watching basketball with his dad on the couch over getting knocked between sweaty girls and guys while bass shakes the floor beneath him. Maybe, if he doesn’t make him too angry, Sapnap can even convince Dream to come over before their scheduled meeting the next day.

He can only hope Dream understands as he types this all out in a late night Discord message explaining what happened. And then he tries to throw himself into a game of CSGO, and when that doesn’t work, a game of League. When that doesn’t work either, he just rises out of his chair and flops pathetically onto his bed, closing his eyes and praying for sleep to come fast.

When he wakes up, it’s to six new messages from Dream—a rare sight—and two missed calls. Sapnap stares at the notifications until his eyes sting.

Dream: i mean, it’s ur choice, but i rly don’t want u to regret this sap

He won’t. 

Dream: and as it turns out, my older sister has something going on this weekend, so we can’t meet up either :( sorry :(

That’s… okay. It’s fine. Sapnap gets it. Just a weekend for himself, then.

Dream: are u sure u don’t want to go? r u sure u’re sure?

Dream: i sound naggy ik i just don’t want u missing out on these things

Dream: ok?

Dream: sap?

Sapnap types his response—he won’t regret it, sucks about this weekend but it’s fine, Dream’s not being naggy, really, and sorry, he was asleep—then hits send and tries not to feel too bad about everything.

Unsurprisingly, “everything” doesn’t include the prom itself. Sapnap really couldn’t care less about the actual prom.

;;

The rest of the week passes by quickly, and before Sapnap knows it, it’s prom night, and he’s sitting on the couch next to his dad, basketball game on the TV and soda can in his hand. And then it’s time for prom to start, and the ball is tossed into the air. Briefly, Sapnap wonders if Janson scored a date—though he consoled Sapnap over his lack of one, he never talked about his own. 

Sapnap wonders what Dream is doing, why they didn’t decide to simply meet up tonight. Maybe he was sleeping? Playing Minecraft? Maybe he was thinking about Sapnap?

Maybe he was thinking about Sapnap.

Sapnap blinks, and the score changes from 12-8 to 12-11. From the other side of the couch, his dad leans closer to the TV. Sapnap sends a glance back to the kitchen, wondering if they still have those chips he likes. His dad crunches on cheddar Ruffles. 

Dream was initially going to go to prom with him. Not, like, as a date—not like that. That’s weird, but… as a friend. Just two guys hanging out together. Maybe they’d match, probably not, but they’d go together and hang out and make fun of the people there, maybe, and they’d eat food that neither of them trusted to be good and they’d see if the punch was spiked and they’d have fun. Together. 

And then Sapnap had checked the school website to find the rules changed. Only students from their school allowed, no exceptions. And Dream was homeschooled in a program completely separate to the school.

It sucked.

And now here Sapnap is, emptily drinking soda and watching a basketball game featuring teams he honestly doesn’t even care about. And thinking about Dream. 

Sapnap downs the rest of his soda. “I think I’m going to go play some League.” He stands and crushes his can in his hand.

His dad doesn’t look away from the TV. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t,” Sapnap says, but he doesn’t even know if his dad’s heard, since he’s already back in his room, door slammed shut behind him, can tossed into the trash and chair creaking as he falls into it.

Despite his dad’s words, Sapnap games late into the night, and when he wakes, his head hurts from the way he’s had it pressed to the desk, asleep for however many hours. He shakes his computer mouse till the monitor comes on and he stares at it blearily as he realizes he managed to close out of his games before falling asleep. His Discord is empty, no new messages, no missed calls, and he sighs before sending a message to Dream.

Long day?

He closes out of the app before spinning around and heading out of his room to scrounge for breakfast. His dad isn’t in the living room, though the bag of Ruffles he’d been eating from sits there on the coffee table, empty, and the remote still rests on the arm of the couch. Sapnap can only assume he headed to bed after the game ended.

Once in the kitchen, he searches through the fridge before deciding to just eat a bowl or two of cereal. Part of him is still into the fanfare of prom, and he’s filled with a quiet shock at how mundane Sunday morning feels, in comparison to what was likely a crazy night for a bunch of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. Sapnap bites back a derisive snort. Last night was so crazy for him. Totally.

But it was his choice, and he doesn’t regret it. 

Now if he had gone, he’d regret that he’d gone without doing everything he could to get Dream there. And that’s a regret he just couldn’t live with. 

Sapnap sets his now empty bowl in the sink.

Skipping prom? Yeah, he doesn’t regret it.

;;

Come two weeks later, and Dream is sitting next to him on a park bench telling him about a different prom, one they can go to together, one without rules, without limitations.

Sapnap doesn’t even need to hear the rest of it before he’s agreeing, throwing an arm around Dream’s shoulders and talking quickly about how great the night will be. 

“It’s actually themed,” Dream finally interrupts him, holding a hand up and stopping Sapnap mid-daydream.

“Oh?”

Dream nods. “Decades. Got any ideas?”

He doesn’t. When he tells Dream as much, Dream sighs, staring out at the empty swingswet, the swings swaying slightly in the summer breeze. Sapnap sighs too, though he watches his friend, not the playground. “We could do, like, Dad Rock. Seventies, y’know?”

At that, Dream laughs, full and loud, and Sapnap smiles by reflex. Dream rests his chin in his palms, elbows digging into the tops of his thighs. “Remember when we read The Outsiders in eighth grade? What were they called? We could be those.”

“Oh,” Sapnap bites back a snort, “uh, greasies? No,” he and Dream speak at the same time, “greasers!” The laugh he’d been keeping down finally breaks free, spilling past his lips as Dream grins. “We could be those. We’re hot.”

“So hot,” Dream agrees, though he’s still giggling slightly, turning away from Sapnap so the other can’t see his smile, but his shaking shoulders give away his amusement.

Sapnap grins, bright, happy. “When is it again?” he asks.

Dream leans back, head tilting back so he can stare up at the clear blue sky. “A month from now. June 7th. Think you can go?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sapnap says, like it’s obvious. (Because it is obvious. Even if he couldn’t, he’d find a way to go. He’s just that loyal. To Dream, specifically, but that’s not important.) He clears his throat at his own thoughts. “I definitely can go.”

Dream looks to him, then, small smile on his face. “Awesome.”

Sapnap smiles back. Awesome.

;;

May trudges on like its stuck in the mud, Sapnap counting down the days until this rule-less prom. Dream was pretty sparing with the details, only saying it’s date and theme, and Sapnap can’t help but itch with the need to know everything. When he questions Dream for more info, however, the other shrugs him off, turning the tables and asking him if he’s settled on a decade yet.

“I thought we were choosing together,” Sapnap tells him over a Discord call one night, prom finally only a week away.

“So nothing?” Dream asks. “Let’s meet up tomorrow; we’ll figure it out then.”

It’s a plan, and come eleven in the morning, he and Dream are meeting outside of the city’s mall. “This feels kind of stupid,” Sapnap admits when they go through the sliding doors leading to Macy’s mens’ department. “Like, wow, we’re really putting effort into it.”

“Says you when there’s only a week left,” Dream replies. “Putting effort into it means having had our costumes in our closets since the day I told you about it.”

“True,” Sapnap replies, picking up a paisley tie from the clearance table. “What is this?”

Dream takes it from him, setting it back down. “Something we definitely don’t want.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap keeps his eyes on it as they walk away, “no shit.”

They don’t buy anything from Macy’s mens’ department. For an hour they wander aimlessly up and down the mall, more time spent talking rather than looking. It’s only until Sapnap’s stomach rumbles that the two of them realize they’ve gotten nothing done. Their feet finally take them to the food court.

“Shopping for a prom outfit is hard,” Sapnap says into his fries, while Dream nods in agreement shoving a chicken nugget into his mouth and staring down at a greasy spot on the table. “I mean, my feet hurt, and we haven’t even bought a t-shirt or something.”

“We haven’t even gone inside a store,” Dream replies.

Sapnap groans, shoving a fry in his mouth. “This is so stupid.”

They walk the mall again, this time going into various stores, pointing out ridiculous gag gifts and Sapnap picking up more hideous ties. Finally, Dream grabs a leather jacket off the Dillard’s clearance rack and tugs it on over his shoulders. It’s military-style, almost, the shoulders strong, and when Dream turns, it stretches broad across his back before tapering off at his waist. Sapnap swallows. It fits Dream well.

When Dream turns back around, Sapnap’s eyes shoot back up to his face, and he hopes his face isn’t as red as it is hot. He grabs the jacket next to it, also a large luckily, and puts it on. Dream gives him a thumbs up when he turns around to show it off.

“Looks good,” Dream says, and his cheeks aren’t red, and Sapnap isn’t disappointed about that.

They buy the jackets, think about what shoes they own, then buy some cheapy black shades.

“I don’t know if I can do my hair like they did,” Sapnap tells Dream when they go back through Macy’s and pass some grooming kits, jars of pomade on the shelf next to them.

“I might be able to,” Dream says, studying his reflection in the mirror on the post next to the grooming kits. He’s always kept his hair cropped pretty close, but Sapnap knows it’s been awhile since he’s gotten it cut, bangs starting to grow in the front, actually almost reaching his brows. Sapnap thinks it suits Dream, but he sees the way Dream always tries to push his hair back, though it always flops back into place.

“Maybe,” Sapnap agrees. “I think the glasses and jacket should be enough if you can’t though, right?”

Dream glances at the jars of pomade before nodding. “Right.”

;;

Dream and him got their licenses at sixteen, but Dream says he can pick Sapnap up Saturday, “don’t worry about gas money.”

“Are you sure?” Sapnap asks Saturday morning, both about the picking-up and the gas money.

“I’m sure,” Dream replies. “Just be out in front of your house before six, okay?”

“Sounds good,” Sapnap says. “You don’t think our parents want any pictures, would they?”

“Of course not,” Dream answers. “Your dad taking pictures of the two of us?”

“My stepmom maybe,” Sapnap laughs, but she left the house that morning, heading to the city to do her own business. She’s not going to get any pictures of them.

Dream laughs too before he finally says, “See you later then,” and Sapnap is left rushing to get dressed.

He feels giddy, almost, heart racing and stomach turning over itself. His hair has grown out much like Dream’s has over the school year, him never bothering to get it cut or trimmed, and he gives up on the pompadour when it comes out a wet looking lump on the top of his head, strings of hair falling in his face. He sighs and rinses out the product in the sink, leaving it to air dry and drip droplets onto his white t-shirt. By 5:45pm, he’s sweating, face flushed and chest tight, stomach still doing flips, and he ties his mostly dry hair back into a low ponytail, hoping it’s not too off-brand. Finally, he pulls on his jacket, though it feels restrictive and hot with the summer air and his nerves, and he has to stare at himself in the mirror for the next ten minutes repeating to himself that it’s just Dream and that it’s not romantic and that he’s acting like a freak, stupid and quite possibly into his best friend. (But he’s not.)

Then he marches himself out to his curb and sits.

Dream pulls up a couple minutes after six, his hair actually done Greaser-style, and damn it, he looks good.

(Sapnap can think that. He’s not blind. Anyone could see that his best friend is attractive. It’s just a general thing. Not a thing.)

When he gets into the passenger seat, Dream grins at him from behind matching dark sunglasses. “Looking good.”

“We look hot, man,” Sapnap says, a lot more casual than he feels.

The grin doesn’t leave Dream’s face as he puts the car in drive and takes off down the road.

Sapnap honestly doesn’t know where his nerves have come from—how is this prom any different from the school one, like, actually? How is Dream and him going to this one any different from them going to the high school’s? They won’t know anyone at this one, he’s pretty sure, but who cares? Isn’t that better for them? He glances over at Dream, who’s got his wrists crossed over the steering wheel as they speed down the highway to their destination.

It’s just Dream. Sapnap is just excited. It’s normal. It’s Dream.

He lets himself relax.

;;

“What the fuck?” Sapnap whispers to Dream when two girls pass by them looking straight out of some period piece. “I thought you said this was decades themed?”

Dream looks just as perturbed, brows furrowed as a girl and a guy dressed like pirates enter after the Victorian girls. “Guess they meant all decades,” he replies.

Sapnap stares at him before they reach the check-in counter where a woman with her face painted like a member of KISS checks their ages and directs them to the room where the prom’s held.

Madonna plays loud over the speakers, and Sapnap eyes a kid who spins his hands around his face while a small group of onlookers watch in awe. He glances over at Dream, who continues to face forward, leading him over to an empty table, undisturbed. When they sit down, Sapnap turns to the dance floor, where the Victorian girls are, twirling and laughing, and where a boy looking straight out of the 80s sways with another who wears a hat like Jamie from Mythbusters and suspenders attached to plaid, fitted pants. Sapnap watches them for another second before turning stiffly to Dream.

“Where are we?” he asks carefully.

“Sapnap,” Dream starts, but a look from Sapnap has his mouth shutting fast. He stares right back before sighing, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I mean, I knew, but I didn’t think it’d—look, we can leave. It’s fine.”

“Well,” Sapnap huffs, dropping his gaze to his lap, where his fingers grip the denim of his jeans tightly, knuckles turning white, “it’s not fine, but—I don’t really want to leave. I like—I wanted to go to prom with you.”

A laugh, and Sapnap looks over quickly to see the 80s boy tugging the Mythbusters hat’s jacket over his shoulders. Sapnap thinks he might be sick.

“Not like that,” he adds.

“Right,” Dream says.

The booming of the bass rattles Sapnap to his core, along with the table. Even the hand Dream has placed on it doesn’t stop it from shaking. Sapnap wonders what would happen if he were to take Dream’s hand. Dream pulls it back and drops it into his lap. Sapnap tightens his hold on his jeans.

“I am sorry,” Dream tells him. “But I didn’t really think you’d mind. We’re friends, Sapnap. Why does where we are have to change that?”

“It doesn’t,” Sapnap replies, but people can misunderstand. People will misunderstand. He tells Dream as much.

Dream frowns, leans forward. Sapnap doesn’t meet his gaze. “Sapnap,” Dream says, “why would they misunderstand?”

Because they match. Because, under the table, their feet knock against each other. Because when Sapnap looks at Dream, the rest of the world disappears, and he’s certain the rest of the world knows it.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sapnap mutters. “They just would.”

Dream says something. It’s lost to the sound of Rihanna, declaring that a bitch better have her money. Sapnap’s foot taps quickly against the floor, and this time, when it brushes up against Dream’s, he readjusts, feet no longer under the table. Dream sighs, resting his chin on his palm. 

Finally, he looks to Sapnap again. “Does it bother you that much?”

“Does what bother me?”

Dream stares at him for a second before looking out at the dance floor. “Them misunderstanding?”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Sapnap asks.

Dream is silent for so long after that Sapnap almost forgets he’s waiting for a response. “No,” Dream says at last. “It doesn’t.”

Sapnap doesn’t know how to reply to that.

They just sit there after that, watching the crowd wax and wane, change based on the song playing. Dream pushes himself up out of his chair when a familiar number starts. He holds out a hand. “Come on.”

Sapnap stares at the hand. “Dude, he says, “what.”

“Dance,” Dream replies. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What the fuck?” Sapnap lets out a laugh, glancing over at Mythbusters hat and 80s boy. They’re laughing over something on 80s boy’s phone, foreheads resting close together, cheeks flushed pink in the dim light that hangs over their table. He looks back at Dream. “No way.”

“It’s ‘Come on Eileen,’” Dream says, but Sapnap is resolute, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. They hold a short staring contest before Dream sighs, looking away. Sapnap doesn’t even have the chance to puff up at his W before Dream is reaching forward and taking him by the arm, pulling him out of his seat and to the dance floor.

“Dream!” Sapnap argues, trying to pull away, but Dream’s hold on him is lethal and Sapnap is unwillingly pulled into the circle that’s formed, one arm tugged behind Dream’s back by Dream’s free hand, and the other tossed over a girl’s shoulder. She gives him a bright smile before the circle begins to move, slowly, ever so slowly, then quicker.

It’s like a treadmill, Sapnap thinks, watching his feet and making sure not to step on the girl’s sparkly slippers. Her laugh is loud even with the music blasting and Sapnap starts to gain some of her enthusiasm as the chorus hits. And then a laugh comes from behind him, and he can’t help but look over his shoulder. 

Dream is already grinning at him. Sapnap couldn’t stop himself from grinning back even if he tried. The circle speeds up, and soon Dream is a constant cackle in his ear, Sapnap joining in as the group turns this way and that, before they all jump to a stop and kick a foot in the center.

Sapnap is awkward, slightly off-balance the way he holds on to Dream’s back and leans towards the girl, her shorter than him. He’s running out of breath quick too, kicking quicker and quicker before they’re spinning again and again, all smiling, all laughing, some singing, some panting, and Dream brings their heads closer together as they share one more laugh before the song is fading out, and then it’s just them alone, the others retreating back to their seats or to their own friend groups, just Dream and Sapnap breathing in each other’s exhales.

“That was fun,” Sapnap admits, and Dream nods, arm still around Sapnap’s shoulders, his other one eventually coming up to join it. Sapnap still has an arm around Dream, though it’s slipped so his hand rests at the small of Dream’s back. He swallows.

Dream notices his discomfort, and the smile falls from his face. “Sapnap,” he says.

Sapnap shakes his head. “It’s fine.” His fingers curl into the soft leather of Dream’s jacket. “They can misunderstand.”

I want them to misunderstand.

Sapnap looks up at the same time Dream lets go. “What?” he asks. Dream starts to take a step back, but Sapnap doesn’t let go. “No, you don’t get to—Dream, what did you say?”

“I—,” Dream’s eyes are wide, startled, scared, and Sapnap can’t help but think this isn’t fair. He stares Dream down, and eventually, Dream stares back. When he speaks, he can barely be heard over the music, even with the minimal distance between them. “I want them to misunderstand.”

It’s like he took the words straight from Sapnap’s brain, putting them out there for everyone to hear. Sapnap feels sick, and the feeling only grows when his head falls forward to rest on Dream’s chest. “What the fuck,” he says.

“Sorry,” Dream apologizes above him.

“What—no,” Sapnap’s face screws up, even though Dream can’t see, “you don’t get to apologize, dude. What the hell.” Sapnap feels a weight then on his back, hesitant then heavier. Dream’s hands. He closes his eyes. “What the hell,” he repeats.

“Let’s go back to our table,” Dream says. Sapnap nods, standing up straight, but Dream just pulls him into his side then, and Sapnap thinks about resisting, thinks about getting mad, maybe even leaving (but without a car, without Dream, where would he go?), but in the end, he just lets himself fall more into Dream, the other bearing his weight easily, leading them over to the table they had left.

When they sit, Dream stares down at his hands. Sapnap stares at him. “How long have you known?” he asks.

“About what?” Dream replies.

Sapnap shrugs.

Dream studies him for a second before looking back at his hands. “About myself, since maybe always. About you…?” He smiles then, bitter. “Maybe just as long.”

Sapnap sucks in a breath.

Dream looks over. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” he answers. “I think—I think I didn’t want to know.”

Dream snorts derisively. “With your dad, I wouldn’t want to know either.”

That gets a laugh out of Sapnap, but it’s dry, empty. “Hey,” he defends his dad halfheartedly, “my dad isn’t that bad.”

The bitter smile on Dream’s lips twists into downright acidic.

Sapnap sighs. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Dream looks at him. Sapnap stares back.

“You’re my best friend,” he tells him. “I can tell you anything.”

“Me too,” Dream replies. “I’m glad it’s you too.” And then he frowns, looking out over the crowd. “But I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Sapnap is too, but he doesn’t tell the other that. Instead, he shrugs. “Could be worse,” he says. “I could hate you right now. But I don’t. I think I feel about you how you feel about me.” The last sentence is hard to get out, like bile in his throat. He hopes Dream doesn’t realize that.

When Dream smiles at him, then, he guesses he doesn’t. “I,” Dream looks back down at his hands, “like you, Sapnap.”

And that’s the truth, isn’t it? Dream likes Sapnap, and Sapnap likes Dream. Now Sapnap just needs to figure out what to do with that.

“I like you too,” he says, and Dream turns to him, eyes wide, as if they hadn’t established this already—maybe, for Dream, they hadn’t, “but I don’t know—I don’t know if this is good for us, Dream.”

“We’re best friends,” Dream starts to respond, but Sapnap cuts him off.

“Exactly.” He pulls his jacket tighter. “I don’t want to lose that.”

“We don’t have to,” Dream replies. “Why can’t we be both?”

“Why isn’t what we are already enough?” Sapnap argues. “I can’t afford to lose you, Dream. You’re my favorite person.”

“You wouldn’t lose me,” Dream denies. “You’re the one that was willing to cut me from your life for losing.”

“We were ten,” Sapnap scowls. “That’s not the same.”

Dream doesn’t reply. He knows it’s not.

The upbeat ABBA song playing does not match the mood that’s settled over their table. Sapnap drags his shoe along the floor. Dream drums his fingers against the table.

“Should we have not said anything then?” Dream asks. “Do we act like this never happened? Because I don’t know if I can do that.”

Sapnap doesn’t think he can either. Nonetheless, he shrugs.

Dream huffs. “Look,” he says, “you’re my best friend. I like you. If we stay friends, I’ll still like you. If we become more,” he swallows, squaring his shoulders, “and that doesn’t work, we’ll still be friends in the end. Okay?”

Sapnap doesn’t entirely believe him, but when he meets Dream’s gaze, Dream looks so determined, so resolute, that Sapnap finds himself echoing an okay. Then the clouds part, and Dream smiles. Sapnap tries to smile back.

The ABBA song ends and a much more recent pop song begins to play, but neither of them move, choosing instead to sit in a still silence that leaves Sapnap wondering what Dream is thinking.

Sapnap squeezes his eyes shut, shoving his curiosity aside to instead gaze out at the dance floor. The girl that was next to him in the circle bounces around three other teenagers, light-colored hair a kaleidoscope of colors in the everchanging club lights. When she spots Sapnap staring, she smiles, throwing up a peace sign. Sapnap gives her a small wave. Their eyes stay locked for another second before she makes a little motion towards Dream and Sapnap looks at him, only to find Dream already looking back. Sapnap sighs before rising from his chair.

“Your turn,” he says, hand already extended out towards the other.

Dream doesn’t hesitate in grabbing his hand and letting Sapnap pull him up.

Sapnap leads them to the dance floor, fully prepared to halfheartedly bop his head to the song playing, but then—and of course it’s just his luck—the minute he steps onto the wooden panels, the song changes to something mellow… and slow.

So very slow.

He turns to Dream, eyes wide in alarm, but all Dream does is smile.

“Don’t back out now,” he says.

Sapnap glares at him. “You wish.”

Dream laughs before putting a hand on Sapnap’s waist and an arm around his neck. Sapnap lets out a harsh breath but doesn’t pull away, just follows Dream’s lead, pulling him close. The emcee is saying something probably absolutely humiliating, but Sapnap ignores the queen (oh God, the emcee is a drag queen, how did he not realize that upon walking in?) in favor of focusing on Dream, on not stepping on his toes, on not bumping into other dancers, on not getting lost in the other’s eyes, however stereotypical it may be.

Dream lowers his head until their foreheads almost touch, and Sapnap is painfully reminded of 80s boy and Mythbusters hat. He looks down to the floor.

“Pandas,” Dream whispers, and Sapnap curses his heart for jumping.

“What?” he replies, still looking down.

“Look at me,” Dream urges.

Sapnap shakes his head, but then the arm around Sapnap’s neck becomes just a hand, and then that hand is traveling up, up over his neck, to his ear, fingers curling around his jaw, forcing Sapnap’s gaze from the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Dream says.

Sapnap finds himself stuck staring into Dream’s eyes. “Why?”

“You didn’t go to prom because I wouldn’t be there, and now we’re at a prom together, and you’re not having fun because I’m here.” His thumb strokes across Sapnap’s cheek—Sapnap hopes he can’t feel the heat under his skin. “So I’m sorry.”

“I’m having fun,” Sapnap replies, automatic.

“Because having me confess me to you and forcing you to dance with me and taking you to a fucking,” he breaks their gaze only to look around demonstratively, “gay prom is fun for you.”

But even with his reply being automatic, Sapnap finds it true. It’s not conventional, and he’s felt vaguely nauseous this entire time, but the dance circle was fun, and just standing here with Dream, swaying back and forth, it’s fun too. And there’s something nice about having everything out in the open. He and Dream like each other.

Wait.

He and Dream like each other. He and Dream like each other. Dream likes him.

“You like me,” Sapnap whispers.

Dream still hears him. “Yeah,” he replies, easy, “I like you a lot.”

“I think I missed that,” Sapnap says, louder. “You like me.”

Dream stares at him. “Yes,” he replies. “I like you.”

Sapnap stares back before he removes his hand from Dream’s waist to put it on his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of Dream’s t-shirt as Sapnap tugs him down into a kiss. Dream’s lips are surprisingly soft for the amount of times Sapnap has caught Dream biting at them, and Dream himself is surprisingly gentle when he brings his other hand up from Sapnap’s waist to cradle his jaw. Sapnap lets out a quiet exhale when they pull apart.

Dream is looking at him, but his gaze is distant, his mind somewhere far away.

Sapnap lets go of his shirt to shove him slightly. “Dream?” he asks, wondering if he might’ve just ruined everything, despite Dream’s insistence that a change in their relationship wouldn’t affect their friendship.

“I think people might misunderstand us now,” Dream says.

Sapnap can’t help it—he laughs. “You think?” And then Dream is laughing too, pulling him in for another kiss even as the song changes and the floor becomes crowded with everyone else coming to dance.

The tension now broken, neither of them suggest leaving the dance floor.

;;

By the time the prom is ending, Sapnap’s feet hurt, and he’s sure his lips are red from the amount of times Dream has kissed him. They’re both giddy with teenage excitement, and Dream is singing a pathetic rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” words slurring together and pitch way off.

Sapnap laughs as Dream knocks their heads together, pushing him away with one hand while the other wraps around his waist to pull him closer. “You sound so bad.”

“You love it,” Dream murmurs into his ear, and Sapnap grins even as his cheeks flare red.

“You wish,” he replies.

“I most definitely wish,” Dream says, head now tilted to rest atop Sapnap’s own.

“Did you drink?” Sapnap asks, suspicious, though he’s pretty sure he and Dream only got water. “Are you drunk?”

“You know I’d never drink,” Dream replies before the most shit-eating grin takes over his face. “Actually, I’m just drunk on love.”

Sapnap rolls his eyes. “Now you’re just acting stupid.”

“But I mean it.”

Sapnap looks at him. Dream looks back. Sapnap shakes his head as they reach Dream’s car. “Don’t be dumb.”

“Okay, so maybe not like… love love, but I love you, Sapnap.” Dream leans against the door. “And it could turn into love love one day. If you let it.”

Sapnap stares at him. Dream stares back.

“It’s just a possibility,” he says, hand coming up to pat Sapnap’s cheek. Sapnap continues to stare until Dream leans forward to bump their noses together. “I won’t bring it up again.”

“Next month,” Sapnap finally replies. “Bring it up next month.” He pushes himself away from Dream to go to the passenger side. “Now unlock the car. It’s hot as fuck out here.”

;;

The car ride is spent in an easy silence, though Dream keeps glancing over at Sapnap every once in a while, always looking on the verge of saying something.

Finally, Sapnap snaps. “What is it?”

Dream has clearly been waiting to be asked. “You said next month.”

Sapnap frowns. “Uh, yeah? Why wouldn’t I?”

“So we’ll still be together next month?”

Sapnap’s eyes narrow. “Are you assuming we’re together now?”

“Yes.”

Fuck. He’s right to assume that. So much for Dream being the one to forget their friendship in order to pursue a relationship. Dream knows him too well. (It’s perfect.)

“I love you too,” Sapnap says. “As a friend.” He looks out the window. “But it could be love love one day too.”

He doesn’t need to look over to know Dream is grinning, and when a finger brushes his own over the glovebox, not asking for permission but not not asking for permission, Sapnap can’t stop a grin of his own from spreading across his face and lets Dream lock their hands together.

;;

A knock on the door startles Sapnap in the middle of his studying. He looks up from his notes to see Dream leaning in the open doorway.

Sapnap raises a brow. “Since when have you knocked?”

“Since British exchange students started chewing me out whenever I’d come in without knocking.” Dream smiles at him before looking into the room, green eyes searching.

“George isn’t going to jump out at you from behind the door,” Sapnap says, stretching out in his chair before rising to properly greet his boyfriend. “Besides, he likes you; he’s just a bitch.”

“Of course a bitch like you would say that,” George interrupts, his small frame almost invisible behind Dream, who turns around with a guilty look on his face. “Hi, Dream,” George says, shoving past him to toss his bag in his desk chair and collapse onto his bed. “I don’t like you, by the way.” He lifts his head slightly to look between Dream and Sapnap. “Either of you. I hate you guys.”

“We hate you too,” Sapnap replies cheerily before grinning at Dream and pulling him down into a kiss that Dream eagerly returns.

“Can you not?” George asks, even though they all know he doesn’t really care. “I already feel single enough, thanks.”

“Like you could ever feel single,” Dream teases. “You know nearly everyone here is into you.”

George pushes himself up onto his elbows to stick out his tongue. Dream sticks his own out too.

Sapnap laughs before picking his keys up from off his desk and checking that his wallet is in his pocket. “We’re heading out,” he tells George, who hums and nods, flopping back onto the bed. “Let me know if you want us to pick you up dinner.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Sapnap,” George says, “to go out of your way just to get dinner for me. I didn’t realize I mean that much to you.”

“You mean the world to me, George,” Sapnap replies, even as his hand links with Dream’s and George flips him off. “But seriously, we’ll get you something if you want.”

“It’s fine.” George waves a hand. “Go be in love or whatever. Better somewhere else than where I can see it.”

“True, true,” Sapnap says, even though his favorite hobby nowadays is antagonize George, which sits right under spend time with Dream. 

They leave the Brit alone to head out to Dream’s car, and it’s there that Sapnap finds them imitating the pose they had the night of prom. He hides his smile in Dream’s neck as Dream wraps his arms around his shoulders.

“Hey, Sap,” Dream says.

“Yeah?”

“Remember how you said ‘next month’?”

Sapnap lifts his head slightly to look through the car window. “Yeah.”

“Well, it’s been next month, and then it was the month after that, and the one after that, and then there was—”

Sapnap barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “I love you, Dream. Now let go of me; I really am hungry right now.”

“Right, of course. Of course,” Dream releases him, “but for the record, I love you too. Like, love love.”

Sapnap shoves him even as a smile begins to show at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, I love love you too.”

[give-me-back-my-rhodey]

[I know I just said 2 seconds ago in the groupchat that I couldn't think've anything, but then I saw ya list lmaoo, one'a my favourite quotes] 8.) De Nile is just a river in Egypt with (pre) Winteriron? | Maybe rhodey&tony brotp or steve&bucky brotp(both?) and some good ol' Winteriron Mutual Pining idiots 😂 🖤🖤🖤

Hi! Thanks for the prompt! I hope you don’t mind that I made it a bingo fill! :)

Title: De Nile

Collaborator Name: Ducky

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048013

Square Filled: O4 - Pining

Ship/Main Pairing: Bucky/Tony

Rating: Teen

Major Tags & Triggers: Pining, Betting on Friends

Summary: Rhodey needs Bucky and Tony to understand that their attraction is mutual. 

Word Count: 1234

De Nile

“Bucky Barnes? Pfft, I don’t like him,” Tony shoves Rhodey. “I wasn’t even staring at him. I spaced out and happened to be faced in his direction.”

 “De Nile is just a river in Egypt, Tones. You forget that I’ve known you since you were fourteen. I know what you look like when you’re pining.” Rhodey counters.

 “Fine. I think he’s smoking hot, and I would love to sit on those thighs, even if only to platonically perch there, but he doesn’t like me,” Tony mourns. “He is like wayyy out of my league.”

 Rhodey opens his mouth but Tony cuts him off, “Uh-uh-uh! I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’d rather not dwell on it. Please, let’s go find the spiderkid and the barrel of trouble.”

 Shaking his head, Rhodey glances back over his shoulder at Barnes, who is still staring, but he follows Tony out of the room. Pining idiots.

++++++

Rhodes is going to kill me. Bucky thinks as the colonel sends one last glare over his shoulder. He groans and drops his head into his hands.

 “Hey, what’s wrong,” Steve plops down in the chair beside him.

 “Why am I here? I clearly scare Tony or at the very least make him uncomfortable,” Bucky stops when Steve coughs. It sounds something like “yeah-in-his-pants” and Bucky tilts his head, “Excuse me?”

 “I had something stuck in my throat,” Steve lies. “But honestly, Tony doesn’t mind you here. If he did, you wouldn’t be here.”

 “Why does Rhodes keep glaring at me then?”

 Steve sighs, “I don’t know, Bucky, but you’ll be ok. I think you’re just insecure because you have a hopeless crush on Tony.”

 “I don’t know how everyone doesn’t. He’s awesome. He’s so smart and kind and easy to talk to, and that ass is delicious.” Bucky sighs dreamily.

 “Why don’t you tell him that?”

 “He’s the epitome of perfection, and I’m an amnesiac assassin. You do see how that will never work out, right?” Sometimes Bucky thinks Steve lives with rose-tinted glasses.

 “And if he -hypothetically- confesses his undying love to you?” Steve queries. “Would you tell him that he’s wrong for loving you?”

 Bucky snorts, “I’m not an idiot, Steve. I would spend the rest of my life trying my best to make sure he doesn’t regret loving me. But as that will never happen, I don’t need any false hope.” He gets up and leaves, heading to the gym to take his stress out on a few punching bags.

 ++++++

“We need to do something about those two,” Rhodey groans.

 Sam agrees, “I know, but how? We’ve tried almost everything we could.”

 “I have a brilliant idea,” Wade speaks up. “We should have a betting pool on when they will get together. It always works in these situations.”

 “How did you even get in here?” Bruce asks. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I have so many questions about you, Wade, but I’m afraid of the answers I’d get. But I am in for the betting pool. I’ve got fifty bucks on Tony making the first move before the year is over, but not until after October 14th.”

 “Oddly specific, but I’ll take it. Fifty bucks says Tony before October 14th, but after July 31st.” Clint puts in his prediction.

 One by one, the Avengers each place their bets. “So, what are the rules?” Rhodey asks.

 “Normal betting-on-friends’ rules,” Wade tells him, as if he should know them. When Rhodey looks at him confusedly, he groans. “Ugh, how do you guys not know these things? Ok – no tampering, no dropping hints – we have to let them figure it out themselves.”

 Harley cackles, “I am going to be rich. They will never figure it out themselves.” The bet is on.

 ++++++

Rhodey is getting tired of hearing Tony wax poetic about Bucky’s thighs or his eyes or anything else. He wants to tell Tony to just tell Bucky. He doesn’t even care if he doesn’t win the bet. Anything would be better than listening to Tony right now.

 “Why is he so beautiful and out of reach, Rhodey?” The genius whines. “And he’s like just my type.”

 “If he’s your type, how do you know you’re not his?” Rhodey groans.

“Come on, Sour Patch, he’s had more than enough trauma in his life. He doesn’t need to be in a relationship with me.” Tony argues.

 Steve walks in, and Tony spins to greet him, “Hey Cap!” Rhodey makes a ‘kill-me’ motion behind Tony’s back, and Steve laughs.

 “Hey Tony, have you seen Bucky around?”

 “Why do you think I would have seen him?” Tony questions, voice a tad loud.

 Steve raises his hands, “I… was just asking.”

 “You could ask FRIDAY,” Tony says petulantly.

 “Right. I’ll… do that. Thanks, Tone.”

 Tony turns back around when Steve leaves. Rhodey knows he has a shit-eating grin on his face. “Wow. You got defensive, didn’t you?” He asks.

 “Shut up, Platypus. Steve is already disappointed in me. I don’t need him to hate me because I’m hopelessly in love with his best friend.”

 A glass shatters in the doorway. Rhodey looks up to see Bucky standing there, a shattered plate on the floor. Tony gulps. “Oh. Bucky.” He jumps up and runs from the room.

 Bucky looks down at the floor, then to Rhodey. “He… was lying, right? He can’t like me. He’s too good.”

 A voice that sounds like Wade’s says No tampering, but shut up Wade. I have the fate of my best friend in my hands. I’m not screwing this up. Rhodey sighs, “Listen man, you need to talk to Tony about this. If he doesn’t let you in now, give him a day or so. You know how to sneak in anywhere.” He steps over the shards, pats Bucky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

 ++++++

“Tony?” Bucky finds Tony sitting with his head in his hands on the couch in his workshop.

 “I’m sorry, Bucky. You never were supposed to know. I can move back to Malibu. Whatever it takes to help you feel better around here. You don’t need me fucking up your life.”

 “So you mean it? You love me?” Bucky questions, daring to hope.

 Tony refuses to look at him, but after a few minutes’ consideration, replies, “Yes, and I am so, so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I am completely and irrevocably in love with you as well. I just didn’t want you to know because you are perfection, and I am… decidedly not.” Bucky sits down beside him.

 Tony glances over at him now, “You – you are? And I am not perfection. I’m the most fucked-up one here. I’m a monster.”

 “Hey, no you’re not. Don’t talk about the love of my life that way. I might get sad.” Bucky pulls him into a hug. “How about this? We go get dinner, and we don’t think either of us is worse than the other. We can be broken together.”

 Tony hugs him tighter, “Sounds good to me.”

 ++++++

“Hah! I win! I told you it would be on the June 15th!” Wade whoops. “Pay up.”

 Everyone else pays him. “I don’t know how you knew this would work,” Sam tells him, “but it did.”

 “And accurately so…” Strange eyes Wade. “You don’t, by any chance, see the future, do you?”

 Wade just smirks and walks out of the room.

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 3

Hey so this is the best AU and also fight me if you disagree, I’ll PM you my address

Ao3 | Ripped Tag

“Astrid, come on, you know you could just come stay with me and Tuff until you figure this out,” Ruffnut perches on the arm of Astrid’s single chair, reaching out and threatening to close her laptop’s lid on the legal search that is going nowhere, “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about this.”  

“You don’t know why I’m being so stubborn about this?” Astrid scoffs, checking her phone again to see if her disappointingly useless landlord has texted back yet.  He said he’d talk to Hiccup, if that’s even his real name, but the lack of response doesn’t have her particularly hopeful. “Do you even know me?”  

“Yes, I do, and I’m still offering your type-A ass my couch, think about it.”  

“That’s not the point.  When I signed this lease, it was a statement.  I’m done with roommates, I can afford it, and I shouldn’t have to leave it just because there was some gruesome murder here and a bunch of tone deaf weirdos want to see it.”  As much as she threatened it, she doesn’t really want to go to the cops. She’s not someone who lets other people handle her problems, but the more she looks at local tenant laws, the more it seems like her only option if her landlord won’t get involved.  

The knock at the door doesn’t quite break her focus and she elbows Ruffnut in the leg, silently asking her to get it.  If it is her landlord, he can wait a minute, he wasn’t in a hurry so she might as well finish her thought.  

“So I’m just your butler now, or something, I get it.” Ruffnut sulks to the door, shaking her head.  

“Thanks, you’re the best.”  

The old door opens on creaky hinges that Astrid tries not to imagine it revealing a dark shadow with a sharp knife, because getting herself scared over a hundred year old murder isn’t going to help anything. Ruffnut pauses at the door for a second before looking back over her shoulder at Astrid, confused but delighted, like she couldn’t help but showing every time Hiccup stuck his foot further in his mouth on that stupid tour.  

“You didn’t have to get a stripper to thank me for dealing with your weird issues.”  Ruffnut laughs, “it’s like a Thursday.”  

“What?”  Astrid looks up, focus broken by the bizarre suggestion, and sees a fully uniformed police officer on the other side of her open front door.  “Ruff, no—”

“You think I’m a stripper?”  The cop smiles, surprisingly delighted by the comment, but Ruffnut hasn’t ever been one to stop while she’s ahead.  

“You’re way too pretty to be an actual cop,” she reaches out and grabs the badge on his chest, “that’s obviously not real.”  

It doesn’t detach.  Astrid jumps to her feet, rushing to the door to grab Ruff’s arm and pull it back.  

“My apologies, Sir, what can we do for you?” She puts on her most reasonable smile, hoping that if he’s here to help with her harassment issues in some way that Ruffnut didn’t just ruin it.  

“It’s fine,” he winks at Ruffnut, “I’m flattered, I’ve been working out.”  

“I’m assuming you didn’t come here for my friend,” Astrid turns the word into an insult as she pushes Ruffnut back a step, “to insult you.  Do you need something?”  

“Officer Jorgenson,” he holds his hand out and Astrid shakes it as he looks at Ruffnut, “you can call me Snotlout.”  

“Astrid Hofferson,” she makes the introduction, dropping his hand and pointing at Ruffnut.  “That’s Ruffnut, she doesn’t actually live here though.  I just moved in this week.”  

“Yes, I heard about that, can I come in?”  

“Yeah, sure,” Astrid steps out of the way and shuts the door behind him.  She’d offer him a place to sit, but she still only has the one chair and given Ruffnut’s behavior, she doesn’t exactly trust her friend to not make herself welcome on the officer’s lap.  

Ok, that’s a slight exaggeration, but she still elbows Ruffnut to remind her to at least pretend to be respectful.  

“Ok,” Officer Jorgenson deflates slightly, holding his arms out in front of himself, “so I’m not actually here on official business, so let the record show that you invited me in without actually receiving an official answer as to why—”

“Hey!”  Astrid takes a step towards the door and he doesn’t block her, but something in his apologetic expression is enough to make her pause.  ��If it isn’t official, why the hell are you here?”  

“Because Hiccup Haddock is my cousin,” he sighs, “and he told me that someone moved into the apartment that he does his creepy tours to and that he really freaked you out—”

“I am not freaked out!”  

“She called me so scared her first night I thought she’d accidentally killed a guy or something,” Ruffnut snickers and Astrid smacks her on the arm.  

“And I just wanted to come let you know that he’s actually a really harmless weirdo and I talked to him about being creepy and he said that you said something about filing a harassment claim—”

“What?  If I did you’d throw it out for him?  No wonder he goes around shining lights into people’s apartments if he has a cop covering for him—”

“Look, Miss Hofferson—”

“Since this is so unofficial, Astrid is probably more appropriate, Snotlout.”  She spits his name, feeling impossibly more trapped than she did a minute ago.  If going to the cops isn’t even an option and her landlord still isn’t answering, she doesn’t know what’s left.  

“I’m a traffic cop, I don’t see harassment claims and if I did, I couldn’t do anything about them.  And maybe I should have ditched the uniform—”

“You still could,” Ruffnut adds, taking the only chair and playing her favorite role as audience to this nonsensical drama.  

Astrid is supposed to be finishing out her grad degree in peace.  She has a job at Berk’s archival library for God’s sake, she made every boring decision that she possibly could have.  

“Look, I get that he can be creepy, but I’m just asking you to trust me that he’s mortified.  And as his cousin, I think it’s hilarious how hot you are, because he’s awkward around hot girls when he’s not creeping them out, but I’m taking this seriously.”  

“Are you hitting on me?”  Astrid can’t help half raising her voice and Snotlout shakes his head.

“No, not at all, I’m just asking to give you my number—”

“Dude!” She’s not afraid of a murderer breaking in anymore, since she’s perilously close to unlocking her long sought after ability to shoot fire from her eyes.  

“So that if Hiccup keeps freaking you out, you will maybe consider telling me first before reporting him.  I’ll be the one to shut down his tax-evading weirdo tour, if I have to—”

“And he’s evading taxes, great, that really makes me feel like I should help him.”  

“I’m just asking you to consider it,” he takes a business card out of his chest pocket and crosses out the ‘Officer’, scribbling Snotlout in its place and writing another number on the back of it. “That’s my personal cell, if he doesn’t knock this shit off, let me know.”  

Astrid takes the card and stares at it silently, jaw working.  

“Just theoretically, could I use that personal number for things other than your cousin being creepy?”  Ruffnut asks and Astrid’s heart sinks.  

She gets what it’s like to love someone who can’t be trusted to act normal without reminding and suddenly the loneliness she’s felt since moving back, surrounded by drama and files and flailing, makes her want to trust Snotlout.  Or at least not add another person to the long list of people she distrusts.  

“I’ll think about it,” she pockets the card and nods.

“All I’m asking.”  He says goodbye then and leaves and Ruffnut pouts as Astrid gets ready to head to class.  

“You know, I was asking more, you could have let him answer.”  

“You’re a wreck.”  Astrid doesn’t add that it’s why they’re such good friends.  She hates it, but she’s feeling like a wreck too.  

She goes to class and tries not to think about it. Any of it.  She listens to Fishlegs wax poetic about applying the Dewey Decimal System to primary sources and she tries not to think about it.  She reluctantly responds to her landlord’s shamefully late response that he’s handling it with something like ‘it’s fine’, and she tries not to dread eight o’clock.  

It’s eight fifteen and her background music is loud enough that she almost doesn’t hear the knock at the door.  Fearing having to deal with another less than official visit from Officer Jorgenson, she turns the music off to get the door, startled for the second time today, this time by a teenager holding a large pizza box. The smell of cheese and pepperoni reminds her that she hasn’t eaten since breakfast and it’s lucky for her own record that she’s confused enough to stutter instead of just taking it.  

“I didn’t order pizza.”  

“324 Harbor street, apartment 2?”  The kid frowns at his receipt and then holds it out to her. “Oh, there’s a note.”  

The slip of paper has a sentence along the bottom in blocky register print: From someone who is not actually a dead prostitute hair fetishist, hoping to welcome you to the neighborhood in a more normal way.  No one delivers toothbrushes this last minute.

“I guess it’s for me,” she takes the box, tipping the kid for having to deal with this and being thankful that he doesn’t expect a stripper.  She’s just cracking the box open when she hears a voice in the courtyard, loud and nasal enough to reverberate in the closed pane.  She sneaks over, cracking it a careful inch open and bending down to listen.  

“Right there, in the second floor apartment, is where Elizabeth Smith died.  I used to point out the light fixture above the actual place where a fellow tenant found her body in the morning, but someone just moved in and um, they weren’t a fan of that as you can see by this lovely sign they made me.”  

Astrid winces at that.  It had been a momentary impulse to hang a piece of paper that says ‘Fuck Off Peeping Toms’ on the window last night, and she’d almost forgotten about it, especially with the lack of commentary in later tours.  Maybe it’s only legible when the streetlights are still on, and they go out around ten here.  

“But, they should be receiving an apology pizza right about now with an explanation that I am not personally a dead prostitute hair fetishist, I am only very interested in the actions of one Viggo Grimborn who might have been described with at least two of those adjectives.  Now, onto site two…”  

The pizza is delicious.  It helps that Astrid is so hungry and so righteously victorious that she made a crazy person believe her anger was deserved, but she puts the page of coupons on her fridge with a magnet she stole from her last roommate after the whole dishes debacle.  That was petty of her, wasn’t it?  Petty like the sign in the window.  

Then again, when she put the sign in the window, she didn’t have any reason to believe that Hiccup felt any kind of remorse, but she does now.  

Getting her a pizza was a pretty decent thing to do, and Snotlout did say, repeatedly, that he’s a harmless weirdo.  Maybe that’s where she’s stuck.  She’s a criminology major, she knows all about harmful weirdos. She knows how malice lets people break social barriers and commit to dangerous behaviors.  She understands that people go on killing sprees and mutilate their victims, but she doesn’t understand the locations where they did so becoming landmarks.  

It was easy to believe Hiccup was malicious, but now that all signs are pointing to him being odd and awkward and obsessive, she can’t help the bubble of curiosity in her chest.  He’s in her courtyard three times a night, always followed by a gaggle of interested people.  There was that guy in the tour she ended up crashing referencing a beat up book and asking a million questions.  More than that, Hiccup had strong opinions about those questions, shutting them down with markedly flat green eyes that lit up whenever he talked about walls and letters and slums.  

She cracks the window leading up to the second tour. She’s not sure why, maybe it’s to see if he mentions the pizza again or the sign or if he’ll say that he thinks he got one over her.  But it’s the same as the last tour, if a bit quieter, the group around him a little more involved.  

“The apartment is occupied now, but it was approximately under the living room light fixture, which used to be the hallway in front of the door before a series of modernizing renovations in the nineteen eighties, that a fellow tenant found Elizabeth Smith’s body in the early hours of the morning.”  

That’s a relief.  No murderer came through her front door to kill anyone, apparently, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in, shivering at a gust of winter breeze through the blinds.  The sign she made flaps and she almost reaches out to pull it down.  

“Now, we’ll move to site two next, where two weeks after the discovery of Elizabeth Smith, a night guardsman found the body of Caroline Pike murdered in a similar fashion.”  

Astrid peeks outside and sees a couple of girls a few years younger than herself clinging to each other like they’re watching a live action horror movie proceed and giggling, holding onto Hiccup’s every word. There’s a woman taking notes and a few dark, shivering forms made faceless by the angle of the light, leaning into the story.  And Hiccup’s stupid toothpaste stained top hat bobbling slowly towards the gate as he draws them along behind him, the pied piper of murder-obsessed tourists.  

She throws open the window and leans out, tossing the blinds over her head, onto her back, “hey!”  

“Did you get the pizza?”  He whisper-shouts back up at her and she sighs, reaching through the window to pull her sign down.  He tries to catch it when she crumples it into a ball and throws it at him, but it bounces off of his chest and lands in the snow.  

“Who did it?”  

“I did,” he laughs, awkward, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I was the one coming out as not a prostitute hair fetishist, if that wasn’t clear.”  

“No, I mean who was Viggo Grimborn?  Who killed those women?”  She leans her elbows on the windowsill, “I’ve heard this part of the tour about half a dozen times now, spoil the end for me.  Who did it?”  

“Oh, no one knows.”  He shrugs.  

“I get that it’s unsolved,” she shivers, rubbing her bare arms and trying not to feel the tour group’s eyes taking her in as part of the spectacle she didn’t sign up for.  “But there has to be an answer.”  

“There really isn’t, the crimes were committed before fingerprinting, witnesses were unreliable, police were understaffed.” He remembers to direct the last phrase at the group and he must know that his cousin came to talk to her.  “Not that much has changed.”  

“Yeah, nothing much has changed and we still solve things.”  She doesn’t know why she’s pushing.  Maybe it’s because she understands being crazy for a reason, for a conclusion, for something solid, and she has to believe that applies here.  “So no one even has a theory?”  

“Everyone has a theory,” he laughs, the same tired, dismissive laugh he gave the guy with the book full of wrong answers, “that doesn’t mean anyone has an answer.”  

She grits her teeth.  It shouldn’t be this hard to get a clear answer out of someone and when it is, she should give up, but she’s never been good at that and she keeps pushing.

“Ok, do you have a theory?  You’re out here shining laser pointers into people’s apartments and droning on and on about the guy every night.  You must have a theory.”  

“I don’t,” he laughs, “I like the mystery.”  He waves at her like that was an actual answer and she’s furious as well as cold when she shuts her window and looks around her sparse apartment.  

Harmless is just a synonym for useless, apparently.  

She catches herself looking up Viggo Grimborn at work three times the next day before Fishlegs is the one to notice, glancing at her screen over her shoulder and tutting.  She closes the window faster than if she’d been caught ordering deviously sourced hair and spins to face him, arms crossed.  

“What?”  

“I thought you said you weren’t one of those…Grimborn-ologists,” he shakes his head and she sighs, teeth gritting together.  

“I’m not.”  

“You’re researching Viggo Grimborn at work.”  

“Yes,” she swallows hard.  She doesn’t like mixing work and personal drama.  More than that she doesn’t like having drama, but the more she thinks about it, there’s only one way to fix this and the chances of keeping it quiet under Fishlegs’s eagle eyes are impossibly small.  “Apparently my apartment was really cheap because it’s where the first Grimborn murder took place.”  

“Oh,” he frowns, “how’d you learn that?”  

“Well, to be honest, there’s a tour that comes by three times a night to point out my living room light fixture.”  She doesn’t expect to laugh, and more than that she doesn’t expect Fishlegs to follow, a wheezy little chuckle falling out of his mouth. He’s out of practice and it makes her a little more comfortable being so righteously irritated about the entire situation.  

“I can see how that might spark your curiosity.”  

She bites her lip, thinking for a second before speaking, “so, you get a lot of people coming in here about it, don’t you?”  

“Every other person, at a minimum,” he sits down at his desk across from hers and starts sorting through the box of papers he’d been carrying, “it doesn’t matter that we have the most Civil War maritime shipping manifestos of any library in the world.  All anyone cares about is Viggo Grimborn.”  

“I didn’t know the case wasn’t solved,” she adds carefully, reopening her search and skimming through names that are starting to sound familiar.  Experts and suspects and victims, all carrying equal heft in a conversation that should be about one more than others.  “Is that why it’s such a thing?”  

“While I won’t claim to be a Grimborn expert,” he looks up, a bit sheepish, confident in a way that’s been called arrogant so many times he tried and failed to dial it back in the shy direction, “I’ve spent long enough trying to figure out why it’s so captivating that if there was an answer, I would have found it by now.”  

“I’ve been thinking,” she looks around at the stacks of dense, shapeless information around them.  Newspapers and journals and notebooks.  Files and files of receipts and notes and pieces of paper that people stored away in awkward places or forgot about entirely.  “Maybe it’s the mystery.  Maybe that’s why some guy is leading tours to my apartment complex courtyard every night, and if it wasn’t a mystery anymore…”

“Astrid,” Fishlegs laughs, comfortable with her name when he’s telling her what he feels is an indisputable truth instead of telling her what to do, “hundreds, if not thousands of people have tried to solve the Grimborn murders.  There are dozens of books published, forcing the facts in order—”

“Hear me out,” she feels like Snotlout must have, asking her not to call the cops, “all of those people have wanted to be right more than they’ve wanted this ridiculous thing to end.  You want people to appreciate this collection and I want my apartment to be off of the must-see locations list at the Berk tourism center.”

“Again, if detectives within hours of the crime couldn’t solve the case, what makes you think you can?”  

She smiles, looking admiringly at the collection, “you know, none of those detectives had yourhelp.  There’s a reason I chose the records collection as my work-study.  I knew there was a lot I could learn here.”  

“Are you appealing to my vanity?”  Fishlegs asks like someone who denies having any vanity at all.  Astrid forces her smile brighter.  “We’ll have to be systematic about this, and quiet, I’ve been fending off requests for years to start a Grimborn-ology research group here.  I’ll start with the Gazette, you can take the Berk Enquirer, it’s notable for being on the forefront of alien conspiracy theories, but I can’t deal with those again.”  

The Berk Enquirer is a trove of theories, but Fishlegs finds a conclusive narrative in the Gazette.  The order of murders, the detectives researching them, and the letters sent to the press are all soon settled into a rough narrative that they stick to, testing out suspects and looking for more.  Astrid largely ignores the tours outside her apartment at night, hearing the same few snippets on rotation until it becomes like an alarm, the third tour serving as her reminder to go to bed before the next day.  

After about a week of research, Fishlegs finds a journal written by a prominent free mason at the time of the murders, questioning someone who recently failed to ascend into the order.  She means to keep it a secret, but Hiccup is outside, talking about mystery and she opens her bedroom window this time, leaning out to interrupt him.

“What about the masonic connection?”  She shouts down and he does a double take before signaling that the group pause.  

“Referring to the mutilation of the second and fourth victims?”  He takes his hat off and scratches his head before putting it back on, slightly crooked.

“Yeah.”  

“Doesn’t explain how Richard Miller could have committed the third murder in March eighteen eighty four, since he was in Paris and all.”  

“How’d you know I was talking about Richard Miller?” She never expected him to know the name and can’t help but feel halfway dismissed.  

“Who else had openly decried the masons?”  He smiles and points towards the gate, “now, onto site two.”  

“Hold on, how do you know he was in Paris?”  

“Records from the cargo ship Thebes that frequently made the Berk to Normandy route in the eighteen eighties, he travelled with a family load of wool cargo.”  He leaves before she can ask more about it and she spends the next day grumbling under her breath while asking Fishlegs for every eighteen-eighty dated cargo record out of Berk.  

“You’re getting too hung up on what one of these crazies said,” Fishlegs cautions her around five, “that’s the point, their facts don’t line up and they use it to frustrate you.”  

“Maybe you’re right,” she sighs, deciding to put the shipping manifestos away, “he just wants me to be wrong though, anything for the mystery.”  

“Then we find something conclusive.”  Fishlegs doesn’t dismiss the comment and she resolves to find the right window to thank him.  

The next week, Hiccup shuts down three full days of Drago Bludvist research with the fact that Drago couldn’t have committed the murders because his single arm would have forced him to find a surface to brace against, and the fourth murder was functionally in the middle of an alley. Hiccup deftly cuts across what Astrid thought was a decent supposition that the deputy detective Ryker had something to do with it, because Ryker was filling out an arrest report in the adjoining city of Freezing to Death at the time of the third murder.  

Worst of all, Astrid gets the feeling that he’s enjoying this.  He pauses his tour a moment too long, waiting for her to retort one night when he dismisses the Bludvist theory in the courtyard, even though it doesn’t make sense to bring up around the site of the first event.  She disproved it on her own after mentioning it to him, finding a manifesto stating he was on his way to Bucharest from Berlin on the date of the fourth murder, but Hiccup probably already knows that.  

Three weeks in, she asks him about the plausible connection between Grimborn and the travelling bible salesman Johann, who was selling in Berk at the time of all known Grimborn murders, and he shrugs, citing the same lack of evidence that frustrated her at work.  

“Is it still three times a night?”  Fishlegs asks at work, handing Astrid an aptly dated newspaper.

“As far as I know,” she shrugs, “I’ve been here late enough to miss the first tour a few times a week.  He’s respecting the blinds though.”  

“You could drop it, then.”  He suggests and she can tell he hopes she’ll do it only so he can have an excuse to do the same.  

Astrid is a lot of things.  Stubborn, hard-headed, and independent, sure, but a reason to quit just doesn’t fit.  

“So could you,” she challenges, pulling out a new box of Berk Enquirers.  Between theories about dragons disemboweling people on the streets of downtown Berk, there are actually some decently reported witness accounts.  Even if the witnesses aren’t necessarily sober, they’re earnest.  Lights in the sky could mean someone running across the rooftops.  They could mean…something.  

A fact she’s trying to pull from thin air to keep Hiccup from showing up under her windowsill every night.  

It’s early when she finds it, early because she couldn’t take multiple tours to her apartment on a Friday night.  A note scribbled in pencil on the back of a Berk Enquirer dated eleventh of November eighteen eighty four. She shows it to Fishlegs, who has an analogous report from the Gazette, and it’s not an answer, but maybe it’s enough.  

Enough to confront Hiccup in person, instead of sitting in her apartment, thinking about fixing this or ending it or she doesn’t even know.  She assembles her sources, the pictures of the notes she found and the dates of the papers on which they were written and then she waits.  

[elenatria]

i totally understand people getting angry because chris cancelled but uh you know what annoys me is that like you said evans cancelled too, other actors like ruffalo cancelled in cons before too and people get pissed yeah but you don't see this getting to the point of calling them selfish with big egos and conspiracy theories. And I think that's because who does that are always that part of the fanbase that is mostly Hiddleston fans and love to shit on chris (and thor) for everything he does +

cont. just to at the same time praise tom. I had to unfollow many blogs already because of this. They love hiddlesworth but they’re always saying how chris is not humble or good actor or polite like tom.I don’t understand how they can love a pair but hate one of them.

Let me tell you this one thing, if I had bought those Ace Comic Con tickets like  I wanted to, months in advance, daydreaming about it for ages, then YES, I’d be super super pissed at Chris. Maybe I’d take it personally even. Money isn’t easy to come by. Tom is perfect, and I’m sure I’d have lots of fun going there even without Chris (I mean Seb and Anthony?? C’MOOOON) and meeting other fans,  but for the first few days after the cancellation I’d be super pissed that he stood us up. People bought VIP tickets for him and Tom, know what I’m saying? VIP tickets. I’d be like, there goes my planning, there go my vacations. Hell, even now, from the comfort of my laptop, I feel like my vacations were kinda ruined lol, I was waiting for that Hiddlesworth reunion sooooo bad and I know of people who were counting on it for inspiration (YES, it’s a big deal, it’s what drives us all). 

But if people get generally pissed at Chris, from their keyboards, without  having bought those tickets then sorry, that’s entitlement right there. 

And another thing, sure I’d vent on the social media about it. But I would not go to Chris’ IG or twitter or whatever to nag him. People have been tagging him with complaints on twitter, dude. When I nag to someone it’s only when I want to make things right, what’s the use of doing that if there’s no solution to my problem? OH RIGHT, I can always guilt trip a celebrity and feel better about myself because all that bad energy MUST go back to the person who caused it, instead of withering away. Sure it will solve my problem, it will make Chris change his mind, change his plans and go to that con. Absolutely.

Someone in my previous anon asks  mentioned that Evans’ fans knew from the start he might not make it because he had the play. So they knew that and they were expecting him not to come and they forgave him.

Still, he cancelled the Ace Comic Con. He agreed to it then cancelled it. So I can imagine people buying tickets just for him, in hopes of seeing him even IF they knew he was busy. If Evans KNEW he was busy with the theatre, how come he agreed to go to Ace Comic Con? Oh wait, is he still playing? Do we even know that?

So what it comes down to is that either 1) Chris is a big fat liar or 2) he hates cons and likes toying with his fans or 3) his crew doesn’t know how to schedule his work and apperances.

So you’re telling me that people DID get pissed with Evans and Ruffalo cancelling…! Ok I didn’t know that. 

Lol, if I talk about that part of Tom/Loki fans who hate on Chris I’ll be making an “us and them” statement again, won’t I? :-P Oh hell, let’s make that statement again.

If we exclude those rightfully outraged people who kinda lost their money on Chris, also those who got angry without attacking him, then yes, there’s a big part of Chris/Thor haters who will hate on Chris no matter what he does. Yes I do believe he should have been more careful with his scehduling, two cancellations in a row don’t make him look good. 

Still, I’m not convinced that some part of the fanbase is not here to shit on Chris just to praise Tom. I’m simply not convinced. Maybe it’s the same part of the fanbase who dragged Tom for Hiddleswift. They didn’t like Taylor (yeah I didn’t like her either) so they dragged Tom for it.

“I had to unfollow many blogs already because of this. They love hiddlesworth but they’re always saying how chris is not humble or good actor or polite like tom.I don’t understand how they can love a pair but hate one of them” - Lol I think I know some blogs like that, I unfollowed a couple of them too. 

And I understand your frustration, “they love Hiddlesworth but I don’t understand how they can love a pair but hate one of them”. 

People are very VERY complicated, aren’t they? :-P

I have an interpretation for that, not that I know what they’re thinking, but here’s my two cents. They love Tom more. They like how Tom indulges them. They don’t like change or chaos, and between Tom and Chris, Chris is the agent of chaos, not Tom. He’s the one who’s unpredictable, maybe he has a crappy crew who doesn’t  know how to schedule his work, he does dangerous sports like surfing (Tom doesn’t) so he’s bound to get injured, also yes, having a family IS chaos. Once he was having a trip on the Himalayas with Elsa and although his body wasn’t adjusting to the temperature change he insisted they kept going. Elsa noticed how he wasn’t breathing properly when he was sleeping and she slapped him out of it, practically forcing him to abandon the trip and… not die.

You see, Chris is chaos itself, Tom isn’t, and people don’t like chaos. People like predictability and comfort zones.

And you expect entitled fans to like Chris?… You must always remember that there are fans who think they own celebrities, and they think they own Tom. This is why they dragged him for Taylor, he wasn’t doing what they wanted him to. He was chaos for one moment in his life.

So what I’m saying is, Tom is easier to own because he does everything people expect him to (and kudos to him because he’s a great professional).

But you simply cannot own Chris. Chris has a different way of life, a different agenda, and people simply cannot live with that. Because comfort.

As for “hating one part of the Hiddlesworth pairing”, let’s just say that some people like to use Chris as Tom’s dildo. They like the chemistry (Tom doesn’t have that chemistry with anyone else), Chris is cute and close to Tom (Tom never stops reminding us how much he loves him) and they want to wax poetic about Tom, so they use Chris as their proxy. Same goes for some Thorki fans who hate on Thor (YES IT HAPPENS). They pick favourites and that’s fine, at the same time yes, how can they possibly hate one half of the pairing? Well, it’s because they like comparisons, and some people feel they’re only just as good as their idol (Tom), and if their idol is not “better than anyone else”, then he’s no good, know what I’m saying? Insecurities.

Chris doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone (unlike Tom who cares a lot about what people think), so how can they possibly relate to that?

[xadoheandterra]

hail-to-the-damned

FINALLY!!! I'm back and omg I'm so happy about this chapter!!!! I love that you Gabe Sombra a name and holy crap this one was good! But I have to know who is Luciano? Will he be important to the future if the story?? Also am I right to assume that her computers broken because of that weird glowing eye thing from like short? Also do you have any head canons about Sombra and her having magic??!! Ok I'll stop now but! I'm Back!!!!

Yay! I hope you had a good vacation? Anyway about Sombra. I’ve got about thirty minutes to wax poetic about Sombra and magic, but I’ll keep this less...crazy that I’m tempted to do.

Sombra does have magic, but because of how destabilizing the Omnic Crisis really was she was one of several hundred that never got the chance to go to a “formal” school. Sombra learned what magic she knew from her community, and most of the magic taught was there as a way to help the community as a whole. A lot of what Sombra knows has to do with the culture of the area, which I need to research into a bit more to make sure I don’t fuck it up. Any suggestions?

As for the glowing eye, yeah that’s the logo Sombra is mentioning here. She’s not fully embraced being ‘Sombra’ yet; the tag is only something she really uses online. Los Muertos know her as ‘Isabel’ as do most of the people in Dorado who happen to have interacted with her a lot.

Oh, and Sombra can morph her own appearance. She does have some metamorph ancestry although for her it manifests as more color changing and length changing of her hair. If she really concentrated she could probably change her appearance, but she’d rather not. Some of the magic Sombra uses is to lock the colors she’s chosen for the day so they don’t accidentally shift with her mood.

She’s also good at mixing magic and technology. Or well she will be. Not so much right now because she hasn’t parsed that option just yet.

As for Luciano? You’ll have to wait and see if he’s anything important as an OC. For now know that Sombra considers Luciano her brother mostly as Luciano is also an orphan from the Omnic Crisis. All of the orphans--especially those that had direct contact with Omnics and in turn with Overwatch--tend to consider each other family. The younger ones were taken care of by ‘abuelita’ that Sombra thinks about. Obviously she’s not an actual relation, but she did take care of the children.

About 90% of them joined Los Muertos too, if that helps. Out of those kids Luciano is the one Sombra is most attached to.

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Wanted Fandoms: Overwatch | Harry Potter Characters: Lily Potter, James Potter, Gabriel Reyes, Lena “Tracer” Oxten Tags: Cheating trope, discussion of cheating, drugs, established r76, pre-fall, discussion of sex with a drunken partner, smoking Summary:  Gabriel didn’t know. He kind of blew up before he had the chance to find out, but that wasn’t an excuse. Gabriel couldn’t count it as an excuse because he could’ve tried to at least check in. Now, a mercenary, a killer, an assassin, and suddenly he finds himself…well, dealing with this shit. Talon is definitely not the best place to raise a kid. An undead smoke monster filled with rage is definitely not fit to be a dad, but here he is, dealing with this shit. Fuck

Lily glanced to the clock and then back to James. She looked away again at the utter devastation across his face. James kept his own head bowed and stared at the floor in silence; refused to even look at Lily. Since Lily ever said those very first words—I slept with someone last night—James remained quiet. Lily took the time to change clothes and he didn’t even move. Now she stood before him and she couldn’t handle the devastation. Guilt ate at her.

“James?” Lily whispered. She didn’t dare speak any louder. “Please say something.”

James rocked forward and sucked in a ragged breath. Slowly he let it out with a faint tremble.

“James?”

“I thought….I thought we were ok, Lily,” James breathed tiredly. He closed his eyes.

Lily took a step forward, then stopped. “We are!” she started. “I—” she fumbled for her own words.

James looked up, tears gathered into his eyes and Lily completely froze. “You were what, then?” James asked. “Drunk? Didn’t know what you were going?”

“I—” Lily stuttered, then sighed. “No…no I. I know what I was doing. I wasn’t drunk,” she admitted, and grasped at her arm. Now she refused to look at James, to see the cold judgement in his eyes.

“That doesn’t make this better, Lils!” James shouted.

Lily flinched. “I know!” She jerked her head back up to look at him, and took a step back at the sharpness to his eyes.

“Were you raped? Did he force you?” James pressed. He leaned over his knees and clenched his hands into fists.

“No, no, James,” Lily shook her head, voice going weak. “It was consensual I…” She fought back her own tears.

“So then—then what? This guy hits you up and you decide to follow him to his room?”

“It…it wasn’t like that!”

James gestured furiously, bursting to his feet. He yelled, “Then what, Lily?! What was it like?! Tell me exactly why you did this—why you slept with some—some stranger!”

Lily crumbled in on herself. She dropped to the floor—the guilt crashed into her and she found herself talking. She spilled everything in a blubbered mess. Tears pooled from her eyes as she talked and she hiccoughed in-between words.

“He—he couldn’t wa-walk straight and I—I was worried a—bout him. Y-You know how mu-muggles respond to fire—whisky. I only meant to—to—” She wanted to make sure he would be okay; Gabriel dank enough for even a wizard to be at risk for alcohol poisoning if not liver damage. She wanted to be certain he’d sober up fine, that he didn’t need a hospital after so much of the potent wizarding drink. Lily couldn’t be sure where here intentions changed, but she guessed somewhere between Gabriel waxing poetic about her hair and begging not to be left alone.

By the end of the tale James settled himself in front of Lily. He grasped at her shoulders, a force of calm stillness that, years ago, James wouldn’t have been capable of. James looked her over, tried to search her face even as she refused to look back at him.

“He was drunk?” James asked.

“Yes.”

“You were sober?”

Lily hiccoughed and nodded her head with a suppressed sob.

“Merlin, Lily,” James breathed, and then gathered his wife into his arms. She grasped at his shirt and buried her face into his collar. “I know we’ve been having problems, Lils,” James continued, he ran his fingers down her back. “I know the boys have been pressuring you—I’ve talked to Sirius about it. A lot, Lily. I’m trying. I’m trying.”

“I know.” Lily’s words were muffled against his throat.

“We could run away?” James offered, and smiled when it earned him a laugh out of Lily.

“You’d go stir crazy,” she told him.

“Mmm, doesn’t mean we couldn’t. I’m thinking somewhere tropical,” James mused.

“James…”

“Mimosas, a beach to ourselves, some good films…a nice, long, break,” James breathed out.

“Sounds nice,” Lily whispered and tightened her grip on his shirt.

“Yeah?” James leaned back and Lily looked up at him with a watery smile.

“A good dream,” Lily said.

“A good dream,” James agreed. He sighed. “Come on, Lils. Let’s go see your muggle.” He got to his feet and held his hand out to help her up.

“James…” Lily frowned as she accepted his hand.

“I’ll be civil,” James shrugged, then added, “ish.”

Lily sighed. “Fine.”

James pulled Lily up and helped brush off her clothes. He stroked her cheek and whispered a spell to help clean Lily’s face up from the splotchy tears. Then James brushed himself off.

“You said you thought he might’ve been from some American thing?” James asked as he adjusted his top.

“Yes,” Lily mumbled, sighed, and reached out to help him. “The…experiments that the purebloods use to push their agenda.”

James arched an eyebrow. “The Witch-Hunters?”

Lily sighed exasperatedly. They had this conversation plenty of times over the years. “I’ve told you they weren’t witch hunters, James.”

“Seems accurate enough to me,” James grumbled, but he smiled good naturedly at Lily’s frustrated scoff. Despite everything he still did love this woman. “Kidding, Lily. I’m kidding.” Lily stepped back and James looped arms with her. “Shall we then?”

“Yes, dear,” she sighed.

They disapparated with a loud crack. When the word settled back into focus James found himself in the middle of muggle London, some sort of side alley. Lily tugged him along and led him out into the street. Lily led him down the block until they reached a rather ritzy hotel. It took a second James to register this obviously was the location that were meant to meet the man in question.

Aside from the crowd that moved around them only one person stood out to James, and that Lily recognized. Gabriel leaned at the side of the building, hand stuffed into the pockets of his hoody. The hood itself pulled up and down over his head. He slouched into his lean, and only straightened up when he caught sight of Lily and James. James assessed Gabriel while the man looked them both over.

“You must be James,” Gabriel uttered, he didn’t bother to hold out his hand. James looked him over a second longer, broke away from Lily, and tossed a punch right into Gabriel’s jaw. Gabriel didn’t even move from the swing, merely blinked in surprise. Lily gasped.

“Fuck,” James hissed, his other hand immediately wrapping over his throbbing fist. “What the fuck are you made of?”

“Steel,” Gabriel retorted dryly. “Feel better now?”

“No,” James hissed between his teeth.

“Let me see your hand,” Gabriel reached out and grabbed James before he could protest. His touch was gentle, if a bit firm to stop James from pulling free. He assessed for any damage and then, with his free hand, rummaged into the pockets of his cargo pants. “Hm, lucky. You didn’t break it.”

“That was an option?” James gaped.

“Not gonna lie,” Gabriel shrugged, pulled out some bandages and a strip of coolant gel. “Most idiots who punch me do break their fist.” He wrapped James’ hand up, applied the coolant, and then added another layer. “There. That should help with the swelling.”

“Thanks,” James mumbled, surprised.

Gabriel just let go of his hand and stuffed his own back into his hoodie. “I would’ve done much worse in your position.” He gave James a grin full of teeth that left James a little more than unnerved. Gabriel leaned a bit past James to appraise Lily. “You okay there?”

“Yes,” Lily squeaked.

“Good,” Gabriel nodded. “Angela will probably double check your hand just to make sure nothing else happened,” Gabriel continued, “for now that should do, though. Come on. Our ride’s down the road.”

Without anything further Gabriel turned and walked down the road. James and Lily followed after him mostly in silence for the first minute, and then James started asking questions.

“Why is our ‘ride’ not at the hotel?”

Gabriel leaned his head back to look at the two lovebirds with a raised eyebrow. “I’m trying to avoid an even larger international incident, kid.” James bristled. “Don’t twist yourself into knots about it.” Gabriel waved a hand, and then tugged out a pack of smokes and a lighter. “You mind?” he shook them.

“No,” Lily said for both of them, and Gabriel quickly yanked out a stick and lit it up. Some of the tension James and Lily saw in his shoulders eased. The rest of the walk passed by in silence until they reached a small parking garage. Gabriel led them in, and then began to systematically hunt for the car that would inevitably be from Overwatch.

Gabriel found the car in question quickly and rapped on the driver’s side glass. When it rolled down and he leaned in on the window James and Lily couldn’t see much, except that he seemed to cock his head in surprise, snort, and then spit out the cigarette with a sigh.

“Oxten,” Gabriel grunted, and then opened the back passenger doors for James and Lily. He motioned them in and then slipped into the front passenger seat himself. Gabriel grimaced at the squeeze.

“Hullo, luv’s!” Lena chirruped from the drivers seat. “Fasten your seatbelts and we’ll be off in a jiff.”

“I can’t believe Jack sent you,” Gabriel grunted and tugged the seatbelt into place. “Especially after that fuckin’ mess at Kings Row.”

“It’s good to see ya too, Gabe!” Lena laughed, pulled the car out, and began the drive to the nearest airstrip.

“Coulda sent any other fuckin’ native,” Gabriel grunted.

“Oh pish posh,” Lena rolled her eyes. “You’re pleased to see me, admit it!”

“As pie,” Gabriel snorted and leaned his head back. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when we get there.”

“Sure thing love, just a tick though,” Lena continued. She rummaged in the console and then pulled out a syringe which she held over to Gabriel. “From Angie.”

“Christ that woman,” Gabriel sighed. He pulled off the protective tip with his teeth and fumbled with the sleeve of his hoodie. He yanked it up to his elbow and felt around for his own vein for a minute. Once he had a decent idea of where a good vein was Gabriel carefully slipped the needle under his skin. “Pleased?” he grunted.

“Like an Isle of Skye!”

“Good,” Gabriel grumbled and tugged his hoodie down over his eyes.

It didn’t take long before Gabriel let off light snores from his seat. Lily and James exchanged looks. James reached out and grabbed Lily’s hand for comfort, but neither wanted to ask what the syringe was for. They decided to just take the rest of the trip in silence, and seek out comfort in one another instead. Lena took one look at the couple and decided it’d be better to keep her silence for the time being. From his seat Gabriel hid a smile behind the light snores; at least the girl had sense.