#pre slash

[stervrucht]

“We need to defrost the freezer,” Steve tells Eddie when he walks out carrying a tub of ice cream.

Eddie sighs, head resting on his hands while he overlooks the empty shop. “I wish someone would defrost my will to live.”

Steve finds it funny. In a guilty snort sort of way, because Eddie’s jokes are kinda dark and he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh. But yeah, working at Scoops is a drag at times, and Steve understands it at some level.

It escalates from there. 

Steve will tell Eddie they’re out of hazelnut ice cream, and Eddie will get a look on his face that doesn’t promise anything good.

“I’ll hazel your nuts.” Eddie cocks his head, staring at him in that ridiculous sailor uniform with mischief painted on his face.

“What the hell does that even mean?” 

Steve tries to pretend he’s weirded out, but when Eddie laughs at him like that, Steve can’t help but crack up as well. 

But that’s the normal stuff — because sometimes Eddie’s comments are hard to play off, and Steve doesn’t really know whether he’s joking at all.

“Morrison really fucked us over with the new schedule.” Steve frowns at the paper on the wall because they got like four evening shifts that week, including Friday and Saturday, and it’s messing with his dating life — even though that’s barely hanging on by a thread right now.

“I wish you’d fuck me over,” Eddie says as he cleans the glass display window with lazy motions.

It makes Steve stop in his tracks; makes his mouth run dry and his heart rate pick up. But Eddie just stares at him, same smile as always, waiting for Steve to shoot something back.

“Maybe I should.” The words are out before he knows it and Steve feels a little mortified by how much he meant it. When he looks over at Eddie, his lips are slightly parted, cheeks a little red, and the hand cleaning the window has stopped in its tracks.

Steve thinks that maybe Eddie meant his words as well.

[guys-im-literally-spiderman]

a fic inspired by this, because i could not stop thinking about it.

“What’s your name?” The girl who’s name Eddie absolutely did not catch, yelled, while holding her microphone out to him. 

“I’m, Eddie.” He yelled back at her, not quite sure if their yelling was necessary in their quiet corner of the room, but totally loving the chaos anyway. 

“Are you single Eddie?”

“I am indeed.” 

“Would you like to change that?” 

That question was not hard to answer at all. 

“Absolutely.”

“Great, because otherwise this would have been a very short video.” Eddie laughed much harder than he expected to–and oh shit he is much tipsier than he thought. 

“So what’s your type then?” 

“You’re gonna hate me,” Eddie sighed, knowing that what he was about to say was painfully contradictory, but hey, you can't blame a guy for having his taste in men be permanently altered by a guy he had a crush on when he was 20. “So I like jocks… but like pretty boy jocks.” 

“Pretty boy jocks?”

“Yup.”

A smile grew on her face

“Oh easy, give me like 5 minutes.”

And she really wasn’t kidding when she said that. 

Eddie had barely had enough time to get himself another drink when he heard his name being called behind him. He whipped his head around to see– 

Holy shit

“Harrington?!” 

Steve Harrington stared at him with a look on his face that Eddie assumed was equally as shocked as his. But then he’s the first to move, pulling Eddie into an enthusiastic hug. 

“Eddie! Oh my god, it's been so long!” 

When Eddie is finally released from the hug enough to breathe he responds, “what are you doing here?” 

“A gay bar or Chicago?” Steve laughs. 

And, oh yeah, Eddie’s stupid fucking crush. If the butterflies are anything to go by, that’s still around. 

Before Eddie can respond the girl cuts in, “I’m sorry, what’s going on here?”

“We- uh-”

“We’re from the same town.” Steve fills in when Eddie cannot find the words to explain their fucked up found family situation. 

The girl laughs, “what are the chances, jesus!”

“But hey,” Steve smiles in a way that Eddie is sure cannont mean anything good for him, “At least you got his type pretty dead on.”

“Oh my god, I forgot I told you that.” Eddie groans and full body cringes. And Steve just laughs. A frustratingly lovely laugh. 

“I’m not surprised you were very high.” 

Jesus fucking christ.

[hairmetal666]

Eddie stands at the edge of the ruined, stinking field, heart somewhere down by the soles of his feet. He watches the grey vines creep across the rotten earth, bracketing the blackened and split pumpkins.

"This can't be happening again," Steve says next to him. There's nothing in his voice, in his expression.

And Eddie doesn't know what to say because it is happening, the Upside Down is creeping into Hawkins, Vecna defeated or not.

"We have to tell the others," is Eddie's response. He doesn't know how he sounds normal when his heart is breaking, when Steve's blankness is killing him.

They walk back to Eddie's van in heavy silence. He can't read what Steve is thinking and that's--they're not something, not yet, but they spend all their time together and it's right there, under the surface, and--

He always knows what Steve is thinking, now. Can read his face like Tolkien wrote it, no matter what's happening, but right now it's empty, unreadable, unfathomable, untouchable King Steve risen from the grave.

The drive back to Hop's cabin is silent. Eddie doesn't even turn on music, his brain can't take it.

Cars fill the cabin's driveway, everyone in attendance, everyone waiting. On the porch, they hear the TV, the tinny whirr of lightsabers. It all stops when they push open the door, movie paused, conversations broken off, every face turned in their direction.

Neither of them speaks. Looking at all these faces, the kids, Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, Hop and Joyce, the hope and trust, and he can't--he can't.

"Well?" Joyce prompts. She's working a kitchen towel between her fingers.

He nods as Steve says, "it's back."

Eddie expects an outcry, horror, an explosion, but it's quiet. Quiet enough he can hear Steve's soft breaths next to him. Quiet enough he gets to watch as the news hits on each face in the room. It's like a punch every time.

It's so much different from planning the fight against Vecna. There was so much energy, drive, to get it done, to defeat the Upside Down forever. There wasn't silence, not ever, no faces painted with grief. Even when things were at their worst, an undercurrent of hope buoyed the group.

"Are you sure?" It's Nancy who breaks the silence, of course it is.

"It's the tunnels all over again," Steve answers.

"El?" Hopper asks. "Have you--?"

Will and El are looking at each other, Eddie's sure that no one else in the room exists for them.

"We haven't felt anything." El finally says.

"Nothing?" Mike's eyes flick between them.

"Not since Vecna," Will says.

"It's--it feels--" El waves at the back of her neck.

"Blank." Will finishes.

"Blank isn't gone," Erica says.

Dustin hums, eyes distant. "So, it went dormant."

That gets all the kids going, arguing and shouting over each other, and it isn't long before everyone is involved.

Eddie throws himself into it, grateful to be back in a familiar place of planning, discovering what they're up against, fighting. They're at their best like this, all of them, and it takes the edge off the fear eating up his insides.

He doesn't really get a chance to talk to Steve one-on-one, but Eddie's aware of him always, catches the moments in between bickering with Mike and shouting with Dustin and whispering with Robin where he goes distant, empty, just like at the field, just like in the car.

Eventually, everyone trickles home for the night, Hop's cabin emptying until it's just the Byers, Hoppers, and Steve. And since Eddie goes wherever Steve is--

Steve stands at the window in their room, back to Eddie. His shoulders are rigid, and Eddie is--he's scared in a whole new way. Steve is--he's strong, he keeps them together, he. They look to him to be brave, to be the first to jump, and--

"Steve?" Eddie comes up next to him.

His eyes are squeezed shut, fists clenched.

"Sweetheart?"

Steve opens his eyes, tears track down his cheeks. "I don't think I can do this again," he sobs. "I don't think--" He presses his fists to his eyes, like he's trying to force the moisture back inside.

Eddie grabs his wrists, gentle, murmurs, "it's okay, it'll be okay, I've got you."

"How can it be okay?" Steve asks. His face is wrecked and Eddie's heart shatters. "This was supposed to be over, Eddie. We were supposed to be done with fighting, we beat Vecna. So, tell me how it's going to be okay."

He freezes, unsure how to respond. In the end, "you're right," he says. "it's not okay. And I don't want to pretend that it is. It fucking sucks. We did the work already. We shouldn't be right back here like it never happened."

"But we are," Steve sniffles.

"But we are. And you know what?"

"What?"

"We're going to get through this. Just like we did the last time."

"We almost lost you last time, Ed. We almost lost Max. What if--what if--" Steve's eyes fill again. "I can't do this without you," he sobs.

Eddie doesn't hesitate, pulls Steve into his arms, holds him as tight and close as physically possible. "You won't." Eddie soothes. "You won't. I'll be right here with you. I promise."

"How can you know?"

Again, there's only one answer for that. "I don't. But I know I'll never leave your side willingly. None of us would. And I know that we're going to fight--all of us--like we always do."

"How can you have so much hope?" He asks. "After everything?"

"It's hard," he answers. "I'm terrified. But I know I have you, and Robin, and Dustin, and Wayne, and--everyone. We fight for each other, you know?"

"We keep going because we have to," Steve says.

"Yeah, sweetheart. We protect each other and this godforsaken town, no matter how much it sucks."

Steve's laugh is husky and short. "It sucks so much."

"Real trash heap of a place."

"And that's without the alternate dimension and monsters."

"I think we've got a really strong ad campaign for the Hawkins tourism board." The giggle that escapes from Steve is the sweetest thing Eddie's ever heard.

Later, the lights off, Steve pulls him close. "I'm so glad I have you," he whispers, fingers trailing through Eddie's curls. "You give me something to hope for."

[fuji09]

Sometimes I wonder if Stiles ever had a moment where he looked at Derek and saw the pain of specifically losing his mother and Stiles just felt it too and was a little nicer to Derek that day, maybe didn't argue with him or just did as he was told and Derek would be so confused why Stiles isn't being a little shit for once and it just randomly happens.

[cameron-s-gaskins]

It's 1980. The night before a big rain storm. The night before Sam's car skids into the canal. ...Except Sam opens a fob watch. A fan comic.

So, this is just a fun little project I decided to do in my spare time :) It's not Ashes to Ashes complaisant, I'll admit that way way way back when Ashes first started airing, I was pretty salty about the explanation that Sam died in a car accident. I know how that show ended, and what they decided to go with, but I'm still just ignoring it all together. I guess this could be a 'fix it,' I'm not sure. Just suspend your disbelief.

[diwtara]

Theres not a big gap between when Zoro heads to bed for the night and when Sanji gets up to start work on the crews breakfast.

So one night on his way to bed Zoro gave the cook a shove to help him wake up.

Just being helpful, he would say if questioned.

And he was helpful on most nights after that.

Maybe sometimes he shoved the cook right off the hamock on his way to his own

Huh, must have forgotten how light and delicate he is, Zoro would grin, watching the blondes blood pressure raise

Sanji cant even shout at him the way he wants to - at least not after the first time, when his yelling woke up the ladies on the ship. (He of course apologized profusely to them, then spent the full day antagonizing Zoro to the best of his considerable abilities)

Now on the days when Sanji wakes up with the floor rising to meet him, all he can do is quietly and furiously make vague gestures promising Zoro bodily harm once the sun is up.

It always leaves Zoro going to sleep with a grin on his face as Sanji stomps out of the boys bunk muttering curses under his breath.

And then maybe one night Zoro is exhausted - cant even summon the energy to make it the three extra steps to his own hammock - so instead he flops down directly onto the cook.

(They argue and wrestle for a few minutes, exhaustion forgotten for the time it takes for Sanji to kick Zoro in the head, give up the fight and extract himself from the bed.

He calls Zoro several choice names before heading out to start the day while Zoro goes to sleep satisfied he got the chance to bug the blonde one last time before going to sleep.)

And maybe he keeps doing it.

Not every night, but sometimes he finds he would rather lay down in an already warm bed, particularly if they are traveling through colder sections of the grandline.

Sometimes he still manages to flip the other man out of the hammock just by jumping into it himself. Knows the blonde will make the day interesting in retaliation. Looks forward to it.

And then maybe at one point, he lays down gently, softly tells the cook its time to get up, and maybe Sanji takes his time opening his eyes, stretching out his legs, enjoying the transition to wakefulness.

Maybe it becomes a thing they do sometimes. Silently enjoying each others company as Sanji wakes up and Zoro drifts to sleep. Enjoying the closeness in a bed not built for two.

Maybe the others have woken up and caught sight of the pair curled up together in the early morning. But they would simply roll over and go back to sleep, leaving the two to their morning ritual.

And if Zoro still shoves Sanji off the hammock sometimes, well, the others are used to waking up to that too

[treasureguardingdragon]

my art for @aroaceteagirl ‘s incredible fic!! this is my second @bbcmerlin-reversebang entry, and was so much fun to do!!

Summary:

When Arthur gets sent away by Uther to secure a treaty between Camelot and Tir-Mor, what should have been a normal diplomatic trip turns into more than Arthur could have expected.

Along the way, he learns valuable lessons about trust, friendship and the weight of duty.

LINK

here is some propaganda from me to make you read it:THE STORY THAT WAS CREATED HAS IT ALL- friendship, evil plots by evil people, the power of gossiping, friendship x2, arthur trying to be the best prince he can despite the entire world seemingly being against him, arthurs internal monologue consisting of endless compliments for merlin, friendship so magical that you’re absolutely certain they’re in a qpr and can knock down cities with the power of it, magic reveals, scheming (both evil and good. it’s possible), FRIENDSHIPPPP, the perspective of a merchant having their wares mocked by two idiots

CHECK OUT THEIR STORY HERE I PROMISE ITS AMAZING

[miss-writes-a-lot]

First Night, First Light: 'Together' For The First Time

(And here's another one, but with the gradient title I was trying to do but could not and I still can't figure out what wrong but I did it!)

Synopsis: Still, it was quite obvious that Nathaniel didn’t want Marc to know anything about his home life. He had even taken to pretending not to hear people when they questioned him about something as small as what his parents did for work. Someone – Kim, maybe – eventually discovered that his mother was well-known in the architecture world, but that was about it, and even then, Nathaniel refused to comment on it, simply giving a passive shrug.

Nathaniel made it clear that that door was meant to remain closed, and Marc, despite his intensifying curiosity, did not dare to open it.

And in fact, he didn’t have to.

Because Nathaniel opened it for him.

(Or, Marc stays over at Nathaniel's place for the first time, and boy, do things get awkward fast.)

Pairing(s): Pre slash/ Pre relationship Marc Anciel/Nathaniel Kurtzberg

Content Warning(s):

-> Implied Homophobia

-> Toxic Family Dynamics

-> Injury

-> Yelling/arguments

Marc could remember all the times he’d visited Nathaniel at his place, mostly because he could easily count each time he’d been willingly invited over to the Kurtzberg residence on one hand.

Nathaniel rarely, if ever, discussed or shared any information about his parents or home life outside of the brief tidbits he provided during some of Ms. Bustier’s community-building activities. 

Marc never minded this–not in the slightest. They had only just started working together on their fan-made Ladybug comics and had barely started to cross the line into friendship, which, for Marc, was an especially daunting task after his little “Reverser” incident.

But, as the months went on and their texts back and forth became less about the plot points and comic proofs for the next installment of the Ladybug comic, and were more casual conversation and questions like what other things they liked doing besides drawing and writing, and what each other’s favorite rom-com movie was (they’re both pretty into 10 Things I Hate About You) or what their favorite boba orders were (Nath’s more of a fruit tea person. Going for strawberry hibiscus most of the time from his favorite and only kosher boba cafe), Nathaniel never spoke about his parents. Not in depth, not brief mentions in passing conversation, and he never once invited Marc over, not even for a couple of hours.

When they did start hanging out outside of the art room and outside of school in general, they went to one of their five usual haunts: the Seine, Maya’s dad’s cafe, Wang’s art shop, Marinette’s place, and Marc’s place. 

Marc didn’t mind this either – he never cared about where they went, he was just glad they were together and being themselves. Plus, Marc’s parents loved Nathaniel! Adored him, even. They would have him over every day if it meant seeing their work and talking his ear off any chance they got.

Still, it was quite obvious that Nathaniel didn’t want Marc to know anything about his home life. He had even taken to pretending not to hear people when they questioned him about something as small as what his parents did for work. Someone – Kim, maybe – ended up finding out his mother was big in the architecture world, but that was about it, and even then, Nathaniel refused to comment on it and simply gave a passive shrug.

Nathaniel made it clear that that door was meant to remain closed, and Marc, despite his intensifying curiosity, did not dare to open it. 

And in fact, he didn’t have to.

Because Nathaniel opened it for him.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Marc got the call during lunch period one Thursday in the spring.

His grandfather, out in the countryside, had fallen pretty high from a ladder while trying to tend to a leak in the roof, and since they lived much farther from Paris and any big hospitals, Marc’s parents had to meet him and his grandmother halfway at whatever was closer.

They had tried to call Marc earlier in the day, during class. His phone had been on silent the whole time, and when he was finally about to check what had passed his ‘Do Not Disturb’, Ms. Mendeleiev stepped in front of him and led him to the front office. Nathaniel followed and stood by him while he called his parents. Ms. Mendeleiev stood guard by the door.

“We’re so sorry about this, mon coeur,” his mother said, her voice quivering like she had been sobbing for hours, and on the verge of bursting into tears again. “We weren’t really thinking when we left the house. We had only gotten the call from your grandmother a little bit ago, and we –”

“N-No, mom – it’s okay. I-I understand. I’m so-sorry they didn’t pick up sooner,” Marc replied, struggling to mask his shaky voice. 

His free hand grabbed one of the desk’s corners. Nathaniel reached down and pried it free, taking it in his hand and squeezing it as tightly as he could. The gesture managed to coax a small, brief smile out of Marc.

“We might need to stay the night,” Marc’s father said, sighing. “Just to make sure that he’ll be alright.”

“O-Oh, um, okay…”

“Do you have anyone you can stay with? We don’t want you staying at home all by yourself…”

“Could you ask Nathaniel?”

“Uh, well…,” Marc turned to his friend.

“My parents aren’t cool with me staying over without adults around…” Nathaniel whispered, shaking his head.

“That’s okay,” Marc pulled away from the phone. “I’ll, um, I-I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it. Mom, Nath can’t–”

“W-wait!”

Marc whipped his head back to Nathaniel, who gnawed at the corner of his bottom lip, face scrunched in contemplation.

“Let me…let me see what I can do!”

He let go of Marc’s hand and hurried out of the office. Ms. Mendeleiev shot Marc a look of confusion. He could only offer her an equally confused shrug in response. His hands started to tremble. His emerald green eyes scanned the floor, searching for…something. Something and nothing all at the same time, the reality of everything crashing down on him like a glass chandelier. His vision grew blurry at the edges, and his chest started to grow heavy, like a cinder block had landed on his chest and knocked the wind out of him.

‘I should’ve picked up the phone. Why didn’t I pick up the phone? They needed me and I didn’t pick up the stupid phone –’

“Marc? Is everything okay?” His mother’s voice crackled through the phone, pulling Marc back to his senses and back to the receiver.

“Y-yeah, Mom. I-I’m okay. Nath’s just, checking on something, is all. Um…do we know how Grandpa Noe’s doing?”

“The last thing we heard, Grandma Lea was on the road with him in the back seat. He was apparently complaining the whole time – ‘I’m fine! You’re worrying them all over nothing! I’ve had worse!’”

Marc’s dad chuckled a bit. “If he’s still arguing like that, I’d say he’s doing just fine.”

Marc tried to force out his own breezy laugh, but it came out as wrong as it felt leaving his mouth, all heavy and bitter on his tongue. His free hand grabbed the desk again as he and the rest of the room started to tip to one side.

“Y-Yeah, definitely,” he choked out in an attempt to feign brevity.

“Marc, my dear – don’t worry too much. Like your father said, your grandfather is strong. And stubborn. The man could lob off an arm with a saw, and he’d still try to…”

Marc’s stomach grew cold at the inclination and, probably sensing his emerging upset, quickly backpedaled.

“He’ll be fine, my love. We’ll be sure to keep you posted if anything happens, okay?”

Marc grabbed the strings of his hoodie, biting his lip to keep tears welling up in his eyes from falling.

He nodded. “Ye-yeah. Okay…”

Nathaniel stumbled back into the room, making Ms. Mendeleiev and Marc jump. He returned to Marc’s side, face flushed as red and as bright as his hair, and panting.

“H-Hey,” he wheezed, leaning against the desk to catch his breath.

“Uh, hey? What’s –”

“Do you want to sleep over tonight? At my place?”

Marc blinked in surprise.”What?”

“I just talked to my mom –” Nathaniel gulped down some air. “-I told her about the stuff that’s going on, and she’s cool with you coming by and staying the night!”

Marc’s mother sighed. “Oh, thank you so much, Nath! We truly appreciate it!”

“Ah, are you sure? I don’t want to impose or anything…”

Nathaniel shook his head. He grabbed hold of Marc’s hand, cradling it between his own. Marc’s face lit up like a wildfire.

“You’re not imposing at all! I…,” Nathaniel paused, briefly closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose. “I want you to come over. Plus, my parents have been wanting to meet you for a while now, so it all works out! So, whaddya say?”

The news short-circuited Marc’s brain. He stared dumbly at Nathaniel, thoughts ping-ponging in his head and making him dizzy.

Nathaniel wanted him over…

It shouldn’t have been the most important thing circulating his mind, yet he couldn’t help but pin that thought to the corkboard in his head.

Nathaniel wanted him over…

His parents wanted them over…

His parents have been talking about having him over…

He was going to stay at Nathaniel’s house….

‘Oh shit.’

“Marc?” Nathaniel squeezed his hand and gave his arm a slight tug. “You still with me?”

“Yes!” Marc exclaimed, shrinking immediately after catching how loud he was, but he started to smile again. “U-uh, I mean, yes. I’m still here. And, yeah…If it’s cool, I’d love to come over.”

“Alright!” Nathaniel cheered. His azure eyes finally dropped down to his hands, and he quickly let go and shoved his hands into his pant pockets. “I mean, cool. Nice. That’s…that’s really cool.”

He pretended to clear his throat and turned his head. That got Marc to chuckle a bit.

“You both get that?” Marc said into the phone. The realization of the whole exchange being heard by Marc’s parents caused Nathaniel’s face to shift into a deep vermilion shade.

“We did! Thank you so much!” Marc’s mother exclaimed.

“Yes, thank you, Nathaniel. We really appreciate this. And, thank your parents for us as well! We promise to send them a gift once we’re back in town,” his father added.

“D-Don’t worry about it,” Nathaniel said sheepishly, pulling up the lapels of his blazer to hide his face. “It’s the least I could do.”

Marc mouthed a ‘thank you’ before he turned his attention back to his parents. Nathaniel smiled sweetly back, his hand inching its way back to Marc’s.

They stayed intertwined for the duration of the call.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Word travels fast around Françoise Dupont, and by the time lunch ended and Marc and Nathaniel returned to art class together, their classmates started treating Marc differently.

Not poorly. Most of their classmates were kind or tried to be kind or at least nice to some degree, but they tended to take that kindness to a whole other level whenever something bad happened to one of their own – almost to an extreme degree, which Marc could not bring himself to complain about since he had been guilty of going overboard as well.

Every minute, someone came up to him to offer well wishes to his grandfather and help with whatever little thing he was doing – from doing his assignment for him so he could take it easy, to giving him a hefty pile of snacks, drinks, and anti-stress trinkets to keeping Choke far away from when she started catching on that attention wasn’t being placed on her, and began overflowing with annoyance.

Alix tried her hand at helping with that aspect, but given her more “aggressive” methods, Mr. Monlataing needed to separate the two and eventually sent Alix to Mr. Damocles' office.

Still, they did their best to support Marc in the weird ways they knew how, with Nathaniel being his one, silent and solid rock throughout the day.

He glued himself to Marc’s side, but never felt the need to hover over Marc constantly or take over whatever he was doing. Anytime Marc did find his mind starting to brew worst-case scenarios, or his eyes started to drop down to his phone more and more, Nathaniel gently took one of his hands and mouth, ‘Are you okay?’ as not to draw attention to them.

One squeeze meant yes, two meant no. The few times Marc squeezed ‘no, ’ Nathaniel shooed everyone away and made up excuses so Marc could slip away to the bathroom or outside to recollect himself.

Once school ended, the two boys left for Marc’s house to pack up some things and make sure nothing was left on or wide open before leaving for Nathaniel’s place.

Their journey to Marc’s place was oddly quiet. It wasn’t unnatural for them to be in silence; they could be working in the same room and go hours without speaking to each other, yet still feel connected. Comfortable. Like a million words were being exchanged despite never once opening their mouths.

However, this was different.

After leaving and changing course for Nathaniel’s apartment, this thick blanket of silence started to suffocate Marc. Nathaniel’s face grew tight and tense. He hardly glanced Marc’s way as they walked, his brilliant blue eyes cast down to the sidewalk, and a small, somewhat familiar frown affixed to his face. He only ever made that face when he hit a wall, usually with his art, with the wall so thick that every little flaw he could find in his piece had a vice grip around his head. Except this time, there was apprehension in his stare; brows knitted in concern, and mouth moving ever so slightly as though he was confessing his thoughts to the ground.

“Hey, is…is everything okay?” Marc finally asked after a good 30 minutes of dead quiet.

Nathaniel’s head snapped up, and he finally turned to look at Marc.

“Y-Yeah. I’m good. Just…thinking, is all,” Nathaniel replied, somewhat wistful.

“You sure? You seem a little stressed…”

Nathaniel came to a stop, his hands squeezing into fists. Marc swore he saw some of Nathaniel’s teeth sink into his lower lip.

“Nath?”

“A-Actually, there’s…there’s something I need to tell you before…before we get to my place,” Nathaniel choked out.

“Okay…? What is it?”

Marc sucked his teeth and turned his whole body to fully face Marc.

“So, my mom. She’s kinda…weird about stuff like this?”

Marc raised a brow. “About what? About me staying over?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Kind of? She doesn’t let me have a lot of sleepovers. Especially not one one-on-one like this.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. The only other person who’s stayed the night at my place is Alix, but her dad knows my mom, and she just crashed on the couch that night.”

“So, what? Does she want me to do the same thing?”

“No, no,” Nathaniel shook his head. “I talked to her about that. She’s…okay with you staying in my room. My dad’s even setting up a sleeping bag for you.”

“Oh,” Marc said, his mind lingering on how Nathaniel said ‘okay.’

“What I’m trying to say is…she can be a bit much? A little mean, sometimes. She doesn’t mean to be, I don’t think? She’s –”

“Nath–”

“Agh! I just don’t want her to be mean to you, you know?” Nathaniel ran his fingers through his hair. “Especially since you’re already having a rough time with the stuff with your grandpa –”

“Nath,” Marc grabbed both of Nathaniel’s freckled hands and gently ran a thumb over his larger knuckles. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay, really. I’m not that fragile, you know?”

Nathaniel sighed. “I know you’re not. I just mean…I want you to have a good time. I don’t want you to hate it there. Or, hate me for bringing you over –”

“Nath, I could never hate you. Not over something like me not liking your place or something. Whatever happens, we’re in it together. Good or bad, like always. And even if your mom hates me or something, I’ll suck it up and deal with it.”

Nathaniel sheepishly glanced up at him, managing a small smile.

“I don’t think she’ll hate you. I just want to make sure you have a good time…”

Marc chuckled a bit. “I know. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“If you feel uncomfortable, or if she says anything that makes you feel bad –”

“Nath.’”

“I’m just saying. I wanna make sure you feel safe…”

Marc’s smile grew, and his face started to feel warm.

“Thank you.”

Nathaniel nodded, turning forward to continue walking. “‘Course, Marc. Anytime. How are things with your grandpa, by the way? I heard you calling your parents back at your place…”

“Oh – he’s doing okay! He dislocated his hip, but other than that, he seems to be okay. My parents are still staying the night, just to be sure.”

“That’s good, though. Glad to hear he’s alright.”

“Yeah. Me too…”

The boys’ hands stuck together for the rest of the trip, right up until they entered the elevator threshold in Nathaniel’s apartment complex.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Nathaniel’s apartment sat on the top floor of an elegant but somewhat short, cream colored building. The apartment itself was something picked out of a catalog you find on Gabriel Agreste’s glass coffee table. Hell, you’d probably find a room like it in Gabriel Agreste’s house.

Everything was some shade of either white, black, or brown, with only a few pops of green from the strategically placed potted plants. The few family photos they had were relegated to the hallway. The rest of the walls were dressed with minimalist paintings and architectural sketches with Nathaniel’s mom’s name stamped red at each page's corner.

 Nothing was out of place. Nothing was left lying around or about when it wasn’t supposed to be. Even the books sitting on the workspace’s shelf were all arranged and standing abnormally straight.

Marc almost didn’t cross into the living room because of his fear of tracking in dirt or desecrating the sanctity of the space. He hugged his book bag to his chest and waited in the doorway as Nathaniel set his satchel down on the dark sectional. He glanced over his shoulder at Marc and raised a brow.

“What’re you doing? Come and put your stuff down,” Nathaniel said, nodding towards the couch.

“A-Are you sure? Everything’s so nice…Should I take my boots off? I don’t want to get your things dirty or anything…”

“What? No, you’re fine. I mean, unless you want to. We won’t be staying here for that long anyway. I’ll just introduce you to my parents, and then we can head to my room.”

“O-Oh. Okay. Cool…,” Marc replied.

He carefully crossed into the living room and took a seat on the edge of the section, setting the book bag on his lap. He watched Nathaniel go through the cabinets in his family’s seemingly empty kitchen, calling out, “Dad! Mother! I’m home!”

“One second, Nath!” A man’s breezy voice called from the far end of the hallway.

Nathaniel came back with a small bag of popcorn and sat down beside Marc, offering him some of the popcorn.

“Want some?”

Marc shook his head, hugging his bag tighter to his chest. “No, thanks. I’m – I’m good.”

Nathaniel put a hand on Marc’s trembling shoulder. “You’ll be okay. My dad’s a little more laid back than my mom. You’ll have time to prepare.”

Marc nodded, hiding a shudder.

Footsteps clicked down the hall along with some hushed back and forth between Nathaniel’s father and a staticy, somewhat shrill voice. His footsteps stopped short of the door. The boys could glimpse his shadow stretching across the opposite wall.

“Yes, yes. I know. But it’s only for tonight!” his father said. “Yes, I brought out the sleeping bag. It’s all set up in his room…I’m about to meet with them now…Oh, come now. I’m sure he’s a nice boy!”

Nathaniel’s fingernails dug into Marc’s shoulder at that sentence. Marc hid a wince and gently patted the top of his hand, half out of reassurance, half to keep him from breaking Marc’s bones.

“We can talk to him about it tomorrow. We’ll see you later…Okay. Okay. Bye.”

His father sighed. He finally rounded the corner and greeted the boys with a warm smile and open arms.

“There they are!”

The first thing Marc noticed about Mr. Kurtzberg was his hair – styled into a wild updo with curls flaring out in different directions and in the same shade of red as Nathaniel’s. The second thing Marc noted was how he made Nathaniel smile.

“Hi Dad,” Nathaniel said, springing up from the couch and jogging to hug his father.

Marc took a second before standing himself and trailing behind his friend. Mr. Kurtzberg patted Nathaniel’s back a few times, laughing a bit before he turned his attention to the wary Marc.

“And you must be the famous author Nath’s been going on about,” Mr. Kurtzberg said.

Marc’s cheeks flushed pink. Nathaniel turned beet red and groaned.

“Dad!”

His father laughed. “What? It’s true! He just goes on and on about you and the things you two cook up in the art room.”

Marc let out a nervous laugh. “O-Oh, um, re-really?”

“Don’t worry, Marc. They’re all good things!”

Marc flashed a wobbly smile. “Thank you, Mr. Kurtzberg.”

“No need to be so formal, my boy. You can just call me Aton.”

“Just don’t do it in front of Mom,” Nathaniel added. “Where is she, by the way?”

Mr. Kurtzberg flashed an anxious grin at them. “A-Ah, she got pulled into a meeting. She’ll be home a bit later. Hopefully, before you and Marc head off to bed later tonight.”

Marc could see Nathaniel unclench, his shoulders relaxing and breathing a small sigh of relief.

“Why don’t I get dinner started, and I’ll call you when it's ready. Sounds good? Then you both can take turns telling me about those stories you’ve been coming up with?”

“Yup!” Nathaniel said hurriedly.

He snatched his satchel off the couch, took Marc’s hand, and started pulling him down the hall.

“C’mon. We can hang out in my room.”

Just as they were about to take off, Mr. Kurtzberg shouted, “Nath!”

Nathaniel stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Keep the door open, please.”

Nathaniel huffed, rolling his eyes. “Fiiiine….”

Nathaniel nodded towards the right of the hallway and continued pulling Marc in the direction of his room.

“It was nice to meet you!” Marc called before they turned the corner, and Nathaniel pulled him into one of the rooms on the right.

Marc briefly glimpsed it on his way inside the apartment but assumed it was the guest room, or maybe Nathaniel’s parents’ room, given how its style closely resembled the rest of the space – modern, muted with industrial style lights that were vaguely shaped like Angel’s Trumpets. It wasn’t until his eyes landed on the desk, cluttered with brushes, ink pens, colored inks, and various other art supplies scattered around it, did it sank in that the room belonged to Nathaniel.

“So, uh, this…this is it!” Nathaniel said, gesturing out to the rest of the room, before instinctively grabbing his left arm and rubbing it up and down vigorously. “It’s not a lot. My mom doesn’t really like things that clash too much with…everything – Look, I know it’s lame –”

“No, no!” Marc interjected, waving his hands. “It’s not lame at all! It’s just…not what I was expecting. It’s all so…”

“Prissy? Stuffy? Pretentious?”

“I was gonna say more… modern? And big. Really big,” Marc commented, eyes drifting to the expansive window with a clear view of Notre Dame and most of Paris.

Nathaniel shrugged, “Yeah. My mom – she’s kind of a big deal in the architecture world. Guess she wanted a place to match that.”

“I’ll say…” Marc’s eyes wandered back around the room and landed on something – well, two things – hanging just a few centimeters from the desk. “Are those…our storybook pages?”

Displayed in two large, dark photo frames facing Nathaniel’s swivel chair were the two key colored storybook pages from the day Alya recruited them to concoct some sort of simple plan to finally put an end to the long and arduous journey of trying to get Marinette and Adrien together; explaining it concisely and colorfully and leaving no room for overthinking or over complicating a single thing (something Marinette was and is still prone to doing. She’s prone to a lot of misfortune, it seems). 

The proposition came during the first mention of branching off from their Ladybug comics for a bit and trying their hands at something new. Nothing concrete yet; just spitballing ideas at their table towards the back of the art room. They only had a handful of ideas between the two of them at the time – spoken aloud, that is.

Marc always had a million ideas flying around his head, but they always gummed up his mouth, and he could only spit out bullet points or vague images of said ideas with a good half cup of hesitation.

Nathaniel seemed to be holding back some of his own ideas as well, offering up the same limp beginnings of a story but with an almost excited edge to his voice, and his eyebrows arched when he threw out an idea he particularly liked.

So, when Alya approached them with the idea and off-handedly threw out the concept of a fairytale, their interest was piqued.

Marc immediately got to work thinking up tropes that best fit Marinette and Adrien’s little “situation”, and when he found that it was a classic damsel-in-distress tale, Nathaniel went straight to work.

He busted out his mixed media pad, slapped together a Pinterest board full of references, thumbnail scenes based on those references with near identical art styles and coloring, and by that afternoon, they were presenting their work to Marinette and the rest of the girls.

Two days later, Nathaniel texted Marc the question during his math class:

Nath: what about knights?

Nathaniel didn’t often do a lot of ‘big’ illustrations other than comic covers and big spread, but from how his big blue eyes became saucers anytime he flipped the drawings back towards him and how he rattled off all of the drawing techniques he used for the pieces, Marc could tell how proud Nathaniel was of them.

And from how bright his toothy grin radiated off of him when Marc mentioned the illustrations, he still was.

“Yeah!” Nathaniel exclaimed. “My mom saw them the night I brought them home, and she liked them – surprisingly! She even bought the frames from them.”

Marc smiled. He walked over to the desk and crouched to get a better look at the pieces. The knightly Marinette with Adrien in a beautiful ball gown, riding off into the sunset on a white horse. He and Nathaniel as little fairy godmothers trying to bring the two together.

Marc chuckled. “They are pretty great…You did a great job on these.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Thanks, but I don’t think they would’ve come together nearly as well if you hadn’t talked me into going in the knight and princess direction.”

Marc scoffed. “As if you weren’t thinking the same thing!”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, smirking. “Suuuure…whatever you say.”

Marc shook his head. “So, what’re we doing until dinner?”

“Uh, I don’t know…Is there something you wanna do?”

Marc straightened, turned around, and strode towards Nathaniel’s bed, smirking.

“Uh, Marc? You good?”

Marc did not reply. He slid off his boots as he arrived at the head of the bed, and, without saying a word, slid off one of Nathaniel’s pillows.

Nathaniel took a step back, inching his palms up in preemptive surrender.

“Marc…,” he warned. “Think about what you’re doing…”

Marc raised the pillow, making intense, unbroken eye contact with him.

“Marc. I’m giving you one last chance – Put. The Pillow. Down.”

Marc glanced down at the pillow, lowering it ever so slowly back down to the bed. Nathaniel let out a long sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said.

Marc nodded, holding a pleasant smile for all of 5 seconds before it shifted into a sinister grin, and he sprang onto the bed and toward Nathaniel, armed with the pillow.

“Marc!” Nathaniel yelped, laughing as he ran in a circle around and on his bed. He snagged the second pillow as Marc continued to give chase.

“Face me like a man, Kurtzberg!” Marc shouted, swinging his pillow at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel spun around and started smacking Marc on his sides and around his head. Marc retaliated with a few good whacks to the top of Nathaniel’s head. The two took turns hitting each other and trying to run away.

Marc noted Nathaniel’s newfound athleticism during their fight, with the redhead climbing onto the very few pieces of furniture with an ease and upper body strength he did not possess three months prior. He was faster, too. More agile, too, as he dodged most of Marc’s attacks with such intense seriousness, you’d think they were in a serious fight and not a pillow fight.

Though Marc couldn’t really say too much on that front – he was getting a little too into their battle as well, weaving past Nathaniel and striking him the same way he would if he were an akuma. There was no way he could blame his old soccer days for how he flipped clear over Nathaniel’s head and knocked him on his ass in one fell swoop.

“Ow!” Nathaniel exclaimed, laughing. “You didn’t need to go that hard!”

“I was just trying to keep up with you,” Marc replied, twirling his pillow with one hand and smirking. “You’re not half bad. Have you been taking gymnastics classes or something?”

“Eh. Something like that…”

“Hmph,” Marc bent down a little bit and offered his free hand. “Here. Truce.”

Nathaniel slowly reached his hands towards Marc’s…before reaching over and smacking Marc across the face with his pillow. Marc fell on his side, and before he could get his bearings, Nathaniel fell on top of him and pinned him down on the floor. Marc roared a laugh as he squirmed under Nathaniel’s strangely strong grip.

“Gotcha now!” Nathaniel exclaimed as Marc struggled against his strength.

Marc squealed, giggling. “Okay! Okay! I yield! I yield! I –”

“Nathaniel Kurtzberg!”

Marc’s laughter was ripped from his throat. Both boys froze for what seemed like hours, but could have been only a few seconds at most. They snapped their heads toward the door. Nathaniel turned as white as a sheet of paper.

His mother stood there, tall even in her red-bottom heels, and her face pinched by a deep frown that bordered on a scowl.

“Mother!” Nathaniel exclaimed, scrambling to stand up. Marc followed suit, clenching his sweaty hands and his heart knocking against his chest at lightning speed. “Y-You’re home! We didn’t hear you come in…”

“Clearly, since you were too preoccupied destroying your room to notice,” she said, crossing her arms. Her dark eyes ran up and down Nathaniel’s room, which had been mussed up during their little tussle; art supplies scattered across the floor, the bed sheets and covers half falling onto the floor from running across it, the pillows beaten up and slipping out of their cases.

Her eyes finally fell on Marc, and she might as well have killed him right there with that dagger-sharp stare of hers, and that stare took him up and down, scrutinizing every single inch of him. The more she picked at him, the deeper her scowl sank into her features. Marc fought the urge to turn his head away.

Nathaniel glanced at Marc, then looked back at his mother. He swallowed hard. “Mother, this is my best friend, Marc. The one I told you about.”

“Yes. The writer…,” she said, considering each word on her tongue.

Nathaniel nudged Marc with his elbow and nodded towards his mother.

“Oh! Uh,” Marc whipped his sweaty hand on his jeans and stuck it out to her. “H-Hello, Mrs. Kurtzberg! Th-Thank you so much for allowing me to stay in your home for the night. And I-I am so sorry for messing up your son’s room!”

“Marc…”

Mrs. Kurtzberg eyed his outstretched hand for a long time, so long that it started to tremble, though all of Marc was trembling at that point, and he could not confidently say it was simply from standing too long.

After a painfully long time, Nathaniel’s mother limply took his hand and lifted it ever so lightly before she pulled her hand away and returned her attention to her son. Mr. Kurtzberg appeared in the doorway behind his mother, scanning the room and the carnage the boys created.

��Oh, wow…,” his father said. “Never seen this before.”

“This is what happens when you don’t pay attention to them!” Mrs. Kurtzberg exclaimed, not once looking back at Nathaniel’s father. “Look at this mess!”

“Shirel, they’re just being boys –”

“They’re behaving like little girls!”

“Shirel!”

Marc winced, curling into himself. Nathaniel grabbed his shoulder, fingernails digging into Marc’s hoodie.

“Hey, it…I was the one who talked into it,” Nathaniel said. Marc snapped his head to shoot him a look, mouth agape. “I wanted him to have a good time while he’s here. Cheer him up a little.”

“Nath –”

Nathaniel shot him a quick look from the corner of his eye. Marc fell silent.

Mrs. Kurtzberg kept her eagle eyes locked on her son, picking him and his answer apart, bit by bit. Nathaniel held her stony gaze with a challenging glare, and Mard wanted to cry and beg him to stop digging a deeper hole for himself.

However, Mrs. Kurtzberg seemed somewhat satisfied with her son’s answer and pulled away, starting back towards the door.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” she said with her back turned to them. “Clean up this mess. It’s rude to have guests sleeping in such horrid conditions.”

Nathaniel chomped down on the corner of his lip. “Yes, Mother.”

She nodded, still not looking at them, and continued down the hallway. Mr. Kurtzberg only offered them a heavy sigh and a headshake, following after her. He left the door cracked open. The boys waited until their footsteps faded into the other room to start talking again.

Marc took the opportunity to ask, “Why did you do that?”

“Marc –”

“You shouldn’t have lied for me. I was the one who started it. I made you –”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” Nathaniel said, deadpan.

“I should have stopped when you told me to. Should have just asked to watch a movie or something –”

“Marc,” Nathaniel said firmly. “Don’t…Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? She would’ve gotten pissed at me about something, whether it was because of you or not. At least now, we won’t have to worry about it for the rest of the night. Hopefully, she won’t find anything else to complain about…”

Marc’s eyes traveled around the room and settled on a collection of colored pencils they knocked off the desk in their scuffle. He snagged them off the ground and offered them to Nathaniel with a shaky hand.

“Let me help you, then. It’s the least I can do.”

Nathaniel sighed, smiling. He reached for the collection of colored pencils in Marc’s gloved hand. His fingertips lingered on Marc’s palm, trying to trace the length of the lines on his hands. He slipped the pencils out of his hands and nodded towards the right end of the room.

“Come on. We can start by unfucking your sleeping bag.”

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Dinner that night was largely spent in silence at the Kurtzbergs’ glass dining room table.

The clinking and scratching of silverware against porcelain plates were offered as the only reprieve from the oppressive quiet that came over the four of them. Marc picked over his plate of chicken and rice pilaf, hardly finding the courage to even pretend to have an interest in eating. There was still a small chunk of food in his mouth from one of the three bites he had taken the entire night. He couldn’t bear to look up from his bleary reflection on the table, because every time he did manage to glance up from his plate, he’d almost always meet Shirel Kurtzberg’s sharp stare.

Each time only lasted a few seconds, but a person can say a lot with their eyes, and in those few seconds of accidental eye contact, he figured out every little thing Shirel thought about him.

And none of those things were positive, or instilled much confidence in him.

Nathaniel’s dad cleared his throat around the 45-minute mark, shifting slightly in his plush, cream chair to face the boys.

“So, Marc,” he began. “Nathaniel tells us that you’re both working on a new story together.”

Marc jumped. “A-ah, ye-yeah! We’re, um, we’re –”

“We’re in the drafting phase right now,” Nathaniel interjected, soft eyes looking at Marc. “We’re still trying to piece together a plot, but we’re getting pretty close to something. Marc’s been working hard developing the characters and coming up with plot ideas.”

“Is that right? And these characters are –?”

“Knights,” Marc finished, his cheeks turning pink when he realized he had cut off Mr. Kurtzberg. “S-sorry, I-I…they’re knights. Rain Piercer and Sun Heart. Nath was actually the one who came up with their names while he was designing them.”

“Wow,” Mr. Kurtzberg said, turning to Nathaniel. “That’s impressive. Nathaniel’s usually terrible at naming things – did he ever tell you about the time he tried to name his hamster Spongey?”

“'Cause she looked like one of those little dish sponges!”

Marc failed to hide his laughter behind his hand. Mrs. Kurtzberg remained still as stone.

“Nathaniel,” she said, slowly setting down her silverware. “Are you planning on publishing this…Sun Piercing, Rain Heart story like you did with those silly Ladybug comics you scribble out?”

Nathaniel’s face burned a fiery red. “Y-Yeah, actually. We are. And…we’re thinking about asking our art teacher to get us a meeting with one of his publishing friends to see if we can get this project off the ground. Maybe into a bookstore or two?”

Nathaniel’s father let out an airy laugh and clapped Nathaniel on the back. That’s amazing, boys! Absolutely –”

Mr. Kurtzberg clipped his enthusiasm short, catching the silent ire from Mrs. Kurtzberg’s pointed look. His smile disappeared, and his mouth hung open slightly as he leaned back in his seat. Mrs. Kurtzberg turned her offense to both of them, mainly setting her sights on her son.

“Nathaniel,” Mrs. Kurtzberg said, though it sounded more like a demand. “We’ve talked about this – you need to focus on more serious art! If you want to make silly drawings for you and your friends, that’s fine, but don’t waste a man’s time for something you haven’t even put together yet!”

“Shirel, please – there’s nothing wrong with exploring their career options. And, who knows? This could be their chance to get some good advice from a real professional!” Mr. Kurtzberg tried to argue, but it did nothing to sway Ms. Kurtzberg, who scoffed in response.

“All he’s doing is wasting his time! He has such a unique style – he could do anything! Printmaking, architecture, and commercial art! Yet, he’s making silly comics during class instead of focusing on important things!”

Marc’s chest grew tight. His hands gripped his knees, fingernails digging into his skin. He looked at Nathaniel, but he avoided Marc’s eyes. His gaze remained stuck on the floor, and from the little Marc could see of Nathaniel’s face, that were largely obscured by his long bangs, he bit down on his lower lip so hard, he drew blood.

Marc swallowed hard, his ears buzzing as Ms. Kurtzberg continued her tirade against her son’s choice of visual art. His whole face and neck were on fire, and the dam of tears behind his eyes threatened to break if he didn’t do or say something.

He shot up from his seat and steadied himself on the table, legs shaking like an earthquake.

“A-Actually! Mrs. Kurtzberg!” He stammered, throat tight and mouth desert dry. “Everyone really enjoys Nath and I’s comics. Especially Nath’s drawings! His comics have been featured a lot in our school’s art magazine and online. Our teachers really like them and have been pa-passing them out to other teachers and classes, an-and they like them a lot too and have been showing them to their friends! And, I like them a lot too, and um…uh…”

Marc’s heartbeat was back in his ears. His mind went blank, and his mouth went numb. He tried looking to Nathaniel and Mr. Kurtzberg for an answer, but they both remained silent and a bit stunned. Nathaniel’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and he shook his head vigorously while Mr Kurtzberg avoided looking at any of them altogether.

Mrs. Kurtzberg’s pinched face remained deadpanned. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head.

“I…appreciate your input, Marc,” she said. “I do. And I’m sure you’re as good a writer as they say you are. But, Nathaniel cannot keep wasting his time on silly doodles that he does for you and his other friends. He should be focusing on real art –”

Nathaniel’s hands slammed onto the table, his chair scraping harshly against the dark wood floor. The plates and the opposing wall shook. Marc opened his mouth to say something, anything, to him, but Nathaniel sprinted out of the dining room and into his room, slamming the door shut and rattling the rest of the apartment. It made Marc wince. Mrs. Kurtzberg groaned and rolled her eyes.

“Ugh, that boy. He can never listen! He always has to make a big show out of everything!!”

She got up from her seat with a huff and marched out of the kitchen, though instead of going out after Nathaniel, she disappeared into her room and shut the door.

Marc collapsed into his chair, sinking into its stiff suede.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he mumbled to Mr. Kurtzberg. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to make it worse, I –”

“Relax, Marc,” Mr. Kurtzberg said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “This here is…it’s old news. Tale as old as time with those two. I wouldn’t dwell on it too much. Though next time, I’d suggest leaving it to family.”

He patted Marc’s shoulder a few times, pushing himself up and casually striding to his room once he was on his feet.

Marc sat there, still.

Still staring at the untouched food sitting around the table.

Marc stayed in his seat until the sun set, and a blanket of darkness settled over the apartment.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

The Kurtzberg did not yell.

They did not scream or shout or swear at each other. They didn’t call each other names.

Mrs. Kurtzberg got loud, but never crossed the line into shouting.

Marc could not discern what they spoke about. He had to assume that it revolved around the incident at dinner, though from how flat and flaccid Mr. Kurtzberg sounded in his responses to Mrs. Kurtzberg’s blunt and matter-of-fact tone, you would have thought they were just blathering on about their day.

He didn’t hear from Nathaniel until he came out into the dining room to find him.

His eyes were rimmed red and puffy, cheeks stained with streaks of tears, and yet, he abandoned all of it at the door when he found Marc in a similar condition.

“H-Hey. Are…are you okay?” Nathaniel choked out, switching on the light.

Marc swallowed a big gulp of air. He patted around his face and found his cheeks were damp. He blinked away some of the tears out of his bleary eyes, but when that proved to be useless, he started roughly rubbing his eyes, forcing a smile on his face.

“N-Nothing, Nath. I…I’m worried about my grandpa, that's all! You know? B-But I’m okay!”

“Marc –”

“What about you? Are…are you okay?”

Nathaniel didn’t reply, and when it seemed like he was about to, his parents appeared behind him, and he clammed up.

Marc fed them the same limp lie about being concerned over his grandfather and feeling overwhelmed because of it. He didn’t care whether they bought it or not. They simply sent the boys to bed early, under the guise of needing to get up early for school the next morning.

Neither of them had the energy to argue.

They largely got ready in silence; a noticeable distance between the two right until Marc got into his sleeping bag and Nathaniel into his bed. Mrs. Kurtzberg was there at the door to bid them a good night.

“Don’t waste your time talking,” she said bluntly. “I don’t want to be dragging you out of bed tomorrow morning because you were up all night. Understood?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kurtzberg,” Marc replied immediately, glancing toward Nathaniel.

Nathaniel did not try to meet his or his mother’s eyes. He gave a limp shrug and a flat “sure.”

“Have a good night then, boys.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Kurtzberg.”

“Night…”

Mrs. Kurtzberg switched off the light and started to shut the door, but she stopped halfway. Her pointed stare lingered on the boys, specifically Marc, for a solid 30 seconds before she finally shut the door.

Marc waited until the click of her heels disappeared into the other room to feel comfortable enough to lie down on his side, his back facing Nathaniel. Marc could hear his racing heartbeat in his pillow, and he could feel the trench between him and Nathaniel grow wider.

He had seen Nathaniel angry – hell, before they became friends, Marc was on the receiving end of Nathaniel’s flavor of offense and anger.

But this…whatever this was made Marc dizzy and made his heart want to shrink and shrivel up into nothing. Despite the expansive room, the walls seemed to inch closer together. The floor began to rise to the ceiling, threatening to crush the two until they were reduced to nothing.

“H-Hey, Marc?” Nathaniel whispered, voice raw. “You still awake?”

Marc waited a few beats to reply, bringing his head over his shoulder slightly. “Yeah. I am…what’s up?”

Nathaniel was still sitting up in bed, facing the opposite wall dead on. He started to sniffle, his bottom lip trembling. Tears flooded down his face, and he choked out a quiet sob that later became a barrage of sobs.

“I���I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean…I–”

Marc jumped out of his sleeping bag and scrambled to Nathaniel’s side. He snaked his arms around Nathaniel, planting his chin on top of his head. Nathaniel buried his face in Marc’s hoodie and cried as quietly as he could, occasionally letting slip whimpers of “I’m sorry, Marc…”

Marc hushed him. “You don’t have to be sorry, Nath. Not one bit. I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for you more, or harder than I had back there.”

Nathaniel was so lost in his crying, he couldn’t form a retort or a reply. Marc simply held him in his arms, rocking him gently, back and forth. Sometimes, his fingers would card through Nathaniel’s sunset locks. Other times, he’d hum a slower version of one of Kitty Section’s songs, or a tune his mother would sing to him when he was small, or when he’d fall into the thralls of a panic attack.

Nath seemed to like the melody a little more, even though Marc was certain that he was terribly off-key. Nathaniel’s sobs regressed into sniffles at some point. He pulled out of Marc’s chest, dragging his arm across his eyes and rubbing the remains of tears and snot from his nose and upper lip.

“Agh. Sorry,” he said with a snort. “Got snot ‘n stuff all over you.”

Marc chuckled, running a hand up and down Nathaniel’s right arm. “It’s fine, Nath. Are you feeling better, though?”

Nathaniel nodded. “Yeah. A little…”

“Do you…do you want to talk about it?”

Nathaniel turned his head away, chewing in the same, beaten-up corner of his lower lip as his eyes searched his room for something.

He nodded slowly.

“Okay,” Marc said. “I’m all ears.”

Nathaniel drew in a long breath. His head found its way back to Marc, and he swayed towards the head of the bed. Marc inched down with him until their heads hit the pillows, and they could meet each other face to face, for the most part.

Nathaniel’s eyes remained cast down, and away from Marc’s. Marc’s hand remained on Nathaniel’s right arm and cradled his elbow.

“My mom. She…,” Nathaniel began. “She’s never been…great with me making comics. She’s never really been great with me doing anything, to be honest. She’s…she’s ‘okay’ if I’m just doing it for fun and I’m not trying to make a big deal about them.”

Marc bit back a grimace. “But?”

Nathaniel sighed. “...Ever since I started getting more serious about comics, since we’ve started hanging out and working together, she…she just keeps going at me. Always has to say or complain about. Always trying to get me to talk to her ‘serious’ art friends to ‘get my head straight.’ Whatever that means…”

“Oh, Nath. I’m so sorry…”

Nathaniel shrugged. “I wouldn’t have cared if she’d done it any other night. Well, actually – I probably still would’ve. I just…I didn’t think she’d do all of that in front of you, you know? I…I wanted you to like something about this place, so maybe…maybe you’d come back. You’d come back and maybe…things wouldn’t be so bad.”

Marc sighed. He moved his hand from Nathaniel’s elbow to brush the hair from his face. His fingers lightly brushed against Nathaniel’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, Nath. I’m sorry that she’s…,” Marc paused to rack his brain for a nicer word than the ones wanting to jump from his tongue. Ultimately, he decided to rephrase it. “I’m sorry she doesn’t support you. And that she feels the need to be so brutal about it…”

“That’s one way to put it…”

“Your comics are great. All of your art is great, but your comics are…fun! Light and expressive – they make everything that’s going on more… palatable.”

Nathaniel grew misty-eyed. “You’re…You’re just saying that –”

“I’m not! Even before we started working together, I would refresh the art page like a million times to see if there was a new update of your Ladybug and Mightillustrator comics, because it made hiding in closets and under desks more bearable. Easier, too. Especially after I got akumatized, it…it made me feel less like a shitty person and like…Like I could be a hero, too.”

Nathaniel’s eyes softened, a smile finding its way onto his lips.

“You’re not a shitty person, Marc,” he said. “You’re the farthest thing from it. You’re so sweet and nice…Heck, sometimes you’re too nice. Even to people who don’t deserve it…

Marc shrugged. “Maybe…”

“Definitely,” Nathaniel took Marc’s hand, their fingers interlocking. “You’re a good person, Marc. Someone just found you at a bad time and used it to take advantage of you. That’s it.”

Marc smiled warmly. “Hey, we’re supposed to be trying to cheer you up here! Not me!”

“We’ve talked about me a lot tonight. I wanna talk about something else. No more sad stuff.”

“We can’t, Nath. We’ve got school tomorrow.”

“But I’m not tiiiiired,” Nathaniel whined a bit too loudly. He clamped a hand over his mouth after, trying to suppress his laughter.

Marc started to giggle too, but he tried to shush them both. “Stop! Stop! They’ll hear us!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” Nathaniel snickered.

Marc sighed. “Great. Now I can’t sleep either…”

“Sorry…”

Marc shrugged, smirking. “It’s fine. Not like I was going to get much sleep anyways…”

Any exhaustion Marc might have had was overpowered by the refusal to leave Nathaniel in his possibly dark headspace, his need for certainty staving off the need for sleep.

“So…what do you wanna talk about?”

“I dunno,” Nathaniel shrugged, propping his head on his hand. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“Is comic talk off the table?” Marc asked.

Nathaniel hummed. “Maybe…just for tonight? It’s still kind of a sore spot?”

Marc nodded. “You got it.”

“But don’t think I forgot about you keeping those stupid names for our knights.”

“They’re not stupid! They’re nice and endearing!”

“Oh please, I named them after vibes and the crap we threw in our Pinterest boards!”

Marc waved it off. “They’re cute! And if worse comes to worse, we’ll make ‘em codenames or something – like Ladybug and Chat Noir!”

“Fiiine. We can keep the names. For now.”

“We’ll circle back to it later, then.”

“Sure, sure,” Nathaniel said. “How’s your grandpa doing, by the way?”

“Last I heard, he was trying to get his neighbor to check on his cow and irrigation system. So, I’d say he’s doing alright, all things considered.”

“That’s good.”

“He’s been talking about me bringing you over one of these summers. He and Grandma have been begging me to bring you over.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I…I talk about you a lot cause…you’re my best friend, so obviously I would. They seem to like you a lot. Granny wants to see if you’ll help her with this mural she’s been trying to get started on her kitchen’s ceiling –”

“Your grandma paints?”

“Oh, yeah. She does. Did I not mention that?”

“No…”

“Oh, well – yeah. She does. Well, she does now. She used to do more pottery after she met my grandpa. She actually made him an entire dining set after their first date. They still have it. They only take them out on extra-special occasions. Said they might bring it out if you come over.”

“I guess I should hurry up and get over there then…”

“Yeah, you should.”

Nathaniel chuckled.

“Okay! Okay! I’ll figure something out…”

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Marc couldn’t recall how long they talked that night, nor could he remember when they ended up falling asleep in the same bed together.

One minute, they were exchanging fanfic recs and trying to coordinate a guys’ movie night with the other boys in their class, and the next…

The next, Marc’s eyes gently fluttered open and, despite their conversation carrying into the a.m., he roused from his slumber feeling refreshed. He nearly gasped aloud when he found that he was still curled on his side on Nathaniel’s bed, their hands still clasped together, fingers intertwined.

Marc swallowed his surprise, his face burning a familiar shade of scarlet.

Nathaniel slept only a few centimeters away from him. His bangs cascaded over his face more naturally than his usually curated “bitch curtain” as Nathaniel so lovingly put it. The gentle morning light pouring in from the large window illuminated Nathaniel’s features, specifically the freckles speckled across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He was peaceful, his face relaxed and his breathing steady.

Marc’s heart went wild. His hand His hand tightened its grip around Nathaniel’s and urged him to bridge the gap between; to get tangled up together and hold each other. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t so already. 

The frequent hand holding, the lingering hugs outside of school, the soft touches, the loaded looks that held and said more than any amount of words could in a single second. Marc’s heart ached for Nathaniel.

It searched for him in every crowded room, lunch period, and school field trip when their classes took separate buses, and one of them showed up later than the other. His heart always pulled him to Nathaniel; it made a home in his partner’s hands, and despite his better judgment, despite the doubt that always crept into frame and grabbed hold of the shaky ground of his mind, it was safe with Nathaniel. Marc was safe with Nathaniel.

With Nathaniel, Marc could finally feel safe with someone. With him, Marc could finally be sure of something.

And he was definitely sure Nathaniel was not just a friend.

Nathaniel was his everything…

A soft grunt soon escaped Nathaniel, and he began to stir.

Marc kept steady as Nathaniel started to open his eyes with a yawn. A small smile worked its way onto Marc’s lips as Nathaniel’s eyes settled on his. Nathaniel’s brows arched in surprise.

“Hi,” Marc whispered.

“H-Hi,” Nathaniel said, hoarsely. “How long have you –?”

“Only a few minutes! S-sorry, I…I didn’t mean to be weird…”

Nathaniel shook his head, finding a smile of his own. “No. It’s…It’s okay. I –”

Their alarms both sounded at the same time. They both jumped, and it wasn’t long before Shirel Kurtzberg’s heels came clacking their way.

“Nathaniel! Marc! Time to get up!” she called.

The color drained from Marc’s face. Nathaniel’s eyes became pindots. Marc scrambled to switch off the alarm and feel off the bed, hitting the floor hard.

Nathaniel sucked his teeth and winced sympathetically. “You okay?”

Marc nodded, cradling his bruised arm. “Mmhmm!”

Ms. Kurtzberg came right up to the door. Marc scurried into his sleeping bag and sat up straight just as she popped the door open. Both boys flashed too toothy grins once she appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, Ms. Kurtzberg!” Marc chirped.

“Morning!” Nathaniel said, parroting Marc’s performative cheeriness.

“Come now. Breakfast is on the table. Your father will be taking you both to school today on his way to work, so be quick.”

The boys nodded.

They got up and got ready for the day. Most of the morning, they carried on in silence, but it was the more comfortable brand of quiet they were used to. At the breakfast table, the boys would catch each other staring while they ate and would quickly dart their eyes away while giggling every time.

Mr. Kurtzberg had asked them what got them so giggly that morning. They both said nothing.

They went on like this as they finished up breakfast and got ready, sharing subtle glances and giggles with pink-tinted cheeks.

Marc bade Ms. Kurtzberg goodbye at the door. Her face remained stony, but she offered him a serviceable goodbye, offering a plate at their apartment whenever he needed it (she put a lot of emphasis on need.)

Marc greatly appreciated the offer regardless.

They piled into the back of Mr. Kurtzberg’s Renaut Clio and went off to school.

Both boys kept their gazes outside of their opposing windows, smiling.

Their hands remained intertwined until they got out of the car and walked up the school’s steps.

[oh-my-wolfstar]

Wolfstar microfic: Not that way

@wolfstarmicrofic

Jan 2nd, 2025, prompt: first break up

word count: 645

*set fourth year*

Sirius took a deep breath, screwing his courage in place. He walked into the great hall and instantly spotted Marlene, his girlfriend. Determinedly balling his hands into fists, he made his way toward her.

"Hey, Marlene." He tried not to sound nervous.

"Sirius! Hey, do you wanna go to Hogsmead together this weekend? It could be our first official date." Sirius tried not to wince.

"Er, could we take a walk?" Sirius asked, desperately trying to change the subject. 

"Um, alright!" Marlene smiled at him and sirius felt guilt gnawing at his chest.

Sirius walked in silence, arm in arm with Marlene. He'd known he would have to do this, since the moment she asked him to be her boyfriend last week after a quidditch game and he said yes. He didn't know why he'd agreed, he'd known he didn't like her like that, couldnt like her like that. Couldnt, not when he was pretty sure he liked someone else that way. A certain hazle-eyed werewolf roommate of his, to be exact. But for a moment… 

"So, about that date…" Marlene said, trailing off. Sirius knew he couldnt delay it any longer, but he wanted two. He'd never done this before, broken up with a girl. He slowed to a stop under a tree, the grounds empty save for them.

"I can't," Her eyes narrowed and he saw a retort forming on her lips but he cut her off, "Marlene, we have to break up." There, he'd said it. Her eyes went wide and she stared at him, obviously shocked.

"What? Why?" Sirius sighed. He knew he didn't have to tell her, but he found that he wanted to. Besides, he at least owed her the truth after leading her on for this long.

"I'm gay." It was the first time he'd said it aloud, and it felt surprisingly good—nerve-wracking, but good. Marlene blinked at him.

"How- how long have you known?" His voice was soft, quiet from disbelief.

"A while, I think." Sirius winced. It had been a while, he'd realized it in his second year, back when he realized that he felt differently about Remus than his other friends.

"Then why…" Marlene asked, voice breaking just a little.

"I don't know. You asked, and for a moment I thought, maybe… But I couldnt. "

"Oh." She said, sinking to sit against the tree.

"Yeah," He agreed softly, sitting beside her. She moved closer to him, grabbing his arm and leaning her head on his shoulder. 

"It's ok, you know." She said without looking at him.

"What?"

"You being gay, it's ok." She looked up at him then, blue eyes full of certainty and he felt his heart break just a little.

"I-I know." And he did. It had taken him a while to accept that, maybe until that moment, but he knew.

"Y'know, I don't think I ever liked you in that way. It's like you said, for a moment I thought I could but…" She trailed off. 

"I get it," SIrius said, and he did.

"You going to Hogsmeade with Marlene then?" James asked as soon as sirius walked into the dorm.

"No. We, uh, we broke up."

"What, why?!" James exclaimed, and sirius couldnt help but notice that Remus had also looked up from his book and was staring at him.

"I just didn't like her that way." Sirius shrugged, looking at his feet.

"Oh." James frowned, but Sirius wasn't paying attention. He looked hesitantly in Remus's direction only to find the boy already looking at him. They both blushed, looking sheepishly at the floor. Sirius looked back, finding Remus's cheeks still adorably pink and grinned. Yes, he was quite sure that he had made the right decision breaking up with Marlene After all, he was pretty certain that he did like Remus that way, the way he had never liked Marlene.

[steddieunderdogfics]

hot (sticky, sweet) by ToEdenandBackAgain

@toedenandbackagain

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

5,594 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Tags: boys flirting, pre slash, Pre-Season/Series 03, Steve Harrington's Scoops Ahoy Uniform, Abuse Of Company Policy

Summary:

"You're abusing company policy,” Steve corrects and Eddie nods, unashamed, and leans forward. “Fuck The Man, Harrington. Gimme a taste.” Or: it's the hottest day of the summer so far, and Eddie just wants his due of free samples. Annoying the shit out of Steve Harrington is just a cherry on top.

Thanks for the rec! This recommendation is apart of our Writer's Wednesday! All of the recs today are written by @toedenandbackagain. Want to nominate an author? Fill out this form!

You can submit fic recs to our asks or the submission box!

[mammalsofaction]

Domestic

Inspired by this old comic by @askhumanperrytheplatypus

Rating: T

Relationship: Heinz Doofenshmirtz/Perry the Platypus

Add tags: Human Perry, pre-slash, domestic squabbles, misunderstandings, teasing, Doof 101 AU

A/N: Just a little thing to help me regain some lost confidence these past couple of months

"Heinz," Clara Wells calls out from the other end of the office. She's got a huffy tone that implies she had done so more than once. "Heinz." She calls again, and he finally raises a lazy hand in acknowledgement.

"Just five more minutes, Clare."

"Your husband's outside." She counters, tilting her head to further emphasize her point. "And he's been waiting for ten."

"He wouldn't've had to if he'd bothered to read my message I sent 5 hours ago," Heinz volleys defensively, if a bit distractedly. "Or pick up the phone when I tried to call him after lunch. I'll tell him I'm almost done. Say, did we mix up the answers in the scheme for number four...? Or have these freaking papers finally done me in?"

"Let me take a look at that." He hears Dylan O'Malley quip, before he feels the man's towering presence hovering over his shoulder, peering down onto the half graded quiz papers Heinz had sprawled over his entire desk, and even a little into Bess' territory on his left side. She'd gone home hours ago, though, having finished with today's marking yesterday on account of that dinner date with her sister across town, so it's not an urgent concern.

"Oh yeah, no." Dylan adds nonsensically, pointing between the bullet points of the aforementioned question. "It's technically correct, but Clara and I technically stole these questions from the finals 3 years ago and the workings are a bit outdated with the syllabus Lang wants us to use now. It's a bit trickier cus they'd need to use trigonometry on Points S in relative to Y-,"

"You don't need to tell me that, this is foundational physics-,"

"Yeah, well, the kids aren't Physicians, so most of them seem to have gotten confused. I told my kids to table it for now until the department meeting on Monday."

Heinz stops tapping his pen, looking up to the man incredulously. "Are you telling me that I've just wasted 30 minutes of my time quizzing out a tabled question?"

Dylan's answer was promptly drowned by an extremely loud and pointed car honk, and Heinz hears a startled yelp from the pantry. He finally looks up to see Perry, naturally, parked on the lot that was technically Principal Lang's, front facing the tall windows of the office.

Heinz spreads his arms wide, meeting the man's eyes on the other side of the window pane.

Perry retorts by pointedly tapping on the face of his wristwatch, then his car.

Heinz gives him the middle finger.

Perry points at him menacingly, and gestures him to walk, with two fingers on the plane of his wrist. He taps his wristwatch again, before raising his hand, palm straight out. 5 minutes.

"Oh for Gott's sake." Heinz mutters, rapidly getting up and cleaning after himself, just as he hears Adelaide Brimming on the other side of the room go; "Oh, you guys are so cute."

Heinz snorts, shoving all of the papers into the segmented file he's going to have to bring home. "Yeah, well. When I get there I'm about to be adorable."

"It's domestic." Dylan chuckles, stepping aside so he might not interfere with the Doofenshmirtz Maelstrom as he attempts to find his loafers he'd kicked out of sight, allegedly beneath his own desk. "I didn't realize you were married, Heinz?"

The Advanced Sciences teacher frowns, straightening up. "You aren't? Well," he shrugs. "You were probably better off. I'm not anymore though."

"Oh?"

"Yes? Are you sure I haven't told you this before? You've met Vanessa."

"Oh, you meant your first wife? No, I knew that. I meant-I hadn't realized you'd remarried."

Heinz freezes, his hand on the doorknob leading out the office. "What?"

Dylan frowns. "What, what?"

"Stop being nonsensical. I haven't re-married."

Clara snorts into her coffee.

"I haven't. Why is everyone looking at me?"

"You called him your husband." Dylan points out, gesturing to the impatient be-suited man standing outside.

"Perry the- Perry? No. What? No, he's-we're-I can't-you guys are-he's-!" Heinz sputters. "He's practically my parole officer!"

Dylan and Clara exchange weighted looks, the latter with a permanent smirk etched upon her face.

"You want him to be your husband though." She says casually.

He doesn't have to stand for this. "I don't have to stand for this." Heinz says, cheeks burning all the way up to his ears. High school was high school, apparently, no matter where you were on the side of staff doors. He slams the door behind him to punctuate his indignantion, though he could've sworn he still heard Clara laugh on the other side. He's still going to have to see her tomorrow.

Despite his visible impatience not twenty minutes ago, Perry's face visibly softens as he sees Heinz rounding out to the parking lot, where his teal colored OWCA standard Sedan purra idly as they wait. And Heinz hates it, hates that he's able to tell, and how it makes his heart summersault from beneath his breastbone to his stomach with an almost childish shame.

Perry, as he was naught to do, opens the passenger side door for him, as he does to make fun of him, whenever Heinz was in a churlish mood. He's even doing a stupid little teasing bow, like an unnecessarily attractive carriage master. Or a prince.

It's mocking. But his coworkers won't know that.

Heinz grabs ahold of the door, and slams it back closed.

Perry raises a questioning eyebrow. Heinz can barely notice the awkward silence between them, frozen as he was imagining his coworkers giggling over his shame like a pair of bullies.

After a second or two, he opens it back up and climbs inside.

He sees Perry hesitate right outside his door, and when he rounds over to climb into his customary driver's seat, Heinz cuts him off right off the bud.

"Not one word, Perry the Platypus." Heinz mutters. "Not one. Word."

[rosemariad]

“Hello, boys,” Crowley said sinisterly over the phone.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean roared into the receiver, hurting Sam’s eardrums, but it didn’t seem to bother Crowley. If anything, the demon was probably smiling, smug as ever.

“I gather you’ve caught on to my little scheme?”

“Why?” Sam demanded. “Those people didn’t do anything to you! They’re innocent!”

“I have to punish you somehow. Do you really expect me to stand by as you shut the gates on my kingdom?” Crowley scoffed. “You must be joking! You don’t get to cancel me, darlings! I’m not through until I bloody well say so, and I’m just getting started! I’ll kill every last soul you ever saved up in that godforsaken country you call home until the States are covered in their blood – or…”

Crowley waited for the brothers to take the bait.

Dean inhaled deeply, his jaw so tense he could feel his teeth cracking. “Or what?” He growled.

“You surrender the tablets to me. Both of them.”

“You’ve got to be joking!” Sam said in outrage.

“Only if all those innocent souls are worth less than your mission. But hey, what’s a few broken eggs? Then again, what would daddy dearest say about the precious ‘family business’ aye? ‘Saving people, hunting things,’ Good God, did you really say that, Squirrel?”

Dean, Sam, and Jess all furrowed their eyebrows. Sam was the first to realize it.

“He’s reading the books!” The Winchesters never hated the cursed Edlund book series more until that very moment.

“And that’s why you’re the smart one, Moose. You have four hours until I kill another. Call me back when you’re ready to surrender.” Crowley ended the call right then.

“Fuck!” Dean thundered. He drove as fast as the Impala allowed, racing toward the hometown of Cassie Robinson. Thankfully, they weren’t too far. They arrived at nightfall, and the hunters were dismayed by the state of the Robinson household. The windows and doors had been torn apart and broken. There appeared to have been a small fire that damaged the house some.

“Cassie!” Dean shouted urgently, tripping over the dead body of a stranger. There were a multitude of corpses scattered about the residence as if Crowley had sent a small militia’s worth of demons, all killed in action. All these enemies for one woman?

“Dean,” But it wasn’t the journalist who responded to Dean’s shout. It was –

“Cas?” Dean uttered in surprise as the seraph stood over the bodies. The house was oversaturated with the smell of sulfur. Behind the angel appeared one Cassie Robinson, who had gotten lovelier in the years since Dean had last laid eyes on her.

“Dean,” Cassie said, voice level. “You want to explain why an angel from Heaven had to kill all these demons from Hell?”

Shit. She was mad. Dean swallowed nervously.

“Hey,” Dean said sheepishly. “Long time. You look great!”

“You gonna ignore my question?” Cassie huffed out. Sam smiled despite himself. Jess looked on in quiet confusion, but she liked this woman so far.

“Cassie,” Dean sighed as the tip of Cassie’s right foot began to tap the floor repeatedly in impatience.

Castiel looked awkwardly between Dean and Cassie. Clearing his throat, he tried to spare the elder Winchester some unpleasantness. “Ms. Robinson, I believe I explained–”

“No,” Cassie interrupted sternly, her eyes never moving away from Dean. “I want to hear it from his mouth.” She pointed at the hunter. “Well, c’mon. You better have a damn good explanation.”

“There’s this guy…” Dean started lamely as the others watched him struggle.

“Guy or demon?” Cassie questioned with a harsh tone.

“Demon,” Dean confessed. “It’s a demon. He’s kind of a boss, a douchey boss, who’s been running around killing people off, people Sam and I saved from monsters and such. You remember Sam?” Sam gave a stiff wave.

“I remember,” Cassie said curtly, her eyes focused on Dean like lasers. “Go on.”

“He’s been killing people off because Sammy and I have been working on shutting Hell off for good, and he doesn't like that too much,” Dean added. “He wants us to stop so –”

“He’s gonna keep murdering people until you give him what he wants?” Cassie finished for him. “And what does he want, aside from keeping Hell open?”

Dean exhaled, “There are these really powerful tablets. One of them tells us how to seal Hell down, and the other can rewrite Heaven or something.”

Cassie whipped her head around sharply to look at Castiel, her curly locks bouncing as she moved. “Is he for real?”

“He is telling the truth, yes,” Castiel affirmed.

“And I’m on the list of people to kill off?”

“Yeah,” Dean frowned.

“Because you helped me with my family back in ‘06?”

Dean nodded.

“Fuck,” Cassie hissed angrily. “How are you gonna fix this?” She demanded of Dean.

“Cassie –”

“Mommy?” A little girl showed up from an adjacent room. She had Cassie’s curly brown hair and dark skin, but her eyes were green – the kind of green that matched Dean’s. Sam, Jess, and Dean were stunned.

“Sweetie,” Cassie rushed over to the child and squatted down, wrapping her arms around her daughter. “I told you to stay. Mommy’s not done yet.”

“I’m hungry,” the child whined, her stomach rumbling loudly.

Cassie sighed as she cradled her daughter, keeping her close. “Are you positive we’re safe?” She asked Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel asserted. “There are no more demons in the area. I can also place warding sigils to prevent their entry into this house.”

“Do that,” Cassie responded, “Alright, baby. Let me make you a sandwich.” She marched off towards the kitchen, daughter in her arms.

Dean charged after her without hesitation. The little girl noticed the large white man following them but wasn’t afraid. Merely curious. It disarmed Dean in ways he wasn’t ready for.

Where there was doubt with Ben, there was no doubt with this little girl. She was Dean’s, for sure. He just needed to hear the words out of Cassie’s mouth.

Cassie set her daughter down on the nearby kitchen table while she pulled out the bread, ham, and cheese from the fridge. Neither she nor her small daughter paid any mind to the dead demons littered about the house. They appeared to be dead for a while.

“Is she mine?” Dean demanded quietly as he approached Cassie immediately. But Cassie was focused on her sandwich making. Dean placed his hand above her own, stilling her movements.

“Is she mine?” he repeated.

Cassie sighed, turning to face the hunter. “Yes. Lest you forget, the last time we were together wasn’t exactly planned by either of us. You didn’t have protection, and I…” Cassie shook her head. “Point is, we made a baby, and I decided to keep her.” Cassie turned to look back at her daughter. She finishes making the sandwich, putting it on a plate, and handing it over to the little girl, who happily digs into the food. Dean watches the interaction, astonished, without a bit of air in his lungs.

A daughter. He has a daughter.

That makes him…

A father.

Cassie walks back over to Dean with a solemn look on her face. “Look. I didn’t contact you because…well, how could I? Doing what you do, always out on the road, fighting those…things. You’re not safe. Given what happened today, we’re not safe either. But something tells me that if you have a relationship with her,” Cassie nodded towards the child, “we’d be worse off. Even killed. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He couldn’t.

“Yeah,” Cassie noted as she held Dean’s miserable gaze. “That’s what I thought. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“For what it’s worth,” Dean heard himself say, “so am I.”

“Her name is Chloe,” Cassie told him. “She’s six years old. She was born on January 31, 2007. I gave her my last name, all things considered. No one’s listed as the father on her birth certificate. I figured it was safer that way. She’s been asking about you. I haven’t really known what to say to her.” Cassie watched her daughter sadly.

“I do,” Dean said as he approached Chloe. The little girl finished her sandwich and noticed the large man approaching her. She looked to her mother, who gave a nod with a wistful expression.

“Hi,” Dean greeted the child as he squatted down before Chloe. “You’re Chloe, right? I’m Dean,” he gulped, “I’m your dad.”

Chloe looked back at her mother. Cassie gave her another nod. Chloe looked upon Dean with excitement and joy. “Daddy!” Chloe launched herself into Dean’s arms and overwhelmed Dean with a wave of emotion. “Where have you been? Why are you never here with me and Mommy?” He could feel his heart breaking.

Clearing his throat, Dean pressed on as best he could. “I got a job. A job that’s more dangerous than a cop and a firefighter combined and takes me all over. Because of that job and what I do, I can’t be with you.”

Chloe’s face fell. “That’s not fair,” she whined, giving him those big green doe eyes. Dean wanted to crawl into a hole, but he soldiered on.

“I had a mom once. She died when I was four. The way she died was horrible, and if I stick around, what got her, what hurt her, will hurt you and your momma. I’d rather you hate me and live and be safe than love me and die.”

Chloe blinked at Dean, processing his words. “Like your momma did?”

Dean nodded sadly. “Yeah.”

Chloe looked as desolate as Dean felt. But there was no hate in her eyes or resentment as Dean or maybe Cassie was expecting. The girl didn’t cry either. She clung to Dean, wrapping her little arms around him tighter. Dean had to fight to suppress the tears, but Cassie did no such thing. Tears fell quietly from her eyes as she observed this moment between father and daughter.

“Tell you what,” Dean said suddenly, bringing Chloe face to face. “When you’re eighteen, I’ll come find you wherever you’re at, and you and I will have a long talk. But until then,” Dean got an idea. He ran out to the Impala, scouring for what he wanted to find. Dean usually would’ve stashed them somewhere else, like in the bunker or a safe deposit box, but given how often Dean was on the move, the hunter preferred to keep them close. He pulled out a set of golden rings – his parents' wedding bands from when they eloped in the 70’s. John had held onto Mary’s ring since her death, and Dean took John’s after his passing. The eldest Winchester kept the rings close ever since, one of the few tokens of his parents he had left. He returned to his daughter and presented the rings.

“I want you to have these,” Dean said, presenting them to his child. Chloe took them in her tiny hand. “They were my parents’ wedding rings. They’re both gone now, but I need you to take care of them for me. Can you do that?”

Chloe looked up at her father. She nodded, her little brown curls bouncing as she did.

“Alright. I’m gonna come back for those, so don’t lose ‘em. Okay?”

“I promise,” Chloe said.

“My girl,” Dean said with a small smile.

Castiel cautiously entered the kitchen. “I’ve finished with the wardings all over the house. They’re invisible to the human eye, so your home won’t look untoward to your neighbors, and I’ve placed several devil’s traps all over the home, particularly your bedrooms. A simple prayer would suffice in calling for my assistance, but if all else fails, call this number,” Castiel held out a card with a number on it, “and help will arrive. All you’d need to do is hold out long enough to be saved.”

“Thank you,” Cassie said to the angel.

“Of course. I know what you mean to Dean,” Castiel said, carefully avoiding Dean’s gaze. “I…I am glad I reached you in time.”

Chloe ran back to her mother, clutching the rings in her tiny fist. She hid behind Cassie’s leg, looking up at Castiel. Chloe giggled. “Your wings are pretty.”

Dean looked at Castiel but couldn’t see what she was talking about. Though it certainly made Dean curious.

“Thank you, Chloe,” Castiel said politely to the little girl. “Allow me to clear the bodies.”

“I’ll help,” Dean volunteered. He followed Castiel’s lead, the angel carrying two bodies for every one that the hunter handled personally.

“How’d you even find them, Cas?” Dean couldn’t resist the urge to ask his angel friend.

“She prayed,” Cas explained. “For the first time in her life, Cassie Robinson prayed out of sheer desperation. When a human gets like that, it can send waves from quite a distance. The name stuck out to me because I recognized her from your memories. I knew that you were once quite…close.” His tone was tinged with a yearning Dean decided best to ignore. “When she mentioned her daughter, I knew I had to drop everything and try to save them.” Cassie and Chloe were visible from the broken window inside. “As I said, I’m glad I got here when I did. If there had been more delay…”

Dean placed a hand on Castiel’s broad shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

“Are you alright?” the angel asked him.

“What?”

“You just learned that you have a daughter. I can sense the emotional storm within you,” Cas pointed out. “I know you’re not one to speak about your sentiments, but you should know that your daughter shares one quality with you.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked tensely.

“Understanding,” Cas said. “She has an incredible sense of empathy for her age that will only grow over time. Mind you, your sense of empathy is askew, given how often you prioritize your brother, but that’s understandable given your circumstances.”

Dean blinked at Castiel’s words, “Okay,” he expressed dubiously.

“My point is that she won’t grow to resent you,” Castiel clarified. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Dean shrugged that off, but Castiel gave him a look that informed the hunter his angel friend knew better.

While Cas and Dean did away with the bodies, Sam was at work using the spell Marion once taught Jess to restore the damage undertaken in the home to everything from the broken windows around the house to the furniture strewn about the interior. Cassie and Chloe watched in amazement as their home was fixed like nothing ever happened.

“Wow,” Cassie remarked to Sam. “So you’re a witch now?”

Sam shrugged sheepishly. “I’ve picked up a few things.” His eyes shifted to the little girl. “So, this is Chloe?”

Cassie gave him a wry smile, “I figured you were listening in.” She ran her hands through her daughter’s hair. “Yeah, this is Chloe.” Chloe looked up shyly at the tall hunter.

“Hi there,” Sam held out a hand. “I’m your Uncle Sam.”

“I have an uncle, too?” Chloe asked in awe.

Cassie and Sam chuckled. “Yes, baby, you have an uncle, too,” Cassie clarified.

Cas and Dean returned from the backyard. Dean watched as Chloe’s little hand fit into Sam’s large one. Sam shook her hand gently.

Castiel cleared his throat. “We finished outside.” The seraph proceeded to give mother and daughter strange Enochian markings meant to protect their bodies from the possession of any demons that would try, dying at the touch of their skin. The spell consumed much of Castiel’s grace, but he was glad to do it—anything to protect Dean’s child.

Dean decided it was time to leave since there was nothing else to do in the house. He figured it better to go now before looking into Chloe’s eyes was too much to bear. Cassie didn’t stop him; her eyes glimmered with guilt and sorrow.

Dean squatted down by Chloe once more, his legs feeling heavy. “I gotta go now.”

Chloe wrapped her tiny arms around her father. “Okay,” she said, sadness edging into her childish voice.

Dean took care to wrap his arms around her. “You take care of those rings, you hear?”

“I won’t lose them, Daddy,” Chloe swore. “I promise.”

Dean blinked and, in what felt like ages, finally let his daughter go. He stood up straight, beelining it for the door. He took one last look, exchanging a somber glance with Cassie.

“Goodbye,” he said but didn’t linger for a response. He retreated to the Impala, waiting for Sam to follow him out.

This super long preview is part of chapter 10 of my fic SPN: Wilderness, a s8 era fic part of a long-running fanfic series, SPN: Roads Untaken, chronicling a canon-divergent take on the Winchesters' story.

[frozenparadize]

Test of Loyalty

Alternate universe where Atsushi and Chuuya became friends despite their organisations. Conflict of interests was inevitable, but how it ends might still be up to them.

[slashyrogue]

It takes a ridiculously long time for Wade to realize he's pregnant.

Like, super fucking ridiculously.

Truth be told, he didn't know that getting pregnant was in the cards for him but when he did it was so anticlimactic that really understanding the gravity of the situation seemed like an afterthought.

Rewind a bit.

He should've known that getting kidnapped by the government would result in more than just waking up sore when Logan saved him only two days in but really he just wanted to be out of there.

The exhaustion - something that he rarely had with the regeneration and all that - made it easy to fall asleep on Wolvie's shoulder during the ride home but when he woke up all he did was want to be in Logan's pocket.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Wade just nuzzled his beard - which was just as fluffy as you'd think it was - and sighed. "Just wanna cuddle with my favorite kitty cat."

"Wade---"

"Pretty please?" he faked a cough, "I was tortured, Wolvie. Peanut, they cut things OUT I saw them."

Logan growled and the claws that had come out slid right back in. "Fine."

And so began Wade's "Week of Cuddles" which was AMAZING to say the least. Logan was NICE to him, and practically babied him better than anyone EVER had. It was like Christmas and Halloween AND his Birthday fucked and had a million babies.

100/10 would recommend.

The ice creams and chimichangas were never ending; the cuddles were abundant, and he even got to fall asleep on Logan's shoulder.

He secretly loved that one the best by the way but pretended he liked the ice cream the most.

The "Week of Cuddles" was followed by "The Week of Sleepovers" and he began "The Week of Chocolate" which was, in retrospect, a big mistake.

The minute Logan brought home the Choco-Tacos (after scouring for HOURS he found one lone store that had a back inventory that was....questionable) and he devoured it in seconds a new week began.

"The Week of Is Wade Dying Again?"

It was a terrible fucking week, mostly with vomiting but also horrible stomach pains, like something was clawing his insides and not in a fun way like the Honda Odyssey.

Logan kept telling him to "go to the damn doctor already" while increasingly seeming agitated and snarly which was cute because Wade pretended it meant he was worried about him.

He knew it was because he hated the smell of vomit with his kitty cat senses.

Obviously.

Althea finally called the X-Men because she was "sick of hearing him puke."

How did she know their number?

Apparently Colossus and here were friends or something he didn't know but when they showed up and Logan dragged him off he was toast.

And he puked twice more on the ride.

Beast then gave him the news.

"Wade, I....it seems you're pregnant."

Wade started to laugh, falling back on the hospital bed, and when no one joined him he was given the results.

Those government fuckers had somehow knocked him up.

How?

Well, it seemed that his body could adapt to anything, even a reproductive system that he shouldn't have.

Logan made Beast take the tests again, and even try to pinpoint who's kid they put inside him.

And....ding ding.

"Logan, I...." Beast said, his voice shaking, "I do believe it's yours."

Wade started laughing then, unable to stop, and Logan left the room.

What a fucking joke.

He grinned at Beast as tears filled his eyes. "Isn't anyone going to throw me a baby shower? I'm sure I'm gonna need some mittens to handle this one, am I right?"

No one laughed.

And Wade got up, still wearing just his heart shaped boxers, and went to put on his suit.

"You....Wade, you have options."

He paused, holding his suit in hand, and put a hand to his belly.

Did he?

It was goddamn selfish to see this through, he knew that, but the thought of NOT seeing it through made him immensely sad.

A once in a lifetime opportunity.

He was an incubator for potentially the next Marvel Jesus. "No," he said, shaking his head, "I don't." The team tried to talk him into staying but he didn't listen and walked outside to find Logan waiting on a motorcycle. "Did you bring that here for little ol' me, Peanut?"

Logan sighed. "Get on."

Wade did just that, holding him tight, and they took off toward fuck knew where.

All he knew was that he was carrying what might be his only offspring that was going to the most wanted mutant in the world once it was born.

Whatever government had done this would come back at the finish line.

But he had scary dog privilege who was currently driving him to his nest or whatever.

They might've thought it was a funny idea to see what would happen if they scrambled the offspring of two immortals and give them something to fight for.

Joke was on them.

There was no way that if there was a baby at the end of this mess that either of them wouldn't fight like hell.

Wade could hardly wait.

And hey, maybe this would turn out to be like one of those 90s sappy rom-coms where grumpy and the baby mama fell in love.

Ha.

Wouldn't that be something?

[cameron-s-gaskins]

Decided to make a Life on Mars/Doctor Who crossover comic, about Sam being the Master, that no one asked for and is about 15 years too late 😂

Chapter 1 is almost done, I’ll hopefully have it posted here and on AO3 in the next week. Thinking of naming it “Sam Tyler Doesn’t Exist.” First chapter will stand alone, but I’ve written a script for a second chapter already. Mostly ignores Ashes to Ashes, and anything after series 4 of Doctor Who.

Gosh!

[thejohnlockedfemboy]

∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇

"Songbird on a Wall" Pt.4

pt.1 here

pt.2 here

pt.3 here

[ tw for grief, foul language, light 18+ innuendos, light emotional angst, non-sexual nudity, nothing descriptive ]

The hike was miserable.

The sweltering mid-June heat clung to the men like a physical weight, their heavy combat gear soaked with sweat within mere minutes. The sun shone down without mercy, scorching what little skin was exposed.

The terrain was rough, their fully-supplied packs weighing a good hundred pounds or more. But it was nothing they hadn’t suffered through before, and the 141 were trained to ignore discomfort and push their bodies to the breaking point.

They stopped every hour for a five-minute hydration break and then were off again, Price in the lead despite being the eldest of them. The Captain might have been slowly creeping towards qualifying for the senior’s discount at diners, but he still had as much vigor as the rest of them.

Ghost was close behind, barking out double-time orders when he saw one of them lagging. Scanner was especially struggling, being the smallest of the unit. He could hold his own, sure, but there was an enormous difference between a two-fifty pound man and a one-fifty pound man having to carry a full kit.

“Come on, Mander, get a move on!” Ghost commanded in that hardass-Lieutenant voice that made it clear there would be repercussions if the Scouser couldn’t manage. The team didn’t allow liabilities on the field— it was keep up or ship out.

Scanner stumbled over an exposed tree root, his backpack tipping him off-balance. Reacting instinctively, Soap reached out and scruffed him, managing to yank him back upright.

Scanner shoved Soap away from him, still pissed from the scene in the mess hall at breakfast. It had been three hours since then, but the Scouser showed no signs of forgiving and forgetting.

Soap backed off, falling into step with Gaz. “Ah bollocksed it up, didn’t Ah?” the Scotsman asked miserably.

“Maybe just a bit,” Gaz replied, but his tone wasn’t entirely unkind. “You did tell him to get over the death of his entire team, y’know. And insulted his singing and guitar playing.”

“Don’t remind me,” Soap mumbled. He hung his head like a kicked pup.

Another two hours later and they had made a full circle back to base. Every one of them was exhausted, footsore, and increasingly hangry, but they still remained professional and unpacked and put away their gear before allowing themselves to rest. Mostly because Ghost watched them like a hawk, his keen hazel eyes just waiting for a slip-up.

Once they had returned their weapons to the armory and neatly stowed their gear, they all hit the showers. The water swirled greyish from all the washed-off dust.

Soap, who usually was belting out an off-key tune or chattering away during shower time, was unusually subdued. Guilt lined his stomach like a bitter bile when he caught sight of the pink, raised scar tissue across Scanner’s shoulder, chest, and stomach as the Scouser was getting out of his stall to towel off.

Those scars would be th’ ones he got while retrieving his teammate’s tags, Soap thought to himself. He turned off the showerhead’s spray, and when he looked back up, Scanner had disappeared into the changing room to dress.

Soap hurried out of his own stall stark naked, not even bothering with his towel as he hurried to catch up with Scanner. Roach shrieked like a schoolgirl. Gaz swivelled to look, caught sight of the Scotsman’s bare arse, and started protesting. “Oi, put some clothes on, you utter loon!” “Ah’m busy!” Soap called over his shoulder, marching into the changing room. There was no sign of Scanner, though. Ghost, who was pulling on a shirt, stopped abruptly, his gaze wandering south.

“My eyes are up here,” Soap snapped irritably, slamming open his locker and pulling out his off-duty clothes.

“Y’ the one who walked in here like that,” Ghost muttered, tugging on his balaclava. “Can’t fault a man for wanting a look.”

“Bloody perv.” Soap zipped up his trousers and nicked one of Ghost’s hoodies, wriggling into the slightly oversized garment. Ghost gave an approving grunt– he always had liked the look of Soap wearing his clothes. It made the Scotsman look almost small, if a six-foot-two Special Forces operative with arms as thick as small tree trunks and a chest like a barrel could be defined as such without breaking every law of logic.

Love didn’t need logic, of course, but Ghost still liked to reason that he felt a surge of protectiveness every time he saw Soap looking so… domestic was because of the Sergeant’s big, baby-blue eyes and Cheshire-cat grin. Yes, that must be it.

At the moment, however, Soap wasn’t grinning and his eyes were dark and moody. His guilt was easily shifting into a sulking anger at being denied the chance to apologize to Scanner.

Ghost recognized this almost immediately. He reached out a gloved hand to rest on Soap’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Soap stiffened, then the tension seemed to drain from him, and his head drooped.

“Ah’m sorry, Ah just…” Soap sighed softly. “We all need tae have a talk wi’ Mander. We know about his former team, an’ he knows we know but he doesn’t know about wha’ Price told us, an’ we know he knows we know but doesn’t know we know know—“

“You’re talking in circles, Johnny,” Ghost murmured, voice low but understanding. “Take a breath. Mander’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”

“But Ah was a right proper dick about his team. What if, Ah dunno, it triggered him, or summat? Cap said he has PTSD.”

“S’not your fault, Johnny,” Ghost said firmly. “You speak without thinking. Just the way you are, way you’ve always been. Mander knows it, too. He’ll come around. Just give him time.”

Soap peered up at Ghost, as if trying to map out the Lieutenant’s covered facial features in his mind. “Ye really think so?”

“Aye.”

And that was enough to make Johnny’s worries ease.

*  *  *

That evening, Scanner didn’t show up in the rec room to watch Jeopardy with the team like he usually did. It was their nightly ritual of sorts, to wind down before lights-out at nine. At least, on the nights they weren’t deployed on missions it was.

The Scouser didn’t appear for breakfast, either. Soap was getting increasingly more agitated, while Roach tried to assure him that Scanner just needed some time alone to think.

Just before noon, the team gathered for PT with Price. They were still all sore from their hike the previous day, so the Captain had mercy and only made them run four laps around the training field, followed by two hundred jumping jacks and one hundred pushups. It was almost laughably easy compared to their usual routines.

Soap tried to keep an eye on Scanner out of the corner of his peripheral vision. The smaller man did not so much as even spare a glance Soap’s way.

Finally, the Scottish Sergeant could no longer take it. They were dismissed by Price, and Soap headed straight for Scanner. Price, however, saw the incoming altercation and caught Soap by the arm instead. “MacTavish. Need help with some reports. Sanderson did them last week; s’your turn.”

Cue a full four bloody feckin’ hours of writing up mind-numbing dull and repetitive reports and other paperwork. Soap’s attention-deficit-hyperactive-disordered brain was about to explode from sheer need to move by the time Price finally allowed him to leave.

Soap was up and bolting out of the office like a man possessed before the Captain even finished his dismissal, and made a sharp turn towards the barracks. Before he had even fully gotten down the hallway of the officer’s quarters, he was met with guitar music.

Shit. Scanner was singing again.

“The battlefield rings with cries

From dying men and beasts.

of their pain and lament,

They sing to the skies,

so that their hearts may pass on in peace.”

Soap nearly whimpered. It was yet another dirge, and it only served to heighten his guilt over having ridiculed Scanner for not yet having moved on from the death of his teammates.

The Scouser’s quiet voice cracked on just the right notes. Admittedly, despite the dark themes of his songs, he was a wonderful singer. Soap just wished he would play something happier.

“So we will fight,

We’ll fight for our glory.

And we will rise like the brand new dawn.

Though our limbs may grow battered and weary,

We will fight until the battle is won—“

Soap finally snapped, like a bow left strung for too long. “For Christ’s sake, lad, Ah cannae take another funeral tune!”

Scanner’s head snapped up to see Soap standing in the doorway. The guitarist hurried to put his instrument aside and pull on his gloves.

Soap crossed the room with disturbing quickness and grabbed Scanner’s hands. “Nay, laddie. Ye dinnae need to keep ‘em covered.”

Scanner tried to pull away from Soap’s grip, but the Scotsman was damn strong. He could snap Scanner’s stick-thin wrists with ease.

“Johnny, let me go—“

“Nuh-uh. Ah want tae see.” Soap’s hold tightened. “Please?” he added, more quietly.

Scanner hesitated. Then he exhaled slowly, the fight leaving him. He allowed Soap to turn his hands over to expose the skin splotched dark from old burns. His fingers and palm were calloused, probably from practicing his guitar.

“Och, Paul,” Soap exhaled, his expression soft with sympathy and concern. “Price wasnae exaggerating—“

Scanner tensed. His steel-colored eyes snapped up to meet Soap’s. His temper lit up like a spark to dry grass. “Price? Did you fuckin’ go behind my back to tattle on me?” Soap had half a brain enough to realize that he had just royally blown everything to hell. “It wasnae like that, laddie—“ “Then do enlighten me.” “We were jus’ worried for ye, mate. Honest!” Scanner wrenched away from Soap, storming towards the door. He felt vulnerable, and so he handled the emotion the only way he knew— he blew up, channeling upset into anger to keep his heart from bleeding. “I’m giving that meddling old man what-for. I’ve dealt with this gossip for too long.”

“We werenae gossipin’!” protested Soap, standing and chasing after the other man. “All we asked was about why ye were singin’ such dirges—“

“We? What do you mean, we?”

“Laddie, we’re a team. We’ve go’ a right tae know about ye. Ye don’t have tae go through all this alone–”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” snarled Scanner, picking up his pace. “So just shut it. Shut it before I say something that you’ll regret. What did Price tell you? How much of my classified history do you even know?” “Enough tae know that ye need somebody to talk to about this!”

“I don’t need anybody! Alone is what I want, it’s what keeps me safe.”

“Paul, come on–”

Scanner whirled. To Soap’s mortification, there was more than fury shining hotly on the other man’s face. Scanner’s eyes were welling up with tears of righteous injustice. He felt slighted. Betrayed, even. He was lashing out blindly and he wasn’t even sure why. “You don’t get to call me that, MacTavish! You call me by my callsign or not at all. Only my mates call me Paul.”

That last comment stabbed Soap through the heart. He considered Scanner so much more than just a friend– a brother, a part of their dysfunctional little family. To hear the Scouser denounce that was like a punch to the gut.

John MacTavish stopped dead in his tracks. He let Scanner stalk away, watching helplessly.

“Feck my life,” he mumbled, and felt like the world was crumbling beneath his feet.

note:

the lyrics of Paul’s song are original and created by me

comment below what your thoughts are on what might happen next 👀