#so giving this one to him would’ve made that redundant. so I handed this one to Meca

[antimonyandthyme]

carcar, carlandoscar, 3k, explicit content, set after the hungary gp (so, rancid)

The muteness wore away when the ceremony started. First place, no matter how convoluted, suited Oscar just fine. Carlos watched him hoist the trophy high, while wondering if Oscar had an extortionate sense of payback. The last time Carlos had won, in Melbourne, he hadn’t let Oscar come until Suzuka. Not even on Thursday before media duties. But on Saturday, after Qualifying, because no matter how mean he’d tried to be he couldn’t be the one to affect Oscar’s actual race.

His appendix surgery had been a good excuse. Carlos said, “You’re going to have to work for it yourself, if you want to come,” and intentionally kept the circle of his hand around Oscar’s cock loose and easy. Oscar had whined his frustrations, rutting fervently into Carlos’ palm for any sort of friction. It wouldn’t have needed much anyway; Oscar had been so weak for it.

“Asshole,” Oscar said as he came, but the viciousness of it was taken away by the way he’d almost sighed it, and then slumped into Carlos’s arms after. Soft and almost sweet.  

And then Carlos had podiumed. And Oscar had gotten eighth. Great feelings all around.

He’d seen it in the way Oscar had looked at him after though, the heat in his eyes burning its way up Carlos’s back in a slow crawl. Carlos knew. The next time. He’d be made to return the favour.

There wasn’t much of a wait. Not even a couple of hours after the champagne had been drunk, and the confetti peeled of sticky skin.

Carlos stared at the text with a room number. There was no other instruction, nor a time. Already, the itch under Carlos’s skin was becoming a near physical presence. If it were Carlos, he’d push, tell Oscar not to keep him waiting. Oscar would let Carlos draw his own conclusions. Let him wonder if he’d show up too early to an unoccupied room, and have to storm away and make the same trip twice. Or overthink and show up late, and be punished worse for it.

The AC was turned up high, but Carlos imagined he was sweating. Blood pooling in places he could not hide just from the anticipation.

He wasn’t sure of the time when he finally knocked. Two neat taps. He forced himself not to rock on the balls of his feet. When Oscar opened the door, Carlos could pretend he looked calm, in control.

“You took your time,” Oscar said. He didn’t sound annoyed or impatient. There was probably little room for it; winning tended to take up too much space. That didn’t mean Carlos could let his guard down.

“I assumed you’d be out with the team.”

“Two drinks.” Oscar shrugged, stepping aside so Carlos could come in. “That was about all I could stomach.”

Asking why was redundant. It was a one-two for McLaren. Lando would’ve been there, surely.

For such a straightforward guy, Oscar was surprisingly hard to read. He’d give Carlos these little clues, nothing else. The deal was that the winner could take all. Melbourne had been such a lesson. But Oscar seemed to be waiting for permission, paused at the narrow hallway less than a foot away from Carlos.

“So what you’re saying is,” Carlos said, “you haven’t celebrated.”

“No,” Oscar agreed. The wry twist of his lips was encouraging. “I have not.”

“Well,” Carlos said slowly. “What are you waiting for?”

Oscar’s spine stacked itself up, straight as can be. Impressive how quickly his demeanour changed. Imperturbable, unaffected Oscar, who was actually so perturbable and affected. Carlos was secretly delighted.

When Oscar planted himself at the edge of the bed, knees thrown apart with all the self-confidence of a race winner, Carlos went without a second thought. Knelt between Oscar’s legs obediently, and opened his mouth.

--

Oscar seemed to like Carlos’s hair. He kept his fingers knotted through, at times tugging hard enough for Carlos’s scalp to ache. It was a nice distraction, because Carlos wasn’t as much sucking as he was trying not to choke. Oscar hadn’t given him much time to adjust. His cock felt thick and inescapable in Carlos’s throat. Occasionally, Oscar would pull Carlos off by the hair, give him a shaky moment to breathe, before impaling Carlos back on his cock.

“Too much?” Oscar asked casually, when Carlos couldn’t stop the weak whimper forced out of his throat. “Ah, no. You like it.”

Of course Oscar would notice, Carlos growing harder by the second, while his hands fluttered uselessly under his thighs. His entire body jolted when Oscar nudged his foot against Carlos’s cock. Only enough to be the worst of teases. 

“Don’t whine,” Oscar said, when Carlos whined. “You made me wait two weeks.”

Carlos shivered. All he could comprehend was the weight of Oscar in his mouth. Solid, unforgiving. Drool slipped out, trailed down his chin. He didn’t want to think about the kind of picture he was making, looking up at Oscar like that. Pathetic enough for Oscar to soften.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be nice.” Oscar continued to stroke Carlos with the tip of his big toe. Carlos couldn’t stop himself from curving into a half-moon shape, in an attempt to chase the paltriest of touches. “I’ll let you come today, if you’re good.”

Too easy, too easy. Carlos wasn’t stupid. Oscar wasn’t looking to be nice today, not after what his team had done to him. There wasn’t any of the usual triumph available to dampen the blow.

Carlos squeezed his eyes shut, braced himself, when Oscar began to thrust in his mouth. He gagged, fighting for a wet gasp of air. His throat was a stinging mess of sensation. The dull ache in his lower belly was worse. Above him, Oscar groaned, and the curl of fingers in his hair became an iron-clench.

“That’s what you’re good for,” Oscar said. He sounded miles away from Carlos, disembodied. “Your mouth, fuck, taking me so well. Your ass.” Carlos trembled, his hole clenched. A premonition of what was to come. “That’s all you were made for, for—”

Oscar came suddenly, violently, hips twitching. Like that was enough for him, the idea of Carlos just being his for the taking.

That was fine. Oscar was a race winner, and Carlos had come in sixth, behind Charles. He didn’t yet have a seat. In the moment, Oscar’s come pooling on his tongue, it didn’t make him feel that bad.

--

Oscar had him strip down to just his briefs, the fabric wet and constricting around him. Air felt like pins against his overheated skin. He was face down, hips up, knees kicked wide. Vulnerable in a way he could never get used to.

Unsurprisingly, Oscar hadn’t touched Carlos after he came. It was a good thing Carlos’s throat was all used up; he wasn’t above begging.

Oscar ran a hand down the inside of Carlos’s thigh, and he seized up like he’d been tazed.

“Sensitive,” Oscar said. “You waxed for me?”

No, Carlos thought sourly, but all he could manage was a garbled sound. Oscar rubbed his hole roughly through the cloth of his briefs, and the sound tapered into a high-pitched whine.

“You want it,” Oscar said.

Yes. “Yes!” he yelped, when Oscar laid a flat palm across his ass. More shock than pain. He tilted his head such that his cheek was squashed into the sheets, the eye contact somehow making everything better and worse. “I want. Oscar.”

Oscar dragged his briefs down, only so much that it exposed his hole, and left it uncomfortably taut around his upper thighs. His cock was still clothed, still begging for a touch that didn’t feel like a scratch. Protest was a helpless shake of his head, and Oscar pinched the flesh of his ass, a little meanly.

“Always complaining,” Oscar said. “Always wanting more than you can have.” 

A quality that could have been used to describe any of them. And so what? So what if he wanted? Pride slammed Carlos’s throat shut again. All he could do was push his hips back, begging for it in a way he could deny later.

It seemed an eternity, by the time Oscar deigned to slip a lubed-up finger into him. Carlos felt as if he’d been waiting so long, his abdomen tightened, his toes curled. Oscar was content to pump one finger in and out of Carlos, giving him nothing else. He’d smack Carlos’s thigh, tug his hips up whenever he got too close to the bedspread, leaving him rutting mindlessly against air.

Couldn’t even voice his complains, for fear of opening his throat and letting any of that neediness escape. His cock was so hard he was afraid he’d start sobbing.

“Hey.” Oscar’s finger stilled in him. He sounded funny. Carlos rocked back, pleading for more, and got a stinging slap against his ass for his troubles. “Do you want to try something new?”

Carlos had to count, take stock. The patch of sheet under his mouth was damp with saliva. His shoulders were starting to ache, taking the brunt of his weight. His thighs would start to shake soon, even with all the biking he’d been doing. Anticipation always wore him down quick. His right big toe was cramping up. This was a trap.

“What,” he croaked. Curiosity was going to kill him, as surely as a carelessly taken corner. “What are you thinking?”

“I said I’d let you come today, but I don’t really—”

Oscar paused. Carlos swore he could hear a buzzing in the room. His pulse sounded like thunder in his ears. Every one of his senses tuned toward Oscar.

“Don’t really deserve it, do I? Don’t really deserve to fuck you.”

No. No.

“Hey, Carlos.”

“Please,” he whispered into the bed, but he didn’t think Oscar could hear.

“Let’s get Lando in here.”

Carlos knew the second his body gave himself up. He clenched wildly around Oscar’s finger, his cock jumped in the confines of his briefs, and his knees gave out.

“Ah,” Oscar said. His finger in Carlos crooked down, viciously enough for Carlos to see stars. Barely anything had been done, and Carlos was already a gasping, trembling pile. “You want it.”

Carlos let himself imagine it. Lando. Lando. Draped over him, covering every inch of his skin. Fucking him while Oscar watched. All that talk about not being deserving, but it was Oscar who got to peel back Carlos’s skin while he sat and did nothing. Oscar. Oscar. Oscar.

His mind was patchwork of burnt synapses. Distantly, he was aware his hips were twitching, rubbing pathetically against the sheets. It wasn’t enough. Wouldn’t be enough until Oscar gave him what he wanted.

And he wanted, God, he wanted.

“I, I.” He couldn’t form the right words, throat working uselessly. “Fuck, Oscar.”

“Shh,” Oscar said. “I’m calling him.”

--

“Oi. Osco.”

Carlos blinked muzzily. Hell. That was—Lando, stepping through the door. Carlos hadn’t even noticed the automatic lock click, so focussed he was on the three fingers spearing him open. But now all Carlos could hear were Lando’s footsteps, each one taking him closer to the bed.

“Lando,” Oscar said, deathly calm. “Glad you could make it.”

“You win one race and you think you can order me around—fuck.”

Carlos swallowed, his throat clicking. He couldn’t turn around to see what expression Lando was wearing. Couldn’t close his legs either. The surface of his skin felt as if it were on fire, all his shame on display. Oscar reached down, and tugged sharply on Carlos’s balls, and the whimper that slid out of him would haunt him for a long time.

“Oscar, what the fuck.” Said bewilderedly, but not uninterestedly.

The suggestive wonder in Lando’s voice had Carlos’s hole clamping down on Oscar’s fingers reflexively.

“Look at him,” Oscar said. “You just got here and he’s already gagging for it.”

“Oscar, again,” Lando said. “What the fuck?”

“Carlos needs someone to fuck him today,” Oscar said, as if they were discussing the weather. Or some produce at the supermarket. Look at this peach. Ripe and ready to eat. “Can’t be me though, right?”

A second ago Carlos couldn’t put together the jigsaw puzzle comprising of Lando’s face, while he looked at Carlos all spread out and leaking like a tap. But now, it slotted together, piece by perfect piece. Carlos sensed the moment Lando understood. The moment he accepted Oscar’s handshake over a chessboard.

“Right,” Lando said. “Can’t be you. Not after today.”

The silence that followed tore at Carlos, produced another whimper. Very different games from the ones he and Charles played. Maybe he’d just been driving in circles blind, this whole time, while everyone else made chess moves that far eclipsed the mid-field.

“Go on,” Oscar said. “He’s all ready and waiting for you.”

“Carlos?”

Almost sweet, the slight hesitation. Lando thinking to check, even while Oscar dangled Carlos in front of him, three fingers still thrusting in and out of Carlos as if he were a toy.

“Carlos,” Oscar cut in. The way they said his name was so unlike, wrapped in their own version of favour. “Tell Lando what you told me, just now. Tell him how much you want it.”

The order shot straight down his brainstem through his spine and into his dick. Carlos moaned, shifting desperately on his knees, thrusting his ass up higher. “Lando, please,” he said. “Please, fuck me.”

“Fucking Christ,” Lando said.

There was a muffled sound, skin on skin, with weight behind it. Lando shoving Oscar out of the way, tearing Oscar’s fingers unceremoniously out of Carlos. There came Oscar’s very bothered, unbothered scoff. Carlos wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. 

At least Lando was willing to tug his briefs down all the way, release Carlos’s cock which slapped against his stomach. He was so embarrassingly hard.

“He’s kept you waiting, huh, Carlos?”  The thin veneer of gentleness made the hair on Carlos’s forearms stand. Had Lando ever crooned so softly at him? Carlos couldn’t remember. Back in his McLaren days, maybe. The orange stained them all differently.

“And you’re making him wait even more,” Oscar said.

Carlos would grumble, if he knew he could get away with it. So now Oscar’s impatient? Now that there’s someone else in the room to witness Carlos falling apart?

“Fuck off, Oscar,” Lando said, media-trained pleasantness turned on full blast. The click of the lube, the slow, slick sounds of Lando stroking himself. By the time Lando pressed into Carlos, Carlos would have remade himself waiting, he was sure of it. “I’m doing your work for you, in case you forgot.”

“You’re both,” Carlos rasped, unable to bear their catfight any longer, “children—”

The stretch was almost bearable, after how brutally Oscar had played with his hole. All the breath punched out of Carlos’s lungs. He moaned piteously, even as he did his best to shove himself back on Lando’s cock. Carlos could choke on them both; he had the appetite for it.

“Baby,” Lando cooed, “you feel so, so—”

“He feels good,” Oscar said. Can’t let Lando get one over him. “He’s always, always, so fucking tight.”

Oscar was never careless with his words. Never. Not even when he complained about Carlos in front of god and country. Always. He knew what Lando would think. Three chess moves ahead.

The prickle of indignation fell to the wayside when Lando started fucking him, harder than Carlos thought Lando would ever touch him. No gentleness or finesse. His cock was an uncompromising stab in Carlos. He felt it all the way up his belly, even to his throat. Aftershocks of when he had Oscar in him. Lando was trying to redo it all. Carlos didn’t know how to break it to him that used was used.

Lando slipped out, in haste or contemplation, Carlos couldn’t tell. Were they both looking at his abused hole? Or were they looking at each other? Carlos’s mind was coming up blank.

Lando fucked back into him, finding his prostate, and Carlos cried out. Scratched at the bed thoughtlessly. He wasn’t holding himself up; he was barely holding on. Lando’s hands were wrapped around his hips, digging in bruises that Carlos would feel all the way to the next race. His cock dribbled pre, a mess on his stomach and the sheets.

“Oscar,” Carlos said.

He flinched when Lando smacked him on the thigh, hard. At a better time, Carlos would tell them they were two sides of the same coin. “I’m the one fucking you,” he said.

“He can’t come unless I say so,” Oscar said, voice dipped in satisfaction. “You want to, Carlos?”

“Yes,” Carlos gasped. “Yes, fuck, I want.”

“Ask for it,” Oscar said. “Go on, baby.”

Never a mistake. Carlos tossed his head, whined his displeasure. Lando was splitting him open and it still seemed as if Oscar had Carlos fit into the palm of his hand. Lando was going to see Carlos begging for it. That had been the plan from the very start.

Lando was silent. Carlos couldn’t be. No self-preservation left, worn down to the quick.

“Please,” Carlos sobbed. “Please, please, please, Oscar, please—”

Oscar’s hand found his wet, desperate cock, stroked him to the time of Lando’s increasingly irregular thrusts. “Good,” he said. “You can come, Carlos. You’ve worked for it.”

Carlos shook, every muscle tensing up, before thawing like melted butter. He came, mind wiped clean from the pleasure and the shame. Sparks rewiring him from the inside out. He fell forward, and there was Oscar’s arm, supporting him against the dull weight of Lando on his back. He twitched, moaned, mouth rising and falling in pleading shapes.

“Good,” Oscar said again.

--

“You can leave now,” Oscar was saying to Lando.

Carlos’s eyes were barely open. There was an arm around him, stroking his shoulder with a gentleness completely lacking before. Whose arm was it? Carlos couldn’t give a damn.

“Or shower, if you want, whatever. I don’t care.”

Don’t let him play you like that, Carlos wanted to say, but his tongue was too thick in his mouth. And anyway, he should probably take his own advice, before giving it. Carlos leaned into the doting hand with a sigh. He was sore everywhere a body could be sore.

The last thing he knew before falling, was the soft, apologetic press of lips against his. Slightly chapped, smelling of that godawful Papaw lip balm. In the far, faraway background, the sounds of the shower started. Someone murmured his name. But Carlos was too tired. They could continue this in the morning.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hi! Alright, that’s fine I’ll just request it again! So, I was wondering if it was alright to request blue beetle x reader where the reader takes the place of Jenny, however here, the reader and Jamie are already in a relationship. His family has already met them and loves them like family, however, their relationship is somehow kept a secret from the reader’s side of the family (so their aunt and other relatives doesn’t know). So I was just wondering if you could write like a fic or headcanons on what the story would look like under this scenario? Also, if it’s no trouble, could you give me some indication you got this request?

If this is looking a little too short, it’s because I didn’t know where else to take it without feeling a little redundant and rubbish.

You weren’t ashamed of your perfect boyfriend nor his amazing family that have treated you as though you were apart of the family.

However, your eccentric family, a topic you have discussed with both Jaime and his family prior to your blooming relationship, mainly because you didn’t like having to withhold information from the people you’ve spent building a strong and unbreakable trust with. It wouldn’t feel right to leave them in the dark about your unsteady relationships with your own family.

Jaime, being the most amazing person that he is, understood your situation and despite his curiosity as to how your relationships have became so strained, he’s not one to pry in things that have nothing to do with him personally. But he made it incredibly apparent that he was there for you if you were to ever get into that can of worms as he holds you tightly against him, hands rubbing your back and or arms as he pressed his head against your own whilst pressing comforting kisses and words into your skin; making everything feel right again.

Ain’t he just the absolute fucking best?

However it would only be a matter of time when your family do end up finding out about your relationship, whether it was an accident slip of the lip or otherwise, however during this time you probably would’ve most likely grown to not give a single shit about they’re inevitable disapproval of you and how you’d been tarnishing the family name, or some other bollocks that is honestly so textbook of them. So to speak but upon hearing them speaking ill of Jaime or his family, that’s where the line was crossed for you and without an ounce of hesitation you defend your boyfriend and his family with your whole heart.

Telling your own family how they (Jaime’s) were 10000x the people then they’d ever be and so on that by the end of it, despite your breathlessness of speaking your whole mind until your lungs ran out of breath- you felt as though you could still go for a good while longer on how amazing and inspirational Jaime and his family are and how you’re honoured, blessed, grateful for being given a chance to experience that first hand.

You were so emotionally charged as memories of you, Jaime, Milagro and the family came flooding to the forefront. You finished your impassioned speech with something like; ‘you can talk down to me, walk all over me, degrade me, I’ll let that slide but doing the same to my boyfriend and his family? I just can’t allow that.’

[scottishmushroom]

Gif credit: @dancingcrowley

I think by now we can agree that the Job minisode and Crawley’s Bildad(dy) the Shuite is a crucial time for not only Crowley’s personal journey, but between him and Aziraphale. And at the risk of redundancy, I have to break this scene down because I think it’s critical to understanding them as a group of the two of them, as well as the fact that I think it’s a complete turning point in their relationship.

Aziraphale shows up, and seemingly gives a last ditch effort to thwart Crawley’s plan to destroy Job’s children. Crawley begins sowing seeds of doubt in Aziraphale, though I don’t believe he’s doing this to be cruel. This is the beginning of the “I go along as far as I can” mindset. Aziraphale states he gets to do what God wants, and Crawly counters it with “Like killing innocent children and winning a bet with Satan?”. Seed of doubt. Aziraphale at this point looks up towards heaven as though they’ll be overheard, and says he doesn’t believe that is what God wants. Now, this is where we can leave things up to guesswork because we don’t know what God ultimately wants. That’s not what’s important here. What’s important is that we’re establishing trust and faith, which I will get into momentarily.

Next, we get the very intimate back and forth where they’re almost nose to nose. Aziraphale asserting he doesn’t believe killing Job’s children is what Crawley really wants, and that he knows him. Aziraphale demands Crawley to tell him that he wants to do it (kill Job’s children) and Crawley removes his glasses. Let’s pause here. Crawley removed. his. glasses. At this point in history, he’s using them to cover his snake eyes. Of course Aziraphale already knows what his eyes look like, but to remove them here in this moment is a show of vulnerability. Typically we see him remove his glasses to be intimidating, but I don’t believe that’s what’s going on here. Especially to do so in such close quarters is just delicious to me.

Crawley: I want to. I long to destroy the blameless children of blameless Job just as I destroyed his blameless goats.

One of Crawley’s favorite things to say is “I’m a demon, I lied.” So what makes the statement above so powerful is that he didn’t lie. He told Aziraphale the truth. He wants to kill Job’s children just as much as he wanted to kill the goats. Which we will soon learn was not at all. He’s stealthily saying “I don’t want to kill his children just as I didn’t want to kill the goats”. Why didn’t he just lie?? He made a choice here to speak his truth (albeit in a covert way) when it would’ve been much more simple to lie to Aziraphale. But he didn’t want to.

Aziraphale, thinking he’s a killer of kids (both human and goat) responds with “May God forgive you” and begins to leave. Crawley could’ve left the conversation here and continued on with whatever plan he had to not actually kill the children. But Crawley doesn’t want God’s forgiveness. He wants Aziraphale’s.

Those crows did not start making goat noises on their own. Crawley did that. He needed Aziraphale to know that he’s not a monster. He, a demon, cares what an Angel thinks of him. This was such a gamble. I don’t think at this point they had a lot of history together to establish a semblance of trust and faith in one another. So Crawley showing his hand and revealing that he didn’t actually kill the goats is huge. This could’ve easily led to his destruction if Aziraphale told anyone the truth. But he put his faith in someone else (probably for the first time since he fell from Heaven) and who was there to catch him this time? His Angel.

I yield my time.

[beybaldes]

I’ve been thinking ‘bout you

summer sleepover masterlist

will kitman x gn!reader

summary : “buying your favorite books (esp. when they know nothing abt it but still buys it anyways because he knows how much you like them)” requested by anon

content warning : i made up the book plot so no spoilers for anything real

an : I love will kitman and I love books and I love the anon who requested this title is Frank ocean from Chanel Orange vine referencers rise up

“So I’ve read the whole thing, right? And I’ve got, like 2 pages left, and everything’s been resolved so I’m thinking; it’s just some filler for a conclusive ending, right? Wrong!”

You and Will were hiding away in the boot room. Thanks to the colder weather and couple of inches of snow that had covered the pitch, Ted had limited practice to inside today, which meant you and Will were practically redundant to the team today. Not that you were complaining. There was nowhere you’d rather be then cooped up with the cute kitman.

Will, ever the sweetheart, was happily listening to you rang about the book you’d been reading this week. He’d caught you reading it several times through out the week, asking for updates each time he saw you sneaking in a page or two and each time you’d very happily given him them. Beard and Roy were the only other people around the dog track that shared your love of reading, but the three of you had started a book club, so you’d lost the ability to discuss it with them until your bi-weekly lunch where you’d discuss ideas and pick out your next read.

“The last two pages basically undid the plot of the whole of the book and put them back at square one but with even less of an advantage then they did the first time.”

“Why would they do that? I thought they’d come up with a way to make sure the guy stayed dead?” Will was putting on a third wash for the teams kits in the two hours you’d been hiding in the boot room together; the whole room extra warm from the bumbling of the washing machine and the smell of the lavender detergent Will liked to use filling the room.

“Sounds like they’re trying to set up a second book, and I mean, obviously, I’m going to read it, I just wish they’d come up with a better way to set up a sequel - like, give them a new quest or something.”

As Will finished loading up the washing machine and setting it off, he took a seat next to you on the boot room bench, letting his hands fall into his lap where he fiddled with his fingers nervously. “So, you’ll probably be wanting that second book in the series, right?”

“Yeah, definitely.” You confirmed, running your fingers up and down the cover of the first book in the series. Even though the ending had pissed you off, you’d enjoyed it until then, and you weren’t going to let 2 bad pages ruin the 378 good ones. “I might try and convince Beard and Roy to read it next at book club later this week.”

“Well, regardless of if they want to read it or not, you definitely should.” Will leant away from you, appearing back at your side with a hand tucked awkwardly behind his back. Once he’d sat up straight again, he breathed in shakily, then pushed his hand in your general direction, the second book of the series in his palm. “I bet it’s good.”

“Will.” You cooed, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a tight hug. Startled, he didn’t hug you back, but made the most of the opportunity and kept one arm around you when you pulled away. “You didn’t have to get me this.”

“I wanted to.” He shrugged, freezing once more when your head met his shoulder. “I really liked it this week when you were updating me on what happened in it. I was kind of hoping…. You’d do it with this one too?”

Will thought he was going to melt under the burning adoration of your gaze.

“You’re so cute.” If his cheeks hadn’t been burning bright red at the contact you were sharing, they would’ve been now. “Of course I can, I’d love to.”

With a gasp, you stood from the bench, moving closer to the corner of the boot room next to the washing machines, dragging Will with you by his hand. You didn’t let go when you took a seat, pulling him to sit in the corner so that you could lean against him, knees bent and book open against them.

“I can start right now, if you’d like?”

Will smiled softly, a hand instinctively coming up to brush your hair out of your eyes as you tilted your head back to look at him better. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

The two of you spent the rest of your day at the dog track getting a head start on your new book, only stopping when the two of you dozed off in each others arms, your calming voice sending Will to sleep and the warmth of him bringing you to sleep soon after.

[fortressofserenity]

Maddening redundancy

Whilst this isn’t unique to the DC and Marvel stories, these two publishers have a penchant for maddeningly redundant characters. Especially if there’s little attempt at making them stand out in any meaningful way, but one that comes with the risk of turning them into somebody else. Particularly the ___family characters like the Superman family or the Batman family, to make matters worse there are characters outside of their circles who could serve similar roles and positions. Perhaps this is the big problem with Supergirl, who’s pretty much Superman’s female counterpart and cousin.

It’s not just that she’s very derivative of him, but also because another character (Wonder Woman) could do many of the same things as she does. So it would be real hard making her stand out in a way that doesn’t make her into somebody else, let alone for long considering the time Peter David turned her into an angel. She went back into being Superman’s cousin by the mid-2000s, though one where each storytelling direction grew unclearer. Something similar happened again in the 2010s and 2020s where she’s gone from being Superman’s cousin to a part of Justice League and then the Red Lanterns.

Then come 2021 where she’s all grown up and drunk, not helped by that editors and writers can’t help but bring along more Superman family characters, even though I think in hindsight Supergirl alone would’ve been enough. She’s already this much of a narrative handful, so why bother bringing in Jonathan Kent and bringing back Kon-El? With Supergirl being the only surviving member of Superman’s biological family, she could easily fulfill the dual role of female counterpart and junior sidekick. But Superman’s not alone in here, especially when it comes to this nonsense.

The Flash as a story can’t outrun this same problem, as it’s been played out between Barry Allen and his protege Wally West. This is likely the reason why Barry Allen had been dormant as a character, Wally West didn’t just occupy his position but also came to absorb his other traits such as having a reporter wife, twins and even his occupation as a scientist in the Bruce Timm productions. Bringing Wally West back was a big mistake in hindsight, if because his return made either one of them redundant. If there’s ever an alternative way to keep Barry around is to make him into Jay Garrick.

A senior statesman but this time representing the Justice League, time has passed and he should have just settled for being the grandfather figure Jay ended up as. Now as for Caitlin Snow and Leonard Snart, it’s the same problem as both make ice. The best solution would be to give Caitlin entirely different powers, but that practically and essentially turns her into somebody else. Preferably as a werewolf, but this gives you an idea of how redundant she is when the Flash long had Captain Cold as the resident ice character.

No wonder why the telly writers kept on giving her alternate personas, they’re stuck with nothing better to do with her when they should’ve stuck with Leonard more. If she does become a werewolf for good, then it would be more sensible for Leonard to be the Flash’s default ice character. Comes to think of this way, giving him actual powers isn’t much of a stretch compared to what Caitlin will be getting where she becomes a werewolf for good this year. I don’t think her fans will be comfortable realising this.

If because the ice character part’s already taken by Captain Cold, he could easily do whatever she does or possibly even better. But partly why this redundancy persists is because people develop strong attachments to these characters, regardless of how much of a narrative nuisance they turn out to be. If they did bother doing away these superfluous characters, it would be a hard decision to do even if it turns out for the better. At least you have more clearly defined characters this way, both role and power wise.

That and franchising, but something that has turned out for the worse.

[executionersghost]

20. what is something your muse wants to tell others, but is too afraid to? / for a muse of your choosing :)

Headcanon meme || accepting

Perhaps it is a bit redundant, but she is afraid of telling others that she is…afraid. Afraid of her affliction. Afraid of her own body. Afraid of facing it all alone. Yet to tell others would be an admittance that she was becoming yet another thing that needed to be hunted, and she’s far too haughty to beg to be spared, if only for a little while.

[twst-drabbles]

Riddle 4

Summary: You’ve recently come home with a jar filled with candied roses, as they were on sale. You wake up from a nap with the top unscrewed and some of them missing.

About three of the roses were missing from the jar. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, blinked again, and recounted them, only to be met with the same number. Kind of redundant to do so when the top is sitting on the floor, as though discarded away, and an open window just a few feet away from the very jar that had some of it’s contents stolen.

You never really considered yourself a deep sleeper—well, not lately, on the account of the pets you have—so the fact that you didn’t wake up as soon as that metal lid hit the floor had you rather baffled. You didn’t think walking back from the store would leave you that tired.

Putting that aside, your candied roses have been stolen, at least some of them. You’re not exactly angry, since you still had a sizable portion to pick from, but you know this was likely to happen again, so might as well put a stop to it before any pet gets comfortable with stealing your things.

You grabbed the lid and resealed the jar. Snatching it from the counter, you unlocked a drawer and stuffed it in there.

Now you can investigate the back to see which little shithead decided to snatch the roses.

You entered the backyard, making sure to keep your steps from being too heavy. Acting normal was usually enough for a guilty party to give away their shame. Your first culprit, or rather pair of culprits, was Ace and Deuce.

The reason why was pretty self explanatory.

However, as weird as it was to believe, they weren’t acting any different than usual. Ace was over there by a hedge, individually ripping out dead or sick leaves with his usual gusto, while Deuce was carefully ripping up said foliage. Seems they’re on mulch duty again.

See, they’re not exactly very smart. If they were guilty of anything, they wouldn’t even be here. They’d be hiding somewhere. So, you simply walked right past them to check on Trey and Cater.

You’re not exactly suspicious of Cater to be perfectly honest, since he didn’t like sweets, but that’s not to say he’s completely off the list. He’s stolen candies for Riddle and Trey before. However, when you made to the rose area, Cater merely waved at you with water dew he’s been placing on the petals while Trey carefully changed out the dirt with freshly made mulch.

Cater, when feeling guilty, was a kiss up while Trey never fully connects with your eyes. So that marks them both off the list.

Riddle was the last one to check up on, and he wasn’t near his rose. If he’s not there, then he’s likely in the rose tree area.

And that’s when you finally found your culprit, standing high on his roots while he tilts his head in confusion at the tree he’s standing in front of, candies roses settled right next to him. Riddle looked down, commanding roots to pick the roses a little higher in front of his face. He squinted at them, patted at their hard petals before looking back at the empty tree. With a tiny clap of his hands, Riddle made roses bloom out of the tree.

But they weren’t the right color. They were too dark, almost dead looking.

A sigh of frustration left the tiny rose nymph. He retracted the roses and tried again, but they came out wrong once more. Too bright this time, with a weird scent that almost hurt your head.

“Riddle.”

He jumped, tripping over a root and would’ve fallen to the ground had you not been so close. He was easy enough to catch.

You sighed out, “Can’t believe you stole from me, Riddle.”

His cheeks puffed up, both out of annoyance and shame. Guilt had him eventually hang his head.

You poked him, correcting his posture. “At least ask so I can give some to you.”

Can’t have any of them thinking you’ll let things slide just because you were napping.

[bakuthedeku]

their everyday game

Read on AO3

Words: 3,000

Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

Things Midoriya Izuku is: A student, a sugar baby, a boyfriend, a brat.

Things Midoriya Izuku is not: Patient.

Or: Izuku wants attention from Kacchan and he is going to get it.

A commissioned fic for @insinirate !

Clack clack clack. The room is silent but for the steady breaths of its occupants and the rhythmic beat of fingers on plastic. Clear, wall-to-ceiling windows wash the sun’s gentle light into the room, and reveal a picturesque view of the sparkling city, looking like something straight out of a magazine.

Izuku glares at the extravagant view. He bets Kacchan is writing another one of those stupid reports of his.

Buzz. The clacking halts and Kacchan glances at his work phone for but a moment before the typing resumes.

Izuku takes a deep breath. Holds it. Puffs out his cheeks.

He slumps over in his seat and sighs obnoxiously.

God, he’s so damn bored.

Kacchan said he had to get one more hour of work done, and then he’d take a break. That had been almost three hours ago. ‘One hour’ had turned into two when Izuku left Kacchan to get ready for their lunch date and had foolishly gone straight to the cafe instead of meeting up with Kacchan at the office first. He’d waited all of ten minutes at their usual table before calling a company car and returning to find Kacchan still working in his office.

If not for Kacchan’s genuine surprise at the time and his gruff, yet sweet apologies, he would be a dead man already.

But Izuku still isn’t satisfied. Kacchan needs a break, and Izuku needs attention, stat. There’s only one solution: Izuku’s gonna annoy the shit out of Kacchan. So Izuku sucks in another breath and pouts at the ceiling. “Kacchaaaaan!”

Kacchan sighs, but he doesn’t respond. The silence in the room grows thick with expectation; Izuku’s long-perfect attention-seeking tone signals the start of the game they play every day.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the clack of keys and occasional buzz from Kacchan’s work phone. Izuku wriggles against his plush seat, making the leather squeak obnoxiously, and clears his throat daintily, earning himself a glance. “Kacchan, I’m hungry…” Izuku peaks at Kacchan from beneath fluttering eyelashes.

Kacchan shifts his eyes back to his computer and types another line, pointedly loud against the room’s still silence.

When they play this game, whoever breaks first (or whoever wants whatever they’re after more) will relent and go to the other, so this can go one of two ways; Izuku will pull himself from his lounging position to drape himself over Kacchan, or Kacchan will pull himself from his work and lavish Izuku with the attention he deserves.

Today, Izuku takes it upon himself to move things forward—Kacchan is in one of those moods where it could take hours to break him down, and Izuku needs results now.

So with an impatient, gusty sigh pulled deep from his lungs, Izuku heaves himself up and slinks over to Kacchan’s grand desk, stalking up from behind him. When Kacchan makes the mistake of glancing at Izuku from the corner of his eye, Izuku pounces.

Izuku wrenches Kacchan’s chair around and jumps into his lap, laying himself over Kacchan as well as the plush arms of his chair. Kacchan grunts out a quiet oof at the sudden weight but wraps an arm around his waist nonetheless.

“I’m working, Deku,” Kacchan says dryly.

“Actually, Kacchan, I think you’ll find that you’re cuddling me and giving me attention right now, and I can’t imagine why you’d want to stop.”

Kacchan exhales quietly and wrestles down the corners of his lips—it’s not quite a smile, but it’s a good enough start for Izuku. “I have a lot to do, so as much as I’d love to keep giving you all the attention you desire, I really do have to get back to work.”

Izuku wraps an arm around Kacchan’s neck and pretends to think, then shakes his head solemnly. “Unfortunately, it’s a no from me. I’m hungry and I want lunch.”

“Then go get lunch.”

Izuku gives Kacchan a look for being deliberately obtuse.

“I’ll order in for you, then,” Kacchan offers.

Izuku huffs and pushes himself away from his comfortable spot against Kacchan’s broad chest. “Not good enough, Kacchan! We organised a lunch date, so I am getting a lunch date. Now.” Izuku sticks out his chin and dares Kacchan to say no.

Eyes lock. Izuku stares with determination, burying his will into impenetrable crystal red and steadfastly ignoring their alluring pull. Kacchan makes an aborted noise in the back of his throat, as if he was about to say something stupid but thought better of it, and finally sighs.

“Half an hour.”

Izuku smiles sweetly. “Two. You’re late, so you’ve accrued interest.”

Kacchan decides to focus on their negotiations over Izuku’s mockingly business-like tone: “Forty-five is the best you’re going to get from me.”

“An hour, not including travel time, or I’ll get our contract from your room and tear it up myself.” Izuku juts out a petulant lip. He’d never do it, but it gets his point across—Izuku isn’t budging on this.

Kacchan stares hard for a moment, then sags and rests his head in the crook of Izuku’s neck. “You’re such an annoying little shit,” he murmurs, warm against Izuku’s skin.

Izuku hides his smile in Kacchan’s hair and holds him tight. Another victory secured.

/-/

The cafe is a relaxing, familiar space for Izuku. He’s been a regular since before his arrangement with Kacchan began, and when it breached the confines of Kacchan’s highrise office, it was only natural Izuku would drag Kacchan to his favourite little spot.

After enough of their regular visits, the staff have stopped staring at Kacchan and his crisp suits and shiny Rolex watches, and they interact more or less normally with the pair when they stop by.

They place their orders, as usual, and Kacchan pays, as usual, before they settle in their favourite corner, waiting for drinks and food.

Izuku relaxes into his plush chair. He breathes in happiness, the scent of sugar and coffee and Kacchan’s handsome cologne, and breathes out his worries. He’s already plotting ways to extend the hour he was so graciously granted.

On the table before him is a generous slice of cake, which is ‘not a meal,’ according to Kacchan, but Izuku wanted it and he doesn’t care what Kacchan has to say about it. Kacchan is still waiting on his own food; some kind of salmon dish, which is about the fanciest thing he might be able to get his hands on at a casual place like this.

Before Kacchan can grouse at Izuku further, Izuku digs into his treat with no regard for manners, or as Kacchan calls them, “basic fucking social etiquette.” Whenever Kacchan attempts to spout this particular kind of bullshit, Izuku rather enjoys pointing out the hypocrisy of Kacchan of all people criticising other people’s social graces.

Izuku glances at Kacchan and licks his lips before he fills his mouth with fluffy, sugary goodness, making eye-contact with him as he lets out an exaggerated moan. “So good,” Izuku takes care to lick his lips and smiles, warm and sweet like molten honey.

Kacchan rolls his eyes, but he swallows like his mouth is dry. “You’re a damn menace, you little brat,” he says hoarsely, despite the way his eyes have been stuck on Izuku’s lips since he licked them.

“Hey!” Izuku kicks out with all the gentleness of a fussy toddler, landing a solid kick on Kacchan’s shin. “Don’t be mean. You would’ve missed our lunch date altogether if I hadn’t dragged you here.” Izuku tilts his head and gives an Oscar-worthy kicked-puppy pout.

“Deku…” Kacchan obviously misses the point of his pouting by a mile, because now he just looks sad, and that is not what Izuku was going for! “I’m sorry I forgot, baby. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you, it’s just...”

“You’re busy,” Izuku finishes for him, and leans across the table to (affectionately) swat his dumb boyfriend’s head. “I know. I’m not mad, but I do want your attention right now, so cut out the sadness and shower me with compliments like you’re supposed to.”

This earns a snort of laughter from Kacchan, who finally catches on and plays along with their usual game. His whole face brightens with his smile. “Ah yes, of course, dear. How could I spend even a second not overwhelming you with compliments?”

Izuku nods seriously. “Exactly. I’m just so shocked. You should know better than to neglect me by now,” Izuku winks, “Daddy.”

Kacchan makes a point of rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling broadly now, all teeth and crinkled eyes. “Alright, you’ve made your point, asshole. Eat your stupid cake already.”

/-/

Once they’ve eaten, and the redundant alarm Kacchan had set goes off, they return to the car. It’s time for Izuku to execute his plan.

Before Kacchan can put his belt on like the square he is, Izuku swings a leg over his lap and wraps himself around his boyfriend. Kacchan raises a questioning eyebrow before Izuku makes his demand: “Take me shopping.”

Kacchan smacks his head back against the headrest dramatically. “You have my card. I’ll have the driver drop you off wherever you want to go, okay?”

“I said take me shopping, not send me. You have to be there or there’s no use! Kacchan needs to come with me.”

Kacchan looks sad, then, and the stupid man has apparently learnt a thing or two from Izuku, because he’s got the bestest, heart-wrenchingest puppy-dog eyes without even trying. Resting his forehead against Izuku’s, Kacchan sighs softly against his lips. “You know I spend as much time as I can with you, baby. I can only ignore my work for so long, for you.”

Izuku aches, sudden and raw. “Oh, Kacchan… I know you’re busy, you work so hard! Kacchan really is amazing. But sometimes I want to be selfish and snatch up more of your time. You put too much pressure on yourself at work. You have so many employees so you don’t have to run yourself in the ground.”

“There are things my employees can’t do-”

“Like stopping you from working yourself to death? Right, that’s my job.” Izuku wiggles in Kacchan’s lap and captures his lips in a whisper-soft kiss. “So let me take care of you.” Izuku flutters his eyelashes and pulls his trump card. “Please, Daddy?” he asks, words sugar-sweet on his lips.

Cheeks glowing a suspicious strawberry red, Kacchan huffs and grabs Izuku by the waist, easily picking him up off his lap and depositing him on the seat next to him. He waits patiently for Kacchan to break, all the while butterflies dance in Izuku’s belly at his Daddy’s casual display of strength.

“The hell do you need so badly anyway?”

Truthfully, Izuku has no idea what he would wish to buy. Spoiled as he is, there are few things he’s wanted through life that he doesn’t now own, thanks to Kacchan. “I saw this gorgeous lingerie set and I just have to try it on before I buy it. And I need you there to tell me how good it looks,” Izuku states matter-of-factly.

Kacchan clears his throat and pinches Izuku’s cheek. “Fine. Let’s go look at this lingerie, then, baby.”

/-/

Izuku drags Kacchan out of the car by his hand and refuses to let go even after they’ve made it inside the shopping center.

“Come on, come on, I wanna see what this store has!” With Kacchan in tow, Izuku makes a beeline for his favourite lingerie store.

Izuku chatters away as he makes his way up and down the store, fluttering about pretty displays and shiny, luxurious lingerie sets hung up on the walls. He semi-consciously gives Kacchan a consistent stream of observations, rhetorical questions and mumbled postulations about what Kacchan might like best. He picks out half a dozen sets in just a few minutes, handing each one over to Kacchan for him to judge and/or hold like a handsome sentient display rack.

Soon enough, Kacchan flags down someone from the store to do the grunt work for him as he follows Izuku around the store like a loyal dog, face warring between fondness and annoyance.

Izuku is quite certain that the fondness far outweighs the annoyance, though. Izuku is, after all, impossible to hate.

After completing one circuit of the store, Kacchan interrupts Izuku before he can begin on a second. “What happened to the ‘one’ set you wanted, huh?” The man crosses his arms like a brute, biceps flexing handsomely as he pours disapproval into the question.

Izuku tuts at him. “There’s nothing wrong with browsing. Just look at how pretty this one is!” Izuku pulls out the dainty belt and harness set he was looking at, wiggling it around for Kacchan’s judgment.

“Mm,” Kacchan acknowledges, carefully collected as he judges the set. With his nod of approval, Izuku gleefully adds it to his soon-to-be-towering pile of things to try on, heedless of the fact that Kacchan immediately passes it off to the poor retail worker trailing after them.

Kacchan crosses his arms. “Don’t think I don’t realise what you’re doing, baby boy.”

Izuku ought to feel sheepish at being caught out so easily, but it’s to be expected when he’s trying to con Kacchan. Instead, he tilts his head and bats his big, round eyes, the perfect picture of innocence. “But Daddy, what exactly are you going to do about it?”

Kacchan crosses his arms, but Izuku’s got him there. Kacchan wants to see Izuku in this lingerie just as much as Izuku wants to try them on. And if all of this has the bonus of Izuku keeping Kacchan to himself for a little longer, then they don’t need to talk about that, really.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Kacchan says, and Izuku giggles, wrapping his arms around his Daddy’s neck.

“I can think of a few reasons,” he laughs. “Now come tell me how pretty I look in these!”

/-/

The driver has to help them get everything into the car. As soon as they’re in, Kacchan orders the driver to start the car and get them back to his work quickly.

It’s cute that Kacchan thinks they’d be going anywhere near his office if not for Izuku allowing it.

“Are you satisfied now, brat?” Kacchan asks, pulling on his seatbelt only after the car has started moving (ooh, rebellious).

Izuku hums. He takes a long few moments to rearrange the copious amount of bags around him, just because he can. He pretends to think very hard about it before nodding exaggeratedly. “Yes, I think I am. For today, at least.”

When Kacchan groans, Izuku shuts him up with a kiss, and they smile like kids in love against each other’s lips.

/-/

Deku seems to have tuckered himself out during their shopping trip, which is understandable considering the sheer amount of clothes he insisted he try on before making Katsuki buy everything for him. He spends the car ride back draped over Katsuki’s side, giving a docile little mumble every now and then when he sees a dog on the sidewalk or a pretty flower that apparently reminds him of Katsuki’s eyes.

(How can the fucker get even cuter than usual just because he tired himself out being a whiny brat all day? How is that fair at all to Katsuki’s heart? Not to mention his wallet...)

(It’s not like Katsuki can’t afford it, but damn, lingerie is surprisingly fucking expensive.)

Katsuki carefully shakes Deku awake when they arrive, because he has learnt the hard way that if he leaves Deku to doze or wakes him too quickly, there will be hell to pay. So he accepts Deku’s blindly groping hand into his own and leads him into the building, where Izuku says something vague about harassing his friend in reception and stumbles off, bleary-eyed.

Katsuki has some interns come down and transfer Deku’s things into his private car so he can attempt to get some work done before Deku makes it upstairs. Deku usually settles down after a few hours of monopolising Katsuki’s time and attention, but with the mood he’s in today, Katsuki doesn’t like his chances of getting anything else done.

He’s gotten as far as opening up an email from a partner company when the door clicks open and Deku sashays in like he owns the place.

And, okay. Katsuki owns the place, and Deku has him wrapped around his pinky finger, so he does own the place in every way but name. But only Katsuki is allowed to know that, god damn it.

“You look like a bumbling fawn like that,” Katsuki informs him, just to see Deku’s sleepy eyes flash with indignation, and watch his cheeks glow a pretty, flustered pink.

Deku’s response doesn’t disappoint, and his nose even scrunches up like a disgruntled bunny, but Katsuki’s gone and shot himself in the foot because now Deku is stomping up to him in a way that says he means business. Deku collapses heavily and claims the space of Katsuki’s lap, steadfast in the fact that it is his and his alone.

Deku slaps him petulantly on the chest. “Meanie,” he mumbles, and curls up on Katsuki’s lap, nestling his head beneath his chin and settling against him, a puzzle piece slotted perfectly in its place. “I’m tired,” Deku says, as if that isn’t obvious already.

Kastuki huffs, presses a feather-soft kiss to the crown of his head. “Just rest, idiot.”

“‘Mkay Daddy…”

Katsuki strokes his fingers through the softness of Izuku’s hair and cradles him as Deku’s body relaxes into Katsuki’s own. “Good boy,” he murmurs.

Pressed tenderly together, Deku continues babbling quietly to fill the peaceful sunset air. Katsuki nods along and holds his baby securely in his arms until he floats off into sleep.

Clack clack clack. With a watchful eye on Deku, lovely and sleep-soft against his chest, Katsuki quietly gets back to work.

[angryinternetduck]

Bet On It

HELLO i’m back again with not only another fic but another friends to lovers!!! here’s 5.9k on hotel mishaps, long-term bets, and falling in love. featuring harry styles x reader with just a few warnings of explicit language and alcohol consumption.

enjoy!!!

masterlist | ask

***

Five Years Ago

If you hadn’t met him an hour before in the bar of the hotel, you would’ve said no. Share a hotel room with a stranger just because the hotel fucked up and double booked a room? No. Absolutely not.

Except -

His name was Harry. He was very cute. And sweet. He complimented your shoes in the bar, dimpling at you all cutely before holding out his hand and introducing himself. He let you prattle on for way too long, laughing at all your jokes and nodding gravely when you started getting serious.

And surprisingly, when you said you had to go, he didn’t ask you out or try to kiss you. He just told you it was nice to meet you with a smile. Problem was that that wasn’t the last you saw of him; when you went up to the desk to get your key card, the receptionist informed you of the mistake.

“We’ve double booked it. You’ll have to work it out amongst yourselves,” they said. “We can suggest other places to stay, or you can sleep in the lobby. Or - of course, you can always share. He’s over there. Guy in the pink shirt.”

You looked over, and lo and behold…

“Harry.”

“We meet again.”

“Was this your doing?” you joked. “All that to get me in a room with you?”

Harry grinned. “I wish I were that smart.”

“So just coincidence?”

“Or perhaps fate,” Harry replied with a shrug.

“Did you know?” you asked. “When you, uh - introduced yourself?”

He shook his head and said, “Not that it was you.”

“Well, now that you do, what do you say? Share the room?”

Harry tilted his head from side to side, pondering. “Let’s prove it was fate,” he decided, meeting your gaze with a grin. Your brows furrowed, and he clarified. “Rock, paper, scissors. I win, we’ll share. You win, I’ll find somewhere else to stay.” He held out his fist.

“Won’t make me find somewhere else?” you asked, smiling a bit. “Would rather share?”

He shrugged.

“Alright, then.”

Both of you counted silently, in your heads -

Rock, paper, scissors…

Harry grinned, and you made a fist from your scissors to bump his rock.

“Fate it is,” you said.

Fate proved to be in your favor; that night, you had the most fun you’d ever had in your life. To your surprise, however, the fun didn’t involve sex. Just talking. You sat on the bed drinking booze from the minifridge and talking until dawn with this Harry Styles.

It came up at one point, sex - or at least kissing did - but neither ever happened.

It was around three, when the exhaustion had set in, when you were lying down, gazing into each other’s eyes, half asleep. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” he’d whispered, and you grinned at him. “I should be asking you that, don’t you think?”

He looked confused. “Why’s that?”

“You’re the one in love with me,” you told him.

He giggled, rubbing his eyes. “And what makes you say that?”

“You wanted to share!” you exclaimed, like it was obvious, because it was.

“Sharing is caring.”

You bounced your brows. “Caring. Loving.”

Harry laughed and insisted, “Not the same!”

“I’d bet a million bucks you’re in love with me,” you murmured, tapping his nose.

“Then a million bucks you’d lose.”

“You will be,” you said, nodding slightly.

“Yeah?” Harry asked, a smile growing on his lips.

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a million bucks to give me on my deathbed when I still only care?” he said.

“Do you have a million bucks to give me when you confess?” you said back.

He stared at you for a second. His eyes were very green, his smile very wistful. “A kiss.”

“A kiss?” you echoed.

Harry nodded. “I will bet you one kiss that I will never fall in love with you.”

“You’re gonna want a lot more than one kiss when you inevitably do,” you whispered.

“At least one kiss,” he amended.

“At least one kiss,” you agreed.

“Shake on it?”

You both shifted around in the bed so you could shake hands without sitting up.

“It’s a bet,” Harry said.

And so it was.

***

Present Day

“Give it to me straight, Styles,” you greet Harry, plopping down at your table with a sigh.

He hesitates for a moment, drawing out the suspense, and then breathes, “Care.”

You shake your head disappointedly. “Unbelievable, how bad you are at lying, you -”

Harry interrupts, “What’s really unbelievable is your tardiness -”

Then you do: “Your annoyingness -”

He pouts and fires back, “Your vocabulary -”

“Your lack thereof -”

“That’s not proper English.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “You’re not proper English.”

“I promise you I am,” he replies with a smirk.

“I’ve always thought the accent was fake.”

“If it were, I’d be the greatest impersonator to walk the earth.”

“Impersonator?” you repeat. “And tell me, what is an impersonator but a talented liar?”

He gives you a grin. “I’ll take the compliment of talented, thank you.”

Leveling his gaze, you smile back and take a sip of your drink. “You know, I think that actually was proper English,” you muse. “Lack thereof. Your vocabulary - or lack thereof.” Harry bites his lip, eyes narrowed, staring at you, and you’re tempted to joke that his focus is lust when he replies, “It’s still wrong. I was saying your vocabulary is naive, and by saying I have none, you’re fundamentally saying the same. It’s redundant.”

Clearly satisfied with himself, he sits back, smiles smugly, and takes a sip of his coffee.

“Harry Styles,” you say, “I’m going to smack that smirk right off your pretty face.”

“Second compliment in a day!” Harry exclaims. “Someone alert the press.”

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your own drink. “Why, they’d have a field day.”

The little cafe you’re in is absolutely adorable. It’s midway between your place and Harry’s, and after that fateful night in the hotel (during which you learned you live so close to each other), you began a tradition of meeting here once a week.

Tradition doesn’t end with just the location and time. Each meeting is almost exactly the same. You’re always late, and you always greet him the same way: some variation of “Have you fallen in love with me yet?”

And his reply is always the same: negative.

From there, the conversation wanders as much as it ever does, with one asking about the other’s week and the response being long and filled with complaints and woes and lamentations. The question is echoed back, and the response is - again - long, filled with complaints, woes, etc.

Despite the moaning and groaning, the mood never falls too low. It’s impossible to feel down around Harry Styles; just one look at those dimples makes a smile of your own appear on your face.

Your friendship with him has certainly blossomed. It’s a wonder he hasn’t fallen in love yet (or maybe he has, you’ll never know unless he says), and a greater wonder still that he hasn’t turned the question around on you.

Because the answer would be yes. You have, in fact, fallen in love with him.

Deeply, madly, in love.

But he’ll never know, because you’ll never say.

***

“I love you,” you tell Harry breathlessly, looking up at him lovingly. “Most ardently.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, no - I’m just a girl! I’m just a girl, standing in front of -”

“I’ll always be there for you!” you cut in excitedly. “All the love in my heart, Llo -”

“Michael, I love you!” Harry gushes. “Choose me, marry me, let me make you happy!”

You jump up and jut a finger at him dramatically. “We live in a cynical world!” you exclaim. “A cynical world, and we work in a business of tough competitors. I love you! You - you complete me!”

Harry jumps up to match you and begins, “I hate that -” then shakes his head and restarts, “I hate the way you’re always right, I hate it when you lie - I hate it when you make me laugh and - and - and even worse when you make me cry - I hate the way - I hate it when” - he’s grinning big now, jumping with excitement and passion - “you’re not around and the fact you didn’t call - but - but mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even a little bit, not even at all!”

It all came out in a rush of jumbled words and you’re so impressed you can’t help but sit back down and clap for him. Bright red, Harry takes a bow and collapses onto his couch next to you. “That took way too much effort,” he says, out of breath.

“It was worth it,” you tell him. “That was dazzling, really. You should go on the road.”

Harry nods. “One man show. Shakespeare. All of his long monologues, then bam - a poem better than all the others combined.” You giggle and fall into him, leaning against his chest with a sigh. “I’ll come with you,” you say. “Follow you to the ends of the earth and hold my breath to Pluto.”

“What’s that from?” Harry asks.

“That’s all me, baby.”

“Maybe the poem better than all the others combined could be yours.”

“Impossible,” you say immediately. “Nothing will ever beat Kat Stratford.”

“I’ll manage.”

You scoff. “You?”

“We.”

You shake your head. “There’s no ‘we’ in genius, Styles, but there is an I.”

“And a U!” Harry replies.

You look up at him.

“Wait.”

Snickering, you sit up and stretch your arms towards the ceiling. “Stick to memorization, maybe. Leave the heavy lifting to me. You need some practice on that speech, anyway - I counted at least three errors, not to mention the stuttering.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Harry sings. “What do you say, can I confess my love to you every night for the sake of practice?” You shake your head, standing up again and grabbing an empty container of food to throw away. “Not without losing the bet.”

Harry follows you, cleaning up as he goes. “Just for the one man show!”

“No exceptions.” You grin at him, grabbing your stuff and heading for the door. “Thanks for the food, Styles. I’ll see you Sunday?” Harry nods and blows you a kiss, which you catch and put in your pocket. “I’ll save that for when you lose the bet,” you tell him.

“Get outta here,” Harry laughs.

You stick your tongue out at him and stick a post it note on the door frame as you leave.

***

Harry usually wakes up to a few texts. Maybe a call every so often. Notifications from social media aren’t uncommon. The only days he wakes up to nearly a hundred texts are the nights you decide to go to the outlook.

Whether or not you like staying up late normally, you stay up until the wee hours of the morning to go to this place you found about three hours outside of the city. It’s a bit of a drive, but it’s completely worth it.

There’s a little woods out there, and a while ago you went a bit off path and found an outcropping of rocks that look out over the city. At night, stars are visible. There’s nothing you love more than lying for hours on the cool stone, gazing up at the heavens above.

The first time you took Harry to the outlook, you asked a question, and Harry’s answer to that question was one of the only lies he’s ever told you. You’d asked, “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

And Harry had said, “Of course not!” when in reality, he’d been looking for an opening to mention that very fear for the twenty minutes before, while you’d been climbing steadily uphill through the trees.

In his defense, there was no way he could’ve said anything different. You were just so happy, glowing with excitement and practically buzzing with energy. Plus, you’d grabbed his hand at the moment you asked to pull him up the last ridge and he was still a bit startled.

He never came to regret that lie. He grew out of the fear, anyway, so it wasn’t a huge deal. In fact, he’s almost come to love heights. He loves the thrill, the burst of happiness, the insane phenomenon of a racing heart and the feeling of being totally at peace all at the same time.

Incidentally, he also feels that way around you, whether the two of you are a hundred feet up or not. He’s always enjoyed spending time with you, and even just seeing you makes him happy. It’s what makes you a good friend.

Harry’s gone with you a few times to the outlook, but it’s usually pretty late by the time you want to go. Sometimes you’ll call him and he’ll pick up, and you’ll talk on the phone until one of you falls asleep.

You went last night, apparently, because Harry scrolls through seventy-two text messages this morning. It takes a while, since he reads all of them and then replies, but he woke up early anyway so it’s fine.

It’s Sunday, so he’s headed to the cafe to meet you. He has a cup of coffee even though he’ll get one at the cafe, too. There’s a sticky note on the coffee maker - Note to self: tell Harry there’s a snickers bar in his sweatshirt pocket - which you probably left a few days ago.

Harry smiles at the note, then frowns, sticking his hand in his pocket. There is, in fact, a Snickers bar in there, and Harry throws it out. It’s from almost a month ago, when you and him had an August Halloween. The sun is just a little too bright. Harry listens to music in the car, humming along and tapping his hands against the wheel in time.

You’re late, of course, so he orders his second cup of coffee and reads a newspaper on the shelf while he waits. Today it’s five minutes until you arrive, which is actually more on time than usual, and Harry throws you a large brimmed hat he found in his closet when you approach the table.

“What say you, Harry Styles,” you greet him, catching the hat and placing it on your head. “Make a jester laugh” - you form a heart with your fingers - “or make a jester cry?” Your heart cracks in two as you pout at him.

Breaking a finger-heart of his own, Harry grins. “Laughing clowns were always creepier to me,” he tells you. You trace a finger down your cheek like a tear and sit down across from him, sliding a menu from its place on the wall and beginning to read it over.

You look up at him, half smiling, a joke on your lips, and then -

Harry blinks.

Just like that, something’s changed.

You snap in front of his face. “Hello? Anything? You could at least pretend to laugh.”

“Christ, sorry,” Harry breathes. “What’d you say?”

Raising a brow, you lean forward and inspect him. “You alright, there, Styles?”

“If I were any better and it’d be obscene,” Harry answers easily, tapping your nose.

Grinning, you sit back. “Fantastic. Tell me, then, how it’s been. Fill me in.”

“It’s a lot better seeing you in that hat.”

“Oh, I forgot!” you exclaim, looking up at it.

Harry giggles and asks, “You wanna know what one hat said to the other?”

“Oh, boy.”

“I’ll see you on a-head!”

Groaning dramatically, you throw the hat at him and bury your face in your hands.

***

"This is getting embarrassing, Styles,” you say as you walk up to Harry.

He turns around, a smile already on his face, and begins, “What’s -”

He stops when he sees you, because you’re all dressed up. You look absolutely stunning, which was on purpose, because of course you want to see his reaction, whether he loves you or not. And it’s very satisfactory, this reaction.

“You look fantastic,” Harry says softly.

You clear your throat, a little put off by how serious he’s being. “That was the goal.”

His eyes float back up to meet yours, a small smile on his face. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” you chirp. “But don’t let your head get too big - I only came for the free food and movie.” Finally, the glaze over his eyes fades, and he grins at you. He takes your arm, and as you walk, he asks, “You started a thought, you know, about something embarrass-”

You scoff. “You asked me on a date, Styles!”

“I did not!” Harry insists. He shakes his head. “My date ducked out at the last second -”

Smirking, you cut in, “Wonder why, Mr. Pink Suit.”

“- we were going to match, thank you - but really, she ducked out, and I wasn’t about to waste two perfectly good tickets. Thus… here we are.” He nods, like he’s pleased with his answer, but you raise a brow at him. “That’s a terrible excuse. You can just say you love me. I’ll accept.”

You arrive at his car. “Not yet,” he says, and then he gets in.

He starts the car, and for a moment, you gaze out the window.

Then, breaking the silence, you say, “I like the suit.”

“I like the look.”

“Thanks, I came up with it all by myself.”

“Impressive.”

You wait a moment, and then ask, “What inspired the pink?”

“She said she wanted a pink rose.”

Frowning, you begin, “I thought you said pink roses are -”

“Yeah, they’re not my favorite,” he mumbles.

You snicker a little. “Oh, what a bad date in high school can get you…”

“Hey, don’t tease,” Harry whines with a pout.

“Sorry, sorry,” you murmur. “You’re nice to dress up anyway. No rose, though?”

Sheepishly, he tells you, “I… forgot.”

“You forgot?” you laugh.

“Yeah…”

“Well, um… well, it’s the thought that counts.”

Harry pulls into the parking lot and parks the car, then unlocks the doors. “Come on,” he says, but you frown at him, confused. “You know you pulled in the wrong way?” you ask, but he just beckons with his hand and opens the trunk.

You hadn’t even looked - there’s pillows back there, and candy, and blankets, and he flicks on little fairy lights. “Harry Styles, you romantic!” you gasp, enthralled. “Wow, I gotta meet this girl, if you’re doing all this for her…”

He sits down and pats the space next to him, then grabs a pack of candy - your favorite. He hands it to you, which you take with a slow smile. “Her favorite too?” you ask. “Nope,” Harry replies, shaking his head as he opens his own pack of candy. “Forgot to ask her, but when I called her in the store she wouldn’t pick up so I just… got yours.” He clears his throat and hands you a bag of popcorn. “There’s this, too.”

“Thanks, Styles.”

On the huge screen in front of you, the movie begins to roll. You take a risk, sliding a little on the seat so you’re leaning against Harry, head against his chest. You can feel him breathing, his heart beating, his arm around your waist, thumb gently moving back and forth over the fabric of your clothes.

You fall asleep for most of the movie.

When you wake up, you’re leaned against a pillow, not Harry. Frowning and out of sorts, you sit up and rub your eyes. He’s leaned against the car outside, on the phone, and you can just barely make out what he’s saying.

“... I know, it’s… Yeah, I - I’m sorry you couldn’t make it, love. I missed you…”

The familiar feeling of tears building behind your eyes horrifies you, and you have to turn your back to him as tears start slipping down your cheeks. You’d somehow managed to convince yourself that it was all a ruse, that he’d meant it to be you from the start, that there was no other girl, that all along it was -

“Hey,” Harry says.

You cough, palming away the tears on your face and yawning like you’d just woken up. “Oh, hey… How’s, um - how’s she doing? Or - whoever - I mean -” You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“She’s fine,” Harry tells you. “How are you? Took a pretty long nap there…”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I was… I’m tired.”

“C’mon, then, let’s get you home.” He smiles at you, dimpling adorably, and holds out his hand. You take it and slide off the back of his car. “Thanks,” you say. He nods and shuts the trunk while you get into the passenger seat.

You don’t say anything as he starts the car, as he backs out and heads for your place. He glances over at you, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, and eventually turns on the radio. You fold up a sticky note and covertly slide it into the center console.

“I’ll see you Sunday,” you tell him when he stops the car.

He nods. “See you then.”

You hold his gaze for a second, and then get out of the car. As you’re shutting the door, Harry says, “Hey!” and you stop. “Hey, er - thank you. For coming tonight. I know it was a little… It was a bit much.”

“Not too much at all,” you say softly. “Bye, Harry.”

You shut the door.

***

The sticky note business began about a year after Harry met you. He’d mentioned something about refrigerator magnets being the most charming form of communication ever invented, and the next day he found a sticky note on his mirror that said, Note to self: find a more charming form of communication than refrigerator magnets.

Harry doesn’t find the sticky note in his console until the next night, when he’s driving home after working late and he’s trying to find his phone. It’s ringing, and it’s your ringtone, which is really, really annoying because you set it to the worst song you could think of so he’d be motivated to pick it up fast.

It’s not in the center console. It’s actually in his pocket. He picks it up.

“Harry, you gotta tell me now,” you say immediately. “Do you love me?”

“I -”

“Love or care, Styles.” You sound breathless. “L or C. Lover or Cunt. Tell me now.”

“Cunt,” Harry says reflexively, and then shakes his head. “I mean -”

“You don’t love me.” You don’t sound upset at all. You’re just clarifying.

Harry frowns. “I… What’s going on?”

“Well, I think I love this guy, Styles, and I’m about to fuck him, so I’ll talk to you later.”

And then you hang up.

Harry stares at his phone for a moment. Then he puts it down, frowning at the street in front of him, and thinks for a while until he gets home. When he does, he’s shutting the center console, which he’d left open, and he sees the little post it note.

Note to self: buy a pink rose for h to make him like them bc they’re pretty

Sitting in his car, staring at the note, Harry can’t help but think he’s messed it all up.

***

Sunday. You don’t show up.

***

Another Sunday. Harry orders a coffee and reads the newspaper.

You don’t show up.

***

You answer a text.

He asks if you’re okay, and you say, Yup!

***

You send a text.

Hey, Styles? Can you bring me a flower?

***

He should’ve gone to your place first, Harry’s thinking. He should’ve checked there, and then gone here. But it’s too late now. He’s stepping out of his car, trekking through the forest, and he’s finally here, and -

You’re on your back, staring at the stars.

“You know, I really thought he was the one.”

Harry bites on his lip and fiddles with the flower in his hands. “Did you?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you sigh and sit up. “No.”

“He didn’t - you’re not… You’re okay, right?”

“Nothing’s broken but my heart,” you murmur. “Physically, I’m fine, emotionally, I’m…”

You fade off, and Harry sits next to you and hands you the flower.

“Yellow,” you whisper. You look up at him, eyes wide in the moonlight. “Why yellow?”

“Color of your shirt the first time I met you.”

Smiling, you murmur, “Memory of an elephant.”

“I couldn’t remember her favorite candy,” Harry says impulsively. He shuts his eyes, exhaling softly. “Sorry. Wrong thing to say.” You shake your head, looking forward again. “It’s fine. How’s she doing?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

Surprised, you glance at him again. “You mean you -?”

Harry shrugs. “She said my priorities weren’t right. Then she said goodbye.”

“We’re just a coupla broken hearted fools, aren’t we?” you say quietly.

“Broken hearted, yes,” Harry replies, “but I’m not a fool. Don’t know about you.”

You scoff, hitting his chest with the back of your hand. “We’re having a moment here!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry says, but he’s laughing so the apology is moot.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you say, “I would’ve known about her if I hadn’t missed all our Sundays. I’m sorry.” Harry shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Did you have fun, at least? With Mr. Heartbreak?”

You giggle. “So much fun.”

“Well… that’s good, at least.”

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment, he forgets himself.

You’re looking up at the stars, your head tilted up, your lips curved upwards in a smile.

Harry’s expression matches yours. It’s one of quiet awe, of happiness and joy and adoration. He’s smiling, too, but it’s not as conscious. It’s more reflexive, something he can’t help but do whenever he catches sight of this view. He’s not looking at the stars, though - his gaze is focused on you.

“Come on!” you exclaim suddenly, jumping up. “This is the perfect excuse to watch The Notebook again.” Harry blinks, standing up and following you back to his car. “You took the words right out of my mouth,” he says.

***

Ideally, on the anniversary of your meeting Harry, you’d both rent a hotel room and get drunk on the minibar, talking nonsense until morning, to properly reenact that first night together. Problem with that is that hotel rooms cost money.

So instead, you have a sleepover. Last year it was at your place, so this year it’s at his. The good thing about not being in a hotel is that you can buy normal size bottles of booze, rather than the teeny ones from the minibar.

He’s grabbing everything from the kitchen while you’re queueing up the movie on the TV in his room. It’s not cooperating, though, and you’re rooting through all the wires in the back to try and find something that’s supposed to be connected.

“Harry, if you don’t get in here this second!” you shout at him.

“Did you get the other remote?” he shouts back.

You groan and whine, “Just come in here!”

“I haven’t gotten everything yet! Look for the second remote. It’s in one of the drawers.”

“Which drawers?” you yell.

He doesn’t reply.

So you ruffle through the drawers closest to the TV. Books, papers, chargers. No remotes. You go further and find his record collection. A few photo albums. You stick a sticky note on the top one that says, Note to self: go through these. There’s more books. A few DVDs.

And then - a folder. It has a yellow flower on it.

Frowning, you glance at the door behind you and then flip it open. What must be a hundred post it notes fall out. Your jaw drops, just slightly, because they’re all from you. Every sticky note you’ve ever left him is in this folder. He kept them all.

“Did you find it?” Harry shouts.

You ask, “Find what?” but your voice is too soft and he doesn’t hear you.

He shouts your name again, and you quickly shove the folder back where you got it. You clear your throat, then yell, “Harry, I can’t find it!” Finally, he comes in, arms full of food and drink, and tugs open the top drawer on his bedside table with his foot.

And there it is.

“Have I got to do everything around here or what?” he jokes.

You give him a laugh and set up the TV, which works just fine now that you have the right tools. Harry sets everything down and puts his hands on his hips, raising a brow at you. “You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine,” you tell him. “Just grew a few white hairs waiting for you to come back.”

He sticks his tongue out and tosses a bag of chips at you. “Ha, ha, very funny.”

Finally, the movie’s set up, and you lean against his bed, sighing in contentment as the opening credits start to play. Harry hands you a glass and holds his own out, which you knock against your own. “Cheers, Styles,” you say. “To five years.”

“And counting.”

Grinning, you drink up and then settle back to watch the film.

***

His voice is thick.

Like honey.

It drips off his tongue, catches on his lips, slides down the column of his throat and glistens in the dim light. It’s rich. Deep. It turns to crystal in the cool air around you as his words fade off. You want to reach out and feel it on your fingers, want to taste it on your tongue, want to feel it slide over your lips, down your throat…

“... and then, suddenly, I was flying out the window with the worst pain I’ve ever -”

“Harry,” you interrupt with a giggle, “this is the third time you’ve told this story tonight.”

“It’s a good story!”

“Lemme see,” you say, crawling forward, and you’re on his lap now but you can’t really bring yourself to care because this is for scientific purposes. Harry grins and puts his hands on your waist and you giggle again and put your fingers on his jaw. “Lemme see your tongue.”

“Wanna see it or touch it?”

You smirk and reply, “How ‘bout lick it?”

“That’s gross!” Harry exclaims with a delighted laugh.

“I know!” you exclaim back, equally delighted.

“It’s broken,” Harry says, but he’s opening his mouth so it comes out all warbled. “I’m broken, you know -” You peer at his tongue, but it doesn’t look very broken. “No, you’re not,” you tell him.

“On the inside,” Harry says, pouting at you.

You laugh and wrap your arms around his neck, nestling your head on his shoulder in a hug. “You’re warm,” you say, “that’s what you are.” Harry nods against you, running his hands up and down your back. “You fix me,” he slurs into your neck.

“That’s so romantic!” you giggle.

You sit there for a second, breathing him in, feeling happy, and then suddenly -

“I’m roasting,” Harry says, and it’s morning.

“I’m so hot,” you groan, “and my head hurts so bad…”

Harry grunts and pushes against you. “Get off me.”

You open your eyes, squinting in the sunlight, and fall off of him and onto the floor.

He stands up, moaning and groaning, and walks out. You may have fallen asleep again because when he comes back in and hands you a glass of water and some medicine you’re blinking back awake. “Thanks,” you mumble, downing both.

“That was something,” Harry says.

“Something for sure,” you say.

“I can’t move,” Harry says.

“Me neither.”

So you don’t. The day drags on, and when you’re both coherent enough for food you go to the kitchen. Harry cooks something up, and you eat it, sitting next to him at the kitchen island. You feel his foot against yours, and you play a half-delirious game of footsie as you finish eating.

Once you’re all done, Harry stands up and starts to wash the dishes. You watch him, watch his back and his arms and the way he moves, and stand up and stand next to him, grabbing a dish towel and holding out your hand. He hands you the plate, and you dry it.

It’s comfortable, the silence, and it’s more than peaceful, standing there drying dishes with Harry in the early afternoon. There aren’t many dishes, but you both take your time, and eventually he breaks the silence and the productivity to put on some music.

And then, suddenly, you’re dancing, a smile on your face that you can’t seem to get rid of curving your lips as you float around the kitchen with him. He’s bopping along to the song, hand in yours, dish towel over his shoulder after he stole it from you.

The dancing carries you to the living room, where he twirls you out so you can collapse onto the couch. He does the same, and you put your feet on his lap, head on the armrest, looking at him.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“You’re in front of me.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

You raise a brow, smiling and still holding his gaze, and then sit up. “Staring contest, go.”

Instantly, he blinks, and you laugh, “Fuck’s sake.”

“No, no, again,” he demands, grinning, and he blinks quickly a few times before declaring, “Go.” The staring begins. Your eyes begin to sting, and you bite your lip, trying to keep your eyes open.

“We should watch Bird Box,” Harry whispers.

“Saw it last week.”

“I saw it,” he corrects. “You hid behind your hands the entire time.”

“You were the one screaming like a baby.”

“I prefer rom-coms, you know that.”

“Sometimes you need a little variety in life.”

“I lost the bet.”

You blink.

“Victory,” Harry says, a bit weakly, blinking too.

Your brows furrow. “What?”

“Victory,” Harry repeats, smiling sheepishly.

“No, no, before that,” you insist, shaking your head.

“I lost the bet,” Harry repeats softly.

You swallow thickly. “What bet?”

Harry bites his lip, concentrating, and then stands up and walks away. You scoff, following him, and ask again. “What bet?” He shakes his head, quiet, and opens his refrigerator, looking for something.

“Harry, for the love of -”

He holds out a kiss. A chocolate kiss.

Your eyes widen.

He steps closer, holding the kiss out on his palm. “I lost the bet,” he says. “I fell in love with you.” Your breath catches in your throat. “I don’t know if you feel the same,” he goes on, “so I… I don’t want to kiss you. I mean - I do, but -”

He holds the kiss closer to you. “I lost,” he finishes quietly.

You can’t find the right words.

So instead, you close the distance and kiss him.

The chocolate kiss falls to the floor, and fireworks erupt behind your eyelids.

After a moment, the words come.

And then, when you pull away for a moment, you both speak at the same time -

“I love you.”

Laughter bubbles from your lips, and Harry grins, kissing you again.

“So I guess I didn’t lose after all,” he murmurs.

You smile against his lips. “Let’s call it a tie.”

***

AHHHH there it is!!!! i actually did write this in like . two days . which was ! great haha but i hope u liked it!!!! if u did, feedback and a reblog would be much appreciated 💜

thanks for reading!

masterlist | ask

[icefire149]

30! Deancas, its cold so cas insists on a scarf instead of his tie

Char I'm so sorry this took a million years to write. Work and life kept me extremely busy, and then this lovely fic kept going in a different direction (which seems like a theme in every prompt I tackled). I really hope you enjoy this one, and have a lovely day :D

#30 - I love you mumbled into a scarf

Dean had his head buried so deep in thought about the impala’s winter maintenance that he almost missed the familiar foot steps breezing past in the garage. His eyebrows pressed together as he pulled his head out of the car. “Cas, buddy, where are you going?”

Cas stopped dead in his tracks, and turned on his heels. “Oh, Dean.” His gaze nervously glanced around the garage. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Are you okay?” Dean leaned against the side of the impala now, and crossed his arms. “You look kinda spooked.”

Cas’ gaze flitted around the car. “Do you happen to have Jack with you?”

“Nah,” Dean answered, scratching the back of his neck. “He went on a grocery run with Sam about a half hour ago.”

“Oh,” Cas exhaled, and visibly relaxed some. “That’s good. He’ll enjoy that greatly.”

“Did you need him?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“No.”

Dean walked around the car and stopped closer to Cas. “I’m gonna need more than that. What’s up?”

“I need to go Christmas shopping.”

Shaking his head slowly, Dean blinked. “Are….are we celebrating Christmas this year?”

“I’d like to,” Castiel confessed. “I know you and Sam have your own traditions and this is your home, but I’d like to give Jack his first Christmas since….last year he wasn’t here.”

“Oh.” The word tumbled out of Dean’s mouth. He was going to need time to process every verbal hit Cas pummeled him with. In a daze, he pointed at the impala with his thumb. “Do you want a ride?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Cas answered genuinely surprised. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He was still sorting Cas’ words when he found himself opening the impala’s door.

The angel slid into the front passenger seat, and they were off in the direction of the nearest shopping mall. It wasn’t until they hit their second red light that something finally clicked into place in his brain. “Is that why you tend to disappear around the holidays?” Turning, he kept his eyes on Cas long enough to see the twist in his expression.

“Maintaining customs, holiday traditions in this case are incredibly important to humans. I didn’t want to overstep or interfere.”

“You do realize I leave probably a dozen voice mails the closer it gets to Christmas, right?”

“Yeah, it’s quite irritating having my phone going off so often when I’m trying not to take from your time with Sam.”

“Cas,” Dean said exasperatedly. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, but the blaring honk of the car behind him momentarily cut off his train of thought. When traffic settled so did Dean, “I already get enough of Sammy, and I’m sure he’s more than sick of me too, especially around the holidays.”

“Oh.”

“And yeah, I’ve been wanting you to join us….since forever. Seriously.”

“I’m sorry.”

There was a pained tone in his voice that startled Dean down to his core. He shivered involuntarily. Glancing over at Cas, he saw that the angel had his eyes glued out the window. It bothered Dean not being able to pin down what was bothering Cas. It felt like so much more was hidden in that apology.

Turning back to the road, Dean reached a hand out blindly until it connected with the sleeve of Cas’ coat. “There’s nothing to be that upset about, your heart was in the right place.”

Cas didn’t respond, and Dean didn’t loosen his grip. Instead, he tightened it, but spoke with a note of levity. “And how many times do I gotta tell you that the bunker is your home too?”

“Once more, perhaps?”

Dean could feel the constriction in his chest loosen at the faint smile he could hear in Cas’ voice. He shook his head. “Giving Jack a real first Christmas is a great idea. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it months ago.”

“I think we’ve all been a bit too preoccupied.”

“Yeah.” Dean withdrew his hand and turned the car down the nearest exit. “You’re not wrong.” Basically since Jack was born they’ve been non-stop busy. The past few months in particular were miserable, for all of them.

“I know things aren’t one hundred percent safe with Michael still out there,” Cas started. “But I’m glad that you’ll be home for Christmas. I fear I would’ve ruined Jack’s holiday if you weren’t here.”

“Nah,” Dean argued, feeling his eyebrows pinch together. “My presence shouldn’t make that much of a difference.”

“Dean.” He could feel the angel’s stare sliding under his skin. “I left Jack with Sam so I could chase every whisper, blade, bullet, and trap that might lead to you. And from what I’ve gathered, Sam did much of the same passing Jack off on whoever was willing to keep an eye on him. That wasn’t fair to him, and I’m not proud of my behavior.”

“Hey,” Dean tried cutting through Cas’ frustration with himself. “You had no idea what Sam was gonna do.”

“Jack was never meant to be Sam’s responsibility. I-”

“You did the best you could at the time.” Cas didn’t answer, and Dean couldn’t risk taking his eyes off of traffic in that moment. “I mean it, and besides we’re well past that tunnel now. And we’re gonna give Jack a real Christmas.”

“Thank you.”

Dean hummed in response, and spotted what he was looking for: the sign for the mall. “Don’t tell Sammy, but-” He glanced at Cas’ curious expression. “since we found the bunker, I’ve always wanted to make it look like Christmas threw up all over the place.”

And to Dean’s genuine surprise, Cas laughed. It was happy and light, and when Dean turned for a heartbeat, the image of Cas with his head tilted back was branded into his memory. The corner of his mouth curled into a grin. “After growing up watching every Christmas special imaginable as a replacement for actually celebrating the holiday normally...I think it’s like making up for lost time if we go overboard.”

Another hearty laugh rocked Cas. “Makes logical sense to me.”

“Besides the kid will get a massive kick out of it.”

“I hope so,” Cas muttered, as the car came to a stop in the parking space.

“Oh trust me, he will,” Dean said throwing an arm behind the back of his seat and turning to face the angel. “Soooo….where to first?”

Cas observed their surroundings before letting his stare rest on Dean. “I’m not sure.”

“Well we can just check out whichever store is closest and work our way around. Sound good?”

“Yes,” Cas smiled softly.

Dean’s hand rested on the door handle, but the movement next to him made him pause. He watched Cas dig a hand into his jacket pockets until he pulled out a long, dark blue scarf. “Traded the tie out for a new accessory?”

The angel snapped his hands to his chest in order to hold the scarf tightly. “It’s new,” he said defensively.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Dean grinned. “Did you go out of your way to buy something the same exact shade as your favorite tie?”

Cas’ eyes trailed down to the fabric between his fingers. “Maybe,” he answered after a short, meditative pause.

“It’s nice,” Dean said pushing his door open. “I was wondering where the tie was today.” He got out of the car and Cas quickly followed him on the other side.

Cas hooked the scarf behind his neck. “It felt redundant.” His expression quickly twisted in frustration as his hands failed to wrap the scarf in a way that would be comfortable.

“Need some help, buddy?”

The angel’s gaze pierced him like a knife, but that didn’t stop Dean from circling around the impala to stop directly in front of Cas. He held his hands out. “Just let….”

Cas’ hands fell to his sides, and the frustration slowly smoothed out of his face. His gaze locked onto Dean’s.

“-me help.” Dean started wrapping the scarf properly so Cas could duck the lower half of his face out of the chilly, winter air whenever he wanted.

There was something magnetic in Cas’ demeanor. As it circled and grew in his eyes, it filled Dean with a soft warmth that drew him a step closer. His skin burned, but on his brother’s life he couldn’t remember in that moment why he would normally never let himself get this close.

Dean could feel the puffs of Cas’ breath caressing his face, sending goosebumps across every inch of his skin. Despite this, he reached forward and finished laying and puffing the scarf up.

The apples of the angel’s cheek’s appeared pinker when Dean’s gaze slid up from the blue fabric that was still caught between his fingers. Cas’ bottom lip twitched for a second, and then he sunk his face into the scarf.

Thoughts slid back into Dean’s head. Louder than ever. The tips of his fingers clung a little tighter to the scarf. This feeling wasn’t new. Everything that had to do with Castiel, it was like a Gordian Knot. There was too much to sort and untangle. The fragile thing they had was too important to him to destroy completely. The solution was simple and staring him in the face, but he’d been teetering on that decision for a decade now.

Before he could move, a simple vibration resounded up his fingertips. And before Dean could ask what the angel had said, Cas broke the moment.

His hands slowly and shakily unhooked Dean’s grip, lowering them. The scarf slid down Cas’ face as he momentarily glanced around the parking lot. Dean quickly forgot about the brief indescribable look in the angel’s stare, when a glimpse of Cas’ teeth caught his eye.

The tension eased in Cas’ shoulders. He released Dean’s hands with a widening smile. “Let’s go. I’m not sure what would be suitable for a Christmas tree. Any ideas?”

“Yeah,” Dean grinned, losing himself in this new moment. “We’ll have to go elsewhere and grab your truck, but I have several ideas.”

The prompt was from this list. I'm not expecting any more prompts from this one, but if there's one you really want me to try please ask! (and specify the prompt list).

[thestarsoutofyourwindow]

Forbidden Library - The Doctor x Reader

This was written with 11 in mind, but you can easily see it as 10, so it’s your preference! I wrote this as a description experiment, then tried to apply some story to it. I’ve been trying to master character/body language too, so this took a while to write because I just couldn’t settle on anything, so I just gave up. If this does well I may do a part two, and I’ll try to make it more romancy. Word Count: 2,161 Summary: You hear a book fall whilst in the library and go to investigate. You stumble upon a book that answers the questions you’ve been asking yourself for a long time, but you just can’t bring yourself to lie to the Doctor about it. Warnings: Time War heavily referenced, Comforting the Doctor, A lot of description, You find it hard to lie, Reassuring the Doctor.

All of time and space, he said. Wherever, whenever, and home in time for tea.  The Doctor has always been a bit of an enigma to you. You knew practically nothing about him, yet if anyone had asked, you would consider him one of your closest friends. However, whether or not you're the sort to ask questions, you had a feeling he isn't as honest as you'd like to believe.

The first time you had asked him about his people and planet, he ignored you completely, babbling about the asteroid you were supposed to be visiting. The second time you had asked, he dodged around it, giving you a half-arsed response. All he told you is that his race died out a long, long time ago and that there was a war. After that, he excused himself, and you couldn't bring yourself to mention it to him again.

You had to admit, that puzzled you: you had believed it to be a sensitive subject, so of course, you left it there. No matter how curious you were, you're not going to force The Doctor into reliving anything he'd rather not. But sometimes it did keep you up at night. The Doctor had never seemed like the fighting sort, but something about his recount didn't settle right with you. You weren’t sure what. Usually, on those nights where you end up in an hours-worth of conversation with the TARDIS, you would truly realise how much you thought about it. As weird as it sounded, you felt she was listening as she would often click or whirr in response. You felt insane the first time you did it, but the longer you spoke to her, the more normal it felt. You hardly mentioned your conversations to the Doctor, but whenever you did, he only grinned to himself.

"Doctor?" You peeked into the library. It was, and always will be, the most impressive library you had ever seen. There were cherry-wood bookshelves, that stood towering over you, each shelf overfilled with beloved, worn books. The library was like a maze, asides from the sitting area where a few chairs huddled around a fake-fireplace, there was an indeterminable quantity of shelves. The rest of the library was lit up by fairy lights, which looked as if to be a new addition to the systematic chaos, making the already supernal library look even more mystical. According to the Doctor, the TARDIS has full management over the configuration and layout of the bookshelves, sort of like the Hogwarts stairs. There were step-ladders haphazardly scattered throughout the library. There was the occasional ivy plant that had grown and twisted down the bookshelves. One day you had been scrolling through Tumblr, and a post with ivy plants showed up on your feed. You talked about how cool that is to the TARDIS; within the next week ivy sprung up all over the place, including the kitchen. The Doctor made a passing remark about the ivy plants, and you confessed, alongside a frantic apology. He laughed, telling you it didn't bother him.

"Yeah, Y/n/n?" He mumbled, not so much as blinking away from his book. He hunched over it; his legs draped off the arm of the chair due to his inability to sit correctly. He nestled himself in a duvet, and which would be inconspicuous if not for his head poking out. "Have you seen... Woah. Fairy lights!" You smile, looking up at the tastefully draped lighting. "Is this your doing?" The Doctor asks ludicrously, turning to face towards you, gesturing over at the shelves, "I knew the TARDIS liked you, but this is getting ridiculous."

You chuckle for a moment before peering back at him, "I only came here to ask if you'd seen the book I left on the kitchen counter, but if you're going to criticise me so rudely, well I guess I'll go trip over something important." The Doctor grimaced at that, "That's really not necessary, I think... Yeah, I brought it in here with me earlier." He gestured the book out at you, over the back of the armchair. You stepped closer, about to take the book, when he pulled it away, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you going to do some reading? If so, would you like to, um, maybe sit and join me?" "Yeah, why not?" You marvel, looking him dead in the eye. You walked around the chair and sat on the armchair next to his.

You cosied down and tried to focus on reading. However, your anxieties and considerations began cropping up again. You lost yourself in thought over what the Doctor keeps from you. Peeking up at the Doctor, you noticed his eyelids drooping. You watched attentively; you had never seen him asleep, oddly enough. His head, already tilted into his chest, slipped further. His tousled brown hair settled on his face, and his breathing eased. His grip on the book slackened. You remained there, admiring the sleepy face you had grown attached to over the months of touring time and space together.

Due to the endearing nature of his subtle breathing, you hardly realise the TARDIS clicking to get your attention. A distant thump draws you out of your hypnosis, the sound emanating from deep in the library. You stir noiselessly out of the armchair, as to not disturb your friend, and hesitantly edge towards the direction you assume it originated. You notice a small, cherry wood door in the wall between some bookshelves. Convinced you have never seen that door before, you approach the door. Stopping dead in your tracks for a moment, you take a moment to calm your nerves. The TARDIS would never let you get hurt, at least if she could help it. You reached your palm out towards the handle and, taking the TARDIS's silence for approval, enclose your hand around the metallic knob and twist.

Behind the door was what appeared to be the smaller section of the library, perhaps it's a study full of books the Doctor had just never taken back to the library? From what you could make out through the darkness, and the distinct smell of dust, the bookshelves were similarly themed to the ones outside. Although, these shelves are in a much smaller room, both vertically and horizontally. A desk was facing towards the door on your left, and a beanbag on the floor to your right.

You were about to close the door and leave, ready to call it his study and leave it at that. But as the door was half-closed, it dawned on you that the Doctor had never even mentioned this room, and the room appeared as though it had been undisturbed for a long time. This room would be pretty redundant, and the TARDIS surely would've reorganised the books onto the shelves, right? With that in mind, you re-entered the room, curiosity brimming in your eyes as you notice the book in the middle of the floor. It's TARDIS blue cover stood out like a sore thumb against the crimson carpet, regardless of how dark the room was. As you knelt to pick up the obscure book, the ceiling light flickered on.

"History of the Time Lords: All you need to know." You mumbled as you read. You habitually flip the book in your hands to read the blurb, the grey foiled text read, "From humble beginnings to the vicious politics of the time war, here is everything you need to know about the history of our civilisation." You checked to see if there is a contents page, of which there is. None of the chapters stood out, except for perhaps, Gallifrey Falls. It clicked in your mind that Gallifreyan must equate to Time Lord, at least to some extent. The Doctor had referred to himself as the last Time Lord.

You flip to the chapter and settle down on the floor, considering you may be there for some time.

And by god, you were. You read about everything from the potential causes, to the effects on the rest of the universe. What you paid the most attention to, however, was the Doctors' involvement. For the most part, he stayed out of the war, asides from helping the victims. But whoever had "restored" him, had pinned the continuing deaths on the Doctor and his lack of involvement, which had finally made him give in. The Doctor fought for literal decades on the front line.

No wonder he didn't want to talk about it.

You read on about the sacrifices he made and the Daleks. They always survived, no matter what he did. By the time you had wrapped up two or three chapters, you had worked yourself up. Even if you're not the emotional sort, just the thought of the Doctor having to go through all of that brought you to tears. You kept imagining the burden he must be carrying, keeping from you and Amy. The decisions he has made.

You stood up, the book still in your hands, and make your way back to where you had left the Doctor.

Upon re-entering that section of the library, it took you a moment to realise that your companion no longer huddled in the armchair. There was no trace of him. You hoped he had withdrawn to his room, and took a step towards his chair.  "Y/n!" A hand landed on your shoulder. You recoiled, whirling around to face the weary-eyed Doctor, pulling the large book to your chest, "There-... what's up?" "Nothing, I-I just thought you had gone to your room, is all. You scared me." You exhale a sigh of relief, gently laughing as you spoke. "What have you got there?" He scrutinised inquisitively, eyes pinned on the book you were gripping so tightly. "Oh, It's a book," The Doctor raised a brow at you and rolled his eyes, a smile on his cheeks, and you thoughtlessly added an, "Well, of course, it is, uh, it fell off a shelf in a sort of study room- I heard it and went to see what it was." You handed the book over sheepishly. It wasn't your book to keep, after all. You didn't want to admit it, but a part of you didn't want to lie to the Doctor, either.

He shifted the book about until he could comfortably read it; the moment his eyes darted back up to you, eyebrows curved upwards, smile extinct, you could've sworn something shattered behind his eyes. Noticing this, you couldn't stop yourself from clarifying, "I, I did read a bit of it, quite a lot actually- out of curiosity. Look, I'm, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise when I kept asking you about Gallifrey, and the war- if I'd known the half of it-" You paused, taking a deep breath and looking into his eyes, "Look, If you want me to forget about this, that's cool- I, erm, can just pretend this never happened, and I'll make sure to keep Amy/Donna off your ass about it," "Humans, you're so," The Doctor mutters exasperatedly, gesturing outwards with his hands, before sighing, he puts his hands on your shoulders, squeezing gently, "You know, Y/n. You don't have to stay. I get it, I really do. I killed my entire species, nothing co-" "Doctor. You cannot honestly tell me that it is your fault. I won't sit here and listen to you take the blame for something you avidly tried to avoid. From what I read, you tried to help- you swore to help, to make up for something out of your control," You rest your hands on his upper arm, shaking him gently as you speak, "You did your best, you did what you thought was the right thing, and most importantly, you saved the whole of time and space, again, from the Daleks and the Time Lords." The Doctor hesitated, lips pursing as he looked away. You offer him a hug, and he quickly accepts, his arms wrapping around your waist. You try your very best to make it the best hug you've ever given. You hold him firmly and flatten the back of his hair soothingly as you speak, "Treat yourself the way you'd treat someone else, you know? I know it's been a long time, but I need you to know that I'm not leaving you for doing the right thing." The Doctor took a shaky breath, "Yeah. Thank you." He breathily laughed, "I wish I had met you sooner." You smiled, "Well the day you figure out how, I will have prepared some very, strong words for you." He hummed in affirmation into your shoulder, "I'll have to work on that." The two of you just stood there for a bit, hugging each other. You impulsively touch a kiss against the Doctors temple as the two of you separate. 

[narrators-journal]

A small alteration

So! This part is the...second or third to last part, so we’re getting to the end bois. After this, I’ll likely die, or at least not post daily like I have been, so if you guys want more content after this, remember to send in an ask for me to answer! Request stuff, ask me questions, joke around with me, whatever yall want. It’ll hold this blog over until I finish this second fic and can start posting/editting it here!

cw: lightly goes into detail on torture, hisoka, that’s about it I think!

Previous part: here

First part: here

Thankfully, Hisoka didn't stop by after his phone call, but Illumi still took no chances when he went onto jobs. Along with Milluki using the spy cameras Illumi had placed earlier, the long haired assassin made sure at least three butlers were keeping an eye on you whenever he couldn't.

That precaution kept you far away from the blood hungry magician for a week, much to Illumi's relief. Hisoka was a pest, a thorn in Illumi's side through and through, so the last thing the assassin wanted was for him to meet his future wife. Especially now, when you were just too desperate for human contact, and he couldn't risk you getting attacked or manipulated by Hisoka and forcing the assassin to kill such a useful nen user. Or worse, risk you meeting him and growing to love the magician instead of him, so he was dead set on never letting you two meet.

So, instead of risking it, he made sure to keep you as secret as possible, at most giving vague answers to keep the violent hunter at bay when he found him on jobs or something and asked, but confirming or denying little to nothing. Aside from that, Illumi also let the man help him on missions a bit more, both because the assassin could hide things better than his butlers when questioned, and because, though annoying, the vibrantly colored man offered some sort of entertainment on otherwise painfully boring jobs like assassinating businessmen, ex-lovers, or runaway spouses. Though, Hisoka simply popped up sometimes too, either being in the right place at the right time to join on kills, or somehow seeking Illumi out, like a risky, aggravating jack-in-the-box. That habit had gotten him a trip to the Zoldyck basement and torture rooms recently, though it was also a reason Illumi humored the magician when he got bored and asked for help more.

        "Please make this simple and tell me where you put the money taken from Mr. Mori." Illumi told his target, a rather pretty young woman he'd been tasked to interrogate, torture, and kill by her ex-sugar daddy.         "Is she under-aged, is that why you won't tell me about her?" Hisoka asked, sitting on the table of menacing torture tools in a dungeon of the Zoldyck estate, having talked the assassin into letting him out to help in this little chat. Illumi was beginning to regret his decision to humor the magician though. The tall assassin glared at the other man for his interruption, only getting an innocent smile in return,         "No, she is not under-aged." He said curtly, and his companion snickered,         "Well, when can I meet her? I'm dying to know what type of woman a Zoldyck lusts after~"         "Never." Hisoka pouted at his flat refusal, but the assassin simply returned to questioning his captive, only turning back to the pink-haired man to grab some pliers from the table,  "Now, I will ask this once more, if I don't get an answer I'll tear out your finger nails until I do. Where is your ex's money?" he warned the woman, who was sobbing and pleading to be freed from the cold, dark room. When she didn't answer his question though, he kept true to his word, gripping one of her nails with the pliers and pulling until it came away from the nail bed. The monotone assassin continued pulling out his target's crimson-painted fingernails while she tried to lie and say she had no idea where his client's money was. No matter, when he ran out of fingernails, he could always move to toenails or teeth.

Hisoka held a metal bowl that Illumi put the dislocated fingernails in, adding a soft clattering noise to the soundtrack of the woman's sobs, screams, and the lazy buzz of the one lantern that hung from the stone wall until he stood up in the partially lit cell to get another tool from the table.          "mmm, she seems quite fun to torture~" Hisoka observed, getting a twisted grin across his face as he looked down at the restrained woman,          "She's unbearably loud," Illumi sighed, looking around on the table of tools until he found a rather simple salt shaker, ignoring when Hisoka leaned a bit too close,          "Y'know, I bet I could get your girlfriend to be just as loud~" he hummed, and something inside of Illumi seemed to snap for a moment. His aloof air instantly changed to palpable malice and he whirled around on the magician, punching him in the face hard enough to send him sprawling across the cold stone floor. The assassin didn't even give him a chance to react once he landed though, in a flash he was on top of him, holding him down by his throat while his knee pressed down on his ribs,           "if you so much as look at my wife, Hisoka, I will fucking kill you before your heart gives another beat." he snarled, tightening his grip on the man's neck until he was gasping and wheezing for air. The pink-haired man gave a nod, a  smirk tugging at his lips still, but the feral murderer didn't let him breath until that coy look finally left and he saw panic replace Hisoka's usual mischievous glint in his gold eyes. When Illumi did finally let him up, the magician was gulping down air and glaring at him instead of his usual knowing, coy glance,           "Jesus Christ Illumi, learn to take a joke. You know my humor can be perverted, there was no need to nearly kill me!" he snapped, the magician's flirty act falling away, but Illumi didn't respond, he simply checked on the woman he'd been tasked to torture. Sadly though, she was now dead from the amount of malevolence  in his nen,          "Great, because of your 'joke' my job just got harder." Illumi said, his voice back to being cold,          "That wasn't my fault, you were the one who didn't just use one of your needles on her to begin with." he pointed out testily, getting glared at by the man,         "The client wanted me to specifically torture her, my needles would have been redundant and not what the client asked for. Of course, I didn't know you were going to be this annoying, or else I would've gotten the information from her at the start." he hummed, and while his voice stayed flat and his face stayed rather aloof, Illumi was boiling with wrath on the inside. Being a pest was one thing, but now Hisoka had actually crossed an important line. So, Illumi simply found the woman's phone in her purse and than called in some butlers. He gave one the cellphone, sending it to Milluki to make use of himself and scour through, than he turned to Hisoka, who was standing in a dark corner across the small cell glaring at them, mostly Illumi.  "Now, I will say this nicely only once," the man said, though his words held no kindness, "please return to your cell with the butlers without a fight, or else I will be forced to call my family and drag you back." The two men stood there for a moment in a heavy silence that seemed to bring down the temperature of the already cold cell further. Illumi wasn't very expressive, he purposely added inflections and overt body language to himself when speaking to you, but Hisoka didn't get that sort of kindness, he simply got stared down by bottomless eyes and a deadpan assassin he knew very well was competent enough to stand up to him. So, he simply grinned a predatory grin at the long haired murderer,        "Fine, I'll go back to my cell peacefully," he relented, putting his hands up with a mischievous smirk. One of these days Morrow, I'm going to finally kill you. Illumi thought as at least three butlers escorted the magician back to where he'd been held, but he didn't say or show the annoyance as they passed.       "Oh, and Illumi, dear? Do tell (y/n) hello for me~" Illumi's aura became malevolent again at that, but the butlers and flamboyant pain in the ass were able to avoid dying from it thanks to their training. Instead, all it did was let slip just how fart Hisoka was under Illumi's skin, making the hunter laugh as he was herded away down the dark hallway, leaving the assassin to simmer in his temper before stalking out of the basement. His first stop once upstairs was Milluki's bedroom.        "How did Hisoka find out anything about (y/n)?" he asked, his voice's flat, monotonous tone coming off as more menacing when paired with how he slammed his brother's face into his trash-littered desk,        "I don't know! Why are you asking me?" the pudgy man hissed out, barring his teeth at his older sibling when he tightened his grip on his hair,       "You are the only person on this mountain aside from Mother who knows about (y/n), and unlike mother, you are the type to tell that bastard about her for a cookie." he pointed out, and Milluki couldn't argue, he did have pretty flippant loyalties when it came to secrets like this.        "Alright, fine, but I promise I didn't. I haven't been in the basement since Hisoka got here." he explained, and after a moment of harsh scrutiny, Illumi let him go and left his nasty, anime-littered room. The tall man then went to his wing of the home, thinking of what to do now. Hisoka knowing (y/n)'s name is bad. If he can figure it out, more people could. He mused, a wave of possessive anxiety washing away his rage for the time being. I can't leave her alone anymore. He finally decided as he reached his rooms and turned around to instead find his mother.

[countessofbiscuit]

Right of Bang

a post-Fives fic, feat. Commander Fox’s insecurities

1000 words | Teen | Ao3 . . .

Army admin had a funny sense of timing.

Fox frowned at the blasters, racked and ready for his use, and swore he heard ARC-5555 laugh as he marched beyond the grave.

“Ready to begin, sir?” Corporal June asked, in a plummy Timira City accent that hadn’t had its diction scuffed up. Smooth as his armor — and his just-dropped balls.

“Yes,” Fox replied, congenially as he could.

June cleared his throat. “Take control of one of the weapons, none of which have been under your direct supervision.”

Get back in that turret, trooper. Fox selected the pistol. If he was going to flunk out thanks to a box-ticking joke, better not make it the punch line.

Without being certified current in weapons handling, Jango himself would’ve found the armory doors closed upon him. Didn’t matter that they’d been fondling blasters since decant. Toy and training, of every make and model; one mind, any weapon and all that kark. Every year, twice a year, you had to demonstrate you were capable of operating the damn things.

And, now, there was at least one officer in the GAR who insisted Fox couldn’t.

Measuring his breaths behind his helmet, Fox conspicuously determined the weapon condition for June’s benefit. Chamber clear. Slide forward. Clip empty. No residual energy. Safety on. Still plenty deadly if someone wanted to try and make Fox’s day.

“Load!” June ordered, his voice not quite filling the corners of the range.

Fox unscrewed the chamber and wondered who was feeling more insecure.

The corporal being evaluated on evaluating Rear-Marshal Commander Fox.

Or the commander who’d lied on his last contact report.

The clone who’d flicked from stun to full power without blinking. Without thinking. Who’d put a lethal blast in a brother’s heart and had to convince himself he’d meant to.

And who hadn’t fired a shot since.

Hells, Riyo had probably handled his pistols more since he’d holstered them with hands that threatened to shake. Thoughtless woman. Refused a blaster or instruction, but apparently sashayed around with his in her robe while Fox slept because she was scared.

Slotting the clip, Fox made a mental note to review the overwatch outside her house.

Then he waited, a current of panic tickling his neck.

“Make stun ready!”

Fox went through the motions, deliberately. Safety off. Slide cocked. Stun engaged. Low-ready assumed.

Downrange, about twenty meters at its deepest, the target arc whirred to life. And the featureless holo of a humanoid, rendered by white lasers, flickered before the superconductive backstop.

Fox blinked.

It was random. The targets would cycle through at random, he reminded himself. SBDs, B2s, a grab bag of organics, and ... this thing.

Can’t trust a Corrie. They use whitejobs for target practice.

They didn’t, actually. Not since Kamino.

But Fives manifested just the same. Redundant tattoo and all.

Only thing worse than a soundly functioning ARC was an unstable one with a fully powered weapon. Even General Skywalker had attested to the readiness of his captain’s pistol.

(“‘Cause you didn’t give him a fucking chance.”

“To do what?! Shoot one of my men? Sorry if I don’t give more of a damn. I’ve lost enough of them to the 501st recently.”)

Perversely, Fox was grateful for the furore Rex kicked up. Never was more articulate than when someone mussed his hackles. It directed his choler outwards.

Forget his failing memory. Fox stiffened over his conviction:

Fives signed his own death certificate when he unplugged his failsafe hardware, went berserk on the Chancellor, and sallied out to 79s for a fucking fix. He’d just forced Fox to date and timestamp it for him.

Waiting, Fox stared at his fingers. He demanded them to obey.

The light appeared. The order came.

Fox stunned his mark. Then the next. And every sporadic target that followed, well within the mandated time.

“Stop!” June cried. “Clear the weapon, reload, and adjust to full power.”

Again, Fox demonstrated his proficiency with infoholo staginess.

The almost-Fives reappeared. And on the order, Fox put that shot back in his chest. Just right of center.

Because Commander Fox didn’t miss. He didn’t fuck up or flinch. He fired exactly when and where he meant to. With intention.

Every target got treated to the same heartburn. Even those that Fox knew possessed more than one. He fell into this same flow with the carbine. And the rifle — fuck, he loved the long lines on that thing. Heavy-hitting. Career-ending. Powerfully conclusive with the merest caress of his finger. He field-stripped, clean-stripped, and made them all safe upon command, while the air perfumed with ions. His confidence trickled back though grooves hewn by lifelong practice and fundamental pride, until the exercise was over.

“There you go, sir,” said June, renewing Fox’s licence to kill with a few strokes on his datapad. “In date and competent with the weapons system. Like there was any doubt,” he added cheerfully. His smile bounced so artlessly from his face, Fox couldn’t do anything but catch and throw it back.

“Am I free to congratulate a new skill-at-arms instructor?” Fox addressed the observing sergeant over June’s shoulder, who confirmed that he could.

Boozy with relief, Fox thumped June’s back. “You ever heard of the Den, Corporal?”

“... Yes, sir,” June replied, uncertain. Now truly nervous before a commander known to drop guardsmen for anything, up to and including nothing.

“When this damn lockdown’s lifted, I expect to see you there.” Fox tapped a code into the corporal’s compad. “Locate Lieutenant Rhys in a timely fashion, present that code, and he’ll add you to the guest list.”

June’s smile went positively nuclear. “Thank you, sir.” He clipped to attention, gave a salute to slice ice, and about-assed from the range.

You did right, son.

Fox wasn’t a danger to anyone. Every room was safer for him being there. Including that goddamn warehouse.

Rex would thank him, later. When that baby Senator Amidala was carrying had a father. And when Rex got to hold something he’d never get himself.

. . . . . 

(Ao3)

[starofroselight]

Title: He Calls You Theseus (Now Call Him Odysseus and Welcome Him Home)

Chapter 1: In Which Technoblade's Narrative Crumbles    

Summary: Technoblade's language is the art of combat and weaponry. Tommy doesn't understand, so Technoblade speaks in a way they'll both understand. Or, Technoblade’s been having strange visions while taking care of Tommy.

Tags: Technoblade, TommyInnit, SBI fic, Introspection, Flashbacks, Found Family, Brothers, Trauma, Alternate Universe, References to Greek Myth, Sleepy Bois Inc. as Family, Sleepy Bois Inc. Angst, Chat as Ghosts, Rose AU

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786947

Author’s Note: This is my baby. I’ve worked for this on a while, and it’s about 5.1k words. I hope you enjoy the first chapter, I plan for around five in all.

A flurry of snow buffeted the snow banks around Technoblade's retirement home. 

Technoblade had decided teaching Tommy the art of arrow fletching was important. He had come to immediately regret that decision. Tommy’s loud mouth and shaky hands were something manageable in the best of times, but when the time came for work to be done they became hindrances. Liabilities.

Technoblade didn’t take in liabilities. 

“How’s this, big man?” The tooth-gaped teen asked smugly, holding up a shoddily constructed arrow as if it were made of gold.

Technoblade briefly considered how much easier this would have had he cleaved Tommy’s head clean off in the hole under his house.

> You can’t!

> The most efficient way to grind out arrows is village trading. Make one of your downstairs hostages a fletcher, trade sticks, build rapport, then trade in for arrows.

> Tommy pog

> would’ve been funnier if you did

“Chat, do you see what I’m dealing with?” He mumbled to himself. 

“Oi Chat! Hey Chat, do you think Technoblade is a big bitch?”

“Tommy, you’re giving me a headache.” That wasn’t all that was giving him a headache: voices, the thousands of voices which were riled up by his every interaction with another living soul. Each voice was vying for a spot to influence his words, to have any effect on the outside world like they once were able to.

And the voices really liked Tommy.

“All I want’s an answer.”

He wouldn’t get one.

"How am I better at this with hooves?! Here, let me show you one more time.” Techno squatted beside where Tommy was sitting on the stone brick floor. “Two ties on each side over the flint. Three sharp cuts into the wood. Feather goes in between. Look, perfectly functional arrows! What part of this aren’t you getting? It’s not that difficult!”

Tommy picked up the tools from the fletching table. He took one look at the sticks, then picked up a fistful of feathers.

“Right—”

“Okay, that’s enough, I’m not going to let you keep massacring my feathers like this. What even is this?" He picked up a feather from the floor. It hung limp between the heel of his hoof, frayed and torn. "These chickens died for nothing!"

“What am I supposed to do while you do all the work if I can’t help?” Tommy was pouting, his face so full of vibracity and energy it looked as if he was choking.

That was it. Techno's face twitched. 

“Maybe if you sit down and stay quiet for a minute, I can come up with an idea!”

Surprisingly, Tommy did. His face flushed red with embarrassment. 

And Technoblade realized he had screamed at a scared, struggling sixteen year old child covered in scars. 

> do you feel powerful now

> OOOOOOO

> You should kill him

> Betray Tommy!

> betray tommy

He dragged a hoof over his face. The gesture was easier with hands.

"Look. . . Tommy. You're clearly not good at fletching arrows. Why don't you go lay down in your racoon hole?"

Technoblade’s plan had been, surprisingly, one of altruism. He wanted to teach Tommy how to make arrows so he could value the ammunition. He had a tendency to complain about. . . well, everything, but specifically running out of supplies. Techno hoped this would teach him how valuable they were. Not in resources, but as assets. In the heat of battle, every shot mattered.

After Tommy had made a quiverful of arrows, Technoblade planned on taking him out to his practice range. Inexperienced hands nocking an arrow were shaking and quick to flinch. Archery hurt. It was a difficult skill to master; the art of shooting an arrow required the fletching to run through the archer’s fingers. If their hands were smooth and uncalloused, the projectile would cut through their fingers like a blade in water. His hands (and hooves) were roughed up to the consistency of leather from arduous repetition. Tommy hadn’t had that experience.

Technoblade had made leather gloves for that exact reason.

And now that plan was ruined.

While his retirement home was the definition of picturesque, Tommy had come to ruin that as well. The foundation had made Techno's house uneven. The ground was unstable and it had started to sag north. 

Tommy had literally dug up and unsettled his life. 

Somewhere in there was a metaphor and a moment for some much-needed introspection. Technoblade ignored it. 

Snow had sloped onto the roof heavy, the sound of monsters outside crunching feet of the stuff. The cold had choked out the will of any invaders at the cost of isolating them together. The house’s floor was insulated with stone, then covered with wood. The chimney doubled as a source of light, warmth, and a way to heat the floor. Technoblade had learned how to make heated floors from Chat. The quality of life improvement was immense.

Tommy hadn’t understood how, but he did enjoy it. Too often he had slept in his boots, curled up into a jacket or blanket or whatever he could find. But this? This was a luxury that could lull him into a rest like no other.

And Tommy needed a good sleep after Logsteadshire.

Still, his spirit reignited despite his body's protests. He stretched his arms upward in attempts to hide his yawn. 

He stomped his foot. 

"I'm not tired! We need supplies, we need—We need to get back the discs."

That was going to be a hard habit to kick. The kid needed a break; his eyes were ringed in black. He sat hunched over with awful posture, looking pitiful. Technoblade held back the urge to call him a racoon again.

Despite the warmth, Tommy was shivering.

Exhaustion. Techno knew it all too well.

The Piglin man took off his cape, folding it over his arm. It helped increase his bulk, his size when intimidation was necessary. When he was home its purpose became a blatant unnecessity. Still, he often found himself falling asleep in it, curled up in a tiny pile against the wall where no one could hurt him. 

It was important.

And he tossed it to Tommy. 

"We'll get back the discs after you go to sleep. If you fall asleep in the snow you'll freeze to death and die."

Then he stoked the fire with an iron pole, minding Edward's head. He couldn't be bothered to kill the creature just yet. The flames roared up, consuming the cold air in the room and up the chimney. 

Tommy held the crimson cloak in his arms. He stared for a second, then twisted to wrap it around himself. It was enormous, swamping his thin figure in fabric and comfort unknown for weeks in exile. He pushed himself further into the corner with the fletching table, close to his hiding box.

"The 'and die' is kind of redundant, 'innit?" Tommy muttered, head poking up from the fluff of the cloak’s collar.

Technoblade sighed. 

They were going to keep talking in circles. He would make a general statement, Tommy would overload him with non sequiturs and nonsense sentences until Technoblade tuned him out with Chat. However, he couldn’t ignore Tommy here. If he did, the boy would never go to sleep, and the cold of the night didn’t need a cold shoulder on top of it. A cranky Tommy and an annoyed Technoblade was a recipe for disaster, overthrowing governments or otherwise.

There was only one way he knew how to talk in times like this:

“Let me tell you a story.”

It was an offer more intimate than Tommy knew. 

Naturally, he rejected it.

“What if I don’t want to hear a story?” Said teenager shifted in his cozy corner. 

“Too bad.” He pushed the crown up from where it was slipping off his head. If he was going to coax the world's most energetic child to sleep, he needed to let down his guard. 

“Why do you even wear that thing?”

“What, the crown? It’s not like I use it in combat or anything, it's just for fun. Fun is banned? You're banning fun now?" He laughed. "Good luck getting anyone on your side."

“I don’t have a side. Or rather, my side is your side? Now you’ve gone and got my head all confused.” Tommy’s voice had grown softer. 

Techno couldn’t have that.

“There’s no ‘our side’. We are not a team.”

Tommy huffed. “Until we get the discs back.”

“Will you let go of the discs for a minute? They’re not going anywhere.”

“Could go into a fire.”

Techno huffed heavier. Puffs of true flame curled out from his snout. Not the metaphorical risk clouding Tommy’s mind. He was already headed towards the pitfall he wanted to avoid. It was time to change the subject.

“Considering your limited knowledge of Greek classics, you wouldn’t happen to know Homer?”

“Who what now?” 

A solid ‘no’ would have sufficed, Techno thought.

“You probably haven’t heard of Odysseus, then.”

“With a name like that, I reckon I should of. Wait, this is one of your myths again, isn’t it?” Tommy kicked himself up, back against the wall to look at Technoblade as they spoke.

“I like a certain section of stories. Is that so wrong?”

“Is this story about you?”

The Blade tutted. “No, no, no. I don’t have any family. Orphans killed my parents. Family is useless, it slows you down unless you’re exacting revenge. In that case, family is excellent. Nothing better than dead family.”

"That doesn't make any sen—"

"Keep interrupting and I'll make you sleep in Carl's stable."

Tommy pouted. His hair stuck up in every which way, active as he was.

“Odysseus was a king of his own island. He lived in peace with his family on Ithaca, and he was known as a wise man.” It had been a while since Technoblade had told a story like this. His rhythm was lacking. “He was the favorite of Athena, the goddess of battle and wisdom.”

“Gods aren’t real.”

“You’re looking at one.”

Silence. “Yeah, right.” 

"Moving on.” He wasn’t willing to indulge Tommy in that story when he was preoccupied with telling another. “While Odysseus was a king, he wasn’t the chief king. At that point Greece was broken up into various city states, other little countries that refused to be conquered. While it was all Greece, there was a difference between a Spartan and an Athenian. Too many fights for power and the geopolitical landscape had torn them apart. Odysseus had his friends, though it would be more accurate to call them his allies, his country with whom he had sworn an oath to fight alongside. Each of those kings would be headed out their own separate way.” That felt right to Technoblade. “They were brothers in arms, finally called to war for the sake of their nation. But Odysseus ended up alone.”

“Why?”

“The people around him broke the rules. They went up against the sun god, and so they were punished.”

“What’d they do?”

“Oh, uh. Ate his cows.”

Tommy gasped.

“No!”

“Okay, so you get it. The Pet Skirmishes but on a much, much bigger scale.”

“Where’s Sapnap?”

“Tommy, it’s a myth, it’s not about your friends. They’re gods.” 

“Dunno why you’d tell a story about a bunch of boring, stuffy gods. Hey, why’re you such a bad storyteller?”

That was it. "I'm trying to monologue here! Chat, Chat see how impossible this is?"

“Tell chat that you’re a pussy! And I’m the coolest! TommyInnit is the coolest, got it?” Tommy’s eyes, which had held the murmurs of sleep, were now alive and vicious.

Undoing all of Technoblade’s work. And proving he didn’t understand Chat.

“Bruh.”

“I am!”

“For the third time now, if you will let me talk, I’m trying to tell the story.” 

“Right, right, sorry.”

“Odysseus was the only one who knew the warning signs. He had encountered the gods before, and he would rather starve to death than offend them. Because sometimes, Tommy, not offending people is a good thing, and making needless enemies makes the situation ten times worse.”

Tommy bit his lip. 

Techno continued.

“But no one ever listens to Odysseus. That’s one of the ironies of the story, Tommy. Often being right lets the hero escape with his life. Doesn’t mean he can save anyone else. Most of the time he doesn’t even save himself.”

“What?”

“I mean, I tried telling you. Heroes are doomed the moment they call themselves heroes. Odysseus never did, he was smart. It was the people that came later and told the story that did that. A hero is born through the crossing of the stars, something divine. Special. For all of his worth, the burden of expectation is put on his shoulders and then he battles with his pride. The Greeks had a word: hubris. It’s the hubris that strikes the killing blow. It’s never the beast or the gods themselves, it’s someone the hero has wronged. Odysseus wronged a monster, a cyclops, but even that was too far.”

Tommy was quiet. All of his focus was pooled into Technoblade.

“Odysseus played the part of warrior. Now it was time for him to be a survivor. See, it didn’t matter what the gods put him through, the trials or the tribulations or the meaningless delays. He had a mental image of what his home was. Ithaca. It had stopped being a real place. Instead it was an idea. A concept.”

“Oh.”

“And even when he was gone, trapped by witches and beasts, he kept that vision of home in his head. Because he was going to get there no matter what. It was all he had left of the world he knew. Even when he was offered another life, another world in what might have been a better place, he turned it down. Because it wasn’t what he wanted. He learned what being a hero meant, and now what he wanted was the opposite: to go home. To be normal. But the thing is, life doesn’t wait around for us to come back.”

Tommy glanced down to his neck. The lodestone compass shimmered in the dim light. His Tubbo.

“The world doesn’t care what your aspirations are, your nation, or your ideas. It doesn’t even care about your friends. The world doesn’t care if what you want does not want you. It doesn’t care, period. It’s cold. Survival is survival.”

-

"I want to be a hero when I grow up!"

"Oh, you do?" The man chuckled, furloughing his spade to sit down on the steps beside him. 

"What's the point of having a name like Technoblade if you're not a hero?" He shut the book in his lap, face beaming.

The young man's mouth opened before a scream rang out from inside the house, followed by shouting and yelling. 

The blond haired man sighed. He smiled back, then rolled his eyes. The man reached out and tousled his hair.

Techno laughed as the man’s voice echoed:

"How are ÿ̸̻͓́̑͐́͗̽͝͠ö̶̝͖̱̫̈́̑́͌͒̋ǜ̴͍͖̝̑̋ ̴̢̛̛̮̼̲͖̠̻̼̝̥̗̻̩̲̼̂̽͌̾̇͂̈́̾͐̅͘̚t̷̤͔̥̤̫̫̟̀̐̈́̿͐ḧ̴̡̘̦͔̠͎̰̬̼̜̺̮͎͚͛̈́ͅȩ̵̦̦̠̬̼͔̰̩̯̻̍̈́͐̌̓͆̀̉̑͗ ̸̪̤̣̏͒̚͜ͅm̸̗͇̘̮̥̮̪̤̯̤̞͉͗̾́͜ą̸̡̖̭̣̭͉͎̥̫̝̑̿̅̄̓͐̽̊̂͂̆͠͝ͅţ̶̮͚̰̂̀̈́̐͆͑̍͆͗͝͠ü̶̢̻͔̼͓̹͖̺̯͙̅̂̔̊̐̅ͅr̴͔̐̾͛ẽ̴̱̰̣̀̓̉̀̆̓̈̄ ̸̛̱͇̺̂̿͑̏̍̋͊͊͗̋̇̆͝o̴̬̙͚͇̳͎͆̇̌̐̿͂̓̄͛͝ͅn̵̨̈́̈́̂̋̐ͅe̷̛̟̱͖͙͙̩͆̊̆̓̂͒̈̍?̸͖̟̺͇̬̗̰̭̺͇͆͐̀͊́̄̍̀̅́͜

-

> home. 

> Tommy's still looking at you, you haven't spoken in a minute

> do you feel sick?? whats going on i just got here

“Blade?” And there was Tommy, with a drop of concern in his voice.

Technoblade shook his head. Late joiners. The memory crumbled to dust. 

He continued. “The Isle of Ogygia. That was where Odysseus’s survival took him. He stayed there, in the lull of the witch Circe, who wanted him for herself—”

“That’s sexist.”

“W-What?”

“The witch!”

“You think the witch is sexist?”

“No no no, the hero! He gets called upon—lured—by this woman just because he’s what, the hero?”

He could not believe this. “Tommy. I didn’t write it.” 

“I’m just saying!”

“The Isle of Ogygia. Or Atlantis, some people think it could be Atlantis, it honestly depends on what version you’re reading but that’s not important. Odysseus spent countless years there, safe but soulless. His heart was gone from his body, kept at bay with thoughts of home. Of family, of kinship. He was out of his body and mind for seven years. He was at the gods’ mercy, but fortune smiled upon him and he escaped.”

Techno took a moment to return his attention to his listener.

Tommy was transfixed, eyes wide.

For some reason, that made him smile.

“He made his way to one of his allied kingdoms. The gods, though, had shifted his appearance. This was to know how he still stood in their eyes. When so much time passes, relationships and bonds fade. Only his dog recognized him. The home he’d wanted for so long was plundered, practically destroyed. His wife—”

“He had a wife? That’s unrealistic.”

Technoblade repeated, annoyed: “His wife and his son didn’t recognize him. Only the dog.”

Tommy continued to ignore his point.

“Well dogs are good like that. I reckon dogs are better than most people."

Moving for the first time since the beginning of the story, he took a step towards the corner.

“Tommy, I’m trying to tell you that even though he won—He got everything he wanted, he got to go home—He didn’t win. His home was different. And he wasn’t the same man.”

“That’s—That’s sad.” 

Tommy stood up and Technoblade crossed his arms.

“It’s not a happy story.” 

"Then why are you telling it?"

“Forget about it.” If Tommy didn't understand, he wasn't going to waste any more time explaining. 

Tommy moved, shifting the cloak on his shoulders crooked. He opened the spruce doors, a strange expression on his face. Like a mixture of horror, fear, and anger. Technoblade recognized the anger first. Tommy looked back, stepped into the snow, then shut the door.

Techno thought, what? He’s going to throw a tantrum because a story doesn’t go how he wanted—

-

A white substance flitted down through the air like snow. Small, unburnt hands grasped upwards to try and catch it. They had only seen snow, never this new, fluffy, off-white plume.

The boy coughed up ash. 

“Hello? D̸̫̦̳̰͐̉ã̸̲̦̞̺͆d̶̗̒̐̕̕?”

-

Technoblade grabbed the edge of the box, stumbling. 

The memory—No, vision—was incompatible with reality. How would he have gotten to the Nether as a child? And Techno never had a father, never depended on anyone, never needed—

Before he could even begin to understand the implications, he was thrown back in.

-

He was lost. 

He was alone. 

And he couldn’t have known that enough inhaled ash will scar your lungs, burn your skin, and bury you beneath a mountain of suffocating fire the moment you stop moving. He couldn’t have known that the Nether contains biomes of this stuff.

Ash has suffocated him. It burns, searing his skin and cooking him alive. It’s like the fall of Pompeii. He read a book on Pompeii once. Perhaps in some distant time an archaeologist will discover the hollow shell of his remains and theorize what happened here, or a traveler, a survivalist happening along the same paths years later when he’s just a mound.

He read another book, once. About a volcano. It’s similar to that pyroclastic flow, a mix of awful molten core and heat. There’s no way to swim in lava, not truly. It doesn’t stop a thirteen year old boy from scraping for the surface in a pit.

He was going to die here.

It’s his coat that saves him. Handcrafted and made with love. The bottom half tears, and he loses a precious gift but gets to keep his life. 

Everything is burning. Is he screaming? His clothes are torn and he’s burning, he’s burning—

-

As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Technoblade was instantly brought to the sensation of cracklings coals. He jumped at the sound, then looked down at his hands.

Hooves, right. Hooves.

This was too much to process.

Techno looked up.

He watched Tommy waddle to the front of the house in front of Carl’s stable, trudging through the snow the most inefficient way Technoblade could imagine. He was wiping his face.

For some reason, he thought it was something his good friend Philza would have a laugh at.

> PHILZA!!!

> Philza Minecraft?

> Philza would love it here

> The child is annoying, I hope he freezes to death

> I miss Philza

> Countdown to Philza visiting!

“Chat, you’re screaming into my ear right now.” He needed clarity, not a thousand voices in unison chanting for a friend.

Even from here, he could see that tears were pooling in Tommy’s eyes.

Technoblade didn’t bother with a coat. He ignored the sounds of the fire and how the heat made him feel uneasy, instead opting to climb down the ladder and go out the front door. Tommy was muttering to himself, a hand petting Carl.

“‘s not a happy story—What’s the point of telling a story if it’s not happy? I reckon he’s just one big downer. Downing all the time.”

It was then Techno decided to speak. 

“I’d say talking to yourself is a bad habit but since I can’t really do that without coming off like a hypocrite, I’ll tell you that being quieter usually means people can’t overhear sensitive, secret information.”

Tommy didn’t jump, but his shoulders hitched.

“I don’t care about secrets.” Tommy crossed his arms.

“Everything’s a secret when you can’t understand basic information people are telling you.”

“You don’t tell me anything!”

“I’m trying to tell you why people tell sad stories.”

“If I were his family, I would have recognized him.”

“No you wouldn’t have! That is literally the point of the story. You’re like five now, you think you’d recognize someone you saw as a baby?”

It happens a third time and Technoblade’s world spins.

> Recognize recognize recognize

> Is he finally remembering????

> idk, not yet?

> Ugh, someone get me when something interesting happens

> your dead, whats stopping you from watching all the time?

> It’s actually ‘you’re’

> where

> where?

> WHERE DID I ASK—

-

There is a house on a hill in the forest. It looks familiar, with a basement, a middle floor, and a top floor with stairs leading up from the outside.

There is a house beneath a hill in a fierce tundra. 

There was a house on a hill in a forest. It was a home too, once.

Both can theoretically exist at the same time. The house on a hill in the forest is perfectly ingrained in his memory, enough for him to replicate it bit by bit.

There is a boy with a beanie, taller than him. He wears a scowl.

There is a boy smaller than him with a bandage on his cheek.

Sunlight flows through the curtains like honey, oozing in warm delight. There is something resting on the bridge of his nose, and his fingers fly to adjust it.

He laughs.

The tiny freckled boy smiles and it shows his tooth gap.

A deep, tenor voice calls from downstairs and they rush to where storage is, the chests the dining room.

Their father is tired. There are bags under his blue eyes, but his smile lights up the room like the honey-light and like his brothers’ faces. He takes off his hat to sit at the table, a cape swishing behind him.

They’re singing at the table. Four humans with perfect harmony. They sing together all the time, how could he forget?

 The candles on the cake are flickering, and it’s a world away from the fires of the Nether.

“Happy birthday T̶̡͆̋́͝—”

-

Nothing else but static noise and Chat going wild.

“I’m sixteen! I am an adult man!” Tommy’s fists are balled as he stands, beating against his chest to each word and anger burns in his eyes until he sees his hero’s face. “Technoblade?”

His heart pounded.

-

The boy that Technoblade has been seeing through the eyes of is not an adult. Now he is a teenager. He is taller, the clothes more unfitting than before. There are stitches to fix the jacket, now forced to be a half-coat that tucks into his shirt.

He looks like the mockery of a man.

Actually, he doesn’t look like a man at all.

-

Technoblade remembered this part.

The rest had to be a daydream, the machinations of a tired mind. Separating his identity from his mask is impossible.

Literally.

-

He has forgotten what snow feels like. He has forgotten snow. There are many things Technoblade has forgotten, but the name of snow sticks. Snow. It sounds like a dream, like the deranged ramblings of a piglin who lost his mind, and like a fairy tale all at once.

He liked fairy tales, once. 

Now they’re just unrealistic.

The piglin group he is trailing turn to look at him. He’s been following behind them, scavenging whatever food they decide to discard and bartering whatever he can get his hands on. Their eyes are vacant, white. His eyes are present, despite his appearance. Alert. He has to be, it’s one mistake and death. 

The Nether is not forgiving.

He notices when their behavior shifts.

The piglins decide to attack. 

Technoblade sighs.

He doesn’t want to attack this one. There have been too many packs, too many attempts at communication, too many tries at a family.

Technoblade has no tools. He’s forced to work with his fists and some metal the pigs scrapped, which with enough tempering he’s made into knuckles. Netherite knuckles, but that knowledge will evade him until years in the future.

He busts one of the pigs’ heads open, then shoves another’s head into the netherrack wall. Blood spills on his boots. A tusk is embedded in his hand; he puts pressure on the wound then yanks it out, stabbing it into the head of the third. The fourth pushes into his back, and Techno slams his head back into its skull until it fractures.

The fifth runs off. 

And all at once, an uproar, a chant from a place and group he cannot see or hear.

It sings that Technoblade never dies.

-

All at once Chat was unanimous:

> Technoblade never dies.

> TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES

> technoblade never dies

> blood for the blood god!!!

> Techno never dies

> Technoblade never dies!

He nodded in agreement.

“Technoblade.”

Tommy laughed.

Techno realized he had convinced the child he was fine.

“Is that how you get the girls, Blade?”

“I’m not interested.” The art of combat and potato farming interested him more than girls. Or anyone, for that matter. 

“Are you crying?”

“No.” Tommy sniffed. 

“Here, let go of Carl.” Technoblade pulled Tommy away.

“But I wasn’t—”

“I killed everyone that ever touched that horse.”

“Okay, fine.” Tommy doesn’t move.

Techoblade can’t sigh because he’s already sighed too much and anything that exacerbates the situation will give him a headache. Instead, he picks Tommy up and lifts him over his shoulder. He chooses to say nothing in response as Techno headed inside and down, down, until they were both in Tommy’s little nest of shiny things and stolen goods. 

Tommy struggled to stay on the bridge of consciousness. Technoblade takes his hand and walks him all the way there, staying down in the pitiful hole until Tommy has tired himself out from the sound of his own voice.

It was hours before he risked stepping away from the bed.

Snow fluttered down. It was cold and wet, but it was snow; a miracle all the same. 

Technoblade stretched out a hoof. It was not the hand of a small child that was trapped in the Nether. It was a Piglin beast who had believed he'd never feel the cold again. 

Technoblade glanced out the shutters. Tommy was inside, falling asleep. The silence of the home told him as much. 

He pulled his hand back inside. 

The fire of the top floor crackled. Techno dipped his head forward. His hands clasped around an invisible buckle, hidden underneath his hair. 

As easy and simple as changing clothes, Technoblade the human stood in his retirement home. His height was the same, scars still present, but now a long unkempt braid of hair trailed down his back. It was ill-maintained, tangled and disgusting. A liability.

Without thinking twice, Technoblade took his sword and slashed the braid off.

-

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?!” Dream yells. It feels like the ground is shaking beneath them.

Techno stands firm. He’s towering above him, sword at his side.

“Nope. I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.” His voice is monotonous as always.

The green fiend stood hunched over his stomach, shoulders rising and falling to the tune of his ragged breaths. He knew that they didn’t need to breathe. It was all theatrics, even in the middle of a fight. Still, Dream’s voice was frantic, jittery, shaking, and loud; something Chat assured him they altogether had never seen in their combined existences.

Technoblade felt smug.

Technoblade made the grave mistake of hubris.

In a flash, the god is behind him. The god that can see the straps of his mask, the god that slices it off with a well-placed swordstrike and grabs him by his braid.

“Y’know, I really didn’t want to kill you. I’ve heard about you, a little bit. I just didn’t care.” He whispers into Techno’s ear as the pain tears into his scalp.

It only took a half-second for him to find a solution.

Dream was guarding from the left, expecting another hit to his mask. 

Technoblade swiped at the right.

In a flash, he’s cut off his braid of pink hair and freed himself from the clutches of his enemy.

He smirks, and pulls out his axe. He doesn’t need the mask to fight, it’s already a part of him.

“C’mere, Dream.”

-

That one. That memory is real and he has all the proof he needs of that. He turned over his hand and pushed up the brass knuckles to see the gashes along his finger from where he held the grip. He sets the hand-to-hand weapon on the crafting table as he massages his hands.

Soaking his fingers in instant healing should alleviate the pain. Even for a moment. 

Dream hit hard. The wounds never left. 

But Technoblade hit harder.

A burned hand reached out to the snowfall. 

The snow didn't burn back. 

"He's not me, Chat. We're keeping it that way."

If there was one thing Technoblade was good at achieving, it was his goals.

[jenanigans1207]

Tender Melody

Honestly, they’re making a bigger deal out of this than they need to.

Reki is fine. He might have a few bandages and a long list of things he’s not supposed to do, delivered to him with a stern stare from the doctor who is getting to know him far too well, but he’s fine . He lost to Adam, but barely , and he had the time of his life doing it. The adrenaline is still pumping through his veins, all this time later, and he feels like he could do it all over again. He remembers the sight he was treated to from that jump and knows in that unshakeable sort of way that he has to see it again. And if he feels that way, if he went through all of that and feels no fear about stepping on his skateboard, he's absolutely fine in the grand scheme of things.

So there’s really no reason for the fuss as the doors open to the waiting room and he limps out to meet the group of people waiting for him.

They rush to him at once, Langa making it to his side before anyone else even comes close. Reki doesn’t even have a chance to say that he’s okay before Langa’s hand is on his shoulder and he’s meeting Reki’s gaze with an earnest question that he doesn’t even have to ask because Reki can read it in his expression. There's worry, there, creased between his brows, but pride, too, in the look in his eyes. Miya is the next to make it to him, barely scrambling to a stop before he runs into Reki, all pretenses that he dislikes Reki abandoned for the time being. It takes another second for Joe to make it  next to him with Cherry still in his wheelchair but they’re still there in just a matter of moments.

And suddenly Reki is standing there, bandage around his head, crutch under his arm, and all the people that meant the most to him surrounding him like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.

Well, okay, Reki assumes that all of them would rather be anywhere but at a hospital. But they want to be with him, wherever that may be, and that thought practically paralyzes him in his spot. Because it's one thing to know them casually, it's another thing entirely to have all of them here, scanning him over and waiting with bated breath to hear the status of his injuries.

“I’m alright.” Reki says after a moment, his throat suspiciously tight as he glances away from all of their gazes. “No injuries that I haven’t had before.”

“That’s not a good thing, Reki.” Langa chides, but he sags in relief next to Reki. And even though he's lecturing Reki, there's a smile at the edge of his lips that's more fond than almost anything else Reki has ever seen. "You need to be more careful."

"Skating's a dangerous sport." Reki raises his one arm in a shrug, the other bearing his weight through his crutch.

There's a small chorus of laughter at his comment and Reki knows that everyone here understands. Something about that realization is almost too much for Reki to bear and he swears he feels his lower lip wobble.

For a moment, Reki just takes a second to look at all of these people— all of these people that he idolizes, that he looks up to. He looks at them as they stand in the hospital waiting room, all still dressed in their clothes from S. They had come straight from the track to the hospital, following Langa as he’d raced around town with Reki on the back of his bike. They’d all come here no matter how many times Reki had insisted that they didn’t need to, that he was perfectly okay and could handle all of this alone. After about the third time of saying it, Joe had all but shoved him on the bike and sent him off with a firm and non negotiable, we'll see you when the doctor's done with you. And that really had been that.

And it wasn’t that they didn’t believe he could handle it alone— Reki was absolutely certain of that. Nobody was here because they needed to hear what the doctor said, because they didn’t trust Reki to be honest with them. They were here to support him, to let him know that they cared. They were here because that's what people did when they cared for someone, they looked after them, they shared the hard times with them as much as the good times. They were here because Reki mattered to them enough to be here.

And that— that was one of the most unrealistic things Reki had ever experienced.

“Tell us the truth, Reki. What’s the damage?” Joe asks, snapping Reki back into the moment as he leans his weight onto the handles of Cherry’s wheelchair and surveys Reki. Cherry doesn't even glance up at Joe as he shifts his weight, his full attention on Reki as they all wait for an answer.

“Ah,” Reki glances down at the crutch under his arm, the bandage wrapping around his wrist. It actually goes up to his elbow but with his hoodie on, the rest of it can’t be seen. “Just a few bumps and bruises mostly.”

“Mostly?” Cherry presses, his gaze stern on Reki. Reki can feel it, even if he’s not meeting it. It's not unkind, though, not even a little bit. The weight of it feels similar to the gazes Reki's mom gives him when she's exasperated with him. It comes from a place of concern, and that concern is laced into every syllable.

“And okay, maybe a few breaks.” Reki mumbles into the collar of his hoodie, hoping the fabric will stop the words from going any further.

It doesn’t.

“You really are something, kid.” Joe’s smile is audible in his voice, each word dripping with the sort of fondness that Reki didn't expect to ever hear from someone so superior to him, and this time Joe lets go of the wheelchair and moves around Cherry to come stand in front of Reki directly. “I’m proud of you.”

And there is the lump Reki was feeling in his throat earlier, only now it’s about three times larger than it had been then. He tries to swallow around it. “Thanks.”

Joe claps a hand on Reki’s good shoulder, his hand dislodging Langa's that had been firmly there the whole time, and there’s something about it that’s so comforting, even if Reki can’t put it into words. It feels like the pride of a close friend, the pride of a father. It feels like the kind of pride Reki has never been able to feel in himself. “Now c’mon. Let’s go celebrate. I’ll cook whatever you want.”

“Celebrate?” Reki echoes, glancing up into Joe’s smiling face. “I lost.”

“Barely.” Langa says immediately. And something about Langa defending him, something about Langa seeing the good in him that he's never been able to see before that makes Reki feel his heart clenching in his chest. “If your board hadn’t broken—”

He tries desperately, valiantly to keep his knees underneath him and his voice steady, to not drown in the overwhelming amount of gratefulness he feels in this moment. “But it did .”

“You came back.” This time it’s Miya who speaks up and Reki feels his heart squeeze even tighter in his chest as he looks over at Miya— Miya, who isn’t looking at him. Miya, who has done nothing but call him a slime. Miya, who rightfully yelled at Reki for quitting skateboarding when he did. Miya, who accepted Reki back, despite it all, who held onto the promise Reki had made him like it was the most precious thing he had.

“Exactly.” Cherry wheels a little bit forward on his own, completing the circle. And then they're all there, a family standing together in the hospital waiting room, bound together by choice. Bound together because they want to be. Nobody in this circle is burdened by the others— nobody in this circle is burdened by Reki and recklessness. “And that is worth celebrating.”

Of all the things Reki would’ve ever expected in his life, this would’ve never been on the list. At no point in his life would he have even dreamed that he could end up in a situation like this.

Reki has looked up to Joe and Cherry for as long as he can remember. From the first moment he had heard about S, the first time he had learned of the creators of it and their skills, he had dreamed about someday meeting them. That was as far as he had ever imagined it was possible for it to go. Even childhood Reki and his wild imagination hadn't ever pictured something more than just meeting them in passing.  And then he had met them— and then he’d done so much more than that. He’d become friends with them— he’d become family with them. Because here they were, in the middle of the night, in a hospital waiting room, worried about him. It was a redundant point and he knew that, but his mind was still snagging on it, over and over again as each new wave of gratefulness overcame him.

And when he’d crossed that finish line earlier, they had been there, too. They had been there ready to cheer with him if he’d won, ready to cheer him up if he’d lost. He’d crossed that line and Cherry and Joe had showed up at his side before he’d even gotten off the ground, telling him how worried they had been for him, how impressed they were with his guts and his talents. These people who had skills he could never even dream of not only considered him worthy, they considered him equal . These people who had impressed him for years upon years were now looking back at him and telling him that they were equally impressed.

If that wasn’t enough to leave Reki wondering how he got here— and it certainly was— he also had Miya at his side. The young Japanese National hopeful, the guy who had a reputation of not having time for other people. Miya was here and he was worried, he was here and he was glad Reki was alright. He had joined Reki’s side and become a part of the family, no matter how much he had insisted that was something he would never want. It warmed Reki’s heart more than he could possibly express to have Miya here, checking in on him. And no amount of fuss Miya could put up would ever change that.

And then, somehow, on top of all those amazing things, Langa was next to him. After everything they had been through, after all the times Reki had felt like Langa was miles away from him, they had found their way back to each other. After feeling like he was staring at Langa's back for so long, he was once again at Langa's side, in sync with him again. And somehow, more than anything else, that was the thing that mattered the most to Reki.

“So?” Joe squeezes Reki’s shoulder before taking his hand back. There's a knowing edge to the way he catches Reki's eye, like he might have some idea what it is Reki's thinking about, like he might feel the same way about this ragtag bunch of people that have somehow come together. “What do you say? Celebratory dinner?”

Reki glances at everyone’s faces for a minute, his eyes lingering on Langa and the way the corner of his lips are tilted up into one of those proud smiles that Reki is starting to recognize. “Yeah, I could go for some food.”

-- x

For the fact that it’s only the five of them in the restaurant after hours, there’s plenty of noise. Joe and Cherry are arguing good naturedly over some story from their past, both of them trying to embarrass the other. Their bickering has more of a casual edge now, tucked away from the rest of the world like they are. There's something gentle in the way they poke at each other, like they both know where the lines are, know that nothing they're saying now comes even close to crossing them. There's something intimate about it, and Reki feels lucky to be trusted enough to witness it.  Miya sits across from him at the table, head ducked in a desperate attempt to hide his own laughter. It doesn’t work, because Reki can see the way his shoulders are shaking.

And for a moment, Reki just feels warm . For a moment, all of the pain of his injuries, the sting of his loss, the fear of what’s going to happen when Langa has to face Adam again— all of it is just gone. For a moment, it’s just Reki, eating his favorite food, sitting with his favorite people, laughing as if this is the sort of normal thing that they all do together.

And the truth is that it could be. It sort of already is. This is the kind of thing Reki gets to do with these incredible people.

Because Reki knows with that sort of certainty that sits in the center of his bones, pumps through his body with every beat of his heart, that this could happen whenever he wanted. He knows that he could show up at Joe's restaurant after closing any night of the week and Joe would let him in with nothing more than an exasperated shake of the head. If Reki called any of them now— and that's something he could do because he has their numbers, incredibly— he knew they would answer. They would come to him if he needed them. These people were his unfailing support system now.

Reki thinks back to when he was a child, thinks back to the way he used to dream of just being in the same location as his idols. He thinks about the first time he saw Cherry and Joe arrive to S, the way he stood in the crowd and just stared at them, completely in awe like the rest of the people there. He thinks back to when Miya walked into the shop and Reki’s jaw had nearly hit the ground because he’d seen so many videos of Miya skating. He thinks back to the first time he watched Langa tape his feet to the skateboard and take on Shadow. And even Shadow, Reki thinks fondly as he watches Cherry snatch a glass out of Joe’s hands. Even Shadow who had been perhaps his worst enemy was now a part of this family that he had found himself in. All of these people that he had admired from afar were now the closest people he'd ever had in his life.

“And then, later that night—” Joe is somewhere in the middle of a sentence when Cherry’s foot lands on top of his and whatever words he’s about to say next are cut off through a series of low curses that he at least tries to keep under his breath since the room is filled with children. Something about it draws Reki back to the moment as he watches with a deep-seated joy.

“The way you remember it,” Cherry cuts in smoothly, taking a pointed sip of his water. “Is far from the truth, you oaf.”

“Oh, far from the truth, huh?” Joe challenges, but he’s smiling warmly and there’s not an ounce of malicious intent in anything either of them are saying. There never is, Reki thinks fondly, but it's especially obvious now.

Joe and Cherry resume their bickering, a bunch of half-thoughts that somehow they understand well enough to keep going, despite neither one of them making much of a point. Reki can’t stop the smile that fits to his lips as he takes another bite of his food.

“You look happy,” Langa murmurs from next to him, leaning in so Reki can hear him over the arguing on the other side of the table.

Reki glances over and feels his breath catch in his throat at the sight of Langa smiling back at him, cheeks flushed with the same happiness that Reki feels coursing through his own veins. “I am.” He says after a minute. “Aren’t you?”

Langa’s arm finds its way over Reki’s shoulders and Reki leans into it as much as he can. “Of course I am.”

And just like that, Reki relaxes into Langa’s touch, letting the sounds of his found family echo around him like a tender melody, a sound he never wants to forget. He may have been through a lot, but all of it led him here. And in this moment. There isn’t anywhere else on Earth Reki would rather be. No matter what comes next, he knows that he’ll get through it because the bonds he has with the people surrounding him at this table are stronger than anything else in the world.

[whatgaviiformes]

Firefly’s Glow Part 4/?

Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 

Chapter 2: Part 3 | Part 4

You are Here

From the Beginning: FF | AO3

Summary: Imprisoned by the Hood, Gordon dreams of his oldest brother and of fireflies - but of course the Hood had to steal that memory too, in addition to his baldric, his boots, and Virgil’s face. What else could he possibly steal? He discovers the answer is quite a bit, and Gordon has to learn to navigate his new world, its new dangers, and the overbearing presence of his brothers’ desire to help what they can’t fix.

This part ~ 1,013 words - Continues from Scott finding Gordon

——————

Part 4 

For all the what ifs he and John had concocted, this one was one neither of them would’ve thought possible. My brother is the size of a Hasbro figurine.

“Gord -?!” The rest of the name never made it quite past his dry lips.

“Hi, Scott.” Scott blinked at him. “So, are you going to stare or are you going to help me out of here?”

“You’re… Uh, What ha -” Scott stammered. “Gordon you’re so small! How the hell?”

“I don’t know, Scott. You tell me,” Gordon scowled, clambering over the tools in the kit to reach the edge of the box, where he was greeted with the open air. “The Hood injected me with something,” he added, rubbing at his chest where the dart had pierced his flesh, still tender from the assault.

Scott had once played with their father’s old G.I. Joe armies, though early in his youth he discovered model planes and the small figures were quickly stored in the attic again for the next Tracy child. Spoiler - they didn’t see the light of day again until Alan. Virgil was too occupied with making noise on anything and everything, John was absorbed in his books, and Gordon, though he might have had an interest, had been like a tornado when cooped up inside until he reached his pre-teen years and finally understand the concept of a good binge watch on the television. Alan had a few years of interest, then he too abandoned Captain Grid-Iron for Hot Wheels.

Scott remembered, he used to make up stories with Dad’s old G.I. Joes. Not very good ones, but intense ones, stories of heroism and sacrifice – Oh, no! Code Name Gristle’s been shot in the leg! However will he survive? Or KABOOM! Quick, evacuate the building! He once had put his toys through the ringer.

The glamour of war had been completely shredded by his actual tour of duty – granted he’d been long past his G.I. Joe days by then. But he felt a bit of acid rise in his throat standing in front of Gordon and thinking of the violence in the way he used to play with the army men. The reality was that his brother was that delicate at his current size, and he was clearly injured judging by the soiled state of his IR suit.

He’d been hurt. Whatever the Hood did, he’d hurt his brother.

“Scott?”

“Sorry, Gordon, just give me a moment to process,” Scott said. But even as he spoke, he remembered Gordon had been waiting for his help up out of the kit, and so he lowered his hand to Gordon’s feet, leaving his palm outward.

“It wasn’t necessarily a swim in the ocean for me either,” Gordon griped, stepping onto the offered hand. “Thanks.”

Asking what happened felt redundant, but he did so anyway, lifting Gordon to eye-level so he could more clearly investigate the blood on his suit. And was he off balance? His palm tickled where Gordon’s left foot put barely any pressure against his skin.

“He had me in a cell for a bit, watched me lock pick my way out the shackles. Thus the-” Gordon gestured to his bare feet to indicate his lost boots. “Then he hit me with an injection and I woke up like this. I assume Havoc recaptured me when I fell off the fireplace. Killed a spider which sucked, and now you’re here.”  

As Gordon spoke, the movement of his hands and the unsteady surface of Scott’s palm threw him off balance, and he fell back on his backside and, in a classic Gordon maneuver, tried to make it look intentional. Despite the situation they were in, Scott found himself forcing back a grin. Then Gordon’s words sank in.

“Wait, you fell off a fireplace?!”

“I climbed down most of the way first. And it wasn’t my fault. The bottle they tried to keep me in fell and shattered.”

“Gordon, that’s really high. What were you thinking doing something like that?”

“I was thinking about escaping. Honestly, Scott, what would you have done?” Gordon had him there; they were Tracys. They didn’t give up. “That’s what I thought.”

“But we were coming,” Scott protested.

“Would you really have been looking for 4 ft me in a glass bottle?”

“No, probably not.” This time, Gordon spared his brother the yeah, I told you so, and simply hummed in his hand and wearily ran a hand through his messy hair.

They ran through Gordon’s list of injuries, and Scott did not like the sound of millions of tiny pieces of glass hurtling through the air towards his brother’s unprotected face, and it didn’t escape him that some of those shards could easily have been as large as his brother himself.  Nor was it all comforting to know that Gordon actually didn’t remember where his hopefully-only-sprained ankle came from.  

He had assumptions. Carelessness most likely, not recognizing what would be considered too high for a figure of Gordon’s size. Another side of Scott knew the injury could have been intentional. To keep Gordon contained.

For all the good that did. And, yeah, it was dangerous what Gordon had done to find his own means of escape, but hell if Scott wasn’t proud of him.

“Hey, Scott?”

“Hm?”

“Are we safe?” Gordon asked, adding with a whisper, “Is Havoc out?”

“I got her with a stun gun, but you’re right. We should move. Kayo is here somewhere, and the others will be following shortly.”

“What about the rescue? Everyone else is ok?”

“Another successful mission,” Scott affirmed. “And yes, all accounted for now. Here, I’ll fill you in while we walk.”

He raised Gordon up to the level of his shoulder so he could climb onto his right. Scott felt Gordon’s uneven gait settle in the space near his neck, and his IR uniform collar pulled away slightly when Gordon grabbed it to steady himself.  

The others were going to be livid when they found out about all this.

“And, ah, shit. I need to call John.”