#so we aren’t kidding about quick fic lol. i wish i had time to make things a little weightier but alas

[sherl-grey]

quick fic for the immortal rose girlies 🥰

[mypoisonedvine]

𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝘃𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗺𝗲 | tom (make up) x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | you and tom have been two peas in a pod for your entire lives: tommy and birdie, partners in crime. you only fell in love with him a few years ago, though. maybe he'll notice sometime before you die of old age... but probably not.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 | 15.8k (oops)

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | smut (18+ only, dry humping, handjob, unprotected sex/loss of virginity, fingering, oral f receiving), alcohol consumption and tobacco use, best friends to lovers, angst, pining, fluff, tom and reader lacking braincells, extreme cornish, protectiveness/jealousy, There Was Only One Bed, I can't stress enough how fucking stupid these two are, truly no braincells detected in this entire fic

(title's after the song by the greeting committee <3 will always be the song that makes me think of tom the most)

YOU DON'T NEED TO SEE THE MOVIE TO READ THIS! plot of the film is totally discarded lmaooo

author's note part 2: there's a moment where the reader mentions that sometimes people think her and tom are siblings, she does not necessarily mean that they look alike! she means that they ACT like siblings and could be related through adoption or marriage-- her appearance isn't described and it's left open-ended for anyone to insert themselves ❤️

before we get started, I'm including a convenient cornish dictionary for you all to use if you're not already familiar with the dialect! other terms might pop up but they'll be explained in the text

teazy - acting grumpy or throwing a tantrum; something you might say to a kid having a fit or an adult who is being childishly negative

tuss - insult referencing male genitals; similar to 'knob' or 'dick' in UK and US english

my 'ansum - common, platonic greeting for men ("my handsome")

my bird - common, platonic greeting for women

rich - lovely, endearing, or beautiful

diddy? - a phrase used to mean 'is that true?' or 'really?'; diddah? and issuh? mean the same thing

wasson? - a greeting; short for "what's going on?"

jumping - very angry

hanging - terrible, gross

scat - (NOT WHAT YOU'RE THINKING lol) to push or fight someone

geek - a quick look; you can 'take a geek' at something

“Leave off, m'fine." Tom crinkled up his nose as he tried to brush your hands away, but you fought to keep dabbing the cuts on his face with the washcloth.

"Fine?  You look like you lost a fight," you frowned.

"Well, we won the match, so," he smiled, but winced when you went back to the cut just above his eyebrow.  “Fuck off, that hurts!”

“Couldn’t hurt as much as it did when you got it,” you insisted.  “C’mon, it’ll scar if you don’t let me clean it up right.”

“So?  I thought the lasses liked scars,” he grinned.  “Makes me look tough.”

“Makes you look like you got your arse handed to you.”

Tom really wasn’t built for rugby.  Though he certainly wasn’t in bad shape, he was the slimmest of all the guys he played with; he was fast, he had that going for him, but the poor kid got pummelled every time he played.

“Wish you wouldn’t go out there,” you mumbled, one of those rare times that you admitted how much you hated seeing him get hurt.

“Wish you wouldn’t worry about me when I can take care’a meself,” he replied.

And that was how it had always been— Tom was just reckless like that, and you had to try to reign him in as best you could.  You could remember so many nights spent this way, you trying to scold him enough that he might be a little more careful; but considering you’d been doing this since you were just little kids, you eventually gave up on trying to stop him and just decided to be there when he needed a little comfort.

You might’ve always been Tom’s greatest comfort.  So many things in life are uncertain, temporary, fleeting.  Not you; you’d always been there, as long as he could remember— even longer, really.  And not just because he had a shit memory from all those rugby concussions.  

“Aren’t you worried you’ll look beat up in all our holiday photos?” you asked him, speaking quietly since you were so close to his face to treat his injuries.

“Why’d that bother me?” he shrugged.  “You think I’m gonna be lookin’ at me own stupid mug in photos?”

“Don’t say that,” you shoved him on the shoulders as he laughed, leaning back into the couch.  “You’ve got a nice mug, if you didn’t get it all mucked up.”

“You think m’pretty then?” he cooed sarcastically, putting his hand under his chin and batting his eyelashes; you giggled and shoved him harder, this time knocking you both back until he was laying on the couch and you were on top of him.

“Yeah, pretty daft,” you replied, and he snorted.

“Fuck off,” he rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around your back.

“Lemme go, need to get a bandage for your face,” you explained as you squirmed.

“Nuh uh,” he denied your request, “not letting you up— sorry, birdie.”

“Tommy!” you whined through a laugh, struggling harder against him, but he just held you tighter and grinned down at you.  Giving up, you made a pouty face and rested your chin on his chest.  He mimicked your expression, mocking you until you frowned for real and gave up, turning your face again to lay your cheek down on his shirt.

He gave you a kiss on top of your head, and you let your eyes fall shut.

“Maybe just a little rest,” you decided, your voice already slurring— you were more tired than you thought.

“Mhm,” he agreed, brushing his fingers over your hair.  “Just a little, huh?”

You nodded groggily.  

“Alright— sleep tight, birdie…”

You were only tired because you’d been up way too late, packing for your trip to St. Ives with your and Tom’s families.  Joint vacations were nothing new to the two of you— actually, his parents and yours had been taking trips together since before the two of you were born.  There were pictures of you and Tommy, chubby little babies in your mums’ arms, riding on the London Eye; you’d watched a home video a few times where you were playing in the sand together at a beach in Valencia.  You weren’t sure why they felt the need to fly all the way to Spain for beaches when there were plenty here in Cornwall… but, case in point, this trip was going to be a much more relaxed (and budget-conscious) one: a roadtrip across the county, a couple rooms at a beach-side inn, and some much needed time in the sun for the next week.  Tom promised to teach you how to surf, though you weren’t sure you’d be able to figure it out anyways— but you looked forward to trying.  Really, you looked forward to Tom’s hands on your waist as he tried to help you find your balance.

Truth be told, despite being secretly in love with him since you were fourteen, you never really expected anything to happen with Tommy.  You were like brother and sister— even his parents treated you like a daughter, and vice versa— and you’d always been so close.  There’s always that fear of confessing to someone you’re close with and ruining the friendship, but this was even worse than that.  If you lost Tom, you’d lose everything.

So, it wasn’t sad— there wasn’t a lot of pining anymore, not many nights spent gushing into your diary about it and then crying yourself to sleep because he got a new girlfriend or something.  It was peaceful now, the one-sidedness of it.  You loved him, he didn’t notice, everything went on as usual and that was it.  You kept dating other guys, though Tom never liked any of them, and he dated other girls that you pretended to get along with until they split after a couple weeks.

In fact, dating was the topic of the hour as you and Tom sat in the back of his dad’s suburban, trying to entertain yourselves on the long drive to the beach resort you’d be staying at.

“That girl Dani,” you remembered, focusing most of your attention on a sudoku from the book you’d brought for the trip.  “She was fit— why’d you break up again?”

“Too clingy,” Tommy shrugged, not looking back at you; he was toying with the friendship bracelet around his wrist, the one you’d made for him at summer camp when you were eleven with blue and yellow and black chevrons.  Since you gave it to him, you’d never seen him without it, which is why the colours were all faded and dirty now, and why you were glad you made it adjustable all those years ago… he certainly outgrew the original size by now.

“I thought that was Claire,” you recalled.

“Oh, her too,” he nodded.

“This seems to be a problem for you,” you noticed, “clingy girls.  What does that even mean?”

“Means they get, like, possessive,” he clarified, holding his hands up almost like a motion of choking someone.  “Wanna know what you’re doing all the time, want a text every half hour— it’s too much.”

“That just means they like you, Tommy,” you rolled your eyes.  “You shouldn’t dump girls over that.”

“They usually dump me,” he corrected.

“What?!” you squeaked, before you cleared your throat when you noticed what your utter disbelief might imply.

“Guess they just get, I dunno, jealous?” he explained, crinkling his nose as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Jealous?” you repeated, looking away from the page in front of you for the first time.  The way he was looking at you— head tilted to the side, one eyebrow raised and mouth in a small frown— you realised what he meant.  “Of me?”

“Well, yeah,” he mumbled, “I mean, we spend so much time together.”

“But we’re just friends,” you noticed.

“That’s what I try to tell them!” he insisted.  “I mean, I say that you’re my best mate and all but I don’t even think of you like that— c’mon, I’d never…”

You looked back at the half-solved sudoku, letting out a sigh that you hoped you could pull off as frustration with the number grid before you.

“Guess they don’t believe me,” he concluded, “or they don’t care.”

“They must think it’s bound to happen one day,” you posited.  “That we’ll get together, I mean.”

“Yeah— but don’t you think if it was gonna happen, it would’ve happened already?” he pointed out.

You bit your lip.  “Yeah,” you agreed curtly.

"Hey— whatever happened to that lad with the crooked teeth you liked so much?" Tommy asked.

"You'll have to be more specific," you huffed, keeping your eyes trained on your puzzle.

"He had specs and a freckle right on the end of his nose," Tommy continued.

"Oh yeah!  Frank," you reminded him of the boy's name.  "What, did you actually approve of him or something?"

"Course not," Tommy scoffed.  "Jus' wondering, 'cause you used to go on about him all the time— 'bout how he was so wonderful and all." Tommy rolled his eyes, just to make sure it was perfectly clear that he didn't approve.

"Erm, well," you stalled, "yeah, haven't talked to him in a while."

Tommy wouldn't buy an excuse like that from you, he knew you far too well.  Leaning in, he titled his head to try to get a view of your face.  "Did something happen with him?" he pressed, and you swallowed.

"Yeah, I mean— nothing really," you shrugged, "he just got upset that I didn't wanna take things too fast, I guess.  Called me a slag and threw my phone— didn't crack, though, got lucky there—"

"Diddy?" Tommy spat, his anger obvious on his face.  He sat back up when you nodded, taking in a deep breath through his nose.  "Shoulda told me, would've scat 'im down and beat his face in.  Can't be talking to my birdie like that."

Your heart skipped a beat.  His birdie.  

"And throwin' your phone, too?  Bleddy tuss," Tommy sneered, shaking his head as he looked out the window, like he was trying to calm himself down.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you get especially Cornish when you're angry?" you giggled.

"Only twice a day, birdie," Tom laughed.  

Did anyone ever tell you that it turns me on?

“We’re here!” your mum announced, and you looked up to see that the car was turning in to a roundabout driveway.  Tom excitedly leaned against his window, looking up at the hotel.  “Wow,” he breathed.  “Look!”

He guided you to lean in right up against him, pressing your cheek to the glass so you could see the tall building.  It wasn’t a skyscraper or anything— this wasn’t that kind of place— but it was at least ten stories, with white bricks on the outside and seafoam-green shutters on each window.

With the car parked, Tom and the dads were going through the boot while his mom ran to use the loo and you and your mom checked in.

You weren’t really paying attention, honestly, while your mom gave the woman at the front desk a credit card for incidentals and all that.  The interaction only piqued your interest when you heard her confirm— “three rooms, then?”

“Yep,” your mum agreed.

“Three?” you repeated, looking up at her.

“Yeah— your dad and I, Gary and Marie, and then another room for you and Tom.”

You cleared your room.  “Tom and I get our own room?”

“You think us old geezers wanna be kept up all night by your giggling?” she snorted.  “Figured you two could entertain yourselves just fine, give the grown-ups some space.”

Before you could decide how to react to that, the opening of the front doors got everyone’s attention.  Tom looked ridiculous trying to carry as many bags as he could— all of yours, plus his and his mom’s— and you snorted as you watched him waddle into the lobby with all of them.

“What floor are we on?” he asked, the strain in his voice apparent and hilarious.

“Ten,” you informed him, and he groaned.

“Kidding!  Three,” you chuckled, “and there’s a lift.”

“Aw, Jesus,” Tom grumbled as he walked past you, struggling under the weight of the bags.  “You’re tryin’ to kill me, birdie.”

“I didn’t tell you to carry all those,” you rolled your eyes, looking at the concierge again as Tom turned the corner to find the lift.

“Is that your boyfriend?” she asked, continuing before you could answer.  “You two are adorable.”

“O-oh, er— no, actually,” you stammered, “just a friend.”

“Oh!” she mumbled.  “I see, my apologies.”

You looked down at your phone for just a second, only to hear your mom make a strange noise— a little giggle, and you saw her and the woman at the desk looking at each other.  “What?” you asked your mum.

“Nothing, dear,” she dismissed.

“What?!” you hissed, groaning when she hid a cheeky smile but said nothing.  “You’re so weird sometimes, mum…”

“Anyhoo,” the concierge mumbled, “you’re all ready to go!  Three king bed rooms, third floor, ocean view—”

“Wait, wait,” you interrupted, “all the rooms have a king bed?”  She nodded.  “Just a king bed?”

“Well… there’s a couch,” she offered.

You deflated slightly.  “That might be a little strange.”

“Oh,” she hummed, “well, I could change your room if you’d like.  But they won’t be connected anymore…”

“That’s fine,” you shook your head.

“Okay, there’s a room with two twins across the hall,” she explained, reading from her computer screen.

Ugh, a twin was gonna be uncomfortable, but so would just one bed.  “That’s fine, thank you.”

She clicked around on her keyboard for a bit, and right as she looked up at you again, Tom appeared from around the corner again.  “All done,” she announced, “I’ve changed your room for you!”

“You what?” Tom choked.

“She’s just changed our room for us,” you explained to him.

“Ah god,” he panted, laying his head against the wall while he caught his breath.  “Birdie, I just put all the bags away…”

You sighed, and the woman piped up again.  “I could still change it back for you, if the bags are too much trouble.”

“Please,” Tom breathed, and she nodded and started up with the keyboard again.  Rolling your eyes, you brushed past Tom flippantly.

“I’m gonna change,” you announced.

“Goin’ up to the room?” he asked.

“No, I was going to strip in the hallway and hope nobody walked through,” you replied snarkily.

“I was just gonna give you the key, birdie,” he smirked, pulling the plastic card out of his pocket.  You chewed your lip, regretting being so rude.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, taking it from him and moving along to the lift.

~

You’d only brought one swimsuit, the new one you’d bought just for this.  Maybe you’d had this crazy idea somewhere in the back of your mind that if you wore a tight little bikini, you’d finally get Tom’s attention and he’d stop seeing you just as the little girl he’d grown up with.  If you’d been a little less emotional and a touch more logical, you would’ve checked the weather first.

Yes, it was a beach, but it was still an English beach… the sky was grey and cloudy, and without sunlight, the ocean breeze was less refreshing and more chilly.  Very chilly, in fact, when you had hardly anything on like this.  You were trying so hard to act natural, to lay there on that chair on the beach and look as gorgeous as possible for whenever Tom came out, but it was so cold… every few seconds you were tensing up your jaw to try to fight off a shiver.

He came down a couple minutes later, wearing his swim trunks, but since he was apparently smarter than you, he was also wearing a half-zip jumper and a t-shirt underneath.  You pretended not to see him coming and laid still, only reacting to his presence with a polite wave when he was too close to ignore.

“Not gonna get much of a tan in this weather,” he noticed with a laugh as he sat next to you.

“I’m not tanning, I’m… relaxing,” you explained.

“Want me jumper, birdie?” he offered.  “You look freezing.”

“I-I’m fine,” you insisted, but your teeth chattered.  Next thing you knew, he was peeling it off over his head anyways— his shirt stuck to it and started to lift, too, exposing his stomach.  He managed to get the jumper off, though, and pulled it down over your face as you laughed and resigned yourself to your fate.  “Tommy, stop it,” you whined, batting his arms away so you could put the garment on yourself— he’d been trying to force it on you and accidentally trapped your face in one of the sleeves.

When you finally navigated your limbs through the borrowed sweater, popping your face out and breathing in a deep breath of fresh air after being stuck inside the cotton for a moment, you saw him looking at you… different.  Just a little different, but different nonetheless.  You wrinkled your eyebrows together at him, and he shook his head with a little laugh, and it was all back to normal again.  “Should keep you warm,” he mumbled, turning back to the view of the ocean and bringing his feet up onto the chair.

“Thanks,” you nodded, watching him lift his hands up behind his head and sigh.

For a while, you two laid there in silence, the sound of the ocean waves and seabirds like a quiet, slow song.  If you weren't thinking constantly about whether or not Tom was looking at you, you might've been able to relax enough to fall asleep.  Apparently Tom wasn't all in his head because he dozed off within a couple minutes, and after that, you decided to get up and explore the beach a bit.  There were little shops dotted here and there, a gelato stand, a cosy open-air pub playing music over their speakers.

You stopped to watch some boys playing volleyball on the beach, and one of them seemed to notice you staring— and he smiled at you, just before he served; you had to be careful not to make yourself look stupid by suddenly smiling down at the sand and toying with your hair, but you desperately wanted to.  He was cute, and tall and, you know, shirtless.  They all were, but he probably looked the best that way of any of them.

He ended the round with a spike right beside the net, and his side of the court cheered while the others groaned and complained to each other.  You clapped for them, and the boy looked at you again; he said something to his friends, and with the ball still under his arm, he jogged over toward you.

"Hey," he greeted with a sideways, pearly-white smile.

"Hi," you returned.  

"Did you like watching us play?" he asked, glancing back at the net for a second.

"Yeah, you're really good," you nodded.  "Are you a real team or somethin'?"

"No, god no," he laughed, "we just play for fun.  Not many sandy beaches to play at in London."

"Oh, you're visiting from London?  What part?"

"Southeast," he replied.

You nodded.  "Oh…"

There wasn't much you could say to that because you didn't know anything about London; he chuckled, apparently realising just that.  "I guess you're from around here?"

"Sort of— an hour down the way but, yes, I'm from Cornwall," you agreed.

“You’ve got an interesting accent,” he noticed with a smirk.  “It’s cute, actually.”

“Oh, y’think?” you smiled shyly.  “Always heard growing up that a Cornish accent made me sound like a dumb farmer or somethin’.”

“It works on you, though,” he decided.

"Oi!  Come back and serve!" one of the boys by the net called, and your new friend turned his head around.

"Go on without me," he told them, tossing the ball over.  "I'm talking to, er…"

He looked back at you, and you stammered out your name; he repeated it back to you with a smile.

"I'm Devon," he told you.

"Well, hi, Devon," you smiled.

Aaaaand, just in time, you heard Tom’s voice calling after you: “Birdie!” he shouted from down the beach, and you turned and sighed as you waved back.  

In a moment, Tom was beside you, slipping his arm around your shoulders.

"Where'd you run off to, my lover?" Tommy asked with a tilted smile, but he didn't give you a chance to answer before he looked over at the other young man and back at you.  "Who's the emmet?"

"My name's Devon, not Emmett," the Londoner corrected, and you hoped your polite laugh would break the tension.

"No, Devon, 'emmet' is Cornish," you explained.  "It's what we call tourists."

Except, ‘incomer’ is what you call tourists.  Emmet is what you call annoying tourists.  And you knew Tom was annoyed by him because he was hitting on you.

"This your girl, then?" Devon asked Tom… a little straightforward, but that's just how Londoners are, maybe?

"What's it to you?" Tom wondered.

"Er—" you interjected immediately, "no, actually, Tom's just a friend," you coughed, knowing that even though it was a way to greet a good friend around here, Tom surely intended for it to be misinterpreted.

"Bloody hell.  Can't tell what you people are saying," Devon grumbled, and you spoke up before Tom surely asked what 'you people' was supposed to mean.

"Anyways, point is— Tom and I are good friends, known each other since we were kids," you continued.

"Really?" Devon pressed.

“Yep," Tom replied with a beaming smile, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to him, "she’s been me best mate since we were wee babes,” he beamed.  

“A bird’s your best mate?” Devon scoffed.  “Sure you’re not bent?”

“I’m bent?  You’re the one spendin’ all your time with a bunch of blokes with no shirts on, mate,” Tom defended.

Devon stepped forward and you had to jut yourself in between them to keep it from getting too heated.  “Okay, lads, let’s settle down, then—”

“Be careful,” Tom warned Devon, and you jabbed him with your elbow as punishment.

“I said to stop it, alright?” you hissed at Tom.  “Doesn’t matter, Tommy.”

“Yeah, Tommy,” Devon snickered, and you literally had to lean all your weight onto Tommy to keep him from trying to dive right over you to pummell the bellend.

"Let's go," you informed Tommy as you scoffed at Devon.  Wrapping a hand around Tom's waist, you guided him to walk with you back down the beach, away from the possibility of a fight.

Tommy could find a fight anywhere— even on the beach on holiday.  It was a real talent of his.

"You're horrible!" you whined as you punched Tom on his side.

"What did I do now?" he groaned.

"You scared that boy off, he was cute and he was flirting with me."

"Exactly!" Tommy emphasised, and you rolled your eyes.  "He turned out to be a wanker, anyhow, you heard him making fun of our accent, didn't you?"

"I think he was just making fun of your accent," you frowned.

"We've got the same one," Tom noticed.

"Well— just stop doing that!  You always do that."

"Sorry, birdie,” he shrugged, not seeming especially sorry.

You sighed and decided to let it go, because it wasn’t worth the argument.  “What’s next, then?  Think I’ve had enough of the beach.”

“Pub?” he suggested, and you laughed.

“Hardly late enough for that, don’t you think?” you snorted.

“Okay, dinner first, then pub,” he offered instead.

“That’s better.”

~

There were a few pubs along your walk back from dinner, but only one that had the rugby match on; so, of course, that was the one Tom picked.  It was almost entirely empty when you came inside, and since the match had gone to commercial break, Tom decided now was the best time to run to the loo.

“Order me something?” he requested.  “Whatever you’re getting.”

You nodded and he dashed off down a hallway.  Sitting at the bar, currently unattended with no other patrons but yourself, you looked up at the telly on the wall and caught a couple seconds of a car commercial.

“Can I get you anything?” 

The voice made you turn your head away from the telly, and you were surprised to find a boy your age on the other side of the bar.

“Oh, erm,” you choked, “just something on tap?  M’not picky.”

“There’s a stout we brew right here in the neighbourhood,” he suggested, “you might like it.”

“Sure,” you shrugged, “and one for my friend.”

“Great,” he smiled, bending down below the bar and reappearing with two pint glasses in hand.  You watched him as he tilted the glasses and filled them from the tape, admiring his tan skin and longer hair— he had that surfer look about him, in a Cornwall sort of way.

“Aren’t you a little young to be tending bar?” you noticed.

He laughed, revealing some dimples in the process.  “And you’re one to talk?” he shot back.

“I’m old enough to be served, aren’t I?” you challenged.

“Well actually, I was gonna ask for your ID,” he admitted, “but, you’re cute, so I decided to let it slide.”

You looked down as he set your drink on the bar for you.  “Thanks,” you hummed.  You tried it, giving him a nod of approval when the taste hit your tongue— it was pretty mild, and sort of grapefruit-y somehow.

“In town for holiday?” he assumed.

“Yeah,” you nodded, and he clicked his tongue.

“Too bad,” he shook his head.  “When are you going back home?”

“Thursday.”

“And where’s home?” he asked.  “You sound local.”

“Yeah, I am,” you agreed, “about an hour north.”

“Liskeard?” he guessed, and you shook your head.  “Launceston?”

“Closer,” you smiled.

“Bradworthy?”

“Oh, too far…”

“Holsworthy,” he grinned.

“Got it,” you nodded.

“Seems like it’d be easier to just drive up to Westward Ho! wouldn’t it?” he tilted his head.

“I try not to go anywhere that has an exclamation mark in the name,” you explained, and he chuckled a little.  

“I guess that’s fair,” he shrugged, “and it’s a good thing you came here anyways.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because now I get to look at you,” he cooed.

You took a sip of the beer to hide your warming face.  When you brought the glass back down, he laughed at you softly.

“Got some foam on your nose, my bird,” he warned you, reaching forward to wipe it off with his thumb.

“Oh, th-thanks,” you stammered, watching him put his thumb to his mouth and suck that bit of foam off while he kept looking at you.  What a flirt!  Do it again.

Tom came back from the washroom and sat on the stool next to yours, thanking you for ordering his beer for him before he took a large drink of it.

"O-oh," the bartender choked, and you knew that look— the ‘shit, you've got a boyfriend’ look.  

You sighed.  "Hey, um— this is my friend, Tom," you explained.

"Wasson?" Tom greeted him, nodding his head quickly in acknowledgement.

"Not much, mate," he replied, "Cade.”

“Tom,” he answered back as if he didn’t already know that, not going so far as to shake hands since Tom was holding his glass and Cade was holding a rag to wipe down the bar.

“She was just telling me you're only here for a spell,” Cade recalled, “which is a proper shame.”  

You smiled shyly.  “Oh, yeah, well, I wish our holiday could be longer, too.”

“Always the prettiest maids just here on holiday,” Cade nodded, looking at Tom.  “You know how it is, don’t you?  You’re from a holiday town, too, I heard.”

Not quite as popular as your current location, but yes, vacationers would occasionally appear in town.  You’d never noticed this ‘girls visiting from up-country are prettier’ principle, but your eyes turned to Tom expectantly.  “Uh, yeah,” Tommy nodded.  ���Yeah, I know how it is.  And half of them have boyfriends back home.”

It made your heart sink a bit— what you would give to have one of those.  Or to have Tommy say no, the prettiest bird’s right here with me now.  Or both.

“But that doesn’t stop all of them,” he added with a laugh, and you rolled your eyes.

“You’re awful, Tommy,” you shoved him lightly.

“Yeah,” he agreed, licking his bottom lip.

Cade gestured at Tom’s rugby union shirt— “You play?” he asked.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Tom nodded, “you?”

“I just watch,” he shrugged, pointing at the telly in the corner.  “Cooped up in this pub all the time, anyway.”

“That’s no excuse,” Tom chided, “gotta get out there and get roughed up!”

“That’s what surfing’s for,” Cade smirked.

“Okay, now I’m definitely not going,” you shook your head.  “I don’t wanna get roughed up by the ocean!”

“I said I would teach her,” Tom informed Cade, “now look what you’ve done.”

“Sorry,” Cade laughed, “you’ll be fine, and you’ve come at just the right time of year for it.”

“That’s what I said!” Tom agreed.

Oh god, were they actually getting on alright?  Would Tom give his approval, finally?  

You sipped your stout and let them go on about rugby and football teams for a while, letting yourself get your hopes up that Tom would actually like a guy who liked you— and sure, he was a barkeep in your holiday spot, not exactly the foundation for a serious relationship, but it would be nice to have a little fling without worrying that Tom would end up beating him up.

Tom was the one who made fun of you sometimes for being a virgin, anyway.  He never meant it— actually, when he occasionally took the time to be serious, he assured you better than anyone else that it was perfectly normal and fine to still be one.  But still, you weren’t exactly trying to hang onto it much longer.  Tom told you to wait for the right person; but you’d been waiting for him for way too long.

Watching the match together, you and Tom put down a few pints and laughed at some stupid old inside jokes— Cade tended to stick around, chatting with you both, when there weren’t other customers to serve.  You caught him glancing at you a few times, and you liked how you felt when he looked at you like that— desirable, maybe even grown up.  You and Tom had been friends since you were little, after all, and since he treated you the exact same way he always had, sometimes you still felt little around him.  But you weren’t.  It was good to remember that.

The match ended— Cornwall won, thank god, or you’d be babying Tom all night after he drowned his sorrows in something stronger than the local stout.  He still drank a little too much to celebrate, but less too much.

Enough that he had to go to the loo again, though, at which point Cade was suddenly right by you again.  “Your friend’s funny,” he smiled.

“Yeah,” you agreed, “he’s not always that loud, but, yeah, he’s never been very subtle.”

“And he’s just a friend?” 

You rolled your eyes.  “Yes,” you insisted, and you focused your tone on your annoyance and not your disappointment.

“Just checking!” Cade returned defensively.  “How long have you known him?” 

“My whole life,” you sighed.  “Can’t remember a time without him.  He’s just… always been there.”

Cade nodded.  “That’s nice, wish I had a friend like that.  People come and go a lot in a place like this.”

“I bet,” you offered sympathetically.  “And your girlfriend?  Does she come and go, or stick around?”

“What?  I don’t have a girlfriend,” he frowned.

“Just checking,” you winked.

“Why, you think I should get one?” he raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged.  “If you can find one…”

His eyes dragged over you, his smile fading slightly; you pretended not to be totally overwhelmed by it all.

“Cade!” a voice shouted from the back, and an older woman poked her head out of the kitchen as Cade turned his head.  “Come back here an’ clean up!”

“I will, mum!” he called back, before returning his attention to you.  “Listen, I’d better get back to work— but you could come by tomorrow?  If you wanted.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I think I’ll find the time.”

“Tom can come too, of course,” he added, leaning closer to you on the bar, “but… I’d rather have some time alone with you, if that’s alright.”

Reaching up to scratch your shoulder, you bit your lip to hide a smile.  “Okay, yeah—” you set your hands back down on the bar when you saw the way he was looking at you, “yeah, I’d like that, too.  I’m sure Tommy can find some way to entertain himself for an hour.”

Cade’s hand landed on yours suddenly, giving it a quick squeeze while he winked at you.  And then he threw the rag over his shoulder and disappeared into the back.  You pursed your lips and exhaled through them; it had been a while since you had butterflies like that.  

Tom came back around the corner, leaning beside you on the wooden bar, and you giggled when you saw how red his nose had gotten from the booze.  “Tommy, you look like you’ve stuck your face in blusher,” you noticed.

“Aw, really?” he scrunched up his nose, wiping it with his hand.

“You can’t wipe it off!” you laughed harder.  “Cade’s gone to the back to work— wanna go on a walk, take a geek at the rest of the neighbourhood?”

“Sure,” he agreed, letting you take his hand and pull him along with you out the door and around the pavement.  You walked in silence for a few moments, glancing at him once, before you just had to bring it up.

“So, Cade was nice…” you trailed off.  You looked at Tom expectantly, wearing a hopeful smile, but you hadn't even said anything yet before he expressed his dissent.

“No, no way,” he shook his head, ignoring your protests, “not good enough for you.”

“What?  Tommy, what’s wrong with him?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Tom repeated.  “Birdie, what’s right with him?”

“I thought you liked him!” you whined.  “He was so nice to you, and you talked rugby for ages!”

“Was looking at you funny,” he shuddered.

“Well, I’d hope so,” you rolled your eyes, “doesn’t that mean he’s interested?”

“That’s what you want, creepy guys drooling all over you?” Tom snorted.  “Come on, let’s go— I don’t want you seeing that sod again.”

You groaned, but let him drape his arm over your shoulders and guide you away.  “You shouldn’t be so protective, Tom… this is why everyone thinks you’re either my brother or my boyfriend.”

“If it keeps the boys away from you, I don’t care what they think,” he decided.  You rolled your eyes as he pulled your head down with his arm, enough that he could plant a kiss on top of your head.  “There, now they’ll think I’m your boyfriend, how about that?”

“You kiss me all the time,” you laughed.

“Eh?”

“On the head,” you clarified.  “You give me kisses on the head, doesn’t make you my boyfriend.”

“Guess not,” he agreed.  

Halfway along your walk, you passed a park which Tom decided would be the perfect place to share a cigarette— actually, he was just going to smoke it himself, but you made him share.

“Remember your sixth birthday party?” he asked, seemingly out of nowhere, after a drag.  “You tripped and sprained your ankle running in the backyard that day, but you stopped crying when we gave you your presents.”

You laughed at the memory.  “God, I barely remember— but yeah.”

He handed the cigarette to you and you rested it between your lips.  “Do you remember what I got you?” he continued.

“A Barbie,” you recalled, “wasn’t it?  She was some little princess or something, can’t remember now.”

“Yeah,” he nodded.  “Well, I want you to know that before I gave her to you, I took her out of the box and took her clothes off.”

“What?!” you snorted, making a cloud of smoke 

“I had to know!” he laughed.  “I put them back on and put her back in the box and everything first before I gave her to you.”

“Yeah, I think I would remember getting a naked Barbie, Tom,” you scoffed, and he carefully plucked the cigarette from your fingers and took it back.

“Right, well—” he stopped to inhale, and then let it out as he continued— “she had plastic panties on anyway.  Wasn’t worth it,” he shook his head.

You dropped your forehead into your palm.  “The fuck are you talking about?” you giggled. 

“Just that time of night where you feel like confessing things, I guess,” he shrugged.

“Any other secrets you’ve been keeping from me?” you pressed.  “Any other childhood toys of mine that you violated?”

“Took a geek up the skirt of a Cabbage Patch Kid or two,” he added, “but that’s about it.”

“Well, we all did that,” you rolled your eyes, and he grinned at you.

“Oh, I knew it,” he purred, “I think you were just as much of a pervert as I was.”

“Yeah?  But you’re still a pervert,” you accused.

“Maybe,” he relented, “but at least I’m not a prude.”

You looked away quickly.  “M’not a prude, Tommy…”

“I know, I know,” he soothed, handing you the last quarter of the cigarette, “you’re just picky.  And you should be.”

He suddenly laid his head down on your lap, making you tense up a little bit and wonder where you were supposed to put your hands.

“Nobody deserves you anyway,” he mumbled, closing his eyes as he adjusted himself to get comfortable on the bench.

“Well, that doesn’t really solve my problem, does it?” you said, speaking a little quieter.

“What’s the problem?” he wondered sleepily.

You sighed, holding the cigarette in your mouth as you reached down and carded your fingers through his hair.  He hummed and smiled a little.  “Nothing,” you dismissed, and he started to breathe slower and slower.  

You finished the cigarette over the course of the next however-long-it-had-been, absent-mindedly touching his head and playing with his hair, and only noticed that Tom had dozed off when you felt a wet patch under his mouth on your legs.

“Eww, Tommy!” you whined, shoving him off of you as he tried to wake up.  “When I said I wanted guys to drool over me, this is not what I meant.”

“Sorry, love,” he laughed, wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Think that’s our cue to go back to the room and go to bed, eh?”

~

He didn’t say anything before he got in the shower, so you didn’t know what to expect when he got out: was he going to suddenly realise there was only one bed?  Had he already and just didn’t care?  Were you supposed to protest, or act like it was no big deal, or what?

When he emerged from the steamy bathroom in his pyjamas— aka, just his fuzzy plaid trousers, the ever-present friendship bracelet, and the chain on his neck— he found you standing in the middle of the room, staring at the singular bed, and gave you a confused look.

“I guess you saw when you brought our bags up,” you mumbled nervously.  

“Eh?”

“The bed.”  You motioned towards it, and he wrinkled his eyebrows together.

“What about it?” he shrugged.

“There’s only one of it!”

“Oh,” he nodded, “yeah, guess so.”

“So, we’ll have to share,” you helped him reach the obvious conclusion.

“Oh,” he said again, “you think it’ll be weird?”

“I mean, I figure,” you shrugged.

“I’ll take the couch,” he insisted.

“No, Tommy, let me,” you pleaded.

“You jokin’?  I’m supposed to let a maid sleep on the couch?”

“Didn’t realise you were such a gentleman,” you frowned, crossing your arms.

“Aren’t I?” he smirked.

You felt bad about it, but he was already putting a spare sheet down on the sofa while you were getting through your nighttime routine.  Leaning out of the bathroom, toothbrush sticking out of your mouth, you caught a glimpse of him laying there on the couch with one arm up behind his head and the other holding the book he’d been reading as of late— one of those fantasy novels that were much too violent for you.  He looked past the top of it to smile at you, and you popped back in to wrap up.

You were just wearing a baggy old t-shirt that was just long enough on you to cover your red panties, which you felt mostly not-weird about wearing around Tom, though walking past him to get to bed made you shiver a little bit.

“G’night,” he offered.

“You too,” you replied quietly, and he reached up above his head to switch off the lamp.

Sure, it was you who had worried about the whole bed-sharing thing in the first place, but that was only because you were pre-emptively worrying that he would worry about it.  It was sort of a lose-lose: if he was against it, then you’d feel dejected, but if he was fine with it, it was another way for him to rub it in that you could hold him but never have him.

Still, now that you were alone in this big old bed, you couldn’t help but think that at least it was nice you could hold him… but he was all the way over there.

You chewed your lip, trying to stay quiet.  You made it about thirty seconds.  “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Think you’ll fall asleep alright on that?” you wondered.

“Should be asleep in a couple minutes, once you’re quiet,” he replied.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” you mumbled.  You made it a whole minute before you spoke again.  “Tommyyyyy,” you whined.

“What!” he snapped.

“I can’t sleep, I feel too bad!” you pouted.  “Just get in the bed?  We fall asleep together all the time!  What’s the difference?”

“Difference is it’s all night,” he explained, “haven’t done that since we were eight— and you kicked me in your sleep!”

“Are you seriously going to sleep on that musty old sofa, and leave me alone here in the king bed, just because you’re still mad at me for kicking you?”

“Not just that,” he mumbled, “you snore, too.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, “just come over, won’t you?  I’m cold anyways…”

He paused as he considered it.  “There’s room for me?”

“Tons,” you promised.

You heard him throw the blanket off of himself, and you smiled instantly.  In a moment, he was diving into the bed, and you laughed as the mattress creaked; he laid next to you on his back, and you reached an arm around his torso while setting your head on his shoulder.

He smelled so good after his shower, clean and woodsy from his deodorant, and his curls held their shape despite being wet still.

“Should’ve known you’d be like a barnacle soon as I got in here,” he chuckled.

“I said I was cold,” you reminded him, hugging his waist tighter.

“Night, birdie,” he whispered after he kissed the top of your head.  With him holding you, you were asleep in an instant.

It was one of those dreamless sleeps that went by quickly, like you’d only shut your eyes for a few minutes.  You would’ve thought it was still the middle of the night when you woke up, if it weren’t for the sun coming in through the open window.

Specifically, you woke up because of a long sigh right by your ear, making you blink your eyes open quickly and start to stretch your legs out under the sheet and blanket.  You were on your side, and Tommy was pressed right up on your back, his arm draped around your torso.

He sighed again, and you felt him shift around against you.  Most importantly, you felt something hard and hot on your lower back.   Eyes going wide, you jolted as you felt him rock his hips against you again.

"Tommy," you whispered, hoping to wake him up.

"Mm," he hummed, smiling against your neck, and you shuddered.

"Tommy!" you hissed, and he snorted as he woke up suddenly.

He pulled back and all but jumped away from you.  “Shit, I—” he mumbled, sitting up as the bed creaked; god, his face was so red, he looked adorably flustered and a bit terrified.  “I’m sorry, birdie, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s okay, Tommy,” you insisted, sitting up with him, “it’s not a big deal.”

“What’d you say?  It’s not big?” he choked.

“No!  Tommy, it’s—” you stopped yourself from saying what you wanted to say then.  “I know that happens to guys in the mornings…”

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck nervously, “happens when we’re in bed with pretty girls, too…”

Before you could wonder if there was something to read into there, he spoke again.

“I’m fucked,” he groaned, running his hand down over his face, “what’s the time?”

“Ten ‘til 9,” you informed him following a glance at the clock on the nightstand.

“We’ve got that breakfast soon, we’re supposed to meet downstairs in five minutes,” he recalled.  “And I can’t get dressed ‘til he’s gone away.”

“How do you normally get rid of it?” you wondered, watching him look at you for a second before looking away again.

“Well…” he trailed off, clearing his throat.

“Well?” you pressed.

“Y-y’know,” he stammered, “it’s— er— fuckin’ hell, birdie, can’t say it with you lookin’ at me like that…”

“C’mon, Tommy, I know you wank off,” you rolled your eyes, “you and every other bloke on the planet.”

“But I can’t do it with you here!” he yelped, and a pang of self-consciousness hit your chest.  Were you that horrible of a sight that he wouldn’t be able to finish with you nearby?

“I-I’ll leave then, give you some space,” you offered.

“Birdie, I’ll know you’re just outside the door, that’s not gonna help,” he frowned.

“Well shit, Tommy, where’dya want me to go?  Fuckin’ Launceston?”

“No, shit, that’s not what I meant,” he groaned, reaching up and covering his face as he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.  “You’ve just got me all messed up— s’not your fault, I mean!  I just don’t know what m’gonna do now…”

You bit your lip, glancing over at the flowery wallpaper on the opposite side of the room, then to the window and its view out over the beach.  “I mean, maybe… maybe if it would help, I could…”

“Jesus, birdie, don’t say you’re gonna wank me off or somethin’,” he pleaded with a concerned tilt of his head, and you stammered as you tried to remember what you were going to say.

“No, I— I was gonna say you could…” you began again, “er— I mean, before, while you were asleep, you were… it was…”

“What?” he pressed, leaning a little closer to you, and you chickened out.

“Nevermind, sorry,” you shook your head, “you should just get dressed— nobody’ll notice it.”

That was a lie: if it looked as big as it felt, a family of four could go camping under the tent in his shorts at this point.  “No, c’mon,” he pleaded, scooting a little closer to you, “won’t make fun of you or nothin’, just wanna know what you were gonna say.  You know I can’t run down to breakfast with my willy tryin’ to jump out, yeah?  Like, ‘hey mum an’ dads, pass me the eggs, then— don’t mind my fuckin’ blood sausage under the table—’”

You laughed, pushing him on the chest— but he just moved closer, again, looking right at your face.  You felt oddly exposed to him, even though he should’ve been the one feeling like that considering the circumstances.  “Fine,” you relented, “I was just… thought maybe you could— well, it could help you if you, um… just… pressed up against me, again?  Like you were before?  And you could, er…”

Dropping your voice to a mumble just above a whisper, you watched your hands clutch the spotted quilt in lieu of meeting his invasive stare.

“You could… grind on me, a bit,” you finally completed, so quiet that you barely heard yourself.  But he was a few inches away— he must’ve heard you.  Literally, he must have, because you couldn’t say it again.

“Eh?” he grunted, and you rolled your eyes.

“C’mon, Tommy, you’re not deaf, are you?”

“No, m’just… you wan’ me to rub me stiffy on you?” he realised, tilting his chin down and raising an eyebrow.  Leave it to Tommy to throw all the subtlety to the wind and just say it outright like that, ignorant to the way it made your cheeks burn and your throat catch.

“I-I mean, I don’t want you to,” you denied quickly, “I just thought it might go away if you did.  Means to an end, right?”

“Yeah, means to an end,” he agreed, clearing his throat.  “Just feel a little weird about it, birdie, I mean… it’s you.  You know I love ya— don’t wanna be rude to you or, er, disrespectful—”

“It’s not,” you promised, “I’m offering— and it’ll be quick, right?”

“Er, yeah,” he coughed, rubbing the back of his neck again, “should be…”

“Okay, then, should we?” you asked, sheepishly raising your eyebrows as you looked at him.

“I mean, fuck, birdie,” he laughed nervously, “I think you know we shouldn’t.”

But you both already knew that you were going to, and the thrill of something so forbidden titillated you further.

“Lay down then, yeah?” he instructed you softly, and you turned back onto your side as you felt him press up to your back.  His arm slipped around your front, the one with your bracelet on his wrist, and you could feel him breathing by the back of your neck as he brushed your hair out of the way.  “This alright?” 

You nodded, and he held you a little tighter; you felt it then, brushing up against your lower back.  You were getting sweaty from how warm it was with him pressed up on you under the thick covers, yet you still shivered.

He hummed quietly, his hand moving down your hips so he could hold you steady.  And he rocked into you again, more confidently, a shaky breath falling from his lips.  

When his forehead rested against the back of your shoulder, you felt your back arch slightly; and then you could feel the ridge under the head of his cock, you could feel it when he moved in one, long stroke and you bit your lip, arching your back deeper.

“Shit,” he grunted quietly, and he started to move a little faster right after he said that.

After just a minute or less of that, you were beyond desperate to have him inside you, you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like— about how he would stretch you open, how he would moan for you as he filled you to the brim.  If he wanted to, right now, he could just lift up your shirt a bit and pull your panties down without saying anything, slip inside you in one go; you were soaking wet, he’d slide in so easily…

“Fuck, birdie,” he breathed, “roll over.”

His verbal command was a bit moot, since his hand was already on your shoulder, gently pushing you to lay on your back.  He hovered above you for a moment, and you looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Spread your legs,” he whispered; you’d only been waiting years for him to say that to you.  You did it unquestioningly, and he slotted himself between them with a low groan.  When he pressed his cock up against your aching cunt— through so many frustrating layers of pyjamas— he shut his eyes and tossed his head back for a second.  It was so perfect, his face in bliss like that, the morning sun peeking in through the curtains and making his curls shine golden-blonde.  He looked fucking beautiful.

A little gasp jumped in your mouth as he started to thrust against you again, each stroke of his hips rubbing right over your clit and making his chain dangle over your face.  You almost felt guilty, for a second, with the little engraving of Saint Thomas right there, like he was watching you do this.  “Sh-shit, Tommy…” you hissed, catching yourself before you moaned aloud when he rocked his hip harder against you and your whole pussy clenched.  If only he could feel that now— if only he could feel around his cock how desperately you needed him.

He descended down upon you, burying his face in your neck.  His hair tickled your cheek, and you fisted at the sheets to stop yourself from reaching up and holding onto him— that would be too much, too needy, right?  It was just supposed to be a means to an end, after all.  “Can I kiss you here?” he asked under his breath.

“Er, why would you do that?” you wondered.

“Just— thought it might make it go faster,” he justified.

“Y-yeah, Tommy, s’fine,” you nodded.  Do whatever you want to me.

He latched on right away, a mess of lips and tongue and teeth all over your neck; everything in you fought to keep your moans down, because you didn’t want him to know how much you loved this, how close you were to coming without even doing anything… without even taking your clothes off!

“Are you close?” you asked him softly, feeling him nod.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, and his heavy breathing cooled your skin where it was still wet with his spit.  “Just a little longer?”

“You’re not gonna give me a hickey, are you?” you whispered.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” he replied.  

“Just— make it quick, Tommy, we’ve gotta be downstairs soon,” you reminded him.

“Right, yeah, m’gonna come,” he promised, sending another chill over your body.  One of his hands moved down, holding your thigh as he thrusted faster and faster— fuck, the headboard was about to hit the wall.  Just as you looked up to see it slam once, you saw his free hand reach up and grab onto it tightly, blocking the impact with his knuckles.

“Tommy,” you breathed, an involuntary reaction to how deliberately sexy that was.

“Say it again,” he requested quietly.

“Tommy,” you repeated, and he grunted right against your ear— he didn’t stop moving entirely, just slowed down quite a bit as he rutted on you.  

“Fuck,” he sighed, panting.  You swallowed, feeling wonderfully strange knowing that must be it, that he just came— because of you.  His weight sank down onto you, making you let out a little squeal from the air rushing out of your lungs, and he laughed quietly.  “Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting himself up and hovering above you again, “didn’t mean to crush you…”

“S’all fine, Tom,” you promised, closing your legs as soon as you had the chance— before he could see that you’d soaked through your panties.

“Oh, ‘Tom’, eh?  Gettin’ formal, are we?” he grinned.  “Now that you’ve got me to bust in me trousers, we’re not so friendly anymore?”

“Shut up,” you laughed as you pushed him aside, swinging your legs off the bed so you could get up.  “Gonna use the loo and then I’ll get dressed.”

“What?!” he croaked.  “You kidding?  Of course I get to use the loo first!”

“Not if I get there before you,” you challenged, jumping up and trying to race him across the hotel room.  He beat you, but only by playing dirty— he ran up behind you and grabbed you, spinning you around as you kicked and laughed and squirmed in his grasp.

two weeks later

Moonshine on the bay had become a tradition on nights like this, when the warmth of summer was creeping around the corner, ever since you were both fifteen and in desperate need of some rebellion.  Now, without the illegality and all, it had lost some of that titillating appeal, but you still loved going out so late and meeting him at your secret spot.  It had the perfect view of the water at night, not that it was a particularly scenic section of the sea since it was mostly cargo ships and docks and all that, but under the flickering old street lamp and the tall field elms, it was almost romantic.

Tommy was currently still standing while you leaned back on your hands, brandishing the liquor he’d secured for the evening.  “For you,” he offered you the opened bottle with a smile, and you took it, but waited for him to take a sip of his first.  He did, and you saw his lips curling as he drank.

“How is it?” you asked, and he stopped drinking to cough a bit.

“It’s hangin’!” he grimaced.  “But it’ll do the job.”

You took a sip while he sat down next to you, and made a face of your own.  “Ah fuck!  That’s terrible!  Where the fuck’d you get this?”

But you knew what he meant when he said it would do the job— one sip was already warming your chest, and the next, though just as disgusting as the last, made you feel tingly at the tips of your fingers.

With your bottles halfway finished, you two sat up in the grass and watched the lights of ships go by slowly in the night.  “Had a date last night,” you blurted out suddenly, just to make conversation.

“Really?  With who?”

“You remember Jack Meyer?”

“God, I wish I didn’t,” he sneered, “what a knob.”

“Could you stop insulting all the guys I go out with?” you frowned.

“Stop going out with knobs and I will,” he bargained.

“Anyways, he was nice,” you announced firmly.  “Took me to the cinema and bought me a popcorn.”

“What size?” he asked.

“Medium.”

“Cheap bastard,” Tom grumbled.

“Shut up!  I’m trying to tell you that it was a nice date!” you yelped, pushing him on the shoulder.  “We actually, um… well, maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

“What?” he wondered.

“I mean, I tell you everything— you tell me everything.  You told me when Sharon Caldwell let you feel her tits in eighth grade, and you told me when you lost it to Annie— what was her name again?”

“Annie Shaw,” he finished for you.

“Right… so, point is, I figured I should tell you what happened with me and Jack, right?” you wondered.  When you found the courage to look over at Tommy, his expression was… intense.  Almost angry, a little terrified.

“Don’t tell me you gave it up to him,” he pleaded, leaning in a little closer.

“God no!  I just wanked him a bit.”

"You did what to 'im?!" Tommy yelped.

"W-well, I dunno!" you backpedalled quickly. 

“Aw, birdie, you can do so much better than him,” he groaned.

“Okay, maybe so, but he’s the one I wanted to go out with.  And he was nice and he made me feel— I dunno, pretty?” you mumbled, afraid to sound too girlish.

“Come on, you can’t go rubbing off any guy who calls you pretty,” Tom scolded.

“This isn’t just any guy!”

“Yeah, it’s Jack Meyer.  In fourth year he swallowed a penny and it never came out!”

“Believe it or not, Tommy, it's not fourth year anymore,” you frowned.  “Things are different.  We’re older.  I’m not a little kid— and I’m tired of being treated like one!”

He sighed slowly, taking another swig of the booze.  “I guess that’s fair,” he relented.  “Still… can’t stand thinking about you doing that to some guy.”

"Why?"

He seemed confused by your question, and gave you a look.

"Why can't you stand thinking about it?" you interrogated.

"I… I don't know…"  He coughed a bit, clearly wanting to change the subject, but you kept staring at him as you waited for an answer.  “I guess it’s just that,” he began again, “I worry because it’s Jack, you know?  He’s a little aggressive with girls— or, he was back when I knew him.  He didn’t… pressure you into it, right?”

You thought back to the night before, and how it all happened.  “Erm, no,” you decided, “not really.”

“Not really?  What’s that mean?”

“Well, he didn’t make me do it,” you explained, “but he was… showing me how, ‘cause I didn’t know.”

“Sh-showing you?” Tom repeated.

“He, erm, he took my hand,” you remembered, feeling your heart start to race as you looked at Tom closely.  “And he put it… he put it right here.”

It was the liquor that made you do it; you pressed your hand up to the front of his trousers, feeling him getting firmer under your touch already.  He jumped a little but didn’t stop you.

"He told me to take it out for him…" you continued, voice wavering as your whole body was suddenly shivering from nervousness, and started to open his trousers yourself.

“Birdie,” Tom gasped, and you looked up to his face again.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked him point blank.  He didn’t say anything.  “Can I keep going?”

His mouth was open slightly, and he was breathing heavily through it; he nodded.  You unzipped his fly and reached in, navigating the opening of his boxers to get his cock out.  

Of course, you’d felt it before, but you’d never seen it.  It was as beautiful as a cock could be, you thought: tanner than the rest of him for some reason, flushed at the tip, still just starting to poke out from his foreskin with a teal vein running up under your palm.  Biting your lip, you wrapped your fingers a little tighter around it.  “H-he told me to stroke it, like this,” you stammered, moving your hand gently and slowly from the base to the tip and back— then again, and again.

Daring to glance up at Tom’s face again, you saw him watching your hand with a dumbstruck expression.  You twisted your hand slightly as you reached the tip and he groaned.  "Birdie…" he sighed— his voice wore some impossible mixture of arousal, confusion, scolding, disappointment, and desperation.  It made your knees weak.  Good thing you were still kneeling on the ground, so it didn’t make much difference.  You were so sloshed that standing up would’ve been a bit of an effort, anyway.

“When I was doing it right,” you continued, “he’d tell me I was bein’ good for him… it made me feel weird when he said that, but good.  You know?”

“Y-yeah…” he choked, hissing through his teeth.  

It went on that way for a little while, just his panting and the crickets chirping; though there was clear fluid leaking from the tip of his cock, you thought it might not be enough, so you pursed your lips and let your spit dribble down onto him so you could spread it out with your hand.

“Christ,” he groaned, “Jack taught you that, too?”

You nodded, and he growled a little— the sound made your chest tighten up (as well as a few other places).  His cock was starting to bob against your grip, and his breathing was faster and heavier with each stroke.  "You're close?" you noticed, and he nodded, chest heaving as he stared down at what you were doing to him.  "You can come, Tom.  I want you to."

"Shit," he hissed.  "Shit, jus' don't stop then."

And you didn't, in fact you moved your hand even faster, until it was just a blur and he was bucking up into your palm desperately.

"Ah, fuck!" he gasped, and come started to spurt from his pulsing cock, landing on his shirt and your hand.  "Fuck…"

You watched his face as it tilted back, his eyebrows knitted together, his mouth parted in a little moan.  Your hand was still moving, and his jumped up to grab your wrist and stop you.  Then it was still, and silent, except for him breathing like he'd just run a marathon.

After a moment, he tilted his head down again and came back to reality; he instantly looked mortified.  "God, birdie," he choked, "I made a mess on you— m'so sorry, let me get it…"

He tried to wipe the come away with his shirt, frantically cleaning your hand up as best he could.  "It's fine, Tommy," you giggled.

"No it isn't, I've got your pretty hand all dirty now…"

Examining his focused expression as he wiped up the smears of come, you bit your lip slightly.  You did feel guilty for making up that whole story about a date with Jack Meyer that never did— and never would— happen, but it worked.  You’d never lied to Tommy like that before, but you decided to blame it on the liquor and not your desperation.  

In the two weeks since your holiday, nothing untoward whatsoever had happened between you and it was driving you crazy.  You didn’t even talk about it!  You, of course, thought about it every day— well, really every night, when you touched yourself and tried to remember exactly how his voice sounded in your ear.  That was what drove you to this, to getting drunk and making shit up for a chance to touch him.

"Kiss me," you said suddenly.  He looked up at your face, and you just stared at each other for a second.  

His hand dropped yours— it was clean now, or clean enough at least— and moved up to hold your face.  You sighed slightly; his thumb stroked your cheek and he smiled at you.

He gently tilted your head down and met you halfway, pressing his lips to your forehead.  Your chest deflated and your eyes fell shut.  So this is what heartbreak feels like.  It's not as bad as I thought.

"That better?" he asked as he pulled back, moving his own face down so he could look up at you with a tender smile.  You nodded, willing yourself not to cry in front of him now.  

You were throwing yourself at him and he was throwing you away.  "We'll always be friends, won't we?" you asked quietly.

"Aw, birdie— of course," he cooed, pulling you into a hug.  You clutched at his shoulders, digging your nails into handfuls of his ratty old Nirvana t-shirt.

He rolled back onto the grass and pulled you down with him, making you laugh and try to get away— but he wouldn't let you go.

"We'll always be friends," he promised again, "'cause otherwise who'd keep all those awful boys away from you?"

"Shut up," you rolled your eyes.

"I will," he sighed, relaxing his grip on you slightly.  "I'm gonna ease up on you, I think.  Let you date somebody if you want— even if he's a tosser.  'Cause you're right, you're not a little kid anymore.  And it's not fair to you."

You swallowed, laying your head on his chest.  You'd never actually wanted him to let you date someone else… you just wanted him to finally love you back.  But maybe this was the best you were going to get.

~

“Go, Tommy!” you cheered from the side of the pitch, though he surely couldn’t hear you through all that.. rugby-ing.  Rugbing?

Whatever— point is, you clapped and hollered anyways as you watched him run all over the place, narrowly dodging being tackled a few times.  You winced when he got taken down from the side by one of the biggest guys out there.  Tommy had a high pain tolerance, but you’d rather not see him lose a tooth or something.  What a waste of a perfect smile that would be.

For all their efforts, Tommy’s team lost by just a few points; it was just a scrimmage, hence why there was basically no one else here but you and the actual team members, so you hoped he wouldn’t be pouty the rest of the day after losing.  He didn’t seem to be, from what you could tell this far away— he was shaking hands and bumping fists, sweaty and streaked with dirt and grass as he chugged from his water bottle.  It really should not have been as attractive as it was…

Before you got caught ogling, someone caught your attention: “Hey,” one of the players jogged up to you, and you blinked up at him blankly, not sure who he was.  You’d definitely seen him before, you remembered his dreads and… overall massiveness.  But you weren’t sure what he was talking to you for.  “You’re here with Tom, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you smiled.

“He said you’re an old mate of his,” the player went on.

“Mhm,” you nodded.

“Sweet of you to come cheer him on,” he laughed, “even though it didn’t seem to do him much good today.”

You shrugged.  “He loses a lot, but he always gets back up.”

“I’m Rhys, by the way,” he offered.  “I’d shake your hand or somethin’, but I’m pretty filthy at the moment.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you laughed.  “Surprised you haven’t gone to the showers already, that’d be the first thing I’d be doing after getting that sweaty.”

“Well, I was gonna,” he explained, “but, well, I was afraid you’d be gone before I got back.”

You raised an eyebrow, wondering what that meant, and he continued on.

“Listen, I asked Tom, but I figured I should ask you… er…” he stalled as he smiled nervously.  “Have you got a boyfriend or anythin’?”

“Er, no,” you answered.

“Issuh?” he laughed.

“Yes!” you insisted.  “You think I’m lying or something?”

“I think it’s a little too good to be true, that’s all,” he explained.  “Girl like you shouldn’t stay single too long.”

You kept waiting for Tommy to come ruin it— to come rescue you.  You glanced over, and you saw him look back at you, but he just smiled and kept working on the laces of his cleats.

“So, I guess I should ask for your number before it’s too late, yeah?” Rhys continued.  You were pulled out of your thoughts, looking up at him and dropping your mouth open as you hoped for some words to come out.

“Oh!  Erm,” you began, “well—”

“It’s okay if not,” he promised, “but, you know… I’d like it.  So I can call you sometime or something— maybe I’ll have worked up the nerve to ask you out by then.”

Your cheeks were warm, but so were the backs of your eyes.  You never thought you would miss it, Tom running up and putting his arm around you, shooting whatever guy you were talking to a glare that made everyone feel uncomfortable; you glanced over at him again, watching him chat and laugh with some of the other guys.  He was just going to let this happen, wasn’t he?  And so were you.  “Yeah,” you finally blurted out, “sure— got your phone now?  I’ll put it in for you.”

“Great,” he smiled, pulling his phone out of his pocket and handing it to you.  “Wow, that went surprisingly well.”

“Are you that surprised?” you laughed as you added yourself as a contact.

“These things don’t normally go right for me,” he explained.

“For you?” you glanced up at him incredulously.

“Now, don’t give me an ego,” he chuckled, and you laughed with him.

You quickly held his phone up to take a selfie with your tongue sticking out, adding it as your contact photo.  “There you go,” you handed it back to him, and he looked at it with a wide smile on his face.

“Aw, that’s rich,” he said, and you bit your lip.  “I really should hit the showers now, but, I’ll call you?”

“Okay,” you smiled, “I’ll answer.  Probably.”

He waved at you as he left, looking down at your contact in his phone one more time with a shake of his head, before disappearing into the little tunnel through the stands.

You told Tom you would wait for him until he was all done, but god, he was taking forever getting cleaned up.  In fact, everyone else had left when he finally came out in his change of clothes and found you leaning against the cement wall outside the practice facility.  “Fuck took you so long?” you groaned as he appeared.

“You know how long it takes to wash off after a match like that?” he laughed.  “You wouldn’t have walked home with me in the state I was in.”

“Okay, fair enough,” you sighed, “can we go now?” 

“Well, um— actually, I have to get my bag from the locker room…”

“Oh my god,” you whined.

“Don’t get teazy, I just have to pack up all my gear,” he scolded.

“I’m coming with you,” you insisted, “and helping you carry it so we can get fuckin’ home already.”

“Fine, fine,” he laughed, starting back as you followed along with him.  “Lucky for you, it’s empty.”

“Aw,” you faked a pout, “no sexy rugby boys to look at?”

“Just me,” he smiled— and fuck, he was joking, but it scared you for a second.

There was a little awkward pause while he guided you around the bend into the locker area, left surprisingly clean after the boys were finished; it was only Tom’s locker open, with his things all strewn about, and you sighed.  “Look at the mess you made…” you breathed, starting to help him clean it up and get his things together.

“Rhys finally asked you out, then?” Tommy grinned, elbowing you lightly.

“O-oh, yeah,” you breathed, “erm, well— he just got my number, no date yet or anything.”

“Well, it’s a start.  I didn’t want to give him your number for you, but he asked me for it— actually, he’s asked about you a couple times now.”

“You think he’s good enough for me?” you asked.

“I mean, I dunno,” Tommy shrugged, “I don’t know him that well.  But he seems nice enough— figure you can decide the rest.”

You sighed, nodding a little.

“If he tries anything, though, you let me know and I’ll set him straight, alright?” he added, and you laughed.

“Alright, I will,” you agreed, kneeling down to get some of his clothes from off the floor and stuff them into the duffel.  “Not sure how you’re gonna do that when he’s got a metre on you and maybe twenty pounds of muscle—”

“Shut up,” Tom scoffed.  “You know I can take any guy down if it’s got to do with you.”

Your throat caught, and you stood up again.  "Tommy, listen, I actually— I wanted to… talk to you."

He cleared his throat, looking nervous as he rubbed the back of his neck.  "Yeah?  You're all good, right?  Everythin's okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," you nodded, leaning back against the lockers, "I just… I was thinking about you."

He stepped up closer to you, close enough that your heart started to race.  "Oh… what about me?"

"Well, about us," you clarified, "you and me— I want… erm…"

"Hm?"

"I just— you know how we sometimes…?"

He leaned his head in a little closer, waiting with raised eyebrows for you to get to your point.

"That thing we do, sometimes?" you started again.  "I wanna… do it again."

He nodded, like he understood, but then paused and moved his mouth over to the side.  "You wanna go to the cinema?"

You laughed, more out of frustration than amusement, and tilted your head forward to rest on his chest.  "God, Tommy…"

"What?" he laughed.

"I— I want—"  

You couldn't look up at him as you said it.  You took a deep breath and tried to compose your bravery.

"I want us to touch each other again," you finally rushed out.  You waited for him to say something, or do something, but he didn't.  “Like when we were on holiday,” you recalled, toying with the hem of his shirt.  “And that night on the bay…”

“God, birdie, I— I dunno if I can do that again,” he breathed, and you felt your eyes start to burn a bit.

“Really, Tommy?” you sighed.  “I’m that… repulsive?  Or is it Rhys?  ‘Cause all he’s done is get my number—”

“N-no,” he groaned, “shit, m’not makin’ any sense.  I can’t do that again with you because it’s too hard, okay?”

You looked up at him, knitting your eyebrows together.  “What’s too hard?”

“Touchin’ you like that,” he whispered— even now, the way he said made your spine tingle— glancing down from your eyes to your lips and back, “and havin’ to act normal again.  Not bein’ your boyfriend.”

Of everything you thought he might say then, you never expected that.  You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling, even when you bit your bottom lip.  A laugh broke out through your grin, and you had to cover your mouth to try to hide it.

“Jesus, you’re laughin’ at me now!” he lamented.  “I finally tell you and you laugh at me!  You’re heartless, you know that?”

“No, Tommy, v’got a heart— and it’s all yours,” you promised, standing up on your toes to peck him on the cheek.  He gave you a confused look, and you laughed again.  “You don’t get it do you, still?  I’ve fancied you for ages— proper in love with you, really.  Kept askin’ you to do all that stuff ‘cause, well, you’re all I think about anyways.  Thought you were just doing me favours.”

After a pause, he finally laughed with you.  “Am I a fuckin’ idiot, then?  You’ve had it goin’ for me all this time and I didn’t notice?”

“You’re a little stupid,” you mitigated.  “I think I was being pretty obvious.”

“Yeah, and what about me?” he noticed.  “I’ve been all over you forever— kissin’ and huggin’ you, cuddling all the time— you didn’t notice that I think you’re fit?”

You shrugged.  "You've always been like that."

"Yeah!" he emphasised.

"Ohhhh," you nodded, "hm.  Okay, we're both a little stupid."

“Birdie,” he smiled, and your heart melted, because he’d never said it quite like that before.  He leaned in and gave you a kiss on the cheek.

“You can really kiss me, you know,” you told him, and he pulled away just enough to look at you with an impossible-to-read expression.  “I-if you want,” you mitigated suddenly, and he smiled at you, then laughed.

“Aw, fuck, Tommy,” you turned your head to the side, “you’re awful…”

He put his hand on the side of your face, gently turning you to look at him.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  And then he moved in closer and kissed you— properly, finally.  You shut your eyes, your chest emptying with a sigh; his other hand held your face then, too, and you reached up to hold his wrists.  Your right hand felt the worn-out old bracelet that he still wore, and you couldn’t help but smile a bit against him.  He smiled, too.

“Tommy,” you sighed, reaching out and grabbing him by his belt to pull him closer.  He pressed his forehead on yours, looking down at your hands working on the buckle shakily. 

“Birdie, c’mon,” he gasped, “not here—”

You pouted a little, and he laughed.

“We waited all this time and you can’t wait until we get home?”

“Yes!” you whined.  “I need you…”

“Shit,” he groaned, kissing you again— but just for a few very passionate seconds before he pulled back once more.  “We’ll go home and I’ll do this right, I swear.”

“Why can’t we just do it here?” you wondered.

“Because if you told me some guy had taken your virginity in a rugby practice field locker room, I would kill him,” Tom frowned.  

You laughed.  “Fine, fine… let’s go home.”

~ 

Thank god his parents weren’t home.  You didn’t want to try to be quiet.

He had you in his bed the second the door was shut, kissing you voraciously as he helped you undress and tore his own shirt and trousers off.  For a guy who was just preaching patience, he was pretty hasty all of a sudden.

When all you had on were your panties, he set his arms straight to hover over you and stare down at you, looking a little dumbstruck.  You almost felt self-conscious enough to try to cover your chest, but he smiled at you and you felt a little better.  “You’re so… fuck, birdie, you’re pretty.”

It was a simple compliment, but it felt incredibly powerful when he said it like that.  He was in his boxers, and it wasn’t too much more skin than you’d already seen while swimming with him and such, but it was different with his massive hard-on making a visible imprint in the patterned cotton.  

Gently, he spread your legs, and tightened his jaw at the sight of the wet patch on your underwear.  “Oh, fuck,” he sighed.

“I always get like that,” you admitted quietly.  “Should be easy for you to fuck me, right?”

“Yes, yeah,” he agreed, “but m’not gonna fuck you yet.”

You frowned a little, and he laughed as he kissed you again.

“I told you I’m doing this the right way,” he insisted, “it’s your first time.  It’ll hurt if I just go for it.”

He leaned back and sat up, bringing his hands down to the waistband of your panties and gently dragging them down your legs; you felt gooseflesh spread all over your body.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered as he opened your legs again, looking right at you now.  You squirmed a little, but his grip on your thighs was tight.  “I need you to tell me now if you’ve changed your mind about this… ‘cause I can already tell I’m gonna have a hard time stopping once I start.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you were sure, you were so sure.  “I haven’t changed my mind,” you promised.

“I won’t get mad at you or anything,” he assured.

“I know— I’m sure,” you breathed.  Wondering if you should return the sentiment, you asked, "You're sure you wanna do this?  With me?"

"Birdie, I've wanted to do this with you since I knew what this was," he smiled.

"And you don't mind that I've never…"

"No, birdie, I don't mind," he laughed.  "Think it's perfect actually.  Couldn't let any other lad be your first.  Couldn't let any other lad touch you like this."

You bit your lip.  “You were gonna let me go out with Rhys,” you reminded him.

“I let you give him your number.  We hadn’t even gotten to you going out with him,” Tom corrected.  “And I was acting fine as best I could but I was really jumpin’, birdie, thinking about if something might happen with you two— something like this…”

You whined as you tugged on his shirt, hoping to hide your face in his neck, but he pulled his face back so he could look down at you with a smile.  "Tommy, please," you whimpered.  

"Please, what?" he encouraged.

"Jus' need you…"

He kissed your neck again, making your back arch and your hands grab onto his shoulders, and pressed his hips down against you.  You whined at the feeling of his erection through clothes, but opened your eyes in confusion when he pulled back again just a moment later, hovering over you.  "Say my name when I make you come, yeah?" he instructed, and you nodded.  "Try it on for size just once, why don'tya," he encouraged with a smile.

"Tommy," you smiled back, and he kissed the tip of your nose.

"That's m'girl," he praised, before crawling back down, kissing a trail over your stomach, moving his hand up your thigh.

He just kept his face right up close to you, watching his finger swipe through your folds, then watching it gently circle your clit.  You whimpered, and felt your insides flex on nothing.  Apparently, that made him want to give you something to clench on— he gently slipped his pointer finger past your opening, and you let out a long sigh.

“So warm inside,” he observed.  He pulled the finger back out a second later, putting it in his mouth and humming happily.  He put his mouth on you at the same time that he put the finger back in, along with a second; that was a lot to take in, and your back arched up off the bed instantly.  He mouthed at your clit, swirling his tongue around while his lips created this wonderful pressure; you had to grab onto his hair, and thankfully, he didn’t seem to mind.

Eventually, he did have to break away for a second.  "Wondered how you'd taste," he admitted with a sigh.  

"Well?" you prompted.

"Taste like 'eaven, birdie," he purred.  "Sweet little pussy— an' it's all for me?"

"All yours," you nodded, and he growled a little as he dove back in.

The tip of his tongue slid right up from your opening to where your clit was swollen and throbbing— he pushed his tongue flat against it and you whimpered loudly.  He started to really fuck you with his fingers then, rather than just letting the natural movement of your hips force you to ride them; they curled inside you, hitting a spot that made your own fingers curl into fists in his hair.  You didn’t want to hurt him, but he didn’t mind getting his hair pulled, apparently, and just moaned lowly against you.

The pressure started weighing on your gut after a while, your pussy tensing up on him faster and faster until it was just bearing down on him unendingly.  “Fuck, Tommy,” you gasped.

“C’mon, birdie,” he mumbled against you, “wan’ you to come.  Go ahead and come for me, yeah?”

You called out his name one more time, and it all spilled over at once; he shut his eyes tight, letting you pull his face right up against you by his curls as your hips bucked and grinded on him.  You sobbed weakly, and when it was suddenly too much, he broke away and pinned you down for a messy kiss.

It left you even more breathless than you already were.  When he pulled back, his eyes were a little glazed over and his lips and chin were a lot glazed over; he gave you a crooked smile.  “Taste how sweet you are?” he purred.  You wouldn’t call it sweet, really, but it still turned you on like crazy to hear him say it.

“Please, Tom,” you gasped, grabbing his shoulders, “you’ll fuck me now, right?”

He nodded, and you let out a sigh of relief.  “Sure you’re ready?” he asked, laughing when you groaned and punched him on the arm.

“Course I’m fuckin’ ready!” you snapped.  “God, Tommy, you always give ‘em all this rigamarole first?”

He shook his head.  “Just you, birdie… it was always just you.”

Kissing you again, his breath changed as he reached down to push his boxers out of the way and kick them off to the floor.  The way it felt to have his bare skin against yours as he lowered himself down was… euphoric.  Warm and soft and smooth, and when he wrapped you in his arms, it felt like he could just absorb you entirely.  You wouldn’t mind it if he did.

He'd prepared you so well that there was only one quick sting of pain when he pushed inside you— though just that was still enough to make one tiny tear roll down your temple, which he kissed away softly.

"Are you alright?" he whispered.  You nodded.  "I need you to tell me, birdie."

"I'm okay," you promised through a sigh.  "It hurts a little, b-but please don't stop."

"You're sure?"

"Please!"

He pushed his hips flush with yours and you gritted your teeth, though everything in you relaxed just a moment later; and all that was left was the fullness, the warmth of him, the way his eyes sparkled as he looked down at you.  "You're so beautiful," he whispered to you, and you bit your lip.

"I love you, Tommy," you mumbled weakly, and he planted one soft kiss on your mouth.

"I love you too, darling."

He carefully began to move, needing to reach down with one hand to keep your hips steady.  Your moans were shaky at first, but got louder and more even with each movement.  

"You're… so deep," you breathed.  "Tommy, I— I didn't know anything could be so deep in me."

"Well, I am," he grinned.  "I'm right… here."

He pressed down on your stomach, right on the spot where the tip of his cock reached— and your eyes rolled back.  "Ohh, god," you whined.

"You feel it, love?" he cooed.

"Yes, yes," you groaned.  "Fuck, Tommy, why didn't you tell me you had a perfect cock?"

He laughed a little, leaning down to kiss you on the jaw.  "Guess it never came up."

"Does it always… is it always like this?" you wondered.  "It's so good, does it always feel this good?"

He shook his head, kissing your forehead and then trailing down your nose and cheek.  "No, it's not always like this," he answered quietly.  "Not for me, anyway.  It's never been like this."

His lips met yours again, and you reached up to weave your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.  He groaned a little, moving his hips faster, and you smiled.  "Do you wanna fuck me harder?" you asked.

"Fuck," he mumbled, "I— I could.  Do you want me to?"

"I can take it," you promised.

Picking up the pace slightly, he held you tighter; and you felt each impact a little harder, the sound of his skin on yours echoing around the room.  “Like that?” he asked.

“Yes,” you answered— you meant it more neutral than it came out, it sounded proper pornographic the way you said it, and he smiled.  “More, Tommy, please?  Jus’ want more…”

He hissed but did as he was told, latching onto your neck with his lips as he let something a little more animalistic take over, making you cry out and hold onto him tighter.  “Beautiful,” he grunted, “you’re so beautiful, birdie— you sound beautiful.”

“It’s just ‘cause you’re making me sound like this,” you sighed, clutching at his back, too overwhelmed by pleasure to worry about scratching him up.

“I’m giving you a hickey this time,” he informed you.  “You want my mark on you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you admitted, “always, Tommy— fuck, always wanted it.”

“‘Cause you’re mine, yeah?”

“Always,” you whimpered.

“A-ah, shit— when it’s time, I'll pull out, okay?" he offered.

"No," you whined, wrapping your legs around his hips.  "Tommy, please, want it inside…"

"Birdie," he breathed roughly, "if you say things like that, I-I'll come too fast."

“Don’t care,” you whimpered.  “Promise you’re gonna come inside me.”

“F-fuck,” he groaned, “erm— yeah, m’gonna come in ya, okay?”

You choked out the shortest sob of joy.  “Please, please— fuck, I’ll come again…”

“Yeah, fuck, c’mon then,” he praised, “just say my name, birdie— I wanna hear my name.”

“Tommy,” you cried, feeling him gasp against your neck as another wave of heat spread over your body; feeling him flex inside you right as you hit your own peak was so perfect.  You could’ve never described your emotions in that moment with words, but they found their way out anyways: you started crying, instantly.

“Don’t cry, birdie, shh,” he soothed quietly, wiping your tears away with his thumb.  “C’mon, darling, don’t cry—”

“N-no, Tommy,” you sniffled, “I’m just happy— I’m so happy, I swear…”

So he let you cry, and held you close to him; he didn’t leave until you fell asleep, even though he said he was just going to get you a washcloth and a cup of water and come right back.  He played with your hair and kissed your face, and just talked about all the normal things you usually talked about— as in, everything.  But this time, it was actually everything, no more hidden feelings.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but after one of those dreamless sleeps that went by quickly— like you’d only shut your eyes for a few minutes— you woke up tangled with him and his sheets.  Turning on your side as best you could, you looked at his sleeping face and smiled to yourself.  He woke up just a bit later, cutting your staring short, and smiled back at you.

“Top of the morning, my ‘ansum,” you greeted as you pinched his cheek.  He laughed and batted your hand away, hiding his face from the sun under his arm.  

“You kicked me in your sleep,” he grumbled.

“So it’s all over, then?  Final straw, you’re finally getting rid of me?” you joked.

“Mm, I thought about it,” he snorted, making you laugh.  He popped his face up again and started to kiss your face all over.

“Tommy, stop,” you whined.

“You can’t make me stop now,” he pointed out, “it’s one thing to get your best friend to stop kissing you, but your boyfriend?  Nah, m’not stopping.”

You laughed, his hand on your waist pulling you closer to him only making you feel more ticklish and squirm more.  You only stilled when he grabbed your face and gave you a real kiss, and everything seemed to slow down quite a bit.  You kissed him back, properly, reaching up to weave your fingers in his hair.  “So, you’re my boyfriend, then?” you noticed when you broke away.

“No, I think we’re still just friends,” he nodded, and you laughed and shoved him on the chest.  

“Might as well be, everything we did before sayin’ we were only friends,” you admitted.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, birdie,” he promised.

[bestiesenpai]

itadori + sukuna, twins + babysitting

This is a mix of headcanons and a fic. Also, I’m going to do this as a ‘reader was their babysitter years ago but now everyone is all grown up and seeing each other again’ type thing. And femme reader!

Sorry if Itadori is a little OOC it just fits the plot, tw: dubconish? Maybe?

Babysitting Yuji and Sukuna was fun and an easy way to make money

They were the twins a few years younger than you across the street, so it was only natural for their parents to enlist your help in watching them

The pay was good, and while dealing with Sukunas practically destructive tendencies drained you at times, it was still fun to hang out with them and grow up together

Yuji was nice and sometimes a bit of a crybaby, whether it be because Sukuna did something or because he just wanted to cry that day

He often told Sukuna off for being bad and messing with you, but a lot of the times Yuji was just trying to save face when he and Sukuna got caught doing something troublesome

Sukuna, we already know is a little devil child and lived to annoy you

Ya know the meme of ‘what do you have? A KNIFE! No!’ that is Sukuna lol he knows he can be good and get your attention that way but where is the fun in that?! Answer there is no fun in that

As they get older and their parents don’t call you around anymore, they do get sad and complain

You’re just older than them that they can’t hang out with you outside of you babysitting them, it’d be weird

So they try to let you go, but you’re always in the back their minds, especially when they see you out with friends or something and they can’t stop looking at you

They’ve always had a crush, always.

And when you go away for college every year, they’re devastated. They come to say goodbye and you ruffle their hair like you used to and promise that you’ll visit them when you come back for break

And let’s be real they mark that shit on their calendar and wait for the day you come back

Sukuna is the one to invite you into the house when you come to visit them on your school break. He can’t keep his eyes off the way you fill out your clothes and the way your ass moves when you walk. You’ve grown up a lot, but so have they.

“Aw, I remember this!” You grin, holding up a picture frame of the three of you together the summer you got braces.

“Yeah.” Sukuna chuckles and closes the door. Yuji is here too, awkwardly sitting on his bed and staring at you with hearts in his eyes. Setting down the frame, you fall back onto the bed Yuji is sitting on. Even as they grow older, they still share a bedroom, and you can see Sukunas messy half of the room.

“(Y/N).” Yuji says softly, grabbing your hand in his. This isn’t uncommon for him, he used to beg you to hold his hand when he was younger. Lacing your fingers together, the smile you send him has him squeezing your hand tightly.

Sukuna had been standing at the door for a while now, fiddling with a stereo trying to pick the right background music. Finally settling on something, you don’t hear the click of the lock on the door and you certainly don’t notice the way the two of them share a look.

“Hey (Y/N).” Sukuna grunts, sitting on your other side.

“Yeah?”

“What’s college like? You’ve been there a couple years, you’re a veteran.” He puts an arm around your shoulder, leaning back and making his chest appear bigger to try and impress you.

“I only just started my third year.” Chuckling, you lean into him a little bit.

“Yeah, but still.”

“It’s way different than high school, that’s for sure. You two will like it when you go.”

“I wish we could go to college at the same time!” Yuji groans, curling himself into your side and pouting. “I want to go to classes with you.”

“Fuck classes, I want to go to parties.” Sukuna cuts in. “College parties must be wild, huh? You can tell us, (Y/N).”

“Some of them are.” Wrapping your arm around Yuji, you adjust to let him cuddle more into your side. Sukuna lets out a loud snort and shakes his head, not believing a word you say.

“C’mon (Y/N), you can be honest. I bet all you do at these parties is drink and fuck.” Neither Sukuna nor Yuji have ever spoken to you like that before. Your relationship was always kept PG-13 at most, a few gross crude jokes about making out and having sex when you were younger, but nothing vulgar.

“Well-” Your face flushes with heat, and Yuji is quick to sit up and look at you with owlish eyes.

“Is that true, (Y/N)? You fuck at these parties?”

“Guys!” Slapping a hand over your now burning face, you don’t miss the way they chuckle. “How is that any of your business?”

“C’mon, we aren’t kids anymore! We can talk about this stuff!” Sukuna scoffs, and the arm around your shoulder shakes you from side to side. “Just tell us, it’s not that big a deal.”

“Yeah, we’re older now.” Sitting up a little straighter, Yuji’s hand that was holding yours let's go and settles on your thigh. Biting your lip, you look between the two identical boys. Their stares are unwavering and nearly enough to make you too embarrassed to speak.

“Yes, I have fucked at these parties-” As soon as the words leave your mouth Sukuna lets out a holler and laughs, jostling you further.

“I knew it!”

“What’s it like, (Y/N)?” Yuji questions, and his hand squeezes your thigh tightly. The two of them have fully encased you, making it impossible to squirm out of their hold or escape their eyes.

“I don’t know if I should tell you.” They aren’t the same young kids you used to babysit. They’re fully grown men now, still growing into themselves but old enough that if you saw them at one of your college parties, you wouldn’t bat an eye.

“Please!” It only takes Yuji a little more pushing to get you to crack.

“It’s not that great a lot of the time, really. The boys at my college aren’t the best lay if you can believe it.” Rolling your eyes at the memory of your most recent escapade, you relax a little bit. “I mean honestly, how is it impossible for them to find the clit when I literally point right at it?”

“What a joke!” Sukuna chuckles, and his arm drops to settle around your waist. His fingers splay across your ribs, cupping just under your breast. “(Y/N) if you were with us we could make you feel ten times better!”

“Yeah, okay.” Laughing lightly at the proclamation, you think nothing of the way Yuji wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got a pout on his lips and his fingers start to dip beneath the waistband of your bottoms.

“We’re serious.” He says, eyes scrunched up a little from how intense he is. “We love you (Y/N), we can make you feel better than anyone else.”

“You love me?” Quirking a brow, you look at both of them. Yuji always said he loved you when he was younger, but Sukuna had always denied it with a fierce blush on his cheeks.

“We do, what about it?” There’s the telltale blush on his cheeks. Sukuna can see your smirk and it pisses him off, so much that he pushes you down to the bed.

Wrestling with Sukuna was a pastime the two of you enjoyed when you were annoying one another. He’d push you, you’d push him, and then the two of you would end up in a mess of limbs on the floor. This time felt no different, and you fought back like you always did. Wriggling away from him and trying to pin him down, you somehow ended up in the middle of the bed with Sukuna sitting on your legs.

“Ha, I win.” He says breathlessly. It wasn’t a fair fight to be honest, he and Yuji had begun working out ever since they hit puberty, so his strength easily outmatched yours. You easily conceded and tried to sit up, but Sukuna didn’t budge.

“Let me up.” You try to yank your legs out from under him but he just pushes more of his weight on you. Yuji is on the bed as well, sitting near your chest and looking at you with that same starry eyed look. He’s not looking at you, he’s looking at the way your shirt clings to your chest, the outline of your bra clear as day for him.

“(Y/N), will you let us show you how good we can make you feel?” He asks, licking his lips nervously. His hand settles on your stomach, palm hot and itching to feel your breast. You don’t answer, and they take that as a green light.

Sukuna is the first to take his shirt off, flexing the muscles he’s worked hard to get. Yuji follows suit, and they take their pants off as well, leaving you the most dressed person in the room. There was an argument brewing in the back of your throat, saying that it was wrong to do this since you’d known them for so long. But now, seeing them as they wanted to be seen, burgeoning men that clearly had a desire to be with you, that argument seemed silly.

“What-” You start, and the word catches in your throat for a moment at what you’re about to say. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh baby.” Sukuna lets out a low groan, an almost sickening grin stretching his cheeks. “We’ve done a lot of research.” His hands are already working your bottoms down your legs, leaving you in your panties.

“(Y/N), lift your arms.” Yuji whispers, tugging your shirt off. They’re both silent when they see your nearly naked body; something they’d fantasized about many times. Leaning down, Yuji kisses you abruptly, and that sets Sukuna off to take your panties off as well. Yuji takes your bra off, placing it with the large pile of clothes on the floor.

Climbing off your legs, Sukuna forces them open, nearly kneeing Yuji in the face when he pushes your legs up.

“Shit. Look at this.” Yanking Yuji by the shoulder, they both settle between your legs and stare directly at your cunt. In that moment, you’re reminded of their inexperience and lack of knowledge, and it’s almost innocent.

Spreading your lower lips with two fingers, Yuji leans forward, puckers his lips, and spits onto your cunt, making it clench around nothing.

Innocence, gone.

“What should we start with first?” Sukuna asks, giving you a once over.

“What do you want to do? I know you always talk about tasting her.” Yuji, always so polite, scoots back and lets his brother take up all the space between your legs.

“Thanks little bro.”

“You’re only older by two minutes.”

“Best two minutes of my life.” Laughing, Sukuna slaps your thighs with both hands and moves to lay on his stomach. “Just relax, (Y/N). We’re going to take good care of you.” Yuji is also laying down with his mouth hovering over one of your nipples.

“Yeah (Y/N).” Yujis breath fans over your nipple, and his eyes are torn between looking at you and looking at your chest. “We love you.”

[excelsi-or]

your type (pt. 1)

Hello friends! I have retuuuuurned. I decided we’d go with the ‘dating you because of a date’ trope story (mostly because I’ve suddenly started OVERHAULING the shit out of the other story I’d proposed to you). It’s a decent-lengthen fic, a little more story-based than snapshot like my past two series. 

w.c. 2.6k (LOL, enjoy the set up. We hit the ground running pretty quick after this one.)

pt. 2

note 1: I’ve tried to make all the characters/idols in this one, so if you see a name and recognize it, yeah, it’s probably the idol you’re thinking of. I haven’t done this in my last two fics because I usually prefer not to, but I needed so many side characters to bring this story to life and I doubted you guys would be interested in me creating a bunch of random names and people you didn’t know. 

note 2: I don’t ship any of the idols that are ‘together’ in this fic or wind up ‘together’ in this fic.

When love is a game on a university campus, the question is always how many people can you get into your bed?

Her girls are all about this game. Between studying for exams, hobbies, volunteering and hanging out; they are swiping left and right, going on dates, meeting new boys on campus that they’ve never interacted with before.

To be systematic about it—because these are science majors—they’ve been working through varying departments. And they’ve left a specific department for their last year at school: the music department. For two reasons.

1)    The hottest boys come out of the music department.

2)    The fuck boys come from the music department.

If her girls are all about meeting and bedding various men, the boys in the music department are playing the same game. And she has heard various stories about girls trying to change these music department fuck boys.

She’s dabbled in the dating scene, but has quickly learned that the boys on campus just tend not to be her cup of tea.

“Party at Jackson’s tonight,” Jihyo tells her as she slips into the seat across from her at their dining room table.

“And who are you chasing after tonight?” she asks simply, erasing the subscript 2 she’d put down next to her carbon.

“Do you know Choi Seungcheol?”

She snorts. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“We’ve been flirting a little.”

Before she can respond properly, the answer to her chemistry question suddenly comes to her. She grumbles under her breath as she proceeds to erase half a page of work. “Did you go for your testing this morning?”

“Still clean,” Jihyo hums. The woman takes the chemistry homework distraction and uses it to her advantage. “How was that boy you met last week?”

“Eh.” She slowly starts over. “He was whatever. Little too handsy, little too spitty. Kinda boring.”

Jihyo laughs. “I still don’t think you’re giving these boys a chance.”

“Boy’s gotta meet my standard or fuck off,” she chuckles. She tosses her pencil into her notebook and closes it. She props her chin in her hands. “I’m guessing since you’re going to distract me from homework until I say I’m going to get ready that you have someone you want me to meet tonight.”

Jihyo shrugs. “No promises, but Cheol did say to bring my friends tonight so we can play card games at Jackson’s tonight.”

She gets to her feet. “We can do that at someone’s house and not at Jackson’s party.” She heads to her bedroom. “But fine. I’m always down to beat new people at cards.”

Having dabbled in a few music classes, she does actually recognize a few of Seungcheol’s friends. Seungkwan and Hansol come as a pair and don’t date around as much as the others do, likely why she’d taken a liking to them. When Jihyo drags her through the crowd at Jackson’s front door and into the living room, those two boys tackle her first.

She winds up on Hansol’s knee, his hand at her waist to balance her there. “How are you? We haven’t seen you since theory class.”

“I’ve been in the research lab,” she laughs. “You said you’d come visit me.”

“Not all of us are graduating, noona,” Seungkwan argues. “You’re done this year, but we have two years left.”

She ruffles his hair. “Excuses, excuses.”

“Have you met everyone else before?” Seungkwan asks when one of his friends returns with a few beers in his hands.

“Briefly.” She shakes her head when Hansol offers the beer.

Proper introductions are made, and conversation is easy. Jihyo is already in Seungcheol’s lap. His hand strokes her bare legs, likely ‘warming’ them. That excuse always makes her laugh.

Momo walks into the room, a little tipsy already, and scans the room. When the taller woman’s eyes land on her, she breaks out into a smile. “I need you to meet someone.” Without a response, Momo grabs her hand and lifts her off Hansol’s knee, pulling her back through the house.

“You good?” she asks Momo once they’re out of the room and entangled in the sea of people.

Suddenly, Momo stops them before an older looking man who looks incredible uncomfortable to be surrounded by university students. 

She stares up at this man and looks between him and Momo. “Who is this?”

“My boyfriend, Heechul.”

Her eyes widen. Momo had been going on about some older man she’d met at a café nearby. And Momo has been asking her to meet Heechul for a while, mostly for approval. Her girls think since she’s picky that she knows how to judge good men. She can’t confirm or deny that.

She holds a hand out. “Nice to MEET YOU!” She has to start yelling, because the music has picked up now that the party’s in full swing.

“Oppa was just dropping Sana and me off and Jihyo said that you were going to be here!” Momo gives her a little push towards Heechul. “Talk to him!”

She tilts her head. “Where are you going?”

“To find Sana and Jihyo!”

Momo pecks Heechul on the cheek and tells him that someone will call to be picked up.

Once his girlfriend wanders off, Heechul looks down at her. She motions towards the door. The man seems confused as to why a little girl is bossing him around, but he leads the way out of the house.

She stands on the front porch, leaning against the beam near the steps. “How old are you?”

“36.”

She almost chokes on her tongue. That is a very apparent 13-year age difference. “Right. Momo said you met in a café.”

“I spilled my drink on her by accident.” Heechul seems hesitant to say more. He leans up and squints at her. “Who are you again?”

“My name doesn’t matter, but I know I have some weight as to whether you and Momo continue to date.” She tilts her head. “Why Momo?”

“Why not Momo? She’s gorgeous, sweet, adorable.”

“What is Momo studying?”

“Something in science, but she’s a dancer at heart.”

She mulls that thought over in her mind. “And what do you do?”

The name is technical, which suggests that his job isn’t CEO. But it sounds stable.

“Kids?”

“None.”

“Married?”

“Never.”

She nods her head and then smiles sweetly. “Nice to meet you.”

Heechul doesn’t call after her like the other boys tend to do when she abruptly ends her weird interview, which reflects his age. But she knows he’s definitely confused by the way he lingers in the walkway.

Inside, her ears need to readjust to the volume. She weaves her way back through the house, the bass trying to alter her heartbeat in her chest. Just as she’s about to join her friends in the living room, she gets stopped by Jeon Jungkook. They’d dated for nearly a year during her second year of university. He’s dating his roommate now, but they’re still close. Jungkook picks her up around the waist and spins her.

“I haven’t seen you in ages! Why does it feel like you disappeared off the face of the planet?” Jungkook demands.

“I’m in hiding!”

“Hiding?”

“Don’t want you to suddenly fall back in love with me and leave Taehyung!” she teases. “Where is he anyway?”

Jungkook pecks her cheek. “Somewhere here! I had to drag him out from under his chemistry thesis!” Kim Taehyung wound up joining the chemistry graduate program at the university. His brain is legendary in the chemistry department.

“Tell him I say hi!”

“Where you going?”

She points to the living room over his shoulder. Jungkook’s brows rise, impressed. When they used to come to parties, they’d spend most of the time in whatever game room existed. Many of the houses they visited owned a pool table, and if people weren’t having sex on it, she, Jungkook, and a few of their friends would play rounds of pool until everyone else was too drunk to shoot straight.

“Aren’t Mingyu and his friends in there?”

She rolls her eyes, a smirk on her face. “Wish me luck!”

Jungkook laughs. “You don’t need it! Those guys would be insane to tangle with you!” He gives her a quick kiss on the forehead and pats her lower back. “I would know!”

They promise to meet up for a late lunch the following day after he’s nursed his hangover, and she rejoins her friends in the living room. Momo drags her to the floor. “What did you think of Heechulie?”

She gauges Momo’s expression. Her eyes are out of focus, which suggests intoxication thus suggesting more emotional responses. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

“Yo.” She looks over at Hansol’s voice and catches the Coke can he tosses at her. The boys all ‘oh’ loudly, and she furrows her brow at the overreaction.

Suddenly, someone is leaning towards her and whispering, “He promised that one of you would be sober.”

She turns and finds herself face-to-face with Mingyu. “Okay…”

“It makes Stress a little more challenging,” Mingyu clarifies.

Stress is a speed-based card game, one that Jihyo had taught her last week. Now that she knows the boys love to play it, she understands where Jihyo learned it. When the woman had taught it to her, Jihyo had said, “I can’t wait until you get to play them!”

It had been such an odd comment at the time, but now that there’s a Stress tourney happening in the living room with 8 decks of cards, she gets it.

And here she is, after three rounds of Stress with various people, sat across from a man she only met properly about ten minutes ago: Jihoon. He’s flushed in the face from the heat of the party, the alcohol, or the anxiety of all the people who have been cycling through the room to watch.

“How drunk are you?” she asks as she shuffles.

Jihoon tips his head both ways. “I’ve had two.”

“Shots? Or beers?”

“Shots.”

She nods her head as she begins dealing.

“Noona, it’s not fair!” Chan whines, leaning into her. They’d played each other in the first round, and even with her going slow, she’d still won. “You’re not as drunk as us.”

Gently, she eases him into Seokmin. “I don’t drink. You guys wanted to play, so we’re playing.” She catches Jihoon’s gaze. “Do you care?”

Jihoon shakes his head. “Nah. Easy win regardless.”

Jihyo’s laugh is short and loud to prove a point. “Even if you were sober, Jihoon, she’d smoke you.”

Jihoon gives his head another shake as Seungcheol shouts go.

And she wins.

She has to squirm out of all the grabby hands that try to toss her into the air in victory. “I’ll be back.” She gets up and starts towards the kitchen. She feels someone following her and finds Jihoon there.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” he states.

She doesn’t question it. It is a house party. Guys she doesn’t know will try anything. She ducks around arms and around hands that try to grab her when they call out to her in greeting. She, however, pounces on Min Yoongi who is standing in the kitchen talking with someone.

“Hey kid,” Yoongi says once he gets over the surprise. “Haven’t seen you in eons.”

She digs around in one of the coolers for a Coke. Her drink had spilled four minutes into the tournament when Seokmin had lost and flailed his arms around, promptly knocking her drink off the table. “Jungkookie and I are going for lunch tomorrow. You should come if you aren’t busy.”

Yoongi hums. “Sure, kid.” He glances at someone over shoulder. “I can move some stuff around.”

She gives his arm a squeeze before venturing back through the mass of humans. When someone bumps into her, causing her to topple backwards, she falls back into Jihoon. His cool hands and broad chest keep her steady and guide her back to the living room. He releases her and returns to his spot at the opposite end of the room.

A beer she hadn’t noticed Jihoon take is passed off to Jeonghan. The boys all have someone in their lap or someone trying to get into it, and a few of her girls have disappeared.

She glances at the clock. Jihyo catches her doing this. “You can go,” Jihyo mouths.

She juts her chin their direction. “You going home with Cheol?” she mouths back.

Jihyo glances down at Seungcheol who is talking to Joshua, and then meets her eye again with a nod.

Immediately, she gets to her feet again and begins saying her goodbyes.

“You heading out?” Jihoon asks from his spot on the floor next to two girls and Wonwoo.

“Yeah. Music’s making my head pound.” She squeezes Wonwoo’s outstretched hand and runs a hand through Seungkwan’s hair as she passes.

Once again, when she glances over her shoulder, she finds Jihoon behind her.

“What?”

“Walking you home.” He’s already grabbing his jacket from the overstuffed hall closet. Some people’s jackets have landed on the floor.

She smirks. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re gonna walk home alone at night?” He shrugs his jacket on.

“You’re tipsy,” she snorts. “You should stay here.” She slips past him to find her own coat. It’s tangled in the back. Jihoon nudges her out of the way to grab it. He helps her into it.

“Are you going to say goodbye to say bye to Jackson first?” he asks.

“I don’t actually know him.” She zips up her coat and meets his eye. “You go say bye.”

“Come on.” Jihoon motions with his head for her to follow.

“No, I’m good.”

Jihoon somehow knows that if he leaves her for a second, she’ll be out the door without him. “Let’s go then.”

She doesn’t question him. As they walk back to her apartment, she pops open the Coke can still in her hand. “Just so you know, the walk is twenty minutes.”

“You were going to walk twenty minutes on your own?” Jihoon demands.

She glances over at him. “I didn’t realize you were so chivalrous.”

“And I didn’t realize you were an idiot.”

She snorts. “The walk’s well-lit and I find it’s more comfortable than taking the bus or a taxi.”

“Any walk is nice until it’s not.”

Instead, this walk is almost awkward. With anyone else, it definitely would have been. They say next to nothing the entire twenty minutes, though he does sip the soft drink when offered. At her lobby door, she turns and smiles. “It was nice to meet you. Thanks for walking me home.”

Jihoon studies her for a while. She wonders if this is one of his moves. She’s heard of Jihoon’s reputation through the grapevine. And if this is one of his moves, does this really get the ladies going?

Eventually, the scrutinizing goes on for so long that she slowly backs towards the door to go inside.

“Do you want to go for breakfast?” he calls after her.

“Breakfast?”

“I heard you say you were busy at lunch. How about breakfast?” Jihoon asks.

She glances over her shoulder as she unlocks the door. She lets herself into the apartment and stands half in and half out. “Sure. Goodnight.”

“What? You’re not going to give me a number to call you? You could just say no.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Not as drunk as I thought. 9 AM here then.”

His brow furrows. “You want me to pick you up?”

She glances up towards the lights above the doorway that name her building. “You know where I live. 9 AM.”

Jihoon nods. “Okay.”

pt. 2

[haliyam]

No matter what

eren x historia; yeager bro moments (or zeke wishes lol)

Summary: The time has come for Marley to choose its new Warriors, and Eren has a decision to make. (Also, "some things never change.") Warriors AU for erehisu day.

AO3 link if you prefer to read there

--

Happy erehisu day! I saw this amazing erehisu art by beforelightsout on twitter where Eren and Historia are Warrior candidates + Eren became a shifter. Since it's erehisu day and everyone has come out with such wonderful stuff, I wanted to contribute somehow and write something for that AU. I've been dying of work and a covid scare so I was running on the fumes of my love for this ship and everyone else's stuff and also VIBES while writing this in the last hour, so, it's barely edited, if it even makes sense. Sorry in advance. I hope you enjoy though! 

Also, for this AU (or really for the fic to work lol), my headcanon is that the war keeping the previous Warriors dragged on, so Reiner's generation don't get selected until they're this age (Historia and Eren are 17). As for Zeke... idk. Maybe Mr. Ksaver had more time too. Anyway who cares about Zeke here!!! (me I still do)

No matter what

“You know this counts as cheating.”

Eren shoots Zeke a look. They’re standing at the courtyard in HQ, watching the younger candidates wheeze through their training while Magath and his assistant instructors bark orders in the background. Days before selection, and with Zeke already holding the Beast Titan and Colt preparing to inherit, their generation doesn’t need to be put through their paces as often anymore—or maybe Commander Bruning is just letting them off the hook for the week.

They both doubt that. 

Up ahead, Falco trips over an unseen pebble, and Zeke sighs. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” he says, out of misplaced brotherly affection. Eren appreciates it, but that’s not what he needs right now. “You already have the armband.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“I know,” Zeke raises his hands in surrender, but the playful gesture doesn’t take away the scrutiny in his gaze. For all his levity, he doesn’t once glance away. Eren knows he’s seeing their father in him, trying to decide whether that’s a positive or a negative. 

“So?”

Zeke scratches the back of his ear. “You already know you’re in the running for the Attack Titan and the Armored Titan. Porco and Reiner are on your heels for the Armor. As for the Attack Titan…”

Zeke tilts his head in a shrug. Eren exhales, and then nods. “Thanks.”

His brother peers at him, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks what?”

Eren is grateful, reassured, but not that grateful. “What am I, ten? I’m not calling you big bro.”

Zeke lets out a long-suffering sigh this time, the kind he uses to guilt trip the others into helping him with paperwork at his age. “You used to be such a cute kid.” He’s quick enough to reach over and ruffle Eren’s hair, and then withdraw before he can smack his hand away. “Now you’re all grown up.”

Eren rolls his eyes, but claps a hand to his brother’s arm in earnest. “Thanks, Zeke.”

The man gives him a thumbs up, and Eren belatedly catches a sliver of gold pass one of the windows behind the courtyard ahead of the other girls. His feet take him forward before he can bid his brother goodbye.

“Go on,” Zeke says, right as Eren catches himself almost sheepishly. He goes to her without another thought.

--

There’s no big to-do when it comes to the selection process. Apart from their generation of candidates, there’s only Zeke, standing to the side with the other instructors who assist the captain, while Magath and Commander Bruning themselves stand together, as imposing as the day they first met.

Maybe a little less now that they’ve earned their stripes, training for a decade with the extension of the war in the South, but Eren can feel the pressure of this moment bearing down on him. 

The others have been chosen. They stand at the other side of the room, putting on their most dignified expressions and trying to contain their shock at their commander’s question. 

“There remain two Titans, Eren Yeager,” said Commander Bruning seconds, maybe a minute ago. Eren’s mind is still reeling. “Which of them, in your estimation, best suits you?”

“Me, sir?” he had asked dumbly in response. Bruning had only nodded.

It isn’t supposed to happen like this. From the group ready to receive their red armbands, he feels Marcel’s eyes burning into his side. Marcel, who was pulled aside by Magath and Bruning earlier today. Eren expected the same treatment—not this. Is this a test? 

Porco and Reiner stand to his left, behind him because he’s stepped forward, and he feels hazel daggers ready to strike at his back. He doesn’t care about them right now. It’s the blue to his right that envelops his all. The air is replete with Historia’s expectation, drowning out all the others in the room. He feels weightless in it, a drop in the ocean that is her existence to him. 

Eren knows he could be more. If he gives the right answer, she might just see him as more.

But Historia isn’t the ocean to these people. She’s a tool, or she could be, and he cannot let that happen. Eren remembers the ground under his feet and peers into the commander’s eyes.

“If I may, sir, I believe Braun has always had the most endurance among the candidates,” he says clearly, just like he’s rehearsed with Marcel. He tries not to imagine the way Historia’s stomach drops. “Nowadays he takes Leonhart’s hits like they’re almost nothing. And for myself—I’ve come to specialize in close quarters combat. The Attack Titan would suit me best.”

Reiner sighs in relief not far from him. Porco and Historia are utterly silent. He can’t even hear them breathing.

Bruning and Magath seem not to notice. They only exchange glances, and if they think anything of Eren answering more than what was asked of him, they say nothing. 

After a few nods, Bruning turns toward them with pride. “It’s as we thought. I see no reason why we should delay for pointless suspense or further deliberation.” With a small motion of the commander’s hand, Reiner steps forward. “Congratulations, Yeager. Braun. You have earned the honor of becoming the new sword and shield of our great motherland Marley.”

--

The room erupts with excitement as soon as the Marleyans are surely gone from the hallway. Eren is already headed for the door when Porco tries to grab him by the shoulder.

“Eren, what the hell? You know this asshole isn’t better than me!”

Reiner sneers at him from behind before Eren can even shrug him off. “Apparently the brass knew different, Pock. Don’t take it out on Eren—he only affirmed what they were already thinking.”

Porco growls, turning on Reiner instead, which means it’s going to be one of those afternoons. Eren is happy to turn back for the door—he feels bright blue trained on him now, and it’s all he can do not to scamper for the exit.

Clutching the cigarette pack in his uniform pocket, he manages to get as far as two floors down before Historia catches up. She’s been calling out to him since she gave chase.

“Hey!” she yells. He was stupid to head for their usual spot. There’s a corridor in this building that’s gone unused for a while that they found, once, when it was their turn for cleaning duty. It’s been theirs since then, and one of the windows has the best view of the city right outside the internment zone’s walls—and the zone entrance itself. So they don’t forget what they’re supposed to do. 

“Eren!”

She’s starting to lose her breath, unable to match his longer strides. His footsteps start to slow, right as they reach that window. He turns around when hers stop too.

Hands still in his pockets, he stares down at her. “What is it?”

Historia glares at him, dignified even as she tries to catch her breath. “What the hell are you doing?”

Eren fishes out the cigarette pack from his pocket and shows her. It’s really Zeke’s, but he figured he’d need it after today. He isn’t wrong. 

She scoffs. “Since when do you smoke?”

“I’m going to be a shifter,” he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter much now, right?”

Historia shakes her head, smart enough to ignore the diversion. “Eren, what the hell was that? I thought… I thought we understood each other.” Always to the point. “I thought you and I would become Warriors together. Change things from the inside and convince the others to do the same.”

The truth of her confusion, her frustration and growing anger pulls at him. She’s everything she didn’t used to be, back when she was still playing the perfect little Warrior who unnerved him so much. It’s exactly why he needs to keep a straight face. 

“Ah… yeah. Sorry about that,” he murmurs, his tone completely level, fingers pinching at the cigarette pack in his fist. “I just gave it some thought, and… I think Reiner would be better as the Armor, not me. So—that left me as the Attack Titan.”

The pain in her eyes is almost too much for him. If only they were cold, just like she’d been the moment he saw her true self for the first time. That way he could crystallize himself in them and shatter instead of having to face her like this. But she hasn’t been cold for a long while, and the warmth in her gaze even after his betrayal does him in. 

“You’re lying,” she realizes the moment his gaze flickers away from hers. Eren curses himself for it. “You once said you could always tell when I was being fake. You think, after everything we’ve been through, that I wouldn’t know it with you either?”

Eren bites his tongue and forces himself to meet those eyes again. He reminds himself why he did it. It’s all that keeps his hands steady as he carelessly flicks the cigarette pack open and reaches for a stick. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Historia swipes her hand at his, knocking the pack from his grasp. It hits the ground with a pathetic smack. “Don’t lie to me, Eren!” she says, pleads even when she’s angry, because they’re friends, aren’t they? If only that were all she is. “You know I deserve more than that. Why are you doing this!? We were going to become Warriors together. We were supposed to have thirteen years together!”

She’s free to vent her frustrations in the hallway like they always have with each other, voice shaky and shakier still as the grief escapes her. By the time she mentions that number, Historia is on the verge of tears, but she blinks them away with the fury that remains. How unlike him, who wants to fold more than anything, feeling like the slightest breeze, the slightest word from her can knock him over. He can only stare at the ground as he swallows down the emotion rising in his throat, and that’s when he realizes it. She’s right, like she always is. He can’t stand lying to her. 

The prospect of having to utter his next words terrifies him more than the idea of paradise. But he manages it, because she deserves to know the truth.

“You know why,” he says, trembling only at the last word. Shamefully, face red with self-disgust, he lifts his eyes to hers, fearing the worst. 

She catches his meaning. Of course she does—she knows him best. He expects her to leap at him, punch him, anything that will make the guilt of his selfishness ebb even just a little, but she only stands there. Shocked, and then her cheeks flush in only the most beautiful way. He already knows he’ll never forget how the light from the windows illuminates her face like this.

But then her brows furrow, shoulders raising angrily, and she stomps her foot on the ground. “Am I supposed to be grateful for that?” she snaps. “Should I say thank you for making this decision without me? What about what I wanted?”

“No!” Eren stammers, hands up in submission as if that will placate her. “Of course not! I didn’t do this for your gratitude!” 

“Then why did you do it?” Her voice is still raised, but her tone is resigned. Historia knows that even if she gets the answer, Marley’s decision is set in stone.

That’s the thought Eren takes comfort in. The tears that dampen his eyes are tears of relief, no matter his shame, no matter his remorse. And here he thought he’d grown out of this when he turned sixteen. 

Pressing his lips into his teeth in an attempt to maintain his composure, Eren lets his gaze drop again. “I want you to live,” he admits, so quietly she almost misses it. “I want you to grow up and have a family like you wished you could, if you weren’t pushed into this when we were children. Get married, have children you’re free to love the way…”

He trails off. The last thing he wants to do is mention her mother. He knows she understands when she doesn’t press him to finish.

“I want you to grow old,” he continues. “Live past thirty. Get to fifty, seventy… Then you can be as grumpy as you want to be without anyone saying it doesn’t suit you. I want you to be happy.”

A slight hiccup leaves his throat, one Historia misses only because she does the same. Eren swallows it down, but his nose is already stuffy. When he looks at her again, he’s the most serious he has ever been, and it’s no performance. He reaches for her hands. 

“I’m not prepared to sacrifice your life for our cause,” he confesses. Eren imagines he could bear never to look out that window and see the walls torn down, the way they’ve dreamt together for the past few years, if it means she will live to see it herself long after he’s gone. He’s not articulate enough to say it, his ears and his throat so full with everything he wants to tell her in this moment that he’s speechless. How can he be otherwise, when she’s looking at him like that? All he can blurt out is, “I’m sorry.”

A silence brews between them. Eren wonders if it’s time to step away, to leave her to her thoughts. Maybe he can still beg for forgiveness later.

He loosens his grip on her hands, meaning to wipe his eyes, and that’s when she seizes his. “You stupid crybaby,” she murmurs quietly, fondly, “do you really think I’d be happy knowing you sacrificed yourself for me? Why do you think I promised you that we’d complete our mission within the next thirteen years?”

Eren can only look dumbfounded. 

“I wanted to spend them with you, you idiot,” she gives him, even as her voice quivers with the same desperate longing he’s felt ache in his chest for as long as he can remember now. “I would have been happier spending thirteen years with you, fighting together, than sitting out the fight and living the rest of my life without you. Isn’t that what we agreed on? To work toward what we promised? Together? What did you think I meant by that?”

Eren opens his mouth, body drained of the cool facade he’s found solace in the last few weeks since he came to terms with his greed.

“Historia,” he breathes. Remembers to. “You—?”

She’s had enough of him, he can tell by the look on her face—but he’s wrong again, because Historia grabs him by the collar and pulls him down to her, meeting his mouth with hers in a bid to help him see the truth. His fingers find her face on instinct, lips parting as they kiss so he can partake of her further. 

A moment, a hum from her and something stirring deep inside him, and Historia pulls away as if in punishment. She’s flush again, glaring until those blue eyes soften at his stupid expression. 

“Get it yet?” she asks.

His thumbs slide across her cheek, a small grin pulling at his mouth. She really is the ocean, Eren thinks, and dives in again, drinking of those soft lips, drowning in the scent of her hair, the feeling of her hands sliding down his chest. She’s everything.

What feels like both a moment and an eon passes as they stand there, him bent down as he kisses her, her tiptoed to grant it to him, until they eventually part. Only a little, because they can’t bear the distance just yet. Just so their foreheads are pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” Eren murmurs, before he’s lost in her again. “I didn’t know.”

Historia’s lashes flutter as she blinks away her own tears. This doesn’t change the consequences of the decision he’s made on his own, but she knows she can’t give him up, either. When she opens her eyes, she’s more resolute than he’s ever felt in his life. “There has to be a way,” she tells him. “Go to Paradis. Retake the Founding Titan… and come back. Then we’ll do as we promised.”

“Change the curse,” he replies, like they’ve planned, looking out at the stars from his roof in the zone. “Free our people.”

Historia nods. “No matter what.”

“No matter what,” he agrees. 

She smiles, and he can’t help that the way her lips purse when she tries to stifle it moves him. Eren draws closer—

“There you are!”

—and nearly stumbles as he and Historia untangle their limbs from one another, practically standing at attention when they hear his brother’s voice and Marcel’s surprised ah.

Unfortunately, not even the most perfect posture can erase the affection still blooming in their cheeks, or the slight swell of their lips resulting from that affection. Or the smiles they just can’t help for one another.

Zeke squints. Also unfortunately, nothing gets past this asshole. “Oh, so it finally happened?”

Marcel glances between the two of them, coming closer. “Seriously?”

Zeke snorts, palm open to the new Jaw. “Pay up, Galliard.”

Marcel scoffs. “Come on. Is it really fair if you had inside information?”

“Are you kidding? My baby brother tells me squat.”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean I guess I understand that…”

Historia lets out a very audible sigh. “Can we help you?”

Marcel meets Eren’s gaze, gratitude and apology in his smile, while Zeke tries on his new Warchief role for size. He clears his throat.

“Now that Porco and Reiner have settled down, Bruning and Magath want to see us again. Discuss our steps going forward, run tests on the new Warriors… The works. Time to go.”

Marcel sighs. “Talk about eager.”

“All right,” Eren says, finally, because he prefers serious Zeke to his annoying brother right now. He feels vulnerable enough, and he doesn’t care to be that way in front of these two. Or anyone else but her, really. “Lead the way.”

Zeke and Marcel turn to leave, starting to argue the terms of their wager as they disappear around the corner.

Historia and Eren look to each other. A shy smile finds its way to his face as he offers her his hand. 

“By the way, Eren,” Zeke pokes his head into the corridor again, finger waving at the mess of sticks on the floor, “you owe me a new pack of cigarettes. And clean that up.”

Eren groans. “Shut up!”

“But that was my favorite brand! The things I do for love,” his brother whines, to Marcel’s quiet chuckling, and finally they leave for good. 

“Sorry about that,” Eren mutters. Not that Historia hasn’t seen him like this before.

She only laughs as she accepts his hand. When she shakes her head, smiling as she pulls him forward, he feels like they might actually do it. That they might be able to find a way past those thirteen years.

And even if they don’t, he can’t feel regret. As long as they’ve managed to accomplish their mission… No, as long as he can ensure that Historia lives on, he’ll pay any price.

No matter what.

//

I'll take any opportunity to give Marcel more screentime. Well, I actually debated with myself whether it would be Marcel or Bertholdt in the last scene, but Marcel made more sense so that Zeke could whine about being an older brother to someone who could relate. (And yes, Marcel and Eren made a deal to have Reiner become the Armor. I’M SORRY REINER)

Writing Eren's parts made me realize how much I'm in love with Historia??? Like I've always loved her but I guess I realized I'm IN love with her XD Also my hc is Eren here likes to think he's the strong one protecting them both or he at least likes to project that image to the others, but really he takes his cues from Historia who is much stronger emotionally and mentally imo. Idk, I just think she's the boss in this relationship (though of course they are able to be vulnerable with one another which is the biggest thing for me).

Anyway. Thank you for reading! Happy erehisu day!

P.S. I forgot to mention that 'Commander Bruning' in my hc is the guy who tells Magath that it's a good idea to use child soldiers as their Warriors. I imagine he was in charge of a certain number of Eldian soldiers, including the Warrior program, while Magath was the 'captain' who directly managed the kids until his and Bruning's eventual promotions when they were able to conquer nations with such success.

[ollypopwrites]

The Contract

(Gif is mine! Anyone can use it if they want to, though!)

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader (Female)

Summary: Din offers you something that you aren’t sure you’re ready to receive. 

Word count: 9k (don’t hate me lol)

Warnings: 18+ only please, smut (sort of vague smut at the beginning, very explicit at the end), oral sex (male recieving), fingering, breeding kink, language.

a/n: this got very domestic, very quick. Please forgive any incorrect lore -- I mostly used Legends context for my research since there is more information there. I worked on this longer than I’ve worked on any other fic (that’s posted anyway) and I’m so excited to share my first Mando fic with you guys! Also shout out to the Poe Hoes for all their help and support !

tag list: @bisexual-space-slut​ @peachdameron​ @thirsty-flygirl​ @spacemacandcheese​ @commander-writergirl​ @tintinwrites​

“If you say yes, we won’t have to do this in the dark anymore.”

His voice is quiet and very close, his breath tickles against the shell of your ear as you lay with your back flush to his chest. Your eyes fly open when he says it, but they may as well have stayed closed with how much you can see while all the lights are off. 

 You were familiar with it by now, the two of you reaching for each other, making something in the nothingness of the pitch black interior of the Razor Crest. You could never be afraid of the dark again, not when you knew he was hiding in it. Waiting for you.

There were countless times you wished it wasn’t necessary. It felt unfair sometimes, that you couldn’t hide from him but he always got to hide from you. All the times your feelings were written all over your face, and he always got to choose what he showed you. But you still never asked to see. 

The helmet and all that ‘this is The Way’ stuff were everything to him. Given to him from the people who had offered him hope when he had nothing left. You would never ask him to sacrifice that, and he wouldn’t, even if you did ask. It would probably only push him away and you couldn’t risk that.

He can be ill-tempered and sometimes his acerbic remarks cut a little deep. And the blankness of the helmet just seems to add to the distance he tries to maintain with the rest of the galaxy. But he has a good heart. He wants to do right by what few Mandalorians are left, he’s honorable, and he cares about people. Din diligently ignores any comments about his ‘goodness’, and that helmet is probably his saving grace when it comes to pretending he’s nothing but the big bad bounty hunter people always hear about.

But it doesn’t make the fact that he is a good man any less true.

You had already accepted the fact that you would probably never see his face, and in exchange you get to see a gentleness in him that maybe only the kid has ever seen. You get to feel his lips against yours when the lights are out. You get to hear his soft laughter and hear him whisper your name like it’s a prayer. 

It’s a pretty fair trade.

 But sometimes, when you think he isn’t looking, you stare at the beskar and wonder why it would be so bad if he did let you see what his smile looks like. Just once. 

The prospect of that wish being fulfilled should make you ecstatic. You should be jumping at the opportunity. Somehow though, you can’t let yourself believe it is actually going to happen. 

How could things be like this for so long and then just suddenly change? 

At some point Din just became part of the darkness that surrounded you. What is it going to be like without the blanket of nothingness you two wrapped yourselves in? You feel stupid about your reaction, you aren’t the one who was revealing yourself but every time he brings it up you are flooded with dread. 

This is a huge fucking honor and you’re torn apart at the mere thought of receiving it. 

Do you even deserve it? 

“What are you thinking?”  He asks after you don’t respond for a while. His fingers start to map out the curve of your shoulder, trailing down your arm. “You disappear every time I ask.”

“You would be giving me so much at once,” you finally find it in you to say it. It’s quiet and somewhat meek, but you say it. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll get to...to see you.” You grab his hand, stopping its movement.

There’s a heavy pause, and you feel him tense up behind you. “Are you afraid…” he begins slowly, “that you won’t like what you see?”

“No, no, it’s not that --” 

“Then what’s the problem?”

The dark is your great equalizer. You never get to read his face for a hidden feeling, and he always gets to read yours. Until he shuts off all of the lights and you two just reach for each other. You both find safety in its embrace and in the embrace of one another. You both choose to reveal only what you want to, choose to confess quietly or keep your thoughts to yourself. Here in the dark it’s safe. 

You whisper, “it means so much. What could I ever give you in return?” 

There it is. The real confession. You had long accepted that this was just how things were going to be. Accepted that you meant a lot to him, but that the odds were he didn’t have ‘forever’ type of intentions when it came to you. 

When he proposed the idea of marriage, honest-to-maker marriage, you thought he was making a joke. The Mandalorian? Settling down with a wife and an adopted, magic-wielding, fifty-year old baby? He had to be fucking with you. 

The thing is, you had decided you were going to be with him until you die from unnatural circumstances or until he decides it’s time for all of this to stop. The baby loves you, and you love him so you could never just up and leave of your own accord. And Din needs some help on this maybe-endless journey to find the little one’s people. He needs help looking after himself too. Maybe not always on a physical level, but he likes having company whether he wants to admit it or not. 

So when he began coming to you for companionship along with all the other shit you handle for him on the Razor Crest, you welcomed it. And when you started to realize you loved him you kept that very neatly in check. And you still do. You take what affection he gives you, grateful and full of reciprocation, but you never let yourself fall into the fanciful idea that he is yours.

And then he told you his name. Something that you know is very intimate for him. Even that felt like such a huge gesture of trust and affection at the time, and you didn’t think it would get better than that. That was enough, more than enough. 

Then he asked you to marry him, and he was serious about it.

And suddenly it became all too clear you had been the only one guarding your heart here in the dark. Constantly bracing for impact, waiting for him to let you crash from so far a fall. Din was offering you everything he had to give. What the hell could you offer him in return?

Just as his silence and your own internal monologuing is about to send you into panic mode he speaks.

“You. That’s all I want.” 

It knocks the breath out of your lungs, tears spring into your eyes and your throat closes up around a sob you absolutely refuse to let loose. You turn in his arms and he loosens his grip to let you. You try to find his lips in the dark, but it takes a few tries. You’ve done this so many times but you still miss your mark every once in a while. When he kisses you, it's always like he might not ever get to again. 

When you break away for air his lips still don’t leave your skin. He’s kissing your chin, your jawline, cheeks -- whatever he can get to.

“That’s not much,” you say, trying to be lighthearted, trying to force a laugh around the lump in your throat. The tears from your eyes have spilled over and you don’t doubt that he can taste them on your skin. “You sure you don’t want something else?”

He doesn’t laugh at that like you had hoped. You can’t see each other, but he knows you're deflecting anyway. 

 He can’t keep his hands off of you in the dark. All the while you're trying not to let him know you’re still crying about how sweet he is, even if it is unintentional. Moans help hide the shuddering breaths you're taking when he reaches between your thighs. You wipe the tears from your face before you reach for him, and you think maybe he might not have noticed. 

Of course he fucking knows though, and you’re lying to yourself. You can’t find the words to properly tell him how you feel. Mostly fucking honored, just a little scared. It’s a huge thing to do -- to let you see his face, to tie himself to you for as long as you’re both breathing.

 He maneuvers himself over you, so you’re chest to chest and your thighs cradle his hips. Your senses are flooded with him. The warmth of his skin, the puffs of his breath, and the way his muscles are tensing under your fingers. When he slides his cock into you, he gives a low groan at how tight and wet you are. You let out a sound that could either be a sob or a deep heavy moan, and you’re not even sure which one it is. You’re consumed by how he seems to melt into your very being. You can’t even decipher where you end and he begins -- it’s all the same when he’s this close. 

Din is definitely not silver-tongued, but he always says what he means. Sometimes things come out harsher than he wants them to but it’s always straightforward and honest.   

So when he says, “stay, just stay with me,” while he’s fucking you, thrusting at an even pace but trying not to rail into you as he often does, you know that’s really all he’s asking for. 

It’s one of the few times you wish he would shut up because he’s somehow about to make you cum and weep at the same time.

“Let me take care of you and the kid,” he grunts, “and fuck -- we can have some of our own... ” 

He didn’t even have to finish the sentence. The thought of him filling you up, no, just the thought of him wanting you to carry his children throws you over the edge. Din doesn’t speak another full sentence while he fucks you through your orgasm, he’s too distracted by the way you clench around him. Single words, disjointed thoughts are pulled compulsively from his lips. Something about you being sweet and good and strong -- it’s getting a little hard to decipher the closer he gets to his release. He’s trying to tell you he wants this, he wants you, he wants to be able to look at you and have you look right back at him.

It doesn’t make the nervousness go away, not completely, but you’re comforted. The initial panic of simply not being enough, feeling like you won’t being able  seems to have passed. If all he really wants is for you to stay with him, you can do that. You were going to do that anyway.

He’s still inside of you, barely holding his weight off of you as he hovers as close as he can after he cums. He’s kissing whatever skin he can reach, and when he gets to your neck you lace your fingers into his hair.  

“Let’s do it.” 

He stills and there’s a beat.

“You sure?” 

“Yeah,” you say, feeling a smile creep onto your face, “I’m sure.” 

When you wake up the ship is at lightspeed and lights are all on again but you’re alone. You can hear the baby babbling at Din from above in the cockpit, and you make your way up the ladder to join them. The baby is in his lap, behaving for now, and talking away like either of you can understand him. You sit in the co-pilot's chair watch as the stars streak by, starting an easy discussion about what planet you’re going to and what supplies are needed. He doesn’t bring up the conversation from the night before, and you don’t either because if he wanted to elaborate on details he would have already.

 It’s business as usual, as close to routine as the three of you get. Eventually the baby gets bored and starts pressing buttons he shouldn’t and you have to take him back down in the hull. You hand him things to capture his attention while you work and he follows you around leaving a trail of random shit behind him as the cycle continues. Din lands the ship on whatever planet his quarry is hiding out on, you do a supply run and then wait for him to come back towing along a stranger that begs him not to turn them in. 

It’s just ‘business as usual’ for you don’t know how long. 

You aren’t upset -- you already knew he still had a handful of fobs to get to. It was what kept you paid, the ship flying and the baby fed. Din is, however, going at it with a strange sort of persistence. Usually he would allow for a little bit of downtime in between the quarries -- maybe a few hours or a day or so where he would clean his armor and his blasters and help you out with the kid or whatever needed to be repaired on the ship. Instead you seem to be jumping from one planet to another: the moment a quarry is in carbonite and stored away he’s climbing the ladder to the cockpit and you’re all off again. 

There’s no nights spent between you in the dark either, and you’re starting to think you might have said something that offended him the night you finally agreed to getting married. You only know so much about Mandalorian culture and you go over everything you said again and again to figure out if you somehow forgot saying something incredibly stupid.

But his demeanor hasn’t changed much when you do get to talk to him. He doesn’t gruffly respond to you like you’re irritating him. No single word replies employed to discourage you from making conversation but that only serves to confuse you more. Occasionally he fucks you, but they’re only quickies and he doesn’t take off the beskar and you’re not really complaining about the sex but you are starting to feel a little uncertain about what the hell is going on in his head. 

You could just ask. But… You don’t know if he is actually angry and you’re afraid if you he’s going to be more upset that you don’t remember whatever stupid thing you said that night. 

Eventually he’ll tell you what’s going on, and you let him have his space until he does.

When the carbonite storage is full and you’re heading to Nevarro again, you’re glad for the chance to spend some time off of the ship. It feels suffocating with all the uncertainty that is settling in your stomach again. You swaddle the baby up enough that his ears aren’t popping out of the blankets before setting him up in a makeshift sling that keeps him close to your chest and your arms free. You throw a bag over your shoulder, full of snacks for the kid, most of your money and some other odds and ends you like to keep handy on any outings. You’re ready to go before Din is, impatiently waiting for him outside of the ship. 

When he finally walks out of the hatch he stops for a moment, and you can feel his gaze on you even if you can’t see his eyes. 

“Something wrong?” You ask.

“Are you ready?”

“It’s just a drop off, what do I need to be ready for?” 

There’s a moment where he just looks at you again. It’s tense and you don’t know how you can tell but it just feels like he’s about to say something or that he at least wants to. But he doesn’t. He simply starts walking towards the archway that leads into the settlement.

You follow him past the foreboding display of Stormtrooper helmets impaled on crude pikes, and onto the main road. You are perusing street vendor wares with glances, just a few paces behind him. On the way out you’ll probably get a chance to actually look, but when Din goes to collect the bounties he walks with a purpose. If you fall behind he’ll remind you for the thousandth time that Nevarro is dangerous and you need to keep close to him. At this point you’re almost tempted to do so, just to get a little bit of a rise out of him, but the baby wiggling against you reminds you why you can’t. 

The cantina is dark and dirty but the atmosphere change is welcome, buzzing with excitement and debauchery. Greef Karga greets all of you like you’re old friends when you come to sit down, and you let him get a peek at the baby. It’s a little sweet the way he waves at him, three fingers flapping in front of the bundle of blankets. You can feel the kid moving his arms, like he wants to wave back but you keep him wrapped in the ratty blankets. Din is well-known here, and most people saw what happened the last time anyone tried to take the child away from him. But he errs on the side of caution anyway. The baby stays swaddled and held close enough that someone would have to really look to see him.

“Any interesting stories from your adventures?” Greef asks you with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Business as usual,” you smile wide and shrug innocently.

“Speaking of business,” Din interjects, placing all of the fobs on the table. 

You tune out a bit as they discuss payment since there’s some kind of discrepancy about what kind of currency is acceptable. As you understand it, this is a recurring issue with Greef. You look around the tavern, fancying yourself as some kind of helper and trying to make sure no one is eyeing the lot of you with ill intentions. People are always looking. Din’s armor is eye-catching and his reputation precedes him, so any newcomers who haven't already heard the stories about what happened at the settlement are getting filled in. No one seems any more out of the ordinary than what is to be expected on Nevarro, but you keep looking into the darkest corners just in case.

“Let’s see what I have for you this time, Mando,” Greef announces, placing some pucks down on the table. “We have a few smugglers, a bail jumper --”

“I’m not taking any pucks,” Din interrupts him, “not right now.”

This gets your attention quick and your head snaps in his direction. Greef and you seem to be on the same page as you both utter a baffled, “what?” 

“We have something we have to take care of,” Din responds, not turning his head to acknowledge you. 

“We do?” You question, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Yes.” His tone is a little sharp and you notice it even through the vocoder of his helmet.

“Well, then,” Greef interjects, somewhat suspicious, “when you’re done, I’ll be here.”

“Thank you.” Din says curtly, and turns to look at you finally. “We’re leaving.”

You slide out of the booth as you say your goodbyes to Greef, and start moving towards the door. Once you’re outside again you can feel Din’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your head as he follows a few steps behind you. For a while you take your time looking at the different things for sale by the street vendors. Not really focused on what you’re seeing though, just trying to wait out bombarding Din with questions as much as you can. You have so many.  

You end up buying a few things: something for the both of you to eat later, and some weird sweets you know the baby likes. They are an easy way to bribe him into behaving when it's just the two of you on the ship. You’re leading the way back to the Razor Crest when Din grabs your arm and pulls you in a different direction. It’s less crowded off the main street and so you think now is as good a time as any to ask.

“What is it that we have to take care of?” 

“You’ll see.” 

“You know, the helmet already creates a lot of mystery for you, Mando,” you say dryly, “you don’t need to be cryptic.”

He doesn’t respond, but just leads the way through the much quieter streets and you follow him. Before you know it you're walking through an archway covered by a thick and scratchy blanket, through a small corridor and then down a spiral of stone steps. You trust Din, you trust him with your life, but you are also wondering why the hell he’s bringing you down below the settlement until you see it. The mythosaur sigil made of beskar above the archway gives it away as you approach what looks like a forge, and you’re suddenly all too aware of where you are. 

It’s almost eerie how quiet it is down here, you can’t hear any voices, only the sound of metal crashing in a steady almost rhythmic repetition. The baby is fussing, and you focus on pulling him out of the sling while you walk. His eyes blink to adjust to the darker atmosphere and the fussing stops, thankfully. But you are too focused on him and run smack into Din’s back, not realizing he had stopped in front of you. The baby gives an indignant little yell and you cringe as that metal sound stops. 

“You’re back,” a woman’s voice echoes off the walls and you peek around Din’s arm to see another Mandalorian. She’s just armored, working at the forge casually, and has got some sort of fur wrap around her shoulders in place of the cape that Din seems to favor. 

She looks really fucking cool. You’ve never seen more than one Mandalorian at once, and you try to take in all the other ways her armor is different from Din’s

“Have any others returned?” Din asks.

“A few,” she says with a single nod. “You are supposed to be finding the child’s kin.”

“It’s a long journey.”

“Even longer if you keep stopping.”

“I had to,” Din says immediately.

“Why?”

“Riduurok.”

It’s a word you surely don’t recognize, and the even way he says it gives nothing away. But there’s a very long silence that tells you it's something important. You can’t see her face but you just know this woman is looking at you. Studying you. It’s unnerving and she looks cool but she also looks very dangerous. She’s a Mandalorian, she absolutely could kill you and you’re very aware of that. You shift your weight so you’re hiding behind Din more, just barely peeking around him. 

“This is the one?” She asks.

Din turns slightly and presses a hand to the small of your back to guide you so you stand next to him. “Yes.” 

The pieces are slotting together in your head but you're missing some vital information. Is he asking for a blessing? Are you going to have to prove your worthiness in battle? You’re relieved that the signs are pointing to him going through with his proposal, you two are going to be getting married, but you’re just a little irritated at being thrown into the deep end. 

You have no idea what a Mandalorian wedding is like, and you have no idea what the etiquette is or what you’re expected to do and say. All you can do is offer an uncertain wave to the Armorer and internally cringe at your awkwardness. 

Just as the silence starts to make you squirm she speaks again, “you’re certain of this choice?”

You try really hard not to take it as an insult. She doesn’t know you and you’re fumbling this introduction pretty hard. But it does sting a little. 

“I am.” Din says it with absolute certainty. 

There’s another pause before she speaks again, but she doesn’t sound like she’s disapproving when she announces, “then you will be a clan of three. This is the way.”

“This is the way.” Din repeats. 

The Armorer goes back to hammering at whatever beskar she’s working on and Din leads you away. Through corridor after corridor and you still don’t see anyone else there walking through the badly lit enclave. You're staring at the back of the helmet, a frown creasing your brow, still trying to make sense out of all the strangeness. First he seems to avoid you, throwing himself into the bounty hunting and now here you are at a secret enclave with what seemed like a blessing from the tribe matriarch. He’s not a man of many words but this is serious, and you deserve an explanation.

You haven’t been watching the path he’s been on, what turns and corners you’ve come around, but he finally leads you through a door  into a small room. It’s sparsely furnished and the only light comes from a few halo lamps that are old but still give off a subtle and warm glow. There’s a single metal chair that looks terribly uncomfortable to sit in, an overturned crate as a small table, along with a bed that has a single pillow and some threadbare blankets. One single trunk is by the door and Din immediately puts his rifle in it as you set your bag down on the bed, before unwrapping the baby from his sling and setting him down to explore the meagre lodgings. 

“It isn’t much,” Din says, “but it's safe.”

You turn to him, and cross your arms over your chest, saying nothing.

“What?”

“Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?” 

“We’re getting,” he seems to falter a little, almost unsure, “married.”

“Today?”

He doesn’t say anything to that and you take a deep breath, closing your eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, but I’m not a Mandalorian,” you say evenly. “I don’t know what’s going on. Is there something I need to do?”

“Yes,” he says, “there is.”

You’re growing steadily more irritated with him. “Okay, so...what is it?”

“Just...hold on. Just wait.”

You tamp down on the frustration as best as you can. Doubt is creeping up on you, and you’re not sure whether to push the conversation or just let him take the lead. Getting married right now is quick, and you can’t help the somersault your stomach does when you think about it. You’re not uncertain about being married to him, it’s not about being ‘a clan of three’ like the armorer had said but about how uncertain he seems to be. Maybe he was getting cold feet and he was just so damn honorable he felt like he couldn’t back out. 

He’s moving around the tiny space almost like he’s looking for a reason to not continue the conversation and it’s almost comical. He seems too big for the room with all of his armor on, and his legs taking him across the room in only a few strides. It would be funny if it didn’t look so much like the behavior of a trapped animal. 

He’s fucking with the bed now, swiping his hands over it so that dust rises in clouds between the two of you. The baby sneezes when he inhales some of it and Din mutters an apology under his breath before aggressively beating at the single somewhat pathetic pillow as if he can force it to fluff up with pure willpower. Your jaw clenches and you take a deep breath, eyes clenched shut as you force yourself to speak.

“If you want to take it back… you can.”

He stops and turns his head just enough that he can see you through the corner of the T-shaped visor. “What are you talking about?”

“We’ve barely spoken about this,” you say quickly, before you can lose your courage. “You just… jumped back into the bounty hunting like -- like --” the words aren’t coming to you right away, and you continue to stumble on, “and right now you seem -- and I can’t --” you stop and take a breath, “I just don’t know what you’re thinking.” 

“I thought you’d need more time to consider it. I didn’t think...you would say yes so soon,” he says and you feel your shoulders sag. 

“So then why don’t we wait a little while?” You move to sit on the bed, looking up at him. 

His head tilts to the side just slightly, “I don’t want to wait.” 

“What?”

“You said yes and I still had five quarries to bring in,” Din says and through the vocoder it's sometimes hard to discern what his tone is through the helmet but the lightness of his voice sticks out to you. “I wanted to do it then but I thought --” He clears his throat a little. “It’s better to do it somewhere safe.” 

The baby grabs both of your attention, asking Din to pick him up with his arms raised and letting out impatient coos. The Mandalorian bends and scoops him up and he’s distracted for only a moment. He’s looking at the baby now, and you don’t say anything so he has to because you’re already upset.

 “No one’s seen my face since I was a child. I’m…”

“You’re scared.”

There’s a garbled sound through the vocoder, a harsh breath before he murmurs, “yes.”

“You don’t have to be,” you say softly. “You asked me to stay. Even if you look like that little womprat,” you point to the kid, “I’ll stay.” 

You recognize the sound of a short, breathy laugh through the helmet. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You nod your head with a smile. “So are we really doing this today? Just say fuck it and let everything change?”

“Nothing’s going to change,” Din says. “The lights will just be on.”

You don’t have to lay eyes on him to see him, and he’s reminding you of that. He’s revealed more in the dark that could change how you think of him than his face ever would. It’s just another step, just another formality. 

Staring at the blankness of the beskar helmet, you can see how his shoulders are rigid and he’s holding the baby like he’s made of glass. You wonder if his face shows his emotions the same way his whole body does. Before he was impatient and now he’s nervous.

“So, what do I have to do? Do I have to fight someone? Please tell me I don’t.” You’re half joking, because you want to put him at ease, but you’re also not sure that you won’t actually have to partake in some Warrior Wedding Rites. “If I have to fight that lady with the fur for your hand in marriage we’re gonna have a problem.” 

“That will be a problem,” he agrees. “The armorer is a skilled warrior.”

“Wait? I do have to fight the armorer?”

“That is the way.”

Your eyes widen, “kriff, Din -- she’s going to kill me!”

There’s a low, breathy sound through the vocoder. A sound you absolutely know because the first time you realized what it was you made it a personal mission to hear it more often. He’s laughing at you. 

“You’re fuckng with me aren’t you?” 

“Yes.”

“Wow, very funny,” you say dryly, narrowing your eyes in a glare but you’re smiling so you know it doesn’t have the effect you want. “What do I actually have to do? Some sort of a ritual?”

“No,” he says, “we say the vows, and that’s the contract.”

“In front of the tribe?”

He shakes his head, “doesn’t matter where or who is there. We just say the vows.”

“So, we could have done this on the ship?” You ask incredulously. “Nobody here but a toddler to witness?”

“We are the witnesses,” Din says seriously. “It’s between us.”

You nod slowly, it’s very simple and sweet in a way. No ceremony or pomp and circumstance. Just two people saying ‘I’m yours, you’re mine’ and that’s it. 

“What are the vows?”

 “Once I say them…” he trails off. 

“What are they?” You say insistently. 

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.” 

You bite your lip and frown a little, “wait -- go slower, I’ll -- just repeat it again, I’ll follow.”

He gives another little breathy laugh, setting the baby down next to you and getting to his knees on the ground to face you while you sit on the bed. “You can do it in Basic. Just repeat.”

You nod eagerly and your heart starts hammering in your chest. Excitement this time, no panic just an eagerness that has you almost bouncing on the bed.

You didn’t see him take his gloves off, but his hands are warm in yours now as he begins, “We are one when together.”

“We are one when together,” you repeat.

“We are one when parted, we will share all,” he says each word with more earnesty than you’ve heard before. 

“We are one when parted, we will share all,” you’re grinning, you can feel the baby tugging on your sleeve wanting in on the attention you two are giving to each other. You pull him tight to your side without looking away from Din. 

“We will raise warriors.” 

Your smile goes mischievous as you look to the little green monster still vying for your attention.

“We will raise warriors,” you say gently and the baby looks at you -- probably not understanding a word you said but he smiles anyway. 

Din’s own heart thuds in his chest and seems to swell at the same time, at the sight of the child smiling up at you and your own face split into an uncontainable grin right back at him. It really is that simple, just like that you are a clan of three. 

His hands pull away from yours just as the baby topples himself into your lap and you reach out to right him so he doesn’t fall. He’s taken the helmet off many times -- to eat, to cut his hair, to shave and to finally be able to kiss you even if you were shrouded in darkness. But he almost can’t do it as he lifts his hands to the beskar and grips it, for so long it’s been forbidden but it's suddenly okay. The helmet feels heavy on his head and in his hands as he struggles to grapple with the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about breaking his oath. He can have both. 

The baby gets his three fingers wrapped in your hair and starts pulling, which seems to be his new favorite thing to do besides putting everything he can get his hands on in his damn mouth. 

“Maker,” you hiss, head ducking to relieve the pressure as you start to remove his hand. “We are having a moment here, you little terror. Din, could you please --”

You’re halted when you look up, almost startled by the face you see in front of you. It’s a shock in the first place that there is a face in front of you at all. It’s his profile, as he sets the helmet onto the overturned crate by the bed. His tan skin seems to glow in the lowlight of the halo lamp, he’s got a strong nose and jawline smattered with dark stubble. His hair is dark as well, mussed up from the helmet in a way that makes you want to reach out and run your fingers through it. 

It occurs to you that you have run your fingers through his hair, as well as traced the shape of his nose with your fingers and kissed his chin. You weren’t sure what you expected after having done it so many times, but you know that he’s beyond whatever you could have dreamed of. When he turns to you and meets your gaze with soft brown eyes you can’t help but sharply exhale as your heart hammers against your rib cage. 

You should say something. You should tell him he’s absolutely beautiful but he’s left you speechless. 

He’s watching your face for a reaction, and he’s waiting for you to say something when the baby squeals. Both of you look down at him immediately, making sure he’s okay and he squeals again, hands outreached demanding Din hold him. It occurs to you that maybe the baby has seen his face before. They were, until just moments ago, a clan by themselves and you had joined up with them after all of that had been established. Din lowers his face and three fingered hands grab at his nose with delighted little coos. 

You can’t help but give a little giggle, high pitched and somewhat flabbergasted, “I think he likes you better without the helmet.”

He looks up again with those amazing eyes and asks, “and what about you?”

You chew on your lip a moment trying to hide a smile, “not sure yet. Put it on again so I can compare.” 

His eyebrows raise and he gives a breathy chuckle and smiles. It's a lovely thing, absolutely wonderful. You reach out and place a hand on his cheek and he leans into the touch sighing a little. He kisses your palm and your heart is overflowing. The baby is pressed between you as you shift forward, pressing your lips onto his. You’ve kissed many times but this is your first as husband and wife -- which is a title that still doesn’t feel real when you consider it in your head. It’s a soft kiss, and he’s a little overwhelmed by how gently you press your lips against his. It’s interrupted by a tiny hand on your face, the baby unable to keep from excitedly grabbing at the two of you and when you break away he’s smiling again. You press your forehead to his. 

It’s like this for a few hours, since the little monster needs to be fed and properly tired out. You catch yourself staring as he removes the rest of the armor. You stare a lot, actually. He presents the baby’s favorite toy -- the round piece of a control lever from the Razor Crest  -- and you watch when he sits down to watch it roll around as the kid chases it.  You can’t help but stare when all three of you eat together for the first time ever. It’s all simultaneously familiar and incredibly foreign. 

You knew he was real underneath all the beskar, had felt it for yourself, but it's surreal to look over and see his eyes looking into your own. He watches you a lot too, and you wonder if he’s done that under the helmet all this time. Now you can’t help but notice it and he seems to be just as flummoxed by it as you are since he almost bashfully looks away everytime you catch him. 

After a meal and running around the little room for a while, the baby finally yawns and plops himself into your lap. This is somewhat of a routine now too, the moment he’s ready for bed he just finds either you or Din and wants to be held until he falls asleep. You wrap him up in blankets again and hold him close. Neither of you talk until the baby’s big eyes flutter close and his breathing evens out.  Din removes his helmet from the overturned crate so you can use it as a makeshift crib since you forgot the pram on the Razor Crest. 

Now that he’s asleep and the two of you are alone, it’s a little tense. It feels like you’ve been playing house the entire night and now comes the reality of you two alone without the security blanket that is the dark. He’s watching you and not even trying to hide it anymore, and you are pretending not to notice. Should you go to him? Was he waiting for you to say it was okay? 

To your surprise he talks first, “we can turn off the lights...if...if it makes you more comfortable.”

“No, fuck that,” you look him in the eye because you can, and you’re not about to let him take that away from you. But then you remember this might be too much for him. He was a child the last time anyone saw him without a helmet. It’s probably a lot to take in. “Unless that’s what you want.”

He’s across the room in only a few strides, kneeling on the bed and you scramble to face him because he moves so damn fast sometimes you feel like you can’t keep up. He grabs your face and you watch as his eyes flit to your lips, which are parted slightly and waiting. His eyes aren’t quite as soft anymore, now he looks hungry and you damn near shiver, your hair raising from the intensity of that look. 

“Fuck that.”

He barely finishes saying it before he’s on you. The soft and sweet kisses are gone and as much as you hate to close your eyes when he's right there for you to take in, you almost have to with the force of the way he kisses you. He’s desperate to taste you and relentless about it. His tongue slides along yours, and it’s not a new sensation at all and that comforts you, puts you a little more at ease. This isn’t really that different. 

Din tugs roughly at your top, and you have to break away to let him pull it over your head so he doesn’t rip it. Before he can hone in on your breasts you grab the hem of the black shirt he always wears and slip it off of him as well. You’ve barely thrown it aside before he’s pushing you onto your back, hurriedly taking off your boots and socks for you, they seem to thud so loudly as they land on the ground when he carelessly discards them. His hands tug at the waistband of your pants and you lift your hips to help as much as you can and after he throws them over his shoulder he just... looks at you. 

And you can’t move because you're watching his eyes rove over your body, taking in the way his jaw is a little slack and his eyebrows are furrowing together just a bit. They dart back up to your face and he hasn’t even touched you but you’re so wet already. Seeing him look at you for the first time is almost overwhelming with what it seems to do to your body. You push yourself up and tug at his pants -- he has to stand so you can pull them down his strong legs and you get to your knees on the bed while he removes the rest of his clothing. 

His cock springs free, thick and swollen, when he stands and you kneel on the bed you seem to be at the perfect position to easily slip your mouth onto him. You can tell he wants to move you, to position you however he likes but you have to know what his face looks like while you have him in your mouth -- so you grab him at the base and he goes still. Your eyes never leave his as you press a kiss to the leaking tip, your tongue slipping out to gather up pre-cum and he sucks in a broken breath at the sight of it. You slide as much of him as you can into your mouth he grunts and takes a fistful of your hair. As you swirl your tongue around him his hips stutter, pressing far enough that you almost gag. 

You can feel how wet you are while you watch him, spurred on by all the little changes in his facial expression that tell you just how much he loves this. Din uses his grip in your hair to shallowly thrust himself into your mouth, his eyes shut as he throws his head back. You can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows down a groan, see his jaw clench tight as he refrains from thrusting any further into your mouth. Your hand trails between your thighs and you can’t help but slide your fingers through the slick wetness, allowing yourself to draw tight circles around your clit. It’s just so fucking hot to watch him fall apart in your mouth and you need some kind of relief. 

He lowers his head to look again, and the movement of your hand between your legs catches his attention. “Are you playing with...fuck, stop, stop,” he pulls your head away from him immediately. 

He’s throbbing there in your face, his cock giving not so subtle twitches and you pull against his hand in your hair to get him in your mouth again, whining as you rub at your clit. 

He just says, “no,” and tugs at your hair harder. 

With that same speed that sometimes baffles you he lets go of your hair and is climbing onto the bed, arm wrapping around your waist to pull you onto your back again. He puts his weight on one arm next to your head, the other diving to grab your wrist and pull the fingers you had between your legs to his lips. It’s like a volt of electricity goes through you as his tongue wraps around them and you think you might die if he doesn’t fucking touch you. 

“Please, please, Din,” you whine. 

He spends a long time at your breasts, ducking his head to suck on the soft skin. Your fingers tangle into his hair now, as you pulse with need and he is taking his time running his hands over your tummy, over your hips and taking in how you gasp as he gets closer to where you need him. He’s pulling you apart slowly, revelling in the softness of your skin and how your breath hitches when he brushes over somewhere sensitive. Your legs open further when his fingertips dance over your thighs and you almost forget that you can open your eyes. Din’s right there in the low light and you can watch while he slowly slides two fingers along your soaked cunt. 

“So wet,” he murmurs against your skin.

“Yeah -- fuck --” you gasp as he starts to lazily drag his finger around your clit, “for you.”

That warrants a reward, it seems, as he picks up his pace very quickly pulling you towards release and it feels all the more intense because you get to watch. The pressure picks up, the speed is overwhelming and his teeth clamp around your nipple just enough to hurt. You choke on air, hips spasming and he doesn’t let up. Thank the stars, because you’re nearly there and you want to watch every moment of it but it’s so much you can’t help but shut your eyes as you cum all over his hand. He slips two fingers inside of you, and grunts as he feels your walls flutter around them -- making sure his palm still grinds into your clit so he can drag it out as long as he can. 

After you’ve come down a little bit he pushes himself back to settle on his knees between your legs, pulling you close enough that your ass rests on his thighs. He pumps his cock a few times with the same hand that’s covered in your slick, and he practically growls before lining himself up. You watch his face as he presses into you, inch by incredible inch, his face screws up a little bit like it takes all of him to not just slam into you. You whine at the way he stretches you even though it’s familiar, you somehow can never seem to actually get used to how good he feels inside of you. The stretch always seems to start out feeling like maybe he’s too big and it’ll be too much, but it always makes your whole body tingle. His eyes snap open at the sound you make and he pushes slowly, as far into your pussy as he can. Your hands reach to grip at his thighs, nails digging in a little bit.

“You’re holding back,” you gasp, “don’t.”

Din pulls back and thrusts again with so much force that you see fucking stars. His hands grip your hips hard enough that you think they might leave bruises but that somehow only makes your cunt clench around him as you try not to scream. Over and over and over again without any kind of reprieve, you can’t escape the sensations. The bed is making a subtle creaking sound. If your mind wasn’t totally focused on the pull of his cock sliding out of you and the harsh way he fucking pushes back in again you would be worried about the integrity of the craftsmanship. But at the moment you can’t think of that, can’t even think of your name, only him, right  there in front of your with his eyes focused on you like you’re the only thing in the fucking galaxy. 

Your hips roll to meet his thrusts as best you can and you think back to all the times you’ve done this in the dark. Think about the night you said yes, when he damn near begged you to stay with him. When he made you cum just from the thought of having his children. It makes you whine again, and you gasp for air when he hits a spot in you that makes your back arch. 

“We will raise warriors,” you breathe out, the vow ringing in your head over and over again. 

His hips still after another harsh thrust and through heaving breaths he just asks, “what?” Like he isn’t sure he heard you correctly.

You lick your lips and roll your hips against his grip on you, not getting the friction you need but doing enough to make him grunt a little bit. “We will...raise warriors.” You repeat it louder and give a breathless, short laugh at the way he swallows hard and searches your face with a subtle and discerning frown.

He lets go of your hips and lunges forward so you are chest to chest, and your legs open as wide as they can. The small room is getting hotter and hotter and there’s a sheen of sweat that makes him absolutely glow in the warm light. His mouth on yours is harsh and demanding and when he starts to thrust again, it’s just as rough every time his hips meet yours. With your bodies this close there’s enough friction on your clit to make you cry out, white heat starting at the base of your spine. You bite your lip to try and keep quiet. 

“That what you want?” He asks, “want me to fill you up? Give you a little warrior?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re begging and your whole body feels like it’s lighting up at the thought of it. 

You loosely wrap your legs around his hips, not trying to ruin the fantastic pace he’s setting but also wanting him as close as you can get him. He hisses as your nails dig into his back, clawing at the skin just to find something to anchor you to this planet. It’s not so different from fucking in the dark, not when it comes down to technicalities but you’re never letting him turn the lights out again. There’s so many things you still want to see, want to watch him react to. You’re climbing up to the precipice again, shutting your eyes against the intensity of the feeling.

“Look at me,” he grunts, gripping your face and holding it so when you do open your eyes, his own bore into yours, “look at me while a fuck a baby into you.”

“Fuck,” it’s a pitiful whimper, but it's all you can say as you cum. 

It feels like something snaps in you so hard the shockwaves roll through your body. Each wave hits rolls through you so relentlessly that you can feel it all the way down to your curling toes, moaning as the muscles of your pussy grip at the delicious thickness of his cock.

He makes a sound like you just punched him in the gut and thrusts so hard the bed fucking moves. If it weren’t for his vice grip on you then you’re sure you would have been flung off the bed at the force of it. You can’t seem to control the volume at which you cry with each inward push and he’s repeating your name over and over again before he chokes on it and his hips snap forward of their own accord as he cums. You can feel him emptying his balls into you, hot and wet, and your cunt seems to greedily beg for it everytime your muscles clench around him

Din stays there on top of you as you both catch your breath. His body is a heavy but welcome weight as you just tighten your arms around him, thighs shaking as you try to wrap them tighter around his hips as well. He kisses your neck in between gasps for air and you're both hot and sticky but you need him to stay right there. You are wondering if you should say what you’re thinking, that you love him and you’re so happy. You actually fucking giggle like a giddy idiot and you’re fucking married now so why the hell not?

You open your mouth to say it when a shrill cry echoes throughout the small room. Both of you scramble to peek over the edge into the little crate where the child is crying -- big, heavy tears gathering in his eyes as he struggles to get out of the blankets.

“I take it back,” you breathe, “no more little warriors.”

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

*

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

       rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

 December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(

       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

 November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

 November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

 November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

*

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

*

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

*

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

              rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

[vaguely-concerned]

Any tips for a TF POV fic? I want to write one because I too went through a time in my life when I let feelings bounce off cuz that was easier, but I feel like that's not quite on point for him 🤔

God I have SO MANY THOUGHTS about this and they’re all so wordless and frustratingly evasive to me yet (I am in the process of writing a looooooong T.F. POV fic and it gives me much more trouble than Graves POV, probably because as a person I’m quite a lot more like the T.F. Type in real life lol). But yes, here we go, let me try to express some of what I personally try to have as my hm ‘anchor points’ for his perspective. (Heavy disclaimer that these are just my personal & disorganized little musings and by no means the only or ‘correct’ way to read the character!)

- First of all I agree, the image of ‘bouncing off’ doesn’t feel quiteright -- it’s in the right neighbourhood but the wrong address sort of thing, but it’s really hard to come up with a way to explain how I feel the nuance here.

*insert three hours later spongebob meme here* Okay, so the metaphor I came up with is: T.F.’s relationship to emotions is a direct parallel to his relationship to water/the ocean: it’s scary down there, it’s dark, it’s dangerous, and if he should ever be dumb enough to try to go in too deep it’ll kill him dead because boy oh boy on so many levels this man just did not learn how to swim. As far as he’s concerned any sensible person would simply bob along on the surface in a sturdily built boat and try not to think too much about the weird shit that lives down there in the depths. (In this metaphor the layer of artifice and performance so habitual it’s basically integrated into the fabric of his soul is the boat. Y’know, the part that’s Twisted Fate and not just plain ol’ Tobias. I’ll hasten to add that I think both parts of his identity are equally ‘real’ and equally him, but the Twisted Fate part is like… protecting the Tobias part. Keeping him from drowning, as it were. I’m not sure he’d think of it like that himself for the longest time, though, I suspect he has more of a ‘that man is dead’ attitude towards the Tobias part after Graves is gone)

I think what I’m trying to get at is the idea that to him, raw emotion is as hostile and unknowable and unnavigable an ‘environment’ as the deep ocean. (And the only time we see him willingly go there, physically and otherwise, is for Graves, so you know let’s jot that down first of all lol.)

- He seems to genuinely quite like and be interested in people – how they think, what moves and motivates them, their secrets and foibles. So I tend to try to keep the uh ‘detail work’ in his POV focused in that direction. Priority going like 1) people 2) people’s valuables 3) the relative availability of people’s valuables at this moment if you have clever hands and a very charming smile haha

- One of my favourite things about T.F. is that he seems, I don’t know… quite genuinely good-natured beneath it all? If you back him into a corner some sharp and dangerous things peek out (he has survived in his line of heh ‘business’ for like thirty years, and a lot of it on his own), but for the most part and when unthreatened he has a sort of mildly amused and intrigued live-and-let-live attitude to the world even as he’s conning it that I find deeply charming. Which to me ties in with:

- T.F.’s first instinctive reaction to danger (perceived or real) the majority of the time seems to be ‘Flight’. Confrontation and violence are basically his ‘when literally everything else has failed’ options. (As seen prominently in Burning Tides, where he just keeps running and running and the only time he actually starts throwing punches is when he has to because Graves is in immediate danger and they’re backed into a corner. Which feels like it means something huh lol, I often think about what could actually make T.F. angry enough that he would openly express it and that seems to be the most likely angle for it in my eyes.)

- My take on one of the fundamental differences between Graves and T.F. is that Graves has A LOT of feelings but doesn’t quite know it (or more like can’t quite conceptualize it I should say) – he has a hard time identifying or finding vocabulary for feelings that aren’t some shade of anger. Meanwhile T.F. KNOWS he has feelings, he just doesn’t like it, ardently wishes he didn’t, and will do pretty much anything to run away and not have to engage with them haha.

Another important difference: when brought out of equilibrium Graves gets angry, and T.F. gets scared. I have the feeling that beneath it all he’s scared a lot, and it’s why his persona is so oriented towards gaining control in ways where people don’t realize it enough to even think try to take that control away from him until he’s already long gone. Misdirection as a way of life babEY

- This might be too deep in the ‘my WIP/process specific’ territory to really count as general analysis, but I think it’s there in canon too – there’s almost a feeling that he implicitly feels like he has to make up for some fundamental flaw or lack he has at the core? (Not a weird thing for him to end up feeling, considering what happened to him as a kid.) All the rest of him, all the cleverness and style and charm, is there to ‘make up’ for how at the end of the day he’s… wrong somehow. As Graves, who knows him better than anyone, focuses right in on, a coward. And that is CERTAINLY not the whole truth and even Graves in a full rage relents when he sees the effect the accusation has on him and once he gets the actual facts of what happened. But I think that sense of deep unworthiness is what’s stuck with him emotionally. His people left him because there’s something fundamentally lacking and immoral about him. He lost Graves because he’s not good enough, because he’s a coward who leaves people behind. He deserves to be alone. Mix in a ton of survivor’s guilt to taste, and I think you have the like… core emotional wound he’s constructed around.

There’s also something here about fear of profound powerlessness specifically in situations where words, generally his strongest card that’s not a literal card (har har har oh we do have fun here), simply don’t work right at the moment when he needs them to the most – he tried to beg for his people not to leave him behind, he tried to convince Graves to get the hell out with the rest of the crew… and it didn’t work. (In Burning Tides you see he’s given up even trying to explain himself, he just wants Out in whatever way leaves both him and Graves tolerably in one piece, even if he won’t be understood or heard or less alone afterwards. It takes him until like half way through the entire chase to even THINK about just telling Graves the truth. In all fairness to T.F. it probably wouldn’t have worked at that moment, but it does vaguely crack me up that he didn’t even consider it until all of Bilgewater harbor was already burning merrily behind them fhsajkfa)

- He has a little bit of a (perfectly justified considering his background honestly) chip on his shoulder, especially when it comes to powerful or arrogant people. There seems to be a special satisfaction in outsmarting and robbing specifically rich assholes (which would also be the people who have the most to steal, so y’know good times all round). From his short stories and few places in his bio you almost get the feeling that he has a funny sort of Robin Hood-esque sense of lopsided justice about it. (Robin Hood-esque only so far as to define ‘the poor’ as the eternally hard-strapped ‘T.F. & Graves Waistcoats and Cigars Fund’, of course lol)

I think T.F. both has a mind that tends more towards analyzing the big picture and also has more direct experience with like… structural/systemic powerlessness and oppression. So the cons they pull are probably partly how he channels the emotions that arise out of that (and the rest he just represses, like the relatable guy he is haha)

- Graves being back would cause some IMMENSE internal conflict in him, I feel – of course all the feelings of relief and attachment and love, but also… so much of who he is now came about specifically to find a way to deal with Graves being gone, with seemingly just shutting down the entirety of his need for real human companionship or closeness for like a decade, things that are suddenly starting to be brought online again and must be tremendously stressful to deal with when you’ve had it completely suppressed and deadened for so long. He’s put so much into trying to be fundamentally unattached to anything, anywhere, anyone (and there are some things here about perpetually being an outsider his whole life that I can’t quite put into words, but that’s a dimension too.) That sort of psychological self defense mechanism doesn’t just contentedly nod its head and go away just because something good happened one time haha. Probably a work in progress there huh (at least he’s not alone in it now <3)

PLUS some bonus Graves POV observations because man. I love writing him, he’s just a marvel of a man

- I know I call him a dumbass all the time, but in a street smart way I think he’s actually quite clever haha, he just has a bad tendency to get hung up on an idea and get tunnel sight. (I’ve based this a lot on the short stories but see also more recently his Sentinel skin voice lines for good examples: he’s incredibly straightforward in that ‘well obviously if it doesn’t affect me personally I ain’t gonna give it that much thought’ way, but you also have glimpses of surprising insight/shrewdness and… I don’t quite know how to put it, but something like an ability to get to the bottom line of something without getting caught up in the details. (I suspect T.F. does find himself lost in the details quite frequently, he’s much more attached to the decorative curlicues of the world.) Graves clearly & frequently has no idea what’s going on, but he strips things down to the essentials very quick: Lucian’s story as a direct thematic mirror to Viego’s, Is There A Sun Lady – Oh, I See, all of this is weird and creepy and needs shooting, and maybe most crucial of all: Isolde doesn’t want to be with her husband anymore so what he’s doing is just like. Extra shitty. He gets what he needs to get and then just barges ahead heedlessly with that. Icon.)

- He’s actually pretty darn eloquent in a gruff sort of way and uses some quite sophisticated vocabulary! And the way this is contrasted with the tendency to slip into blunter coarser language just as readily -- like when he takes the time to describe the monster that takes down the Prince’s ship in such poetic terms as ‘gargantuan’ and ‘the behemoth’s immense, distended jaw’ and it having ‘pallid dead eyes the size of the moon’, and meanwhile during his swim at the beginning of the story we get bastard cold and bastard dark and full of bastard jellyfish and crabs – brings me such immense and unending delight

- He’s more eloquent in his internal voice than he is when speaking (especially noticeable in Destiny and Fate; he does have a tendency to fumble his words when talking lol), and he gets quite easily lost in his own meandering reflective musings in a way I find incredibly endearing. I’d almost call it whimsical at times, honestly, hilarious as that is? Like when he’s literally so absorbed in a line of thought he forgets which way they’re rowing and T.F. has to remind him. (I think T.F. generally has more of a grip of what’s going on around them than Graves does lol)

- There’s an important distinction to be made that Graves actually does, by and large, read T.F: very closely and seemingly also pretty damn accurately. He’s good at (and clearly very interested in) reading his moods, spotting what tactics he’s using interpersonally, when he’s being genuine and when he’s being dissembling.

What Graves is actually bad at is understanding his own emotions, and to not bleed those emotions into other people’s motivations and behavior, especially when he’s upset or in heightened states of feeling, like he is all the way through Burning Tides. He can only name his own feelings in a vocabulary of anger, when it’s pretty clear from the subtext that there’s a whole bunch of other stuff going on there, and he has incredible trouble divorcing those feelings from what other people’s got going on with them right then. He feels hurt, betrayed, and undone by everything that’s happened to him, so the intention to hurt, betray and undo must live in the other person who he feels caused it. In less drastic cases you see him do this a bit when he feels like T.F. is being evasive with him – taking it as a form of rejection rather than realizing T.F. is just lost in his own thoughts, sort of thing. There’s a real improvement in this one between Burning Tides and Destiny and Fate, though, so maybe he’ll have an easier time of it with some time and practice.

Sorry it took so long to get back to you on this and that it’s a bit of a rambling mess, words have been real hard recently. Or rather I have too many words, all the time, left and right, I just can’t put them into the right orders to make any sense hahaha, I hope there’s some useful point in this somewhere for you at least!

[ohblushes]

Hi again, it is I, insomia anon, living up to my name because I pulled an all-nighter studying for today's final and... I failed miserably. I'm really bummed out so I'm going to read my favorite comfort fics (that is, your fics) to feel a bit better. Ugh I wish I had a better update but today really fucking sucks. Might take a quick nap and then catch up with the hawks tonight. So, if you were wondering what was up with me, it's sadness and frustration yay! Never study physics boys, it's a trap.

“never study physics, boys” feels like it needs to be a song sung in a pub for a tv musical that becomes a cult classic and is the kind of thing i watch three times in a row on a sunday. or at very least a t-shirt slogan!! (or a tom lehrer song?)

i’m so sorry, though - that does fucking suck. i 100% approve of your self-care tactics. idk if you like star trek but it reminds me of that picard quote about how you can commit no mistakes and still lose and that’s not a weakness, that’s life. sometimes you put in the time to prepare (and, for me, that is ALWAYS all at the last minute lol) and you still bomb and... i haven’t really learned how to cope with that yet, except for by burying myself alive in fic. anyway you aren’t alone. 💜💜💜 screw physics!

also idk if this would make your morning a little brighter but here’s where i’m at, it kind of took a weird turn at the end

"You keep saying that," he says. "That I don't have to be involved."

Patrick must be a broken record, because he repeats, "I mean it. You didn't ask for this." He hides his hands in his pockets. "Zero expectations, like I said. We don't have to tell anybody. I won't even put your name on the birth certificate unless you want me to."

"Unless I want you to? Patrick," Jonny says, "of course I want—what kind of a question is that?"

Patrick mumbles something that Jonny doesn't catch; when he lifts a shoulder, it looks less like he's shrugging than trying to crawl into himself. Jonny doesn't understand, and then suddenly he does. The happiness doesn't bleed out of him entirely, because he's never going to be without it again, but something edges it out of the way. It makes him sick. It makes him more sick than he's been in the morning lately, more sick than he used to be when he ate a whole plate of his mom's lasagna and then laid on the floor with his belly aching as a kid, more sick than he was the morning after Patrick's heat when he woke up and Patrick was gone. That's how sick it makes him. It's the kind of sick that makes a concussion look like mild bruising.

"If you didn't…" he tries, but the sentence dries up in his throat. He has to swallow it down and start again. "If you didn't think I'd be a good dad," he says, "you didn't have to lie."

"What?"

"I won't push."

"What?" Patrick says again. "Jonny, no."

"If you just let me provide financial support—"

"No," Patrick says. "Shut up. What the hell are you talking about, of course you're going to be a good father. Jesus, Jonny, that isn't what I mean. You're going to be an amazing father." He teeters a little from what appears to be sheer outrage, and now he's so present he might as well be shouting in Jonny's face across the bench at the end of a tied period against St. Louis. Jonny really, really wants to touch him.

"Well how the hell am I supposed to know that, when you act like me being involved is the worst thing in the world?" Jonny fires back.

"I didn't say that," Patrick snaps. "What I said is that you don't have to be involved if you don't want to be involved. You'll be an incredible father, but it doesn't have to be to this baby, okay? I'm not trying to trap you."

"What the fuck does that even mean?" All at once he rediscovers his legs and surges to his feet. He isn't even angry at Patrick, he's just… "I know you aren't trying to trap me, that's doesn't even make sense!"

"Okay! Good!"

"Good!"

"Fine!" 

[leverage-ot3]

notable moments from The Bank Shot Job

leverage 1.05

I decided I’m also going to start highlighting meta material in these posts for reference reasons (like for fics, headcanons, meta, etc)

I’m colorcoading by what character the meta pertains to btw

Clerk: Hello, Judge Roy.

Judge Roy: [slaps her ass] Hey, sweetheart.

Frank: Can I help you, your honor?

Judge Roy: Yes, Fred. Her phone number?

Frank: It's Frank. And she's 19, sir.

Judge Roy: That's too bad. She got a younger sister

diSgUsTiNG

- - - - -

Hardison: No. No more. We gotta talk to Nate. No more rip deals. They take too damn long.

Parker (ripping paper): That's why they're called "Rip Deals". You have to convince them they're getting a deal before you can rip them off.

Hardison: Two weeks. Two weeks sleeping in crappy hotels. Two weeks eating in crappy diners. Two weeks having my soul sucked dry. It's 107 degrees. Who lives where it's 107 degrees?

Parker: Juan's not so bad. I kinda like this town

I wanna see that domestic shit of them sharing hotel rooms and eating the continental breakfasts and dingy diners and everything about them living in rundown hotels for two weeks

- - - - -

Hardison: You know, I had to retask two satellites just to get a lousy internet connection. Took more than an hour to torrent the last episode of Doctor Who.

Parker: Hey! Illegal downloading's wrong. (lights paper on fire in trash can)

that’s it. that’s their relationship.

- - - - -

Hardison: How we coming on the breakdown?

Eliot (loading truck elsewhere): Fake addresses are shut down. Post office boxes are closed. The phones are cleared. Five more minutes, we never existed

bruh those props ??? I wish I had a screenshot but wtf where they DOING for the con ???

- - - - -

Hardison: Want me to call the Delgado family, tell them the news?

Eliot: Nah. Soon as I clear county line I want to do it. I just wish we could do more than bankrupt that corrupt son of a bitch

eliot is so good you guys im-

- - - - -

Nate: Get out. Now.

Hardison: Is he talking to us?

Parker: An unmarked van parked across the street from a bank that's being robbed? Yeah. I think he's talking to us.

Hardison: Yeah, well, five more feet and he would have been in the clear. What the hell was he thinking?

Parker: Don't be an idiot, Hardison.

Hardison: What?

Parker: Sophie was still in there

parker knows nate loves sophie and would never leave her behind because she may not always get people, but even she can see how much nate cares for sophie

- - - - -

Derrick: Everyone empty your pockets. Wallets, purses, watches, everything you've got, throw it over here.

(everyone throwing stuff to center of floor)

nate threw his fucking toothpick

- - - - -

Deputy Arnold: No, right here, right here, and we need ...

(Eliot crosses police line)

Deputy Arnold: Whoa, whoa, I need you to take a step back, sir.

Eliot: Tell me what's going on in there.

Deputy Arnold: I'm afraid I can't do that, this is an active crime scene, and you need to ...

Eliot: (to cop) I'm not talking to you. (to Nate) How many are there?

Nate: Yeah, you're right. Clearly amateurs, these two. Yeah. The younger one, looks like he's never handled a gun before.

Eliot: Is judge blow-hard next to you?

Nate: Yeah, uh-huh. Yeah, definitely amateurs, That's what makes them so dangerous.

Eliot: Alright, 2 guys, both armed, neither one a criminal mastermind. You want me in there?

Deputy Arnold: Sir, we can't have you going inside the bank ...

Nate: Probably, uh, a good idea just to sit tight, don't you think? You know, and see where these guys' heads are

at, you know?

Eliot (backing away): Alright, your call boss.

Deputy Arnold: Thank you

poor deputy arnold + eliot being done with local law enforcement

- - - - -

Sophie: Okay. So what is the plan, Stan

“what’s the plan, stan” adorable.

- - - - -

(Eliot leans against a building across the street and watches Hardison and Parker pull up in a sedan)

Eliot: Nice ride.

Parker (taking notebook and removing badges): It's embarrassing. Everyone knows you don't rob a bank without an exit strategy. These two deserve to get caught. 42 seconds. (tosses notebook back to Eliot)

Hardison: What?

Parker: To rob this bank. One security guard who has never fired his gun before, 2 closed-circiut cameras outside, 1 inside, and a Glen-Reader safe built in the 50's whose default combination is the birth date of the manager's wife! Get in, get out, 42 seconds.

Hardison: Seriously

parker was so angry that she chucked the binder at eliot and he was like ??? we good ???

- - - - -

Hardison: Seriously? (to Bill) I'm Agent Leonard. This is Agent Elmore. We'll be taking over this crime scene,

Sheriff ...

Bill: Bill Hastings. Nice to meet you. You guys sure are quick, just called this in 20 minutes ago.

Hardison: Well, we were coming back from a little border skirmish. Patrol unit came under attack from a pack of Chupacabras.

Bill: Chupacabras? I thought those things were urban legend.

Hardison: You're adorable

I love it when hardison fucks with people it’s hilarious

- - - - -

Hardison: Whoa, what's going on?

Bill: Cut power to the bank. Standard operating procedure.

Hardison: Standard ... it's standard op ... it's standard? Where do you getting that bull-hockey from son?

Bill: Deputy Arnold, he took a seminar in crisis management last year.

Deputy Arnold: It was an online seminar. We got certificates.

Hardison: Certificates? Magic kits come with certificates. Does that make it cool for kids to saw their parents in half?

Bill: We're just going by the book.

Hardison: The ... the book? The book got a good man killed. I can't ... my blood pressure.

Parker: Ex-partner. Probably shouldn't mention the book again. Or propellers.

parker is doing so well with grifting considering and I’m so proud of her

- - - - -

Sophie: They are not cops, I promise you, they're friends of mine, you can trust them.

Derrick: Why should I trust you? I don't know who you are.

Sophie: I am a thief.

Derrick: Okay, I'm not sure what to do with that.

that’s it guys. that’s the show.

- - - - -

Nate: I didn't say it was going to be easy. But nothing's impossible, especially when you have the world's greatest thief on your payroll. Parker, have you ever robbed a bank that's being robbed?

Parker: There's a first time for everything.

her SMILE YOUR HONOR

- - - - -

Parker: The bank was built before 1980, before computers. Means it's got a larger than normal night deposit chute.

Hardison: 'Cause business had to drop off ledgers with their daily hauls. What, you thought my genius was only limited to ones and zeroes?

Parker: I'm thinking the chute's my way in. Only problem is, it's in the alley on this side of the building

the way she looks at hardison like damn boy you know my stuff

- - - - -

Hardison: I can take care of that, but, we actually have bigger problems.

Eliot: What's that?

Hardison: Well, Sheriff Coltrane over here called the FBI, the real FBI. Now the closes office is in San Diego, so they should be here, in about, um, give it 45 minutes.

Nate: We can't worry about that now.

Hardison: When do we worry about it?

Nate: In about 45 minutes

hardison, internally: lord give me strength

- - - - -

Hardison: Hold on ... Excuse me. (answers phone) Agent Leonard. We will do whatever you need us to do, just please, don't hurt anybody. Okay. (hangs up) Guys ... Boys, boys, come on, gather 'round. Now boys, that was THE call. The call we were waiting for. Now look, they have a list of demands. First off, they want 12 large pizzas. One cheese, one Hawaiian, extra pineapple. Two pepperoni and black olives, two meat lover's, t ... Seriously? Nobody's writing this down? Seriously? One triple-shot half-caf vanilla latte, tall,

(Parker goes down alley and opens deposit drop box)

Hardison: …three of the latest copies of the Hall and Oates CD. I know, right? Exciting stuff I didn't know they were coming out with a new one either. We're gonna need steaks. Steaks and a grill. They're trying to tailgate. Okay, they need your overalls, I don't know why. They need some kibbles n' bits, we need an Etch-A-Sketch, somebody in there likes to squiggle okay ... Are we good? Let's go people. Everybody. I need you guys moving. Everybody get out. Go. (hardison points at an officer) You stay. We need to talk about Hall & Oates.

I fucking loved this monologue,,, hardison is VERY GOOD at improvising

- - - - -

(Derrick opens night deposit box)

Parker: Hi.

Derrick (hands her the briefcase): There's a lot of money in there.

Parker: Yeah, I know.

Derrick: My wife's life depends on that money getting where it needs to go.

Parker: I understand. Sometimes bad guys are the only good guys you get

parker’s face softened and you can see that she understood. parker didn’t get people in the beginning of the show, and sure her values and ideas aren’t typical, but she was ALWAYS a good person. she cared and understood what was at risk and she consoled him.

also, this is yet another piece of evidence that parker was the main character all along!!! I’m not gonna go super into it because there are already posts out there about it, but she had three (3) episodes dedicated to her character in season one alone AND had her say what is basically the mission statement of the show here in this scene

- - - - -

Sophie: Things could be worse.

Nate: Worse than me getting shot and you blowing our cover?

Sophie: No, no, you're not gonna lay that crap on me. We wouldn't even be in this mess if you'd just walked out with the cash when you had the chance. I would've been fine.

Nate: I know.

Sophie: Yeah, I can take care of myself. I've been doing it a long time. Since way before I met you. I'm just saying.

Nate: Yeah, you're right.

Sophie: Okay

nate knows sophie is a strong independent woman and that is one of the only things I stan about him lol

- - - - -

Sophie: We lost communication.

Nate: Yeah, we did.

Sophie: Hardison, Parker, and Eliot ...

Nate: That's right, they are on their own. Yup.

they ended up doing great on their own, but also, can we acknowledge what a glow up it was building up to the rundown job ???

- - - - -

(Mom gets out of truck and tries to run)

Meth #2: Where the hell you think you're going, old lady? (pulls mom back) Where the hell you think you're g ...

Eliot (catches Meth #2’s arm): Hey, what smells like crank and screams like a girl? (Takes his gun and breaks his knee)

Meth #2: AAHH!

Eliot (kicks car door closed before Meth #3 can get out, empties the bullets from gun): That's the right answer. (throws gun into car at #3, hits #1 as he approaches) Come on. (fights #1, kicks door shut, beats #1 more, kicks door again) Stay in the car. (beats the hell out of #3 and #1, kneels down near mom and removes her gag)

Mom: Who are you?

Eliot: Well ma'am, we'd be the cavalry.

this entire fight scene always has me ROLLING it’s so funny

also I’m not sure if this should go on the List Of Non-Weapon Objects Eliot Uses As Weapons but eliot DID use the car door in the fight

- - - - -

Sophie: Just let the paramedics take him. The rest of us will stay.

Judge Roy: And give up my leverage

*sophie and nate look at each other*

both, internally: tHATS OUR WORD

- - - - -

Nate: Hey, listen. She's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be alright

Derrick: Your people ... they're good?

Nate: Yeah. The best.

nate’s smile when he says that??? proud dad alert

- - - - -

Sophie (looking at replay of tape): You're still a geek.

Judge Roy: They're trying to ruin me.

Hardison: Geek power, baby. Stay strong!

in other words: age of the geek, baby

also- kudos to 2008 hardison editing video like that. I can’t do that shit with today’s tech lmao

- - - - -

Bill: Go home now. Bank robbers are in custody, hostages are safe. FBI's got the whole thing wrapped up.

Taggert: Do you have any idea what?

Mcsweeten: Just go with it.

Deputy Arnold: Mr. FBI guys, can you help me here?

Bill: My, my. Look at this. Our local drug boys, both with outstanding warrants. It's incredible.

Taggert: Damn, we're good!

mcsweeten and taggert stumbling onto the leverage crew’s cons and directly profiting off of them is iconic. they have no idea. too pure for this world

- - - - -

Sophie: Hey, thanks Parker.

Parker: Whatever.

Sophie: No. It was an excellent performance.

Parker: Yeah, I think I can act okay when I'm yelling at people and bossing them around.

Sophie: Well, it's a good start.

proud mom!sophie + grifting parker

Nate: Listen, we have to make sure we get the cash to the Delgado family. Ow!

Eliot (tending Nate’s wound): Oh! Settle down. You act like you've never been shot before.

Nate (glances at Sophie): So, uh, pizza boxes, huh?

Hardison: Yeah, I know, I know, You could have done better.

Nate: No, no, no. No I couldn't have.

eliot casually stitching up nate’s wound bc no hospitals but also can we talk about how much nate has to trust eliot to literally operate on him

+

nate giving praise to hardison ??? rare af I don’t know her

[foxtophat]

i dont have much to say about this one!!! it’s just a story about carmina’s tenth birthday, and how the town of fall’s end is coping a decade after the collapse.  uhhh there are some random children in it?  bean is there! and of course john shows up, too, because that’s KIND OF THE POINT of mercyverse lol

technically there’s a story that comes before this, but i don’t have the vibe yet for it so i haven’t worked on it in a while. instead, i’ll probably just keep moving forward and throw up that one if the rest of the plot becomes at all relevant to the real main storyline.  uhhh the next one will take place in the spring of 2029 and we’re going to start getting into some fun stuff that i’ve planned out for a while!!!

until then, uh, the usual: love you, please like/share/reblog/kudos/comment, whatever you feel good about doing, because i sure do love to share my universe with other people!  hope you’re doing well and hopefully i’ll see you with another fic in a few weeks!

also as usual: the story text is below the cut for those of you who wanna stay on tumblr :)

It's Carmina's tenth birthday, and there's a party in town. The two things aren't exactly related, sure, but Carmina's used to sharing her birthday with the Collapse, and she's not about to turn down a bunch of free food. How can she not go to a real Hope County barbecue after her parents had hyped the experience up so much in the bunker? She'd hoped that her ninth birthday would have gotten a similar treatment, but the town just didn't have the food or people for it at the time. Her parents had told her that next year would be better; Carmina does her best to keep her imagination from blowing the whole thing out of proportion.

They leave a little bit after breakfast. Since John is coming along, mom has no excuse not to let Carmina ride in the back with him. He's not excited to be heading into town, but then again, the town isn't usually excited to see him, either. And considering what day it is, they're likely to be extra rude to him. Carmina doesn't get it, honestly, but she's just glad that she can ride in back without her mom grabbing onto her at every pothole and bump in the road.

The first surprise of the day comes as her dad parks just past the church, giving her a chance to stand up and look out over the town. She hasn't been here in a while, and so she's surprised to see that they've cleared out a lot of the dirt lot behind the usable buildings — and there are a lot of people hanging out there. Carmina's never seen so many people at once — she loses count around twenty and can easily guess double that. It's enough to rattle her nerves for just a second, before she catches the looks on her mom and dads' faces and realizes that this is probably a good thing. Sure, John looks like he wants to hop back in the truck and go home, but he always looks like that around strangers. Her parents, on the other hand, actually seem happy for once, and that's what matters to Carmina.

The second surprise is just how many of the adults seem to know her. Her parents move slowly through the mingling crowd, usually coming up with names for faces before Carmina's even looked at the strangers who call her by name. She gets lots of comments like, "I remember when your parents were expecting you!" and "I was wondering how the Rye's little girl turned out!" and even a few, "Glad to see you made it," comments that make her parents side-eye each other pretty fiercely. She doesn't need to introduce herself to anyone, not even people who her parents don't know so well — it's like everybody's always known her, and her family. It's kind of cool — but also kind of weird. Pastor Jerome always said that their family was a pillar in the community, but this is first-person evidence, right here in front of her.

Plenty of the adults wish her a happy birthday, too, but she knows their hearts aren't in it. It's one of the big drawbacks to sharing her birthday with the end of the world — nobody asks how old she is, nobody wants to know what she did on previous birthdays, and all of them have to make some kind of depressing comment. Like trying to get her to relate to birthdays before the Collapse: all they want to do is tell her about all the things she could be doing, or would be doing, if only the world hadn't ended. They want to share their birthdays from the past, but Carmina's never been to the movies, she doesn't know who Disney is, and she has no idea why they'd need a cake and candles for it all. Somebody tells her she should be graduating to the fourth grade, and she just stares back because what even is the fourth grade? What does that mean?

They mean well, so Carmina does her best not to upset anybody, but she knows that nobody appreciates how little she cares about life before the Collapse.

At least there are other kids in town today. Her mom had been telling her about some of them — kids who don't have families, who the town looks after — but Carmina's only ever met one of them, and that had been only for a few minutes. But Carmina can see them hanging out in the field, and as soon as her mom lets her, she heads right out to them. It's about time that she met people her age — she's getting tired of only ever talking to old people.

Of course, meeting strangers is still difficult for her, but she's saved from too much embarrassment as she recognizes the chicken brothers hanging out in the small group. She can't remember which one is Tom and which one is Matt, but they seemed really nice when they helped her pick out her chickens. She also recognizes the oldest boy in the group, although she can't remember his name at all. She's never seen the others before — two teenage girls, another boy her age, and a kid a couple years younger than her — but hopefully she won't make a total fool of herself.

"Hi," she says as she approaches, waving.

"Hey, Carmina," Matt-or-Tom says, stepping aside to make room for her in their makeshift circle. "I thought we would see you today."

"Yep," Carmina smiles, "Here I am!" She sees the teenagers' curious looks and tells them with little fanfare, "Today's my birthday."

"Oh," the oldest boy says. "That sucks."

One of the girls elbows him. "Don't be mean," she says.

"No, he's right," Carmina says. "It does suck."

"Well, happy birthday anyway. How old are you now?"

"Ten."

"Wow," the girl says. She looks at the boy, then back to Carmina, and says sympathetically, "You weren't kidding. That's rough."

Giggling with relief, Carmina waves once more. "It's okay. My name's Carmina, by the way. It's nice to meet you."

Being polite works like a charm, and the oldest boy is quick to go around with introductions. "Well, I'm Jason — this is Caroline, and this is Flower. The little kid there —"

"Hey!"

"— Is Bean, and... Sorry, man, what did you say your name was again?"

The other ten-year-old looking boy frowns and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "Luke," he says.

"Okay, Luke. And you know Tom and Matt."

"We were talking about the bison out in the field," Tom-or-Matt says. He points in the direction of home and asks, "Did you guys see the big one when you were coming into town?"

"The one that's all white?" Carmina asks, "With the big scar over its hump? We see that one all the time when we come out this way —"

"No, no," the other brother says, "Jason says there's a bigger one."

"I told you guys," Jason says, "I only saw it once, and it was late at night while I was up in the crow's nest. I don't think it comes out during the day."

Carmina frowns. "What big one? What do you mean?"

"Oh, boy," Caroline sighs, "Don't listen to him, Carmina, he's full of shit."

"Hey, language," Flower laughs.

"Look, I was pretty far away, but I had the sniper rifle and I wasn't sleeping on the job. Uh, so..." He points out over the field, towards a squat set of huts surrounding a tall, busted silo that's still standing. The view from up there must be great. "Jerome has me sit up in that tower sometimes, you know, to practice. So I was up there, looking around, and it was probably midnight or so... and I just see this glow out in the field. I think it's a fire, right? Maybe somebody made a camp out there on their way to town or something. So I look out through the scope — and it was a bison."

"A glowing bison?" Carmina asks skeptically.

"Yeah. Like, a monster bison. It was all dark and scaly looking, except for the way its belly glowed. I thought about shooting it, but..."

Caroline laughs. "He got scared. Or it wasn't real, and he's making it all up."

"I wasn't scared, and I'm not making it up! It's not like it could've hurt me up in the nest. It... just didn't feel right. You know, it was just grazing with the rest of the herd. And it moved off over the hill before I could change my mind or call anybody up to confirm it."

"Sure, Jason."

"I'm serious," Jason insists, "I really saw it, okay? I told Jerome about it and everything." He frowns at the dirt. "He said it might've been mutated after the bombs. Then he told me not to go looking for it."

"He's right," Flower says. "Even regular bison are pretty dangerous." She smiles. "That's why I like deer — they won't hurt you. If you sit really still, sometimes they'll even come up and lick your face."

"Oh," Carmina says. "I usually just shoot them. They eat all our vegetables otherwise."

"Yeah," Flower sighs, "Sometimes I do, too. But they're also nice to watch."

Tom-or-Matt looks to his brother. "I wonder if that's what we see outside at night?"

"What, deer?"

"No, dumbass." He turns to the group and explains, "Sometimes, when it's real late and I gotta use the bathroom, I'll see something glowing out in the woods. Dad's cut back a lot of space so it never gets very close, but... maybe it's another mutated animal."

"At least you'll see it coming when it tries to attack you," Carmina suggests.

"Gee, thanks."

Carmina knows he's probably teasing, but she still feels guilty for being so blunt about it. The least she can do is try to reassure him. "Well... most animals don't attack near houses, I don't think. When we first came out of the bunker, there were wild dogs and wolves that would watch us, and my dad was real worried about them — but now they mostly stay away from the property. I think it's because of the fence. You guys have a fence, right?"

"Yeah, plus a butt-load of chickens that freak out over anything out of the ordinary." Matt-or-Tom grins at her and asks, "Don't they wake you up with every little thing?"

Carmina briefly considers mentioning John being attacked, then decides against it. She also doesn't want to tell them that the chickens live mostly indoors at night now — the last thing she wants to do is kick off a whole big thing about the cult on her dang birthday! It's already hard enough pretending to care about them around her parents; she's not sure she could even force herself to bother here. And if she's not careful, the kids in town might start to think about her and her family the same way all the adults do.

"They're pretty docile, actually," she says, "And we only really see deer around our place... It's not like they eat chickens."

"Well.... maybe there's a mutant deer out there that wants to eat you," Tom-or-Matt teases.

Carmina rolls her eyes. "I'll shoot it before it gets past the hangar," she replies.

Of course, her dismissive confidence leads to a sprawling discussion on who might be the best shot out of the group. Carmina does her best to defend her skills, considering she can't prove any of it right now, but all three teens insist they're dead-eyes, and even Bean says he's "getting pretty good at the aiming part." On top of that, the kids from the town have gotten pointers from Aunt Grace herself, which means they might actually be better shots than Carmina expects.

"Maybe we should have a competition," Caroline suggests. "I bet Pastor Jerome and Aunt Grace would be okay with it."

"Sure," Jason laughs, "But you know they'd make us spend forty minutes disassembling and cleaning our rifles before and after. Like I don't know what I'm doing — I'm almost fifteen!"

"Have you guys been to Aunt Grace's?" Carmina asks. "She has a shooting range there."

"Maybe she'd let us use it!"

"I've never been to a real shooting range," Bean says.

"It's not a real shooting range," Jason points out, "Those all got blown up. Do you even know how to use a gun, Bean?"

"I just said I do! My dad taught me! I... just don't like the loud noises it makes."

Matt-or-Tom boasts, "We learned to shoot in our bunker. Mom collected Airsoft guns — they don't use bullets, so they can't kill you."

"What's the point of that?"

"I dunno, I guess practicing underground?"

Tom-or-Matt laughs. "Dad was convinced the Peggies were gonna get us, so he wanted us to know how to shoot."

The quiet kid, Luke, finally speaks up. "Lucky," he mutters, "Easier to learn underground, I bet."

"What about you?" Carmina asks. She tries not to cringe away when he stares back at her like he didn't expect anyone to hear him. Maybe he doesn't like people talking to him? "Um... my mom and dad had a bunch of gun magazines in the bunker, but I never got to shoot a real gun until we came outside. Mom and Aunt Grace have been teaching me, though, and I'm way better than my dad is."

Luke hesitates. "Kind of the same. We came up early, though. Had to."

"Me, too," Jason replies. "It was just me and my brother. I was five when we got stuck in the bunker — we went through our supplies in about three years, so we had to come back up."

"We... only stayed down until I could walk," Luke admits. "It was still really cold when we came up. And mom got real sick for a while."

"Yikes," Bean says, "That sucks!"

"Come on, bean," Jason snaps, "You don't say that."

"You just said it to her!" Bean shouts, pointing at Carmina.

"He's... right," Luke mumbles. "It sucked. It... still sucks. But things are getting better now." He looks up at them, then drops his eyes back to the dirt. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Carmina insists, "I asked first!"

"That's kind of the mood today," Caroline adds. "Don't worry. We can talk about something else."

The change in topic comes abruptly as Bean points towards the Church and asks, "Who is that with Pastor Jerome?"

Carmina doesn't need to look, but since the rest of the group does, she might as well too. John has his hat pulled low over his eyes, as usual, which makes him look suspicious, as usual. Knowing him, he probably didn't even leave the truck — just waited there for Jerome to come talk to him.

She can only hope that Tom and Matt keep their mouths shut since they're the only other kids who know what John looks like nowadays. Unfortunately for her, that hope is pretty quickly dashed.

"Oh," Matt-or-Tom says, like a jerk, "That's John, I think. Right, Carmina?"

"Wait," Jason says, "You're that Carmina?"

Carmina ducks her head. "Um... it depends, I guess?"

Flower, looking too sympathetic for Carmina's liking, tries to mediate. "He just means, well... Jerome talks about you sometimes."

"And he talks about that guy," Jason adds, pointing without any subtlety at all.

"Everyone talks about that guy," Caroline says with a sigh. She gives Carmina a sympathetic shrug as she does, as though she wishes she could stop the conversation from happening, too. That only makes Carmina worried that this isn't the first time the teenagers have sat around gossiping about John and the crazy people who decided to take him in.

"Wait," Bean gasps, way too loudly, "That's John Seed?"

"Oh my God," Matt-or-Tom sighs, "You gotta keep up with the conversation."

"Wait, what's he doing here? Why's he going into the church? I thought he wasn't supposed to come to town? I thought he was locked up!"

Carmina groans. "It's my birthday," she whines, "I don't wanna talk about John today!"

"We don't have to," Caroline says. "Guys, come on."

"I mean, he did kill a lot of people. Isn't he, like, a psychopath? Isn't it weird to live with a murderer?"

"Jason!"

Luke mutters, "I heard he used to cut off people's skin."

"That's true," Jason replies, "My brother has a huge scar from when it happened to him. Boy, I hope he doesn't see that jackass is here..."

Matt-or-Tom finally seems to realize what he's started, frowning as the conversation spirals crazily out of control. It's too late to stop it, though, and so he shuffles his feet and looks apologetically towards Carmina.

Fine. If she can't get around the subject, she's just going to have to tackle it head-on. Even if that sounds really scary. She doesn't think that these guys are going to flip out like the caravan last year did, but she's still a little worried that she might be in for a fight if she says the wrong thing about John.

"I know John used to be a bad guy," she says. "Like, really bad. My dad's got one of those scars, too. But he's not like that any more. All he does nowadays is help my parents with chores and stuff. And he's just like everybody else — he doesn't talk about what happened before the Collapse to me or anybody. So I really don't know anything more than you guys.

She probably knows less than them, honestly, but she's not about to say so and get a brutal lesson in everything John's ever done wrong.

"So he's just... different, now?" Jason asks, frowning unhappily at the church.

"I guess so," Carmina replies with a shrug. She looks over to make sure that John and Jerome are inside, just in case. "He's not... scary, or mean, or anything like that. Just quiet. Kind of... lonely, I guess. Ever since he found out his brother is alive but still crazy, he's been really beat up about it." He's also been literally beaten up over it, but now's not the time to try and make the others feel sorry for him. John would probably be irritated at the idea of a bunch of kids pitying him.

Matt-or-Tom is quick to help her out, which is nice. "She's right," he says. "The Father is still out there in the woods with all those crazies, but John's repented. Dad said he made amends with God, whatever that means. He... uh, still doesn't like us being around him, but when we helped him load the chickens in he seemed okay. Just real quiet."

"That's John, alright," Carmina sighs.

Bean looks seriously disappointed by the news. "You mean he doesn't talk about it at all?" he asks.

"No," Carmina says, snapping for good measure, "And he gets really upset when you ask about it, so don't."

"I'm not gonna go talk to him!" Bean gasps.

The idea that a kid might be scared of John is pretty funny, considering how uncomfortable he is around her, but Carmina's not about to say as much. John probably wouldn't like her sharing a weakness like that with a bunch of strangers, and she wouldn't want them using it against him later.

Flower slowly lifts her hand, looking embarrassed. "Some of the adults in town say the Bliss messed him up. Is that... true?"

Well, at least she's trying to be nice about it. "I dunno," Carmina admits. "He was super weird when he first started living with us, but that might've just been because he was stuck in his bunker for so long."

"Oh, that happened to a guy my dad knows!" Bean supplies helpfully. "Dad calls it bunker shock. Says living underground too long is bad for you when you're all alone!"

"Glad I didn't live in one long enough for that," Luke says. When everyone looks at him, he clams up for a second before continuing on. "A neighbor came up just this year. He's... real weird. I don't like him much. He still sleeps underground, hoping he'll wake up and it'll all be a dream." He scuffs his boot against the dirt, sniffing loudly. "That's what my mom says, anyway. I try not to be around when he comes by."

"He wouldn't be the first adult to be like that," Jason says. He gives the church one last look before nodding his head towards the party. "I mean, that's why we're all the way out here, instead of hanging out around the food. Right?"

"No," Bean replies, "I'm out here 'cos I can't eat another bite! I didn't know you could be this full."

Caroline laughs. "Yeah, the adults have been stockpiling for weeks, it looks like... I guess everyone was really looking forward to it — or, well, I guess that's what it is."

Flower gazes over at the gaggle of adults. Carmina recognizes her dreamy smile from the way her mom looks around the house sometimes, like she's getting a new, better look at the place.

"It feels like things are starting to look up," she says. "Maybe they can all be happier now."

"Hey, don't jinx it!" Tom-or-Matt laughs.

Bean looks around at the rest of them and for a second, Carmina is worried he's going to ask more about John and restart the whole ugly conversation. Thankfully, it looks like he's still a baby, so he's quickly distracted.

"So, what do we do now?" he asks, pushing his too-big glasses up his nose.

Carmina has never actually played with other kids before, so she doesn't have any good suggestions — especially when shooting is off-limits. Thankfully, she isn't the only one. The teenagers don't know where their soccer ball went, and Luke says he doesn't even know what soccer is. Bean says he usually plays word games by himself. When Tom-or-Matt suggests they play something called "capture the flag," it manages to make its way to the top of the list just because Jason and Caroline have both heard of it before.

Well, at least something is better than nothing. The older kids explain how capture the flag works, using Jason's shirt for their team's flag while the other kids band together around Matt-or-Tom's sweaty tank top. Carmina imagines that one of them should sit out for even teams, but the older kids seem confident that they can handle it. Too confident, in Carmina's opinion — maybe they need to be brought down a peg.

Capture the flag turns out to be more fun than Carmina had expected — and a lot harder, too. Trying to outmaneuver the older kids is tough work, but she and Tom-or-Matt figure out how to flank them pretty quick. There's nothing better than the moment when Carmina manages to dive out of the way when Jason tries to tackle her, and even if she gets dog-piled by Flower halfway back to Bean at home base, she holds Jason's shirt up for another teammate to take.

Unfortunately, the game ends without a winner as a sharp whistle pierces the air. Bean looks up and shouts, "That's my dad! I better go!"

He runs off at full tilt without so much as a goodbye, and Carmina has to squint against the setting sun to watch him go. She hadn't realized how late it had gotten.

"I should probably get going, too," Luke says, sweaty and almost smiling for once. "I want to get another plate of food before we go home."

"Ugh," Carmina sighs, "And the chickens need feeding."

"Just make John do it," Matt-or-Tom says, apparently not learning his lesson about mentioning John.

"It's supposed to be my job," she says. "And anyway, he already feeds them in the morning when I don't get up in time."

"They're gonna like him more than you," Tom-or-Matt laughs.

Jason frowns. "He feeds your chickens?"

"I mean... yeah. He does whatever we need him to." Carmina shrugs, glancing back towards the church. She hasn't seen Jerome or John leave — maybe she should go see them before she rounds up her parents? Nah, it's better to leave them alone until the very last minute.

"Just... didn't think you'd let him near livestock, that's all."

"What's he gonna do, poison the eggs?" Carmina huffs. "He's good with them. I think he likes them 'cos they aren't judgey."

Caroline frowns, which tells Carmina she might've been a little rude. But Jason's been rude about John all day, so she's not going to feel sorry about it!

"Well, I guess if your parents trust him..."

"Sure they do," Carmina replies, even if that's not... exactly right. She knows her parents trust John enough to help around the house, but she thinks they only want to trust him with all the other stuff.

"I really better go," she says, pointing towards town.

"Sure," Flower says. "It was nice to meet you, Carmina."

Carmina gives them her best grin, relieved when it's returned from the others. Jason even waves like there's no hard feelings. "It was nice meeting you guys," she says.

"Happy birthday again!" Matt-or-Tom says, "And be careful!"

"Yeah," his brother laughs, "Wouldn't want to have a glowing deer attack you in the outhouse tonight!"

Carmina laughs away the dumb attempt to scare her, waving goodbye before turning to head for the party. Halfway there, she glances over her shoulder and sees the group turned back to one-another in conversation. None of them are looking back, but as she continues on, she's chased by an unfamiliar sense of discomfort. She can't help but wonder if they're still talking about John in the church.... If they're talking about her.

At least she can distract herself while looking for her parents. There are plenty of adults who say hello; some of them even point her helpfully towards her mom's last known location, or towards the table with the cookies her dad really liked. Some of them check in to make sure her birthday has been going well, too, which is nice of them, but a lot of adults are pretty drunk and deep in their own conversations.

She eventually finds her mom and dad standing around a grill with Marjorie, one of the adults in charge around town. Carmina's met her a couple of times. She's nice, but she can talk a lot. There's no telling how long they've been talking for, and if Carmina doesn't interrupt, who knows when they'll finish. While she could probably grab some food for the road, first she has to make sure that they're actually going to be leaving sometime before the next Collapse.

Besides, it looks like her dad's already got a box of leftovers in his hands. If Carmina wants to eat, she's going to have to interrupt.

"Hey dad," she says as she comes up to them, "The chickens are going to need dinner soon."

Her dad grins at her before handing over the squat, open cardboard box. There's chicken, ribs, corn and roasted potatoes, and even a handful of cookies and flatbread; it takes everything in Carmina's power not to make a desperate grab for more food. She doesn't have to worry about going hungry tonight, so there's no need to eat everything put in front of her.

"Here," he tells her, "You take this, alright? My arms are gettin' tired."

Yeah, right. As soon as she takes the box, he uses one of those tired arms to grab one of the ribs. When Carmina frowns suspiciously at him, her dad only shrugs.

"I coughed on it."

"Uh-huh..."

Laughing, her mom reaches out to give Marjorie a hug. It might've run a little long, but her mom obviously enjoyed the talk. "We'll be back in a week or two with the tractor parts," she says. "You're going to get the fields back in shape in no time."

"Already got a good start," Marjorie replies. She shoots Carmina a warm smile. "Happy birthday, by the way! Don't think I got to see you much. Hope those kids weren't giving you a hard time."

"No," Carmina replies., "They're all really nice. We want to practice shooting together, maybe have a contest. Jason said he's better than anybody else."

"I bet you're gonna give him a run for his money!" Marjorie laughs. "Well, the better a shot you are, the better off you'll be. You won't see anybody here stop you kids."

"Yeah, but tonight, I have to feed the chickens," Carmina says, just in case her parents need another chance to get out of here.

"We've got a few other people to say goodbye to," her mom tells her. "Why don't you take the food back to the truck? We'll meet you there."

"Should I get John, too?"

As soon as she asks, Carmina decides she probably shouldn't have brought it up. Too late, though; by the look on Marjorie's face, there's no way to pretend she didn't hear it.

Her dad shrugs. "Probably oughta," he tells her, as if he doesn't see Marjorie staring at them like she is.

Marjorie definitely doesn't like that, judging by the way she squints, but she doesn't say anything about it. "Well, I hope you had a decent enough birthday for once," she says, "Hopefully we'll be having a party around this time every year from now on."

"That would be nice," mom says.

"Just you wait, we're gonna turn this ship around one way or another." Marjorie gestures with her hands and says, "Alright, you better go, before those chickens of yours eat each other."

Carmina frowns. "They don't do that, do they?"

"Uh, let's get moving," her dad says. "See you soon, Marg."

"Take care!"

Her mom and dad have to stop a few more times to say goodbye to people Carmina doesn't know, but she pushes on without them and nobody stops her for more than a quick birthday greeting. She catches sight of Luke packing up some food with his parents, but he's too distracted to notice her. At least she isn't the only one carrying a box of leftovers out of here; it would feel selfish of her if they weren't sending leftovers home with other people.

Her parents haven't caught up with her by the time she reaches the truck, and John is nowhere to be seen. She figures he's probably still in the church — he and Pastor Jerome always take forever when they're talking. They'll probably be there until dad goes in and breaks them up.

Eating by herself in the back of the truck doesn't feel right, especially not within walking distance of the church. Leaving the food tucked in the corner by the cab, Carmina heads for the building herself. Even if nobody was in there, she'd probably go wander inside for a few minutes; it's a comforting, quiet place in the dry, dusty town. But right now, she's pretty sure John is hanging around inside, and he probably hasn't eaten anything all day, either. She should at least let him have first pick.

She knows a lot of the adults dislike the church, but Carmina personally enjoys how its sun-bleached siding stands out against the sky. Besides the house, the church is one of the few places Carmina wishes she could have seen in one piece. She's seen old, faded pictures from ancient newspaper clippings, but it's just not the same.

The doors are open wide enough for Carmina to slip in without a sound. The air inside is cool, almost chilly, and it smells like dirt and grass. From the entrance, there's only a narrow gap keeping Jerome and John out of sight. She doesn't mean to hide, but she doesn't want to interrupt Jerome mid-sentence...

It's too late, she's eavesdropping.

"It might not be much, but it's something," Jerome's saying. "He even stayed a few nights, when the wind got bad and brought too much pollen over the river."

"It would be better for everyone if he stayed here permanently," John replies. "Wallace went further down the path than the rest of them, and they clearly don't know what they're doing."

"They're trying, John. And we don't have a say in the matter. It's got to be his choice. Remember?"

John grunts, clearly annoyed. Carmina doesn't think she's ever heard him say so much before. Does he talk to her mom and dad this much? Is he really only quiet around her?

"I don't like it," John says.

"For what it's worth, neither do I. But Sharky's taking things seriously — they all are. You're going to have to trust them."

"Trust isn't exactly one of my virtues," John grumpily admits.

Jerome chuckles. "You just need practice."

Well, Carmina definitely feels guilty now. She had only been waiting for an opening, but if she waits any longer, she's really going to be breaking John's trust. Pastor Jerome's, too, for that matter.

Thinking on her toes, Carmina pushes on the already open door as though she's just showing up. Of course, the hinges squeal in protest as soon as she does, so she stops before she breaks something.

"Are you guys still in here?" she calls. She's pretty convincing about it, in her opinion.

"Yes, Carmina," Jerome responds, apparently none-the-wiser, "We're here."

John regards her neutrally as she steps into view, but he's always wearing his poker face around her. She needs to get better at reading it.

"I guess it's time to go, then," he says.

"Yeah. Um — I mean, I can meet you back at the truck. Mom and dad will be here soon..."

Jerome speaks up before John can get the chance. "No, you two go on. I think we were just about done ourselves, and I'd like to sit here for a little while, before it gets too dark." He and John shake hands, and then he comes over to give Carmina a hug. "Happy birthday," he tells her. "You be good for another year, alright?"

"I'll try," she says.

"That'a girl," Jerome laughs. "Keep an eye on her, John."

Sometimes, it seems like Jerome is the only adult in Hope County that doesn't think John is a bad influence on her. Even her mom and dad, who are basically the only people on John's side, get uncomfortable if she tries to talk to him too much. But Jerome is a special case. He used to be weird about anything John-related, but nowadays? Honestly, Carmina's pretty sure he's John's only friend at this point — well, okay, other than mom and dad, but they don't count.

John waits until they've left the church to speak. He's chilly and dismissive, as usual.

"How long were you listening for?"

"I wasn't," Carmina begins — but she can't lie to him. Lying only ever makes things worse. So she corrects herself reluctantly and admits, "It was only a minute. I didn't mean to... it just sort of happened."

"Hm."

Normally, Carmina can't get a read on John's poker face, but... huh. She can't help but feel like she might've... hurt his feelings? She definitely wasn't being trustworthy, that's for sure. And now he's trying to casually out-pace her on the walk back to the truck.

"I'm sorry for eavesdropping," she says, picking up her pace to match his. "I promise, I won't do it again."

John glares at her, but she's pretty sure he's not angry. Maybe just confused? She's not sure, he's never looked at her longer than two seconds before.

"I... appreciate it," he replies instead, which makes it the first time he's ever accepted an apology of hers. Usually, he just tells her not to worry about it.

Carmina grins at him, but he's already looked away, so of course he doesn't see it. Instead, he looks to the field, where the three teens from town are still hanging out. Carmina can't tell if they're looking this way or not. She sure hopes they aren't; John would know immediately that they gossiped about him, and she's already messed up with him once today.

"Have you ever played capture the flag?" she asks, hoping to distract him. "The chicken brothers taught us the rules but I think they maybe made some of it up."

John cracks a small smile. Well, Carmina will pretend it's one, anyway.

"The chicken brothers," he repeats.

"You know, Tommy and Matt."

"Do they know that's what you call them?"

"I mean, I've never said it to their faces..."

"That's probably smart."

They reach the truck, which marks the invisible barrier that keeps John out of town. Of course, mom and dad still aren't here. If Carmina climbed up on top of the truck, she might be able to spot them, but it's not like she could get their attention from this far away. So, she's going to have to kill time until they get back.

"Did you eat?" she asks, climbing up into the truck bed.

"I'm fine, Carmina," John replies, a little wearily. Like she's not the first person to bug him about it today — or, maybe like he lacks energy from not eating all day.

She rolls her eyes, but John doesn't see. "Uh-huh." She sits down, pulling the box of food into her lap as she leans back against the cab. "Dad was surprised that there were cookies. Um, not exactly the same, I guess? But still really good." She's not going to give him a chance to turn it down, grabbing one and shoving it in his direction. "Here, try one!"

John, leaning against the side of the truck like he is, is clearly more interested in looking for her parents than humoring her. He definitely looks like he wants to say no. But to her surprise, he actually takes the offered food. It would be weird to stare at him while he eats, so she goes back to debating between a chicken leg or one of the last ribs in the box.

"Not bad," John comments, which is like, crazy, because Carmina definitely isn't goading him into talking.

"They're kind of crumbly," Carmina says, "I dunno if that's what it's supposed to be like. But all the food is really good." She counts the chicken legs out again, just to make sure there's one for each of them. "Um... hey, John? Uh... do chickens eat each other?"

John frowns, chewing the question over with the rest of the cookie. He swallows, then says, "Most animals cannibalize their own if they're desperate enough."

"Oh."

"They would need to be left alone for a lot longer than a few hours," he points out. "Or they would have to be sick. It's more likely a dog will get them before they turn on each other."

Well, at least Carmina can trust John to tell her the truth, even if it's probably not the way her parents would want him to do it. She doesn't even mind him being so blunt about it, either; she's just surprised he's willing to talk to her. She can't help but wonder if this is going to be a normal thing, now that she's ten — is he going to stop being so weird around her? Or is this just a special treat, because of the day? She sure hopes not. It'd be a lot less awkward if John didn't act so scared of her all the time.

Her parents finally join them at the truck. Her mom wrinkles her nose at Carmina sitting in the back again, but she doesn't say anything. Her dad doesn't seem to mind; once he spots the box in Carmina's lap, he reaches over to grab one of the shortbread cookies for himself.

"Sorry about that," he says, "We got held up a couple times. John, you try one of these yet?"

"I did."

"Crazy having home-baked goods again, right?" Her dad waggles the cookie in John's face; John rolls his eyes and circles back around to the tailgate, climbing up into the bed. "Here, Carmina, give me that box so the food doesn't get too cold on the way home."

"You're just gonna eat everything," Carmina objects, handing over the box anyway.

"Nah, come on. Here, you guys grab something for the ride home." He nudges Carmina's shoulder with the box. "You probably worked up an appetite bullying all the older kids out there — and I bet you didn't eat much of anything, either," he adds in John's direction.

"I had a cookie, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I'll bet nobody forced you into it, either."

Carmina grins as her dad winks at her. Her mom rolls her eyes, but doesn't keep dad from bullying John a little. "Grab something so we can get going," she tells John, "And make sure she doesn't stand up once we're in drive."

John reluctantly takes a towel-wrapped ear of corn and a single rib, while Carmina goes right for that piece of chicken she'd been eying from the start. That helps her make peace with sitting safely, at least this one time. Next year, she's definitely going to get to ride in back by herself, she can feel it, and she is going to do it standing up!

As Carmina watches the town shrink behind them, she congratulates herself on another successful birthday. It'd been better than she'd expected — she was a little uncomfortable around so many people at first, but now she's pretty sure she can say she's made some friends? And seeing the town full of food and laughter and music... It had been sort of what Carmina imagines Fall's End used to be like. Her parents probably wouldn't agree, but maybe that's okay. Maybe when she's older, she can try and prove to them that things can be just as good as they used to be — even if it's a different kind of good.

[harringrovetrashrat]

Hey I'm new at 'Asking' on tumblr but I'll give it ago, I was thing like, a harringrove soulmate au, (it can be what ever) but like they find out mid-flight at the Byers, like (the thing you choose) happened, and maybe even one of the kids see and is all like "omg are u guys SOULMATES?!?!?"

YES YES!!!

I’ve never done a soulmark fic before, so I truly hope you enjoy this!!  I had fun writing it, either way, lol

(Quick note: Shirts v Skins in this is more Shirts v Tanks for privacy based around marks.  Most things are made so you have privacy, but a lot of people are open with their marks anyway.)

--

The day that Steve found out that Nancy wasn’t his soulmate probably should have been a little sadder.  Don’t get him wrong, Steve had been fucking heartbroken.  Had felt like something was missing inside him.  But it had made sense.  Because there was always something that didn’t click between the two of them.  Where Steve reached, Nancy pulled away. Where she went, he couldn’t follow.

He reminded himself it wasn’t her fault.  It wasn’t her fault she didn’t love him, you can’t make yourself love another person, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Also, he probably should have seen it coming when he got his mark.  When the mark appeared on his ribs, a crown encircled by a wave.

He had no fucking idea what that meant.  How it related to him and Nancy.

After the breakup, done in her front yard on her birthday in late August, when hers appeared and was a camera with an eye for a lens, he had hated looking at it.  Hated the reality it presented, even if he was happy for Nancy and Jonathan.  More jealous of what they had together.  The mark was a constant reminder that he was the problem, so he stopped showering at school after practice.  Changed and left as quickly as he could.  Did the same at home, hoping, wishing that if he just didn’t look, it would go away.  It never did.  He never looked in the mirror without a shirt anymore.

Then Billy Hargrove arrived and Steve’s world was fucked.

He was everywhere, getting into Steve’s space, challenging him for the throne he didn’t even fucking want.  Blue eyes, tanned skin, rough hands, and a tongue that refused to stay in his mouth.  Steve didn’t like to admit that that tongue had featured a lot in his dreams.  That he had imagined Billy pressing him against his bed, pressing him against fucking anything, and speaking in that low voice that hit Steve in his gut.

It wasn’t necessarily shocking, Steve had come to terms with kinda looking at boys too, but it’d never been like this.  He’d never been so utterly consumed by the thought of another person.  Not even with Nancy.  Billy Hargrove was a temptation, but also not a possibility.  He was a man’s man, a ladies man, and an all around asshole.

By the time he had joined the basketball team, Steve had developed the worst one sided crush he’d ever had in his life.  And it didn’t even make sense.  Sure, he’d noticed that Billy was smart, was attentive and observant, just like Jonathan.  But he was also a massive tool.

Practice was normal enough, Billy and Tommy doing what they could to get a rise out of Steve, but he quickly brushed it off, making a beeline for his locker.  He heard the clanking of a lock and turned to see Billy opening his locker.  When he noticed that Steve wasn’t showering he turned his wolf-like grin on him, tongue peeking out between his teeth.

“What’s up, Harrington?  Kings don’t sweat?” Steve ignored him, sighing.  Billy smirked, smile going sly and… something Steve couldn’t place.  “Got an embarrassing mark or something?” Steve rolled his eyes, blocking Billy’s view of the left side of his ribs as he pulled his shirt on.

“Just don’t want y’all tryin’ to look at my massive dick, Hargrove,” he replied.  There was a pause, then Billy laughed, loud and bright.  It sounded surprised and almost happy.

“That so, King?” Steve slammed his locker closed and shot Billy a dark look.  He kept his eyes on Billy’s, not letting them wander over the expanse of his chest.  Billy smirked, like he knew where Steve wanted to look, where he wasn’t going to look.  Steve turned on his heel and left, ignoring the blood pumping in his ears.

Then everything kinda went to shit.

Or well, really, really went to shit.

He didn’t know why Billy had to always goad him, had to be such a prick all the time.  Why he had to come here to find Max, on tonight of all nights.  Why he had to smash a fucking plate over his head.  And now here he was, being flipped over as Billy straddled him, much differently from his dreams, and got ready to beat the shit out of him.  Steve looked up at him, hating that the light created a halo behind him, hating that he looked good, hating everything.  Billy’s shirt was hiked up, Steve had tugged it free from his jeans as they grappled, and as he moved, it rose some more.

“Holy shit!” Dustin’s exclamation wasn’t new, mixing in with the cries of the other teens, but then he said something that made both boys pause.  “Your mark!” Billy went rigid on top of him, slapping his hand over the side of his back hip as he turned and leveled Dustin with a glare.

“What?” He snarled, tugging his shirt down with one hand while he held Steve down with the other.  “If you think pointing that shit out is gonna make me--”

“I’ve seen it,” he whispered, eyes widening.  “Oh my god, that’s--” He let out a weird sound, making Billy let Steve go fully, narrowing his eyes.  Steve took his chance, sitting up quickly, trying to shove Billy back, but he gripped Steve’s body with his legs, pulling him along.  They rolled and Dustin let out another strange noise.  “You guys!  Stop!” Both older teens turned to look at him, confusion on their faces.  He went forward, tugging at Billy’s shirt, trying to get a better look at his mark.  Billy scrambled away, shoving Dustin’s hands.

“What the fuck!”

“You have the same mark,” Dustin breathed, eyes going wide.  Billy stared at him, contemplating, before his eyes slowly widened.  Steve furrowed his brow, not getting it.

“What?” Billy took a step away, looking ready to run, which was so different from only moments before that Steve was feeling weirder than he had about carrying a dead monster.

“Remember when you showed me your mark,” Dustin said, speaking fast, “I would recognize it fucking anywhere--”

“Max,” Billy snapped, breath coming in shorter, “We’re fucking leaving.”

“No,” she said, anger barely restrained.  “Fuck you, Billy!  We’re doing something important.” He grit his teeth, turning his back on Steve, looking right at her.  Dustin looked between him and Steve, before his face hardened and he yanked up Billy’s shirt, mark on display.

Steve couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Fuck off, shithead!” Billy said, wrenching away from Dustin and shoving him back, though the push was weak.  He turned back to Max, not once looking at Steve, who was still staring, mind wrapping itself around Billy having a crown.  A crown with a wave circling it.  Of Billy, the total womanizing douchebag, having his mark.  “Maxine, Neil and Susan want you home, we’re leaving.”

“Wait,” Steve said.  It was quiet, but it cut through the room.  Billy tensed, not turning around.  Steve wanted to ask, wanted to show Billy his mark, wanted to figure out what the fuck was happening, but they didn’t have time.  Mike tensed up, already knowing what Steve was going to ask.  “Guys, I think--”

“No!” Mike cried.  “No, we’re not telling him!”

“He’s not gonna leave without Max,” Steve snapped, finally getting up.  Billy had retreated slightly, still twitching with anger, but his curiosity was starting to win out.  “And,” he sighed, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if we tell him, we’ll have another person to go with us and--” he let out another sigh, “We’ll do your plan.  In the tunnels.” The preteens exchanged glances and huddled together.  There was intense whispering, one ‘ew,’ and then they were turning back.

“Nothing about-- You know,” Lucas said, miming a nosebleed.  Mike looked unhappy, arms crossed as he hunched over, but he didn’t say anything.

“Fine, fine.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“What in the fuck are any of you talking about?” Billy snapped.

“Are we not going to discuss that you guys have matching marks?” Dustin said, clearly unable to read the room.  It was like all the air had been sucked out, like the eye of a storm.

“Dustin,” Steve said, voice restrained and even, “I seriously need you to drop it.”

“But--!”

“Drop.  It.” Steve said through gritted teeth.  Billy bristled and Steve’s eyes flickered over to him.  He wasn’t looking back, just angrily staring at the floor.  “Hargrove,” he said, and Billy still didn’t look at him.  “This is gonna sound weird, and you aren’t gonna believe me, but--” He paused, not sure what to say.  Then he remembered.  “Follow me.” Billy looked at him then, eyes narrowed and wary, almost scared, and wasn’t that funny.  Still, he followed, and while the kids moved to do the same, Steve glared them into submission.  “You guys get the stuff ready, okay?  You’ll just overwhelm him otherwise.” He couldn’t help it, he put his hand on Billy’s lower back, ushering him into the kitchen.  Billy moved away, movements jerky.  It felt like ice in Steve’s veins, but he could worry about his soulmate hating him later.

“So?” Billy snapped, licking his lips anxiously.  “Show me.” Steve took a deep breath and pulled open the door of the fridge.  The demodog spilled out, practically oozing onto the floor, and if it wasn’t the night it was, if hell wasn’t knocking on the door, Steve might have laughed at how bugeyed Billy went.  “What the fuck?” He breathed, eyes darting between Steve and the monster.  “What the fuck is that?”

“That,” Steve said, “Is a demodog.  It’s a monster from a different dimension called the Upside Down.  We gotta go kill and distract a horde of them so the chief can close the gate and kill their connection to the other side.” Billy stared at him, blinking.  He pursed his lip, pointing a finger, before dropping both and looking at Steve like he’d grown a second head.

“What?”

“Essentially,” Steve said, glancing at the clock and noticing they needed to leave, “We gotta go distract and maybe kill a bunch of monsters or they’ll take over Hawkins.  You in?” Billy stared at him, brow furrowed.  Steve stared back, tired and ready to fight if he had to.  Wondering about where that syringe went.  Billy finally swallowed and looked away.  His voice was low when he responded.

“You want me to come along?” He sounded almost shocked.  “Even with--” He pursed his lips, going red.  Like he hadn’t meant to bring it up, but also couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Or maybe that was just Steve.

“Of course,” Steve said, scoffing a little.  Billy frowned at him, looking defensive.  Steve licked his lips, feeling bold.  The night was already scary enough.  “I’ve been crushing on you since you got here basically.” Billy’s eyebrows shot up and Steve looked at his shoes.  There was demodog on them so he looked back up, but not at Billy.  “Even though you were a total tool,” Billy scoffed, “You were smart and like, so much more than you let people believe.” Billy was silent and Steve chanced it, looking at him.  Billy stared at him, face soft and open, at least more so than usual.

“Can I--” He licked his lips.  “Can I see it?” Steve’s breath hitched and he swallowed, nodding.  He untucked his shirt, hiking it up to show the left side of his ribs.  Billy's thick hand splayed over it, thumb rubbing the mark.  Steve shuddered, mouth parted slightly.  His touch was electric, especially over the mark.  Now that they knew, it made sense.  King Steve, engulfed and protected by the rushing and wild wave that was Billy Hargrove.  His breath hitched as he watched Billy stare, each rub of his thumb sending sparks through Steve.  The mark looked right, now.  Like it was meant to be there, bright against his pale, skin, marking him for the world to see as Billys Hargrove’s soulmate.

The thought of Billy belonging to him made him shudder again.

“If you guys are done being all sappy,” Mike Wheeler’s voice cut through the moment, shattering it like glass.  “We could maybe, I dunno, go?” Steve pulled away, beet red, and Billy looked like he could strangle the kid.  He had his lanky arms crossed, trying to look fierce, but Steve could see that he was scared.  Worried about El.  He sighed and gave Billy a loaded look, heading for the door.

“I’ll grab the axe from the shed, you kids pack up the car.” He looked at Billy. “Grab my bat will you?” Billy’s nostrils flared and he grinned, eyes alight.

“Sure thing, King.”

[shootingsun]

There was a prompt knock at the door of Félix's guest room in the manor. Kali disappeared almost instantly to hide from the person about to enter the room. "Come in!" He called for the person at his door. Nathalie entered the room and looked around, seemingly searching for… something.

She's looking for me. Kali whispered into his ear.

"Your uncle desires to see you in his study soon." She deadpanned. Félix liked Nathalie, she was a decent person - although he still believed she was an idiot for putting up with Public Enemy Number 1, Gabriel Agreste.

As much as he despised his presence, there was something about the whole, "I tricked you into shaking my hand so I could steal these really cool rings that ended up being magical jewellery!" thing that was supposed to be just a fun little way to mess with him - it wasn't supposed to cause any more harm to their already unstable relationship.

That is, until now.

"Greetings, Félix." Said the designer, putting his arms behind his back. Because, being related is no exception to being professional at all times.

"Hello Uncle, you wanted to see me?" 

"There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you for quite some time now. I assume you must already know what that is, correct?"

Ohshitohshitohshit! Quick, play dumb!

"I'm afraid not Uncle, I would be delighted if you were to enlighten me." He lied, internally screaming.

"Hmm. Well then, I'm sure you recall your visit a while back. Your mother has so kindly asked me to hand over the rings that seemed to belong to her family. Does that ring a bell?" He smirked. 

That absolute bastard. Nobody talked about Félix's Mother in a passive aggressive manner!

Except for you, Kali reminded him. 

"Yes Uncle, I do seem to remember that." He commented, rolling his eyes.

"A couple hours after you left, I couldn't find the ring anywhere in the mansion. I'm not accusing you of thievery, really - I just want to clear matters up."

"But Uncle, I seem to recall you having a ring on when Mother and I came to stay because of her production." He had, of course, stolen that ring too. He was petty like that, and they were his after all.

"True indeed. Coincidentally I lost that one too afterwards, which brings me to this point - may I check your hand to make sure of something?"

Ha, jokes on him, they weren't on his hand, he was smarter than that, they were hidden in a custom made pocket in his jacket, and that would be incredibly invasive for him to pull Felix's jacket off and search it without consent wouldn't it? 

As expected, Gabriel didn't find anything. Then again, he's the same person who's been keeping tabs on two literal minors and still didn't succeed at stealing jewellery from them. Whatever Félix did was probably karma for all that. Either way, the topic at hand was another set of rings. And had he thrown a temper tantrum, it would've made him look especially bad in front of his mother. Oh, and his own kid too but, whatever, right? 

"This is a one time offer, Félix. Hand over the rings, or I may take them myself. I have my very own ways to do so." He scoffed. "My patience has a limit."

And suddenly, Félix felt fear.

Fear that didn't come from him, it that came from…

Kali?

no, No, No… No, NO, NO!! Not AGAIN. I DON'T WANNA LEAVE! HE CAN'T MAKE ME LEAVE!

Kali, calm down!

Her emotions were like a flood, there was fear, then sadness, then anger and fear again. She had to calm herself down before they had a panic attack. How to get out of this situation…? He couldn't think straight, his breathing was sharp and shallow, mimicking his Kwami's.

Oh God..  this wasn't gonna end well was it? 

This was it…

"Gabriel? I've been looking all over for you!" His Mother flounced into the room, thank god. He decided then and there that he would never make another sarcastic comment about her again.

"What is it this time?" He asked, slightly irritated.

"Gabriel, you know you always have a 2 o'clock meeting! Nathalie wanted to remind you, but the poor woman's having another dizzy spell and so I insisted I would come and get you instead!" She beamed passive aggressively, an art of which Amelie Graham de Vanily was well versed in. 

It was moments like this that made Gabriel want to punch his in-laws - and it was moments like this that reminded Félix how much he absolutely loved his mother. She was always there, just on time. 

Thank goodness for that. 

His Uncle looked down. Then he glared at his nephew, and he sighed. "Thanks for the reminder, I'll be going soon." Is what he said, but what he really meant was, "This isn't over yet!" And Félix knew.

He stumbled out of the study, breathing wildly, attempting to block out his Kwamis pained screams. He slammed the door to the guest room closed and slumped into a chair.

Kali it's okay! 

NO IT'S NOT! HE WANTS TO HURT US!

MAKE HIM STOP! MAKE HIM STOP! 

Kali we're perfectly safe right now. He tried to reason.

We aren't safe as long as we're in this house! We need to leave! He wants to separate us! 

That can't happen! It can't! It can't!

The thought of forcefully having his Kwami taken from him made Félix want to scream! But he had to remain calm.

Kali, that won't happen, I understand your fear, but you need to take a breath. He went first, showing the breathing exercise he had learnt over time, 5 in, hold for 7, out 8. As her breathing evened out, the Kwami began to lose her invisibility, her form flickered as she slowly calmed herself down.

Do you promise?

Huh?

Promise me that nobody will make me leave you, please?

Her voice and demeanor were unlike the Kali that had developed, it reminded him of when she had first come out of those rings. 

Scared and afraid. And now he knew why.

I promise Kali, nobody will ever keep us apart.

And he truly meant that. Nobody, not even a superhero, could keep them apart for long.

Just a bit after that confrontation, someone came back from his most recent photoshoot. He found his cousin laying on his bed, likely lost in his thoughts. 

He knew Félix was going through a hard time, and he also knew that they've been very close for most of their lives. Adrien would've done anything to help his cousin - and this instance was no exception.

"Hey! How come you're in my room?" He chuckled.

"Ah, erm, it appears I took a wrong turn, sorry about that…"

"How come? You never get lost usually…"

"Well, let's just say that your Father doesn't exactly do good things for my anxiety." He sighed.

"...Oh." And there it comes, stupid Adrien, wrapped around his father's finger, always choosing his parent over him! "Listen… I'm sorry."

What?

"I'm sorry! I think I owe you an apology," he frowned. "for, you know, constantly excusing my father. I'm sorry he's putting you through some stressful stuff, and I'm… not doing anything about it." He turned to look at him. "I hope you can understand that, really. I wish I could do something about it other than offer a shoulder to cry on, but I'm scared of disrespecting his wishes. I apologize." The boy muttered.

"...I guess I was wrong. You didn't do it to hurt me. I thought that was why-" Félix was dumbfounded. Adrien? Admitting his Father was a jerk?? Was this some kind of fever dream???

"...That was why I didn't go to your Dad's funeral?" He guessed. Félix quietly nodded. "No, I'd never want to do that, not after you were there for me when I lost Mom. I'm so sorry, Félix, I should have been there." Tears shone in the latter's green eyes.

"You shouldn't have to apologize, I'm sorry for the way I treated you! You were manipulated, I was just a jerk." He protested, how could he have thought such awful things about such a caring person?

Because you were grieving Lex, you still are.

Don't call me Lex - it was a weak response.

"We were both in pain. And look at you now, you're a good person, I know you are, I can feel it! So maybe since we both apologized for being jerks we just, I dunno, eat ice cream instead?" He smiled awkwardly, for a model he always was such a dork.

Félix raised an eyebrow, "Aren't you lactose intolerant?" he let out a smug grin.

"Oh hush! I can handle a tub of ice cream!" He was going to get so sick tomorrow... Eh, what the hell!

Hey, are you sure you don’t wanna tell him that you know he's Chat Noir?

Kali! You're ruining the moment!

-----------------------------------------

This fic was made in collaboration with @yawngearyoie at around midnight while we both craved hurt/comfort

This fic IS Cannon to our Bat Félix AU, and will be referenced in other oneshots and the fic. Approximately a quarter of this fic has foreshadowing in it for the actual AU. Pick up on that and you get a cookie 🍪 lol.

The first (offical) part of our AU should be coming either today or at some point next week. We're gonna create a masterpost so y'all can read the fics in the order they actually happen in and not our crazy upload schedule (whenever we feel like it).

Send in Asks if you have any questions, or if you just wanna talk about the AU.

Thanks for reading! (We will be making a tag list, so if you wanna be on that, just say)

[harryxmac]

✨💘🌙MOON&BACK🌙💘✨ Chapter Four

Fic Masterlist

Chapter 3

Masterlist

summary: in which luna loses her cool, then harry swoops in and they try.

Luna knew she was fucked. The moment her lips touched her boss’, she knew she was fucked. At the time she kinda liked the idea of being wanted and desired the way Harry had made her feel. 

But yet, here she was three days later with neither of them bringing up their kiss. Luna’s aim was to get on with her days, do her job and keep one little girl on the top of her priorities. 

But, with Harry coming home from work and focusing solely on Ruby, she couldn't help but feel a little left out and jealous. She tries to feel guilty and pushes it to the back of her head that she’s jealous of a five year old, but it doesn't go away.

She at least thought he would have the decency to either be like ‘hey, that was a mistake, lol, sike’ or either confess his love and live happily ever after. The latter seemed a little over dramatic and hopeful, but a girl can dream, and she definitely dreamt.

On the occasion, like today, that Harry was running late, she was to start dinner for them as part of their new dynamic that seemed to be working for them all.

Ruby was definitely liking the idea of having Luna around more. She seemed a lot happier, played a lot better and overall her happiness kind of shot up.

Luna and Harry found this kind of off seeing as they expected the opposite with the lack of Fenn around, yet here Ruby was bursting with personality and pure joy.

Luna thinks that spending time with Ruby is quite possibly her favourite thing to do at this given time. Beyond the endless episodes of Paw Patrol, spaghetti hoops and toys jotted randomly across Harry’s house, she truly does enjoy her time here.

For example, today Luna had come up with the great idea to have a cinema night (afternoon) with Ruby, renting a new kids movie that came out and loading up on popcorn, chocolate milk and twix’s. 

Ruby had taken it upon herself to grab her duvet from her bed and bring it down to the living room. When Luna laughed and said it was a fabulous idea, Ruby had trotted upstairs to grab Harry’s duvet for Luna to snuggle under.

When Luna saw the five year old draped in Harry’s king sized duvet, she gasped and led to a fight of giggles.

“Ru, that's your daddys!” She exclaimed, grasping it in her hold to take it back upstairs.

“No! What are you going to snuggle under?” Ruby asks, her tiny hands holding a strong grip on the duvet, so much that if Luna let go the poor give year old would topple over and she’d have to find her in a mess of duvet.

“But it's your Daddy’s, Ruby.”

“He won't mind! Daddys says you can’t watch a movie if you aren’t comfy!”

“M’not sure Ru” Luna hesitates.

All Luna can remember how good he smelt up close, that Tom Ford cologne engulfing her sense of smell. Consuming her so much that he was all she could smell for the rest of the evening. She reminisces on how when he kissed her neck she rested her head on his shoulder where her nose was up against his neck and all she could smell was him.

Luna wishes she could put to a point more of what he smelt like but she couldn’t. So for Ruby to be forcing her to snuggle on his bed sheets is almost blissful and she has to kick herself for wanting to squeeze them and bring them up to her nose. 

Especially with Harry acting the way he is, not bringing up their steamy kiss they shared, she feels like it's pushing a boundary that she doesn’t want to push, yet, even when the words leave her mouth, she doesn’t regret them.

“Okay”

Ruby squeals with excitement and scurries to sit down on the floor padded with sofa cushions.

“Can we have popcorn, please Lu?”

“Only a small bowl, okay?” Luna compromises and goes to the kitchen to prepare a bowl for Ruby.

-

Pulling up to his incredibly impressive home, holding a sleek and expensive reputation within the neighbourhood, all he wanted to do was just snuggle up with his little girl and kiss his kids babysitter.

Harry, being well aware of how he couldn’t get the thought of her lips off his mind, urged himself just to forget, paying no mind to the fact that without even trying or with intention, she stole his heart.

And he doesn’t mean that he wants to stick his dick inside of her, no. He wants to take her to dinner, see that adorable smile on her face, turn over to wrap his arms around her in the morning, make her feel like she can do anything, he wants to love her. 

Walking into his home, feet shuffling as he walked, he slipped off his shoes and chucked the keys of his 2020 BMW X5, a car he had bought for both looking good and safety for his little girl.

Harry sees his little girl gingerly moving and placing her teddies in the right positions in order to watch what he assumes is a film. She doesn’t notice him straight away, so he takes the opportunity to take off his jacket and make his way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea first.

“Salt or butter?” He hears Luna calls.

“It's me” He replies. 

Luan turns, too quick for it to be played off well. Meanwhile Harry takes a seat on the bar stool as he watches her navigate around the kitchen making popcorn.

“Oh, welcome home” She smiles.

“I’m just getting some popcorn for Ruby, she wants a movie afternoon” She adds.

“‘Oh, welcome home’?” He mocks.

“Don’t sound too happy I’m home” He laughs to soften his statement.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, I was just looking forward to having a movie afternoon with her, and of course, I guess I should get going now you’re home” She smiles, popping down the popcorn bowl in front of him. 

She had already popped the kettle on too, knowing he would want a cup of tea.

Luna walked towards the closet in the hallways to grab her coat.

“Luna” He calls, getting up from the bar stool. He follows her to the closet, which is abnormally large for a closet in a hallway. 

“Why are you leaving?”

“Because you’re home”

“But, you don’t always leave when I’m home?”

Luna stutters among her words, urging to find some excuse to just leave.

Harry stares at Luna as she places on her coat.

“Luna”

“Harry”

“This is about the other night isn’t it?”

“What when you pushed me up against your door, kissed me, made me all flustered after telling me how your marriage hasn’t been right for years, then never brought it up again? Most bloody probably.” she raised her eyebrows and sighs, losing her cool.

And it’s within this moment that Harry cannot think about anything other than how much he wants to kiss her.

“Can I kiss you? Please?”

“Harry! Are you absurd? We need to talk about this, you’re crazy! I’m leaving” She turns, but Harry’s quick to just touch her arm and call her name.

“Please stay. We’ll cook Luna something then bath her and pop her to bed and we’ll order in and talk okay? I want to talk.” He assures.

Luna stands for a moment, dumbfounded that the man in front of her, in a way, is begging for her to stay and just talk. She weighs her options. 

And naturally, Luna did the thing she thinks anyone would do with a sexy, begging Harry Styles in front of her, she stays.

Ruby doesn’t question why Luna doesn’t leave before she goes to bed like she normally does. But, Ruby quite enjoys the presence of Luna when it's time for Harry to read her a bedtime story.

Luna can help but drool. He’s in sweats, a tight-fitted t-shirt showing all his muscles and more, but he’s talking so sweetly as he reads a Princess story. Being the best father he is, he reads in different voices, and creates all different manner of noises. She begs herself to not find him so hot, to not fall under his CEO, Dad soft persona he has going on.

All she wants to do is snuggle up with them more and fall asleep.

It's not straight away Harry and Luna discuss their situation. No. It’s after Harry orders way too much food from the local Dominos, and pours them both a glass of wine in the garden. The garden being full of warm fairy lights and cosy outdoor seating. 

The doors left partially open, just in case Ruby woke up to find Harry, which happened often enough to be cautious.

Luna bites on the greasy pizza, if he was going to let her down, at least she could get some pizza off him.

“Now can we talk about this?” Harry asks, sipping his wine as he glares at Luna who has tried everything within her to restrain looking at him.

She gently swallows and turns to him.

“Look, if it was a mistake that’s fine, we’ll forget about it, but don’t fire me, that's not fair for me or Ruby.” She states putting her glass down.

Harry’s dumbfounded, fire her?

“Luna,” He starts.

“Because, I get it, I’m young, I look after your little girl, it’s fine, just please don’t fire me” She pleads, part of her is embarrassed, but the other is infuriated with herself for being in this situation in the first place.

“Luna, I’m not firing you, muppet”

Luna’s eyebrows scrunch, he’s not?

“Well, then, thank you. But it's okay ‘about it being a mistake then, all is forgiven and we can be done.” She smiles.

Harry is instantly a little heartbroken. Mistake? This was no mistake.

“Luna, I don’t think this is a mistake, love” 

Luna's head tilts and she smiles a little.

“You don't?”

“Far from it,”

“But, I was under the impressio-”

“The wrong impression”

“I know it seems soon Luna, but things just feel so right, like I said, things hadn’t been right with Fenn and I, I know that now, I was kidding myself. What I feel right now, for you, is something I haven’t quite felt before, I’d quite like to explore that” He adds.

Luna cannot move, she tries, oh how she tries. But she’s just stone in her spot, he actually wants to try with her? Just Luna? 

“I -mean” 

Harry chuckles at her loss of words.

“What do you say?”

“Of course! I want to try with you too” She smiles, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“We decide this and that's all I get?” He banters, patting the seat next to him, which Luna shuffles up to him giggling.

“I hope you don’t think it's that easy, Mr”

Harry smiles, slowly dragging his lips in to press a kiss on her lips. Sending a tingling feeling throughout her body. His lips encasing her bottom lip, he slowly pulls away only to remain against them once more, biting and suckling her lip, leaving her putty in garden furniture. 

Harry taps her hips in suggestion of moving onto his lap, which she gladly partakes in and sits quite comfortably in his lap. 

Luna pulls away, looking at Harry.

“We have to take this slow, it isn’t going to be easy, we’re really going to have to be careful.”

Harry looks down, sighing. Of course she’s right, he knows that.

“Daddy?” A small voice from the corner calls.

Luna quickly shuffles off his lap and sits next to him.

“Hey, darlin’” Ruby’s small feet shuffle through to the garden and in front of Luna and Harry.

“You're not at home” She states, looking at Luna.

“I’m not”

She hums.

“Shall we get you to bed?” Harry asks, trying to distract her.

Luna watches as Harry trots upstairs with Ruby in tow. She begins to grab her things and slowly get ready to leave. She leaves a few of her books on the kitchen counter, knowing she’d be here tomorrow so there was no point in taking them just to bring them back.

She decides Harry won’t care.

“Leaving me already?” Harry says as his feet shuffle down the steps of his carpeted stairs.

“Yeah, have an exam in the morning.”

“Close one, huh”

Luna tuts and smiles as she wonders over and presses her finger against his broad chest gently.

“That is why we need to be careful.” she laughed.

-

-taglist-

@kiwiisgolden   @vilintiniti   @harryspirate @kitykatnumber @Allmylove-hxx   @vivi-guerra     @Sanfranciscocablecar @iloveshawnieboi    @bookwormandtea    @ughhhitsafan       @spideyboix   @strawberryblogg    @lovely-Harry-styles    @holographic84     @sohani02          @kialawley7274     @odetostep    @omaha00 @Havethetimeeofyourlife       @Kylaharvey54       @mv-am

[doc-pickles]

it’s nothing funny just to talk (p. 1)

What happens when you text that random number graffitied on a bathroom stall in your favorite bar? Jo Wilson is about to find out. - In which Bar Princess and Doctor Evil Spawn meet via text.

More Jolex on your timeline because y’all seemed to love what I posted before! Also I’ve posted this whole piece on AO3 as well so it might look familiar.  

this idea came to me in a fever dream and i am not sorry that y'all have to deal with it. 99% of this fic will be in "texting" format, so be prepared for that. 

Jo is regular Alex is italics

Saturday 11:04 PM

heeeeey is thiss doctor evil?

I gotta say ur phone sex namee needs sum weerk

u soud like a comic book village 

fuck

village

VILLAIN

Who the hell is this? And how did you get my number? 

i’m just a girl at thee bar!!!! 

Joe’s Bar?

noooooo

i’m at enerlad city bar

You didn’t answer my question. 

u asked a quesitoon?

whata was it?

i’m goos at takifjg tests 

How’d you get my number?

it qas in the bathrooom!!!

it said “for a good tiem txt dr evil spawne” 

so I did

I am ready to havee fun

You’re drunk, obviously, and I’m going to have to kill Cristina for putting my number up. 

ooooooh is thatt ur girleifnd?

hirlefiend 

girlfriend**

Wow you’re really gone. And hell no, she’s my roommate. One of them. 

ooooh how many do u hav

roomees not girlfriends 

Three. Two girls and a dude. 

intereeesting...

well it’s tome for fireball shoots

steph is yeeling at me 4 txting too much

goodbey doctor eviel apawn!!

Oh lord. Tell Steph you need water. Or an IV. 

I’ve got her. she’s throwing up on her shoes. thanks doctor. - steph

  Sunday 10:11 AM

You know you’re pretty funny, Bar Girl. 

jesus christ what fucking time is it?! 

10 AM

I’m assuming you have a massive hangover. 

hold on I can’t hear you over the sound of me vomiting

TMI as the kids say these days. 

what’re you a grandpa or something?? 

No I just don’t know how to use text lingo. Except WTF. I know that one very well. 

quick question

who the fuck are you?

Dr. Evil Spawn. You found my name graffitied in the bathroom of Emerald City Bar. 

holy shit

I thought I dreamed that... WHAT THE FUCK

Nope. I’m real. 

holy shit i’m so sorry

my texts were so annoying

Who hurt you? I mean you were shitfaced, I’m assuming someone broke your heart into tiny pieces. 

the opposite actually, I was at a bachelorette party

not mine, i’m so single it hurts

Ahhh that makes sense. So you got shitfaced in solidarity? 

exactly you get it

you seem like you’d be the DD at a bachelorette party

Well seeing as I’m a dude I don’t do Bachelorette parties. 

Well I did go to one, but that’s a different story.  

hmmm you seem like a very interesting man doctor evil spawn 

going to bachelorette parties, living with women who aren’t your girlfriend 

OMG ARE YOU DATING THE GUY YOU LIVE WITH?!

George? No absolutely not. And before you ask, my other girl roommate is gay. 

so you’re single?

i’m only asking so when you murder me the police have as much information as possible

Haha very funny. I would be a terrible murderer. 

you didn’t answer my question

Fine. Yes I’m single. 

i’ll note that in the “serial killer file” i’m building 

gotta go, I have to do work :/

Have fun, don’t die. 

  Sunday 8:38 PM

Arizona is trying to set me up on a blind date. 

who’s arizona?

My gay roommate. She wants me to meet this “bubbly blonde” she knows from her pilates class. 

ahhhh. why don’t you go?

Bubbly blonde is not my type. Sounds like she’ll spend the whole date talking about how much she loves dogs or her knitting hobby. 

Plus she does pilates, that tells me more than enough. 

you’re making some good points. I don’t pity you. 

You better not. How was work?

the longest day of my life

it was just paperwork, I don’t actually work on the weekends

What do you do?

hmmmm that’s exactly what a serial killer would say

i’m an elementary school teacher

Oh so you sing and dance and paint pictures all day?

what school did you go to?

were working on multiplication tables and basic photosynthesis tomorrow

Wow that sounds like a lot.

it’s may, ive got three weeks of school left so I have to cram all the crap we didn’t cover into these last few weeks 

Ahhh that sounds more accurate.

and what do you do? 

besides text strangers that you don’t know

I’m a pediatrician. 

oh so you make kids cry and wipe snotty noses all day? two can play at that game

Well we both have to deal with snotty noses sooo...

I GET IT!! Doctor Evil Spawn!! 

why evil spawn though? 

I wasn’t this nice when I started med school. My personality is an acquired taste. 

ha! that’s a funny joke. 

so if you’re a fancy schmancy doctor why do you live with three other people?

I’m only a resident, not making the big bucks yet. Everyone else is a doctor too. 

are they all pediatricians?

No. Arizona is too but Cristina is a cardiologist and George is a trauma specialist. 

interesting!! I too live with my coworkers. it’s not fun. 

the table is always covered in craft supplies. 

Well I can never read the grocery list on the fridge. Stupid doctors script...

oh that’s a classic. you’re pretty funny Dr. Evil Spawn

Thanks Bar Girl. 

I gotta go. monday tomorrow and you know how fourth graders can be. night!! 

Night . 

  Monday 9:47 AM

there’s not enough coffee in the world for monday mornings. 

  Monday 10:52 AM 

Sorry I was yelling at the interns. We have a decent coffee cart here. Keeps me alive. Are you texting in class?

no it was recess

now they’re at spanish class

i’m not totally irresponsible 

Oh good to know the future of America is in good hands. Teacher Princess is “not totally irresponsible”

teacher princess?

Well, Cinderella lost her shoe, you puked on yours. Same thing. 

wooooooooow

that was so uncalled for...

I thought it was funny. Gotta go set a broken arm. 

broken arm vs. adverbs... can we switch? have fun lol

  Monday 3:26 PM

I don’t even think I know what an adverb is. 

how did you become a doctor??

Don’t need to know adverbs to fix a couple broken bones and snuffy noses. 

oh darn I should’ve gone to school for seven more years then

Haha. How were the adverbs?

better than expected, grading papers while I wait for my roomies to be done

we carpool, saving the environment and shit

Okay Eco Warrior.

you text like a 60 year old man

you’re not a 60 year old man are you?

No I’m a 28 year old man though

28 a doctor and you’re single? your personality must be worse than you described 

I’m a busy man, I don’t have time to settle down. And I have no desire to. 

yet you have time to text a complete stranger? 

hmmmm interesting...

Ouch, that one hurt Princess. 

steph is making me socialize with the other teachers

if I don’t respond, they killed me or dragged me to an essential oil party

Hahahaha

  Monday 5:18 PM

Did you get roped into a pyramid scheme?

nooo but therew as wine

I should sotp drunk texting you so often 

It makes your presence that much more entertaining. And bearable. 

woah woah dude

i’m a gem 

I can tell. Elementary school teacher with a heart of gold. 

awwww your too sweet tome

It’s a Monday. Who the hell gets drunk on a Monday?

teachers

we deserve it

You’re a teacher and you’re single and still going to Bachelorette parties. You’re what, 23? 

i’m 25 and i’m doing greta thanks you very nuch 

cnat believe that i’m supplying my perosnal info to a serial killer

What makes you so sure that I’m a mass murderer? 

ur weird nickname and ur intimate knowledge of the himan body

Mmm yes well a good amount of women do find themselves screaming around me often. Or under me. On top of me...

omg are you sending me dirty jokes

you’re crazy 

What can I say. 

Gotta go, I’m on call tonight. Get to bed safe, Bar Princess. 

mmmkay thanks Doc

  Wednesday 11:29 AM

What do you think is worse: School lunch or hospital food?

hospital food, no doubt

thursday is mac and cheese day here... I could bathe in that stuff

We have Spaghetti Wednesday but that’s the only good thing here. 

mmm how depressing

the teachers do a pot luck once a month and that’s always good

the art teacher next door to me makes the BEST blueberry muffins. 

Lucky. All I get here is vending machine cookies. Anything interesting happening in the elementary world? 

a first grader got lice last week so naturally we all have it now

I had to chop off six inches of my hair

Holy crap. Lice can be vicious, be thankful you didn’t have to shave your head. 

it feels like I did, my hair hasn’t been above my shoulders since the backstreet boys were still touring

Wow. I’m glad to know you’re well cultured. 

of course I am

gotta go, kids are back from music class

Don’t be too hard on them, they deserve a break every once in awhile. 

  Thursday 3:06 PM

Incoming Voice Call

“Jenna you forgot your lunch pail. Have a good day!”

“Hello?”

“Hi Mrs. Peters. I didn’t grade Henry’s test yet, I’ll have it tomorrow. Thanks bye!”

“Helloooo?”

“Steph I gotta grab my things, I’ll be there in a seco- oh shit. Hello?”

“Bar Princess?”

“Doctor Evil Spawn? I must’ve butt dialed you, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay I... I don’t mind the interruption. Are you leaving work?”

“Just about, we’re wrapping up the solar system and I have to bring home the diorama.”

“I was never good at the models, I prefer working with the real thing.”

“Oh ho, a man that works with his hands. I can appreciate that.”

“You know now we’re officially talking and we still don’t know each other’s names.”

“Well around here I’m Miss Wilson, but you can call me Jo.”

“Jo. Hmm I like chicks with dudes names. I’m Dr. Karev but you can call me Alex.”

“Well nice to kinda meet you Alex. I’ll talk to you soon, I gotta get out of here.”

“Talk to you later.”  

  Thursday 4:34 PM

I wouldn’t mind if you were my teacher.

how did I know you’d send me something along those lines

I’m predictable. I’m still calling you Bar Princess. 

as you wish doctor evil spawn

I get to assist on a surgery today. Tonsillectomy. 

like removing tonsils? that’s awesome

for you, not for the kid

Oh she’ll be fine, she gets ice cream and jello for a week.  

okay yeah I might be jealous of her now

id love to be off work for a week and have you waiting on me hand and foot

the ice cream is a nice bonus

You think that’s my job?

well you said you aren’t making the big bucks yet so.... yeah 

Keep dreaming. I’ll talk to you later, gotta scrub in. 

have fun!!!!

[27emailsicantsend]

I JUST WATCHED THE FINALE AND OH MY GOSH MY HEAD IS SPINNING I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS

I’ll give you my quick thoughts and then jump into Muffy because you already KNOW I am saving a whole section for them

Celia’s growth was amazing. I love that she went from being strict to being so carefree and trusting of Bex

Bex in that wedding dress 👏🏻 Bowie in that Tux 👌🏻 like they didn’t have to do that but they did 😭

The slow dance was SO CUTE OMG

I loved that all of them sang lady Gaga- the song was perfect for them but sad Garren wasn’t on stage with Sofia

However, they showed the ships singing together and whenever they showed Buffy they showed Marty so I was like 😩😭👏🏻 ya know

TJ playing the piano was all I could have asked for

I LOVED the scene when Cyrus and Buffy talked about “relationship woes” like wow. 😭😍 that hurt because the parrallels were so blatantly obvious but Terri made sure to take EQUAL time to explain their woes with each character.

Also WTF KIRA STOP TOUCHING TJ AND PUTTING YOUR ARM ON HIM. This has been my PSA

I LOVED watching TJ just RIP into Kira. Boi 👏🏻 told 👏🏻 her 👏🏻 off. He literally called her out for bullying and asked her to stop (likkkeeee not only was it great bc he was protective boyfriend mode™️ but because he showed growth. He defended Cyrus for something he used to do). It was great and a no Kira redemption was the best way they could have done that and it was was beautiful. 💯

I loved that Jandi scene! I have said I am actually ok with Jandi, but they needed more maturity. Andi needed to find herself and Jonah needed to be ready for a relationship. In time and when Andi can handle conflict, I think they would make a good pairing. But WITH TIME, like they said. Until then, Jonah has the cute bracelet. I think that was such a valuable lesson for kids to not rush something, just because you like someone. Make sure you are actually ready because crushes aren’t all just about endgames (which will sound hypocritical considering what I write next lol) but that they are a LOT of work and you have to have your head on correct to make sure you can handle it. Just *chef’s kiss*

I know Muffy was around this time (sorry my thoughts are so scattered- I am writing this post watching it so not everything is in a congruent timeline) but I am going to come back to them like I said earlier. They have a special reserved™️ section in this post 😍👏🏻

THE B[REDACTED]H SCENE. WAS SO CUTE. UGH

I laughed so hard at TJ’s name but gave all my uwu’s I had left post Muffy (which weren’t many but I reserved some for Tyrus) to that cute little line from Cyrus about how he liked his name 😭

That 👏🏻 hand 👏🏻 hold 👏🏻

Like watching TJ’s shaky fingers get all close I COULDN’T BREATHE-

They really out here making all benches gay huh?

And you could see how SHY TJ was talking to Cyrus. It was so sweet how flirty and awkward he got. I loved it.

I’m sure their hands were v sweaty but that’s a point for another day lol

I thought the scene was handled well considering their limits and tried to keep my expectations low, but TBH I was pretty bummed they didn’t actually say the words that they liked each other. I wish there was more dialogue than vague questions ya know? Oh well 🤷🏼‍♀️

I was also really REALLY hoping for some canon Muffy and Tyrus scenes at the party and kept checking the time stamp during the last scene hoping they would show SOMETHING but they didn’t say anything. Even just a quick “Hey I’m dating this person now and I love them all my uwu’s” would have been fine but it was like that was completely forgotten

However I’ve seen a few Tumblr posts about someone working on making fic text posts with the GHC talking about their canon ships so I’ll take what I can get :)

The Andi Shack and Andi getting into SAVA didn’t surprise me, but it was sweet

I really liked the whole side by side photo thing they did

What did surprise me was Jonah saying he loved Andi 😭 like that was such a sweet sentiment and I was just like, “Alexa play I Cried by Jonah Beck” you know?

Kinda also dissapointed we heard nothing more about Jonah’s panic attack’s, the hole in the wall, and possible Kippen Siblings

REALLY REALLY want an Andi Mack movie- they made a Lizzie McGuire one after only two seasons so they could with AM to address any plot holes (BUT IF THEY DO IT THEY BETTER HAVE CANON MUFFY AND TYRUS JOIN SO HELP ME BC MIRANDA WAS GONE IN TLMM AND I WAS READY TO SHOW HANDS)

Also other side note: I got kinda frustrated with all of the dancing/singing scenes. Like they were cute but also felt like a lot of wasted screen time (much like 3x19 or the Jonah/Cyrus camping scenes) when other plots could have been addressed

And no speaking lines for Amber? At all? Like...? Even with the Jonah stuff? Or redemption paralleling TJ. IDK seemed a lil wack to me

Ok here’s the good stuff

Muffy:

Again, Alexa play “I Cried” by Jonah Beck BECAUSE OH MY GOSH THEY WERE MY EVERYTHING

Surprisingly didn’t cry as much as 3x14 but I think that’s because I was shaking so bad (seriously I looked like I just went through a terrifying haunted house and stayed overnight in it, my hand trembling so much)

I rewatched the scenes WHICH ONLY MADE IT WORSE BECAUSE I CRIED MORE

I enjoyed writing my fics, but really really liked the way Terri handled this

I loved all of their scenes dancing together and it was funny because after Cyrus and Buffy talked, Buffy was like, “he doesn’t like me” but then Marty spent the ENTIRE night like RIGHT NEXT TO BUFFY. Not with the other girl. Literally physical space is not a real thing with them. Watch when they dance, or when they see CeCe in the Dino costume or any other time, Buffy and Marty are ONLY next to each other and Marty even moves closer to Buffy when they are all huddled around CeCe if you watch closely enough

The frog parallel? 😭👌🏻

Buffy addressing Marty instead of the other way around? 😭👌🏻

Marty “what’s going on?” 😭👌🏻

I loved when Marty called himself a dope 😂👏🏻 13/10 sweet boi

Also, watching Buffy get worked up because they can’t have a real conversation I’m 😭😭😭 you could see actual tears in her eyes and THEN GIRL WENT RUNNING OUTSIDE FOR SOME FRESH AIR

AND GUESS WHO CHASES AFTER HER- I’M—- UGHHHHHH I’m getting worked up thinking about it tbh

Marty tries the conversation again and she SAYS SHE LIKES HIM. NO HESItation what kind of ROMANCE—

Heidenjfbdhewiejdkdk

And then it was literal poetic cinema when he said he NEVER STOPPED LIKING HER AFTER THAT AWKWARD PAUSE AND GRABBED HER HANDS

It was so SOft-

And then they KISSED AND IT WAS REAL

I got my Muffy kiss 💅🏻 I just. I. You guys don’t understand. I was shipping this WAY before anyone really got on board. I remember trying to look up Muffy fan videos after two episodes of them together because I already fell in love with them and there was one like barely edited thirty second video on YouTube. I tried to post something on here and like two people liked it. I LIKED THEM WHEN BASICALLY NO ONE ELSE DID AND SO I FEEL LIKE I AM ONE OF THE MOST DESERVING OF THIS SHIP BEING ENDGAME AND NO ONE CAN FIGHT ME ON THIS JUST LET ME LOVE THEM

MUFFY KISS (sorry needed to say it one more time for emphasis)

And then they walked away together with their arms around each other 😭 If you watch closely Buffy kinda tucks her head into his arm and I’ve seen fics of them doing this so it made me heart 💗💓💓 when they actually did

I JUST WANT TO SEE THEM AS A CANON COUPLE IS THAT TO MUCH TO ASK

Please Terri Minksy, I beg of you, if you don’t get a S4 make a movie but it is REQUIRED BY LAW that Muffy and Tyrus are in the ENTIRE movie- being canon and cute. They don’t even need angst but I still want scenes with them together just being in love.

I will be spending the entire next week in complete denial that this show is over, while rewatching this episode ten times and reading every Muffy fic I can find. Thanks for coming to my Tedx talk.