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hangovercurse · 4 years

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Nerd Love

After years of working together, Pete still manages to break you.

Request: “Hi! Can I get a Pete imagine where you guys work on SNL together and you have few skits together and during one of them you can’t stop laughing”

Pete Davidson x Reader

Warnings: Cursing

Word Count: 2237

“Live from New York, it’s Saturday night!” You hear Kate and the host of the week announce before Lorne motions that the cameras had cut for commercial break. You and Pete had a sketch together in exactly 12 minutes and 45 seconds, and you were trying to cool your nerves.

You loved your job, writing on SNL was something you had dreamed of since you were in middle school, and now it was your reality. Of course, it was hard, the hours were long and the work was demanding. But having Pete by your side made it all bearable.

You had met on your first day, getting hired one season after him. You two were deemed the “babies” of the cast because you were the youngest, so naturally you got paired up. A lot.

At first it bothered you that you only really ever worked with one person, but after your first few episodes you grew to love Pete. Your energies matched so well, and whenever you wrote together you easily built of each other.

After 6 years of working on the show together, you had become really close friends. You were with him through all of his hard times, and you were one of the few people he let visit him in rehab. In return, he stuck by your side through everything, even when the internet tried to cancel you for an interview that was taken completely out of context.

You couldn’t pinpoint when, but at some point, you had developed real feelings for him. Obviously, you’d never tell him, not wanting to mess up your amazing friendship. But they still flourished, especially when you would be up until 6 am writing sketches and goofing around in the writer’s room. Of course, the comments from fans didn’t help your feelings either. They loved you guys. Anytime you posted Pete on your social media, they were all over it.

But you guys had denied the dating rumors countless times since they’d started 5 years ago. Even though having to hear the words “we’re just friends” over and over killed you.

You were lost in thought when Pete came up behind you, hands grabbing your shoulders and shaking you slightly. “Ready bookworm?” He asked, moving to stand next to you.

“Only if you are, Mr. jock-man.” You laughed, rolling your eyes.

The sketch you and Pete had written was a young couple on a really fancy date to celebrate their 6-month anniversary. Your character was going on the date with Kyle Mooney’s character. Both of you were the stereotypical nerd couple with glasses, suspenders, and everything else. Pete was playing your waiter, who obviously did not give a shit about his job. He was the stereotypical jock character. Your character was super attracted to him and kept paying attention to him. He loved the attention and would do things like show you his (reaaaallllyyy) lame tattoos, tell you about sports, and everything that nerds don’t like. Kyle obviously didn’t like that and kept trying to get your attention in the weirdest of ways.

It was pretty funny in rehearsals, almost too funny. Seeing Pete act so out of character was hilarious to you and having to overdramatically flirt with him felt ridiculous. You barely made it through in rehearsals without laughing, so you had to hope you could do it on stage.

“Y/N, Pete, and Kyle. You’re up.” The stagehand told you, and you grabbed Kyle’s hand, walking to the stage.

The sketch started and you were doing okay. You and Kyle had your conversation about your anniversary and your favorite Star Wars movies. But then Pete walked onto the stage in his ridiculous waiter getup. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top and wrinkled, his black pants hanging low on his hips, and his apron only half tied. You bit your tongue to keep yourself together.

“Welcome to White Oyster, what do you want?” He said in a very bored voice. You acted interested, eyes raking up and down him. You felt ridiculous and had to swallow a laugh.

Kyle pushed his glasses up on his nose, “me and my girlfriend are here for our six-month anniversary, so we would like the couple’s special.” His nerd voice was incredible.

“Okay. Anything else?” Pete’s voice remained monotone.

You bit your lip, “do you recommend anything else?” You asked, trying to sound nerd-sexy.

You could see Pete struggling to contain a smile. “I mean, whatever. Food here is shitty anyways.”

Kyle’s mouth gaped, “can you not speak like that around my girlfriend, please?”

The sketch continued with you making flirty remarks towards Pete, him being very bored and unaware, and Kyle trying to direct your attention. After your second attempt at flirting with him, you could feel yourself breaking down.

“So, I was wondering. Do you have any tattoos?” You asked him, your elbow on the table, twirling a piece of your hair in your finger.

Pete nodded, pulling up his shirt to show the big MOM tattoo on his side that was drawn on earlier. You felt a giggle slip out, completely out of character.

You tried to cover it up and continue, “wow, you really must love your mom, huh?” Another chuckle leaving your mouth, “that’s kinda hot.”

Kyle looked at you with wide eyes, “Linda!” He screamed the name of your character

Pete shrugged, “Nah, I did it myself. It says WOW, like world of warcraft.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that fell out of your mouth, and one followed from Pete. This was a disaster. You tried to regain your composure, knowing Kyle was probably really frustrated right now. “I just think tattoos are so cool. You don’t have any, do you Darren?” You asked Kyle’s character, eyes narrowing at him. You heard a chuckle from Pete beside you and you bit your cheek.

Kyle faked looking flustered, “N-no. But I have all 7 of the Harry Potter books and 4 collectors wands.”

Pete nodded, “Oh cool, I have a Harry Potter tattoo.” He pulled up his arm to show his real tattoo.

Your eyes went wide, “Wow. That’s way cooler.” You batted your eyes up at Pete, making him break even more. Watching his face go red and his mouth lifting up with laughter made you squeeze your eyes to hide your laughter.

“But babe!” Kyle was starting to break now too. “You love my Harry Potter stuff!”

“It’s cool, I guess.”

The sketch continued with you and Pete laughing anytime you looked at each other, your energies feeding into one another. You both tried really hard to keep it together, but something about flirting with Pete made you so giddy inside that you couldn’t help it.

Eventually the scene ended and the lights went down. You knew the cameras probably caught an extra few seconds after the close of the sketch, meaning they caught you and Pete breaking down into fits of laughter.

You somehow made it offstage, faces red. “We’re so gonna get fired.” He said through giggles.

“I’m so sorry,” You started, trying to take breaths through your laughs. “I don’t know why I couldn’t hold it together.”

“You looked ridiculous.” Pete laughed, pointing at your glasses.

After the show you made your way back to your dressing room, changing into your day clothes and getting ready to leave. You finally checked your phone, which had been off the duration of the show.

Your twitter feed was filled with clips of you and Pete laughing through the sketch.

They’re so cute together #goals

Love their friendship

Get you someone who looks at you like Pete looks at Y/N

Poor Kyle ☹

The way they can’t get through a skit because they’re too in love

And they say they aren’t dating…

Can’t believe the unprofessionalism

Pete and Y/N are dating… no one can convince me otherwise

The flirting!!! The looks!!!

I would like Pete and Y/N to get married and adopt me please

Your heart melted at all the comments, a sigh leaving your mouth. You watched the video and noticed the way he looked at you anytime you broke character, it was the same way you looked at him all the time.

You shook your head, convincing yourself you were imagining it. You couldn’t afford to think like that, it would ruin your friendship.

A knock at your door pulled you out of your thoughts, “Y/N, wanna go grab a drink with me?” It was Pete.

“You can come in.” You called, and he did so. “I don’t know, I was thinking I might just go home. I’m pretty tired.” You really just wanted to go home and sort through your feelings for the umpteenth time that month.

He nodded, watching as you tossed various items in your bag, “you were great tonight.”

You giggled, “Pete I barely made it through our sketch, it was a disaster.”

He rolled his eyes, walking over to where you were at your vanity. “I messed up too, but it was fine. No one noticed.”

You leaned into the mirror, fixing your makeup slightly. Pete was very close to you, watching you through said mirror. “Trust me, Petey. Everyone noticed.” You laughed, standing up straight again.

Your back was inches from his chest, and you could suddenly feel a different sort of tension in the air. But you didn’t make any move to shift away from him. He gave you a quizzical look through the mirror and you took out your phone, turning to him.

You took in a breath at the proximity. You weren’t close enough to kiss or anything, but his chest was only a few inches away from you. You shook away the thoughts you were having and opened your twitter, letting him scroll through the tweets. He chuckled and shook his head as he read them, eventually handing you your phone back.

“People really like us together.” He said, smiling.

You rolled your eyes, “They have for the past like, 6 years, Petey. We’re funny.” You smiled moving to turn back to grab your bag, but his hand grabbed your hip and made you stay facing him.

Your mind went blank at his touch, trying to figure out if this was real or if you were just really really tired. “That’s not what I meant.” He said, quieter.

You laughed, looking away from his eyes, not really knowing what to say. “I mean, people have always thought… stuff like that.” You mumbled, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Pete’s eyes were searching your face, taking in every detail. “Have you ever thought about, like, why people think we’re…” He trailed off, but you knew what he was implying.

You blushed, looking down at your toes. “I mean, I guess we’re together a lot and we get on well. People just like to make assumptions, I guess.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure it doesn’t help that I can never keep my eyes off of you, even when the cameras are rolling.” He said, a chuckle following.

You smiled, looking back up at him, your brain trying to process what he just said. After a few moments of silence, you spit out a “why are you bringing this up?” Your voice was soft, almost a whisper.

He sighed, hand moving from your hip and rubbing his face lightly. “I don’t know, I’ve just been thinking a lot.” You gave him a look that told him to continue. “I mean, I think it’s kind of obvious that I like you.”

Your mouth dropped, “obvious? Pete Davidson you have been far from obvious about your feelings.” You really thought you were dreaming, hearing those words from him was just impossible.

“Are you kidding me? How many sketches do I have to write just so I can flirt with you? Have you not picked up on the fact that literally every sketch I write for you to be in we’re playing some sort of couple?” He laughed, stepping towards you, and grabbing your hips again. “Dude, and I thought I was oblivious to this shit.”

“In my defense I’ve spent the past like 6 years trying to convince myself you didn’t feel the same way.” You said, a smile crossing your face.

Pete rolled his eyes, leaning closer to you, “now why would you wanna do that?” There was a playful tone in his voice, but you couldn’t help your serious answer.

“Because I didn’t wanna read the signs wrong and mess up our friendship.” You sighed.

Pete’s smile softened, “Y/N I literally want to kill you right now for making me wait this long.” You giggled, leaning closer to him. “But you’re cute so I guess I can let it slide.”

“If I kiss you will it make up for it?” You asked, batting your eyelashes.

Pete pretended to think about it, “hmmm, maybe. You should definitely give it a shot to see.”

You rolled your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into you. Your lips touched his and it was like everything in the universe suddenly aligned. His mouth moved against yours in soft, perfect motions. His hands pulled you closer into him, your bodies molding together like it was meant to be.

When you finally pulled away for breath, he pressed his forehead against yours, a wide grin on his face. “So, about those drinks?”

#pete davidson #pete davidson imagine #pete davidson x reader #pete davidson fluff

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years

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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.

#fffr #wincest #weecest #first time #long fic #my writing #--seriously this one also went too long #but idk it felt right this way

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justactsupernatural · 4 years

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Table for 5

He never stood a chance, not when they were offering him a world of happiness, even if only for one meal. His brothers and him sold their souls to McDonald's.

Based loosely in that one post-credit scene in The Avengers where they are eating shawarma but Thunderbirds.

----------------------------------

It had been a long rescue, like, 17 hours long kind of rescue. The flood, and subsequent mudslide, had hit the town at around 6pm, and IR had first arrived on the scene probably an hour later.

With a disaster of that magnitude, and all the Tracy boys on the Island (with John having come down from Five for the day) it was only natural that they all piled up on Thunderbirds One and Two to answer the call.

And now, hours later, they were tired, sore, covered head to toe in mud and hungry. Very. Hungry.

Which was why the McDonald’s that was just about to enter their flight path on the way back home was perfect.

“C’mon Scotty, there’s even a giant field in front of the place that’s perfect to land the Birds!” exclaimed Gordon, trying to convince the oldest Tracy to let them land and eat a burger or two (or five) in the fast-food restaurant.

The discussion had been taking place for the last five minutes, with both the youngest Tracy’s trying to win over their oldest brother with the promise of greasy food, while the second oldest and middle Tracy’s rolled their eyes and chuckled when the situation deemed it necessary.

“No Gordon, we have to get back home in case another rescue comes in and you know it” Scott said, because someone had to be responsible in this family and it might as well be him, even if sometimes he just wished he wasn’t mature enough to know that throttling his water-loving brother was not acceptable in this year and age.

“But Scott-“ said Alan, before being interrupted by the feeling of Thunderbird Two landing and his middle brother’s voice “I’m sorry Scott, but we’re hungry and tired and we are going to stop for a burger at McDonald’s, you’re welcome to join if you want”.

The whoops and cheering of Alan and Gordon, and the little smirk that John was trying to hide behind his hand and failing told Virgil that he had made the right call, and hearing Scott’s long-suffering sight before he voiced his agreement only proved that even responsible big brother wanted to eat.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He never stood a chance, not when they were offering him a world of happiness, even if only for one meal. His brothers and him sold their souls to McDonald's.

Scott knew they shouldn’t be doing this, that videos and pictures of them, covered in mud and looking like they just took a dive in a swamp were going to be on the internet before they even sat down, but PR was the GDF’s problem and they deserved this break.

The moment they entered, the smell of oil and fries and food and the look on his brothers faces just kind of proved that point. Sure, everyone was looking at them like they were aliens, and the ones that weren’t were outside taking pictures and videos of their ships, but right now they couldn’t care less.

Joining the line at the cash register they started looking at the menu and discussing what to order, throwing the occasional idea to just order one of everything and to hell with it. After probably what was a too long time for such a discussion, Scott took everyone’s orders and let the others go find a table.

After standing in line for probably five minutes they were next, and the employee, despite her awestruck face and shocked behavior, took their order in stride.

“Hi, could we please have 3, no wait, 4 Big Macs, 3 cheeseburgers, 2 BBQ Crispy Onions, 1 Chicken Tenders, 6 large black coffees, 8 large curly fries, 5 milkshakes, 3 vanilla, 1 chocolate and 1 strawberry; 2 Caesar Salads, 1 Happy Meal and 10 apple pies. Oh and 1 vanilla scone. Thanks”, he said, looking from the menu to the wide-eyed guy and his fellow wide-eyed coworkers and giving them a smile.

The cashier smiled back and uttered a small comment on how their order would be delivered to their table as soon as it got out. With another smile, Scott took off towards his brothers and their table to wait for the food.

The establishment was medium sized and there were quite a few customers, so they had to grab one of the few tables big enough for them and all their food, an 8-person table in the middle of the place.

When he got there, he gave each of his brothers a large soda paper cup and went to the soda machine to serve his, not the healthiest thing to drink but meh. His brothers followed him and served themselves before returning to their table.

“Well, I don’t know you guys, but I think we deserved this after pulling that long ass rescue” said Gordon before taking a sip of his soda. “Language” said Scott while grabbing a napkin and passing it to John, who was trying and failing to clean a smudge of dry dirt in his left cheek.

“I love how you always criticize us for our language Scotty, like you weren´t in the Air Force and have definitely heard or said worse” commented Virgil, prompting a laugh out of Gordon and causing Alan to choke on his coke.

“Alright, I’m going to the bathroom” said John while getting up and patting Alan’s back, who was still choking on his coke and wheezing for breath. Virgil stood and followed his redhead brother to the bathroom; seeing the flash of a camera go off out of his periphery vision, Gordon sighed before turning to look at Alan.

“What the hell Allie just breathe, it’s not that hard!” Alan glared at the aquanaut while taking a gulp of his soda and managing to take a deep breath without choking, and then reaching up to his shoulder and unclasping his chest plate, letting it fall on the chair next to him. At the questioning looks he just shrugged his shoulders and said “What? It gets claustrophobic after a while; you try wearing that thing for 17 hours in a row and then we can talk”.

Scott blinked once before turning to look at John and Virgil’s figures, making the trek back from the bathroom; when his brothers were close enough Scott realized that Virgil had the top half of his uniform around his hips, the blue sleeves tied around his middle to keep the whole thing from falling, his flannel and white undershirt the only clean thing in sight.

He thought about making a comment about how they were supposed to respect the uniform and be presentable while in public or something like that, but that would be a lie because, like all his brothers, Scott had left his baldric in One and it’s not like keeping their uniforms would help to ‘keep their image’ when they were all sprawled on the plastic chairs at McDonald’s.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

45 minutes and probably too much food to be healthy later, they were all silently looking at nothing, all trapped in their own thoughts to pay attention to what was happening around them.

Picking at the leftover milkshake in front of him Gordon spoke up, “Do you guys remember that time, back at the farm, when we tried to sneak out in the middle of the night to get ice cream and Grandma found us because we wanted to take the car and none of us could drive so we tried to push it out the driveway and ended up slamming it against the wall?”.

Four pair of eyes turned to look at him before Alan burst out laughing, Scott, John and Virgil chuckling softly. “I remember that it was YOU who tried to sneak out and we were just trying to stop you” said John, pointing at Alan and Gordon with a look that clearly said ‘cut the bullshit’, and raising an eyebrow when the aquanaut only smiled.

“Meh, tomato tomahto;” chuckled Gordon before throwing an arm around Alan’s shoulders and pulling him close “we did good that night Allie and we shall forever remember how you got us out of trouble with your quick thinking and adorable baby cheeks”. The young astronaut slapped away Gordon’s hand when he tried to pinch his cheeks.

“Get off me Gordo, and if you ever try to do that in front of people again, I’m tying you to Three and taking you to Jupiter and leaving you there”. Hissed Alan while shoving off his brothers arm and straightening in his chair.

“All right, that’s it, let’s go” said Scott while signaling to the waitress for the check and turning to his brothers “we should be getting back and it’s going to be a long trip”. He took out his credit card and handed it to the waitress before smiling and telling her to add a generous tip; taking his card back he got up and signaled for his brothers to follow.

Groans and sights followed but they all got up and gathered the multiple trays to take to the trash in their way out, leaving the table almost as not quite spotless as it was when they arrived. The cameras, flashes and whispers followed them all the way to the parking lot before they crossed the street and walking towards the Thunderbirds.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It really wasn’t a surprise, but Scott had thought the message would have been sent an hour ago, not just now.

Colonel Casey: Scott Carpenter Tracy you better have a good explanation for this.

Right under the text was the picture of a news article, the headline reading:

INTERNATIONAL RESCUE SAVING RESTAURANT FROM GOING BANKRUP: TRACY BROTHERS SPOTTED AT MCDONALD’S ORDERING ENOUGH FOOD TO PAY FOR THE RESTAURANTS EXPENSES OF AT LEAST A YEAR

Oh well, thought Scott, we probably did anyway.

#alan tracy #gordon tracy #john tracy #scott tracy #virgil tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015

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tundrainafrica · 4 years

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Title: A Tale of Two Slaves (1/17)

Summary: "Soulmates don’t exist. Fate doesn't exist. Everything is a choice." At that moment, Levi could only watch as she made the choice for him."

Reincarnation AU. Levi remembers everything from their past life. Hange doesn't.

Note: This has been sitting on my computer untouched for a while, along with the timeline I prepared for a multichapter fic. Will probs go back to it soon. Feedback is very much appreciated.

Other Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Link to cross-postings: AO3

In dreams people only see faces they already know.

It was an interesting fact Levi had probably come across, lazily scrolling through his social media timelines or opening countless tabs after getting into some Wikipedia blackhole in between the long days of schools and the short nights asleep.

He spent a fair amount of time on the internet, reading up about whatever bullshit politics came up with, controversies and bathroom reader fun facts. During his first year of college, it had stuck to him for a time. Maybe because it just seemed too unrealistic, too unbelievable.

After all, ever since he had started college, he felt like he had been dreaming of more and more unfamiliar faces. It could have been attributed at least to the fact that he was exposed to more people in a crowded city than he had been in the small town he grew up in. As time went by, these faces he barely recognized though, had become the main actors in his dream.

The long haired boy with the elvish features. The man with the clean cut appearance and a glint of mischief in his eyes. The oriental girl with subtle European features. The cheeky girl with a beat up pair of glasses and unkempt hair.

They and many others had been regulars in his dreams and Levi had come up with names for them already, names he remembered muttering, names he screamed multiple times in his head. By the time he woke up to the four walls of his bedroom a few hours before his first class, they were vague memories, only as intelligible as his view of the world right after waking up.

Some mornings, he had found himself more exhausted than when he had slept. Some mornings, he found his throat sore from screaming. Some days, his eyes were swollen from crying.

He lived alone in a dormitory and he had wanted to infer that it had been homesickness that had made those nightmares possible. He had never really abhorred being alone though, in fact he liked the privacy that came with having his own room.

He quickly shot down that theory and did not think too much about it soon after. His daily life did not give him too much time to ponder such fleeting and abstract of a concept as dreams in between lessons and training.

The dreams never left him, some days they were more vivid than others. After a few years of navigating academics, trainings, and obligations, Levi had gotten used to brushing off that one tear he’d get as he woke up, taking a lozenge to soothe the sore throat or just leaving the lights off in his room to alleviate the pounding headache he would get some mornings.

Daily life and obligations never did allow him the time and space to ponder too much on those dreams. Levi chalked it up to stress and unexplained trauma, easily soothed by ten minutes scrolling through social media or hours reorganizing his room for the third time that week.

Financial and time constraints made it impossible as well to even consider consulting about it and Levi found himself compartmentalizing those dreams into those few hours of sleep he got at night and the one hour he allowed himself each day to adjust to the waking world.

The line blurred one night though when one of those names was nonchalantly mentioned among others.

"Hange Zoe..."

It was just one name in a list recited by their coach before they were all dismissed for the evening. Sandwiched between a few other names before and after it, it wasn't supposed to stand out like that. Oddly, it did.

As Levi rode his bike to his dormitory room after a tiring day of training, he found himself repeating that name again and again. He tried to make sense of the odd familiarity which came with a name he could have sworn he had never heard before.

A family friend? A childhood friend?

Levi entertained those possibilities. Having grown up in a small town, his family friends and childhood friends consisted of everyone in that tight knit community and he could have listed out all their names then and there. She wasn’t part of it.

To at least, satisfy his own curiosity, Levi had sent a message to his parents before going to sleep. Just in case he had met her before.

Levi woke up the next morning, his throat a little scratchier, his body a little more tired. The first thing he did was check his phone.

Hange Zoe wasn’t a family friend.

Levi put the covers over himself and closed his eyes. His head was pounding and his chest was heavy. He had only noticed a moment later that his eyes were wet, his breaths were coming out in heaves.

What did I dream about this time?

Levi needed the whole morning to recover.

A Tale of Two Slaves

Levi managed at least to drag himself out of bed for afternoon training. By then, others have already started warming up. Levi wondered if he would be able to carry his body through a warm up jog, given his state only a few hours ago.

In the end, getting the jog done became a matter of discipline more than anything else and he had finished well above everyone else.

He had always been faster, given his smaller build and he had the natural muscle and athletic skill to be versatile as well. That was what made him stand out as the best athlete in the track and field team. He never cared too much either way about the admiration many of his teammates held towards him.

The recurring nightmares and the aftermaths of these though had left Levi averse to human interaction. Ironically, as he moved away from his small town and into the bigger city, his world had gotten smaller. Levi found himself keeping his world only wide enough to win track and field events and pass classes.

No man could really ever be an island though, no matter how much they try. Levi soon found that out when he saw that aforementioned Hange Zoe on the side of the track, talking to one of their coaches.

“This is Hange Zoe.”

“You can call me Hange.”

Levi did not need that quick introduction his coach had just given him. Somehow, the name and the face just clicked inside him. He looked expectantly at his coach and back at Hange.

Hange held out her hand to him and smiled. “I heard you’re the best one in the team. Coach Greg spoke highly of you.”

Levi narrowed his eyes at her. “What's she doing here?”

“Didn’t I tell you last time? Some of the premed students wanted to do case studies on athletes here for their final thesis. If you could help them out?” The coach turned to Hange. “Levi here is one of our best jumpers. He holds a pretty good record for sprinting, hurdles and throwing events as well.”

“Your jogging form looks amazing! I’d love to see you in action.”

Levi was not prepared for the invasion of privacy that came a second after. Hange held both of his hands towards her and leaned closer towards him. Before Levi could even stop himself, he had pushed her away and ran, the screaming of his coach to come back had become mere muffled screams in the background.

The only reason Levi did drag himself to training was for the fact that it was still one of the few hobbies he found complete calm yet complete liberation in. Those few moments after launching himself up in the air, those magical few moments high up in the air with only the empty sky above him, Levi felt free.

As Levi powered through, he found within him a burst of energy, built up from an idle morning cooped up in his room.

He had done those same drills so many times before. The excitement he got from flying through the air and running easily took over whatever exhaustion and rattledness plagued him only a second ago. He let his body memory guide him through each drill, concentrating his consciousness on other things like the cool wind on his skin as he shot through the track and the purple sky that stretched above as he performed horizontal jumps.

If Levi had been any more aware of his surroundings, he would have noticed his teammates leaving the track one by one. Maybe, he would have noticed as he started moving to the hurdles that the purple sky was slowly turning into a dark blue and the scenery around him was becoming just a little more than shadows.

It was nothing new. Levi had stayed behind to work on other skills multiple times and his coach and teammates had just learned to leave the club room open. Levi would leave an extra thirty minutes to an hour later than his companions,

At that training though, with little incentive to break away from that small bubble he had built for himself, not a lot of things could have broken his concentration. Fifteen minutes into his hurdles exercises, the distraction came. Levi was raising one leg, positioning himself to jump a hurdle when he caught a shadow from his peripherals.

Someone had been watching him in the dark.

He was alone. Or he was supposed to be alone at least.

The combination of those realizations and the exhaustion that threatened to take over Levi only caused Levi to stumble on the hurdle in front of him and fall forward onto cold ground.

“Hey! You okay?”

It was that same voice from that same conversation Levi had walked away from just an hour ago. The voice was as loud and as annoying as it was an hour ago that even when his shadow was still a good few meters away, Levi remembered how it felt with her forehead once again pressed on his and her grip on his two hands.

Levi was frozen on the ground, his body still in shock at the sudden loss of control and the whiplash of what he had just imagined.

“That looked painful.” Her voice was softer than it was a second ago. Hange put her hand on his.

Levi pulled away instinctively, and winced as his palms protested the quick action. Levi looked at his palms. In the dim light, he could see three long gashes lined up in the middle. Blood was starting to come out as well.

Levi was exhausted. The impact and the aftermath of falling on the ground, front first and the friction burns that followed, only further drained what was left of his energy.

By the time Hange helped him up by the shoulders Levi was almost motionless, the small movements he made were carefully calculated for fear of aggravating the dull pain.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

A Tale of Two Slaves

“Sorry about a while ago… People say I’m just a little too intimidating but I just get really excited about these types of things. You had such a good running form. You jump so high. You get a really good height above the hurdles… “ Hange gave him a consoling look. “Except that last one.”

Hange was closer to him than what Levi would have preferred at first. Oddly, he had gotten used to it quickly enough, particularly because he had no other choice.

The gashes on his palms were bloody and painful. With little to no means to bandage them himself, he was left to rely on the only person there and as Levi soon found out, she had problems with maintaining a comfortable social distance from people.

And she never stopped talking.

“Are the bandages too tight?” Hange asked, in between other ramblings Levi had tuned out.

“‘No.” The only words Levi had said since they had arrived in the club room fifteen minutes ago.

“Okay, let’s move on to your knees.”

Levi had not surveyed the damage himself but he guessed it was probably worse than his palms from Hange’s concerned frown.

“You’re gonna need stitches for this. The clinic probably isn’t open so you might have to go to the hospital… We could call a taxi and---”

“You’re a pre-med student, can’t you do it yourself?”

Hange blushed. “You trust me to do it?”

"A trip to the hospital will just be a waste of time." Levi admitted.

Hange rummaged deeper into the first aid kit. "This is gonna be painful though."

Better than taking a trip to the hospital now. Levi braced himself for it and decided to distract himself from the discomfort of the whole ordeal.

“How does it feel? Flying in the sky like that?” Hange asked. At that point, Hange had started to talk more purposefully, as if she wanted to get a point across to him.

Levi guessed that it was all an attempt to distract him from the mini operation she was giving him. From his angle, Levi could not see the extent of the injuries, nor did he want to. The pain was bearable, although it was still much worse than what he would have considered a discomfort.

“I’ve always wanted to take a sport like that, maybe gymnastics, maybe figure skating or track and field? That’s the closest people can get to flying right?” Hange was asking too many questions but it was obvious she was not expecting answers.

Her words flowed as smoothly as the movement of the needle and thread he could see from his angle.

Something about the way she talked to him was comforting and eventually Levi had almost completely relaxed, the pain of needle to torn skin a distant memory. He lay back on the bench and closed his eyes, focusing not on her words but instead on the familiar warm tone as she spoke.

The sensation of needle to skin, the burning pain, the dizziness that followed. They were all too familiar. All accompanied by that familiar warm voice.

Maybe we should just live here together. Right Levi?

If we keep running and hiding, what will that get us.

Hange's voice tore into his daydream. “What do you mean? Are you running from something?"

#levihan #levi ackerman #hange zoe #levi x hange #fanfic

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rogerslovesstark · 5 years

Text

Don’t Love You Anymore

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Warning: Angst, Fluff

Words: 3k

“What are you trying to say, Steve?”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t love you anymore,”

Your mind was reeling, was this really happening? Was he really leaving you when you needed him most? You had found out you were pregnant only a couple of hours ago. You wanted to surprise Steve with a little joke you had found online. It wouldn’t even matter now, he doesn’t love you anymore.

Your hands were shaking while tears built up in your eyes, the sobs in your throat ready to flow out. You wanted to know what had happened? What changed from last week as he had told you that he would never leave you, and it would always be you two.

“What changed?” You whispered, if you tried to speak any louder, you would be crying loudly.

Steve sucked in a harsh breath, “I don’t know Y/n, I just don’t anymore,”

You nodded your head, and went into your bedroom and packed your bag. While throwing in clothes into your bag, you started to cry quietly. It hurt to leave, you had just passed your third anniversary. You had moved in with Steve a year ago, on your second anniversary. Guess it didn’t matter anymore, he didn’t love you anymore.

You swiftly got your bag ready, you walked out of your bedroom, over to the door, leaving your keys on the catch-all tray. You couldn’t bear to stay in the apartment any longer. Steve’s head shot up when he heard your keys hit the tray.

“Where are you going?” He asked without thinking, it was a habit for him to ask where you were going, constantly worrying for you and where you were going. You didn’t look over at him, he didn’t need to know anymore. You shrugged and left without a single word.

Steve sat back on the couch, head in his hands, feeling hollow and a shell of a person. The apartment had already felt colder without you in it, you were normally humming a tune softly, but it was silent, only the hum of electricity to be heard.

8 months later

Steve had landed from a mission, it was only supposed to a few week recon mission, turned into a full-blown undercover stakeout. He went back to his apartment, opening the door to a cold apartment. A shiver ran up his spine, subconsciously looking at the gleam of your keys on the tray. Steve felt his chest caved in at the reminder of what had happened before he left.

Where were you know? What were you doing? Were you doing alright? Steve went over to his desktop, searching your name up in the search engine.

There were no results about you, not even a social media link. You had loved social media, were always on it. The cute pictures of you were constantly posted between the two of you. He pulled out his phone to open his Instagram, looking up your name, to not find anything.

Did you delete your Instagram? He had looked through his own feed, the last picture of you sitting at a fancy restaurant table, smiling brightly at his phone. You looked so lovely that night, a pretty white dress and you looked like an angel. Steve was sure that he swooned every time you had smiled at him.

Steve put everything down and walked towards the bathroom which was connected to the bedroom. It hit Steve like a truck when he walked in and didn’t see your socks on the floor. You always left your socks on the floor because your feet were always cold and you wouldn’t take your socks off until you were about to go to sleep.

Tears filled his eyes as he looked around the bedroom and he couldn’t even smell your scent on the sheets anymore. A choked sob left his throat, you were really gone. You had left and didn’t come back. What else was he to expect, he told you to leave, he told you that he didn’t love you anymore.

Steve did love you, he truly did, breaking your heart like that was one of his biggest regrets, the basis of the mission was for a man who had threatened you and Steve, and he wanted to investigate. It would do more harm if you were together than if you were separated, so Steve broke up with you, what a mistake that was.

Steve walked to the bathroom, tears streaming down his face, and noticed the garbage was overflowing. He forgot to take out the trash before he left. Trying to get all the trash out, he noticed a pregnancy test, his heart dropped to his ass. No, you couldn’t have been pregnant. You would have told him.

It was positive. You were pregnant when he told you he didn’t love you. Steve needed to find you, where were you? Steve forgot about the shower, he grabbed his keys and got onto his bike, rushing to the tower to get FRIDAY to locate you and make sure you were okay.

++++

Steve stared at the computer screen in the lab. There was no trace of you at all, it was like you never existed. FRIDAY had said that there was no record of a Y/n L/n in their database, which was ridiculous because Steve had granted you security access to the building. Steve felt a cold sweat break out across the back of his neck. Tears pooled into his eyes, you couldn’t have disappeared like this without help.

Steve ran to Tony’s lab, hoping he would have an idea of where you were. Without even knocking, he barged into Tony’s lab, seeing his friend on the phone with someone.

++++

“Tony, the baby and I are fine, thank you for calling again for the third time today, but I promise if I need anything, I’ll call you,” You told Tony through the phone.

“Actually got to go, we’ll talk later,” Tony snappishly said before he disconnected the call, you rolled your eyes at his tone, smiling knowing he was annoyed that you denied his help yet again.

After you left Steve, you called Tony sobbing and he took you in. Tony was your closest friend besides Steve. He had picked you up and brought you to a small home close to Lake Erie. It wasn’t much, just a two-bedroom home 15 minutes from the lake.

You had given birth to Tobias Joseph Rogers last month, and it was like he was a photocopy of Steve. He had come out screaming and wailing at 7 lbs, 13oz and 21 inches, on July 4, 20XX. Just like his father. You cried for the majority of your pregnancy and the only reason you took care of yourself was for the safety of the baby.

Postpartum depression was also a concern for you because you were depressed during your pregnancy and you feared that you would still be depressed while raising your sweet little boy. He never cried, only fussed when he was hungry or soiled his diaper. Toby was sleeping right now, and he wouldn’t wake up for another 40 minutes so you began to clean up around the small house.

++++

“Who you on the phone with?” Steve asked, hoping he would say you. Tony looked at him shocked.

“When did you get back Cap?” Tony asked monotonously, secretly fuming inside, Steve had broken your heart and left you for dead, and here he was without a scratch on him.

“Couple of hours ago, was that Y/n? Do you know where she is?” Steve asked, a hopeful look in his eyes, Tony wanted to crush that hope out, Steve didn’t deserve you, you were too perfect for him.

“No, a business partner,” Tony knew you didn’t want to see the Captain, you specifically asked for all information about you to be erased from the system and the internet. You knew that Steve didn’t want to be in your lives anymore so it would be better to just disappear.

All hope Steve had was completely put out, you had disappeared. His heart was breaking so quickly, he was surprised that he didn’t collapse to the floor due to all the heartbreak. Tears began streaming down his face, his breath shaking at the thought of losing you, and your child.

Tony watched Steve shake and cry in the middle of his lab, awkwardly he went over and put his hand on the super-soldiers shoulder. He sympathizes with Steve, he really did, he knew what it was like to lose the woman you love.

“Please Tony, do you know where she is, I miss her so much, I had to go on a mission, they threatened her. They wanted to kill her because of me, please you gotta believe me!” Steve sobbed, wanting nothing more than to just hold you and beg for your forgiveness.

“Who threatened her?”Tony asked, his hands clenching at the thought of someone hurting you and that cute baby of yours. That little boy had stolen Tony's heart the moment he was born.

“Hydra, where the hell do you think I’ve been these past 8 months?” Steve shouted.

“Why the fucked didn’t you anything before you dumb fuck, that poor woman spent so long crying over you, thinking that you didn’t love her anymore.” Tony shoved Steve, and Steve took a step back, knowing Tony was protective of you.

“They would have killed her if anyone knew, it was for the best if we weren’t together while I looked for the person who threatened her,” Steve said exasperated, tired from fighting and not having you home to comfort him.

“Follow me, you stupid shit”

++++

You heard the jet before you saw anything, the noise had startled and he woke up whining, annoyed to be woken up from his afternoon nap. You quickly scooped the baby into your arms hoping to settle him and get him back to sleep, because if he didn’t finish his nap, he would be cranky until bedtime.

After numerous attempts of trying to put him down, he wouldn’t stop whining, only when you took him into your arms and held him.

“You such a mamas boy Toby,” You said softly to the infant, his eyes open and staring at you in wonder. You heard knocking on your door, you just knew it was Tony, he had called earlier and he always came by when he called.

“Let’s go see Uncle Tony baby,”

As you walked down the stairs, you heard two voices arguing softly behind the door, this worried you because you knew Tony always came alone, it might be the neighbors, they would stop by once in a while to check on you and see if you needed any help.

When you open the door, you felt your heart stop momentarily. There he was, in all his American glory, Captain America, Steve Rogers at your door, Tony standing next to him, a sheepish smile on his face. You glared at Tony, how could he do this to you.

Steve stared at the small bundle in your arms, that was your baby, the baby that you had grown without Steve there to help you. Steve looked up at you, you looked as beautiful as ever, skin glowing and your hair looked better than ever. It was like Steve was in a trance while staring at you.

Tony was the first one to break the awkward silence, “Sweetheart, you got to let him explain,”

“Like hell, I will, what the hell do you two want?” You said hostilely, holding Toby tighter to your body.

“Doll, let me explain, please,” Steve begged, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around you and hug and kiss you till dawn. To hold his baby and kiss, hold, cuddle him.

You looked reluctantly at Tony and then at Steve, you handed the baby over to Tony where he quickly gathered him and bolted to the nursery room.

“Come in,” You quietly said, leading Steve to your cozy living room. It was minimally decorated, not much inside besides a sectional and a coffee table, a small flat screen tv mounted on the wall. It wasn’t much but it was enough for you and the baby, to keep you from your thoughts when the baby was down and you didn’t want to go to sleep yet.

Steve walked in the house, it had the same aura as the apartment when you both lived there. It was small and it felt like home. Steve started tearing up, he felt out of place, exiled from your heart. But he was the one who told you that he wasn’t in yours anymore. Watching you walk through the corridor, made him feel so left out.

You both sat on the couch, you never made eye contact with Steve, you feared if you did you would end up forgiving him.

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?” You ask softly, nervous to even be talking, what if he came to take away Toby? Your hands cliché at that idea, nobody was taking your baby away from you.

Steve noticed your hands and just stared at you, “Doll, let's just talk, please,” He said desperately, he picked up on the fact that you flinched when he had called you doll, his heart cracking. All Steve wanted to do was to reach out and hold you, just have you in his lap and breathe in your scent.

“Okay, what happened? I thought you didn’t love me anymore?” You whispered, bring up those words practically tore your heart.

“Y/n, I lied okay? I loved you and I still do. So much. Hydra threatened to kill you, the both of us, that's why I told you that, I thought it would be safer for the both of us if we weren’t together, they most likely had our apartment bugged, so I had to make it believable, please you have to believe me.” Steve pleaded.

You looked at the blond in shock, they had bugged the apartment, how, when? Did they know where she was right now? You stiffened up, worried that they knew where you were and they would come hurt Toby.

“Do they know where we are?” You whispered

“No, I took them all out.”

“By yourself?”

“I did what I had to do to protect the ones I love,” Steve said while taking your hand in his.

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“Doll they bugged the apartment if I told you they would have for sure killed us, I needed to make sure that we would both be safe and then take them down,” Steve explained, you seemed to be understanding the idea now. “When did you have him?” Steve asked you, dying to meet the baby.

“Last month, he was born on July 4th, like his father,” You told him, watching as his eyes filled with tears and his heart broke even more.

“are you alright?” Steve asked you, concerned that the pregnancy had caused any damage to your body. You had to go through that all alone, the hormones, the cravings, he missed watching you grow with his child.

“I’m fine, it was quick labor and delivery, only took 2 hours, eager like his father,” You said while smiling, thinking about your cute baby boy. “so what happens now?” You asked.

“Can I meet our baby?” Steve asked quietly, desperate to hold his son. You nod your head and lead him up the stairs, to the nursery where Tony and the baby were. Opening the door to see Tony laying on the floor with the baby on his chest. Toby was gurgling and making a face that you recognized, you quickly grabbed the baby and a towel, throwing it over your shoulder and burping him.

“Did he throw up on me?” Tony asked Steve, Steve couldn’t even pay attention to anything that Tony had said, too entranced by his son trying to burp. Hearing the small noise of him passing gas, Steve smiled and walked over to you two. Tony quickly stood up and left the room silently, not wanting to have to face the upcoming drama.

You feel Steve standing behind you, you turn towards him, his eyes silently asking you to hold the baby. You help Steve maneuver the baby into his arms. Steve starts to break down at the feeling of his son in his arms.

“What's his name?” Steve asked you.

“Tobias Joseph Rogers, Toby for short”

“You named him after my dad?” Steve asked, teary-eyed. You nodded, Steve was touched you named the baby with intention, even if you didn’t know if Steve was coming back.

“Doll, I know that I hurt you, but please, let me back in, I swear on my life that I’ll protect you two,” Steve begged you, wanting nothing more than to hold you and the baby and to call you a family.

“I don’t know Steve, you broke my heart, I can’t do it again,” You whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to protect yourself from him. You wanted to try again, but you were scared, what if he left again?

“You won't have to, I will never leave you, please just let me try,” He begged you, hoping that you missed him as he misses you.

“Okay, one more chance, but your doing diapers for the next 6 months,” You said sternly.

Steve felt his heart swell, he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you towards him with a searing kiss, he had missed your kisses and your touch.

“I promise, I will never leave you again, baby, never again,” Steve whispered against your lips.

You pecked his lips and took the baby from his arms, putting him down in his crib, seeing he was already falling asleep in his father's arms. Once the baby was down, Steve grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder, pacing to the bedroom.

“Steve!” You squealed, he slapped your ass and growled out, “Let’s work on getting another baby inside you,”

++++

Tony heard the bed frame smacking the wall and rolled his eyes and let out a quiet “Nasty fucking idiots”

#Steve Rogers #angst #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers angst #captain america #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america angst #captain america fluff #steve rogers fluff #captain rogers angst #captain rogers fluff #tony stark #ironman

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years

Note

do you have any fics of john flirting with sherlock over text? maybe sherlock being utterly clueless? thank you & and much luv ❤️

Hi Nonny!!!

Ahhhhhhhhhh AGES ago, I did an Epistolary / Texting / Letters fic rec list, back before I had A System™, so it’s a bit messy but it is there :) I don’t have a lot of new ones to add to it, BUT I decided I would pull all the Texting fics from that list since I now have neater organization with tags and Chapters, and then just add my NEW fics onto that one, how about that? Would that be okay? It wouldn’t be specifically just flirting, but I think that the list is long overdue anyway!! Hope you like something on this one, and I’ll TRY to tag the flirting fics WITH flirting so that you can pick them out :)

And as always, add your own fics, Lovelies!! <3

TEXTING AND SEXTING (JULY 2020)

See also:

Epistolary / Texting / Letters (My List, 2017)

First Meeting Via Internet / Phone / Letters (Mine)

Phone Sex & Texting (Alexx’s List)

Wrong Number Texting (Alexx’s List)

They Met Online or Texting (Alexx’s List)

Message Not Sent by Queerasil (K, 762 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, One-Sided Texting, Pining Sherlock) - Sherlock texts John after the fall and during the hiatus. The messages are sent, but never received. Sequel to WORDLOCKED, TSTM, and Wait, How Do You Play This Game Again?

Texts and Tea by JillianWatson1058 (K, 959 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Texting, Humour, Fluff, POV John, Cranky John) – A John who is woken up at 2:30 in the morning is not a happy John. Sherlock, frankly, doesn’t care. He just wants his tea.

Untouchable by greengrapegaze (T, 1,368 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-S3, UST/URT, Oblivious John, Lonely Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock) – “He never would. Petty, childish, immature-bitter. Jealous. She had all that he wanted. All he could never have.” Part 1 of Steps to a Bittersweet Symphony

Yorkshire Gold by Tammany Tiger (K, 1,467 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Holmes Brothers, Open Ending, Grief, Implied Bondlock) – Mycroft may not mourn Sherlock's death-but even if he knows his brother lives, he's not without his own grief. It ain't easy being The British Government. But at least he's got good help. Set between the Fall and the Return.

Text Me When It's Over by immaculately-flawed (K+, 1,937 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Humour, Post-TRF, Texting, Sort-Of Pining Sherlock) – After the fall Sherlock starts writing texts to John. Of course, he never sends them... Until he does by accident. Post Reichenbach fic but not angsty.

Denial Isn’t Just a River in Egypt by satanatemycat (T, 2,107 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Texting, Bored/Cranky Sherlock) – In which John makes a bet with a co-worker. If he wins, she shuts up about him and Sherlock being a couple. If he loses… well, that doesn’t matter, because he won’t lose. Because he and Sherlock ARE NOT a couple. Right?

The Art Of Communication by StillWaters1 (T, 2,679 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, H/C) – Lestrade was used to getting odd, non sequitur texts from Sherlock. But when "John went out for milk" was followed by a terse "two hours ago," Lestrade immediately understood three things: John was missing, Sherlock was quietly panicking, and this could all end very, very badly.

Unquantifiable by 221b_hound (M, 2,799 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Grumpy John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Pet Names, Texting, Sweet Sherlock, Princess Bride References) – John remains a terrible and foul-tempered patient, but he does try to make up for it with pet names and text message silliness. In the meantime, Sally Donovan visits Baker Street for a hint about the Milverton case, and has to deal with a Sherlock Holmes who can't find words big enough to thank her for saving John's life at the warehouse. For afters, there's a viewing of The Princess Bride. Part 33 of the Unkissed series

The Sweetest Taste In The World by crossroads (G, 3,121 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Jealous Sherlock, Fluff, Pining, Friends to Lovers) – The sweetest taste in the world is rarely ever the easiest to come by.

Entanglement by orphan_account (G, 3,218 w., 1 Ch. || Confessions, Physics, Metaphors, Texting, Pining, Christmas, Mind Palace, Sick Fic, Fluff, Humour, Praise Kink) - On Christmas Eve, snow covers London, John visits Harry, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson untangle some knots.

Come home. by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles) (E, 3,763 w., 1 Ch. || Texting / Sexting, Lonely Sherlock, Nude Photos, Pining, Fluff & Smut) – When John leaves for a medical conference, Sherlock tries to entice him back home.

Happy anniversary by Salambo06 (E, 3,772 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Vulnerable Sherlock, Wedding Anniversary, Anal, Texting, Lingerie) – John inhaled deeply, feeling his cock pulse under the silk gown, and he let his eyes travel on the lean body in front of him. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, their bed, and the picture had been taken so John could perfectly see his bare chest and pelvis. But what mattered most, what made John harden rather quickly, was the pair of panties Sherlock was wearing in the picture. Black, string over each hip and laces that outlined Sherlock’s erect cock barely hidden under the soft underwear.

Lingerie by Sexxica (E, 4,135 w., 1 Ch. || Valentine’s Day, Lingerie / Women’s Underwear, Mildly Public Masturbation, Picture Texting / Sexting, Bottomlock, Body Worship, Anal Sex / Fingering, Rimming, Orgasm Delay / Denial, Est. Rel.) – It's Valentines Day and Sherlock is taking John to Angelo's for dinner. Sherlock also happens to be wearing a garter belt, stockings and a rather small pair of women's underwear under his clothes. There's no dessert at Angelo's because John needs to get Sherlock home just as quickly as he can before they both lose their minds entirely.

If He Knows by shamelessmash (M, 4,513 w., 1 Ch. || TSo3 Fic, Pining Sherlock, Bed Sharing, Angst, First Person Sherlock POV, Texting, Internal Monologue, Blanket Forts) – I imagine mornings: John handing me a cup of tea, hair sticking out at odd angles. How he would bend down to kiss me, smiling fondly as he pulls away. The way his skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the way his skin looks in the morning light. The soft sigh as he sits in his chair with the morning paper, the way his toes curl in the carpet, the way he rolls his shoulders before sinking deeper into his seat. I watch him, how he is when he is content, as it should be. As he deserves. Happy. With me.

Tease You Till You Come by phoenix089 (E, 6,090 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Clueless Sherlock, Sexting/Texting) – Initially, Sherlock was rather put out by John's lack of presence on the case. But then he starts to receive pictures, several of them, of an unexpected nature. The case is forgotten rather quickly after that.

What Did I Do Wrong? by Starlight05 (T, 7,880 w., 5 Ch. || Hurt Comfort, Angst, John Whump, Hospitalization, Worried Sherlock, Emotional Turmoil, Nightmares, Sherlock Being Dumb) - After John almost dies on a case, Sherlock disappears. So John is left to figure out what he can do to get his best friend back. Meanwhile Sherlock, guilt-ridden and willingly alone, is doing everything he can to stay away.

Bread and Wine and Curry Once a Week by cwb (E, 8,737 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Stroppy Sherlock, Love Letters, POV John) – Sherlock asks John for relationship advice. Little does he know that it’s him that Sherlock is in love with.

A Building of Bridges by Unique (K, 12,325 w., 3 Ch. || Drama, Alternate First Meeting, John’s PTSD / Flashbacks, Mute John, Dialogue-Heavy, Caring Sherlock, Friendship) – No one would ever send Sherlock in to diffuse a stand-off; but on one unlikely day, that's exactly what happened. "Congratulations, Lestrade," he called out sarcastically. "You're traumatizing a war veteran."

A Brand of Gold by aquabelacqua (M, 12,757 w., 1 Ch. || Mutual Pining, POV John, Phone Sex, Texting, Masturbation, Long Distance, Drunk Texting) – What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: Flirting. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there. He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes.

Traitor's Gate by roane (E, 17,714 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mystery, Bets and Wagers, Undercover for a Case, BAMF John, Scientist Sherlock, Teasing, Established Relationship, Military Base, Sexting/Texting, Military/Uniform Kink, Frottage, Dirty Sex, Anal, Bottomlock) – John and Sherlock go undercover at a top secret government lab to find out who is selling research. John is back in uniform and Sherlock is back in a laboratory, but they have to pose as strangers. Sherlock thinks he'll have an easy time of it, but John has his doubts. It's up to them to find out who is responsible for putting a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands, and try to keep their hands off each other at the same time.

The Real Meaning of Idioms by feverishsea (T, 21,691 w., 13 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Texting, Humour, Post-TRF, Awkward Romance, Idiots in Love) - After two weeks away, John finally texts Sherlock. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to respond. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to keep texting him. And he really doesn’t expect things to spiral out of control so rapidly.

A Study In Auto-Signatures, Sniper Dolphins, and Sex Holidays by cwb (E, 32,689 w., 8 Ch. || Case Fic, Post S3, Evil Mary, Dev. Rel., Beach Holidays, Confused Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Honeymoon, Epistolary, Bottomlock, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Secret Agents, BAMF!John) – John and Mary go on their sex holiday, and Sherlock is grumpy and pining about it. Part 1 of HOT DOLPHIN SEX

A Week is Just Seven Days Isn't It? by scifigrl47 (T, 39,906 w., 4 Ch. || Humour, Friendship/Bromance, Stroppy/Bored Sherlock, Undercover/Army John, Texting, Pining-ish Sherlock, John Whump) – When John heads overseas for a week, Sherlock's forced to fend for himself. It goes about as well as anyone could have anticipated. Which is to say, very, very poorly. Don't worry, things'll be fine in just seven days.

Definitions by siennna (T, 101,528 w., 12 of ? Ch. || Dev. Rel., Pining, Fluff and Romance, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Fluff, Cuddles) – Sherlock’s journey in defining his flat mate and stumbling through the muddled world of emotion. {{This feels complete; the chapter count is listed as ? but I feel like it is done}}

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #texting and sexting #my fic recs #Anonymous

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eak8753 · 4 years

Text

Billionaire’s Makeup Artist

He had first seen her when Cass was doing her makeup. Damian had somehow been stuck to take Cassandra to a halloween party, and she was running late. Barging into her room he was assaulted by the pigments on his adopted sister’s face. She was supposed to be a...clown? He really couldn’t tell, not until he looked towards her laptop on her vanity.

There was a small girl, around his age with black hair in a sleek ponytail, reds and black adorning her face. She looked kinda scary, but Damian assumed that was the goal. So Cass was trying to be a clown, a scary clown. She however, looked nothing like the girl. Fed up, she took a makeup wipe and removed her makeup, then applied red lipstick to her lips and on her nose. Sighing as she looked up at him, this was the best it would get. Standing up they left and Damian drove her to the party, all the while having an image of the clown girl in his mind.

That had almost been a year ago

He found the girl’s Youtube channel, finding that she was indeed, his age (17). Her name, at least on the channel, was Raven. She posted makeup look videos, some of her more popular ones were “Maleficent Inspired Makeup Look” and the clown video Cass had been watching. She posted on Friday’s around 4:00 pm. She had a decent amount of subscribers when he first started watching her, 650K, and he wanted nothing more than for her to blow up.

Seeing as he had quite a few sisters, and had lived with Dick Grayson (who was a bigger gossip than Vicky Vale) he knew the basics of the amount of drama and toxicity of the makeup community on YouTube. He doubted she would be involved with any of that, but it wasn’t like he knew her.

In fact all he knew was what she let on the internet, which wasn’t a whole lot. He had searched for her on other media platforms but either she didn’t have any, or they were photos of her looks from YouTube. His siblings always asked him why he would watch her, it’s not like he was into makeup and she didn’t talk about anything else in her videos.

To be honest, Damian didn’t know why he had started watching her, maybe it was in the way she looked like she was genuinely enjoying herself or how she had real talent, or maybe it was because she was so damn beautiful that he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

Getting the notification of her weekly upload, Damian made his way to his room and looked at the video title. “We hit 1 Million” with the thumbnail of her with balloons that read out 1,000,000. The video itself was her incorporating some of her “iconic” makeup looks into one, where she did the eyeshadow from her Maleficent video, and lips from her Clown one. Her hair was out in soft waves and had a purple ombré to it. Watching the video he was mesmerized with her voice, it was soft and soothing. At the end of the video the most wicked thought came to mind.

Now Wayne Industries didn’t need sponsors, everyone in Gotham (and all of America) knew who Bruce Wayne was. If it wasn’t for his parents murder when he was 18, or taking over the family business at 22, then it was by the fact that he had more adopted kids then an orphanage. So no, Damian’s father’s company didn’t need to have sponsors, but that didn’t mean that they couldn’t have any.

So he sent Raven an email, pretending to be his father, proposing the idea of a sponsorship. He didn’t know if she would accept, as he had never seen a video where she had done a sponsorship, but it was worth a try. He just hoped his father wouldn’t be too mad about him going behind his back and using the company as a front.

He had told Jon about the idea, who had encouraged him to reach out to her, but wasn’t too thrilled about him lying to his father. She replied to the email the next day saying she didn’t usually do sponsorship deals but was interested in why “Wayne Industries” would want to sponsor a makeup YouTuber and not “anyone else”. Damian had responded saying that “My kids love your channel”.

It wasn’t a complete lie, his sisters did like her channel and he said kids, not daughters.

She had told him that she was appreciative and would be a fool not to accept. So, they worked out the plans of the deal and a few weeks later she posted a video that included his sponsorship. He had never been more happy than when he received an email from her, he just had to make sure father didn’t find out, as the emails were sent using the company’s email. After a week of working together he had decided to ask for her number, as it would be easier to text then email, also making it easier to hide the messages from his father. He made sure to stay in touch with her, and it all seemed to go pretty well. Then the annual Wayne Gala happened.

His father had been pressuring him into bringing a date, the Mayor’s daughter more specifically, but Damian had other ideas in mind. As a “present” for his sisters, he reached out to Raven once more and asked her if she would do they’re makeup, which she had agreed to. He was happy, or at least as happy as Damian Wayne could be. He told his sisters about it, who squealed in excitement and they all waited for the day with baited breath.

Finally the day arrived, and so had she. Bruce had been too busy with getting everything set up to even notice that she was there, Pennyworth however, was firmly displeased with not knowing of the young girl’s arrival, therefore being unprepared.

Damian had told him that he tried doing something nice for his family members and that he should be happy. After he had dealt with the butler he ran out of the kitchen to go greet her, but before he could even walk up to her, she was whisked away by his sisters. It wasn’t until hours later when they were all done that he managed to get some time with her.

She was in his room, which usually would have irked him but for some reason he was fine with it. She was looking at the knives on his wall, completely focused on them. He stared at her for a while until he realized that he should probably say something.

“I got them from the Middle East” he spoke, breaking the trance she was in. She didn’t seem startled nor did she turn around. “They’re very beautiful,” she breathed. Slowly walking up to her, he pulled one from the wall and looked at the inscription on it. “What does it say?” she asked. “Take Care” he mumbled, reading the flowing Arabic on the knife. Sighing, he put it back on the wall and faced her.

Her skin was bare, which was an unusual but not unwelcome sight. How did she manage to be just as beautiful without makeup as she did with makeup? She smirked slightly, cocking her head a bit. Suddenly feeling very conscious, Damian raised an eyebrow, asking what.

“Or nothing, I just didn’t think you’d be into the content I make” she said softly with a small smile. His eyes widened, and he swallowed. “I- I am not” he stammered, defending himself. She motioned to his laptop, which had one of her videos on it. Then she held up his phone, which had the messages he sent her on them.

If it was possible his eyes went even wider before narrowing down. “How did you- how did you do that” he asked her accusingly, taking his phone and slipping it into his pocket. What else was he gonna do, he couldn’t let her put him in a corner. “I stumbled into your room by accident when I saw your laptop. Then I saw your phone, left open to our messages, may I add” inwardly Damian cursed himself, whenever he would feel lonely he’d go back and read their messages, he must have forgotten to close his phone before he left for a snack.

“I-“ he tried to speak, to say anything that could save his face or his father’s company. He couldn’t believe what he had done, using his father’s company to talk to a girl so he could what? Go out with her? Get to know her? Just because he liked her didn’t mean that she would like him, and now all of his planning was ruined because he couldn’t remember to turn off his damn electronics.

He was broken out of his mental scolding by a pair of soft, warm lips pressed against his cheek. Looking down to the shorter girl, he blushed furiously. “I usually don’t do anything after I upload if you, maybe want to hang out?” She wasn’t looking at him but he could see a light pink dust her cheeks.

Before he could say anything, Cass had come into his room dragging Raven out telling her about what makeup look she wanted and asking if Raven could show her a few tricks. It took him a moment after they left that she had just asked him out. Grinning to himself he pulled his phone out. “So, Friday?” He texted, the only answer he got was the light laughter he heard from down the hallway.

—

A/N: I don’t really like this but oh well. So my laptop charger broke meaning I am unable to write using my laptop, and I hate using my phone to write. So expect more one-shot like these :(

#damian x raven #fanfiction #damirae #raven #damian #demon birds #damian wayne #raven roth #i really need to get a new charger #sorry :((((

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argumentl · 4 years

Text

The Freedom of Expression Ep 3 - Michelin Star related suicide.

K: Hi, this is Dir en grey's Kaoru, getting started with the third episode of The Freedom of Expression.

J, T: Yep.

K: Joe Yokomizu san and Tasai san are here again. So, how are we doing, after the second time?

Kami:*interrupts*

J: Ah, He's cutting in early today.

Kami: Yes, yes, yes. Im thinking a lot about my timing.

J: You're entering from every possible angle?

Kami: Yes, thats it.

K: What do you think after the first two episodes? We are on our third today, but does it seem interesting?

K: As a god, im kinda out of things to say.

J: Really?

Kami: Yep

J: You would think a god would know about all sorts of things.

Kami: I don't know all that much. *K laughs* Im studying, Im working on it.

T: Last time, the suspicion arose that he was poverty stricken, didnt it?

J: Yes, he pointed out he was a poverty stricken god.

Kami: I told you not to say that! *K laughs*

T: Sorry..

Kami: Its a problem.

K: After we finished last time, we ended up talking a lot about money, didn't we?

J: Yes, we did. *everyone laughing*

Kami: Yep, yep.

J: After the recording, Kami spoke non stop about money, didn't he? He is really attached to it..for a god. You'd think he'd be the one least interested in that, but he turns out to be the one most interested.

Kami: It wasn't that bad until then. It wasn't like that back on the radio show. It really has become a problem recently.

J: Oh now?

T: I see.

Kami: Yes, now.

K: Right, well, our third episode...

J: Yes, the title is 'Suicide resulting from Michelin stars - In the lawsuit of a former 3 star Michelin star chef, the court rules that....'

This is concerning the Michelin guide which was even popularised in a TV drama last year. In its country of origin, France, there is so much pressure, the fear of losing a star can even lead to suicide. A Chef who lost his third star even filed a lawsuit against Michelin. As for the specific story, Marc Veyrat, who runs the famous restaurant 'La Maison des Bois' in the Alps, recieved the long awaited 3 star rating in 2018. Just one year later, this dropped to a 2 star rating. Veyrat responded angrily, 'The quality of my food hasn't changed at all. Its a mistake in the inspection', and brought the case against Michelin. As well as demading the inspector's qualifications and the report to be made public, as his demotion has led to him to falling into a state of depression, he is suing Michelin for the sum of just 1 Euro, or in yen, 120 yen. He has been telling the media of his discontent that the inspectors could not recognize the cheese Reblochon, from the Savoy region, and probably mistook it for the widely produced cheddar cheese. Nanterre courthouse in the suburbs of Paris responded, that as well as the evaluation of the inspector coming down to freedom of expression, the plaintiff did not show good enough reason that his reputation had been marred. The famous chef was defeated, but the agony of chefs over the star rating is becoming a problem in society. By the way, simply put, the standard for the inspection, or the standard for the stars, is the food only. Not the restaurant interior, or the service. The food is assessed on the following five criteria. 1) The quality of the ingrediants. 2) The level of skill and amount of seasoning. 3) Originality. 4) Cost performance. 5) The consistency of the presented dishes on the whole. This is the same all over the world. As for the meaning of the stars, this is as follows. One star = Food that is particularly delicious within its category. Two stars = Spectacular food that is worth making a detour to have it. Three stars = Excellent food that is worth specifically traveling just to have it. The report is produced by a group consisting of the inspectors, the chief editor and all other responsible parties for the Michelin guide book. Every year they recieved around 45,000 emails and letters from thier readers, which they look through, and sometimes even do re-evaluations. ....Food!

K: Food...

J: Yep...I mean, reputation really controls which restaurants we go to. Kaoru, what do you think?

K: Hmm, well, its an inspection isnt it?

J: Yes, its an inspection.

K: I was in Paris last year. There are loads of these aren't there? * the others laugh*

J: Well, yes. So, he didn't change anything about his food, but his rating still dropped, whats that all about?

K: Isn't it precisely because he didn't do anything new?

J: Oh, could it be that? If others are upping thier game, you will naturally drop.

K: There couldn't really be someone who mistook it for mass produced cheddar cheese.

J: You'd think, wouldn't you?

K: And then, maybe people are just different, no matter what it is. Even if its the same person..

J: Maybe they were feeling bad or something..

K: Hmm, an inspection is...Well, if it was sports or combat sport or something..the observers can easily judge the game, like..oh this one definitely won...But with music, or movies....appraisals of 'things', its different depending on the person isnt it.

J: Yes, you're right.

K: This type of guide is for people who want to expand thier knowledge, the Michelin guide ...For movies it would be the Academy Awards, and there are tv shows doing the same thing. Its just to make things easier for people...so, in the end, it seems like it can't be helped really.

J: Well, thats it, yes. I dont know about Michelin, but Im in the position to do album reviews, so im in the place to award stars...and, its true, if its a genre you like, you just naturally like it, and are prone to jacking up the stars, but if its a genre you don't listen to, you feel unfamiliar and it takes a while to figure out whether its good or bad. So certainly, as for awarding stars.. asking people, well, im just repeating what you said Kaoru, its not objective information. You have to try and think about the aim. If the orgainisation drops a star from you it doesn't necessarily mean you are bad..

K: Its like a contest or that type of thing, you can still see who's winning the game..

J: Like 1-1, you can see whos winning in front of you, the circumstances are a little different from this though.

K: Eventually, won't it affect thier sales though?

J: I think so.

T: Don't you think diners also rely too much on this kind of guide?

K: You can check anything on your smartphone, you don't really know whats true.

J: You don't, there are these restaurant review sites where some people are paid to write good reviews, and some people are paid to write bad reviews, you know, to destroy thier rivals they will write bad stuff...So its difficult to know how far to trust that type of thing. By the way, Kaoru, do you refer to reviews in relation to food, or new music or anything like that?

K: Well, I do, yes. Guides and such...Usually, I get information I want to know from all over the place. I ask people, like..'I want to eat this', or 'I wonder if that place is good' or something, I ask people what they think.

T: But when you want to go to see a movie, do you ask someone who likes movies?

K: I'll read what someone has written about it, or I'll read what they've posted on social media.

J: The main thing is listening to people you can trust.

K: Yes, thats it.

J: Someone you are familiar with, or some well-informed person. Also someone you see eye to eye with.

T: Thats right.

J: If you go out for food with someone, and they say 'this is delicious', if you ask them what else they like, it will be the same kind of things that you like.

K: Really, I've never been to a two star or three star Michelin restaurant * the others laugh*.

J: Well, this internet age isn't going to end...

T: Right

J: Just how far will people trust this kind of assesment, or star rating?

T: Joe, have you ever been hassled by anyone because of this? By artists or such?

J: I havn't actually...I write what I didn't personally like, and sign my name with a star rating, then, 'this is what I think, but what do YOU think', to continue the conversation.

K: Our boss in our office, he was in a band a long time ago, and he got angry about something that was written in a magazine, so he stormed over to the magazine headquarters * the others laugh* He might ????*1

J,T: Your boss, wow!

J: What was the magazine?

K: Oh, I don't remember..*laughing*

J: Which of them has the freedon of expression? *laughing*

K: They are both clashing with each other.

J: The moment their freedom clashed *laughs*

T: But, Ive heard that kind of story before...A hip hop artist or something, went to a magazine and tried to restrain or kidnap the editor. He took it that seriously.

J: Well, in a music magazine, if you write an article, its the same with interviews, you dont know whether the other party will see or hear it. For me, after editing, I think its good to show it to the artist once. Im only writing my ideas, and there are times where thats not the reality.

For interviews, you dont necessarily hand over the questions in advance, and if im just asking at random, the artist may feel on the spot and not be able to say what they really feel, so i think its good to show them once, to get the facts right. With reviews too, i think showing them what i intend to write is important. But there are magazines where the boss doesnt get the content checked, 'you said it, so take responsibility', kind of thing. Thats a bit harsh, i think.

T: Well, yes. With interviews, I think its good to show the person. Protecting freedom should be kept independent.

J: Yes, yes, you are free to write what you think, but this is also keeping it real by checking if artists are holding responsibility for what they say. They decide whether they can really say that after checking it first.

K: There are times when you wish you'd used more words..

J: There are! Of course, its limited to the time and place of the interview, for example 1 hour, the time is squeezed. You have to get on with it, with little explanation..sometimes you need to supplement that.

T: Yes, you're right.

K: What do you think, Kami?

J: Kamiii?

Kami: *stifled laugh* Yes, what?

J: I don't know how to address him.

Kami: No no, don't worry about that, we are short on time.

K: Yes, our third installment is ending.

J: It felt quick today..somehow.

K: Originally, one episode was supposed to have two news items.

J: Yeah, i thought that.

K: But it didn't work that way, did it?

J: No, it didnt. What do the viewers think? Is one item enough? Or do they want two items at a faster pace?

K: If its too long, they won't be able to watch it.

J,T: Right.

T: A shorter video is better.

J: As for raising the number of views, right?

K: We talk about quite difficult stuff too, we should try to break into it as much as we can, make it interesting. Oh, and Kami, even his voice is interesting.

J: Its enough.

K: Well, that was the third installment, please tune in next time.

K, J, T: Thank you very much.

*1 I couldn't catch this.

#dir en grey #the freedom of expression #TFOE #kaoru #薫

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notyetneedcoffee · 5 years

Text

Wrong Number

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: +18 for smutty dirty talk

* * *

“Thank god you answered. I need you to save me.”

There was a long pause. You knew you sounded desperate.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky Barnes stopped dead in the street forcing several people to weave around him. He looked at the phone in his hand, not recognizing your smooth female voice. The number was not familiar either.

“From what?”

“This team building, touchy-feely conference is going to make me vomit, and if I don’t convince Kevin -” you said the name with distain, “that I have a boyfriend, I’m going to be forced to stab him in the neck with my pen. I like this pen. It’s a Monte Blanc. It doesn’t deserve to be bloodied up.”

The man on the other end of the line chuckled. It was deep and rich. And, completely unfamiliar. You whispered. “This isn’t Joey, is it?”

“Nope, sorry. Name’s Bucky.” Came his amused response. “But I can’t refuse a dame in distress. Anything I can do to help? I’d hate to see you have to resort to stabbings.”

You laughed. Not only did this man’s voice feel like audible whiskey, he was willing to play along. “Really? You’re an angel.”

“No one’s ever accused me of that.”

“Even better.” You smirked. The annoying executive from Palm Springs, Kevin, drifted closer to you. He tried to be discrete, but instead came off as a creeper. You switched to a fake conversation. “I told you, Love, I can’t get out of this. I’m stuck here until Friday night and before you ask, no you can’t come.”

“Is Kevin there?” Bucky asked.

“You’re right.” You sighed, as if answering something completely different.

“Is he close enough to over-hear if you held the phone out?”

“Oh, sure.” You purred.

Damn. His low chuckle sounded like pure sin and caused your crossed legs to tighten.

“Okay Doll, here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to explain exactly why ‘your boyfriend’ wants to be there, and in shock, you’re going to hold the phone out a little. Turn the volume up a touch so he catches what I’m saying.”

You giggled. “There’s a reason I adore you.”

He laughed. “Ready?”

“Oh yes” you breathed, a little heady. Kevin looked sideways at you.

“Come on, Doll, you know you want me there.” Bucky’s voice rumbled through the phone. “It hasn’t been that long, but my cock is aching for that tight pussy of yours. You need me to fuck you senseless. I know it ‘cause I’m ready right now to bury myself in that wet cunt. I want to taste you everywhere, goddamn Doll, I can imagine your honey on my tongue. Let me come and set you on fire. I don’t care if the whole conference hears you scream, cause Baby, when you come all over me it’s the most beautiful sight in the world. I know I’ve wrecked you for any other man, haven’t I? The way you come for me again and again. I don’t think we can survive until Friday. If you make me wait, when I get ahold of you, I’m going to fuck you until we both pass out.”

You didn’t need to fake the flush on your cheeks. His words, his voice, soaked your panties.

It did the job. Kevin blanched, then reddened, before making a quick escape to the other side of the lounge.

“Oh, you are so good.” You smiled wickedly. “Your real girlfriend is a lucky lady.”

“Got rid of him, huh?” He was silent a moment. “Ain’t got a girl.”

You cradled the phone closer, turning more fully to the bar and waved for another drink. “Shame. Good sense of humor. Quick on mark. Great voice. Extra bonus points for the dirty talk. You even came to my rescue. I’d say you’re quite the catch.”

You could hear his breath, as if he were holding the phone very close to his face. Finally, he spoke quietly. “That’s nice, but you don’t know me, Doll.”

“Well,” you rolled the amber liquid around in your glass. “Now that I don’t have creepy dude breathing down my neck, we could actually have a conversation.”

Again, silence stretched for a moment. Background voices became clearer and somewhat insistent, though you couldn’t make out all the words. Bucky’s voice suddenly filled you ear with a clipped tone. “Good luck with things. I have to go.”

The phone went dead. Well, damn.

You finished your drink alone, imagining what kind of man could possess that voice, dripping with smoked honey and filthy words. You blamed your warm skin on the alcohol, but the slick between your legs resulted from that interaction.

Bucky. That’s what he said his name was. Before you could lose it, you saved the best wrong number you’d ever dialed to your contacts.

* * *

“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Sam Wilson nudged Bucky in the shoulder, earning a glare that would terrify most.

“Something is bothering you, Buck.” Steve Rogers punched the up elevator button again. They’d gone to an emergency briefing and his friend seemed distracted the whole time. “I can tell.”

Bucky just shook his head slightly, frowning. Steve’s head dropped to one side in a clear ‘really?’ expression. He sighed. “I was speaking with someone on the phone when you guys came to get me, and I realized I never got her name. That’s all.”

“HER name?!” Sam grinned. “What, pray tell, were you talking to HER about?”

“Can it.”

“C’mon. Who is she?” Sam beamed and they all piled in the elevator. “If you’ve got her number, you know we can get, like, everything on this girl. We do have spies here, you know?”

“Sam.” Steve warned as Bucky looked murderous. “If Buck wants to find her, he’s got the know how to do it. Let him be.” Then just to dig a little, he added. “It’s not like she could have made that much of an impression. He didn’t even get her name.”

When the elevator doors opened on the living quarters floor, Bucky bolted straight to his suite. Fuck those guys.

All evening he kept staring at his phone. Her number was there. He could call her. Of course, she’d probably be sleeping by now. What time did normal people go to bed? Plus, she was at some sort of conference, which probably meant early morning meetings. Yes, he decided, she was probably sleeping.

He watched another hour of the history channel before the lure the phone had it in his hands. He could just text her.

Sorry I ditched the call so fast. Work.

There, he felt a little better. He apologized. Sort of.

The beep of his phone made him jump. He looked at the words in shock.

It’s ok. Glad you texted. Would still love to talk some time when I’m not tucked into bed, unless pillow talk is an option! Call me after my sessions. 1600 tomorrow?

You answered him back..

I don’t think I gave my name. It’s Y/N, but you can still call me Doll if you want.

Buck smiled at his phone and said your name aloud, tasting it on his lips.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow. ‘Night. B

He threw the phone down, smiling to himself.

He got ready for bed. Sam’s words began plaguing him as he brushed his teeth. He could look her up. It’s not like people didn’t put their whole lives on the internet for anyone to see these days. Even though he never uses any of that stuff, and didn’t even know how, Bucky knew just who to ask.

“Friday,” he called out to the building’s AI as he sat back in front of the big screen.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes. How may I assist you?”

“If I provide you with a name and a phone number, can you show me if they have any stuff on the internet?”

“Of course.” Bucky spoke your name and phone number. Almost immediately images began to fill the screen. Friday offered a summary. “Y/N, age 33. Born in San Francisco, California. Is a medical doctor with a degree from Stanford Medical University. She is currently employed with the CDC in the city of New York. Five years ago she filed for divorce from her husband only 5 months after –“

Bucky put both hands in the air. “Stop! This isn’t what I was looking for…”

The AI voiced a disturbingly thorough list of information that could be obtained with just a name and cell phone number. He stopped her again. “Friday, is there’s anything on Social Media, stuff she’s shared openly.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.” The screen opened to an Instagram account and a Facebook page.

Bucky stared at her profile picture. He picked up the controller and began to skim through the posts full of dark humor, beautiful smiles, random things around the city, and for some reason, her toes. There were pictures of her toes in the grass at the park, in the sand at the beach, propped on the rail of a balcony. He found it oddly adorable.

He found a short video of her trying to say a tongue twister. There was that voice. This was definitely her. Bucky watched the video clip again. Finally, he went to bed, her voice in his head.

* * *

Your phone rang at 4:02, just as you stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor. “Hello, stranger.”

“Hi, Y/N.” Bucky sounded tentative. “Is now okay?”

“Sure, I’m just getting back to my room. We’ve got a two-hour break before a boring ass dinner with a keynote speaker.”

“Any trouble with Kevin?” He asked.

You giggled. “None at all. In fact, he turned the brightest shade of red. Poor fellow, got all muddled looking. All day he kept stealing glances my way, so I kept checking my phone and subtly acting hot and bothered.”

“You’re mean.” He laughed.

“He’s a jerk, and if his pompous ass can’t handle the thought of a man being more virile that he is, tough shit.” You giggled again. “Besides, it was fun.”

“See. Mean.” Bucky grew more serious. “Didn’t mean to cut you off like that. Just some guys I, uh, work with came up with an urgent matter.”

“At least they didn’t walk up to hear you say you want to bury your cock in my wet cunt.” You purred, smiling to yourself as you kicked off your shoes and laid back on the hotel bed. A long silence followed. “Bucky?”

“Sorry.” His rich voice sounded an octave or two lower. “I’m, uh, it’s just -” He stumbled for a moment before falling silent again.

You frowned, asking quietly. “Did I go too far?”

“No.” His voice still held that deep sexy tone, only softer. “I’m just not real used to hearing such things from a woman’s lips, and -” he took a deep breath, “your voice is like silk. It just does things to me.”

“Mmm, good to know I’m not the only one affected by our conversations.” You purred.

“Damn, Doll.” Bucky chuckled. “I don’t even know you, but I could listen to you all day. And I hate being on the phone.”

You wanted to crawl through the line and see if he looked and felt as good as he sounded. “Well, I sure am happy to have dialed a wrong number.”

“Me too. Uh, who were trying to reach when I got so lucky?” Bucky asked.

“Joey. He’s friend from my building. Both him and his husband both work at home, so I thought of them first. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t have him in your contacts?”

“No, new number and I just had it jotted on a post it.” You stared out the window at the rain pelting down. Your phone said it was nice at home. “So, you’ve got a New York number. Is that home?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.” You smiled to yourself.

“Where are you now?” Bucky asked. You heard something conspicuously like a bottle of beer – or a soda, but probably as beer – being opened.

“Orlando. It’s a conference on pandemics. Unfortunately, it’s less science and more ‘we all just need to get along’ communication bullshit.” You sighed. “I’m probably being harsh, but there’s better things I could be doing with my time.”

“So, you’re what? A doctor?” Bucky asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Yes. But I do research, not practice. What about you? What do you do when you’re not saving ladies from creepers?”

“That’s pretty much my job.” He deadpanned.

You busted up. Typical.

“I’m - um – you could say I’m in the high-stakes security business.” Bucky answered when your laugh faded away.

“Can’t really talk about it?” You knew a lot of federal agents and private security officers through your work. They didn’t talk about their work either.

“Something like that.” He hesitated.

“Well, then, if you can’t tell me about your work,” You purred, “you’ll just have to tell me what gets your motor running, Bucky.”

“Oh, really?” His chuckle came deep from his chest.

“Yeah, and don’t give me any ‘slow jazz, sunsets and long walks on the beach’ horseshit.”

He laughed, full and light. “But I like jazz.”

* * *

Getting through the conference with a bunch of phone calls and regular text exchanges with Bucky turned out to be much better than the first few days without. His humor was dark and sarcastic. Although you didn’t delve into anything about his work, and you both kept the exchanges fun, you felt like you’d gotten to know him well. How could you feel a closer connection to someone you’d never met, than you did with the last man you dated for two months?

Bucky had sent you a text stating that he would be on a job and unreachable for several days on the night you arrived back in New York. It was sweet the way he wanted to assure you that he would call, and he felt bad he could only text a farewell. You assured him you understood. He called you an amazing dame.

Work the next week barely allowed for time to miss the text exchanges, so much had piled up in your absence. On Wednesday, you were thirty-two pages into the clinical results of a recent test when the phone beside you rang.

“Dr. Y/L/N.” You answered.

“Good morning, Y/N. It’s Rebecca Kim.”

You recognized the name immediately. She was a private researcher and you both served on several committees together. “Oh, hi. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve had a situation,” Dr. Kim used the term loosely. “There’s a potential exposure here. It looks like, damn I’m not certain, but it might be XF3058.”

You froze. It was a designer pathogen, a targeted and weaponized disease. All the information on XF3058 was highly confidential, kept under tight security. “Is it active, or inert?”

“Currently Inert. But the subject shows signs of full infection and he was among the populous. I need help here.”

“I’m on my way.”

It only took twenty minutes to pack up what you needed and catch a cab to Stark Tower. Rebecca waited for you in the lobby. You would need escorting to the top security research levels. You’d only been here twice before. It was like Candy-Land, all the best tech.

The two of you were joined by Doctor Banner. He was a kind man, bright and quick to offer you a smile. “So, you’re here help figure out if we’re all doomed?”

“It’s a targeted pathogen.” You shrugged. “Unless you have the correct genes, we’re not ALL doomed.”

“We just don’t know how many people it could infect.” He nodded.

“My last estimate was .14% of the populace could be potential targets, which is still hundreds of thousands of people on the eastern seaboard alone.” You began reviewing the data.

Nearly seven hours later the computer in front of you beeped, indicating the test simulation finalized. Looking at the report, you jumped up. “Yes!”

“What?” Banner removed his glasses.

“Gotcha, you little bastard.” You pointed at the screen before turning to the other two in the room. “I’ve been running down the genetic signature. This is an old strain. The degradation in the proteins made me think about sixty years. I then pulled the profiles of the known examples of that time frame, and I can say conclusively this is from the Cold War lab of one Kazimir Maksimov. I’ve got the exact genetic sequenced.”

“So, we can engineer an antidote.” Rebecca sighed. “I’ll get the system on it right away.”

“I’m going to take Dr. Y/L/N up to brief the team.” Doctor Banner stood.

You followed him out of the room and up in bright steel elevators. It wasn’t until then than by ‘team’ he meant ‘Avengers’. Nervously, you smoothed your clothes and tried to check your reflection in the metal wall.

“Don’t worry. They’ll just be glad you found the solution.” Bruce smiled.

“Kinda wish I’d at least been wearing something other than jeans the first time I meet Stark, you know.”

He laughed. “Tony’s all bark and no bite. If he gives you shit, give it right back.”

The elevators doors opened and Bruce led you to a glass encased conference room. Tony Stark, a red-head woman, and sandy-haired man stood around an interactive screen at the end of the room. “Hey guys,” They all turned when you entered. “This is Dr. Y/N. She’s the one Becca brought in. We’ve got news. She’s worked it out.”

“Ah, the CDC doc.” Stark propped a hip on table. “So why aren’t you here working for me?”

“You haven’t offered.” You retorted with a smile. “Can I pull up my files from here?”

Turns out Stark and the others, Natasha and Clint, were far more forthcoming with the details. The victim of the pathogen was actually a Hydra agent taken down in the process of eliminating a hold-out base. They weren't sure if he’d been exposed when the building blew, if he’d been accidentally exposed or purposefully infected.

You were explaining that the virus had been in his system for at least four days when he died, and had they’d not killed him, he would have died within 24-hours. He’d been infectious for seventy-two hours.

“Well, it’s a good thing they decided to torch the place. We didn’t find any survivors after that.” Natasha drawled.

“It’s still hard to believe they just kill them all.” A strong voice came down the hall.

“That’s the way those assholes work, you know that. No loose ends.”

Your head snapped around. You knew that voice. Two extraordinarily handsome men came in. One you recognized immediately as Steve Rogers. The other, he had the voice of liquid sex. Nearly the same height as Captain America, strong – damn look at those thighs – and dark haired, your mouth fell open at the sight of him. His blue eyes locked on yours and he stood a little straighter.

No one missed the exchange, looking back and forth between the two of you.

“Bucky?” You breathed.

A sly smile grew on his face, and you felt yourself flush. “Hey, Doll.”

“Okay, how do you know the good Doctor and I don’t?” Stark scoffed.

“Not your business.” Bucky leveled a solemn stare at Tony.

“Yeah, well.” Bruce interjected. “Doctor Y/N has uncovered the source of the pathogen and we’re working on antidote if it becomes necessary.”

“I thought you said that could take days.” Steve asked Banner.

“She’s good.” He shrugged.

“And I still don’t know why she’d not working for me!” Tony threw his hands in the air.

“I’ve told you before. You’ve yet to make an offer." You threw back at Stark, but your eyes still had not left Bucky. Your brain spun. Thankfully common decency kept your feet planted in place, because every cell in your body wanted to touch him, to smell and taste his skin.

“I may have to change that.” He grumbled.

“You know where my office is.” You finally looked back at the group. “It’s been a long day. I think you’ve got what you need for now. Is there any objection if I call it night?”

“I may have to contact you about the final reports, but that can wait.” Bruce nodded.

“I may have to contact you about what sort of furniture you want in your office.” Tony smirked. Then he waved his hand towards the door. “Go on, get going. We’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Bucky stated immediately.

You both walked to the elevator side by side, not speaking. You stopped at the doors, facing each other. He hit the button, giving you a shy – oh my god – smile.

“So.” You sighed, “an Avenger, huh?”

“Of sorts. Steve brought me in a while back.”

“Ah,” You took his metal hand in yours. All the pieces click in place in your mind. “I seem to remember seeing a briefing about that somewhere.”

You could see the concern in his eyes. You didn’t know much about him. You did know he was enhanced, by Hydra, with a derivative of the same serum used on the Captain. Other than the friendship between the two men, you didn’t know much else from his past.

“Does that bother you?” He asked finally.

You smiled up at him. “Not in the least.”

The elevator doors opened and you stepped inside. Even though the car was empty, you remained close enough to feel the heat rise off of him. “Smart, funny, and gorgeous.” Bucky moved a strand of your hair off your shoulder. “And you smell incredible.”

You placed your hands on his strong chest. He was magnetic, a forceful draw. His hand cupped your cheek, a simple gesture that felt so intimate in this small space. His other hand slapped the stop button, halting your progress. Everything stood still.

“Hey.” He breathed, face close to yours.

“Hey, back.” You whispered.

Bucky’s mouth touched yours, soft full lips brushing lightly. When you smiled into the kiss, his tongue reached for permission but was met with your own. Flaring from sweet to fevered, he pulled you tight against him. Wet, hot, your mouths explored one another.

He turned, pinning you against the wall, hands roaming over your body. You clung to him, fingers in his hair and relishing in the hard muscles pressed against you. When his mouth trailed down to your neck, you breathed out a heavy “Holy shit, it’s good to meet you.”

He laughed against your skin. “Pleasures all mine.”

You took his face in your hands and kissed him again before sighing. “This elevator is probably monitored, huh?”

“Definitely.” He stepped back a bit, allowing you to stand fully on your own feet. “And I’ve been dying to ask you out. Dinner?”

“How about pizza?” You gave him a devilish grin. “We could order in.”

“Anything you want, Doll. Pizza in sounds perfect.”

Bucky released the elevator but hit a different floor than the lobby. The doors quickly opened to an obvious residential floor. You laughed, “Damn, that’s convenient.”

He took your hand and led you down the hall. “I aim to please.”

“I have no doubt.”

You glanced sideways at his sparkling blue eyes, utterly taken by the intensity as he stared at you. The smell of him drew you closer. He smiled as you leaned into him.

Damn he was glad he answered that unknown number.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barns x reader #fanfic #mcu #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic

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babyboy-bangtan · 5 years

Photo

By Chance Chapters 9-10

A misunderstanding gone viral puts you on BTS’s radar, which leads to a series of events that finally culminate with you meeting them for the first time.

✚ Pairing: Sub!BTS/Female Reader ✚ Word Count: 2.8K ✚ Rating: M ✚ Warnings: None. ✚ A/N: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of my imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Read on AO3 / Chapters 1-4 / Chapters 5-8

Chapter 9: The Guests

"Do you already know which artist is performing that day?" Your friend asks over the phone while you eat your toast with one hand and hold a script with the other. Reading it doesn't need your full attention, and based on what this movie seems to be about it doesn't look like it deserves it anyway.

"No, not yet." You reply absentmindedly, taking another bite of your toast while seriously contemplating just giving up on this script halfway through reading it. You doubt it's redeemable at this point. "It's in like a month anyway. They said they would tell me first before announcing it, though."

"This is so exciting!" She almost squeals, and you close the script before throwing it in the trash. You lost count of how many times it was written that the male protagonist couldn't keep his eyes from your cleavage. "I can't believe you're hosting again. I've been waiting for this to happen for years!" You can't help but laugh at her dramatics.

"It feels as surreal as the first time, honestly." You eat the last bite of your toast and pour yourself another glass of orange juice. You did enough freaking out to last a lifetime when you hosted the show for the first time a couple years ago, so this time you're excited but definitely not on the verge of a nervous breakdown like last time.

"Who do you think will be performing?" She asks, and you realize that you hadn't thought about that at all. "Oh my god what if it's BEYONCÉ?" She damn near screams that last part, and your brain immediately screams NO at that. You're still embarrassed at what happened last year, and you don't know when you'll be able to face her again without feeling mortified.

"Who knows?" You quickly reply. "Maybe it'll be like Ed Sheeran or something."

"Maybe." She responds, way less excited than when she thought Beyoncé was a possibility. "Anyways, tell me when you know, okay? My break is almost done so I gotta go."

"Will do. Bye, love you!"

"Love you too, bye!" You hang up and stretch your arms over your head, already feeling stressed.

What if it was Beyoncé? It would be the third time you see her and even though she was incredibly lovely when you apologized and explained what happened the first time you met, that did nothing to erase the embarrassment you still feel today. You don't really think she would perform in a regular episode with you as the guest either, but now you can't help but feel anxious about it.

They said they were going to tell you who the artist was in the next few days, so for now all you can do is wait and try to not overthink too much.

Easier said than done.

Three hours ago, taking a nap because it was raining and the temperature had dropped just enough for it to be perfect for sleeping had seemed like a great idea. It's not the first time you do it, the day called for it, and since you didn't have to work today it was okay to relax and rest for a bit considering that in a couple days you'll start shooting again.

Completely harmless.

Except it wasn't.

You wake up thanks to some very loud thunder, and you snuggle deeper into your covers to continue sleeping. Another thunder disrupts you again, so you decide to look at the time and see if it's even worth it to try and sleep some more. But instead of being greeted with the time once you turn your phone on, you're greeted with 50 missed calls and texts from over 30 conversations.

"What the fuck?" You mumble to yourself, rubbing your eyes to try and see a little better.

Around 30 of the missed calls are from friends, and the rest are from your publicist and agent. You scroll down the conversations until you reach the message you got first, and the name makes you think you might understand what happened.

SNL Producer.

2 hours ago.

Hello [Y/N]! I'm just writing you to let you know before we post it on social media, that the musical guest on your episode will be BTS. See you soon!

Well, now you have no doubt that's definitely it.

You read through the messages as fast as you can and manage to reply to several before you're interrupted by your publicist calling.

"Hi, sorry. I was taking a nap." You quickly say.

"Don't worry, I just wanted to let you know that the internet exploded two hours ago."

"Because of BTS?" You ask, pulling the covers off of you and sitting on the edge of your bed. "That's not news, it happens every other week."

"Well, yes, true—" She agrees. "—but we don't care about those times, we care about this now because it involves you." She pauses for a second. "Check what I just sent you." You remove your phone from your ear and put her on speaker before opening the message notification.

It's the screenshot of an Entertainment Weekly tweet.

Exclusive: @BTS_twt and [Y/N] will finally meet and we couldn't be more excited

4,5K replies, 190K retweets, 380K likes.

"How the fuck did that get so many likes?" You blurt out, eyes wide. Your hear your publicist laugh heartily.

"It's more now, actually. The screenshot is from 10 minutes ago. And it's because BTS retweeted it."

"Oh, right." You say, shaking your head at yourself. You should've known. "That makes sense."

"It would be even better if you had a twitter account yourself so you could retweet and even send them someth—"

"My mental health." You interrupt her, rolling your eyes as you fall back again on the bed. You've lost count of how many times she's tried to have you make new accounts already. "Remember how I had to start taking antidepressants because of social media?"

"Right, yeah. The mental health thing." She sighs. "You could always have someone manage them instead of yourself, you know."

"Yeah, and then I'd be constantly checking what's been posted and what people have replied to every post." You hate talking to her about this, because even though she's great at her job and mostly understanding, she still complains about what a loss it is that you're not on Instagram and Twitter.

"Fine. I'll drop it." She pauses for a second. "Anyway, the reason why I called is to know how much do you know about these guys."

"I know a bunch of their songs. I've been listening to that song they did with Nicki, Idol— it's so catchy and the video is so random but so great." You conveniently leave out the detail that the reason you like the video so much is because they look beautiful in those suits while simultaneously looking like the cutest human beings on Earth with their other colorful outfits— especially in those sweaters with cartoon characters and the ripped jeans. "I actually watched a bunch of their music videos back when the whole behind the scenes stuff happened." Moments from their Blood, Sweat and Tears music video pop into your mind, but you immediately redirect your thoughts elsewhere. That video makes you feel way too many things that you should not be feeling while talking to your publicist. "They're so talented." You quickly add, sincerely. "I was thinking about watching some interviews soon to see what they're like. I haven't really watched any of that."

"Good! I was going to tell you to do that. These guys are like a publicity machine. If they approve of you, their fans will like you."

"Weeell..." You say, grimacing a little. You're not so sure about that. "Either that happens or they see me as a threat to them and decide I'm not good enough to be near them, and get a hashtag calling me a demon trending first worldwide."

"Well, based on the replies to that tweet I think many of them are excited. The international fans at least, I don't know about their Korean fanbase."

"And also, do not call them a publicity machine. They're actual people, you know." You sigh. "And that's not the reason why I will try to know more about them. It would be disrespectful to meet them without knowing anything about them. And please, stop seeing artists as only publicity opportunities. I told you I hate that!"

"That's literally my job, love. And whatever your good person reasoning is, I don't care. Just do that." She pauses. "And now I have to leave you, because unlike you I actually have to work today. See ya." She hangs up before you can say anything, and you take a deep breath.

She can be a goddamn handful, but even when she acts without emotions she always does things the way you want them and is very accommodating. She's good at her job.

You finally get out of bed and walk to the kitchen, where you left your laptop. But before you can do anything, you have an incoming FaceTime call from your best friend. She must've just read your reply to her 50 angry texts because you didn't tell her who the guest artist was going to be on your Saturday Night Live episode before the rest of the world found out.

"Heeeeeeey." You say innocently once her face appears on screen.

"Why didn't you tell me?! I had to find out on Twitter!"

"Okay, to be fair, you found out before I did. I was dead asleep when the producer texted me." You leave the phone standing against a glass of water and open your laptop. "So I had no chance to tell you before they announced it."

"Ugh, fine." She groans, rolling her eyes. "Anyways, are you excited?"

"I haven't had a chance to feel anything. I woke up to a thousand texts and calls and then my publicist called me." You open Youtube and start typing BTS to see what suggestions pop up first.

"Oh right, cause you went viral again. People on Twitter lost their shit over it."

"Yeah but they always do when BTS does something so it's not like it's new." You reply, a bit distracted.

BTS on crack?

"Okay, yeah. That's true." She agrees. "What are you doing?"

"Homework." You reply, scrolling through the endless results you got after clicking BTS on crack.

"Alright then, keep your secrets." She jokes, shaking her head. "I have to go anyway, I'm going out tonight." You blow a kiss in her direction.

"Have fun!"

"I always do! Bye!" She hangs up as you open a video titled "bts being crackheads for 5 mins straight".

You only need to watch a couple minutes to realize what type of videos these are. You have seen a couple of yourself that are edited similarly, but they were titled "[Y/N] being chaotic in interviews" and another one about you being extra— and you'd thought they were very funny.

A recommended video catches your eye, because it has hundreds of thousands of views.

RUNBTS 1-23 Best Moments

You have no idea what it is, but judging by the amount of views and the tiny amount of dislikes, it must be something good.

Time to start watching.

Chapter 10: The Surprise

"Do you think he will be angry at us for keeping it as a secret?" Hoseok asks, ear pointed at the bathroom door. He's doing his best to listen if the shower is still running, which means that Jungkook is not coming out just yet.

"No, he'll be too excited to be angry." Namjoon replies, waving his hand dismissively. "Jimin, don't blurt it out as soon as he comes here." He warns him, and Jimin looks completely shocked, not to mention offended. He searches for the support of the other guys with his eyes, but he finds that they're all looking at him the same way Namjoon is.

"What? Me?" He asks, pointing at himself. "Why me?"

"You're a terrible liar when you're excited about something." Taehyung says, and Jimin just stares at him with an angry pout.

"I'm not." He says, crossing his arms.

"You are." Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok and Jin say at the same time. Jimin refuses to dignify that with an answer, so he just stays silent with his angry pout still in place.

"The shower stopped." Hoseok says suddenly, craning his neck to listen better— and everyone goes silent. Not too long after, they hear it opening and Jungkook comes out drying his hair already dressed for bed.

"What's going on?" He asks, stopping suddenly when he sees them all standing there in the most suspicious way possible.

"Nothing!" Jimin suddenly says, way more excited than they had told him he was allowed to look.

"Jungkook, when did you say [Y/N] was going to be on SNL?" Hoseok asks, trying to not give himself away with the tone of his voice.

"April 13, why?" He continues to dry his hair, looking at the boys with narrowed eyes. He doesn't know what they're trying to do, but based on that question it seems like it has something to do with you. Maybe they want to watch the episode with him, since they're going to be in America by the time it airs anyway.

"So, we didn't tell you this before it was truly confirmed because we wanted it to be a surprise..." Namjoon starts, and Jungkook stops his movements.

They can't be telling him what he thinks they're telling him, right?

There's no way.

"But we'll be performing on SNL on April 13." He finishes. The towel drops from Jungkook's hands, and he just stares at them with no clear expression in his face.

"I thought he'd be more excited." Taehyung whispers in a confused tone to Namjoon, who lifts up a finger in response, signaling for him to wait.

"Give him a sec—"

"WHAT?!"

After a lot of happy screaming, a half an hour long videocall to his parents and a big glass of warm milk to calm him down, Jungkook is finally sitting down on the couch with the rest of the boys so they can explain how things went down.

"Jimin-Hyung, I can't believe you didn't tell me." Jungkook says, shaking his head with a surprised smile.

"We wanted to keep it from him, too." Yoongi says. "But he listened to us talking about it and we had to let him in."

"It was really hard to keep it a secret!" Jimin complains. "Because I was so excited. But I did so well, didn't I?" The rest don't really pay attention to him, except for Namjoon, who nods and gives him a thumbs up. Jimin isn't pleased with so little praise, but he takes it anyway. It's better than nothing.

"Ah, I'm so nervous." Jungkook says, unable to stop himself from grinning even though his face already hurts from smiling so much. He brings his knees up to his chest so he can hide his face in them, suddenly blushing. Even after he explicitly heard you talking about them, you still feel so far away from them that it almost doesn't feel real that they're going to meet you in a month.

"She already said she wanted to meet us—" Jin adds casually, and Namjoon has to hold back a sigh of relief because he's finally talking about you without getting nervous two seconds later. "—so you've got nothing to worry about."

He's come a long way since his confession a few months ago— even if Namjoon and Yoongi are still the only ones who know about his secret— and that lifts a huge weight from Namjoon's shoulders. It means that it's less likely he'll become instantly flustered the moment they see you for the first time, because if Jin gets nervous because of you in front of the cameras, everyone will notice and then talk about it— and Namjoon is sure that is the last thing Jin wants.

It doesn't take them long to realize it's futile to try and talk about the logistics of their performance with Jungkook right now, because he's barely paying attention to them. His grin has remained steady and unmoving from the moment they told him they would perform on the same day you're hosting, and they know it's going to continue that way for the next few days.

He'll be able to focus again once the initial shock passes and he finally realizes that yes, this is actually happening.

They are going to finally meet you.

Long after everyone has gone to bed, Jungkook lies still awake in bed, fully aware that he's not sleeping any time soon. He's still feeling giddy with happiness; he can't believe that they're going to actually meet you, and in a place where they will actually get to spend time with you, at that. He will get to talk to you, to actually be close to you and maybe, if he's lucky and brave enough, he might even get to hug you.

He'd fantasized about maybe seeing you in an awards show one day, but this is so much better than anything he could've imagined.

April 13 can't come soon enough.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, asks, whatever you like is more than welcomed!

#sub!bts #sub!idol #bts x reader #kim namjoon x reader #kim seokjin x reader #min yoongi x reader #jung hoseok x reader #park jimin x reader #kim taehyung x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #my work

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