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coldsandfluff · 2 years

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Y/ounger Sickfic (F, Liza/Charles)

So I figured I should start migrating all of my fics over here in case the forum never comes back. Hopefully some of you haven't read them yet and will enjoy them!

This one is a Y/ounger fic set in the first season, when Liza is just starting her job as Diana's assistant. She comes down with a cold, and Charles notices. I basically wrote it because Charles gave me HUGE care-taking vibes after he went to the hospital to check on Liza when she hurt her leg, and there's nothing hotter to me than a boss in a suit caring for someone with a cold 🔥

Editorial Weakness

“Liza… LIZA!”

Diana’s voice wormed its way through the thick fog of Liza’s daydreaming—or rather daynightmaring. Liza snapped back to reality, realizing that her name had probably been called quite a few times in an increasingly exasperated way. One look at her boss confirmed it: Diana’s face was flushed beyond her heavy-handed blush application, her signature red lips transformed into a straight, annoyed line.

And of course, everyone else in the conference room was staring at her. Including Charles Brooks, handsome CEO of Empirical Press. Literate, piercing blue-eyed gentlemen, always dressed to the nines. Also known as Liza’s boss’s boss.

Liza sat up straighter, tempting a friendly smile towards Diana. “Yes?”

Try as she might, she could not replay the last five minutes of the discussion in her head as she usually could, a trick she’d learned long ago as a mother. The ability to temporarily filter out the incessant babbling of her daughter when she was younger had been critical for Liza’s mental health, but she had always been able to count on her brain to rewind when the child would suddenly say something odd. For context, of course. Because when your six-year-old asks “what’s a cock,” it’s important to know that she was just watching a documentary about chickens. And don’t ask why she was watching a documentary about chickens.

“If you would stop gallivanting about at frat parties every night, maybe you would have enough energy during the day to pay attention during meetings, Liza.” Diana shot a knowing look towards Charles, as if to say “kids these days,” but Charles didn’t notice. He was looking at Liza with a slight frown.

Liza stared at her notebook on the table, pressing her lips together. She was still getting used to the condescending “millenials” remarks from Diana. While she no longer felt the need to shout “I’M 40 YEARS OLD” in protest every time, it still made her feel guilty for the lie she was living. She’d forget about it for a few hours, and then something like this would happen, and guilt would rear its ugly head all over again. When Liza had faked being 26 years old to get hired at Empirical, she had never expected it to become such a big deal in her day-to-day life. It was a lesson in humility. Age mattered more than people believed.

And now, not only was she lying to all of them, she also wasn’t paying attention during a meeting where she was tasked to take notes. In front of Charles himself, no less. A true employee of the year.

“College students go to frat parties, Diana,” Kelsey said, her annoyance veiled in politeness. “Not working adults.” As a true representative of the millennials, Kelsey never missed an opportunity to correct Diana. Even though it was a lost cause.

“Yes, well,” Diana flicked her manicured hands in the air, heavy bracelets jangling on her wrists, “this is not the point. I’m expecting you to pay attention when I’m talking, Liza. That is what we’re paying you to do. Now, would you please tell us how many submissions we’ve received this month?”

Liza nodded and nervously looked through her notebook. “Of course, let me just…” She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the words but not absorbing the information. Her nose had started tingling, an itch that felt like the light stroke of a goose feather deep within her sinuses. She wiggled her nose, trying to keep a brewing sneeze at bay. All eyes were on her still; this was not the moment to…

“Hh—Ihh’tsshh” Liza turned to her right in time, covering her nose and mouth with her elbow. “Excuse me, I… Ihh’TSSHH!” She registered the few bless you’s her colleagues mumbled, nodding her thanks as she straightened up. Liza knew her face was bright red. She could feel the flush burning her cheeks.

She cleared her throat and squeaked a nervous laugh. “Sorry about that!”

Diana rolled her eyes. “Are we ever going to get those numbers, or do we need to send a request through Snapbook, Liza?”

“Snapchat,” muttered Kelsey.

Liza sniffled. “No, no need, I’ve got them right here.” She paged through the notebook and finally found what she needed. “We’ve gotten less than usual but I haven’t had a chance to log all the submissions this week yet.” She lifted her eyes to meet Diana’s annoyed stare. “With the two ad campaigns and the issues with One Day We’ll Be, I didn’t…”

“Just get it done by tomorrow morning,” Diana cut her off with a steely smile.

For the rest of the meeting, Liza focused her attention on Diana and took overly detailed notes, hoping to redeem herself for her misstep. She wasn’t the kind of woman to take her obligations lightly, and she seldom had moments of distraction like this. Truth be told, she wasn’t feeling the best. She’d woken up exhausted in spite of a full night's sleep, and her head throbbed just a smidge behind her eyes. She could tell that she was coming down with something, but hopefully she’d be able to make it to the weekend before it hit her full force.

When the meeting ended and everyone filed out of the room, Liza walked passed Charles on her way to the door.

“Liza?” His voice sent a shiver down Liza’s spine.

She turned around, hugging her notebook to her chest. “Yes?”

“Everything alright?” His eyes locked with hers in the way they always did. Charles had the type of gaze that seemed able to search one’s soul for the answers to his questions. It was in the way he focused all his attention on the person he was talking to, creating a bubble around them that separated them from the rest of the world.

Liza nodded. She mustered an overenthusiastic “yep!” before turning around and leaving the room.

If there was ever a man that made her feel 26 instead of 40, it was Charles Brooks.

---

Liza pushed the heavy door of her office building, spilling out into New York’s freezing autumn air. She followed a crowd of office workers making their way out for lunch, a chill running through her skin. In the scuffle, someone bumped into her and knocked her purse down, spilling some of its content on the pavement.

“Excuse you…” Liza mumbled, crouching down to retrieve her belongings. She suddenly missed Brooklyn and its quieter streets, friendlier neighbors and actual trees. Time Square was nice for a night out on the town or if you were visiting the city for a few days, but working in the district wasn’t always a thrill. However, she wasn’t here for the New York experience—she was here for the job. Books were her absolute passion, and if getting a career in publishing meant that she’d have to partake in a few elbow brawls on the streets to get it, she was ready to fight.

“Liza.”

Liza looked up, her lipstick in hand, balancing on her heels in a crouched position. She recognized the tie before she even saw his face. Navy silk, polka dotted. Once her eyes reached Charles’s face, Liza was already smiling. “Hey!”

“Here, let me help.” He crouched down to her level, helping her corral her stuff. Liza quickly shoved the used tissues in her pockets, hoping Charles hadn’t noticed them. Gross.

“There’s ‘rush hour,’ and then there’s ‘lunch hour,’” Liza said with a scoff. “I guess even walking is a hazard here.”

Charles smiled, picking up the novel she was currently reading that now laid on the sidewalk. “Murakami,” he said approvingly. “This one isn’t a favorite of the critics. What do you think of it so far?”

Liza’s eyes lit up instantly. “I know the pacing is a bit slow and the story can be repetitive, but there’s something about Murakami’s prose that keeps me coming back. It’s like taking a long, warm bath in the middle of winter, but on the moon. He always manages to create this sense of familiarity and warmth in an unfamiliar world and—“ Liza caught herself babbling away, the words tumbling out at high speeds. “Sorry, you must have somewhere to be! Don’t let me hold you back.”

Charles chuckled, his eyes wrinkling at the corner. His laughed matched his well-mannered behavior, a controlled but sexy huff with just enough sincerity to send sparkles through Liza’s stomach. He stood up, then offered his hand to help Liza up. She took it, noticing the warmth of it against her freezing hand.

The wind picked up, slipping through Liza’s open coat. She shivered, adjusting her purse on her shoulder and crossing her arms over her chest. Charles’s smile faltered. “You should bundle up, it’s getting colder every day.” He glanced back towards the street. “My taxi is here. Why don’t you share it with me. We can drop you off wherever you need to go.”

“Oh no, thank you, but I could use the walk. The cold will help wake me up.” She smiled. “Better than caffeine!” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She did need to wake up, but she wasn’t particularly happy to be in the cold right now. Her entire body seemed to revolt against the temperature change. However, her nose had started to run and tickle, and she did not want to blow it in front of Charles in the back of a taxi. The sheer idea of it was mortifying.

“You sure?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow. She was doing a poor job of keeping her body from shaking.

“Yep! I just need to start walking to warm up.” She gave him a dismissive wave. “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright then.” Charles nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

Liza watched him walk to his taxi, his trench coat and gray scarf flapping in the wind. A sudden, sharp prickle caused her to gasp and pitch her head forward into her hands. “Hh—Iiih’TSSHH!” She fished around her purse for a new tissue and dabbed at her nose, groaning. The virus had definitely taken hold.

At least Charles hadn’t been there to witness it.

---

Liza moved to the back of the elevator, balancing a tray of drinks and a paper bag containing her lunch. She’d picked up Diana’s green juice and green smoothie, as requested. “Everyone is spreading their disgusting little germs everywhere in this office,” Diana had told Liza with a repulsed moue. “I don’t have time to get sick. Get me my green juices, double shots.” Ironic, since Liza herself was sick, although Diana didn’t know yet. And Liza intended on keeping it that way. She didn’t want to be sent home and look like an unreliable assistant who keeled over at the first sign of a sniffle. She’d been through much worse than this. Back in the days, she’d be taking care of the kid, cleaning the house, making dinner, setting up doctor appointments and taking care of her sick husband—now ex-husband—while battling her own raging fever.

Liza looked at the third drink in the cup tray—her own. She would have preferred a simple cup of chamomile tea with honey, the remedy she could always count on when sick, but the line at the juice bar had been so long that she’d run out of time. The cashier had recommended a "Detox Elixir" for her cold. Apple cider vinegar, ginger, lemon and cayenne pepper. The dirty yellow muddied drink didn’t look (or smell) appetizing whatsoever. Liza hoped that the sandwich she’d also picked up would help wash the drink down, but she wasn’t holding her breath. She’d watched the employee make it. It was 90% alfalfa sprouts, 5% avocado and 5% dry toasted bread made entirely of nuts. Good thing she wasn’t too hungry anyway.

Walking in the cold had made Liza’s nose even more runny, but she couldn’t wipe it since both of her hands were occupied. She sniffled quietly, trying to ignore people glancing at her when she did so. Every time the elevator stopped at a floor, people squeezed towards the back, forcing Liza into the wall. It was starting to get hot and uncomfortable in there.

And of course, that was when a tickle decided to blossom. Liza scrunched up her nose, hiding behind the to-go cups, but it didn’t even slow down the progression of the itch. It spread all the way down to the tip of her nose, until she could no longer fight it. She promptly shoved the paper bag in her mouth to free her hand and fetch a tissue, but there was no time. With her hand stuck in her purse and her other hand holding the drinks, she bit down hard on the paper bag and turned towards the wall, stifling her sneeze as much as possible.

“Hh—Ihh’Hnxch!... Hh’Hnxch!”

A few people blessed her, and the guy standing next to her chuckled when he saw her struggling with the bag in her mouth. “Cold season, uh?” he said with a compassionate tone. Meanwhile, there was an evident shift in the crowd as people tried to distance themselves from Liza.

Liza managed to get a tissue and wipe her nose, then grabbed the bag out of her mouth. “You’d think I have Ebola,” she mumbled to the man, nodding towards people now a few steps away from her. Some of them turned to glare at her. Oops.

When the elevator finally dinged on her floor, Liza made her way out, welcoming open spaces, fresh air and a little breeze on her sweaty skin. She dropped off her coat at her desk, checking to see if Diana was busy. The elegant woman sat in her glass office, concentrating on her computer monitor. She hadn’t yet noticed Liza.

Liza quickly grabbed a compact mirror from her purse to see how bad she looked. Her nose was bright red and her cheeks were flushed, but she could blame it on the cold wind. She sniffled a bit, testing her sinuses. No sneezes were brewing. It was now or never.

She knocked on the door frame. “I’ve got your juices right here,” Liza said, placing the cups on Diana’s desk.

“About time,” Diana replied without looking up. “I can almost feel the germs floating all around me.” She grabbed the green smoothie and took a sip. Liza started backing up to take her leave, but Diana added: “I need you to find a space for the launch party of Bright & Wonderful. I’m thinking something young and bright, something…” She wriggled her fingers in the air, looking for another adjective.

“Wonderful?” proposed Liza with a smirk.

Diana raised an eyebrow. “That’s right. Very funny. Just reserve something 'hip.' I’m sure you can do that.”

Liza nodded emphatically, feeling the relentless tickle wake up again in her increasingly congested sinuses. Eager to get out before a sneeze manifested, she started walking out, but Diana interrupted her once again.

“I also need you to contact Mrs. McLure and find out if they’re done drawing the contract. We haven’t heard back from them and we need to lock down the budget for the campaign as soon as possible.”

Liza nodded again, her eyes watering.

“This is top priority, Liza.” Diana glanced at her. “Got it?”

“Mmhmm!”

Diana held Liza’s gaze for a moment, cocking her head. “Is something wrong?”

“No, n-nothing is wrong.” Liza could feel her breath itching, her face scrunching slightly. She had to leave. Now. “Oh, umm…” she gestured towards her desk. “I t—think the phooo…eh… phone is ringing.”

She rushed out, feeling Diana’s eyes on her as she ran straight to the restroom. Once she was safely inside, she grabbed some toilet paper from the roll and let the sneezes overcome her. “Ehh… Hh—Iiih’TSSHH… Hh—Ih’tsshhew… Ahh…Hhh! Hh—Iihh’TSSHH!” Tears were streaming down her face from holding the sneezes back for so long. She blew her nose and washed her hands, sighing.

The door whipped open. “You look like hell,” said Kelsey, stopping next to Liza in front of the mirror to reapply lipstick. “Rough night?”

Liza wiped some of the mascara that had run under her eyes. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

Kelsey’s eyes widened. “Oh no, you can’t let Diana know! She’s such a germophobe. You won’t hear the end of it.”

“How am I supposed to hide this from her?” Liza pointed at her face. “I work three feet from her. She’s always calling me in her office. I can’t run to the bathroom every time I have to sneeze or cough.” Although she was seriously considering it.

“I got you fam,” Kelsey said with a conniving smile, slipping her lipstick back in her purse and leaving the restroom.

“Wait!” Liza cried, following her. “Fam?” she whispered to herself, wondering what the hell that even meant. Every day a new slang or app or “meme” popped up. Keeping up with it was beyond overwhelming at times.

Kelsey walked straight to Diana’s office and popped her head in. “Hey, is it OK if I borrow Liza for a while? I need help with invitations.”

Diana waved her hand at her without looking up. “Sure.”

Kelsey turned and gave two thumbs up to Liza. “Follow me!” They both walked to Kelsey’s office further down the corridor. Two large boxes sat open in the middle of the room. “I was going to have the intern do this, but she’s busy with something else.”

Liza looked at Kelsey, dumbfounded. “Wait, you actually need my help? I thought this was a ploy to get me away from Diana’s germophobia?”

Kelsey put a hand on Liza’s shoulder. “Come on Liza. All you have to do is stuff an invitation and a bookmark in each envelope. It’ll be relaxing! Please? Pretty, pretty please?”

Liza sighed. “Fine. But you’ll catch my cold if I hang out here all afternoon. I’ll bring these in a conference room somewhere.” Liza bent down to grab a box, but Kelsey stopped her.

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. Just take the couch over there. Relax.” She walked to her desk and grabbed a box of Dayquil from her drawer. “Here, help yourself.”

Liza popped two of the orange pills out of the packet. “If I had known you were the drug pusher in the office, I’d have come to you sooner.”

Kelsey laughed. “You bet. This is the good stuff, too. The one you need an ID for.”

“Impressive!” Liza swallowed the pills, then sat on the couch, assessing the task.

“By the way, we’re going to this new bar that opened up in Chelsea. You should come! All the food they serve comes in edible plates, and you eat with edible cutlery. Sounds terrible, but Lauren really wants to check it out.”

Liza scoffed and pointed at her nose. “With this? No thanks.”

Kelsey rolled her eyes. “It’s just a cold, Liza.” She leaned on her desk. “You’ll be fine. Nothing a little alcohol can’t fix,” she added with a conspiring smile.

Liza tried to remember a time in her twenties when she’d gone out with a cold, but couldn’t. Truth be told, she’d always been a bit of a baby when it came to illnesses, at least before she had a kid. She always favored lying on her couch with a heavy blanket and tea. It was a great opportunity to rest and let the world run without her for a few days. Cozy up in the quiet corners of life for a bit.

“Thank you, but I really—“ a tickle interrupted her. She lifted a finger, her eyes fluttering. Kelsey was already on it, handing her a box of tissues. Liza grabbed one and muffled her sneezes in it. “Hh… Iihh'mpphhff! Eh'mppff!”

“Bless you!”

“Thanks. I really wish I could come out tonight, but I’m going to have to stay late and work on the submission logs anyway.”

“Oooh that’s right. Diana was not happy about it this morning. Do you need help?”

“That’s so sweet of you, but no. You should go out. Enjoy eating… dinnerware. Or whatever.”

Kelsey grimaced. “Hopefully it tastes better than Diana’s green juice.”

Liza’s eyes brightened, remembering her sandwich and apple cider vinegar juice that she’d left on her desk. “Actually, I’ve got the perfect juice for you to try if you want to prepare your palate…”

Later, after everyone had gone—including Diana—, Liza went back to her desk to work on the submissions. She’d been working in the darkened office for a few hours, thankful for the quiet, but wishing she could be home in bed. Her cold had progressively worsened. Her throat felt like sandpaper and she’d started coughing a little to clear the irritation. Her eyes were burning the way they do when a fever is creeping up. She’d put on her coat to keep the chills at bay, but her bones still felt cold in spite of the warmth of her skin.

And her nose... The tickle had taken up permanent residence deep within her sinuses. She was constantly sneezing and blowing her nose, reducing her to a proverbial mess. Her bin was overflowing with used tissues.

“Liza?”

Liza froze, her heart stopping for a second. She turned around to see none other than Charles walking down the hallway from his office.

“Charles! You’re still here?”

He chuckled, stopping next to her desk. “So are you. I thought I heard something. I didn’t know I wasn’t alone. Working late?”

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Liza said, or rather croaked. She plastered a smile on her face and subtly cleared her throat.

“Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.” He examined her, a look of concern in his kind eyes. Liza almost melted.

“Yep, I’m great. Just a bit tired, you know.” With her foot, she pushed the bin overflowing with tissues underneath her desk, away from Charles's view. “Heading out?” She sniffed. A sneeze was definitely incoming. Of course. She slowed her breathing, praying for it to go away.

“Not yet, I still have—“ Charles stopped in the middle of his sentence, looking curiously at Liza as the woman scrunched up her nose.

“I’m so—sorry— Ehh… Iihh’TSSHH.”

“Bless you.”

“Hh’TSSHHHeew!”

“Bless you again.” Charles produced a white handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket and offered it to Liza. “Are you sure you’re feeling OK?”

Liza accepted the handkerchief. “Thank you. It’s just…” she shrugged. “Allergies, you know?”

“Hmm. Alright, I’ll let you get back to it, but don’t stay too late.”

“Right back at ya!” As soon as she said it, Liza kicked herself internally. Why did she always sound so lame when Charles was around? He gave her a small wave and walked back to his office.

Liza groaned and let her head fall on her keyboard the minute he was out of sight.

“Why me,” she whined.

---

Another hour later, after many stifled, exhausted sneezes and careful wiping of her nose, afraid to make any noise, Liza’s head rested in her hand, leaning over her desk. Her eyes felt heavy, her nose on fire. Her progress had slowed considerably, fatigue taking over her cold-ridden body. She still had quite a few submissions to process, but didn’t know if she could pull through. She considered getting up to get coffee when suddenly, a steaming cup of tea appeared next to her.

She jumped, finding Charles standing over her.

“Ready to admit you’re under the weather?” he asked with a smirk.

Liza’s nose scrunched up, and she buried her face in the handkerchief. “Hh—Ihh’TSSHH”

“Bless you. I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m almost done,” Liza lied. “Thank you though. What is it?” She pointed at the mug.

“Oh, it’s just chamomile tea with a bit of honey. It always works for me when my throat is bothering me.”

Liza smiled. “That sounds perfect.” She took a sip, but her nose protested as soon as the steam hit her sensitive nostrils. “Hh… Hhh! Ihh’TSSHH! Ehh—TSSHhhhew!”

Charles frowned. “Bless you, Liza. You’re sounding worse and worse. I really think you should go home.” He looked at her coat, as if just noticing that she was wearing it indoors. “Do you feel feverish?”

“Oh no, it’s not that bad, I just—“

Charles didn’t wait for her to finish and placed his hand on her forehead. His palm felt cool and protective, tender. Liza closed her eyes briefly, his touch shooting a delicious electric buzz through her body.

“You're definitely running a fever,” he murmured. “Come on, I’m sending you home.” He took out his phone and tapped away. “I’m calling you an Uber. And that’s an order, by the way.” He said it with a hint of humor and tenderness, his voice as calm and poised as always. Liza just nodded, unable to say anything after his forehead feel.

She gathered her belongings and let Charles help her up. “Wait!” Liza’s head cleared up, and she remembered Diana’s request. “I have to finish the submissions by—Ehh… Ihh’TSShhh” Charles tightened his grip on her shoulders as Liza pitched forward with the sneeze.

“Bless you,” he said, frowning again, as if worried she would collapse from exhaustion. “I’ll deal with Diana tomorrow morning. Your only job right now is to get into bed and stay there as long as you need. Alright?”

Liza nodded. They made their way down to the lobby of the building.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Charles took off the scarf he’d worn at lunch, slung over his shoulder. “I noticed you weren’t wearing a scarf earlier today and thought you could use it to keep warm.” He slid it around Liza’s neck a few times, covering her bare skin. “There. That’s better.” He then pushed open the door and held it for her.

The cold air felt like an assault on Liza's feverish body, but she didn't care. Even through her congestion, she could smell Charles’s scarf around her neck. A mix of winter pines, soap and worn books. Charles opened the Uber's door, holding Liza's hand as she slid in.

“Thank you, Charles." Liza said from her seat, looking up at him. He glowed under the street light. "I really appreciate your kindness.”

“Of course, Liza.” Charles locked eyes with her, dimming out the rest of the world around them. “I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you.”

Charles wished her good night and close the door. As the car drove off, Liza closed her eyes.

She knew the dreams to come would be the best fevered dreams she'd ever had.

THE END

#sneezefic #sneeze fic #sickfic #caretaking #illnessfic #caretaking kink #sneeze kink #snz fic #snz #care-taking #fever kink #illness kink #snzblr #snzfic

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jaceyneedsabetterusername · 3 years

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Aliit Be Cuur

Pairings: Mando x Reader

Summary: While waiting in the hospital in Mos Pelgo after you were inured in the attack on the Krayt Dragon, Mando accidentally learns some life changing information for the both of you. You’re pregnant.

Warnings: Description of injuries, Pregnancy, Talk about miscarriage, Mando sees a sonogram-like image of reader’s uterus while she’s unconscious, general discussion of pregnancy while reader is unconscious and unaware, made up Star Wars level medical equipment

Word Count: 2800

Read Part 2 Here!

________________________________________

Watching you lay unconscious, body littered in cuts and burns, had to be the most terrifying thing Mando had ever experienced, and that was coming from a man that had seen some horrific things in his life. It was his fault you were hurt. If only his plan to kill the Krayt Dragon had gone as it was supposed to, you wouldn’t be in this position. This was supposed to be what he was good at. Killing. Sure, he killed the dragon, but at what cost?

When the initial plan of luring out the dragon and detonating the explosive just at his weak spot under his belly had gone south, he knew he had to think of something else. He could not leave the Mandalorian armor with Cobb Vanth. He needed it back.

The plan to use the bantha as bait had come to him quickly but he should have known better than to not tell you what he was doing. There was just no time. Everything had happened so fast. After months of travelling together, he’d hoped that maybe by some miracle, you could read his mind and know that everything was going to be okay when he allowed the dragon to swallow him with the bantha.

You were with the villagers and Tusken Raiders, struggling to fix the devices you’d built to throw the harpoons so you’d have a fighting chance. Being so caught up in your own tasks, sweat beading on your forehead from the heat and pressure, you hadn’t known Mando had strapped explosives to the bantha and was using it as bait. A loud screeching roar from the dragon ripped your attention away from the trying to kick a piece of wood back into place just in time to see the dragon’s mouth open, massive teeth bared, as it plunged down, straight on top of Mando and the bantha.

You screamed in horror, running towards the beast, “MANDO!” About halfway there from your post, you whipped out your blaster and shot at the beast as it dove back into the sand. The lasers were useless and you knew that but it was the only thing you could think of to do. Your legs fumbled to a halt, the realization that Mando was really gone actually hitting you.

But then something else hit you.

There was a loud explosion and a wave of fire, rocks, sand, and dragon flesh hit you, throwing your body back. The last thing you saw was the wave of orange and red coming at you before everything went black.

Just as planned, Mando had managed to escape the beast’s clutches before the explosion but suddenly regretted every decision he’d ever made when he saw the little figure of your body running towards where you assumed Mando to be. Even from dozens of feet in the air, he knew it was you. He couldn’t imagine anyone else there willing to run straight at the monster to try and save him. The bombs were sure to detonate any second but by the time he’d noticed you, it was too late. The bomb detonated with a massive wave of heat and debris.

He watched in horror as your body flew back at least twenty feet before sliding another fifteen across the sand after the impact. Time seemed to stop around him as he jetted to you in less than a few seconds. He couldn’t breathe, fear that he had caused your death choking his airways. “Y/N!” He yelled, landing harshly on his feet right beside you before falling to his knees. You were lying face down, eyes closed. “Y/N, talk to me.” Mando looked over your body and, by some miracle, there didn’t appear to be any broken bones, at least not any that looked immediately disfiguring. With a nearly effortless nudge, he rolled your body over. Your clothes had been ripped and/ or singed in many places. Multiple large holes in your pants revealed reddening burns and blood dripping from sand scraped skin. Your shirt was torn in multiple places, the left strap of your shirt torn so severely it could barely count as a sleeve. The side of your face that was on the sand was also scraped up, thankfully not too deep, but enough to cause bleeding.

Now the two of you were in the little hospital in Mos Pelga, along with the rest of those who'd been injured in the attack. You slept now, bandages covering large portions of you body that was now largely exposed. They had had to strip you down to your underwear to reach all the wounds but had wrapped your chest in wrappings in place of a bra for the sake of your privacy. Mando had pulled his cape over the majority of your body, knowing you'd be upset if you were to wake up practically naked in front of everyone.

He hadn't left your side since the explosion. He carried you to the infirmary. He laid you down on the cot. He watched as both human nurses and medic droids worked to patch you up and take blood for tests. They had told Mando that they wouldn’t know anything for sure until the tests came back. Even with the bacta that they’d lathered on you, it would take time for it to work and there was a possibility for further damage that they couldn’t see on the outside.

The child had been sleeping in his little cot, sealed up safely inside the levitating metal object. Mando had just been sitting beside you on a crate, leaning forward on his knees. This was his fault. He should have known you’d run in. He should have known that something like this could happen.

“Mandalorian.” A robotic voice gently called for Mando’s attention.

He looked up at the awkwardly proportioned grey medic droid who stood on the opposite side of the bed. “Is she going to be okay?”

The droid spoke again, its body shifting unnecessarily to emphasize some of its words, “Patient 728, also known as Y/N. Female. Age: (Y/A). 2nd degree burns on the abdomen, arms, and legs. Superficial graze abrasions on the face, neck, arms, hands, abdomen, and legs. Bruising on face, back, hips, and legs. Probability of death: 7%. No damage to the fetus. Probability of miscarriage: 19%.”

Mando found a hard time finding any solace in the words of a droid. When a young male nurse walked up beside the droid, Mando immediately turned his attention to him.

“It’s a miracle the baby survived unharmed. I’ve seen much less cause a miscarriage.” The nurse mused, flipping through the clipboard in his hands.

Mando stood up, brows furrowed beneath the helmet, “That must be someone else’s chart.”

The nurse flipped back to the front page, “Patient 728? Y/N L/N?” The young man confirmed.

“Yes.”

He shook his head, “Nope, this is hers.”

Mando gestured to you, “There must have been a mistake. She’s not pregnant.”

The young nurse looked at the beskar helmet that he was actually slightly taller than and swallowed hard, “I’m sorry. I assumed that you were the father. If not, this is confidential information that I can’t share with you.” It was obvious that the man was afraid to stand up to a Mandalorian, surely hundreds of stories of their superior killing ability running through his head. Nonetheless, he held fast to what was right.

Mando’s head was reeling and all he wanted was to run and take off the helmet and take actual, non-filtered breaths. Instead, he was wide eyed and silent as thoughts ran through his head a million lightyears an hour. The beskar betrayed none of his emotions. To the rest of the world, he appeared frozen, standing strong and staring right at the nurse when in reality Mando had zoned out somewhere off to the side.

If you were pregnant, the baby had to be his. For the last few months, the two of you had had an unofficial relationship of sorts. Nothing was ever said, no official labels, but the two of you behaved like any other couple, or at least a much less touchy-feely version of one. After a night of confessions brought on by an unrelated argument, it had become an unspoken truth that you were only taken by each other. You were his riduur, no doubt, and, as far as he knew, he was yours. You would never lay with another man as long as you and Mando were together, that much he was sure of.

“If she’s pregnant, I am the father.” His voice was calm as always but he thanked the modulator for the slight distortion. If it hadn’t been there, he would have sounded shaky.

The nurse sighed, choosing to believe him because he really didn’t see much use in lying over something like this. He flipped to the next page on his chart and walked over to stand beside Mando, pointing at some numbers that meant nothing to him. “hCG is a hormone that’s created in the placenta and is only present in pregnant women. According to her levels, I’d say she’s about eight weeks.” He paused for a moment, allowing time for the new information to sink in. “You really didn’t know?”

“If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have let her fight the Krayt Dragon.” Mando snapped, almost angry at the mere suggestion that he would put his own child in that sort of danger.

The nurse put his hand up in defense before continuing, “Do you think she knows?”

Mando shook his head. He believed that you still would have jumped into battle even if you had known, at least from a distance. It was just who you were. But he really didn’t think you had any idea that you were pregnant. Mando had been trained to read people his entire life and surely such news would have brought about some change in your demeanor. Mando hadn’t noticed any change in your behavior. Besides, he would like to believe that you would have told him if you knew.

He couldn’t believe this. How were you pregnant? Okay, well he knew how you could have possibly gotten pregnant but the two of you had always tried to be as safe as you could to avoid this exact scenario. Neither of you were in a position for children, the Child being a special circumstance. Your life was full of danger and violence. How could Mando protect you for an entire nine months while pregnant and then for the rest of forever, while also protecting the Child against what felt like an entire galaxy that wanted him at any cost?

“Do you want to see?” The nurse’s voice brought Mando back to the present and his helmet tilted in curiosity.

“See what?”

“The baby. I need to do a scan to ensure that it's still doing alright. You can see the fetus on the screen while you scan.” He set the clipboard at the foot of your bed and procured a moderately sized glass panel with a metal border that he’d had pinned between his arm and side while he spoke to Mando.

With a few taps on the glass, bright blue words and images appeared. He tapped on one selection and the middle of the screen cleared, aside from a thin column on the right hand side that had stats and vitals. “See, if you put anything under this, it will show you an interior view of the body. This mode shows organs and blood vessels and stuff like that. See?” The nurse put his hand under the glass panel. The screen showed a light blue version of his hand but instead of skin and nails, it clearly showed the lines of his muscles and the veins that overlapped them clearly.

Politely as he could, he pulled the cape that had been draped over you down just enough to expose your lower belly, stopping just above the hemline of your underwear. The only thing indicating that you were even alive at this point was the deep inhale you took, drawing both Mando’s and the nurse’s attention. It was the only time Mando hoped that you weren’t waking up. He had no idea how to explain this new situation to you. Hell, he was still having a hard time understanding it for himself. Thankfully, a deep breath was all it was though. You were still asleep.

The nurse moved the glass panel over your lower stomach, just about where your belly button was, and the image began to form on the screen as he adjusted a few things. Mando’s helmet tilted forward as he leaned over to see the image.

A nearly perfect view of your reproductive system appeared as a blue digital image. Mando felt uncomfortable looking at the image, feeling like he was violating you in some way. He knew he shouldn’t be looking at this without your permission but then the nurse zoomed in on your uterus to the point where the only thing that could really be seen was a little being.

Mando’s first thought was that it looked like a little alien. There was an identifiable head that appeared to be looking down and the cord that was attached to you through its belly. The rest of the body was curled into a fetal position.

The nurse tapped something on the screen and there was a rapid thudding sound that emanated from the device.

“Is that the heartbeat?” Mando asked, knowing that the answer was probably obvious. For someone who was used to working under pressure, he felt like his brain was only receiving radio static.

“Mhm, nice and strong.” The nurse said with a warm smile. He tapped a few notes onto the board and then turned it off, the blue image disappearing and the amplified heartbeat ceasing.

Mando couldn't believe this was happening. How could you not know you were pregnant? He was no expert on the female body, aside from the basics, but weren't you supposed to be throwing up or missing periods or something? He couldn't wrap his head around how you were eight weeks along with seemingly no clue of your condition.

"Look, I can see that clearly this was something unexpected. I don't know if this is something you want to tell her or want me to, but either way, there are some conversations you two need to have." The nurse told Mando matter-of-factly while gathering the few things he’d brought over before leaving.

Mando shifted on his feet and reached down to pull his cape back up over your torso so you wouldn’t be cold and exposed, though it was mostly for the second reason. It was next to impossible to be cold on Tatooine, at least during the day. That was when he noticed the small, barely there bump on your lower stomach. It was such a slight variation from its normal size that he never would have noticed it had he not just learned about the life now growing inside you. It was so slight that he imagined you probably would have just attributed it to bloating perhaps, since you were unaware as well, considering all the less-than-pleasant food you both came across in your work.

Part of him wanted to place his hands over the ever-so-slight swell of your belly, just to see if by some chance he could feel anything. Mando decided against it, shaking his helmet at himself with a heavy sigh. He would wait until you woke up and the two of you had a chance to discuss everything before he did anything relating to the baby.

Gently, he pulled the cape back up over your body and sat down on the crate again, leaning his elbows on his knees where he sat with his thoughts for several minutes in a zoned out daze. His attention was only broken by the cooing from the Child’s metal pram. Mando tapped on the controls on his arm, opening the pram, and removing the little green baby who was now wide awake.

“Hey, buddy.” Mando breathed out, watching as the baby stretched his arms out to you, “I know, I know. She’ll wake up soon.”

The Child looked up at Mando sadly before snuggling down onto his lap, sitting there comfortably. The weight of such a small being had become comfortable and normal for Mando now after all this time with him. He was, by Creed, his son now. Mando was already a father. You had stepped up as a mother for the young child. So why did this feel different?

Mando imagined the new future, assuming you had decided to stay with him and care for the baby together. He had every intention of raising the baby with you and would do whatever it took to keep the two of you safe. He loved you more than he knew was possible to love another person and the last thing he wanted was to leave. Mando hoped that, one day, you would be officially bound by riduurok. Once the Alor approved it, Mando’s clan of two would become an aliit be cuur. Clan of four.

#mando x y/n #the mandolorian x reader #mando x you #mando imagine #the mandalorian #din dijarin x reader #din djarin #din djaren #din djarin fics #pedro pascal #dad!mando #mando x pregnant!reader #star wars #star wars imagines

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palbabor-writes · 3 years

Text

Latibule

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attacks & hypochondria, adult language, eventual SMUT

Words: 9790

His usual spot at the cafe is taken, and he’s already decided to keep walking on, but somehow, somehow, he manages to catch your eye.

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink, a pleased smile on your soft lips.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

Notes: hi. this is my first real foray into the world of Haikyuu!! & i’m so excited to branch into this fandom! if this is your first time reading my stuff imma warn you, i take things slow, so expect some slow burn.

this will be a multi-chapter fic with eventual NSFW/18+ only content. i will post warnings for each update. i’ll also link other chapters on this page and any other pages that come up, so keep in mind that there will be edits to links as things progress - i wasn’t planning on this being anything more than a one-shot, but this first exploration of Sakusa’s character turned into a monster & i wanna really hone in on that sweet, sweet build up.

big, huge shoutout to @wickedfaerytale & @albinoburrito for their edits and suggestions. y’all are amazing and i love you both so much, this fic wouldn’t be what it is without the two of you.

Latibule /lat-i-bule/ noun a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort

pt. i: an opening

[ pt. ii: four set ] ||

It’s a quiet coffee shop.

He likes that about it. He likes it almost as much as the simple fact that he can tell what day of the week it is by the smell of the disinfectant and bleach that’s being used behind the counter.

There’s a strange comfort to this place’s consistency and Kiyoomi Sakusa likes to linger here, propping his MSBY issued volleyball bag beside his usual table. He’s already placed his coffee order with the cheerful man who guards the cash register, watching as his paper cup is marked with a fresh sharpie and placed on the bartop, beside the elbow of that barista who always attentively turns to wash her hands before making each new order.

He had stumbled upon the shop his senior year of college and he’s haunted it ever since, content to sip on a smooth cortado as he watches over the latest plays from the MSBY games, mapping out his overestimations, his successes, and his flukes in his notebook– carefully lined kanji listing out what worked and what needs some extra practice. The caramel sweet flavor of the ristretto shots always helps to relax him, his broad shoulders lowering, the ache of self-induced tension and overworked muscles easing as his drink cools between his fingers, finally sinking fully into the plush leather seat of his clean chair.

The young woman, he should know your name, but he’s never caught a proper glimpse of your name tag, because you’re always moving, gives him a familiar lifting of smooth lips and places his completed drink on the handoff plane. You know his personal preferences well enough that you’re already moving the caddy of lids and cardboard sleeves forward, so he can select his own from the neatly stacked row. He gives you a cursory nod and his calloused fingertips pull the frothy beverage into his hands, cupping the curved sides and taking a deep drag of air through his masked nose, inhaling the bright smell of fresh coffee.

And…vines…or is it a tangy pine?

There’s something else that’s tickling his senses, and he blinks toward you, dark brows knitting together, a misplaced curl of inky hair brushing against his forehead, trying to make sense of the smell. His chin lifts and his head tilts, eyes watching your polished movements as you move onto the next drink in line. It’s definitely got some floral notes, but it’s not cloyingly sweet, like honeysuckle or gooseberry–no, it’s got some kind of balmy spice to it. It returns when you move closer and he swears he can taste summer when you shift back.

Odd.

When you look up at him again, he’s already stepping away, his running shoes squeaking across the slate tiles, making his way back to his bag and table. The aroma of your perfume is half forgotten when he cracks his laptop open, squirting some hand sanitizer across his chapped palms before he starts to clack his fingertips across the dark keys. He needs to get more lotion; he thinks as the sterile solution cools between his splayed fingers, this weather always dries his skin out.

The next time he comes in he spies you at the back of the shop, jotting something down in a large binder before kneeling behind the counter, returning with a sparkling, grated drain top. The white gleams under the accented lighting and he watches as you thumb at the paint, denoting a splotch of rust that rests under the dip of the metal. You return the cover to the ground and immediately twist to the hand washing sink that rests behind the bar, lathering up some dispensed soap and methodically stroking from the tips of your fingers to your wrists. A steady puff of steam is rising around you as he places his order–

[ a oat milk smoothie, with an extra scoop of protein powder, chia seeds, turmeric, kale, cucumber, dash of dates for sweetener ]

and by the time he’s paid and padding toward his usual spot, you’re finishing up, yanking a few disposable paper towels from the overhead dispenser and gingerly drying your damp hands.

He’s seen you wash your hands plenty of times before, but he finds himself distractedly following your movements this afternoon as he waits for his order and his computer to finish booting up. You catch his obsidian eyes when you turn around and give him a brief smile; a flash of teeth peeking through your lips before you move back to your binder. You jot down a few more notes as you move onto the fridges that sit under the countertops, pulling and prying at the gaskets that line the doors of the whirring chillers, speaking softly to a fellow employee, pointing out the missed stains and chipped flecks of ice that like to hide within the folds of the protective plastic.

You’re not overbearing in your coaching, keeping your tone even and friendly, focusing on what can be done going forward, rather than lingering on the ‘what if’s’ and ‘why wasn’t’ of the situation.

Practical, efficient, thorough with your work, and careful with your craft.

Those descriptors float to the forefront of his mind as he takes his smoothie from the barista that’s standing beside you. He lets his gaze hold against your half leaning form, watching the lead tip of your pencil mark over the stark red checklist that you’re working your way down.

He’s not sure why he’s so focused on you. He’s never thought much about you. You’ve been someone that exists in the background, part of his routine to be sure, but he justifies that your attention to detail is likely the reason why he prefers this shop to the dozens of other coffee houses that litter the main street by the MSBY training facilities and stadium. Your head shifts, and he can tell you can feel his gaze, so he swiftly plucks up his icy cold cup, his nose involuntarily trying to seek out that perfume you’d been wearing the other day.

Strange. His brow furrows, and he hunches into his sports jacket, walking back to his chair and his glowing computer. He can’t smell it today. Maybe you’re too far away, or perhaps you’d forgotten to put it on before coming in.

Pity. He’d liked it.

“Running a little late today, I see,” your voice snaps him out of his stupor, onyx eyes lifting to rest against your open expression.

“Kind of,” he replies blandly, his deep cadence muffled by the pull of his mask.

“Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be late! Want me to push your drink to the front of the queue? I’ve got the power to do that, you know,” you tease, tilting your head as a mischievous grin settles over your quirked lips. Kiyoomi blinks impassively down at you and shakes his head. How would he even reply to something like that? You were joking, right? You must be. And if you weren’t, the people who are clustered around the handoff plane would certainly realize that he was being given his drink first, clearly ahead of all of theirs, and they’d probably toss him a few disgruntled stares or mouthy jabs, and likely accuse you of playing favorites.

Wait. Favorites?

Does he count as a ‘favorite’ here? He looks away, lips drooping into a pursed line. You’ve always been…nice…but there’s no way he’s a favorite of yours. He’s hardly spoken to you in the year and a half that he’s been coming here. But is that all it takes? Just take up space in the cafe a few times a week and get special treatment?

No. You must be joking.

All the same, your jovial tone and that welcoming smile is a little intriguing.

He shuffles closer to the heat of the espresso machines, easily lifting his head over the lip of the bronze metal, watching you. You’re looking down now, fingers gripping the dark handle of the portafilter, holding it under the buzzing grinder to gather a fine sprinkle of dusky espresso grounds into the waiting basket. Then, you lift a lustery tamp to the heaping mound and press expertly against the delicate remains of the arabica, packing them to an even level before clamping the filter under the display of the machine. When you flick the switch that activates the group head you must sense his stare and lift your eyes to his, eyelashes momentarily fluttering against your cheeks when you spy his unabashed observations of you.

For a second, your hands falter, trapped within the unexpected intensity of his curious gaze, and you pat blindly for the cup that’s sitting to the right of your curled arms, embarrassingly disarmed by his transparent focus. But once your grip wraps around the waiting plastic, it seems to ground you and you let out a huffing chuckle, eyes crinkling up at his half obscured face.

“I’m only kidding about moving your drink up, don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble. Besides, it’s against our policy. First come, first serve and whatnot,” you assure him, halting the stream of water that’s pouring the carefully timed flow of espresso into the clear shot glass that’s waiting against the gleaming metal of the drip tray.

“You’re busy today,” he notes, jerking his curly head toward the gaggle of college students sprawled across some of the bigger tables, their laughing voices and overly loud conversations easily drowning out the hum of lofi jazz that’s playing from the recessed speakers.

“Ah, yeah, finals are coming up for a lot of us that go to the university. I know my classes are starting to gear up for that last push and sometimes you just need a pick me up and coffee is great for that. We also get a big boost from the smoothies and frappes that we sell in the afternoons, so we get a little packed. Most of our sales happen during the weeks leading up to finals and midterms, uh, anyways, not that you asked for an economic lesson on a small cafe’s profit margins.”

“You’re a student?” he asks, head dipping back, eyes glittering in the lights. Wait. How old are you? Not that he can boast any sort of seniority on that front, he’s only 24 after all, but you just seemed, hmm, more mature? He didn’t picture you as a co-ed. Not that he’s actively picturing you when he’s not here. Well, he is a little recently, but you’ve always felt sort of timeless? Ageless? Is that the right term? You give off an air of confidence. So he’d assumed that you were older than him. Not in a bad way, in fact he’d sort of like it if you were. Why, that is, he’s not willing to look too deeply into, at least, not right now. Maybe later, when he gets back home and can…oh, you’re talking again.

“I’m a graduate student, but not for much longer. I’m finishing up my dissertation this week! Thank God. This semester has been the pits, I’m so ready for a break!” You sound genuinely happy and he can smell that faint aroma of your perfume each time you move.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, unsure if you’d heard him since you’re stepping away from the machines that he’s posted himself behind. He watches you set up two steaming drinks, topping them with a lazy swirl of silky, housemade, whipped cream, a crosshatch drizzle of caramel, carefully snapping a set of black plastic lids on top, before calling out the handwritten names and handing them off to their respective owners. Then you’re back, hands already unhooking the portafilter, knocking out the used espresso pucks into the trash and bringing him back to that spicy smell of summer that sits on your skin.

“Haha, it’s a little early for a congratulations. Don’t jinx me, will’ya? But seriously, thanks, that’s nice of you to say,” you continue, flowing easily back into this half-hearted conversation he’s accidentally struck up with you. He winces at that thought and dips his hands deeper into his jacket, hunching his shoulders into a habitual slouch that he instinctively imposes upon himself when he’s out in public.

“You want a lid?” you question over the hiss of the machine, and he lifts his head, finding your bright eyes through the misting remains of the cleared steam wands.

“No.” His response is clipped, and he gulps down a sudden burst of hazy anxiousness when someone brushes past him, jostling him closer to the low wall that divides the bartop from the cafe floor. He braces himself against the warming top of the machine, his large palm steadying himself, shoulders caving forward, his dark curls falling over his eyes, obscuring his face further. He clenches his jaw, a scowl blooming over his lips.

His social anxiety isn’t anything new, and it’s likely exacerbated by the bustle of the nearby college students, who seem to be getting louder by the second. The noise is needling under his skin. He starts his carefully ingrained breathing exercises, tugging in a deep stream of air through his flared nostrils.

But the smell is coffee is too overwhelming and suddenly his ritual doesn’t help much.

He can feel blood leaving his fingertips and toes, or as his cousin Komori puts it [ the inescapable dread of some imagined ailment, which is making him think that his body is rushing blood from his extremities to his vital organs, his fingertips cold, hands shaking, when in reality ‘you’re just feeling unsure of yourself, man. It’ll be ok in a minute, promise!’ ]

But in the end, it doesn’t matter what anyone calls it, or how they think he should feel during these heart pounding moments, he just knows that he wants to get out of here, now.

His agitation must have twisted the top half of his expression because the feel of your warm fingertips against his wrist jerks him out of his head, causing him to suck in an unsteady breath as he lurches backwards, pulling away from your offending touch.

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t think…I just…” you bite your lip, a look of stark worry passing over your usually open features. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you…are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, teeth clenched, right leg bouncing in place against the tiles. Shit. It’s not like he could have predicted that you’d try to touch him, so you can’t really blame him for his misplaced reaction. Just get him his coffee and he’ll be on his way…

Come on…come on…

“Here you go. Sorry for the wait, Sakusa,” you lift on your tiptoes, the stretch of your legs and arms apparent as you hold his cup out, careful to balance yourself against the lever of the steam wand. He takes the proffered drink and nods his thanks at you, his gaze dark. The gesture might be a little strained, and he knows you likely think he’s some kinda freak at this point, but he’s glad to see your customary smile before he turns, shouldering his way out the door and into the promise of open air.

“Stop being so secretive about this place. It’s not like you can’t search for it online, Omi Omi. I saw you come in with the logo of their shop last week and I wanna try it out. Don’t cha’ gimme that look, I deserve to have good coffee too! And if it’s close by you can’t just keep it to yourself! Think about the rest of us, huh? Besides, I think they’d like to see something other than yer’ prickly face every once in a while.” Golden haired Atsumu Miya, his fellow teammate and setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, has been walking beside him for five blocks, jabbering on about the bland offerings of the big box coffee chains that surround their home gym, and how he hasn’t had a good cup of coffee in days. Tch, he’d said months originally, but that was an obvious lie. After all, Kiyoomi pointed out, slipping his mask on before the two stepped into the strong midday sun, he’d come in with an iced coffee two days ago, proclaiming to the whole team it was the best he’d ever had, bar none.

“It’s a small shop,” Kiyoomi glumly elaborates, his dark hair soaking up the rays of sunlight as they crossed the bustling pedestrian walkway. “I think it’s run by an American. The staff speaks English, besides Japanese. There’s one barista in particular, a young woman, she has–”

“English? Oh, hell yeah! I can practice! This is perfect! They got any specialty drinks? I couldn’t see any from the menu that they had online, but I told ‘Samu I’d send him a picture of the place.”

Hmph, what’s the use of bothering to hold a conversation with this guy, Kiyoomi thinks, obsidian eyes narrowing as his brows furrow over his scrunched face, watching Atsumu chatter on about the vague sampling that he’d seen on their website. He’s not listening, anyway.

The coffee shop bell dings as the two of them step into the space, greeted by a waft of freshly ground coffee and the sharp tang of disinfectant. “Ahhh,” Atsumu says, propping his hands on his trim hips and fixing Kiyoomi with a pointed look, “totally see why you like the place. It smells like they have a freaking bleach, whaddya call those, ah, an air freshener! Yeah, smells like they have an ‘eu de bleach’ wall plug in.”

“It’s clean,” Kiyoomi affirms, his own hands sliding into his pockets, fingers wrapping around his wallet as he steps into the line. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not at all,” Atsumu grins, resting an arm on Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he glances over the chalkboard menu. “Just can tell that must be why you like this place so much. Bet you huff cleaner as soon as you get home.. Speaking of, I still need to see your new apartment, heard you let Ushijima come by and that’s not fair at all. Kinda– ow! Omi, ya’ friggin ass!”

Kiyoomi jerked his arm upwards as he stepped toward the register and the abrupt displacement sent Atsumu’s hand flying up, managing to perfectly strike himself on his nose as he attempted to counterbalance his sudden shift in momentum.

“HA-ah, ahem, I mean…hello! Nice to see you again, sir!” the barista calls out, poorly concealing his mirth at Atsumu’s fumbling behind a gloved hand. Kiyoomi nods curtly, his order on the tip of his lips, but before he can utter anything Atsumu is beside him again, leaning against the well lit pastry case and peering over his options critically.

“Hmm, ya’ got any of those little madeline cakes? They’re vanilla, kinda look like a shell? Saw em’ on yer’ website.”

The barista gives Atsumu a broad grin and twists to talk with someone who’s below the arched dome of the food case, quietly asking a few questions before looking back at the blonde man. “Yeah, we do! We’re actually just putting them out, my manager is checking for the–”

Atsumu steps impossibly closer to the gleaming glass and pops his head over the dome, peering down at whoever is restocking the sweets. “Oh! Hey there!” he chirps, lowering his chin, his face pulling into an exaggerated, cocky smirk. “Ya’ know what I mean, right? It’s kinda like a cake, but it’s small, like a cookie. It’s French. No, it’s not that. Maybe on the next tray? What? I can’t hear ya’. It’s smaller. I can step around, see if–”

A familiar voice pipes up before Atsumu can move closer and Kiyoomi turns, ears instantly pricking up at the sound of your reply. “I said, I know what a madeline is, sir. I’m rearranging and organizing my cart at the moment and, if you’d like, you can order your drinks first. I’ll have the madeline waiting for you on the other side of the bar.”

“Lemme just see one,” Atsumu grins, resting his hands against the glass. Kiyoomi’s lips curl at the sight, watching Atsumu’s hands leave lingering prints behind. Great, now they’ll need to clean and re-polish the display. Besides, you’d said you had them. Why keep pushing the issue? Ugh. If he wasn’t regretting his decision to show his fellow teammate the shop before, he certainly is now.

“Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page, is all. Ya’ might give me something else by mistake and that’s a waste of time for both of us!” Atsumu’s smile broadens, a shadowed look falling over his angular features.

You hop up from your crouched position, a wrapped package with bright blue lettering that clearly says [ French Vanilla Madeline ] on the side, clutched between your fingers. “Oh no, I get it,” you begin, mimicking Atsumu’s cheshire grin with startling accuracy. “You just want to double check! I mean, the words on the packaging do say: Madeline. So unless you mean something else, something that’s not called ‘A French vanilla madeline, made with real vanilla extract and buttery goodness,’ I think we’ve got you covered.”

Your voice is saccharine sweet, lilting over the words, a well-practiced smile lifting your lips. You’re still clearly mirroring the one Atsumu is giving you. It’s the snappiest your tone has ever been, and the fact that it’s being used against his annoying teammate is priceless. Suddenly, he can’t help the laugh that’s already snickering its way past his mask.

“Oi!” Atsumu cries, pushing himself off the case at last, his teeth gritted at Kiyoomi’s obvious amusement. “I just wanted to check! And you, manager lady, don’t be so mean!”

“Pfft, manager lady? It’s (Y/N). And me? Mean? I was not mean, I told you that we had them! I just needed to FIFO some of the other pastries first,” you defend, a surprised exhale falling from your lips.

“FIFO? What is that? Don’t use that food jargon on me! I get that enough from my brother. He does that crap all the time, like it’s some sorta secret lingo. ‘Don’t do that ‘Tsumu, gotta make sure it’s in date’. ‘Don’t come on the line!’ ‘Gotta wear a hat or a hair net if yer’ gonna be back here!’ ‘Don’t mislabel the rice!’ On and on. What’s with you food people? So uptight. Look, I just wanted to try one. Yer’ reviews said they were good! Here, tell you what, give me two. Don’t laugh! Omi, help! She’s picking on me!”

“Stop it, you’re making a scene. Any other inane questions? Or anything else you’d like to order, because I’m certainly not buying any of this for you,” Kiyoomi replies, sneaking a glance at your bemused expression. You catch his eye and give him a quick wink and he finds that his smile stays with him long after he, and a chastened and satiated Atsumu have left the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Mmm, these are pretty good,” Atsumu mumbles between bites of his madeline. “Ya’ want some?”

He stops by after his evening practice, when the sun has long since fallen past the horizon of the city, but as soon as he rounds the corner he regrets his decision.

The cafe is brimming with people. They’re everywhere; outside, they are clustered on the pavement, sitting on the collection of iron wrought chairs, and gathered in groups. Inside, most are sprawled close to the hand off plane, or draped over the couches and tables. They appear to be animated, with computer screens and voices bright, too bright. His usual spot is taken, and he’s already made up his mind to keep walking on but somehow, somehow, he catches your eye.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

“Hey! Glad I could catch you. Wanted to tell you good luck on your upcoming game! I think I saw on the news that it’s tomorrow? Right?”

“Yes, we’re playing Azuma Pharmacy. They have a good starting lineup. It’s entirely possible that we’ll lose.”

“Jeez,” you exhale, cocking your head at his serious expression. “Kind of a pessimist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist. I’m perfectly prepared to beat them, but things always play out differently on the court, no matter what your personal expectations are.”

You give him another smile. This one comes quickly, and it’s bigger than any of the others, the pull of it lighting up your face. It’s different, and he can tell that the way you’re looking at him has shifted; that you’ve liked this answer. He’s not sure why, it’s the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Good point. Well, win or lose, you’ve got my luck! I better get back inside. Your drink is on me by the way, for the other day…when I touched your hand…well, I’m sure you remember. Anyway, see you, Sakusa!”

He watches you slip past the packed lines of students, already rolling up your sleeves so you can wash your hands. Once you’re behind the espresso machine you’re hidden by the burnished copper and he walks on, shouldering his MSBY bag higher, lifting his coffee to his lips. It’s got a rich flavor, well balanced and expertly poured. Once again, he’s reminded that you’re good at what you do and, despite the balmy heat of early spring, that makes his fingers tingle and his skin break out in gooseflesh.

Later, when he’s falling asleep, he keeps seeing your eyes. Watching as your colored irises come alive in the moonlight, hopeful, shining, and wholly focused on him.

At practice, Atsumu insists on completing his post workout stretching next to him. He’s used to Kiyoomi’s sullen silences and barbed retorts, content to chatter however he pleases, flitting from topic to topic as he eases into his cool down routine.

“I need to go back to that coffee shop. Ya’ been back lately?”

“No,” Kiyoomi lies, brushing a stubborn wave of curls out of his sweaty face.

“Too bad. Maybe after Friday’s practice? That girl really knew her stuff. Made some great coffee, too. What was her name? Ah, that’s right, (Y/N). She’s cute, what’s her story?”

Something twinges against Kiyoomi’s rib cage at the word ‘cute.’ Hmm, that’s not normal. He flips to his left side, facing away from Atsumu’s greedy eyes and leering smiles.

“How long has she worked there?”

“Not sure,” Kiyoomi replies, flattening his palm against the cool flooring of the gym. “At least a year, maybe more.”

“That other barista said she was a manager. She’s not one of the owners, is she?”

“Dunno.”

“Is she a student? Kinda strange to see an American working in Japan, and she’s definitely an American. She’s good with the Japanese, but her accent is off.”

“Your accent is off, so I’m not sure what your point is. I can understand her, and I can’t say the same for you.”

“Jackass!” Atsumu snaps, flopping up from his splayed stretch to butterfly his muscled legs. “It’s called a regional accent, and it’s perfectly normal. Ya’ got one too, city boy!”

“See? No one says things like that. You sound like a cartoon character. Sometimes I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yer’ full of it!”

“Hmph,” Kiyoomi hums, curling himself onto his haunches and flattening the tops of his hands against the floor. The satisfying crunch of his wrists as his fingers settle makes Atsumu visibly shudder and Kiyoomi flashes him a quick smirk of his own, hoping it will spook his stretching companion enough that he’ll leave him be. He prefers to do his cool down in silence.

“She do anything else? Other than diligently slaving over yer’ coffee, that is?”

Tch. It seems that luck isn’t with him today. “She said she’s a graduate student.”

“Oooh, what’s she studyin’?”

“Not sure.”

“Yer’ about as fun to talk to as a stack of bricks, ya’ know? Bet if I’d asked you what her name was the other day all you’d say was, ‘I use’ta just call her barista: first name: cute, last name: girl.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply. Something about these questions is bothering him. He doesn’t like that he can’t answer them properly– it’s frustrating, really. All he can honestly tell Atsumu is that you’re neat and efficient, that you have a smile that he can’t quite shake out of his head, a perfume that he wishes he could place, and that, to date, you’ve given him one free coffee. The fact that he knows that you’re a graduate student is sheer luck, information that you’d happened to share with him, not that he’d asked you about. He uncoils his hands and flips them over, letting his eyes rest against his reddened palms. Oh, and you’d touched his wrist once and the sheer metaphysical weight of that contact had nearly sent him stumbling backwards.

It’s stupid; he’s stupid.

It’s not hard to talk with people. It’s just…he knows he’s not good at it. Besides, when would he practice? He’s surrounded by extroverts; extreme extroverts. Extroverts who defy all sense and who usually can’t be silenced unless they’re tucked into a deep sleep, and even then it’s doubtful. Both Hinata and Bokuto have demonstrated that they can, and will, talk in their sleep. Still, it’s frustrating to find himself boxed into a corner, completely at a loss and unaware of the most cursory, mundane, simple, facts about you. For almost two years, he’s seen you at least twice a week, shouldn’t he know more? Why doesn’t he know more?

“Why not give her a ticket to a game?”

Atsumu’s question makes him lift his head, abandoning his musings as he lets the weight of that suggestion sink in. The setter is crinkling his eyes at him now, that all knowing smirk back on his lips, umber eyes hooded, mischievous. “The front office can do that, ya’ know? We’ve got extras. They keep em’ for that purpose. Just say she’s a special guest, or a potential sponsor. They ain’t gonna question you.”

Kiyoomi looks away, crossing his legs and leaning to his right side, feigning disinterest as Atsumu tells him who he can speak with, where he can see the upcoming calendar, and what seats might be open. It’s a good idea, a great idea, and he can’t help but loathe that Atsumu thought of it first.

The ticket is good for a first row balcony seat.

It’s situated in the best spot. He’d picked it out himself, carefully looking over the colored diagram of the stadium and belaboring the proximity of the sight-lines, wanting to let you have a bird’s eye view of the court. Where would he like to sit, if he could watch a game? What works? What doesn’t? Too high and you can’t catch the movement of the ball. Too low and you can’t see the players. Too far to the right or left and you can’t see the breadth of the court. It’s tricky, and he’s cautious with his selection. He can’t help it.

Kiyoomi only considers you not even liking the sport when he’s placing his order, watching as you carefully tuck his empty cup down on the polished steel of the bar. Shit.

The cafe is quiet. The students are gone, and when the register barista goes to the backroom it’s only him and you in the well lit space. The click of the burr grinder almost makes him jump, and he compromises with his nerves by shifting toward his usual table, resting his bag in the chair and taking in a deep breath.

The gentle press of the tamp is audible over the low beats of the music and he hears you knock the side of the portafilter, no doubt leveling off the crushed arabica before you hook the device under the grouphead. Seconds later he sees you flip the switch for his shots, already grooming his heated, foaming, oat milk in the short pitcher, popping the liquid free of any errant bubbles. You’re gentle with this part, and he’s always loved to watch you pour his cortado, liking the raise of your arm and the flick of your wrist as you let the creamy milk flow into the paper cup, swirling a rosetta design through the ochre of the waiting espresso.

Usually, this well-oiled process of yours calms him, but today he feels fidgety and his head is buzzing. The sooner you finish the drink, the sooner he’ll have to talk to you. Shit, shit. When you move the dark lids forward, his hand feels like it’s heating around the slick paper of the ticket, making it clammy and tacky. He bites his lip and removes his hand from his jacket, wiping his palm against his dark jeans.

You’re already looking up at him, nodding toward the fragrant cup that’s waiting at the edge of the handoff plane. Automatically, he lurches forward, completely in-sync with his familiar routine. The question [ would you like a ticket to one of my games? ] is resting on the tip of his tongue and his fingers are hovering beside his cup. He can see that they’re shaking and that sight doesn’t ease him. Then you ask him something and he feels everything skitter to a halt. Why is this happening? It’s just a ticket, it’s just a game.

Wait. You asked him something?

He does his best to ignore the humming of anxious tension that’s filtering down his fingertips and lifts his bowed head. “What?” he mumbles, lips unsticking at last.

“Just asked how your game went the other day. I tried to record it but my stupid cable box isn’t working. I need to try and see you guys, I know I’ve probably said that before, but it’s pretty pathetic of me to not catch one game when the stadium is only two miles away. Plus, I know y’all are a great team! Heard you made the playoffs last year, that’s so awesome!”

It’s a perfect segway.

But he feels like he’s rooted to the spot, like his tongue is trapped against the roof of his mouth, and his hands are too heavy to move, content to shake beside his cooling drink as he whittles his time away, too filled with the what if’s to do anything about the here and now. He’s going down a mental checklist, mulling over each possibility, cautiously tampering with that heady rush of excitement that’s threatening to bubble out of his masked lips. Shit.

He’s gotta check his vitamin intake, maybe he’s low on omega 3s? The team has a general practitioner on standby. He really should call him after this, maybe run by his office before the next practice.

Something’s off with him.

Wait, that worked.

That shift in his whirring thoughts broke him out of that suspended state and then, before he completely fucks this up, the ticket is down against the counter and he’s muttering something about unlimited uses, that if you can’t make it now, then you can always switch the date, or add someone on, if you have a [ boy ] friend you want to take; the next game works best with the seat that’s listed, he’s checked. He knows it’s open. Again, zero pressure and no worries if you can’t make it. See you around.

You might have responded, you might have smiled, fuck, you might have laughed at him. He’s not sure.

All he knows is that as soon as he is out of the shop he’s calling the team’s gp and confirming an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’s not natural for his heart to stutter and thump like that. It could be an arrhythmia.

It could be any number of things.

He hasn’t felt this nervous about a game in years. Sure, it’s a good team, and they have four players that are of his generation, most of them powerful outside hitters that will probably give the Jackals a good run for their money, but they’re not insurmountable. They can beat VC Kanagawa; they’ll have to if they want to advance further in the lineup for the playoffs.

It’s just…

He keeps looking for that seat. Your seat. He’d gotten to the stadium early; opting to forgo the first team meeting, saying he needed to practice his wall drills, work on his spin, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is something that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. At least, not before a game. He steadies himself, reiterating that it’s not practical or helpful for him to worry about things like that.

Nevertheless, he’s pinned the seat in his mind. He studied it as the lights shuddered on, the maintenance staff flashing him bewildered looks as he stepped into the empty brightness of the court. He’d found it again during the pre-game warmup, onyx eyes committing the location to memory, searching for the little details that he could watch for if he wanted to find it again, later, when the arena was packed with thousands of eyes and waving signs.

As they open the main doors and the seats fill up, he’s still looking at the seat.

“Whatcha looking at?” Hinata asks, his burst of orange hair already slicked with sweat, vivid eyes sharp.

“Nothing.”

The results of Kiyoomi’s physical had shown no outliers, no cause for worry or concern. Everything was fine. He should just get a little extra potassium in, maybe eat a few more bananas in the morning, or after his practices. He’d been a little miffed when he opened the manilla folder, eyes hunting for abnormalities, for a reason, an explanation. If nothing is wrong, then why does he feel like he’s tingling with adrenaline all the time? It makes him light-headed, sluggish, and that’s detrimental to his playability, to his value to his team.

He looks away from Hinata and paces past Atsumu’s arched eyebrow, ignoring the implications of that wicked grin that’s resting on the setter’s quirked lips. It’s fine; he’s fine. His eyes look up to the balcony again. He really shouldn’t be doing that, he reminds himself. It’s a distraction, and he doesn’t–

Oh. There you are.

He can’t make out details, not from this distance, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about his face. There’s no mask. He doesn’t wear it when he plays, and this will be the first time you’ve seen him without it. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t cared so much about the visibility of the court. Why did he plant you so far away? If he can’t see you, then there’s no way you’ll be able to tell which one he is either…oh…wait…his name is on the back of his jersey and they’ll announce his number. Nevermind.

The referee calls for the teams to line up and he diligently follows his teammates, standing in his usual spot, ignoring the dull thump of his heart as it beats a ragged tattoo under his ribs.

They won.

They won, and he’d racked up a whopping 23 points for himself, a personal milestone. It’ll be something that will go down on his athletic record, that the local and national news reports will chatter about, that he can feel proud of. He’s glad; you always show him your best, so it’s only fair he does the same for you too.

He’d peeked up at your seat during each time out, each break, every time the momentum shifted, and before he hit every serve. You looked like you had your feet propped up, resting against the metal barrier of the balcony, and he could see that your arms were wrapped around your knees. You were paying attention, and that knowledge made his lungs swell and his pulse quicken.

Now, after he’s finished toweling some of the clinging sweat from his brow and the matted droop of his obsidian curls, he twists back, facing your seat, but you’re not there. An empty curve of plastic greets him and his heavy brows furrow, his fingers dropping the towel onto the bench as they curl up into his palms.

Did you leave? It would make sense, he supposes. The game is over. He just thought you might come down. Might want to talk. Not that he’d have much to say. He never does. Stupid; what would he talk with you about? See the game? Yeah, duh.

The distant voice of MSBY’s public relations manager is calling for him. He’ll worry about it [ you ] later, he thinks, he’s still got a job to do.

During his interview he can hear Atsumu’s voice. It’s annoying. While the setter doesn’t attempt to tone himself down, he rarely talks that loudly. Kiyoomi glances over at his straight back, watching as his hand cups against the back of his golden head, an infectious laugh bursting from his turned lips. Strange. It’s not like him to chat with someone for that long, not when he’s got his own post-game interviews to conduct. He usually–

Ah, it’s you.

Suddenly, questions like: [ how does it feel to be considered for the 2025 Japanese Olympic team? ] don’t matter. His head is half cocked now, dark eyes following the two of you, his comments to the national reporter falling into clipped monosyllables. This is unprofessional; he should focus on the matter at hand, it’s not like him to be distracted.

He’s been thinking about that a lot lately. That so many things are suddenly not like him.

When you push playfully at Atsumu’s shoulder, he lapses into a stormy silence, nails biting into his clenched palms, pressing half moons into his calloused skin. After answering one more question: [ something about his future plans - how’s he supposed to know? That depends on trades, on opportunities. And right now he’s not in the correct frame of mind to answer honestly, not when he can see that you’re right there ] he bows to the smiling face of the reporter, formally concluding his participation in the interview. He knows it’s abrupt; he knows he’ll likely get an earful from the MSBY PR director, from his coach, and from himself, when the full weight of his uncharacteristic rashness hits him, but right now he doesn’t care.

His feet feel like lead and the steps that he’s taking shudder against the gym’s polished flooring. He’s usually smoother than this, more collected, but can’t will himself to stop lurching forward. He tucks his hands into the darkness of his team jacket, coiling his numb fingers into tight balls, and hunches his shoulders. He likely looks like thunder and this suspicion is confirmed when a ball boy scuttles out of his path, eyes wide, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care.

Atsumu hasn’t noticed his approach, but you do, and that shy wave and familiar smile makes his breath catch in his throat. Damn it. What’s going on with him?

Atsumu notices your wandering attention and turns, following your gaze. Once he spots Kiyoomi, he gives him a cheeky smirk, dipping his chin, lazily fixing his amber eyes on Kiyoomi’s arched figure. “Look who caaame!” he calls, lacing his tone with poorly concealed glee. “She said you gave her a ticket. What a great, absolutely original, idea! And you had your record breaking scoring streak today too! Hey! Maybe she’s good luck! Watch out (Y/N), pretty soon we’ll be hooking you up with a personal mascot job if ya’ can light such a fire under our stoic hitter’s ass. Must be something special in that coffee yer’ serving him.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at Atsumu’s blatant needling and the setter chuckles, flipping his focus back to you, sensing the rising agitation that is rolling off of Kiyoomi in waves now. “Well, sure was good to see ya’ again! Talk to me next time, huh? I’ll get you a boxed seat. It’s much better than those nosebleeds in the balconies.”

You shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips, and make a show of rolling your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, you know? And what boxed seats? Feels like I’d see them if you had them,” you tease, earning yourself a last laugh and Atsumu’s back, a friendly hand waving a last goodbye as he finally strides toward the waiting cameras. Kiyoomi watches him go, his shoulders tense, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. Is Atsumu doing this on purpose?

He almost snaps a retort at his retreating figure, but the sound of your voice immediately snatches his attention toward you. His dark gaze meets yours and the look in your eyes makes his palms feel itchy and his feet scuff mindlessly against the floor.

“This is gonna sound so dumb, but it’s been on my mind since I got here…”

Kiyoomi’s fingers twist in his pockets, coiling over each digit, and his pulse feels like it’s speeding up again. “What?”

“It’s just…well, you look so much younger without the mask,” you let out a small laugh and duck your head, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you face away from his widening eyes.

“Is that bad?”

“No! You look good! Uh, I mean, not that you didn’t…I just wasn’t sure…not that I’d thought about it…a lot…uh, I…yeah, I’m…No, it’s not bad!” You press your hands against your mouth, steepling your fingers under your nose and fix him with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I know you’ve got things to do, but Miya was right about one thing, you had a great game. I had a lot of fun and it was so nice of you to get me that ticket, and well…”

You pause, lowering your hands to yank your purse forward, fingers digging into the leather before you right yourself once more, returning with a small, zipped bag, and a plastic card that’s balancing atop the metal teeth. “It’s a…well…I sorta tried to think of some things that you might like. To say thanks! It’s nothing fancy. A nail filing kit, because I read that volleyball guys like to keep their hands in tiptop shape, one of those portable ball pumps and some masks.

The masks are from a great company, back home, er, in the states. Well, at least I like them, they’re super durable. And the card, uh, ha, um, the card is to the cafe. I know it’s not super original, but I didn’t know if you liked any other places. And I didn’t wanna assume or — Haha, oh God, I am talking your ear off. Just…here! Take this from me so I can get my foot outta my mouth, okay?”

You press the bag forward and before he can tell you he doesn’t accept gifts from fans, his hands are already out of the safety of his pockets, firmly wrapping around your offering. “Thank you,” he bows. He wants to say more, but he’s not sure how.

He didn’t mean to come by the cafe.

He thought he’d go for a quick run before practice, maybe loop the block, or jog toward the university. None of these things are close to the cafe, but apparently his feet had other ideas. The shop bell rings when he steps inside, wiping some hand sanitizer against his heated palms, onyx eyes alert, already searching for you.

A male barista [ is it Kane? ] greets him and before he can stop himself, he’s asking if you’re there. “Oh, (Y/N)? Nah, she’s off today. But I can make your cortado, you get almond milk, right?”

“Oat,” Kiyoomi replies, voice muffled by his mask. Damn. Why did he come here? He didn’t mean to and now it’s looking like it was a wasted trip. A useless instinct. He’d wanted to thank you properly for your gift, which had been on his mind a lot the past few days. Perhaps that’s why he felt so compelled to jog the extra mile, why he can’t seem to keep away, why he keeps looking for you as he waits, even though he knows you’re not here.

Maybe he can text you his thanks. That would make all of this easier. Oh, wait, does he even have your number? He pulls his phone out of his pocket and examines his contact list, searching for you. No, nothing under your name. Maybe he put it under something else? [ barista? cafe? ] Again, there’s nothing. Damn. Why didn’t he ask at the game? Or when he gave you the ticket?

When he picks up his drink and paces back into the sunshine, he’s still kicking himself that he hasn’t asked for your number yet. It would have made things so much simpler, he reasons, sipping at his coffee; now he’ll have to come back.

But days pass, and he hasn’t returned.

There’s just too much going on. Too many team meetings and late practices. Too much preparation. The pace of his schedule has never bothered him before, but now he keeps hoping for some kind of reprieve.

The other morning Atsumu strode into a meeting with a cup from your cafe, proudly flaunting the familiar label. It made Kiyoomi’s blood boil [ did he see you? talk with you? Did he get to see that addictively pleasing smile of yours? ] and later that afternoon he experienced his first scolding.

“What’s going on, Omi? Five missed digs? This isn’t like you. You look like your head is in the clouds. Come on, get it together. Big game in five days.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.” It’s all he can say.

When he’s heading toward the team showers, he catches sight of Atsumu’s knowing leer and he grits his teeth, ignoring the huffed snicker and scoffing head shake that the setter sends his way.

Finally, two days later, he’s got some free time. There are other errands he needs to run, things he should do, but the only thing he can think about is you.

He’s walking up from a side street, one he rarely takes, when, at long last, he catches sight of you. You must be on a break. You’re sitting at a bench, facing a small, but well laid flower bed, flipping the pages of your open book languidly as you read under the cool shade of a gnarled tree.

He’s glad he’s wearing the mask that you gifted him.

You’d said that they were durable, and their quality had genuinely impressed him. When he got home, after the game, he slipped them out of their individual plastic cases, fingering the thick, well made materials before washing one. He’d left the others in their containers. He’ll use them, eventually, but not right now. He wants to savor them. He wants them to last.

Kiyoomi is almost to your side when you look up and he bites against his lower lip as soon as you give him that friendly smile of yours, already closing your book and standing, waiting for him to step closer. He comes to a stop in front of you, peering down at you through his dark lashes.

You always smell so nice, he thinks, unconsciously shifting closer, seeking more. You must have showered before coming into your shift because the crisp scent of peppermint and gentle lavender makes his nostrils flare hungrily under his mask.

“Hey there!” you begin, tucking your book into your arms. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

“Fine. I have practice later. I came by the other day. I…” he lapses into frustrated silence, dark brows falling, letting his hands grip at the material of his jacket. Why is this so hard? You, all the others on his team, Motoya [ hell, even the notoriously impassive Wakatoshi has come out of his shell over the years ] can slip into a conversation. Damn it, how can everyone else make this look so easy?

“Saw you’re playing the Adlers soon. They’re the team the Jackals have a sorta rivalry with, right?”

He blinks down at you and lets out a shallow exhale. There you go again. You’re giving him a life raft, a conversation he can fall into, something he enjoys talking about. He remembers his stilted conversation with Atsumu, the one where he did not know about any of the basic things, the obvious things, the things that made you, you. It’s nice that you’re looking out for him, that you’re helping him along, but he doesn’t want to talk about volleyball, not right now.

“We do. How did your finals go? You said you had a dissertation?”

“Oh!” you blurt, your eyes widening, but you’re clearly pleased, even a little excited that he’s asked. “You remembered! Finished it up last week. Now I just need to knock out my revisions and I’ll either go back to committee, or they’ll approve it! I’m hoping they approve it. I’m sick of looking at it, haha.” Your fingers tap against your book and you duck your head, a quick smile passing over your smooth lips. “Uh, did you want to come in for a coffee? Not trying to hold you up, if you’ve got practice to go to.”

“I was the one who came over.” He sounds a little harsh, he thinks, nose wrinkling under his mask. He’s never worried about being blunt, but that doesn’t work here. He doesn’t want to be, not with you. “I mean, I wanted…wanted to say thanks, for the masks and the other things. I like them.” He points to his covered face and you let out a chuckle, gleaming eyes crinkling as you look up at him. Damn, you’re pretty. How has he not noticed that before? He wants to see you laugh again, he’s just not sure how to go about it. Does he even know any jokes? Shit.

“Awe, I’m glad you like them! Speaking of, Atsumu came by a few days ago, I guess you must have worn one around him because he was trying to sniff out if I’d given them to you. He’s a funny guy, but I cannot get a good read on him. It’s almost like he’s doing stuff on purpose, but he’s never blatantly obvious about it. The way he was talking, I was kinda worried he was trying to play a prank on you. Does he like to get under your skin or something? He’s–”

Kiyoomi’s not thinking when he leans down. He’s been doing that a lot lately, not thinking. It makes his skin prickle. Or is that the smell of peppermint on your clean neck, the fragrant lavender in your hair? The kiss is soft; more of a press of his lips than a real caress. But it’s nice, and he actually likes being this close to you, but something feels off and, ah, damn it.

His dark brows knit together, furrowing his forehead, when he realizes what he’s done. He didn’t take off his mask. How stupid. But that shaky gasp of air that you let out when he pulls away, and the following upward lift of your body, your lips chasing his, clearly wanting him to come back, oh that’s so worth it, mask or not.

Your eyes are the first thing he sees when he looks back down, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so perfect. They’re bright, vibrant, and rich with an excitement that makes his toes curl.

The smell of lavender and peppermint, of you, is almost overwhelming, and yet somehow it’s all together, not enough. He doesn’t say anything and neither do you.

What is there to say?

That one, half-formed, touch said it all. It expressed every frustration that he’s felt over the last few weeks, every faded memory of your voice, of your playful smiles, of those hesitant conversations you’ve helped him through. It’s all there, sitting quietly between the two of you, shimmering in the sunlight as you take a step closer and his hands finally fall out of his pockets, waiting, hoping for yours.

“(Y/N)! Break’s over! Coffee’s not gonna brew itself!”

The distant voice of your coworker shatters the euphoria and you tense, pulling away, your head turning toward the barked command as you call out your reply. Kiyoomi huffs out an impatient breath. He wanted to try that again. Do it right this time. How pathetic is he? Kissing you through a mask? But his annoyance dies when you face him again, slipping your hand tentatively into his.

His digits fall limply around yours and he can’t help but marvel at the softness of you. One of his thumbs lifts and he traces the skin along your knuckles, unsure if he’s even breathing anymore. “Come on,” you say, looking down at his touch before lacing your fingers through his, showing him how to hold you. “I’ll make your coffee.”

You’re walking forward and he has the inane urge to snatch you back, wanting to see how the rest of you feels, wanting to know how you’ll fit into his arms, but he distracts himself by following you. There’s a budding warmth that’s spreading from his palm, where your hand rests inside his, to his chest. It feels like a low burning fire is coursing along his veins and his heartbeat thuds out of rhythm, but for once he doesn’t care.

In fact, he thinks he likes it.

He sits in the cafe for too long, his coffee cold, the cup almost empty. But before he leaves [ already so, so late for practice ] he gets your number.

He taps the unfamiliar digits carefully into his device and you watch from the counter, your chin propped in your hand, a gentle smile kissing against your palm. Then he stands, pausing beside you and you run your index finger down his arm, lingering your touch beside his wrist, making him shiver in the warm sunlight, a pleased grin hidden behind his mask.

notes: this man has what, 10 pages of interaction? idk why and idk how, but he is stuck in my brain - like, seriously send help, i think i’m in love.

262 notes · View notes

makeste · 3 years

Text

BnHA Chapter 290: It’s Touya Time

Previously on BnHA: Iida and Hadou showed up like a couple of Pennsylvanias and Georgias to bail Shouto out at the last minute. Ochako and Toga had an exceptionally strange fight which consisted of Toga being all “guess what Ochako, I used your quirk to murder someone, how do you feel about that”, and Ochako being all “I do not like that”, to which Toga was all “:(”. There was some doll-stealing and some bookcase-yeeting, and then Toga left in tears because Ochako was all adamant that murder has consequences. Anyway so I have absolutely no idea what Toga is thinking now, but I guess we’ll have some time to stew on it, because we ended the chapter by cutting back to the Iida+Hadou+Shouto VS Afomura battle, which was interrupted by Gigantomachia and the LoV showing up like a bunch of Floridas to ruin everyone’s nice day.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi hands the mic over to Dabi and is all “take it away, kid.” Over in Room 315 of Musutafu General, Rei is all “may I please watch some TV” and the hospital staff is all “sure”, and so she tunes in just in time to catch Todoroki Touya’s Peabody Award-winning documentary “Number One Hero, Number One Fraud: The Todoroki Enji Story”, which is being broadcast nationwide courtesy of Skeptic and his magic laptop. Meanwhile in Jakku, Dabi is all “I’M TOUYA, BITCHES”, and Shouto and Enji are all, “(゜◇゜ )”, and Dabi is all, “anyway so just to sum it all up, because of how much of a jerk Endeavor was, I am now Evil.” Everyone continues to be all “(ﾟoﾟ)” except for Dabi, who is all “└(˘▾˘┌ )≡ ( ┐˘▾˘)┘≡┗( ˘▾˘)┛≡┏( ˘▾˘)┓≡┗( ˘▾˘)┛” for pretty much the rest of the chapter. Idk. Just let the man have his fun, guys. He’s waited a long time for this.

y’all I have a confession to make. I am technically not spoiled for this chapter thanks to my robustly paranoid system of spoiler-tag-filtering, which is extensive enough that it pretty much will catch whenever someone so much as breathes something even remotely new-chapter-related. that being said, I like to think that I am capable of making basic logical inferences! and so the fact that for the past 36 hours, my dashboard has pretty much nonstop consisted almost entirely of this...

...has led me to conclude that MAYBE, POSSIBLY, PROBABLY, BUT ALSO DEFINITELY, a certain someone is finally going to reveal his ~secret identity~ woop woop. lmao

anyway so everyone, please remember to act surprised though, as we would not want Dabi’s feelings to be hurt at all. he has been planning this moment for the last decade or so and I wouldn’t want him to feel like all of that effort was for naught. so just play along, okay. OH MY, IF IT ISN’T THE LEAGUE OF VILLAINS’ MYSTERIOUS DABI. WHATEVER COULD HIS ARRIVAL POSSIBLY BE HERALDING, I JUST DON’T KNOW

“Dabi’s Dance” lmao. I’m sticking with Touya Time myself. ngl I had this recap title planned out for at least the past year or so. just waiting for that day to finally come

anyway so some people in some building somewhere are all “TURN OFF THE TV IN ROOM 315” and idk. I’m guessing the LoV is hacking the airwaves to livestream the reveal, as predicted

-- oh shit. UHHHHHHHH

did she always have this TV or did she get it just recently?? jfc of all the times for the hospital staff to finally loosen up

um... so that’s... (・＿・；)

well but I mean, she was gonna find out one way or the other at some point though. like you can’t really just keep her locked up and isolated from all news of the outside world forever and ever and ever. granted, this isn’t exactly the ideal way for her to learn this particular bit of information, but it’s not really ideal for anybody else either! EXCEPT DABI, THAT IS. have yourself a day you funky little terrorist

oh shit what is this?? it’s not live???

over in Jakku, a red-faced, sputtering Dabi makes a frantic grab for Skeptic’s laptop. “WAIT, NO, JESUS, NOT THAT TAPE!”

lol. but seriously Dabi are you even wearing a shirt. like I’m not one to slutshame anyone bro, but it’s just, exactly what type of mood were you looking to set here??

anyway so we really are cutting back to Jakku now, and Gigantomachia is all, “MASTERS”! which, I wonder if he really did use the plural? that’s right Machia, both of them in one place now! that sure is convenient for you huh

lol what is this with all this AFO monologuing. you’re really gonna make me read through this when I’m sitting here all sleep-deprived from election week. JUST GET TO THE TOUYAS. WE WERE PROMISED TOUYAS!!

sigh

“tee hee it’s fucking hilarious how goddamn powerful I am now lol”

alas, in spite of myself I do have two serious takeaways from this. one is that AFO is still controlling most of Tomura’s body behind the scenes, which both does and doesn’t bode well for Tomura (like, at least he’s not dying, but the long-term implications of this for his free will and such certainly are not Good). and two is that this confirms that Ujiko did give Tomura at least one powerful mutant quirk, which explains why he was still so deadly and indestructible even when Aizawa was using Erasure on him (since Erasure doesn’t work on mutant quirks, just emitter and transformation ones)

MEANWHILE ON TODAY’S EPISODE OF “TODOROKI SHOUTO’S TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD LIFE”

I like how he doesn’t actually say that he can’t take on Gigantomachia. just that he can’t take on him and Afomura at the same time. that’s confidence, baby. that right there is why you always draft Todoroki Shouto in the first round for your fantasy team

HADOU!!!!

OOOH, TOMURA’S ALL “MAN, THIS GIRL’S WAVE POWERS AND THIS KID’S ICE POWERS ARE A SUPER-STRONG COMBO DAGNABBIT.” YESSS I LIKE THAT, TELL ME MORE ABOUT HOW COOL AND POWERFUL THEY ARE

HOT DAMN LOOK AT THAT

um but not to take away from this exceptionally cool moment or anything, but why is Endeavor dying and shouting “RUN” down there in the corner um

excuse me. not to take away from How Bad This All Is, but!!

just a little, smol, IidaBaku for everyone. Iida, who apparently doesn’t know a damn thing about first aid and is all, “hmm that’s a pretty bad-looking puncture wound he has in his left shoulder there, I think I’ll just let his arm dangle freely like that and I won’t bother taking off his heavy gauntlets either. I mean. he’ll be fine, probably.” smh. at least Shouto probably cauterized the wounds

EXCUSE ME WHAT

TIME FOR MORE OF THAT GOOD OLD FASHIONED SHOUNEN RIDICULOUSNESS I GUESS LMAO. KACCHAN YOU HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO. THERE IS A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO, AND YOU LOST LIKE FOUR GALLONS OF BLOOD, BUT SURE. “PUT ME DOWN” HE SAYS. FIRST OF ALL, PUTTING ASIDE THE FACT THAT YOU ABSOLUTELY SHOULD NOT BE CONSCIOUS, THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN GOING TO DO, LIE DOWN AT THEM?? LISTEN, YOU SWEET IDIOT. TAKE HEED, BELOVED DUMBASS!!

ah well. I guess he gets to watch the Touya Show now too then lol

LMAOOOO now Machia’s lifting Tomura carefully in his palm like a broken action figure and Spinner is all “THE FUCK, YOU LOOK LIKE DEATH WARMED OVER”

“oh hey there Spinner. well let’s see, I woke up from my three-month coma and destroyed a city, had my body incinerated, and am currently being possessed by a diabolically evil potato. but please, tell me more about everything you've been through”

AW YISS AND THE FOCUS NOW SHIFTS TO THE TODOROKIS. EVERYTHING IS PROCEEDING EXACTLY AS WE HAVE FORESEEN

Endeavor my dude. it’s as if you want to die here. also holy shit, that bit about his lungs definitely does not bode well for him either

MOTHERFUCKER

GO AHEAD AND SIGN YOUR OWN DEATH CERTIFICATE, WHY DON’T YOU!! FLAGS UPON FLAGS. JESUS CHRIST

meanwhile Dabi’s just waving at ‘em

lmaoooo please oh please Caleb please keep this ‘EYYYYYYY’, it’s fucking perfect kdlshk;hg

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

(ETA: so as you will see very shortly, I completely missed this detail in my first read-through because I was so anxious to get to the reveal page, but THIS MOTHERFUCKER LITERALLY DOUSED HIMSELF WITH INSTANT HAIR DYE REMOVER THAT HE’S JUST BEEN CARRYING AROUND IN A LITTLE HIP POUCH APPRENTLY SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME. MOTHERFUCKER. I HAVE NO WORDS.)

IS THIS THE TIME. IS THIS THE MOMENT?! HERE IT COMES SLKFHS BRACE YERSELVES LADS

EYYYYYYYYYYYY

OKAY EVERYONE JUST LIKE WE PRACTICED!! SURPRISED FACES ON THREE! ONE... TWO... (•̪ o •̪) !! okay how was that

LMAO ENDEAVOR

at least Shouto looks properly stunned. Enji just looks like endeavor.exe just straight up stopped working

meanwhile Deku’s out here trying to do the math on this latest surprise family reveal! first Tomura is related to Nana, and now this. what’s next. who are you related to, Spinner. he rips off his boots to reveal engine legs and declares himself Iida’s long-lost uncle

oh shit Touya

it’s as if a million fanworks suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly jossed. who knew that all this time he was secretly sporting a crop top scar

also, THIRTY?! holy shit son you been busy

la la la two-page spread of Touya casually driving the dagger into Endeavor’s hero career and rocking the foundations of hero society as we know it la la la

la la la!!!

OH IS THAT THE END OF THE STORY THEN

almost got confused for a sec. there’s two monologues happening at once here. Endeavor doesn’t even know that his dirty laundry is being aired out nation-wide as we speak ffffff

btw while I appreciate the close-ups of Enji and Shouto here for sure, ngl I would also really love to see everyone else’s reactions right now. SHOW ME BAKUGOU AND THE LOV YOU COWARDS

is his hair actually turning white all of a sudden?? your hair dye just reacts on command??

(ETA: in all seriousness though, the hell kind of hair dye was he using? all he has to do is pour a bottle of that stuff and not even lather it in and it’s just gone just like that?? what the fuck would have have done if it ever rained lmao.

and this motherfucker just goes and leaves the dye remover in afterwards, too. I have never dyed my hair in my life and even I can tell you that’s probably not a good idea, Dabi.)

is this it. is this the legendary Dabi Dance in action. lmfao

oh hey what the fuck

so you figured you’d just murder your innocent younger brother to get revenge on dad, huh. well that’s nice

is that really all there is to the origin story though?? feels like we’re still missing a huge chunk of it. what was it that finally sent him over the edge? or was the trauma of being created as Endeavor’s perfect little hero tool and then being subsequently rejected by him enough on its own? because I’m still kind of confused on the part where he goes from “abused and discarded by his father” to “killed thirty people and was plotting the murder of his own brother” to tell you the truth

(ETA: lmao the initial fandom reaction to this did not disappoint. listen guys. people can be traumatized and shaped by awful circumstances that are completely out of their control, and grow up to be people they wouldn’t have grown up to be if things had been better, and all of that absolutely sucks, but. it doesn’t mean they get a get-out-of-jail-free card for all of their future actions, either! the tragedy of this situation is that terrible things happened to Touya, and he then went on to do terrible things himself. the tragedy of it is that this is exactly how the cycle of abuse keeps repeating itself on and on and on. maybe one of the people Dabi killed had a child who will now grow up traumatized themselves, and potentially go on to pay it forward themselves when they grow up. the tragedy is that the eye-for-an-eye justice that Touya is seeking out won’t actually make anything better in the end. the tragedy is that we understand why Touya is so angry, but that anger has basically warped him into the gleefully sadistic dancing figure we see in this chapter who has stopped caring about anyone else’s pain or suffering and just wants his own revenge.

anyway. basically what I’m trying to say is that it’s possible for the concepts of “Todoroki Touya was an innocent child and a victim of abuse” and “Dabi is a grown-ass motherfucking adult who killed thirty people and PROBABLY NEEDS TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR THAT” to coexist lol. like, y’all wanted your moral grey, well HERE YOU GO lmao, eat up.)

lol but LOOK AT THAT BOY DANCE HIS LITTLE HEART OUT though

Todoroki Touya confirmed not a fan of the Endeavor redemption arc huh. well we all saw this coming lols

anyways here’s a sexy Touya for y’all

you really are the most theatrical bitch I s2g lmao

also for real though, what is happening with his hair? anime team in shambles here. they’re probably just gonna double down and keep it red. too bad though cuz this is a surprisingly good look on him

SO MANY CLOSE-UPS OF THE TODOROKI FACES

friendly reminder that Dabi without a doubt REHEARSED this speech like a thousand fucking times. LET US FALL TOGETHER!! COME DANCE WITH YOUR SON IN HELL. apparently if you fake your own death in middle school you will never mentally age past that point and will remain a permanent chuuni

OH LMAO THAT’S THE END

we really just gonna end on “DANCE WITH YOUR SON IN HELL”, huh. very well then. you know what song to play, Horikoshi. one, two... YOU ARE MY DAD. YOU’RE MY DAD!! BOOGIE WOOGIE WOOGIE

#bnha 290 #dabi #todoroki touya #todoroki enji #todoroki shouto #todoroki rei #bakugou katsuki #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha

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sweetsubharry · 3 years

Note

hey ! sorry to bother you but could you reccomend me some fics of footballer louis?? thank you !! love your acc

Hiya!! 💖you can never bother me!! ^-^ ohmgosh I’m so glad you like my blog! I love footballer louis djskasdhjag tysm(sorry it took soooo long!)

please make sure you read the tags and stay safe everyone!💖

Also these are not in any particular order, however I will say the first two are probably my favourites ;) I have to read them again right after this!

freeze this moment in a frame and stay like this by rosesau

Harry (not so) secretly crushes on the cute footie player and fills pages with sketches of him.

Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow by 1Diamondinthesun

Harry spends most of his time in an empty house or a lonely darkroom, dreaming of leaving his small town for art school. He's invisible to most people. And then Louis Tomlinson sees him. Life will never be the same.

Or, the American high school AU loosely inspired by She's All That.

Definition of Beauty by zanni_scaramouche

“Your book is upside down.” Harry nods at Louis’ book, his history text now that he sees it too.

“I’d rather study you.”

They both blink, startled by the slip.

“With you. Study with you,” Louis rushes to say. “Liam says I’m shite at history, can you help?”

Louis’ caught off guard by an omega he nearly takes out with an errant footie ball. It’s not that Louis’ never seen Harry before, it’s that he can’t stop looking, and he’s desperate to figure him out.

Coffee Cups and Football Boots by kimtaedumb

Harry’s stood behind the counter again, but this time he’s painting his nails. Louis strolls up to the counter and, thanks to his no brain-to-mouth filter, blurts out, “Isn’t that a little girlish, Haz?” leaning closer to inspect.

Harry lets out a little huff as his hand slips, “Oh, damn, now I’ve messed it up,” he pouts and turns to Louis, “Why should making myself feel pretty be girly?”

Louis holds up his hands in surrender, “’M not judging, jus’ curious is all.”

(The entirely cheesy and cliché Christmas AU, in which Harry doesn’t give a damn what people think about him – mostly – and Louis may be a little bit in love.

Alternatively, the one in which Harry owns a café that’s barely scraping by and Louis is a footballer and he takes Harry away for Christmas.

Featuring Zayn as a cocky little shit that most definitely needs to be put back in his place, Niall as the loveable Irish dude who drinks too much and flirts with Zayn more than the average girl, and Liam who loves everyone but hates them all at the same time.)

Way in the World by flowsque

When Louis Tomlinson enters the waiting room, Harry can distinctly feel his heart sinking to his stomach. The man's hair is ruffled and dishevelled and his red jersey, damp with sweat from training, clings to his perfect and chiseled body. He stands there, almost unreal, against the glass door, peering inside the office. Harry knew this would’ve happened, sooner or later. That he would have bumped into him. They play for the same club after all, even if they’re in different leagues. It’s not weird. It is not. Except it totally is. - Or, the one where Harry has a knee injury and an embarrassing crush on Manchester United's pretty number ten.

I Long For You by AnotherAnonymousWriter

Thirty minutes later, he's sat on a bench in Hyde Park with a book in his lap and a travel mug with hot tea in his hand. Not far from where he's sat, a group of boys are playing football and a bunch of children are chasing each other. Life is good.

Or at least, life is good until he hears a familiar “LOOK OUT!” and sees a football flying in the direction of his face.

And then everything is black.

(Harry gets hit in the head by various objects and falls for a boy with blue eyes.)

ease the quiet and talk me down by cabinbythesea

Harry's a model and Louis' a footie player.

(Louis teaches Harry some football and Harry is insanely good at giving a lapdance).

Baby, It's You by Bearandleonardwrite

"Oh, yeah. Um..” Harry lets his hands fall to his sides. His brows furrow, face full of concern, and he asks, “You’re not, like, stalking me, are you?”

Louis can’t help the loud cackle that escapes his lips and immediately slaps one of his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound. “Oh my god, Harry, no!” Louis tells him, a little breathlessly, giggles still bubbling out of his chest. “Lottie’s one of the makeup artists here today and she somehow got me to agree to come. I had no idea you modeled for, uh.. this brand until I saw you walk.”

“Oh,” Harry says dumbly, eyebrows still pinched. He lets what Louis just said sink in before a bright grin takes over his face and he goes back to doing up the buttons on his shirt. “Well, that’s alright, then. I’m glad you could make it.

(Basically, Louis' a footie player for Man U and Harry's a YSL model. They meet at a masquerade.)

Touch by kotabear24

Harry's shy and virginal with a past, new on the football team; Louis' the (experienced) popular star of the team and Harry's new mentor.

Come In and Change My Life by lightswoodmagic (sarah_writes)

He’d had the same neighbours since he’d moved into the building, a lovely, wealthy couple in their late sixties who had always invited him around for tea on Sundays. Martha had dropped off homemade biscuits the day he’d moved in, so Harry figured he may as well repeat the sentiment. He could hear someone getting closer to the door just as a flush ran through his body; oh fuck. His heat was close, too close to be knocking on a potentially unknown alpha’s door, but it was too late. The door swung open, and Harry’s mouth dropped. He’d never been overly interested in football, couldn’t find the fascination in watching men run around after a ball for hours aside from their uniforms, but he knew who this was. Louis Tomlinson, alpha, captain of Manchester United, star in a number of Harry’s heat addled fantasies, was his new next-door neighbour.

Or, Harry and Louis become friends when Harry looks after Louis' cat during away games, until one night at a party changes everything between them. It's just a shame Louis' going to be away for the FIFA World Cup for three months.

see the truth (it's me for you) by orphan_account

If you asked Louis the first day of his French Literature class what he’d be doing on the last, he’d probably never have guessed it would involve helping a poorly Harry Styles study for the final exam. Good thing he’s not a betting man.

(Or the one where Louis and Harry spend an entire semester ignoring each other after a one-night stand, only to come face to face when Harry manages to catch the stomach flu during finals week. Sometimes fate is funny like that.)

Use Your Words by zedi

based off this prompt: collage au where jock!harry always serenades flowercrown!louis with love songs in their music class. what nobody knows is that harry actually kinda means the words he sings.

But instead it's Louis as the jock and Harry as the flowerchild because I do what I want.

Stop The World (I Wanna Get Off With You) by ilikepianos

"You like this, don't you?", he asks breathlessly.

What? Sucking cock? Being dominated? Yes, all of that. A big fat yes.

Harry nods, lips still wrapped around Louis' throbbing dick.

Louis' lips curl into a smirk. "Keep going then. You're doing amazing, love."

OR: The uni-football AU where Harry may or may not have a minor crush on the captain of the team and suddenly discovers that the feeling is very much mutual.

Picture Perfect by LittleBubbleStyles

an AU where Louis Tomlinson is a misunderstood football player, and Harry Styles is a misunderstood photographer. Somehow, they're understood together.

I just think about my baby; I'm so full of love I could barely eat by mercutionotromeo

Harry and Louis are six hundred miles apart, but they have the same solutions to the same problem.

Or: a masturbation drabble featuring pillow humping, locker rooms, and copious amounts of dirty talk.

into another (another) serotonin overflow by mercutionotromeo

Harry wants this year to be different - wants it to be the year that he finally gets over this stupid crush. He’s going to uni, he needs to decide what he wants to do with his life.

Instead, he’s deciding what he wants to do to Louis Tomlinson.

Or: Sweet first time sex wherein Harry's adorably awkward, Louis is achingly cool, and Harry rides Louis wearing his jersey.

note: it says it in the tag but this is the edited version written in 2019, rather than the 2017 original- so there’s two put I put the link for the newest one :)

need a little sweetness in my life by mercutionotromeo

Harry's always liked feeling desperate and small when Louis touches him, but when he sucks Harry off...it’s fucking otherworldly. Desperate’s not really the word at that point - it’s helpless. Like… like the fucking world could stop spinning and Harry wouldn’t be able to do anything about it until Louis finished him off with his lips and his tongue.

Or, Harry and Louis go to university together. Harry really likes it when Louis sucks him off, and Louis really likes it when Harry calls him Daddy.

(Sequel to "into another serotonin overflow")

I made a map of your stars by brightbluelou

Harry does not have a crush on Louis Tomlinson. Yes, Louis is very pretty and funny, and Harry may have had more than a few inappropriate thoughts about him, but he certainly doesn’t like him. (Except for the fact that he totally does.) or, Harry is the shy boy in the back of the class that no one really notices. Louis is the loud, outgoing football player that everybody likes.

We Made These Memories for Ourselves by supernope

Breath held, Harry squints his eyes open and focuses on the first stick. A blue line. Harry breathes out an unsteady breath. He’s pretty sure he read that one blue line is a negative, but he fishes the box from the bottom of the pile just to make sure.

“Negative,” he confirms, voice echoing around the small room. “Next.”

Now that he’s feeling a little less shaky, he scans the rest of the tests at once, is met with a headache-inducing mixture of pink plus signs and blue double lines. His heart rate picks up until it’s pounding triple-time in the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach, thundering in his ears and throbbing in his temples. He flips over the rest of the boxes slowly, but he knows what they’re going to say before he even looks.

[or, Louis is a footballer, Harry owns a bakery, and they're having a baby.]

Kiss Me on the Mouth and Set Me Free by ls2k14

Louis has his head thrown back in a laugh, his wet fringe hanging in front of his eyes, and a beautiful flush to his cheeks. From this angle, the sun hits his face just right to where the beams of light are shining in between the spaces of each individual clump of watered down eyelashes. His chest is showing through the soaked material of his white jersey and it seems that his biceps are attempting to break free from the sleeves that are clinging to his skin.

And Harry can do nothing except take it all in. He doesn’t even think he’s breathing at this point. He is literally stuck in place, admiring the true beauty of Louis Tomlinson, while being surrounded by fit footballers and generally attractive people. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in love before, but if Louis let him, he’s pretty damn sure he could change that in the matter of a few nanoseconds.

#ask lots #Lottie fic rec #fic rec #larry fic rec #larry stylinson fic rec #larry fanfic rec #fanfiction #larry fanfiction #larry stylinson fanfiction #bottom harry #top louis #sub harry #dom louis #footballer louis au

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nitewrighter · 3 years

Note

We've had Uncle Hanzo reading to little Rei but what about little Rei reading to Hanzo?

“Omnicode cipher one-one-eight-Delta-B underscore six is for...” 5-year-old Rei yawned, “Puhhh--pace--Peace!” She was tucked practically into a ball against Hanzo’s side, with Hanzo’s arm draping across the back of the loveseat, arching over her as he leaned his head back and rested his eyes. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the window and turning the insides of his eyelids sepia-red. A part of him knew he would probably stay awake if he took his hoodie off, but Rei was leaning against him and had finally seemed to stop fidgeting and he didn’t want to reset her posture by the action. He felt Rei nudge against him and he blinked his eyes open.

“I was listening--” he said, his voice a little groggy.

“But is it right?” asked Rei.

Hanzo gave a glance down to the page, the text was laid out in both english and Omnicode, with blocky, vivid illustrations showing a human and an omnic holding hands with yellow sunbeams streaming behind them and the Omnicode character for ‘Peace’ smack dab in the center of the sun. One corner of his mouth tugged up. Zenyatta had lent the book, Omnicode Adventure, to them to ask their opinion on it before the Shambali would publish it as a sort of gesture of goodwill between humans and omnics, but Hanzo wasn’t sure if a 144 character language with numerous complex context-and-sequence-shifted meanings translated all that well to a children’s book. It certainly felt far from an adventure.

“Yes, it’s right,” said Hanzo and Rei turned the page.

“Omnicode cipher one-one-eight-Delta-B underscore seven is for....” Rei rubbed her eyes, “Family. Also Proh--uh...”

“Sound it out,” said Hanzo.

“Prooodue-”

“Little ‘u’ sound.”

“Produc--Produc-tee-own.”

“Production.”

“Production Seeress.”

“Production series.”

“Production series,” Rei nodded as she repeated.

The illustration for this cipher featured both a human family on one page and a group of identical omnics standing with their arms slung around each others’ shoulders on the other. Rei turned the page, rubbing one eye before adjusting her hold on the book.

“Omnicode cipher one-one-eight Delta-C underscore one is for---” Rei started to read when the door to the living room opened and McCree walked in, sighing and stretching.

“You would not believe what happened with Jack at Winston’s latest--” McCree paused at the sight of Rei on the couch, “Oh hey, Sunshine.”

“Uncle Jesse, I’m reading!” she said.

“Oh yeah?” said McCree, setting a bag down in one of the chairs before plopping on the other side of Rei on the couch, “Something happen with Ange?”

“Something about a vid-com emergency meeting with one of her colleagues,” said Hanzo, with a hand wave, “And with Genji on that mission in Numbani... Rei gets to spend the afternoon with us.”

“And I’m reading,” Rei said again, a bit of that Genji theatrical cockiness in her voice this time.

“I can see that,” said McCree with a chuckle.

“Zenyatta was kind enough to lend us a book to read,” said Hanzo.

“Really?” said Jesse, “Because you can’t get over your grudge against Little Lamby Lambkins?”

“Ha-ha,” said Hanzo drily, “No, this one is more... educational. If you want, I could get started on dinner while you take over.”

“Oh well you know I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” said McCree, taking his hat off before looking at Rei, “What do you think, Sunshine? You wanna read that book to me?”

Rei excitedly gasped and bounced over to McCree’s side of the couch, shuffling her shoulders a little as she pushed under his arm and flipped the book back open.

Freedom, thought Hanzo with a slight smile, pushing up from the couch.

McCree noticed the relative thickness of the book, but had assumed it was some kind of large board book, but as Rei turned the page, his brow crinkled with concern.

“Omnicode cipher one-one-eight Delta-C underscore one is for... Life,” Rei read, as McCree looked over the illustration of an omnic in some kind of farmer’s outfit looking fondly at a butterfly in its metal hand, while framed by greenery filled with more butterflies, birds, and flowers. “Omnicode cipher one-one-eight Delta-C underscore two is for life, sue--”

“’uh’ sound,” said McCree.

“Suuuhh-Sub-c-c-aaate---”

“Sub-cat-eg-or-ee,” said McCree, pointing at different sections of the word with his finger.

“Subcattergory,” Rei said, “Nuh-on-orr-gan-ick. Subcattergory Nonorganic!”

“Great job, kiddo,” said McCree, trying to will up the mental energy to correct her on the pronunciation of ‘Subcategory’ but at the same time it was well within her own half-Swiss-German, half-Japanese quirks of speaking.

“What’s nonorganic?” said Rei.

“...Zen’s nonorganic,” said McCree after a few seconds of thought.

“No, Master Zenyatta’s Omnic,” Rei corrected.

“That, too,” said McCree smiling a little. Rei seemed satisfied with this and kept reading.

“Omnicode cipher one-one-eight Delta-C underscore three is for life, subcattergory... Non?” she looked at McCree.

“Non,” said McCree, nodding.

“Non-sen-tee-ent life,” said Rei, “What’s ‘nonsentient?’”

Someone’s going to have to break it to Zenyatta that this is a terrible easy-to-read book, thought Hanzo, rinsing some rice off in the sink.

“Nonsentient means uh... like... plants? Like... living things but... they don’t uhh... think?” McCree’s voice trailed off a little helplessly.

“Like Junkrat?” said Rei.

“Well, no, Junkrat thinks... allegedly,” said McCree, “They’re talking about more like... uh... mushrooms and stuff. Mushrooms are alive, y’know?”

“Mushrooms...” Rei repeated thoughtfully.

“Hey sunshine?” said McCree.

“Yeah?” said Rei.

“Is uh... is the whole book like this?” McCree was trying to keep a smile up but his brow was crinkling.

“Uh huh!” said Rei.

“Do you wanna maybe... switch to an easier book?” McCree rubbed the back of his neck.

“But Master Zenyatta gave me this one! We have to finish it!” said Rei, clearly offended.

“Okay, all right, we can keep goin’...” said McCree with a shrug.

Rei turned the page and started reading again. “Omnicode Cipher One-one-eight---”

As Rei read, McCree’s head swung around to look at the kitchen, where Hanzo was serenely slicing some onion. Jesse summoned his best, ‘I miscalculated, please help me, I love you’ face. Hanzo paused only momentarily to look up to meet his gaze and gave Jesse the smuggest, most cat-like, shit-eating ‘Suffer’ grin. There was a glint of ‘Oh you bastard’ in McCree’s eyes before he turned his attention to Rei, now struggling through the Omnicode cipher for the Turing test and its later variants. And of course he had to explain to her what a Turing test was. And the variants.

Hanzo let Rei’s chatter and hesitant sounding-out of syllables, and McCree’s stilted murmuring explanations fade to background noise as he fell into the motions of cooking. He wasn’t sure if it was ten or 15 minutes that had passed, but the savory smells of onion simmering in dashi filled the kitchen and lingered with rice cooker steam when McCree’s voice hoarsely drifted over.

“Hanzo--You gotta help me.”

“Mm?” Hanzo glanced up, turned down the heat on the stove, and toweled off his hands as he headed out of the kitchen to the living room. Rounding around the couch, he saw that Rei was asleep, one arm strung tight around McCree’s waist and her face smooshed against McCree’s side.

“She conked out around Omnicode cipher something-something epsilon. She’s like a vice,” McCree whispered.

“Mm-hmm,” said Hanzo, pulling his phone out of his pocket and opening the camera.

“Don’t just take pictures, help me out of this!” McCree hissed.

“Can you pretend to be asleep? It’s cuter that way,” said Hanzo, adjusting the lighting on the camera.

“I am not gonna pretend to be asleep, just so you can---” McCree heard the beep of the camera prepping and closed his eyes and relaxed his head slightly as Hanzo took the picture.

“You will and you did,” said Hanzo, tapping at his phone’s screen.

“That was for the doc and Genji and you know it,” muttered McCree.

“Mm-hmm,” said Hanzo, gently adjusting the lighting on the photo he had just taken and briefly puzzling over adding a ‘hearts and sparkles’ filter before deciding against it.

“...this is where all the displaced Yakuza boss evil goes, isn’t it?” said McCree.

“You love it,” said Hanzo, posting the photo to the family group chat.

“Mark me, Hanzo, had it not been for our 5 year old biotic mutant ninja niece currently threatening to break one of my ribs I would have cussed you out by now.”

“She’s not a mutant and she’s not going to break your ribs,” said Hanzo, bending and crisply kissing McCree on the temple before heading back into the kitchen.

“You don’t know that. I could be in danger right now.”

“Dinner’s in another 10 minutes,” Hanzo said airily from the kitchen.

“Save me, Han.”

“No.”

#mchanzo #follow for more Gency kid facts

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lemonsandstrawberries · 3 years

Text

Hashtag: RelationshipGoals

fandom: Stony (Steve x Tony)

summary: Steve is being forced into getting a Twitter accounts and logs into Tony’s for inspiration - one mistake later, he finds more than he asked for. Meaning, his boyfriend has a tickle kink and Steve has a lot of thinking to do.

length: 5 468

a/n: Happy Friday 13th! *throws confetti* To celebrate I am posting a fic that contains one of the biggest fears for people with tickle kink - someone finding out when you are not ready to tell them. It has a happy ending, promise! Hope you all will enjoy this fic, feedback, reblogs and likes are appreciated and needed! fic inspired by this prompt.

—————

Hashtag: RelationshipGoals

Long story short - Steve was getting a Twitter account.

Long story long...

It all started with a certain PR meeting held for the Avengers team, just this time, it was Steve vs the whole PR team. The problem was simple - Steve didn't like social media and didn't have an account on any of the numerous websites and apps. Fighting with aliens, planning new missions, schooling SHIELD agents - those were the zones he felt comfortable in. Some thought that the hidden reason behind the hostility towards social media was, that Steve, born in the 1920s, had a problem with using modern technology. Some called it endearing, some pathetic, the truth was, that Steve fairly quickly mastered each piece of technology he was given, skillfully using any given device. After all, he wasn't dense. Many apps were quite useful, some just plain entertaining, and it required a lot of navigating, but he managed to find some favorites. Just when it came to social media… Steve didn't feel like sharing his private life with unknown faces. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked having direct contact with people and as much as he liked to take a stop during his random walks in the city to talk with people who called themselves his fans, it quickly became too overwhelming. He wasn't good at such things and always thought he was too awkward and not what people expected. Steve didn't like that kind of pressure and didn't like the almost weekly notices from the PR team that he needed to make himself more 'accessible'. By no means, he was expected to stop and talk to everyone who ever called him or share mission details with strangers, but he needed to create a more public persona for Captain America and Steve Rogers.

Hence, Steve was encouraged to take a plunge into the world of social media.

And he really, really, really didn't want to do that.

One - it was pretty tedious to keep up with everything. Tony eagerly showed him all social accounts he had - Twitter, Instagram, Facebook profile, Youtube, and it all just gave him a headache as Tony chattered which media was good for what and gladly showed him his own Instagram page (mostly workshop photos and meals Steve had prepared for him, which was kinda sweet) and if Steve became slightly interested in that, his interest dropped after hearing about filters and tags. Too much work.

Second - he didn't have time to keep his theoretical accounts active and post new content regularly. Or more, he didn't want to make time, preferring to spend it on reading or training or hanging out with Tony or anything else, really. He had been gently suggested, that some celebrities (Steve's eyes widened a little after hearing that - was he a celebrity?) hire someone else to run their social media accounts. Steve shook his head at the proposition, knowing that none of his teammates did that and so he shouldn't either, not mentioning that everything posted wouldn't be sincere.

Third - Steve considered himself not an interesting person. He didn't have Tony's charisma, who, of course, had the biggest social media following ever, Thor's flair, which made his Youtube channel where he tasted food sent to him from all over the world by his viewers a huge success or Clint's humor, whose Internet activity limited to commenting on funny animal photos and home videos and people loved him. Even Bruce, seemingly even more awkward and distant when it came to dealing with a privacy-invading crowd, was doing great, kindling the interest of young kids in science with a series of easy to repeat experiments at home and railing about the importance of protecting and preserving the environment. Even Natasha didn't have a problem, her social media accounts full of useful self-defense tips for everyone who needed to feel safer. Steve just couldn't find anything in himself he would like to share with the world. He liked to keep his art private, his relationship private, and his whole life private.

It should be the ending statement.

It wasn't.

And so Steve, feeling scolded, got back to his and Tony's shared floor, planning to hide, except that he was assigned a very simple task for the week.

Get a Twitter account.

Steve sat heavily on the couch, putting elbows on his knees and palms around his cheeks, definitely not pouting. Why on Earth did he need a Twitter account? Wasn't it enough that from time to time he appeared on Tony's account, being the supportive boyfriend, and allowing Tony share the photos of their date nights or even the short movies from Steve's training when Tony was proudly showing off Steve's impressive physique and using those damn filters and making small stars and glitter swirl around him.

Speaking of Tony, he could use his boyfriend's advice... Steve checked his phone and knew that Tony was still stuck in a business meeting, and won't be back for an hour or so and as much as he wanted to not think about the Twitter issue it kept coming back to him. What was he supposed to write on Twitter? Something that wouldn't give too much about him, but would be safe and entertaining. He needed inspiration. Maybe a walk would clear his mind but as Steve was getting up, he noticed Tony's tablet laying at the edge of the coffee table.

Well... Tony wouldn't mind if he took a peak, right? Granted, he never used Tony's tablet before without his boyfriend’s permission. It felt too personal and barging on privacy and it was almost a silent agreement between them that Steve won't touch Tony's electronic devices and Tony won't look through Steve's sketchbooks without prior agreement. But it was different, right? Tony's Twitter account was out there, for everyone, so it didn't matter if Steve would install the app on his phone and check the account, or go to the source and look through Tony's account. It might even help him to understand better how the app was working.

Steve took the tablet and unlocked it, searching for the Twitter app. Letter T on a blue background. Steve pressed it and skimmed over the screen, looking at the design of the app. Huh, it looked very different from the account owner's point of view. He scrolled down the screen, seeing a lot of text, too much text because wasn't there a limit of signs per tweet? Further, into the app, Steve saw more of things he didn't recognize, didn't see any posts from other Avengers, instead of images and gifs and -

"Woah," Steve gaped, taking in what he was seeing. He quickly scrolled up, his face becoming heated, unsure what he just saw. For a minute, he turned the tablet in his hands, trying to decide if it really belonged to Tony and not someone else, but who else would have a hot red and gold cover, resembling the design of the Iron Man suit. It had to be Tony's tablet, which meant...

Those posts were Tony's. That account was Tony's. Tony had two Twitter accounts? Steve looked back, just now noticing that it wasn't Twitter after all. At the top of the screen on a background of dark blue in white letters was written Tumblr. Steve didn't hear of the app, it wasn't listed as one of the most popular ones for celebrities and that's probably why Tony used it for -

Steve wasn't exactly sure for what. For something secretive. Something he wanted to hide. Things he didn't admit even to Steve.

Cautiously, Steve scrolled down again, trying to keep an open mind and be more cautious. He wasn't a prude, he knew that people had different kinks and it was completely normal. Heck, he and Tony had a very healthy sex and intimate life and the sight of Tony tied down for their playtime always made Steve's blood boil with lust and desire and they did indulge in some kinks, Steve current favorite one included spanking Tony's bouncy ass and watch it jiggle and the skin turn red. Tony had no problems with sharing his kinky fantasies and Steve was always willing to give it a go, sometimes proposing things on his own, like wax play, which wasn't only sexy but also artistic - Tony's body colored with drips of different colored wax was a beautiful sight. This... This was something different, Steve didn't think to consider.

There were pictures, that without context seemed innocent, like an array of feathers on a pillow. Some were less subtle and showed a part of sucked in stomach, escaping from a coming closer feather duster. The gifs were the most intriguing - a tied up, blindfolded man, laughing and squirming, while a different man was...

Tickling him?

Steve's brow furrowed as he watched the gif, frame by frame. There was no doubt that it was tickling, fingers gliding over tied man's armpits and sides. Steve expected this to be a prelude, something more to follow, but it was all. Tickling was the main point. Steve blushed when he realized that if there were gifs, there had to be a video and who knew how long it was. How many minutes would it take to bring someone to the brink of hysterics, to make them crumble, but at the same time make it pleasurable? People were not forced into filming porn and following that principle, there were not forced into filming tickle kink videos.

And that being said...

"Huh..." Steve mused out, bits of information falling into one picture. They never discussed it, but in the back of his head, Steve had this thought that Tony enjoyed being tickled, or at least didn't mind terribly. The way he squirmed between Steve's tickling hands but didn't try to run away. How he laughed and screamed for mercy whenever Steve targeted a sensitive spot and always seemed a bit disappointed when the tickling ended but masked it with a smile and complaints of being assaulted. Sometimes, Steve just felt provoked into tickling his boyfriend, like that one time, Tony had taken his sketchbook and hid away, refusing to say where he hid it and Steve had to tickle the information out of him until Tony was absolutely incoherent from laughter and breathless.

That was cute. All those shared tickle moments were cute, but Steve never thought that they could be... hot. And intimate. He looked back at the gif, at the way the tickled man arched and bucked, but was not able to escape the ticklish strokes delivered over his skin. What if Tony was the one tied and spread in the chair and Steve was the one standing behind, dotting his fingertips over the bare torso, having that sense of power and control, enjoying the ticklish tremble of the bothered skin. It became a tempting image in his head.

'Guuuuys, I don't know what to do.'

Steve's eyes caught on some text among the images and gifs. A separate post.

'I still can't tell my bf that I like being tickled. I just can't! There is this block in my head -'

Steve read the text, feeling that he might know the author.

'I even did that thing you recommended with hiding his stuff away -'

Definitely knew the author. At the top of the post, he saw a name, probably the username and clicked on it. Blue background color, and image of feathers and the username in white bold font. The Spare Parts Man.

That was one major hint...

Steve scrolled down this page, seeing more text and images of people being tickled, some like, a gif that was of a zoomed in stomach, the belly button tickled by a tip of the feather, signed with a 'omg, goals', whatever that meant. Steve tried to search for the text he saw on the previous page, but couldn't find it anymore, instead saw more posts, where people seemed to be interacting with the author.

'Hi, SP! I was the one who sent you the asks with hiding your BF's stuff -'

'I am sure your BF will understand, from what you said, you are dating for a long time -'

'You still didn't tell him??? What are you waiting for, GO GO GO!'

Steve pursed his lips together, feeling upset that Tony was so willing to share with strangers, but not with him. This whole site seemed so secretive, and while Steve felt a bit betrayed, he started to think about things from Tony's perspective. Tickling wasn't a mainstream kink. Bondage, spanking, food play - all the things they had tried seemed to be more acceptable in the sex world while tickling... Some people enjoyed it, some hated it. Steve was somewhere in between. It could be a fun thing among loved ones, but could quickly become overwhelming and unbearable. Steve didn't think about it earlier, but he really liked tickling Tony. He loved the way his body twitched, the sound of his laughter, and the feeling of closeness and trust in the action. For Steve it was fun. For Tony, it had to run much deeper, forming stronger connections than it did for Steve.

'I don't want to lose him. What if he thinks I am a freak?'

No, Steve would never think that. Tony was the great love of his life and Steve accepted him on every level.

"Oh, babe..." Steve sighed softly, reading more posts, some screaming nervousness as Tony was pouring his heart out, feeling miserable with his inability to tell Steve the truth, some so heartwarming and oozing happiness when Tony was describing Steve's last tickle attacks and how incredibly good and completed it made Tony feel.

That. Steve wanted to make Tony feel like that every day. Satiated and fulfilled and safe.

No more secrets.

Carried on the moment, Steve pressed on an icon with a pencil and began to write.

***

Tony was bored. So, so bored. He caught a glimpse of Pepper sending him a scolding look and straightened up in his seat, pretending to pay attention. He just wanted to go back home and curl up next to Steve, feeling Steve's fingers stroking his hair and maybe, if he got lucky, Steve would rub his belly, using just enough pressure to make him smile and feel like melting. He started to smile at the thought and Pepper sent him a confused look. Uh oh. He better control himself. Tony grinned sheepishly at Pepper and set his face in a schooled, thoughtful look, trying to focus his attention on the meeting. Just half an hour more... It was all ending statements, so it was nothing bad if he decided to check his social media, right? Cautiously, Tony took out his phone and unlocked the screen, keeping the phone under the table. A new tasting video from Thor, with a package of sweets sent from the Netherlands. Tony made a mental note to drop later to Thor's floor and ask if he had any stroopwafels left to share because they were amazing with black coffee. Clint commenting on funny cats videos, Tony added it to his watch later list. As usual, his own social media were bursting with notifications, people raving over Iron Man and asking for more videos of Steve training routine, which, Tony couldn't blame them, the sight of his boyfriend working out was heaven. He even decided to check his Tumblr, curious if anyone sent him some more tips or maybe just left him a nice message -

Oh, that was weird. Usually, he had maybe two or three messages, some reblogs, and a few comments. This time, his app was bursting with notifications and Tony didn't post anything that could cause such a commotion in the last days.

'WHAT. WHAT????"

'Nooooooo... Please don't break up with him! He loves you so much!'

"The hell, dude! You invaded your bf's privacy like that?? You're the worst!"

Tony didn't understand anything. Maybe he clicked and shared something by accident. There was a slight possibility that his account was hacked. Maybe -

Maybe it was way, way worse.

There was a new text post on his main, one he didn't write.

'Hi, this is Spare Part Man's boyfriend. I found this account by accident and me and my boyfriend have a lot to talk about once I see him.'

No. No, no, no.

"Tony? Tony, are you okay?!"

Tony didn't realize he started to hyperventilate until Pepper's voice brought him back. Everyone was staring at him and Tony felt like vomiting.

"I am fine," Tony said, not meaning it, his voice coming out squeaky. "Can we - excuse me, I have to go," Tony rambled out, sending a sorry look in Pepper's direction and trying to walk out of the conference room as calmly as possible. It felt like the whole world was spinning around him, making him feel nauseous. Tony stumbled to the window and pressed his face against the cool glass, trying to soothe his heated skin and get his thoughts back in order.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this. Maybe it was never supposed to happen, staying as his hidden fantasy and dark secret. What if he deleted the account, right here, right now, would he be able to convince Steve that it never existed?

No. Steve wouldn't fall for it. And Tony felt so stupid for creating that account in the first place, but he needed a place to vent. He didn't plan on socializing, sharing his life, just get the urges out and move on. He just... Wanted to feel accepted. Find people who thought the same as he did. Not feel so alone.

And he would end alone because Steve definitely was going to dump him.

***

"I am back!"

Tony was a genius. He had numerous diplomas to prove it. Yet, he decided that the best thing to do would be to march into his and Steve's shared floor, acting like nothing ever happened. Maybe if he managed to keep his cool he could put this whole Tumblr thing as a social study. Just a research on kinks. No biggie. He could do this.

"Tony, come to the bedroom for a second!"

Somehow hearing Steve's voice made this situation very real and not like Tony imagined it. He couldn't say anything from the tone of Steve's voice, it was neutral, not angry, but also wasn't the cheerful, loving one Steve had towards him. On usual days, Steve would come to him, resembling an excited puppy and lick his face - kiss, Tony meant kiss, and then they would sit on the couch and share their day. Their bedroom was a private, closed space and once Tony set his foot there, there was no way back.

Feeling a nervous twist in his stomach, Tony peeked into the bedroom, just to feel if the situation was as bad as he feared. Steve was on the bed, forehead creased in thought, and was looking at the space in front of him until he spotted Tony from the corner of his eyes.

"Tony - " Steve started, sitting up straight, pulling shoulders back.

"No, Steve, I - " Tony walked into the bedroom, trying to make his voice strong. Just remember what he had planned and it would be fine. "I want to talk first, okay?"

Steve blinked and frowned lightly, but kept his lips tight. Alright, if Tony insisted.

"Okay," Tony nodded, trying to give himself some courage and began to pace around the room. "I know you found my Tumblr account," he said the obvious, struggling to keep his voice firm. "And - and it was not true, you know that, right? I just - research - an experiment to - ahh," Tony quickly got lost in his words, noticing Steve's look changing to a confused one. "I - ah, fuck, fuck, fuck - " Tony couldn't get any coherent words out and stopped and hid his face in hands. He continued to quietly curse, not knowing how to get out of this mess and not lose everything.

"Babe..."

Tony almost jumped away, when Steve came closer and wrapped arms around him. After a moment of hesitation, Tony buried himself into his soldier's arms, his face pressed against Steve's neck. Probably the last hug he would receive from Steve. This whole thing won't make Avengers stuff awkward at all. What if Steve would quit the team? Tony couldn't imagine not being able to see Steve anymore. He needed him. He would change, he would do better. Steve couldn't break up with him.

"Of course that I am not breaking up with you," Steve said suddenly, and Tony winced, not realizing he said it out loud. "Is that what you thought?" Steve asked, sounding shocked. Reluctantly, Tony nodded. Somehow he was used to being rejected and walking away from problems was one of the things he did and expected the same happen to him.

"God, Tony," Steve said in an exasperated huff, not believing how quickly this whole thing could escalate in Tony's mind. Then again, he should know, because Tony did think too much and sometimes didn't stop his thoughts on time, letting them drag him deeper and deeper. "Tony, I am not breaking up with you," Steve said again, just to make sure the words sunk in his boyfriend's head. "And I am sorry," Steve gently put his thumb and forefinger under Tony's chin, encouraging him to eye contact. 'Sorry you turned out to be messed up in the head,' Tony finished in his mind, looking into Steve's blue eyes.

"I am sorry for barging into your space when you didn't feel ready to share yet," Steve said, closing the distance between them and leaning his forehead against Tony's.

What?

Tony didn't reply, just stared, his brown eyes widening. Steve was... apologizing to him? Not the other way around?

"I read some of your blog," Steve said and Tony panicked again, Steve holding him closer when he felt brunet's body tense, "and I understand how hard it is for you to talk about it and how important it is for you. I really do. If anything, I am... a bit disappointed you didn't tell me. Why didn't you?"

Tony's mouth twisted into a scowl. He was disappointed with himself too, but it was hard. Harder than admitting that he liked being pinned down by Steve, or spanked, as it all seemed... simpler. It was obvious why people who enjoyed it were turned on by it. Tickling wasn't easy to explain.

"I wanted to," Tony finally spoke, his voice coming out quiet, "I didn't know how," this wasn't a good answer. Tony closed his eyes, not able to look at Steve. "I was embarrassed, I guess."

"Hmmm," Steve hummed in understanding, waiting for Tony to continue, but he didn't say anything more. Tony had no problems with voicing out his needs on his site, but face to face with Steve, he was fumbling and struggling for words. Anonymity gave him a sense of control which was being stripped away from him, layer by layer. Maybe with time, Tony would open more, and it was on Steve's side to nurture that vulnerable mindset until Tony would feel strong enough and confident to voice out his true needs.

"Then... can you tell me why you like it?" Steve tried, sounding gentle and not judgmental. Keeping an open mind was the key here.

"I don't know," Tony said quickly, sounding defensive. He didn't mean to, but it was stranger than him. He didn't want Steve to judge him, to think less of him, but... It was Steve. Steve who was always so understanding and didn't laugh at him and did his best to keep Tony feel accepted. It won't work if Steve would be the only one willing to share. "I guess," Tony corrected himself, trying to be more open, "I like the trust in it. And closeness," he said, tugging on Steve's clothes and hiding more into his boyfriend, "and, uh, it feels good."

"Feels good?"

"Yeah," Tony admitted, burying his heated face deeper into Steve's neck. "Feels really good. Especially when you are the one ti - doing it."

"Oh," Steve said, carding his fingers through the short hair on the back of Tony's head. Tony shivered, just slightly, from the light touch, smiling against Steve's skin and Steve felt an urge to touch him all over. This time differently, more aware and more intimate, paying closer attention to the reactions. "So... you wanna do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know what."

Tony moved away from Steve, showing a confused face. That kinda felt like mocking him, but Steve's face was honest. And it would certainly change the mood and make Tony feel better about this whole day. "I don't know," Tony said, just to be safe, "do you want to do it?"

"Heck yeah."

"What? You do?" Tony asked, his mouth falling agape at the enthusiasm.

"Sure. You like it and I like tickling you too. It's a win-win, right?"

Tony started to smile in relief. It was really happening. Steve accepted one of Tony's darkest secrets and even wanted to take part in it. Tony could barely wrap his mind around it, already feeling excited and giddy.

"So?" Steve asked again, eyes sparkling, waiting for permission from his boyfriend.

"If you keep asking, it takes the surprise factor AWAAHHAHA!" Tony's newly found boost of confidence was efficiently cut off when Steve latched hands to his sides and squeezed repeatedly. Tony doubled over in laughter and squirmed away, watching with a pounding heart as Steve followed him, smiling beautifully mischievous. "No, no, no, wait, Steve! STEHEVE!" Tony screeched in laughter when Steve ran forward, pushing Tony on the bed, and falling with him. "ACK! STE - hahaha! Waaait!" Tony wailed when fingers were going up and down his body tickling intensely. When Tony became pink in the face and a little breathless, Steve stopped, leaning in and kissing Tony's smiling lips.

"I love you, babe," Steve whispered, looking at his lover.

"I love you too," Tony answered, his heart hammering from the ticklish rush and all love he had for Steve.

"Are we good?"

"We are good," Tony assured, still not believing that everything turned out so great.

"Good," Steve smiled, and just now Tony realized that somehow both of his wrists were in soldier's hold and Steve easily pinned his hands above his head, leaving his torso exposed. "Because now," Steve said, sitting on Tony's thighs and slowly sliding his free hand under Tony's shirt. "I want to test every ticklish spot on you."

"Oh fuhahahck - " Tony wriggled uselessly, his stomach sinking in when Steve gently ran fingertips over the soft skin. "Steve, Steve, pleaheehehehese!"

"This is just your tummy and you already are so ticklish. It is a very promising start."

"Ahhahaha!"

"Oh, is this rib ticklish? How about this one? And this one?"

"GAAA HAHAHA!"

"Oh look, the higher I go, the more you laugh. Sooo, this means that when I do this -"

"PFF HAHAHAHA!"

"That's one ticklish armpit you have, babe! Let's find out if the other one is as ticklish -"

Steve was grinning, watching Tony crumbling and laughing, coming apart under his fingers. Steve was right, it was a win-win for both of them.

***

"You should write on your Tumblr."

"Huh?"

"You should," Steve repeated, rolling on completely naked Tony and kissing his lips, "write on your," a kiss on the chin, "Tumblr," Steve finished, blowing a raspberry into Tony's neck.

"HAAHAHA! Stoooop," Tony tried to swat Steve away, feeling too blissful to move. Of course that a long, intimate tickle session changed into an amazing make out. It was incredible how the tickle foreplay increased their appetite and how wonderfully responsive Tony became.

Steve laughed and rolled on his side, looking at Tony with adoration. Laughing made Tony ten times more attractive in Steve's eyes, and Tony was off the scale to start with.

"I am serious, babe," Steve tried again, gently poking his finger all over Tony's bare belly, making him squeak funnily and curl up, "write on your Tumblr. Everyone has to be worried."

"Ah hahaha... Ohkahay!" Tony agreed, shielding his stomach with one hand and using the other one to reach for his phone. "Uhh... Should I update and delete it?" Tony asked. With everything working out so great, there was no reason for him to keep that account. No more secret lusting, when he had it all in real life.

"If you want to," Steve said truthfully, "or maybe you can keep it for a bit longer because I might need some inspiration on how to take you apart."

"Ahhh, not sure if I want to give you access to that sort of power," Tony teased, opening the app. "Huh, people kinda hate you."

Steve shrugged, understanding that what he wrote, did sound menacing, even if it wasn't his intention. "Just write that we are fine and your boyfriend plans on fulfilling your each and every one tickle fantasy."

"You do?" Tony asked, voice trembling with excitement.

"All of them, babe," Steve assured, smiling broadly. He had remembered some of the things he read and gifs he saw, and could easily imagine Tony on the receiving end.

Looking enthusiastic, Tony got to writing. Soon, Steve got up and leaned over Tony's shoulder, looking at the screen.

'Hi, guys. Sorry for the sudden silence but as you saw we had a situation here. It is all good now, me and BF talked, and he turned to be all sweet about it, not bragging, I just had my first tickle session and it was amazing! So, I just wanted to give you an update, that I am fine. More than fine. My BF said that I can keep this Tumblr if I want to and he will even use it as an inspiration, so aaaah, can't wait. Just don't give him any ideas! I am gonna talk to you all soon, but for now, I and my BF have plans. See you later!'

After the post got published, Tony and Steve didn't have to wait for a reaction.

'AAAAH! I AM SO GLAD EVERYTHING IS FINE! YOU BOYS HAVE FUN NOW!'

'Awesome, couple goals.'

'That's great, dude, but I hope your BF apologized.'

"That's the one that doesn't like me, right?" Steve squinted his eyes, pointing at the last comment. Tony laughed and nosed Steve's cheek playfully.

"It is okay, I like you," he smiled. "Do you want to have a nickname? That will make it much easier for me to write when you are involved."

"Um, sure," Steve said, not entirely sold on the idea, but not wanting to shot Tony's idea down. "You call yourself Spare Parts Man, right?" Steve asked and Tony nodded. "Soooo... How about you call me Iron Man?"

Tony's smile dropped in surprise, and he laughed mockingly. "Seriously, dude?"

"Hey, the darkest place is under the candle," Steve said, sounding defensive.

"Fine," Tony agreed, rolling his eyes dramatically. He reblogged the post and added an update.

'BF wants you to call him Iron Man. I know, lame.'

"Ack!" Tony almost dropped his phone when Steve scoldingly pinched his side. Soon the first comments came.

'Ah you sound like a superhero couple, how cute!'

'I am shipping you both. #relationshipgoals'

'Wow, your BF is not very creative, isn't he? But fine, let it be IRON MAN.'

"Write to this one that I don't like them either," Steve hissed, looking at the last comment.

Tony laughed and turned to Steve, pressing their lips together in a kiss. Long and sweet. The kind of kiss that was the perfect happy ending to a tickle kink coming out story.

"Oh, interesting!" Steve suddenly said, ending the kiss too soon and looking at one of the comments, smiling wickedly.

"What is int - noooooo!" Tony wailed, understanding the reason behind the smile. It was stronger than him and Tony started to panic. "It is a lie, Steve! Don't believe the lieeee no no aaah HELP!"

Steve laughed, wrestling Tony down and pinning his hands once again. If Tony was already getting this worked up, there was no way Steve would back up.

"No, please!" Tony giggled, kicking his legs, trying to wriggle away, as Steve's menacingly moving fingers were getting closer and closer. "I cahahahan't!"

Somehow, Steve didn't believe him. Instead, he believed the comment.

'Hey, this is for Iron Man - I am sure you know already, that SP's stomach is really ticklish, but did you try tickling his belly button specifically? From what SP writes it is a very ticklish outie. Have fun!'

When Steve pressed his finger over Tony's outie delicately and Tony burst into giggling, almost maniacal laughter, Steve was in heaven. It was settled, Tony was keeping his blog for further tips for Steve.

#stony #steve rogers #tony stark #superhusbands #stevetony #tickling #tickle kink #tickle fic #upperbody tickling #fanfic #fanfiction

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dreamofmysoul-tsc · 3 years

Text

I'll Stay Here With You Until This Dream Is Gone

A story about Matthew Fairchild and James Herondale

Title from “Burning House” by Cam

I’ve never written fanfiction before, nor am I really a writer, but this idea has been poking at my mind for awhile now so I figured I’d write it down. I probably won't write more fanfic btw, my brain just wouldn't let me rest until I wrote this 😅

Little nods to The Haunting of Hill House and Bly Manor if you squint

This story follows the theory that Matthew becomes a Downworlder; in this story he is a vampire, although it isn't that important. Also, lots of angst. Suffer with me y'all. Enjoy!

CW for talks of death and the afterlife

January, 1963

Watery, gray light filters through the thick, velvet curtains despite their best efforts to keep the sun at bay. The house sits quiet, empty save for its owner and a single butler. A man sits at an antique writing desk, blonde head bent over thick sheets of paper, each embossed with a golden MF. He writes slowly, thoughtful of each word he inks onto the pages. A glass of water sits precariously on the edge of the writing desk, half empty.

A series of swift knocks resounds throughout the home. The man doesn't raise his head, expecting his butler, Mr. Wingrave, to answer it. As expected, he hears the door creak open, followed by a quick, muffled exchange. Whoever decided to darken his doorstep leaves as fast as they came, the door closing shut with a resounding thunk. His butler begins to ascend the stairs, but the man continues to write his letter, a half smile beginning to turn up the corner of his mouth.

His bedroom door swings open. "Mr. Fairchild?" Wingrave stands on the threshold, a folded note held in his hand. It is without an envelope, as though whoever wrote it sent it off in a hurry.

"Yes?" Fairchild says distractedly, mind still occupied by his letter.

"A note for you, sent by a Mr. Owen Herondale, sir."

This causes Fairchild to pause. Why did his godson, whom he had visited just last week, send him a letter so early in the morning? Despite his best efforts, he feels a mix of curiosity and mild concern begin to build.

"From Owen? Whatever for?" Not expecting a response, he accepts the note from Wingrave. He unfolds the thin paper and feels his stomach drop.

Father is dying. Please get to the townhouse as soon as you can. He needs you.

-OH

James. His Jamie. He reads the succinct words over and over, unable to fully understand, or perhaps fully accept, their meaning. Of course he knew James was getting on in years, he isn't that in denial, but he had never fully sat back to think about how he would go on or what he would even do when James was gone. Now reality is crashing down on him, harsh and cold, as he lurches out of his seat and grabs for his coat. He barely gives himself time to put his shoes on before he's running out the door, only to be reminded harshly of his vampirism when the winter sun scalds his face. He can't find it in himself to care, ducking his head and sticking to the shaded walls of buildings as he sprints flat out toward Curzon Street.

Thanks to his vampire speed, he manages to limit his sun exposure and make it to Curzon Street in record time. He bangs on the townhouse door, red tears already welling up in his eyes, unnoticed until they begin to fall, cold, down his cheeks.

Owen opens the door immediately, black eyes wretched and lips pressed into a thin line, clearly trying to prevent himself from falling apart. He looks so like James, who always hated to cry too, that Matthew almost lets out the sob building up in his chest, yet he holds it in for Owen's sake. Matthew wraps him in a fierce hug, tucking his godson's face against his neck like Owen used to do when he was a boy. Owen holds onto his godfather's coat, trembling but still trying his best to keep it together.

Owen pulls back, sniffling and red eyed, voice hoarse as he says "Dad is upstairs in the bedroom. He's been asking for you all morning. I'm sorry I summoned you so early, but I just don't know how much time he has left." His voice cracks as he says it, tears finally falling. Matthew holds his face in his hands and wipes them away, pushing his hair from his forehead. Despite being in his 40s, Matthew will always see him as the chubby faced little boy Owen was so many years ago.

Taking a deep breath, Matthew ascends the stairs up to Jamie's bedroom. Cordelia, having passed a year prior, would've reprimanded him for getting dirt and slush on her lovely rugs. He almost chuckles at the memory.

James' door is already ajar as Matthew gently pushes it open. It takes Matthew yet another valiant effort to hold in a sob. James lays back on the bed, hands folded over each other, white hair fanned out behind his head like a halo. He holds a gold necklace in one hand, a miniature globe attached to the end of it, and a photograph in the other.

Matthew takes a seat in the cushioned chair by the bed and rests his hands on the duvet in an attempt to stop their shaking. "Jamie," he whispers, voice hoarse.

James' eyes crack open, still the same champagne gold as when he was a young man, and miraculously, he smiles. Matthew finally lets out the cries he's been holding in upon seeing that smile, warm and earnest, a smile that can only be described as so perfectly James.

James sets the objects in his hands aside and reaches out a surprisingly steady hand as Matthew meets him in the middle. He holds onto James' hand like it's a life raft, pressing his knuckles to his forehead and doing nothing to quiet his crying.

"If I had known it'd be this soon-" he chokes out, red tears staining James' calloused hands.

James cuts him off gently. "None of that, Matthew. What was I supposed to do, wait around until death came for me? My body is giving up on me, Math. I knew that my time was coming and that's exactly why I need you here. Because despite everything, I'm afraid. And although you no longer have the rune, we are still parabatai. I'm afraid of what comes after, Math, and I...please, just sit with me."

Matthew looks up, bloody tears dripping steadily onto James' poor bedsheets. He squeezes his parabatai's hand and he nods. "Of course I'll stay with you, Jamie bach. Whither thou goest, I shall go, remember? Even if I can't feel you, I won't let you go into the dark alone."

James lets out a soft chuckle as tears form in his eyes and squeezes Matthew's hand in return. "Thank you, Math."

As the day progresses into night, Matthew finds himself laying next to his parabatai, pushing his white hair back from his forehead and listening to his slow, wheezing breath. James sleeps and Matthew watches, afraid that if he so much as looks away from him, his friend won't have a hand to guide him into his afterlife.

Owen visits periodically to check on his father, occasionally clutching onto his hand and looking on with heartbroken eyes. He's even so kind as to offer his godfather blood, blood that they kept refrigerated for his visits, but the thought of stomaching anything causes bile to rise in the back of Matthew's throat.

Earlier, while arranging himself on James's bed, he finally caught a glimpse of the photograph James had held in his hand. It was a photo of them in their teenage years, Matthew's arm draped over James' shoulders, dressed in fashions well out of style, bright smiles on their faces. Matthew remembered that day well. It was a hot day in June and they'd gone to Regent's Park to enjoy the summer weather and catch up on reading. What had started as a peaceful summer day had ended with Matthew dramatically-and loudly- reciting passages from Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest while passersby looked on in faint amusement or unmasked annoyance. James had been mortified, repeatedly begging Matthew to stop through fits of laughter, ending with the boys play wrestling in the grass as James attempted to grab the play's script from Matthew's hands. They had ended up with grass stains all over their shirts, leaves sticking up in their hair, and Matthew was fairly certain he'd almost upended their picnic basket into the pond. It had been one of the best days of Matthew's life.

Matthew laughed through his tears as he gazed down at the photo, holding onto James' hand even tighter and continuing to watch him. He had once called James his heart and now he realizes how true he had been. James was always steady and strong, a presence he could rely on when he oftentimes couldn't even rely on himself. He kept Matthew tethered to the earth while Matthew in turn kept James from getting lost in his head. Matthew the kite, James the line. And without the line, Matthew wasn't sure what he was going to do.

Logically, he knew this would happen. James would die and Matthew would live on, unchanging. And one day he would realize he had lived more days without James than with him. The sense of panic he felt at the thought of forgetting his laugh, his dry wit, the specific way he annotated his books, even the way he made his tea, was so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him.

But as he takes in the face of his parabatai, his best friend, that panic winks out as quick as it came. Matthew's death was uncertain, but it wouldn't evade him forever. And although Matthew never considered himself a spiritual man, he believed that he would see James again. He had to believe that, otherwise he knew that his grief would threaten to eat him alive. Matthew knew that James' grief had threatened to eat him alive, too, after Cordelia's passing. If Matthew can gift his friend a peaceful end, he hopes with everything he has that Cordelia will be there to guide James home.

James dies not in the thick of battle or at the vicious claws of a demon, but in his bed, left hand held in the iron grip of his parabatai. He dies gently, quietly, breath suddenly stopping, hands going limp at his sides. Matthew hears his heart stop beating before James even exhales for that final time, pressing his forehead to his friend's and letting himself cry, guttural and grief stricken, unashamedly weeping into his parabatai's neck. Distantly, he hears his godson enter the room despite the late hour. Distantly, he sees Owen fall to his knees next to his father's bedside and clutch at his arm, joining Matthew in his lamentation.

And so, he holds onto James' hand and he cries. And he hopes with everything he has that he will see him again. He keeps that hope in his chest, a lighthouse on a distant, stormy shore, as he closes his parabatai's eyes and whispers, "Ave atque vale, Jamie bach. Hail and farewell."

#my first fanfic #i made myself sad #tsc #tlh #matthew fairchild #james herondale #i love them so much but they hurt me #tw talk of death and the afterlife #full of angst #sorry y'all #owen herondale #the dates of james and cordelia's deaths are from the v inaccurate family tree btw so take em with a grain of salt besties

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jiangchengrights · 3 years

Text

i’d always been rigid before you

also available on ao3

The world around Wei Ying is a delightful shade of, of, fuck, what was it all the pretentious photography majors have told her? The one that’s all hazy orange and blurred edges. That makes everything feel old and fragile and romantic. The one Wei Ying likes best. It’s not black and white or the one on, on, dague-daguerreotype, but a-

“A calotype,” Wei Ying mumbles to herself, rubbing at her eyes as she stares at the ceiling from her spot on the ground. The world is only spinning a little bit, “Sepia!”

“Shut up, Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng throws at her, lacking all the heat it normally carries. Probably because he’s also fairly drunk. Makes him softer, like a cat. Wei Ying giggles to herself and reaches a hand out, wrapping warm fingers around Jiang Cheng’s ankle, pleased when he lets it rest there, “Did you order your food or not?”

“Oh!” she gasps, using his leg as support to claw her way up and into a sitting position, squinting one eye shut so she can focus on the tiny little words that light up her screen. Why were her letters so small? Why didn’t she set them to be big, like when she reset Jiang Fengimen’s for him? Absolute fool, she thinks to herself as she navigates the doordash app, hoping beyond hope that the app doesn’t crash while she’s ordering because she does not have the mental capacity to deal with that right now, “Yes!”

“Good, because if my order gets here before yours, I’m not sharing my fries with you,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, sounding absolutely put upon and yet, Wei Ying thinks smugly to herself, he doesn’t shake her off his leg. She counts that as a win.

“But didi,” she languishes, flopping across his feet dramatically, laughing when he nudges her just on the side of a kick, “I fully plan to share my pancakes with you!”

“I don’t want your pancakes, Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, “And you still can’t have my fries.”

She pouts and pouts and whines at the ceiling but gets no further response from Jiang Cheng besides a few grumbles and a grunted out question of horror or comedy? Her cheer of horror! is accepted and her glass is absolutely not refilled because obviously Jiang Cheng hates her. And of course his food does in fact get there first (probably because he’d ordered it a solid twenty minutes before she had even started looking at the iHop online menu but that is neither here nor there) but she does manage to steal an entire handful of fries from him and a sip of his coke because he loves her even if he pretends he doesn’t. Another victory.

She turns her pout towards her phone now, opening the doordash app to message her driver. She wants an ETA on her phone but she’s not willing to risk her food being spit on and she is very grateful that someone out there is willing to brave the cold to bring pancakes directly to her door so instead she opts for a completely casual and friendly, i love you ❤️

She doesn’t really expect a response, figures the doordash driver is busy or unwilling to talk or (hopefully) driving but her phone dings with the standard Hi, this is DoorDash connecting you to your Dasher for updates about your order. And then, I love you too.

She reads the message four times, mouthing the words to her screen with a heavy tongue before she throws her head back to laugh, feeling light and fuzzy because this stranger is playing along with her. She clicks back to her app to check the name of her driver and spends ten minutes tracing the letters on her screen that spell out Hanguang Jun.

Her food arrives with a perfunctory knock and she half stumbles her way to the door, fairly certain the floor is moving erratically beneath her just to slow her down. Even though she yells, “I’m coming, I’m coming, hold on!” (words nearly unintelligible with the way they stumble and slur out of her mouth) and she throws the door open with all her might, she doesn’t make it in time to see her dasher. She thinks she catches a glimpse of long shiny black hair, but really that could be a shadow.

She leaves a five star review on the dasher anyways, for being lovely.

The next day she slides into her seat in her criminology class, right at the front, 8AM sharp (8:08). The front row of class is, generally, not her favorite spot, especially in big auditoriums like this. She’d rather be somewhere in the upper middle, where she could sink low if she needed to but still be heard if she has questions or comments. Especially, especially, when she is hungover enough that her ice coffee does nothing to curb the throbbing in her head.

But.

But Lan Zhan likes to sit in the front row and Wei Ying likes to sit next to Lan Zhan. So. So she will suffer through her Professor’s half glare as she stumbles in late and slides into the (thankfully) empty seat next to her. Lan Zhan doesn’t bother looking at her, too busy jotting down little notes in her journal, watching the screen as the professor discusses a future class assignment. Wei Ying sets her drink down carefully and then continues to messily rifle through her bag in search of a scrap of paper and anything to write with and comes up remarkably short.

A carefully sharpened pencil and a neat, small, stack of notebook paper are pushed her way, even as Lan Zhan continues to look forward. It’s so small and stupid but it has Wei Ying grinning like a fool, leaning close enough into Lan Zhan’s shoulder to whisper, thank you, lan zhan, my hero. She’s fairly certain Lan Zhan mostly just tolerates her, but god, tolerates her in the nicest way possible.

She turns back around and listens for the rest of class. By “listen” she means she is secretly recording the lecture on her phone, which she will absolutely listen to later, and maintains half attention while also drawing a bunny on one of the sheets Lan Zhan gave her. She’s pretty certain bunnies are Lan Zhan’s favorite and so she is ever perfecting the art of drawing them; realistically, cartoon-esque, blocky orbs that mostly just look funny to Wei Ying herself, but in all ways she practices. This one looks pretty good, she decides halfway through class, and so she will give it to Lan Zhan when their professor finally stops talking.

(It crosses her mind that Lan Zhan might not appreciate the waste of her own paper but she hopes the cuteness of the bunny will make up for that)

She’s just adding the finishing touches to the piece when the professor wraps up class, the music of end of class clatter lighting up the room; laptops and notebooks being shut, zipped away safely in backpacks. Wei Ying has no such noise, being that none of the supplies on her desk are her own besides her mostly empty coffee cup. She turns to Lan Zhan without a second thought, tapping lightly on her shoulder, and smiling what her sister calls her “winning smile” (Jiang Cheng refers to it as her “shit eating grin” and that is why he is not her favorite sister. Although, he still holds the title for her favorite brother. Don’t tell him that) as Lan Zhan tilts her head gracefully in her direction.

“For you!” she half shouts, giddy like a small child, pressing the drawing into Lan Zhan’s notebook.

“Me?” Lan Zhan questions, brows furrowing just the slightest amount, enough for Wei Ying to have to fight the urge to reach out and smooth the lines that crinkle there. Her eyes widen, though, when she looks down and sees the bunny and god, oh my god, her lips pull up on one side in what is definitely a Lan-Zhan-smile. She is smiling and all because of Wei Ying.

“Bunny,” is all she says, sounding reverent as her fingers reach out to stroke the page, as if it might carry any of the real softness of rabbit fur.

This is the best day of Wei Ying’s life.

“I thought you liked them!” Wei Ying shouts, oblivious of the students who are trying to filter out of their seats around them. She leans to the side, so that her forehead touches Lan Zhan’s shoulder, just enough pressure to really feel each other and says, “Thank you for always taking care of me, Lan Zhan!”

Lan Zhan is stiff beneath her, but she nods anyways and then reaches out to carefully fold around the rabbit and place it safely in her notebook, humming as she does. She’s keeping it. When Wei Ying lifts her head off the girl’s shoulder, Lan Zhan fully turns to look at her, eyes scrutinizing everything from Wei Ying’s twisted ponytail to the bags under her eyes, “I am surprised Wei Ying is here today.”

“What!” Wei Ying squawks, “This is my favorite class!” this is my lan-zhan-class!

“Mn,” Lan Zhan nods, and then purses her lips when she catches sight of the coffee sweating on the corner of Wei Ying’s desk, “Wei Ying should drink more water.”

“Ahh, there you go again!” Wei Ying laughs, finally hefting her bag onto her shoulder and moving to stand up, “Always trying to take care of me!”

The tips of Lan Zhan’s ears turn tomato red and she doesn’t respond to that comment, so Wei Ying figures Lan Zhan’s tolerance for her up for the day. Ah, well, she had a good run today! Enough to hold her off until Wednesday (that is, unless she sees Lan Zhan walking around on campus between now and then. She’s never had very good self-control around Lan Zhan).

“I’ll see you on Wednesday, Lan Zhan!” she calls over her shoulder as she bounces her way out of the class. She’ll draw a better bunny on Wednesday, she’s sure, one good enough to make Lan Zhan look at her twice. She will.

She’s halfway through her jog on Tuesday when Wen Qing calls her. She answers the phone without bothering to stop running, much to the distaste of Wen Qing, who has to listen to her pant.

“We’re drinking tonight,” is how Wen Qing starts this conversation.

“Wow, hello to you too,” Wei Ying says through heavy breathes, just to be an asshole, “I’m good today, how are you?”

“I’m fucking shitty, why else would I be calling you up?” Wen Qing snaps, as though she doesn’t call Wei Ying minimum three times a week on top of lunch dates every Thursday.

“What happened?” Wei Ying asks, rounding the corner of the park and heading in a straight line towards her apartment complex.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wen Qing says, sounding remarkably impatient for someone who started this phone call. And with Wei Wuxian of all people.

“Ah,” Wei Ying nods to herself, “So Mianmian then.”

“I didn’t say that!” Wen Qing snaps.

“Didn’t have to,” Wei Ying reminds her, coming to the flight of stairs that lead to her apartment, “I know of all your woes, Qing-jie.”

“You don’t know shit,” she hears from multiple angles.

“Are you already-” she begins asking, but cuts herself off when she reaches the top of the stairs and sees Wen Qing standing angrily outside her door, two bottles of Vodka in hand, “Alright then.”

“Just open the door, Wei Wuxian,” Wen Qing demands, stepping aside as Wei Ying comes closer, “I’m tired of holding these fucking bottles.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Wei Ying laughs, unlocking the door, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“You know I will.”

The world is once again hazy, less nice this time because her stomach still feels a little squirmy from the last hangover. She misses her recovery time from high school (read: no hangovers ever), now she’s just an old lady who can only drink, like, once a week. A tragedy.

Yet, here she is, on the floor once again because she seems to always end up on the floor when she’s drunk. It’s a nice spot; safe and big, big enough to spread her long limbs out wide.

“I want pancakes,” she says to the ceiling fan, expecting no response.

Instead she gets, “You already ordered your fucking pancakes, it’s not my fault you always take forever to actually order.”

“But Qing-jie!” she whines, rolling on her side to give Wen Qing her puppy dog eyes, “You got your food so quick and I’m still waiting.”

“Again, not my fault,” Wen Qing snaps before shoving an ungodly amount of burrito into her mouth, “Just message your driver to see where they’re at.”

“Oh yeah!!” she whips out her phone so fast it goes flying across the room and she has to crawl on her belly like a snake to get it. Her driver’s name is weird, Hanguang Jun, familiar even though it’s strange and... “It’s my driver from last Sunday!”

“Okay?” Wen Qing says around her burrito, rolling her eyes when Wei Ying waves her off.

u r my soulmate, she sends with zero hesitation, grinning when her phone buzzes almost immediately.

Hi, this is DoorDash connecting you to your Dasher for updates about your order. It says, yet again, and then, Really.

So dry, so cute! Wei Ying doesn’t know this person but she likes them already. The ability to play into her antics is not one possessed by everyone, so she will value it when she finds it, yes 😳

I am glad to know that, Hanguang Jun replies in an instant.

Wei Ying wants to play it really cool and really fun but she’s also absolutely starving and so she sends, what’s going on over there

A long line.

Then, because she decides she wants to go back to being fun she types out, its okay just hold on i cant wait to see u

I cannot wait to see you either.

And then Wei Ying just about dies and stays that way, arm thrown over her eyes and groaning like a fool on the vaguely dirty carpet of her apartment until she notices Wen Qing trying to fill her cup once again.

“Wen Qing, don’t drink all the Vodka!” she shouts right as there is a knock on the door and she jumps up, hoping if she hustles to the door she can see the illustrious Hanguang Jun this time. It’s a no-go, but she does find her food placed neatly on her doorstep with a small handwritten note that says For my soulmate.

So five stars once again.

She slides into her seat somehow even more haggard than on Monday and barely has time to look at Lan Zhan, sitting prim in her seat, hair straight and long, with a powder blue sweater over a white dress shirt and a short black skirt to match, long legs covered by black tights, before the other girl thrusts a huge water bottle her way.

“Drink,” Lan Zhan says by way of greeting, staring Wei Ying down until she hesitantly opens the bottle and takes a sip, smiling unsure when she pulls away.

“Lan Zhan?” she asks, screwing the cap back on slowly.

“Water is good for Wei Ying,” she states, turning away. Wei Ying stares at her for a second more and then nods, pulling out her now-found notebook with a smile.

“It’s almost like you care about me, Lan Zhan,” She whispers, smirking when she sees Lan Zhan’s fingers tighten around her pencil.

Lan Zhan doesn’t dignify that with a response, so she leaves it alone for now, tuning back to her own page to maybe take notes this class. Maybe.

Lan Zhan follows her out of class that day, lets Wei Ying latch onto her arm like a fool and chatter away as they mill about the crowds of other undergrad students. She hmms and mms at all the right moments and sometimes, very rarely but sometimes, she seems to cling back to Wei Ying as much as Wei Ying clings to her.

Wei Ying is a little in love.

Before she can do something stupid, like say that, Lan Zhan turns, and meets the eyes of Nie Mingjue, who looks smug and stern as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Lan Zhan’s eyes widen and she hastens to disentangle herself from Wei Ying’s grasp, taking a side step away.

“Hey isn’t that your brother’s best friend?” Wei Ying asks, but by the time she looks up Lan Zhan is gone, lost in the throng of people.

Wei Ying stands alone in the quad center as people mill around her, feeling lost and a little hurt by the sudden vanish of her friend, meeting Nie Mingjue’s pitying gaze only once before she hustles along to the buses.

Lan Zhan had done this in high school, too. Had run away from Wei Ying anytime someone significant came into view of them. Had shoved Wei Ying off and called her shameless and walked away from her without ever turning around. Wei Ying remembers a lot of Lan Zhan’s back, always walking away, always a little out of reach.

That was okay though, they were kids, still working through everything. Wei Ying always assumed it was just hormones or Lan Zhan working through her own inner gay crisis combined with Wei Ying’s own puberty induced irritatingness. She assumed that would stop now; they were adults and Lan Zhan had really come into her own and Wei Ying had calmed down ever so slightly. What did it matter if her brother saw her with Wei Ying? What could it hurt?

Just Wei Ying, it turns out. It could hurt Wei Ying.

Wei Ying spends maybe, slightly, too much money on food delivery. It’s just, she always wants food when she’s drunk and she’s very against drinking and driving and she never has the forethought to get food before she starts drinking so here she is.

Your driver is on their way! The app notifies her and only then does she remember to check who is picking the food up for her, squealing when she sees the name.

Hanguang jun!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hi, this is DoorDash connecting you to your Dasher for updates about your order. She gets and then, Yes.

its u again!!!

Hanguang Jun: It is me.

Wei Ying: u r the love of my life

Hanguang Jun: I thought I was your soulmate?

Wei Ying: r u saying u cant be both 🥺

Hanguang Jun: I can be whatever you need.

That has Wei Ying blushing from head to toe in her thankfully empty apartment. She has to take a moment to breathe before she can reply with, ah so smooth hanguang jun

There is a brief pause, one that has Wei Ying waiting, staring at her phone with a too cheesy smile on her face, Mn. For you.

She squeals in excitement so loud she almost misses the knock on the door. It's distracting enough to slow her down, so still no sight of Hanguang Jun tonight. Their chat disconnects but it’s okay, there will be a next time.

(Wei Ying hopes there will be a next time).

Rate your dasher: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Wei Ying’s criminology class is not a small class. Small classes have order and structure; you get to know your fellow classmates and an informal seating chart begins to appear usually after the second week of class. This one, however, is set in a wide auditorium that fills with too many students to even know any of them, who always seem to be moving around, always in new spots. Which is why it continually surprises Wei Ying that her spot is always empty and waiting for her when she stumbles in ten minutes late. She voices this out loud only to receive an eye roll from Lan Zhan.

“It is Wei Ying’s spot,” is all she says, turning forward once again. And it is her spot but that’s not the point of Wei Ying’s argument, now is it?

“Hmph,” she sighs to herself, digging around in her bag until she finds the two bunny pens she had purchased this weekend on a whim at some novelty store. They’re both silicone smooth, with rounded bunny heads on the end and ears that extend maybe a bit too far. She pushes the black one onto Lan Zhan’s desk and whispers, “That one is for you.”

“For...me?” Lan Zhan asks, lips parting as she looks down at the pen in her hand and then back up at Wei Ying, the hint of a smile in her cheeks.

“Of course! You’re my favorite Lan Zhan, who else would I buy a pen for?” she says back, feeling utterly pleased with herself to have gained such a positive reaction, wiggling closer in her seat to press her arm against Lan Zhan, “You’re my favorite.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan calls, not quite a whisper, but soft and intense, one of her hands reaching out to grab at Wei Ying’s own. Wei Ying is delighted to find the other girl has rough calluses on the tips of her fingers that scrape gently against her knuckles, “Thank you.”

“Lan Zhan, ah, it’s no big deal, really,” she whispers, suddenly shy, using her free hand to rub at the back of her neck, “I was just thinking about you, you know?”

Lan Zhan stares at her for just a beat too long, before she pulls away entirely. Before Wei Ying can panic, though, she neatly puts her original pen away and picks up the bunny pen, smiling down at her notebook as she writes her notes, trying to hide the biggest smile Wei Ying has ever seen from the other girl.

She’s so warm next to Wei Ying and she never looks like she even considers switching away from the bunny pen even though it's surely not as nice as the gel one she’d been using before. When the professor dismisses them a mere minute and a half before their class is scheduled to end, Wei Ying finds herself in a panic, desperate not to let Lan Zhan slip away just yet.

“Hey,” she says, one hand reaching out lightning fast to grasp Lan Zhan’s elbow, “Do you want to get coffee?”

Lan Zhan frowns, goes to open her mouth but doesn’t manage to get a single sound out before Wei Ying half shouts, “Tea! Tea! I know you like tea instead of coffee, let’s get tea, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan stares at her long enough that Wei Ying begins to squirm in her seat, words on the tip of her tongue to take it all back, rescind her existence entirely when Lan Zhan asks, “Wei Ying...knows I like tea?”

“Well, yes,” Wei Ying nods, hoping this doesn’t make her seem like she’s been paying too much attention to Lan Zhan, “It’s just, you never bring coffee to class, always tea. So, I just, like, assumed. But, tea?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, “Let’s get tea.”

So they get tea in what is the best and most excruciating forty five minutes of Wei Ying’s entire life. Lan Zhan sits across from her with the poise and beauty of a marble statue, sharp lines carved from stone only to be softened when she laughs at Wei Ying’s silliness. She steeps jasmine tea in a teacup and bats it around with a spoon, slow, careful, sure enough in her practiced movements that Wei Ying finds herself enraptured, watching those fingers with a single minded focus. She’s never been enraptured by tea before. She doesn’t even really like tea.

They sit close enough that their knees brush every once in a while, whenever Lan Zhan recrossses her legs and it's enough to send sparks up Wei Ying’s leg, through her sweatpant clad knee. It is the best feeling in the world, she’s sure. And yet, also a special kind of hell to sit here, next to a Goddess and not be able to reach out and touch, to ask for more.

She wishes Lan Zhan wanted more.

But, she’ll take friendship and tea over nothing, so she keeps her complaints to herself and regails Lan Zhan with every funny story she can think of, preening when Lan Zhan smiles at her.

“I had to explain to my professor the entire concept of Star Trek, Lan Zhan. Like I had to sit there in this highly academic room and be all well you see, sir, the entire doctrine of the Prime Directive contradicts everything he just said so that’s really not a suitable analogy to make. And I’m not even the one who brought it up!” she half yells, throwing her hands up in exasperation, “Now I’m the one who looks like some kind of scifi nerd to our professor!”

“Hmm,” Lan Zhan hums, blowing into the steam of her tea, “Wei Ying has seen Star Trek though?”

“Well, yes.”

“A lot of it?”

“I mean, what do you consider a lot? That’s very subjective, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying smiles, working around the statement just to be coy, just to see the faint amusement that lights up Lan Zhan’s eyes.

“Wei Ying.”

“I may or may not have seen all of it, but that is so not the point!” Wei Ying counters, pointing her finger at Lan Zhan just to make her point.

“It seems then,” Lan Zhan starts, taking a sip of her tea, thoroughly uncowed, “that Wei Ying is some kind of ‘scifi nerd.’”

“Lan Zhan!” she squawks, throwing a hand over her heart in faux hurt, “I have never felt more betrayed than in this moment, more hurt, more wounded, more heartbroken.”

“Mn, Wei Ying has had it easy then,” Lan Zhan nods, tracing the rim of her teacup with the tip of her finger, “Someone has to make it more difficult for her. What did you say earlier? It ‘builds character’?”

“Lan Zhan!” she squeezes the hand over her heart more intensely, sighing long and winded, “How could you do this to me, Lan Zhan, your dearest Wei Ying?”

Lan Zhan’s eyes move from roaming over Wei Ying’s face, to glance over her shoulder, widening slightly at whatever she sees. She stands without another word, fumbles with her wallet to drop a note on the table and says, “I must leave now, Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan leaves without a second glance, turning away from the front entrance which is a much straighter shot out of the cafe and onto the main street, to quite literally sneak out of the side door, that leads only to an alley and a trash can. Wei Ying stares after her, shocked mostly, until she hears the front bell chime. She turns to see a man walk in with dark silky hair, wide shoulders, and well tailored clothes set in a deep blue that compliments his skin perfectly. He wears a warm smile and allows the smaller man next to him to walk ahead, a hand rested firmly but respectfully on the small of his back.

Lan Xichen.

Ah, Wei Ying thinks to herself as it dawns on her, spinning around the spoon in her tea idly, feeling brittle and cracked all at once, she just didn’t want to be seen with me in front of her brother.

That’s fine, it really is. So maybe nothing has really changed since high school. They weren’t friends then and they aren’t now, not really. Wei Ying was foolish to ever get her hopes up for anything more. She 100% understands. She is loud, and talks with her mouth full, and once almost got kicked out of university just a little bit. She should have expected this, if she was being honest with herself.

She still can’t manage to bring the smile back to her face though.

She manages an entire three days of being sad and not drunk before Wen Ning waltzes into her apartment unannounced (when he got a key she will never know) and plies her with long island iced teas.

“She’s just so nice, A-Ning,” Wei Ying moans, face down on the floor, “She’s so nice and pretty, god she’s so pretty A-Ning, and she’s always wearing these skirts, her legs are to die for.”

“But she did not want to be seen with you?” Wen Ning clarifies from where he sits, perched on her couch, leaning over to place another drink next to her head.

“No,” Wei Ying whimpers again, sounding absolutely miserable. She knows she might be acting a bit over dramatic, it's just, she’s known Lan Zhan since she was fourteen, had followed her around then, berating her until she got a reaction. And maybe that had been nothing more than a nuisance to Lan Zhan but it had meant a lot to Wei Ying. Too much probably. She had cried actual tears of joy when she discovered they had both enrolled at the same university, that first semester on campus. And sure maybe they weren’t best friends of anything but Lan Zhan was one hundred percent Wei Ying’s sexual awakening.

And Wei Ying just might be a little, tiny bit in love with her. Or like, on the road to being in love. Very close. In need of only a few kind words and maybe for Lan Zhan to kiss her.

“Hey,” Jiang Cheng snaps from the other side of the room, like actually snaps his fingers at her until she lifts her head to look at him, “Listen, you stupid little peabrain. Stop thinking with your dick and start thinking with your head.”

“I don’t have a dick,” she complains, rubbing her cheek into the carpet, “Maybe if I did, Lan Zhan would be less embarrassed of me.”

That earns her a pillow thrown straight at her head, “Peabrain! If she doesn’t want to be seen with you, that’s not nice.”

“But-”

“Being pretty doesn’t make her nice!”

“She-”

“Having nice legs doesn’t make her nice!”

“But she is nice!” Wei Ying shouts, pushing herself up enough to sit as she stares angrily down at Jiang Cheng, “She lets me sit next to her in class, and smiles when I give her bunnies, and puts up with me whispering to myself while the teacher talks and-”

“All I hear is puts up with and lets me, Wei Wuxian, that’s not what nice is!” Jiang Cheng shouts right back, glaring at her the whole time, “You should waste your time on someone who is actually nice to you.”

“I am.”

“Would you ever let me date someone who was ashamed of me, Wei Wuxian?” Jiang Cheng asks, face serious as he leans in closer to her, “I’m your didi, would you let someone treat me like that? Would you let me treat me like that?”

She doesn’t have a response for that so she lays in silence, staring at the blades of the ceiling fan that spin around and around and around.

“Maybe she is very nice, Wei Ying,” Wen Ning interjects, breaking the silence, reaching one hand out to pet Wei Ying’s hair, “But maybe Wei Ying should be nice to herself too. Do you feel good right now? Have you been nice to yourself?”

“You don’t understand and I don’t want to talk to either of you anymore,” Wei Ying pouts and lets herself drop back to the floor, curling on her side around her phone, “And I just want my fucking pancakes.”

She checks her order status and lo and behold, there they are again. Hanguang Jun.

hanguang jun will u be my wife, she asks and then doubles back, im a lesbian.

Hi, this is DoorDash connecting you to your Dasher for updates about your order. She gets and then, Yes.

yes ull b my wife or yes im a lesbian

Hanguang Jun: Yes, I will be your wife.

thats great!!!!!!! Wei Ying sends back, with exactly the right amount of exclamation points, smiling into her phone screen, hey now that we r married will u stay at my door long enough for me to c u

Hanguang Jun: Hm. Are you intoxicated?

hanguang jun what kind of ? is that!!!!! of course i am!!!! why else do people get food delivered!!!!

Hanguang Jun: For many reasons. If you make it to the door fast enough, you will see me.

hanguang jun!!!!!!!

This time, the knock is a barely there tap that Wei Ying is absolutely sure is on purpose and despite picking herself up and essentially running to the door, she still only manages to catch a glimpse of long hair and a blue shirt.

She opens her food in miserable silence, only breaking out of her gloom when she sees the little note: For my wife. written on the lid of the box. She lets herself focus on that instead of the crushing reality of Lan Zhan’s embarrassment of her, smiling every time she shoves a too big bite of pancake into her mouth.

Rate your dasher: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Monday roles around too soon and the next thing Wei Ying knows, she’s skulking into her criminology class exactly twelve minutes late, staring at the empty seat next to Lan Zhan. The thing is, the fresh sting of it all has soothed into a deep ache, more bearable to wear in public. Now she just finds it all awkward. Like, it’s awkward to just all the sudden ditch out on Lan Zhan and try to find some other non-shitty seat somewhere else, right? But it's also awkward to sit next to Lan Zhan when it seems Lan Zhan doesn’t want that, not really, not publicly.

The walk into the classroom is too short to solve any of these problems, so she just slides into her usual seat, carefully keeping her face forward, keeping to her own space instead of spilling out into the seat over to brush against Lan Zhan. Which is. Fine.

She takes studious notes and never once lets her eyes waver to the seat next to her. It takes a lot of mental energy. When the class is over, she doesn’t bother digging her stuff back into her bag, her only thoughts on how to get out of there as fast as she can, gathering them all into a messy pile in her arms and standing before the professor has even said goodbye.

“Wei Ying,” a quiet voice says next to her, a gentle reaching out to cup the ball of her elbow. Wei Ying takes a single deep breath and turns back around with a hopefully believable smile on her face. The black bunny pen is laid haphazardly across Lan Zhan’s notes. She was still using the pen. Ah, Lan Zhan is so nice, Wei Ying thinks to herself even as she feels her bottom lip wobble dangerously.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, I’m kind of in a rush today, okay? Gotta get going!” she chirps, looking anywhere but the steady hand that still hold her arm. Lan Zhan stares up at her, trying to meet her eyes, sighing when she seems to realize Wei Ying has no intention of looking away from the floor.

“Okay, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan sighs again, letting go of her arm to fold her hands properly across her lap, “I will see you on Wednesday.”

“Yeah, totally, for sure,” Wei Ying chants and skids out of the aisle as fast as she possibly can, never once looking back. She doesn’t see Lan Zhan watch her leave, a tiny confused frown painting her lips.

This time, Wei Ying isn’t even the one to make the first move. She doordashes chocolate and gatorade and mini donuts from the nearest gas station and decides to sulk on her couch until it arrives (and ignore the paper she should be writing. She has time though, it’s not due for another 43 hours).

Her phone chimes from where it rests on the couch next to her, revealing a doordash message.

Hi, this is DoorDash connecting you to your Dasher for updates about your order.

Hanguang Jun: Are you drinking at 10:30 in the morning?

is that judgement i hear, Wei Ying responds, snorting a laugh as she does. Hanguang Jun might just be a fuddy duddy.

Hanguang Jun: We are speaking through an instant messaging service. You do not hear anything.

potato tomato, Wei Ying responds, just to be difficult and then a quick, also no im not drinking im just sad

The pause after this is long, stretching out enough that Wei Ying sets her phone down entirely and turns her attention back to the shitty soap opera she was watching, when the phone dings again.

Hanguang Jun: Why are you sad?

hanguang jun so invasive! She responds with a laugh, adding, i guess u r my wife now it is ur right to know

Hanguang Jun: Mn. Have to keep track of you.

hanguang jun! Wei Ying would yell if they were talking in person. Hell, she yells now into the fabric of her pillow, ur making me blush

Hanguang Jun: Good.

anyways, Wei Ying directs, because it seems otherwise they’ll just keep going in a circle of Wei Ying blushing and Hangunag Jun being, well, whatever it is they are being, there is a girl.

Hanguang Jun: A girl?

a perfect girl. the best, most beautiful girl, way out of my league, Wei Ying explains, hoping that with this fresh new person she can convey just how wonderful Lan Zhan is, seeing as how that didn’t go over well with Jiang Cheng and Wen Ning (although, Wei Ying is pretty sure Jiang Cheng has hated Lan Zhan since high school, she’s just not ready to unpack that yet), but she doesnt like me back. or like at all really i dont think she even wants to be friends with me

Hanguang Jun: You are sure of this?

yes!!!! Wei Ying sends back, rapid fire, she presents all of the wei-ying-is-annoying vibes

Hanguang Jun: And what, exactly, are the ‘Wei Ying is annoying vibes’?

well thats just too much to answer theres so many, Wei Ying, sinking deeper and deeper into the crest of her couch; this conversation is definitely not making her feel better the way she hoped it would.

Hanguang Jun: Hm. This seems unlikely.

unlikely????

Hanguang Jun: Mn. Wei Ying is a delight to be around, impossible to dislike her.

hanGUANG JUN

Hanguang Jun: Then how do you expect someone to show they like you? Romantically speaking.

oh thats easy, she types, thinking about the things she wants Lan Zhan to say to her, just ask me to get food really. im always down for food i think its a good first date, so if i say no to that i definitely dont like u lol

Hm, is all Hanguang Jun has left to say so Wei Ying goes back to being sad on her couch and dutifully waits for her cool blue gatorade and kitkat bar, not even bothering to run to the door when she hears the knock. She’s fairly positive Hanguang Jun isn’t planning on waiting around for her anyways. She still rates her five stars though; doesn’t want to fuck up her rating or whatever.

She repeats her routine, slinking into class late and trying her very hardest not to be a nuisance to Lan Zhan, leaning in the opposite direction and keeping her elbows to herself. Better to not annoy the other girl anymore than she already has. She thinks back to the beginning of the semester, when she’d draped herself all over Lan Zhan, happy and sure of herself, only now all she hears over the memory is Lan Zhan’s voice, angry and disappointed as she calls Wei Ying shameless.

Wei Ying does, in fact, have shame. A lot of it. Too much of it. Enough to keep her quiet and complacent for the hour and twenty minutes she must sit beside Lan Zhan knowing well enough the other girl doesn’t even respect her enough to be seen with her in public.

She tries to slip out of class as quickly as possible but there is Lan Zhan’s hand again, shooting out to grab her and pull her back.

“Wei Ying,” she says, eyebrows furrowing in that way they always do when she’s stressed about something. It takes all of Wei Wuxian’s restraint to not reach out and soothe the taught skin there back into place. Would Lan Zhan like that? Be okay with Wei Ying touching her like that in front of everyone? “I would like to ask you a question.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying nods to herself, fingers digging into the notebook she holds tight against her chest, “Is it about the homework? Ah, Lan Zhan you know you’re better at this than I am anyways.”

“It is not about the homework, no,” Lan Zhan shakes her head, looking solemn, shoulders drawn up as she rises from her seat, her bag resting over her shoulder, neatly packed up like she’s geared up to make a quick getaway too, “Would you like to get pancakes with me?”

Even the word makes her sweat. All the nights she’s spent eating pancakes (they’re her go to drunken craving) only to throw up the surgery sweetness later, to feel it twisting around in her alcohol burned stomach, acid and sugar making her raw and dizzy and nauseated; so good when she’s eating them under an alcohol induced haze and utterly ruined for her when she’s sober.

“Oh,” she says, shaking her head, “No, I don’t like pancakes.”

Wei Ying’s mouth is still open, about to suggest a different option, when Lan Zhan’s whole face shutters in a range of emotions Wei Ying can’t dare to name, and ends in smooth porcelain, eyes no longer meeting Wei Ying’s own, but staring past her likes she burns to look at.

“I see,” Lan Zhan says in a tone so flat, Wei Ying feels a little hysterical, what does she see what does she see, “Goodbye, Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan is out of the classroom before Wei Ying can grab her, though she calls to her long after she loses sight of Lan Zhan’s baby blue scrunchy, lost in the crowd of undergrads milling about, always in Wei Ying’s way.

Lan Zhan had looked at her like Wei Ying had said exactly what she’d feared only that didn’t make sense. How could Wei Ying have let her down when Lan Zhan had no hopes for her to begin with?

She drinks with Nie Huaisang that night and orders food and some random named Athony delivers it to her. She doesn’t opt to message him.

She only eats half of her pancakes, feeling incredibly abandoned and incredibly lonely.

On Monday she gets to class early. Like actually early, as in fifteen minutes before the class is even scheduled to begin, not just on time. It’s a first for her and she’s very proud. She’d hoped that Lan Zhan wouldn’t be there yet, that she could set up her stuff in peace and then when Lan Zhan came into the classroom she could see where Wei Ying was and decide if she wanted to sit next to her or not. She’d looked so upset on Wednesday, afterall.

But, of course, Lan Zhan is already there.

She looks gorgeous from where she sits, posture straight, perfect, shoulders drawn back making her look confident. Untouchable. Her makeup is lightly done and perfectly applied, lips shiny with tinted chapstick, notebook ready on her desk, bunny pen laid gently on top of that. And in the spot next to her, Wei Ying’s seat, rests her bag, taking up the entirety of the table, a warning to all intruders.

Wei Ying walks up extra slowly, trying to determine whether or not she is welcome, tiptoeing her way down the aisle, hoping Lan Zhan won’t look at her, hoping she will.

“Is this seat taken?” she asks, her voice nothing more than a whisper, not loud enough for others to hear, ready to be hurt.

“It is Wei Ying’s seat,” Lan Zhan replies instead, keeping her eyes on the ground even as her hand reaches out to pull it out of Wei Ying’s way. This is the first time Wei Ying has seen it up close, has gotten to see the little cloud patterns, the letters embroidered into the fabric, spelling out, h a n g u -

Hanguang Jun.

Hanguang Jun!!!

“Hanguang Jun?” she blurts out before she can stop herself, “You, you’re...”

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks, only now looking up at her, that same confused furrow to her brow, “It is my nickname, from high school, from the-”

“From the volleyball team,” Wei Ying nods with dawning horror, “You are you, do you, Lan Zhan, was that you the whole time?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, nods to herself really, as if the simple act of saying her name provided comfort, “I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t, I thought, I didn’t know,” she finishes lamely, feeling her cheeks burn as she thinks back to all the things she had sent to Hanguang Jun. She looks down at the bag to keep her eyes focused elsewhere and remembers, “Hey it’s on my desk.”

“Yes?” Lan Zhan replies, though it feels like more of a question.

“Have you been saving me a seat this whole time? Is that how I managed to get a good seat this whole semester, even though I was late everyday?”

Lan Zhan’s ears go red, stark against the black hair tucked behind them, but she nods firmly, unashamed, “It is Wei Ying’s seat.”

“You, you actually, you wanted me to sit next to you?” Wei Ying asks, feeling only halfway hysterical, “I didn’t force myself on you? You’re not embarrassed to be seen with me?”

Lan Zhan’s frown deepens at this, angry, “Could never be embarrassed of Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan-” Wei Ying begins, only to be cut off by their professor.

“Everyone, please take a seat,” Professor Whoever The Hell says, making eye contact with Wei Ying and she sits down, utterly stunned.

“Lan Zhan,” she whispers when he turns around, “Can we talk after class?”

Lan Zhan looks at her for a long time then, calculating, assessing, before nodding her head with a firm, “Mn.”

Before either of them can escape, Wei Ying tangles her fingers with Lan Zhan’s and drags her out of the class behind her, pulling her into a little alcove surrounded by trees with little dangly purple flowers. It would be pretty on any other day when Wei Ying doesn’t feel like she’s about to burst out of her rib cage.

“Lan Zhan, it was you the whole time?” she asks again, still a little dazed from that realization.

“Yes, Wei Ying,” she nods, still hiding her eyes from Wei Ying, “Was certain you knew, thought you were...”

“You thought I was??” Wei Ying urges, a hand reaching out for Lan Zhan before she can stop herself.

“Thought you were flirting with me,” Lan Zhan admits, in nothing louder than a whisper, shaking her head as she does, “It is stupid.”

“It wasn’t!” Wei Ying half shouts, throwing her hands in the air, “It wasn’t, it wasn’t, Lan Zhan, I promise.”

“You did not know it was me, and...” Lan Zhan trails off again, wringing her hands together in front of her. It is the most unsure of herself Wei Ying has ever seen her; it breaks her heart just to watch.

“And what? Lan Zhan, you have to tell me,” Wei Ying all out begs, gasping when Lan Zhan’s eyes finally raise to meet her own; they’re red rimmed and miserable.

“Wei Ying said no,” she says after a long while, lips twisting in a grimace, “Wei Ying said no to food, so she definitely doesn’t like me.”

“I didn’t say no to you!” Wei Ying shouts, loud enough to attract the attention of passersby, “I said no to pancakes, not you!”

“Wei Ying, please, do not patronize me,” Lan Zhan resists, eyes hardening even though she is still clearly sad. God, how could Wei Ying have missed how sad she was? “I have been delivering pancakes to Wei Ying for weeks.”

“That’s exactly it!” Wei Ying rushes out, one hand shooting out to wrap around Lan Zhan’s wrist like she’s afraid the other girl might run away, “That’s what drunk me eats! And I always, always get sick, Lan Zhan! I can’t eat them when I’m sober, I’ll puke!”

“You...don’t like pancakes,” Lan Zhan repeats, working the words around her mouth like she’s trying to make sense of them, “But you do like...me.”

“Yes! Lan Zhan I like you so much! And I would’ve asked you out sooner!” she shouts again, and then realizes where she’s led this conversation. The shame burns in her cheeks so she focuses on digging the tip of her shoe into the ground, “I would’ve asked you out, but I thought you were embarrassed to be seen with me.”

The words still taste bitter in her mouth, ache in her throat and burn her cheeks but she’s said them, they’re out in the open and now they can deal with them. She expects a scoff, maybe an eye roll. She does not expect two soft hands to cup her cheeks, forcing her to look up, rubbing soothing circles into the skin there.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan scolds, “Could never be embarrassed of you. Wei Ying is...Wei Ying is everything.”

“But you, you hid. From your brother and Meng Yao and Nie Mingjue, because you were,” her mouth twists uncomfortably at this, the memory of being abandoned in the cafe fresh enough to hurt her feelings, “because you were with me.”

“Ah,” Lan Zhan says, the tips of her ears turning red again. Good, Wei Ying thinks, We can be embarrassed together, “That was not...because of you, more like...about you.”

“Huh?”

“Brother is...he likes...” Lan Zhan trails off, letting one of her hands drop from Wei Ying’s cheek to her neck and Wei Ying is not about to let her get away just like that so she reaches out her own hand, grabbing onto Lan Zhan’s hip and dragging her closer. This seems to make Lan Zhan release all of her tension at once; a full body shudder goes through her as she dives into the crevice of Wei Ying’s neck, hiding there, safe, and mumbles something completely unintelligible.

“What was that, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, petting a single hand down Lan Zhan’s back through her hair and up again.

“Brother likes to tease,” Lan Zhan breathes into Wei Ying’s skin, one hand digging tight into Wei Ying’s ribcage, “He knows of my...feelings for you, if he had seen us at the cafe he would have, and Wei Ying I was sure you didn’t, there was no...reciprocation.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you hid because you didn’t want to get teased?” Wei Ying laughs, delighted, as she pulls back from Lan Zhan to get a good look at her, eyes sparkling, “Lan Zhan, that’s so cute.”

Lan Zhan dives back into her shoulder and bites in retaliation, muttering, “Wei Ying is cuter.”

Wei Ying lets her stay there for awhile, petting her hair and wiggling as close as she can get before finally asking, “Hey, you wanna get some food with me?”

Lan Zhan draws back to look over Wei Ying’s face and must like what she sees there because she smiles and presses a half kiss to the corner of Wei Ying’s mouth and nods her head, “Only if Wei Ying will be my girlfriend.”

“Aiyah, Lan Zhan, didn’t I already propose to you?” Wei Ying laughs, laughs even louder when Lan Zhan blushes again. She wags her finger in Lan Zhan’s face, trying her best to look stern, “Don’t think you can back out of our marriage so soon, wife.”

Lan Zhan bites her finger and keeps it there, warm between her teeth, only digging in harder at Wei Ying’s cry of indignation.

“Lan Zhan, you monster, you monster,” Wei Ying laughs, wiggling her finger still on the inside of Lan Zhan’s lips, “Hey, Lan Zhan, you should let go of my finger.”

“Hm.”

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, I can’t kiss you with my finger in the way,” she whines, even as Lan Zhan lets go and moves forward, “Would you deprive your poor wife like this? I waited so long for you-”

Lan Zhan, it turns out, tastes like strawberry chapstick.

Four Months Later

Wei Ying wakes up warm and sated, a leg thrown over her waist, a hand slipped inside her shirt, resting casually against the skin of her back, a heavy body breathing softly, rhythmically against her chest.

The moon is still high in the night sky, washing the room in pale silver-white light, turning the skin on Lan Zhan’s neck into cream sheets, soft beneath Wei Ying’s touch. She’s breathing out little huffs of air, dampening the collar of Wei Ying’s sleep shirt but Wei Ying could never find it within herself to complain. Not when she gets this; Lan Wangji safe and content in her bed, never hesitant, never ashamed to pull Wei Ying into her chest and hold her there for hours. To hold Wei Ying as close as she can, like she’s something special. Something important.

Wei Ying still can eat sober pancakes, she muses as she rubs slow circles into Lan Zhan’s shoulder, thinking about what they’ll eat in the morning when Lan Zhan inevitably drags her out of bed way too early to be considered normal, seat her at their table still wrapped in a blanket, and feeds her warm foods and coffee.

There are other foods to be eaten though, a never ending list of things to be enjoyed with Lan Zhan right there beside her.

“Hey, Lan Zhan, I’m really glad you brought me pancakes,” Wei Ying whispers, dragging one of her legs up to slot nicely between Lan Zhan’s, “And I’m glad you make me eggs and congee and potatoes when I’m not drunk.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t reply to this, obviously, still huffing peacefully against Wei Ying’s chest. She starts again, rubbing circles into Lan Zhan’s back, “Hey, Lan Zhan, I’m glad you’re not embarrassed of me. I’m glad you let me kiss you even if your brother is around.”

She presses a kiss to the top of Lan Zhan’s head then rubs her nose against the hair there, still smelling fresh with shampoo.

“Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers to the ceiling, knowing it is well past Lan Zhan’s bedtime and she’s not usually one to sleep in fits and starts, “Lan Zhan, I love you.”

Lan Zhan’s face rubs against Wei Ying’s chest like a cat, lips catching on the fabric of Wei Ying’s shirt when she whispers back, “I love you too.”

(Wei Ying still gets drunk pancakes. She saves a minor fortune on never using the app again though; instead she lets Lan Zhan wrangle her into the passenger seat of her car, buckled in and safe, while Lan Zhan drives them to the local iHop. She lets Lan Zhan manhandle her into a booth and feed her bits of pancake and fruit, never too much, never enough to make her sick the way she would have had she been on her own. Lan Zhan always takes such good care of her; these pancakes taste better than any Wei Ying has ever had in her life.)

Coda:

“Hey, Lan Zhan, isn’t your family, like, rich?” Wei Ying asks, swinging their threaded hands in between them as they march to the nearest cafe, both of them glowing in the sunlight, happy, “Why were you running for DoorDash in the first place?”

“My family is well off,” Lan Zhan confirms politely, all while Wei Ying thinks to herself Yes, exactly what a rich person would say, “But there are things my Uncle does not approve of, and for that I prefer to use my own money so that he does not have a place to stand in telling me no.”

“Lan Zhan, how devious!” Wei Ying delights, leaning in to press an excited kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek, “So what’d you get? Something cool? Dirty? Lavish? Tell me, Lan Zhan!”

“Bunnies,” Lan Zhan replies, cheeks speckled soft pink.

“Bunnies?” Wei Ying asks, head cocked to the side.

“Bunnies,” Lan Zhan confirms, nodding her head, “Uncle does not approve of pets but I approve of having bunnies and wanted two of my own.”

“Lan Zhan, stop, I’m going to die of cuteness,” Wei Ying whines, burying her face into Lan Zhan’s shoulder to moan more properly.

“Your repeat business helped to adopt them and purchase their housing,” Lan Zhan continues on because she is mean and has no sympathy for Wei Ying’s plight.

“Them? As in multiple?”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan nods, fishing her phone out of her pocket, “Their names are Fluffball and Pancake, would you like to see?”

“Would I like to, oh my god,” Wei Ying shouts, looking at a picture of Lan Zhan cuddled up with two rabbits, looking soft and content. One of them is snowy white, tail big and bushy, like a little snowball in and of itself. She guesses that one is Fluffball. The other is light brown, slightly bigger than the last and very, how does she nicely put this, round. That one must be Pancake. Wei Ying is absolutely not ready to guess the implication of the bunny being named Pancake. She is going to die, “Lan Zhan, I am going to die. You’re going to kill me. How are you so cute?”

“Wei Ying will be fine,” Lan Zhan reassures, placing a hand on the small of her back to lead Wei Ying along, “Promise to keep Wei Ying safe.”

“Lan Zhan!”

#wangxian #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan zhan #lan wangji #fem wangxian #rule 63 #modern setting #wen qing #wen ning #jiang cheng #my writing #my fics #jiangchengrights

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seasidewriter1-writes · 3 years

Text

Replying to @elizabeth0020 for: Hello!! I’ve always wondered how you decide what arcs/episodes you’re going to write? There are sooooo many, how do you know what’s a good one for your story vs one that isn’t? And a second question (if you feel like answering lol): how do you picture all the details you wrote? Like lighting, movements, facial expression etc? You’re so good at that and I’ve always been amazed at how you come up with them!

I love answering anything and everything, so never worry about sending me too much! I don’t often get to talk about the technical stuff (like the questions you’ve asked), so I love getting any chance I have to talk about them! (So hold on tight, ‘cause this is a ramble! 😂)

So, for the first question regarding the arcs... I picked out what episodes/arcs I thought were beneficial when I did my first watch through of the Clone Wars this past summer. I had a google doc that I wrote down all the episode names in, then jotted down the preliminary ideas. Let me tell you, with a show that has seven seasons of 20+ episodes, it was... so daunting to even think about narrowing down what episodes and arcs to use. It was what initially deterred me from using any of them at all. So I started to look for things that I felt would directly impact Elara, her character, and her development. For example, I didn’t really use all of “Cat and Mouse” because the episode, on a whole, wouldn’t have Elara much involved in it. It did, however, provide a wonderful backdrop for her time on Christophsis, which is why I didn’t nix it entirely. Aside from forcing Obi-Wan and Elara to be tied together, “Dooku Captured” and “The Gungan General” were used to introduce her to Hondo, whom both allows her to be more playful, and showcases her knowledge of the seedier side of the galaxy. And there are plenty of episodes that I love and adore that I just... don’t think would fit. For as much as I love “Senate Spy” and the introduction of Clovis, there’s no way for me to put Elara into that episode and not have it feel forced. That’s another huge thing I look for when picking episodes; if Elara doesn’t feel like she would naturally fit into the storyline somehow, even if it’s indirectly, I’m not going to force her into it. That’s when I do things like mention the events of the episode in a chapter (like with “Clone Cadets”) instead of doing a whole episode. So Clovis is obviously going to get a mention (she’s Anakin’s sister and Padmé’s bestie, of course she’s going to hear about the debacle), but the whole episode won’t be written out.

Then, of course, you have the arcs. The ones that I had immediately chosen are (and these probably come as no surprise): Ryloth, Mandalore, Mortis, Slavers, and Deception. The arcs I find easier to choose because you have a chance to work with more surface area so to speak. It gives me a chance to really flesh out Elara’s part in the story, focus in on her and her emotions and how she’s tied to this particular plot. With the Mortis Arc, for example––Elara is a Skywalker. She is strong with the Force, and in the “Balance” verse, considered a Chosen One. That ties her into the Mortis Arc very interestingly, since it’s not just Anakin going God Mode. It’s going to lend me the chance to really dig deep into Elara, her connection to the Force, to the Light and Dark (the Daughter and Son), and her relationship to being a Chosen One. At first I was like ‘holy shit I’m never gonna be able to do this arc,’ and then when I buckled down and really thought it over... I realized it’s going to be really important for her as a character, and particularly her relationship with Anakin (stay tuned!). It also probably comes as no surprise that a lot of the arcs (and episodes) that get picked are influenced by whether or not Anakin or Obi-Wan are in them. Which is why I almost turned a blind eye to the Umbara Arc until someone brought it up. I did a rewatch of it and knew I had to include it, too. Because that’s going to be an awesome opportunity to flesh out how close Elara is to the 442nd, and be able to contrast her ideals as a General against those of Krell. A lot of the picking of episodes and arcs ends up being trial and error. I wrote the first four-ish pages of “Clone Cadets” before I realized it just didn’t flow right.

All this being said, I like to envision Elara is around for all of the Clone Wars episodes, so I’ve got lots of fun little random snippets for things that I’ll probably never write, but figure would happen in some part of a CW episode.

And after all that, here we finally are at your second question! ☺️

Coming up with all those small details is actually an amalgamation of things at work. I do attribute a lot of it to my training as an actor/theatre artist. I think about how, if I were directing it, how I’d want the movements to look, and how that would translate on both a small scale, and a large scale. A touch of a hand for Obi-Wan and Elara can feel like a world shifting movement––but come off as nothing but a simple, friendly gesture to their fellows. On a small scale, what makes the difference is the way the touch happens. How light the pressure of the touch is, how long it lasts, how slowly their fingers brush against the other person’s hand... all those things help me figure out the mood of that touch and how they’d respond to it. Also, when choosing words to describe movements I often think about the attitude attached to it. A ‘turn of the head’ when Anakin’s being moody may end up being a ‘swivel,’ or the ‘arch’ of an eyebrow from Obi-Wan is more sarcastic than a gentler ‘raise.’ I often agonize picking out those sorts of words. I’ll sit there and try them over and over again, then put them all into a Thesaurus website because I worry I use the same words too much. The thesaurus (particularly when writing Obi-Wan), is my best friend.

When I write mannerisms for canon characters, I use a lot of reference for. I’ll literally just scroll through gifs, watch movie clips, or rewatch the scene I’m writing to pick up on character-specific mannerisms. A couple chapters ago I was describing Anakin’s angry face, and I just looked at images of him from Revenge of the Sith (him alone in the Council room, him being knighted as Vader, his expressions on Mustafar, etc.) I’ll also do this for vocal ticks/inflections. I will also unashamedly admit I will sit there and compose my face into whatever expression I’m trying to describe. Sometimes feeling it physically, or physically composing it helps me come up with words or ways to describe the look. Same thing with touches AND with vocal inflection. Do I sit by myself and read what I’ve written aloud in my best Obi-Wan Kenobi cadence? Yes, yes I do. And has it helped me figure out what words/phrases do and do not work? Yes, it absolutely has!

Also, a lot of describing the details of motion/facial expression/touch gets affected by music for me. Like, if you listen to “Stairway to Heaven” as played by the London Philharmonic Orchestra while reading, say, the scene in “The Gungan General” where Obi-Wan and Elara wake up pressed up to one another... that song is just THE feel of that moment. Listening to the right music when writing (the little details especially) is big for me. Kinda like how “Blue Monday” is the music that works best for the bunker scene in “Storm Over Ryloth.”

There are also a lot of details that I pull from real life. I remember when I wrote Elara seeing Naboo for the first time—and consequently grass, trees, and flowers, too—it was summer time for me. I was staring out at the trees and the way the light filtered through them, watched how they swayed... the grass had just been cut and the breeze smelled sweet... and I was like ‘god, imagine experiencing this all for the first time.’ So I took what I felt and elevated it a little, tried to add a kind of wonder to the things that we all, for the most part, kinda take for granted. I like pulling on experiences I’ve had in real life as a basis.

I ask attribute a LOT of my detail work to my training as a theatre artist. I think about lighting now differently than I did a couple years ago; because I learned what kinda of light fit different moods. Like the scene of Obi-Wan at Dex’s would feel completely different if I’d described the light as cool toned. It would lack a sense of hope. His reminiscences would be sadder, it would feel more stark. The warmer tones suggest that there’s still heart and hope, a possibility for things to get better, and that reflects his inner life better than colder, bluer light. Or how I used light when I wrote Elara seeing Watto again after 10 years to describe her struggle between Dark and Light in that moment. She stepped out of the sun and into the shade because, for a moment, she almost gave in to the Darkness. (Inspired by the scene in Force Awakens where Kylo asks for Han’s help and the light shines down on them... with hints of red low lighting to hint at the struggle... only to have the light disappear as he overrides his own vulnerability, reverts to the Darkness and kills his own father).

I also love using physical objects as emotional triggers, like is done in theatre quite a bit. A good recent example being Elara’s lightsaber. Obi-Wan having it reminds him of his worries regarding her safety, and his struggle with choosing what path to take in regards to his feelings towards her. Or Elara with the Snow Blossom. These things have the ability to spark different emotions depending on the situation. On a good day, the Snow Blossom will make her smile; on a bad day, it may make her feel more sad than happy. And sometimes they don’t have to be objects—they can be bruises or scars or healing wounds. Having something physical spark an emotional response can be really helpful, and has actually helped me though rough spots in my writing.

I could literally go on for hours about all of this kind of stuff! So thank you for asking about it and giving me a chance to discuss it even a little bit! ☺️

#mary talks balance #mary responds #my writing stuff #detail work #elara skywalker #obi-lara #balance stuff #fic writing

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day.

a commission for @lovelycarose

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident. “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

#eliot spencer x reader #eliot spencer/reader #eliot spencer fanfiction #eliot spencer #leverage #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff

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eury-dice3 · 4 years

Text

Real life Marauders

There are 4 boys who are in my grade who are best friends who remind me of the marauders. Each of their personalities match up almost perfectly, and since I haven’t seen them in a while I thought I’d write down some stories about them. Here’s a little introduction to each of the un official marauders:

James Potter: the one I’m probably closest to. He is so unbelievably dumb, but also kind of smart?? He’s so funny and he doesn’t even realize it, and sometimes he just goes on and on and you just can tell that the others just aren’t listening because “oh, it’s James.” He’s in my English and Math class

Sirius Black: extremely good looking, with long dark hair. Don’t know much about him, other than the fact that he’s best friends with James, Remus, and Peter. He has more common sense than James but still is immature. Flirts with me and [Marlene] in math.

Remus Lupin: The one I know the least, but have the most classes with. We have English, History, Science, and Math together, and seeing him with different members of the marauders is very funny. He’s rather quiet and super smart, but once he’s sitting with his friends his filter comes off. Overall very sweet.

Peter Pettigrew: In my LA class. Super sweet and really funny, and very close to the other boys. He’s pretty clever and fun to sit with, but mostly follows James’ lead. Very nice.

And now here are some stories that I have:

Math:

- The first encounter I had with James and Sirius was when they sat at a table with my good friend who I recognize as Marlene. I was talking to her, when all of a sudden James asked me “do you have a spare binder? I messed mine up” and showed me his completely destroyed binder. Conveniently I did so I gave it to him. The first thing he did was put his hand behind the plastic cover and poke holes through it with his pencil.

- Whenever we had group work time in math, Remus and I would pull up extra desks and sit with James, Sirius, and Marlene. We wouldn’t do any work.

- before a math test, James made up some stupid analogy about alligators to help him remember something??

- during the same test, the teacher walked out of the room, and the events were as followed: Marlene didn’t know what she was doing so Sirius took her test and was looking at it. James and I were trying to figure out wtf was going on and we were equally as lost, so I began to cheat off of him. When the teacher walked back in, Sirius threw Marlene’s paper back at her and it was so hard not to laugh. We didn’t get caught. When we got the tests back, I got a 97%, and James got a 63%. He almost got us caught when he said to me, “but you cheated off of me??!!”

- James was copying my math notes because he had missed a day. Sirius, who often messed with James paper (ex: ripping holes in his paper with his pencil, scribbling on it, etc), squirted chocolate milk all over my notes. When he realized it was mine, he wouldn’t stop apologizing.

- I let James and Sirius copy my stuff just so long as they let me explain it to them so they can do it on their own.

- James and I were arguing about what colors each subject was (English is RED!!! And math is BLUE). Sirius was genuinely confused that subjects had colors??? And the argument got really heated until Remus pointed out James was colorblind so obviously he was wrong >:(

- Sirius tries to coach James with his math work, but gets frustrated super fast with him, so I have to be the one to do it.

- Since no one else was doing their work other than Remus and I, I turned to him and asked whag he got for one of them to see if I did it right, and he ignored me. He later apologized because he thought I was just trying to copy him like James and Sirius always do.

- James did something loud and disruptive in the middle of a lesson, then blamed it on Remus. Remus mouthed “ill kill you” over and over to James. It took everything we had to stop Marlene and I from bursting out laughing.

- James likes to show me Bigfoot videos

- when our desks are put in rows for tests, when they all walk in, they all sprint to get any seat other than the front. James usually ends up sitting front row, which means that whoever’s behind him will tickle him.

- James got a text from a random number who was claiming to be some woman. We were joking and said it was sex trafficking, and Sirius said “who’d want James??” And Remus said “Id sex traffic James.”

- our teacher lets us sit together but we have to sit right in front of his desk :(

- whenever Marlene and I get in trouble for talking, we always get fake disappointed looks from Sirius and ESPECIALLY James.

English:

- I sat at a table for a while with James, Remus, and Peter. And what. A. Time.

- we were pretty rowdy all the time and never got our work done, but since I was the teachers favorite I never got in trouble.

- our teacher would get angry at our whole group and yell at us, then just apologize to me later, which drove James absolutely crazy.

- I catch James staring at me and giving me funny looks often in class, so when I ask what he wants he just waves his hands and looks away like he did nothing wrong.

- Peter is very sweet on the outside but that boy can talk some SH!T!!! Our English teacher is insane so whenever she isn’t looking he would make fun of her

- they spent an entire class period trying to touch their thumbs to their wrists (none of them could) and when I showed them I could, they all lost it. I didn’t think it was that strange??

- we have to write down what we’re greatful for at the beginning of every class, and I always ask James what to write. He gets this far off look in his eyes and always gives me something dumb like “tin foil” or “white crayons.” I always take his suggestion.

-one time James wrote down “substitute teachers” and shared it to the class one day, and got in trouble for it. He got a detention for “insulting a teacher.”

- Remus and I tell James and Peter all of the answers to questions because they never read the assigned books.

- I’m pretty sure James doesn’t know how to read??

- I’m kidding (maybe?)

-Remus and I get into arguments with our English teacher because she doesn’t know anything??? Any time she says anything factually incorrect (which is a lot) we both immediately give eachother a look and raise our hands.

- The three of them were blasting some music out of their earbuds during work time. Our teacher asked what was happening, and James said “Rap music. It helps with learning Shakespeare, did you know? It’s like Mozart and classical music, but there’s actually really cool studies about it you should look up.” Thats bs.

- we had a timed writing and Remus and I took turns getting eachother extra pages. James and Peter were horrified when we were on our 4th and 5th pages and they were still outlining.

- James snaps his fingers when he’s trying to remember something

- we had to perform Shakespeare scenes in groups, and I can not remember why they did this?? But Remus ended up spitting water all over Peter in front of the class.

- we were reading life of pi, and I overheard James say “You know at the end of naked and afraid how they give the survival ratings? Pi would be an 8.4 at LEAST” and the other two completely ignored him. I thought it was funny.

- Marlene was doing Valengrams, and she came outside of our classroom and tried to wave to me. I didn’t see, but James did, and overly enthusiastically waved back, which caused the teacher to yell at him.

- overheard peter say “You ever seen penguins of Madagascar? how did that make sense?” And James enthusiastically agreed.

- Remus gives them snacks

Extra:

- James pushes me in the hallway just because he’s taller than me >:(

- James also likes to show off. We were walking to the library when he started bragging about how he could touch the ceiling (since they’re super high up), so I told him to prove it. He could, but he ended up breaking one of the ceiling tiles. We ran.

- While Remus’ legs are the longest, Sirius and James get insecure about it and spread their legs as far as they can. Sitting across from them is a nightmare because their legs are always in ur personal space.

- where there are marauders, there’s a Snape. Marlene and I have a group chat with him in it and other people, but we also have one without him. One day, while we’re all standing there, Marlene texts the wrong group chat (with him in it) “[SEVERUS] JUST FARTED. IT WAS WET. I HEARD IT.”

- she felt bad for a moment, but when I told her she should probably apologize, she said “why? he did.”

- I have to ask Remus for help in science sometimes and he’s always eager to help.

- we had an online discussion in English, and Peter spoke once, Remus asked a few good questions, and James didn’t even show up.

- I miss them all dearly bc school is cancelled because of COVID :(

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rataltouille · 4 years

Text

HOUSE PLANTS, UPDATE 1

this has been long overdue. typical, really. [novel intro found here.]

the story is currently eight chapters in but it's also a very strange eight chapters. i’m not really happy with half of these words because they're unnecessary ™ and dull ™ and serve no purpose whatsoever ™. i’m simply choosing to ignore that i need to cut them out. :’] here’s a note i made that perfectly captures my feelings so far:

before we go into the excerpts, i want to talk a bit about how house plants is structured because the format is whack. each chapter ranges from 3000-4000 words. A few vignettes, around 500 words, are sprinkled between these chapters. the chapters narrate events from the fictive past, while the vignettes are snippets into the fictive present [the point from where lilith is retelling the story]. additionally, an important plot thread is told entirely in the form of an epistolary [through letters] and so there's a bit more of confusion to navigate through. fun times.

and now for the excerpts. they're from the first three chapters and are very weird out of context. i think that each update will feature excerpts from three consequent chapters, but that may change as we get closer to spoiler land.

excerpts:

chapter one

the novel kicks off with an odd vignette featuring an unhinged willow and an innocent lilith. chronologically, this is set way back, the earliest scene ever, around when lilith was ten or eleven. it’s meant to establish a sense of unease and to thread the unsettling undertone i’m going for. it's also major foreshadowing but we don't talk about that here. i’m not giving away much because there's not many excerpts to scrape out from a dialogue-heavy vignette like this.

”Here, let me help, mother.”

I tried guiding your palms to the rim of the pot, but you moved them away. From the brief touch, my fingers came away with moisture. On second glance, your knuckles were bathed in sweat. Your veins pulsed and your hands shivered. You gave me a wide-eyed glance, dumped the plant atop the brown, and stood up. You wiped the dirt away on your jeans. From below, with sunlight teetering over your golden hair, you were a personification of God. But were you, really? Does God fear their children? Does God volunteer to garden? I didn't know what God truly meant. I don't now either. But I’m certain it wasn't you.

”Sorry, Lilith. My pollen allergy is acting up.”

It's stunning how it ran in our blood, lying effortlessly.

chapter two

immediately after this we’re pulled off into the linear non-vignette chapter thing, aka the second chapter. [god what am i doing with this structure]. it starts with a soft little reminiscent bit about juniper?? i’m exploiting the tense a lot but it's been fun. (:

The first time she smiled at me is knit into me, like I’m not myself without it. I’m not. She breathed change and I ran with it. Whenever she gazed at me, with sunset dripping behind her head, or with rain clouds dotting her hairline, she’d smile. It was the sound of a ukulele in a winter draft, the kiss of dew on my favourite hemlock, the fond mythical curl of my father’s arms around me. There’s a phantom of love everywhere, and I almost caught it sneaking around her. Even now, Juniper dozes so soundly; she’s replaced everything I wanted you to be and everything you never were. You’d know, of course. You always have.

willow is officially introduced soon after, and so is one of the major plot threads, i.e. lilith’s correspondence with her dad. this excerpt is to show how the family feel about each other became, like i mentioned, there’s a lot of tea to be split here. not gonna lie, this paragraph reads as kinds pure.

You— the town called you Wistful Willow, but they did so behind your back and on postcards to neighbours— had a special lilt in your tone every time you spoke his name. ”Isac,” your lips would curl, almost a smile, and I’d smile back. You loved it, the sound of his name. It had become a ritual for us, pouring our sorrow and joy and unrest and comfort into those two syllables. A fallback plan, I suppose; there was always father to rely on amidst chaos.

willow is constantly at home and she’s probably not seen the outside world in a million years. she either cooks, reads, sits in a bathtub, or does everything at the same time. not odd at all.

The bathroom door, thick oak painted ivory, was right across where I stood. The house was large and empty, and I had three places— study, bedroom, garden— to myself. I lived only with you, so it was mostly quiet, except on Saturdays when we got father’s mail and watched TV together. That Saturday we had seen an old movie from the 70s, a random romance that neither of us cared for, but watched out of duty.

The door was shut. From it came the sound of pages rustling, not unlike a delicate breeze playing with the fronds of croton plants. I knocked softly.

”Come in, ” you said, a splash of water punctuating your voice.

I entered to find you half-immersed in the bathtub, one hand holding a novel, the other limp across the rim. There lingered the scent of soapy water, rose-tinted, and all over the tiled walls was the water’s reflection, a glow of opulence. You were half-naked, your garments drifting like algae. Your habit of reading in the bathtub had been increasing lately. You looked at me, questioning.

there’s also the introduction of lilith’s best friends marcy and faun, where they lay down in the middle of a field after a tiring cricket match and banter all through the evening. i’m really enjoying the trio’s friendship; it's both fun to write and they’re just so pure.

”If you insult Henry one more time, Marce...”

”He actually named the butterfly.” Her eyes were wide and amused; she dug up mud with her nails and flicked it upwards, glanced at me. ”Lilith. He named his fucking butterfly.”

”Faun, it's dead. You keep it in a box, ” I said.

”The dead don't magically lose their names, ” he countered.

Our laughter drafted into town. I don't think it heard.

chapter three

this is kind of uneventful but it sets up some major subplots. i might push it to later in the book, but i’m happy with where it it's right now. lilith randomly keeps reminiscing throughout so that’s convenient. this excerpt is about willow and thus is unreliable as hell. willow ain't good and lilith ain't 100% sincere narrating this right now, so don't let its pureness fool you.

People in town, I’d hear, found you odd and unsociable, cold and distant. I always scoffed when they told me so. They only knew the Willow who never attended community gatherings, who’d gaze out absentmindedly from the porch, who’d more so see than observe, hear than listen. They didn't know the Willow who was my mother, who hated loud noises, who loved her novels with a passion, who spoke so serenely— and rarely— that you hung onto her every word. Only I saw this side of you, and that suited me just fine.

there’s a scene where lilith [accidentally] spies on marcy and another guy. their conversation makes lilith tangent off in her head.

Marcy spoke detachedly, like she was speaking through a filter of not caring. I worried for her and her charade. It didn't help that scented letters confessing love often found their way to her locker, or that roses were shoved in her face as if her admirers loved her so much that they forgot she was allergic to them. Idolisation and adoration took extreme forms; she was stalked for a month and sent death threats. She would put on a disguise of indifference and seem unbothered, but at night she’d soak her pillow and lose sleep, then inform us the next day about her insomnia so casually that we almost forgot how easily she hurt.

i’m not going to lie, the last line in this excerpt was just me indulging myself with the knowledge of the climax. i need to stop slipping in random tone changes like this lol.

My walk home finished quick, though my feet expressed exhaustion. I was right on time, too; you were sitting by your coffee table, glasses crooked upon your nose, a new novel— this one a bright red sky, gold print, gauzy— resting beside warm coffee. You barely smiled, but that was because you were daydreaming. I was familiar with every tell: your eyes would tilt towards my forehead, your lips would stretch, your fingers would drum on whatever you were holding. I’d always let you be when you drowned into your head. Did you ever notice that, Mother? Have you ventured out of your mind to witness my efforts?

and finally some food for thought. yes, that pun was intended. i’ll see myself out.

”Dinner’s ready, dear,” you called. I groaned out my fatigue and left my room, hoping to abandon my unflattering thoughts. In the kitchen, I helped you set the table. Soon we were both sipping hot carrot soup with a side of breadsticks. You were already invested in the novel. I held the spoon, the heat barely registering, and watched you drift through fiction and reality like a will o’ the wisp. Maybe I could read for escapism, too. It would do me good.

that’s all for today! thanks for reading so far; support is, as always, appreciated. hope you liked these excerpts ✨

#house plants #writeblr #am writing #spare some love please i can’t believe the amount of time i spent on this post 😔🙏#house plants update

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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

Text

More Than Words (Spideypool)(One)

Welcome to the story! This will be a time traveling shenanigan ft. Modern!Omega!Peter and Mountain Man!Alpha!Wade! Buckle up for 25 chapters (and growing!) of all the sass, sweetness and smexiness we love about Spideypool!

(For anyone new to my Spideypool: None of these characters are SM:HC/FFH. I pick my faves from Tobey Maguire/Andrew Garfield movies, and everyone else pretty much comes from the comics!)

(also, if anyone cares. The Title is from this cover of THIS SONG)

MTW MASTERLIST HERE

Enjoy!

****************

“To Peter, who managed to not only expose a terrible corporation for it’s greed and lack of morals, but also managed to shake Tony Stark’s hand without melting into a puddle of fan boy goo--”

“Harry!.” Peter pinched the Alpha in the side and Harry oophed theatrically. “Either give me a proper toast or shut the hell up!”

“I got one, I got one.” Gwen stood and raised her wine glass. “To Peter, who literally changed the world with his expose on Hammer Tech, and proved that the little guy can and does make a difference.”

Peter rolled his eyes over the little guy comment but raised his drink anyway, and Gwen blew the Omega a kiss. “We are really proud of you Pete. Way to get famous.”

“Way to get famous!” Johnny cheered and clanked his cup with Peter. “Also? Way to land that hell of a check. How many zeroes were on that thing?”

“I counted three before the decimal.” Mary Jane tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear and leaned close for a quick kiss on Peter’s cheek. “Way to go, Tiger. Taking on powerful corporations, writing inflammatory exposes and catching the attention of Tony Stark? Not bad for a punky kid from Queens.”

“It’s not bad.” Peter echoed, tugging the other Omega in for a one sided hug. “And meeting Tony Stark was pretty amazing, even though I think half the reason he gave me the grant was to rub it in Hammer’s face. Apparently those two hate each other.”

“Look at that.” Johnny drawled. “The rich and famous are just like us , they have petty rivalries and everything.”

“Hey, if their petty rivalries mean Peter doesn’t have to pay rent for the next year, then keep the bullshit coming!” Gwen decided loudly and Mary Jane murmured an agreeable, “I’ll drink to that.”

“Was it really enough to pay your rent, Pete?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “All because of your story?”

“Mr. Stark said something about how I couldn’t focus on saving the world if I was worried about my rent.” Peter shrugged off his friend’s wide eyed disbelief. “So he cut me a check from the Stark Foundation and told me to keep searching for the truth. And now--” despite his attempt at modesty, Peter’s smile stretched wide. “And now I’m not worried about my rent.”

“So I’m thinking you and I should be roomies now since I would love to not pay rent for a year.” Gwen chimed in and Johnny snorted a laugh. “But let’s circle back to that later, because I found you something amazing when I was out thrift store shopping and this seems like a wildly inappropriate time to give it you, so here we go.”

Peter shot a curious and maybe suspicious glance towards the usually prank happy Alpha, and tore the wrapping off the box while Harry protested, “I didn’t know we were supposed to bring congratulatory gifts tonight! That’s not fair, way to show us all up, Gwen!”

“Well Har, I’d say give Pete a chunk of those famous Osborn millions, but I think he’s got the money part covered now.” Johnny leaned back in his chair and cocked his head in a clear challenge to the Alpha. “Which means you got nothing to give him, don’t it? Nothing to offer the Omega at all.”

“And what exactly are you gonna give him?” Harry retorted, and Johnny bared his teeth as he replied, “Well a kiss, of course. Exactly what every Omega wants from a good lookin’ Alpha.”

“Giving something I can get anytime isn’t really a present.” Peter deadpanned and Mary Jane giggled at Johnny’s affronted expression. “You give away kisses like you’re going out of business, Johnny. No Omega wants kisses that cheap.”

“Brat.” Johnny huffed, scowling when Harry chuckled at Peter’s sass. “You’re just irritated you didn’t think of it, Harry. Gwen got Pete a present, I’m offering to give him kisses, so you’re the only Alpha around that doesn’t think enough of Pete to treat him well.”

Harry’s lip curled in a snarl and Johnny echoed with one of his own, and just as Peter started to look annoyed, MJ cleared her throat and announced, “Boys! Alphas who act like knot heads won’t be invited to any more parties!”

“Yeah, cut it out.” Gwen gave each of the other Alpha’s a swift kick beneath the table and scowled at them. “Stop ruining Pete’s big day.”

“... sorry, Pete.” Harry deflated first, Johnny’s muttered apology coming next. “Sorry. Open your present and we’ll behave.”

“Thanks.” Peter gave each Alpha a sweet smile, and went back to his present, quietly and wholeheartedly grateful for things like scent blockers.

Nothing was worse for an Omega than getting a nose ful of hormone heavy Alpha scent, and today of all days, Peter didn’t want to play patient with a couple of jealous, horny Alphas. Usually Johnny and Harry were low key about their interest, but lately Johnny’s jokes had skewed towards sexual and intimate while Harry’s friendly protectiveness was inching towards possessive and Peter really just--

--oh God, he really just didn’t want any part of it.

No thank you.

“Oh my god.” Attention diverted from the Alphas by his present, Peter burst into laughter when he saw-- “Gwen, is this a romance novel? ‘Claimed by the Mountain Alpha’?! Why would you buy me this?”

“Oh please.” Gwen looked pleased as hell that her gift had made the Omega smile. “I have it on good authority you have an entire shelf full of smutty romances, Pete! And I know all your favorites are falling apart because you read the sexy parts over and over while you--!”

“GWEN!” Peter turned bright red and the Alpha almost cackled with laughter. “For the love of God, stop talking!”

“I just thought you’d like something to read while you drink your champagne tonight.” Gwen amended, sounding only slightly less wicked. “You can get bubbly drunk and swoon over the x rated parts and I promise to only tease you a little for itt.”

“Hey now, what an Omega does with their smutty novels--” Mary Jane started to defend Peter, and then paused to ask, “Wait. Were you going to drink champagne alone tonight, Peter? That is the saddest thing I’ve heard in my life! Champagne isn’t meant to be drank alone!”

“I don’t think it’s the saddest thing in the world!” Peter protested. “Lots of people drink alone!”

Harry was recovered from his earlier embarrassment and winked as he cut in, “Besides, I think it’s probably for the best Peter drink it by himself. I think we all remember what happened last time Pete got champagne drunk in public.”

“Can confirm.” Johnny held up his phone and waggled his brows. “In fact, I still have the pictures! Shall we take a stroll down memory lane?”

“That’s enough from all of you.” Peter said loudly and the group of friends dissolved into laughter. “Honestly though, Gwen. Did you set out to find me the cheesiest historical romance ever, or was it just a happy accident?”

“I don’t want to say I went searching specifically for it.” Gwen’s glee over Peter’s embarrassment was almost comical. “But I did check six stores and ask people’s opinion about the purchase.”

“Kill me.” Peter groaned. “Gwen--”

“Holy crap!” Johnny snatched the book and ogled the cover, eyes overly wide. “Look at the tiddies on that guy! Are we sure he’s not the Omega?”

“Not all Omegas have breasts, moron.” Harry took the book next, furrowing his brow at the scantily clad Omega clutched in a brutish Alpha’s arms. “Besides, that’s an old school Alpha right there, look at those fangs. No one has fangs anymore, they started yanking those on Alphas in the seventies. Gwen how old is this book?”

“Apparently older than the seventies.” Gwen ran her tongue over her decidedly fangless teeth. “It’s nice they don’t just rip our fangs out anymore huh? A few hours at the cosmetic dentist and all us Alphas are perfectly socially acceptable.”

Both Johnny and Harry grunted in agreement, and Gwen turned back to Peter. “Anyway sweetheart, I thought you’d like the book mostly for the vintage feel. It will fit right in with all of Uncle Ben’s records and Auntie May’s cross stitched pillows you keep around.”

“I do like old fashioned things--” Peter began, but he was interrupted by MJ, who flipped a few pages of the novel and shouted, “WOW! Pete the sex in this is amazing!”

The three Alphas at the table immediately began clamoring for the book and Peter could have just died when Harry read a line out loud about the Omega being taken roughly against the door and Johnny moaned through a description of the Alpha’s turgid--

“Alrighty then.” Peter snatched the novel and shoved it in his bag , blushing hard enough that the scent of embarrassment filtered out even through his suppressants, effectively shutting up the Alphas and making MJ automatically purr at him. “Please don’t read my smutty things out loud, and definitely don’t shout lines at the top of your lungs, mkay? Thanks.”

“Aw Pete, we’re just teasing.” Johnny drummed his fingers on the table, clicking his tongue soothingly until Peter’s scent mellowed again. “Sorry about that.”

“We didn’t mean anything by it, Pete. But come on, be honest.” Harry waved down the waitress and motioned for another round of drinks. “An Omega like you doesn’t really want an Alpha like that, right?”

“What do you mean an Omega like me?” Peter sipped at his wine and scowled at his friends. “What does that mean?”

“You refused to kiss me until I had my fangs filed down.” Gwen pointed out. “And we were thirteen. They were barely fangs, Pete!”

“You wear suppressants even on dates.” Johnny said next and Harry added, “You only call one of us for your heat at the very last minute when you can’t handle it anymore, then kick us out right after getting knotted.”

“I called you Omega last week and you about bit my head off.” Gwen stated. “One time when we snuggled, you purred real sweet so I growled and called you pretty, and you kicked me off the couch.”

“Okay okay okay!” Peter held up his hands in surrender. “Alright fine. Yes, Gwen I’m very happy that Alpha’s don't have fangs anymore because honestly, yikes. And seriously how is the growling thing hot? Growling is practically a threat!. I wear suppressants on dates so the Alpha has to pay attention to me and not my scent, but lots of Omegas do that, it’s not just me. You Alphas wear scent blockers too, how is that any different?”

“And kicking you out after I get knotted? I mean--” Peter didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. “What else do I need an Alpha for? What’s the point of you guys sticking around? I don’t want stinky Alpha cuddles after my heat, I want a shower and a pound of pasta.”

Predictably, the three Alphas erupted into arguments about how post heat cuddles were necessary and that their knot wasn’t the only thing they were good for, and amid the commotion Mary Jane leaned over and whispered, “Okay, but you don’t really hate Alpha scent and growls, do you?”

“It’s not my favorite.” Peter whispered back. “What’s sexy about an Alpha getting possessive and growling? They’re like a dog acting greedy with a bone, except instead of a bone they have knots!”

“Oh my god.” Mary Jane muffled a giggle. “You’re absolutely right about that, but I stll think it could be romantic! An Alpha being driven so wild by my scent they are reduced to growls? Imagine having your true mate, your soul mate absolutely speechless, reduced to nothing but their basest instincts when they see you. Or wow, to actually be scent bonded? For an Alpha to know you are meant to be theirs just because of your scent?”

“And fangs?” She lowered her voice some more. “I know Alphas don’t have fangs anymore, but come on, Tiger. You’d totally melt if an Alpha pushed you against a door and ran their teeth over your neck. Imagine it with sharp and dangerous fangs. Just think about it.”

“I think you’re just a horny Omega who needs a good knotting.” Peter decided and MJ squealed at him.

“I’m being serious! You don’t think it’s romantic? Not at all?!”

“I think that our grandparents literally had to march on Washington to give Omegas the right to vote.” Peter said flatly. “Your parents campaigned to have their Omega-Omega bond seen as legal just so they could adopt you. It took years and years of serious legislation before Omegas had access to reliable birth control and suppressants so we could lead lives outside the house and it was May’s generation that demanded Alphas use scent blockers so the rest of us aren’t subjected to their aggression and hormones.”

“Well sure but--”

“Remember forced marriages because Alphas would scent match and imprint, and the Omegas had to mate so the Alpha wouldn’t snap feral and hurt someone?” Peter pressed. “Omegas and even Betas in the hospital for emergency or plastic surgery because an Alpha raged out and tore them up with their fangs? You’d rather have this sort of dynamic--” Peter pointed to the book, to the fangs and the Omega’s clear submission in contrast to the Alpha’s nearly animalistic dominance. “Then what we have now?”

“Well it doesn't have to be all or nothing.” MJ groused. “Just because I like Alphas getting growly and maybe fantasize about getting stuck with some fangs doesn’t mean I want some Alpha to scent bond me and then force me to mate. Sheesh Pete, lighten up a little.”

“History has proved, it’s pretty much all or nothing.” The Omega lifted on shoulder in a half hearted shrug. “It’s either fangs and no chemical regulators and a society where we Omegas are literally at the mercy of an Alpha’s hormones, or a world where everyone takes their medicine, Alphas get rid of the weapons in their mouths and Omegas can lead normal lives.”

“Pete.” Mary Jane rolled her eyes. “You talk like you have no use for Alphas at all. Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never once read one of these stupid romance novel and wanted a mate of your own. Social things and work and all that aside, you really don’t want a mate? You’re twenty four and never even had a serious relationship. Don’t you wonder what you’re missing?

Something awful flitted through Peter’s dark eyes then, painful and vulnerable enough to make Mary Jane catch her breath in surprise. “Oh honey, are you okay?”

She reached for him, but Peter leaned away and schooled his features, managing a nearly bland, “I dunno, MJ. I think I prefer this life. Mates and scent matches are about as necessary as fairy tales, you know? I’m not missing out on anything.”

“Pete--” Mary Jane whispered, but just then the Alphas decided to stop arguing and rejoin the conversation and Johnny stuck his nose in to ask, “What’s this about mates? Pete, are you finally thinking about settling down?”

“Nope.” Peter slashed his hand through the air and shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. I was telling MJ that mates and scent matches are unnecessary, but what is entirely necessary is my next project, so I need to get home and get started. Mr. Stark didn’t give me all this money so I could blow it drinking with my friends.”

“What’s your next project, Pete?” Harry reached for the bill before the Omega could, and passed his card off to the waitress. “I thought the Hammer Tech story was your entire workload.”

“I’ve been working on a side project for a while now.” Peter blew the Alpha a kiss as a thank you for buying his drinks. “I was going to do one of those genealogy charts as a present for May and was tracking our family through secondary biologies, but then I came across an article that said almost all male Omegas have a mutant in their family tree. So I started researching mutants and it sort of spiraled from there into a --”

{{AUTHORS NOTE: This fic will include themes of racism towards mutants and will reference things such as WW2 concentration camps and past treatment of different religious/ethnic/indigenous groups at the hands of the government. It is talked about in a “It was terrible what they did back then” sort of way, and as the fic continues, I will try and TW anything notable with in the chapters so you can avoid/skip as needed}}

Peter stopped when Johnny and Harry shared very uncomfortable looks, and Gwen’s eyes widened in alarm. “...what?”

“Pete.” Gwen cleared her throat, visibly thinking through her words before speaking. “Uh… the mutant thing isn’t really… I mean, people don’t talk about that, you know? No one talks about it. Maybe steer away from that when you do you family tree.”

“What?”

“There used to be a lot of hostility towards mutants.” Johnny said slowly. “And even though they aren’t around anymore, people still get up in arms about it. Hundreds of people died in the mutant uprisings through the last century. My grandpa died in one of those riots, Pete.”

“I know he did, Johnny.” Peter tilted his head and trilled comfortingly at the Alpha. “And I’ve come across some pretty horrifying accounts of what happened on both sides of those fights. I’ve read about mutants in the camps during World War II, I’ve read about different battles across the country, the riots in the seventies-- I’ve read it all.”

“Well, a lot of people think the mutant population is better off gone.” Harry spoke up then. “And no one wants to talk about it. It’s one thing to take on big companies who are ruining the earth, but the mutant control they enacted in the forties and fifties… there’s still people around that would take serious offense to you digging around in that. It’s better off left alone.”

“I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes.” Peter waved off their concerns. “I’m trying to uncover anything, I’m looking for some answers about my own family tree and that’s it. Male Omegas being the last of what we could consider mutants is pretty interesting, but I’m not looking for anything inflammatory, just my own history. I’ll be fine.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful.” MJ worried at her bottom lip. “I know what it means to look for who you are, Pete. Being adopted means I don’t know anything about my family and I understand wanting to look, but a connection to mutants…that’s not great, Tiger. You don’t want that, or at least you don’t want to make a big deal about it.”

“I’ll be fine.” Peter repeated, slinging his bag over his shoulder and blowing kisses to his friends. “Thank you for the drinks and the little party, Gwen, thank you for your present. I’ll talk to you guys in the morning?”

There was no reason to worry his friends with more details about this particular project. They didn’t need to know Peter’s research had skewed far past ‘ancestry’ and deep into concerning accounts of brutality and forced assimilation. They’d hate if they knew Peter had found scattered stories about experimentation and what scientists had done in a horrifying attempt to advance science, about schools that were more like prisons and prisons that were more like concentration camps right here in their own country.

Peter had found hints of a settlement near the Canadian border thought to be a mutant village that had rallied and revolted, attacking a military installation, and killing every soldier, every woman and child. But worse were the hints Peter found about the same settlement, hints that said it had been less of a revolt and more of a massacre, less of an uprising and more of a slaughter, that the women and children had been taken from the village and held captive and the attack was an attempt at a rescue.

It was horrifying, stomach turning, the sort of thing Peter couldn’t just leave alone--

--and then among the scraps and barely there information about the village had been a picture of a man who looked so much like him it was almost terrifying, and Peter’s growing interest in the project had taken an abrupt turn towards obsessive.

There were blood stained secrets in the wilds near the border, secrets that involved someone related to Peter, and he fully intended to find out every single one.

******************

“Journal, check. Extra battery for my camera, check. Couple of changes of clothes, check. Hotel itinerary, check.” Peter muttered to himself as he packed a backpack. “Ibuprofen, check. Phone charger, check. Digital recorder, check. Gwen’s terrible romance novel in case I get bored, check. Toiletries, check--”

His doorbell rang and interrupted his packing, and the Omega wrinkled his nose in annoyance. He’d told the Alphas he was busy, Aunt May never came around without calling first, it had better not be the maintenance guy finally showing up to fix the leaky faucet at eight at night. “Hold on a minute!” Peter finally called when the bell dinged again. “Give me just a second to get-- Oh. Mary Jane.”

Peter checked down the hall to see if anyone else had come along with the redhead. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

“I would have called, but my phone is dead. Can I use your charger?” MJ pushed right past Peter and into the apartment, holding up a bag of Peter’s favorite take out as she went. “I kept thinking about you drinking that champagne alone and that drove me crazy so I stopped and got food and came to share the bubbly.”

“You’re very sweet.” Peter stepped close to the other Omega and brushed his nose across her cheek, smiling when she trilled softly and returned the gesture. “I’m not doing much, so dinner and champagne sounds great. Thank you.”

“Are you already working on your new project?” MJ’s coat landed over a chair as she went right for the champagne. “Or have you started that book Gwen got you? I swear Pete, would it kill you to do some relaxing outside your apartment? All you ever do is work and--”

The pretty redhead paused when she caught sight of the half packed backpack, her gaze sharpening in curiosity. “--Pete? Where are you going? You didn’t say anything about leaving when he had lunch today.”

“Yeah.” Peter scratched at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Yeah, um about that. I’m heading for upstate tomorrow, gonna do a little hiking and poke around up by one of the lakes. Some rest and relaxation, you know? I won’t be gone more than a few days.”

“Uh-huh.” Mary Jane narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well I mean--” Peter tried for casual, trying to make his friend laugh and hopefully distract her. “Remember the last time one of us tried to leave town for a mini vacation?”

“Mm-hmm, Gwen was going to road trip to visit her Nana and we all ended up crammed in her Subaru and driving to Disney World.” Mary Jane picked up the legal pad full of Peter’s notes and read through the first few lines. “I vividly remember having to sit on Johnny’s lap the entire time-- Pete, this is all notes about mutants. Why do you have all these, you said it wasn’t that big of a project, just an ancestry thing.”

Damn it. “Yep.” Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “That's-- that’s what I said.”

“Then what is all this?” Mary Jane flipped through a few more pages. “Newspaper clippings and quotes and what’s this, a piece from an old book? What happened to researching your family tree?”

“I... was.” Peter hedged, taking the legal pad from her hands. “I was researching. But then it turned into something else.”

“Something else what.” MJ prompted. “Why are you so interested in mutants all the sudden? Where’s the mystery in it, Pete? They used to exist and now they don’t, and every book you pick up is going to tell you the same thing--mutants disappeared in the seventies and no one knows what happened.”

“Someone has to know what happened, MJ.”

“Well.” The Omega huffed. “Sure someone has to know, but this is like chasing aliens. Everyone has accepted that mutants don’t exist anymore, and the people who haven’t accepted it get treated like they’re crazy until they get overly nosy and irritating and get visits from men in black suits. Is that what you want? To have everyone think you’re nuts?”

“Doesn’t the visit from men in black suits prove there’s something they’re trying trying to hide?” Peter pointed out with a small smile. “And yeah, I read all the books MJ. I tracked down newspaper articles, I’ve done my research on the claims the tabloids print about super powered humans and dangerous mutants. I know it’s crazy and I know--” he blew out a deep breath. “-- I know working on this could cost me every bit of credibility my last article gave me. I know that.”

“Then why are you risking it?” Mary Jane gestured to his bag, to the stack of information. “Don’t you remember Doctor Connors from a few years ago? He got hooked on research about mutants and genetic experimentation and ended up in a padded cell, screaming about turning into a lizard and regrowing limbs. All his research has been trashed, the books he’s written discredited, and everyone thinks his mental state was so compromised that his previous findings can’t be trusted. That could happen to you, Pete.”

“It know it could, but I have to find out anyway.” Peter shrugged helplessly and Mary Jane threw her hands up in frustration. “I gotta find answers about this. If there’s a mutant in my family tree somewhere, I have to know who they are.”

“This is about what happened at lunch.” MJ suddenly realized. “When we were talking about you missing out on something because you don’t have any interest in relationships. You got this real awful expression on your face. What's wrong, and what does it have to do with mutants?”

Peter looked at his friend for a long long moment, and then finally asked, “Do you know what it’s like to wake up every morning and grieve for something you don’t know you’re missing? It’s something essential from your core, from your very center of being, and you can’t even breathe for lack of it, but you don’t know what it is.”

Mary Jane only blinked at him, and Peter sighed, dropping onto the couch and putting his face in his hands. “I feel like that every day, MJ. It started after I lost my parents and it got worse when I had to move schools and a worse again when I moved out of May and Ben’s to get my own place. I have a great life, you know? I have great friends and a wonderful career-- I mean hell, I won an award today. Because of my work, those slums will be bulldozed and Hammer Tech has to pay to build quality housing for their workers. I did that, and I’m very proud of it.”

Peter tapped at his chest. “But I’m still empty. Hollow. Something is missing from me and lately it’s been getting worse. I’m hardly sleeping, I can’t concentrate, I’ve lost like fifteen pounds cos I can’t make myself eat. I think I’m depressed but why would I be depressed?” and then with a self deprecating laugh. “I’d say I’m in love and needing my Alpha, but I’ve never been in love in my life.”

“Oh, Tiger.” MJ clicked her tongue sympathetically and joined Peter on the couch, budging close and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I’m so sorry.”

“This is why I became a reporter.” Peter suddenly sounded tired, exhausted really, more weary than Mary Jane had ever heard. “I’m looking for something in my life and being a reporter means I get to go places and meet people and research and maybe one day I’ll figure out what’s gonna fill this void inside me. I love you so much, MJ, but it’s not friendship I need. And before you say anything about me needing a bond, I am telling you--”

Peter actually shuddered as he said the words. “I am telling you, the thought of mating with any of our Alphas makes me want to run away. Gwen is perfect and Harry is gorgeous and Johnny is hilarious, they are all amazing Alphas, amazing people and would be amazing mates, but I can’t be with them. They aren’t enough, they’re almost...they’re almost boring. I’m bored with them.”

“You’re bored.” Mary Jane echoed, clearly not understanding but trying her best to be supportive. “What does that mean?”

“You know why I read those terrible romance novels?” Peter offered her a wobbly smile. “Because those characters are completely fulfilled by whatever they find, whether it’s a life they didn’t know they wanted or a romance with someone unexpected or an adventure they didn’t think they were ready for. They are content and I don’t think I’ve ever been content. It’s like there’s a piece of me out there that I can’t get a hold of and until I find it, I can’t rest. I can’t rest, MJ. I’m just running in place, breaking my own heart over something I don’t understand.”

“And you think the thing you’re missing has something to do with this settlement up North?” She clarified. “Why do you think that?”

Peter chewed at the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, then reached into his pack for a folded photograph and passed it over. “Because of this.”

The other Omega studied the grainy picture for a minute before her mouth fell open in an ‘o’. “Pete, when is this photo from? This guy could almost be you, is this your great grandfather?”

“I don’t know.” Peter admitted. “I’ve traced my family history back as far as I can trying to find him but there’s a point about a hundred and fifty years ago where the family split and the tree gets real messy in some spots and very blank in others. But when I was looking into the Haven settlement by the border, I found this picture in the very bottom of an old box of newspaper clippings and--”

“-- you think whoever this person is, he’s in your family tree somewhere.” Mary Jane guessed. “And if he was in the village upstate, then he was most likely a mutant and that’s why you’re chasing this story so hard.”

“It’s a part of my past.” Peter ran careful fingers over the time yellowed photograph. “And maybe understanding more about the time period and more about who this person is could help me understand myself.”

He placed the picture back and shook his head ruefully. “I know I sound crazy. And I’m definitely grasping at straws. This is probably nothing more than a coincidence but it also could be really important and as crazy as it sounds?” Peter waited for Mary Jane to meet his eyes. “MJ, this is as close to feeling whole as I’ve ever been. The search for answers is keeping me up at night but it feels good, it feels like I’m finally on the right path. I don’t even have words for how relieved I am every time I find something else. It’s just-- it’s just--”

“Sometimes when our souls are involved, it’s more than words can say.” Mary Jane offered simply. “That’s what Ma says when she talks about how she and Pop fell in love. It was their souls recognizing each other, and there isn’t any words for how incredible it is. If this project is pulling at your soul, then no wonder you can’t let it go.”

“Yeah.” Peter managed a smile. “It’s my soul. My soul is relieved every time I get a little bit closer to figuring this out, so I can’t stop looking. I won’t.”

“And I don’t think you should.” Mary Jane handed Peter a few more notes from the table. “If this is what you’re called to do, then do it. I’ll support you, Tiger.”

“I love you.” Peter breathed out shakily and leaned into his friend’s arms. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I know this was supposed to be food and champagne and then I got all intense and--”

“Stop.” MJ hushed him, petting through Peter’s thick hair and purring softly until he went limp against her. “The food and champagne will keep. Let’s just hold each other for a while.”

Despite Peter’s insistence that life was better with suppressants and blockers, that Omegas were better off not having their hormones and scents control their emotions, there was something to be said for the way two Omegas could connect and bond and soothe each other.

Mary Jane always scented like sweet peaches and spicy ginger and Peter tucked his nose into the crook of her neck and breathed in deep as the Omega’s scent flooded rich with comfort and affection and MJ only trilled in approval when Peter stretched out on the couch and brought her down onto his chest so their suppressant muted scents could mingle for a while, calming them both.

“You won’t do anything reckless up at the camp site, will you?” Mary Jane asked sometime later and Peter shifted beneath her until he could tangle his fingers in her long hair, tugging at the strands idly. “Pete? Promise me you won’t do anything crazy.”

“I won’t do anything crazy.” Peter promised.

“Take some bear spray.”

“MJ, I’m not taking--”

“Take some bear spray, Pete.”

“Fine.” Peter kissed the top of her head. “I’ll take some bear spray.”

“Thank you.”

Only after Mary Jane had closed her eyes and snuggled close again did Peter glance over at his phone when it lit up for the third time in just a few minutes.

He had joined a chat group and message board several weeks ago, one dedicated to asking questions about mutants and Peter had asked a lot of questions. He had an entire list of things he had to know, and he sat up for hours every night reading answers and threads and following links and taking notes.

And then finally, sort of suddenly really, someone named Nathan Summers had contacted Peter privately, promising answers to some of the harder questions.

Peter had told him about the village up North and Nathan had known immediately what he was talking about. Nathan had suggested they meet up and walk the site together, Peter had only hesitated for a second before agreeing.

He had to know.

Peter’s phone lit up with another message from Nathan right then, probably double checking what time they were going to meet at the hotel tomorrow, and Peter swallowed back a flash of trepidation as he reached with one hand to type a message back.

This was probably a terrible idea, but he wasn’t going to turn back now.

He had to know.

**************

It took nearly five and a half hours to make it to the hotel Peter had booked, and he only stopped long enough to check in and drop off his computer before getting back in the car and continuing North.

The supposed camp site was two hours off the highway, down a dirt road and nearly running into Lake Haven in some areas, skirting the edge of the mountain very closely at others. Peter craned his neck to take in as much as he could see without driving off the increasingly sketchy road, looking for signs or landmarks or anything that resembled the less than rudimentary maps he’d found.

Winter warped the landscape here every single year, avalanches wiping away trees and displacing huge pieces of mountain, the rains flooding in the spring and summer washing away roads and swelling rivers until they jumped their banks and created new pathways. A dam built twenty-something years ago had created a lake where there hadn’t been one before and dried out a previously hidden valley and Peter knew he could be on a wild goose chase. The odds of finding anything resembling ruin or evidence of a village were slim anyway, but after a hundred and fifty years everything he was looking for could be hidden under water or swept under a mudslide or a rockslide or shit, New York even had tornadoes, it could have been a tornado--

“Oh thank God.” Peter breathed a sigh of relief when he finally made it around a final corner and into what was left of the parking lot of an old campground. The State had tried to make this area close to the border more accessible to the public, but no one came this far North without wanting to see Ontario or continuing West to the falls or just skipping the border to get into Canada, so the dozen or so installed campgrounds had fallen to ruin.

Thankfully this one still had a mostly paved parking lot and what looked like permanent outhouses, and since Peter knew no one would randomly stumble onto his car here, he felt perfectly safe leaving it locked as he hefted his backpack and took off hiking into the woods.

He was supposed to meet Nathan tonight at the hotel, so Peter had most of the afternoon to explore around the river and into the forest. The village was rumoured to be on the other side of the lake and he certainly wouldn’t make it that far today, but he could at least find a way through the forest so tomorrow hiking with Nathan would be easier.

“Tell me your secrets.” Peter murmured as he reached to touch a nearly faded plaque marking the site as one of historical significance. “I want to know everything.”

Curiosity and the cat, right?

Peter lost himself for hours wandering around the massive trees, ducking under low hanging branches and climbing up and over boulders, stopping to take pictures as he went.

It seemed impossible that anyone could have survived here without machinery to clear a path, without lights to chase the shadows from the looming forest. How did they get water? How did they get supplies? Had the mutants considered themselves American and went to the Fort for supplies or did they cross the border and head further North? Was it a terrible life, a difficult life like the stories of settlers out West? Did they even speak English or was there a mutant language that had ceased to exist like so many other indigenous dialects?

Peter had so many questions, hundreds and hundreds of questions and he wanted to know everything and yet he found himself slowing, lingering, just looking as the urgency of it all faded away into awe and appreciation for the land around him.

It was beautiful up here, wild and open and Peter stopped just to tip his head back and breathe. He’d never noticed how polluted the city was until right now, hadn’t realized how loud traffic could be until he couldn’t hear anything but the birds and the hum of insects and the wind swooping through the trees. The sunlight filtered through branches in patches, lighting some areas golden and covering others in shade and if Peter tilted his head and listened, if he breathed deep and stretched his senses he could almost feel the lake close by.

It was beautiful and peaceful and Peter thought maybe a bit of his soul settled as he leaned back against the sun warmed surface of a big rock and closed his eyes.

Why did this feel so good?

Peter wished he’d thought to bring a tent just so he wouldn’t have to leave, but this time of year night came quickly, bringing the cold right along with it and with the sun already dipping in the sky, Peter had no choice but to leave the unexpected sanctuary of the woods and head towards his car. The road had been barely passable in the daylight and he couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be in the dark, and Nathan would be waiting at the hotel restaurant here in a few hours, so he really had to go.

Still, it almost hurt to leave and Peter touched the plaque again as he passed, lingering over the letters for a long moment and--

“You’re Parker?” a sudden voice from the gathering shadows, low, gravelly and frightening. “Peter, right? I didn’t expect you to be an Omega.”

“Holy shit--” Peter whirled around, clutching at the can of bear spray MJ had demanded he bring along. “Who’s there? Who are you?”

And then almost as an afterthought, “How do you know I’m an Omega? I’m wearing scent blockers and it’s half dark outside.”

“I can smell it on you.” A shadow darker than the others separated and Peter caught a flash of Alpha red eyes from beneath a hood. “Those scent blockers you use only work on tamer Alphas. One like me can sniff out your biology without even trying.”

“Ooookay. Well fair’s fair with that so if you don’t mind--” Peter swallowed a little and leaned in towards the stranger, flaring his nostrils and trying to gather as much of the Alpha’s scent as he could.

But the Alpha reeked of blood and burning, of metallic and copper and smoke and when Peter sucked in a sharp breath ready to scream, the Alpha interrupted, “It’s not blood, Parker. It’s metal. Just metal and smoke is what you’re scenting. Don’t panic.”

“You’re-- you’re Nathan Summers?” Peter bit at his lip and shifted nervously on his feet, hoping his suppressants were still working enough to choke the fear drenching his scent. Fuck this had been a bad idea. “You said we would meet at the hotel, what are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“That doesn't matter.” A flare of a match and the end of a cigar lit cherry red between them. “And the name’s Cable. Haven’t been Nathan Summers in a long while now.”

“It absolutely matters how you found me.” The Omega tried for a bravery he didn’t feel. “And alright Cable, you said you had some solid information for me, so I want it. It’s getting cold and dark and you’re wasting my time. What do you know?”

“Mouthy little shit.” Cable might have chuckled, but it came out almost a growl. “Omegas always have too much attitude. I know you’re scared, I can smell it on you. You’re still gonna try and be a smart ass?”

“Well I--”

“You’re gonna stop looking into the meta humans.” Cable interrupted. “Your little project doesn’t exist anymore, alright? I had to get you face to face to make sure you weren’t a real threat, and now I’m telling you to stop looking into the meta humans.”

“Meta--” Peter cleared his throat, his damned curiosity and the ache in his heart telling him to keep asking. “Meta humans. Is that what you called the mutants? Why meta? Are you saying the mutants have super powers? Or powers in general? I’ve only heard about physical mutations and there are a few recorded cases of feats of strength but--”

“You’re not listening, kid.” Cable took a deep drag on the cigar and blew the smoke out over Peter’s head. “Stop asking questions, stop posting online, stop your research. Nothing involving meta humans ends well and you do not want the type of trouble this will bring. Back off, little Omega. Run along home.”

“Go back to the meta human thing.” Peter ignored the flare of annoyance over being called little Omega and squinted in the dark when he caught a glimpse of something gleaming along Cable’s shoulder. “Just tell me yes or no. Powers? What about the settlement here, was it actually an uprising that brought the Army after them? It had to be an uprising if you’re talking about people with super powers, can you tell me if--?”

“You’re trying my patience.” Cable grunted and turned further from Peter’s view. “This is your last warning kid. Stop digging around or I can’t be responsible for what comes knocking on your door. We’ve stayed hidden a long time just trying to live our lives, I’m not going to let some nosy Omega screw it up.”

“No no wait!” There were a hundred things Peter should have done right then-- and all of them involved running away-- but instead Peter lunged forward and grabbed onto Cable’s left arm as the man started to walk away “Tell me! Tell me what’s going on! I’m tired of never getting a straight answer with these things and I have to know, you don’t understand I have to know--”

Peter had only a split second to realize he wasn’t feeling flesh but machinery under his fingers, and then a split second more to register an ear splitting noise like grinding gears before Cable flung him into the trees.

Peter screamed as he went flying through the air, nearly bit his tongue in half when he smacked into a tree trunk, and lay there crumpled and stunned for a full minute.

Machinery, the scent of blood, the weird clicking, the way Cable called them meta humans and not mutants and talked about--

“--We’ve lived a long time just trying to live our lives.”

Our lives.

Cable was a mutant and he’d just thrown Peter twenty feet without even trying.

Oh my god, I could die tonight.

“I didn’t mean to do that.” Cable was suddenly in front of Peter, over Peter, crouching down and reaching to check that the Omega hadn’t broken anything in the fall. “I know you’re just a kid and don’t mean to cause trouble but--”

He stopped talking when panic turned the air bitter, and the Alpha covered his mouth when he gagged at the stench. “Parker, what--”

“Your arm.” Peter’s eyes were very wide, his face very pale in the dimming light and Cable muffled a curse when he realized his hood and cloak had fallen away. “What the hell happened to your arm?”

“It’s a long story.” Cable rotated the mechanism, grimacing over the grind of gears and the tug and pull of metal along his shoulder, up his neck and into his skull. “And one you don’t want to know. You think the rest of the world wants to hear about this? You think people want to know I'm walking around in the shadows?”

“I--I--I--” Peter’s eyes darted from the mutant’s face to the metal at his arm, up to the eerie glow of one robotic eye and the flashing red of Alpha in the other. “How-- oh my god--”

“I don’t even want to be like this.” Cable said then and he sounded bone weary, patting at a disc shaped object on the strap around his chest. “Kid, no one wants this. Whatever you are looking for up here? Let it go. Just-- Just let it go.”

“I can’t.” Peter whispered and the Alpha’s expression flickered in what looked like resignation and maybe even understanding. “I gotta know and you-- you gotta help me.”

“I’m not going to help you.”

“But you have to!” Peter’s eyes dropped to watch when Cable touched that same disc again. “Why else would you come all the way up here?”

“I came up here to warn you-- HEY!” Cable shouted in alarm when the Omega darted forward and snatched the disc away, kicking Cable right in the face before taking off running into the woods. “Goddammit Parker! Get back here right now! You don’t know what that thing is!”

“Then tell me!” Peter cried as he fled. “Is this a mutant thing? Or a meta human thing? What is it? I want answers!”

“Stop with the endless questions and just give me the damn device!” Cable muttered a curse when the Omega only picked up speed, swerving towards the parking lot. “No! No you fool! Give that back right now, you have no idea what you’re messing with!”

Peter was gone though, sprinting through the trees towards the lights of the campground, the device clutched tight in his hand. He was almost to his car, almost to safety, almost there almost there almost there--

--It was like hitting a brick wall, and Peter screamed as he jolted to a stop, his entire body forced to stillness abruptly enough to make his head hurt and his fists clench, pain washing through his core.

“What?” Peter tried to make his feet move, tried to make his hands move, tried to do anything but he was utterly trapped and as Cable marched up to him with one hand held out and a furious red glint in his one human eye, Peter knew it was the mutant Alpha’s doing. “Wh-what is this? How are you doing this?”

“There are a thousand things in this world you cannot begin to understand.” Cable said shortly. “And believe it or not, I’m not even close to the worst of them. Hand me that device slowly and I’ll let you go. Slow and easy, kid. No one needs to get hurt, alright?”

“No one needs to get hurt?” Peter repeated, the words coming thick through honey, his tongue not quite working right. “You’re chasing me through the woods and threatening me and I’m supposed to think you’re not going to hurt me?”

“You’re messing with things you will never understand, and I’m not going to let you ruin lives because you can’t stop asking questions.” Cable held out his free hand and snapped his fingers. “My patience is gone, so here it is. We’ve got two options-- I keep you suspended so you can’t run and you hand me that thing willingly, or I rip you in half to get to it. What’s it going to be?”

Peter didn’t answer though, and after a moment Cable snapped his fingers again. “What’s it going to be?”

“...is this supposed to be ticking?” Peter asked very very quietly, holding up the disc as it began to glow. “Because-- because it started ticking a few seconds ago. What’s happening?”

“Oh god dammit--” Cable dropped the hold on Peter and lunged for the Omega, lunged for his device but a second before his fingers made contact, the ticking stopped.

“No no no no---!”

A flash of bright light, the acrid scent of smoke and when Cable stumbled to a stop, both the Omega and the device were gone.

Gone.

“Oh no.” The mutant dragged both his hands through his silvering hair and groaned. “What have I done?”

*****************

1872

The early morning frost crunched beneath Wade’s feet as he stalked through the woods, heavy boots breaking branches and kicking stones out of the way, three or four rabbits hanging limp over his broad shoulders, a rifle held securely in hand.

This time of year the bears tended to be fat and lazy so the Alpha wasn’t too concerned about disturbing one of them, but he’d seen mountain lion tracks outside his cabin the other morning and again last night, and the big cats were a different sort of danger altogether. Wade kept his eyes sharp as he scanned the trees and bushes along his path for anything feline, kept his nose to the air so he’d catch anything dead that would attract the predators, and kept his rifle ready just in case.

Sometimes fangs and brute strength just weren’t enough to keep a man alive in this wilderness.

Wait. The Alpha stopped in his tracks when the air tinged with a scent that didn’t belong-- smoky and burnt and brimming with panic, but beneath all that was the thready scent of Omega and that-- well that wasn’t right at all.

What the hell was an Omega doing all the way out here?

“Oh shit.” Wade dropped his gear abruptly when he saw a form at the base of a tree, an Omega laying limp in the frost like he’d been dropped from the sky and left for dead. “Shit shit shit, how did you get here?”

Wade ran careful hands up the Omega’s legs to feel for broken bones, pressed gingerly to check for busted ribs, glanced at and then away from the unmarked bonding spot and reached for the Omega’s chin to tip his head back and --

“Oh.” The Alpha gulped when he got a clear look at the Omega’s features, thick hair and freckle dusted skin and gorgeous lips, dark eyes fluttering open in confusion and fear and Wade automatically rumbled something soft at the Omega, murmuring “Hey, shhh. It’s okay. I dunno what you’re doing here, but I got you, okay? I’ve got you. Let’s get you off the ground, come here.”

The pretty thing didn’t weigh enough to matter and Wade lifted the Omega without any effort at all, but when the Alpha got a nose full of heady lavender and sweet honeysuckle scent, his knees buckled and nearly sent them both pitching back to the forest floor.

“Oh.” Wade wheezed, hazel eyes snapping red and a growl working in his throat as the Omega scent filled his senses and left him reeling, stumbling. “Oh fuck--”

“Mmmm.” The Omega was barely conscious but he still turned and tucked his nose tighter to Wade’s chest. “...smell...good…”

“Damn it.” Wade automatically held the Omega tighter, helpless against his biology’s sudden call of protect, and more worrisome, the soul echoing claim of mine. “Where did you come from Omega?”

There was no answer, the Omega slipping unconscious again and the Alpha swallowed hard, barely able to form the words to ask. “And how long will it be before Cable comes back for you?”

*****************

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cakesunflower · 5 years

Text

Catharsis [Local Musician!Calum] One Shot

Catharsis—The purging or release of emotional tensions, especially through kinds of art or music.

A/N: this is 19.3k of local musician!Calum and i hope you guys enjoy it! i loved writing this, bc it’s, in my opinion, softer than most of what i’ve written. also, the lovely moodboard is by my even lovelier friend @softforcal!!! happy reading, babies

There was a local artist in Annette’s favorite cafe, a musician, who’d captured her attention from the first strum of his guitar and the captivating voice he sang with the second she heard him. Blue’s was known for its dedication to giving the local talent a platform, paying them to sing for customers if they had what it took. And this guy, this brown haired, tattooed singer who alternated between performing covers and originals, had captured the hearts of all of the regulars—Annette included. It was because of him that she’d sometimes be late to work or classes if he happened to be playing, completely enraptured by his performance and his smooth rasp sounding over the dull chatter of customers. Not that anyone really talked over the sound of him—Calum Hood was just too captivating to ignore.

Annette was never sure what exactly it was that had her stopping in her tracks every time she heard him sing—if it was the deep lilt of his voice that managed to carry every note he meant to hit, or if it was the lyrics he sang when he introduced a song he wrote himself. Songs about love, loss, healing, and everything in between that hit a little too close to home every time. Honestly—Annette began giving more thought to what Calum must have gone through to be able to write such deeply personal songs that seemed to resonate with everyone than she did to the coursework she should have been focusing on.

Maybe she was being creepy. Maybe she should’ve stopped lingering in the back of the cafe after she got her order of either a strawberry iced tea or just coffee to lean against the wall and watch Calum strum a guitar and sing—her personal favorites were original songs he’d written like Never Be, Everything I Didn’t Say, The Girl Who Cried Wolf, and Moving Along and his covers of Stay by Post Malone and Blink-182’s I Miss You—and just moseyed on along to go to class or her shift at the store instead of looking like some stalker. But Annette couldn’t help it—she was a fan. Granted, she was no expert in the music industry, but Annette liked what she listened to, and there was no doubt in her mind that Calum was insanely talented. She knew everyone who came to Blue’s who was lucky enough to witness him perform, and the management that loved the patrons he was drawing in, would think the same thing.

There were often moments where she wished she grew the confidence in saying something to him—just a mere compliment of how good he was or something. It wasn’t like he was a world known musician, maybe a kind comment from a stranger would’ve made him smile, at the very least. But there was something about Calum that made him appear like the rockstar that he was probably meant to be. With his unruly dark curls, domineering height, tattooed skin, and sharp eyes that took in every face in the crowd, not to mention the overwhelming artistry that seemed to just ooze out of his pores, Calum Hood was a stature Annette wasn’t entirely sure she was prepared to approach. Sure, she’d seen people compliment him after he got off the stage with his guitar being gripped by ring clad fingers, had gotten glimpses of almost reserved smiles she felt were too quiet for someone who owned such loud talent, but she knew she wasn’t ready to actually face him herself.

So she listened and admired from afar, even though she desperately yearned to do so much more.

“You look like you got an hour’s worth of sleep last night.” Annette huffed as she shot Luke a look, settling down in her seat once he took his backpack off and dropped it on the floor so she could sit. Apparently a few days into the semester and some students thought it was okay to steal her unofficial-official seat.

Annette leaned back against the chair once she had her laptop in front of her and had taken off her favorite red framed and lensed sunglasses and Beats, letting out a drawn out sigh that carried the weight of her exhaustion. “Because I think I did,” she responded tiredly, the silvery tone she normally spoke in coming out as a heavy drawl. “Work didn’t let out until ten and I had a paper due at midnight and then Poe got sick and—” Annette cut herself off with a complaining groan, though she kept the sound quiet as people filtered into the classroom, sinking into her chair. “I’m ready to drop dead, honestly.”

“At least it’s the weekend, right?” Luke responded with an encouraging raise of his eyebrows, knowing Annette only worked the weekdays as he tapped his fingers against the sleek top of the desk. When she crossed her arms over her chest, closing her eyes and nodding, Luke offered a smile. “Couple of my friends are throwing a party in the East Village tonight. Bring whoever you want, yeah? It’ll be fun.”

Opening her eyes, Annette looked at her blue eyed friend, smiling at his offer as she modestly replied, “I wouldn’t wanna intrude—”

Luke snorted out a laugh, shooting her a look as their professor entered the room. “You’re not intruding if I’m inviting you. It’ll be great—there’s a karaoke machine.”

At that, the tattooed girl sputtered with her eyebrows shooting up as she instantly shook her head. “I don’t sing.”

He rolled his eyes, lifting his hands to gather up his blonde curls and pull them back into a bun, the too hot temperature in the classroom making even his barely shoulder length hair impossible to not tie back. “Then you can watch the rest of us act like idiots.” Raising his eyebrows he asked, “You in?”

Annette thought about it for a moment; she had planned to curl up in bed with Poe at her side and her laptop on so she could get some writing done, having barely any time for it with work and classes already kicking her ass. But, honestly, she wasn’t entirely inspired or motivated to actually sit and bust out a few words; maybe a party and being around people would help with that. She was always looking for new inspiration to hit, so maybe this would be good. She’d been in a bit of a rut lately, always ending up staring at a blank page or not knowing how to continue with what she already had. It was starting to get frustrating; stepping away sounded like the way to go.

So she smiled at Luke and nodded, “I’m in,” before sending a quick text to her roommate-slash-cousin Colin to recruit him for tonight. If anyone was willing to accompany her to a party, it was him.

When Annette reached for her plastic cup of strawberry iced tea, sipping the drink through the straw, Luke’s eyes dropped to the cup before humming, “I love Blue’s. They’ve got some great talent.”

She grinned, eyes dropping to the cup that said the restaurant’s name in script and the color of its namesake, as she played with the clear straw. Calum’s face flashed through her mind, the sound of his voice singing through her ears as she responded in absent thought, “I know.”

As the class settled, Luke propped his elbow on his desk and leaned his cheek against his palm, quirking his eyebrow as he asked, “You’ve got a favorite?”

Annette bit the inside of her lower lip as their professor pulled up the PowerPoint for today’s lecture. Oh, she definitely did have a favorite.

*****

“Hey, come inside for a sec.” Luke’s voice pulled Annette from her conversation with his friend Ashton, his friend Michael’s girlfriend Crystal, and Colin. The four of them were on the balcony of Ashton’s apartment, a few other people lingering about as the music playing from inside flowed outside to where they stood. Annette had only gotten to the party about twenty minutes ago, and had already met most of Luke’s friends, including his girlfriend Sierra, and so far she was enjoying herself as a refreshing September breeze tickled her skin. And she was enjoying the tequila, too. She looked at Luke, who was in the doorway of the balcony with a drink in his hand. His eyes met Annette’s as he added, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Annette responded slowly, unsurely, as she excused herself from the little group she was among. She walked towards Luke, who stepped back into the apartment to let her inside as she held her half empty glass of a margarita, raising an eyebrow at her tall friend. “Who’re we meeting?”

“A good friend of mine,” Luke smiled as they maneuvered their way through the living room, heading towards the kitchen. There were many people around, not as suffocating as a bustling house party that Annette was used to as everyone enjoyed each other’s company, danced to the music that was playing, though not entirely resembling a rambunctious frat house. Annette liked this better. Shooting her a dazzling, dimpled grin, Luke added reassuringly, “You’ll love him.”

Her curious expression never washed away as she nodded along, letting him lead her towards the kitchen. They stepped up towards the center island, which was decorated with a nice spread of cups and bottles of various kinds of alcohols and mixers, and stopped in front of a guy with his back turned towards them as he fixed himself a drink. His broad leather jacket covered back hindered Annette from seeing what he was making, glancing at Luke who smiled.

“This is Calum—Cal, this is my friend, Annette,” the blonde introduced, gesturing between the two people, and upon hearing his name, the man in front of them turned around, but it was long before Annette saw his face that she realized who he was. Right when Luke had said his name, realization clicked in Annette’s mind as she recognized the back of the guy’s head of short curls, now that he had been named.

Brown eyes met Annette’s bluish-brown and suddenly she found her heart in her throat because she’d never been this close to him before. Never had she been given the opportunity to look at his dark eyes, always standing at the other side of the cafe to merely listen and watch him play. But it was no surprise that the brown of his eyes, so dark that they almost melted into the pupil, was just as bewitching as the sound of his voice as she felt her throat dry when she looked into them. Annette had known Calum was tall as he towered in front of her, though his height was not entirely as domineering as Luke’s—she doubted anyone’s was—yet still she felt small in his presence.

Whoever invented the phrase tall, dark and handsome probably pictured Calum in mind.

His lips quirked up, a polite smile lifting his cheeks as he gazed at her. Annette could feel her body flush even though he wasn’t even doing anything. “Nice to meet you,” Calum spoke, his familiar voice just as smooth without a microphone amplifying the hint of a rasp in which he spoke with. He’d been lifting his cup as he spoke, taking a sip once he was finished and Annette noticed how his eyebrows furrowed subtly as he continued to look at her. Lowering his cup, lips glistening from his drink, Calum thoughtfully remarked, “I think I’ve seen you ’round before.”

Oh, her heart had found residency in her throat. He recognized her, and no matter how vague his recollection may be, the mere acknowledgment that she was a familiar face to him was exciting. Annette wasn’t entirely sure if it was because she was pathetically enamored with a guy who wasn’t even a celebrity, though he felt like one to her, or if it was because of how ridiculously attractive he was. Maybe because he was just so talented and actually being able to speak to him was ridiculous to her. Maybe it was all of it.

“Uh, at Blue’s, maybe?” Annette offered, pretending as though she had no idea where he could’ve possibly seen her before, knowing full well that’s exactly where. The way Calum blinked in realization was too adorable.

“Annette’s seen a bunch of your performances, dude,” Luke chimed in, a knowing tone lilting the smile in his voice and it wasn’t until Annette glanced at him, saw the glint in his blue eyes, did it click in her mind what he was doing. She couldn’t even help the way her eyes narrowed at him, though Luke was smart enough to keep his gaze purposefully locked on Calum.

Still, the need for damage control was prominent, and as Annette forced herself to drag her glare away from Luke and wipe it off by the time her eyes met Calum’s, she managed to say, “Just a few.” Nobody had to know she was downplaying the fact that she watched as many of his performances as she could. Coming off as a stalker wasn’t the kind of first impression Annette wanted to give off—not that she even knew there’d be an impression to give off in the first place. Damn it, Luke. Was he trying to embarrass her? Free hand nervously sliding into the back pocket of her shorts, Annette found herself adding truthfully, “You’re really good.”

Calum nodded, the smallest of smiles upturning his pressed together lips, and Annette couldn’t help but feeling as though he was forcing himself to do so. Like he appreciated the compliment, but it also didn’t mean much to him. “Appreciate it,” he responded, because he had to, because it was etiquette, and Annette felt something uncomfortable stir in the pit of her stomach. Uncomfortable, embarrassed, and, frankly, affronted. Though she wasn’t too sure she had the right to feel that last one. Calum’s eyes shifted over her head, looking at something behind her as he raised unexpressed eyebrows and his cup as well, using a finger to point at something as he added quickly, “Excuse me, there’s—I’m being called over.”

He walked around her and while Annette knew that it was probably nothing personal against her—they didn’t know each other for it to be—she still felt her skin flush with an embarrassed and mildly offended heat of being brushed off like that. Her lips pressed together, staring at the spot Calum had stood in, wondering if she was even allowed to feel this way because Calum was only someone she enjoyed listening to at Blue’s. He didn’t owe her a conversation or anything. Yet the offense of his less than polite behavior, no matter how brief the interaction, still had her stomach twisting uncomfortably. And then it would cycle into her reprimanding herself for being so sensitive.

Fuck. Why couldn’t she just figure out and agree on what she was feeling?

“Shit—Sorry about him.” Luke’s apology pulled Annette out of her thoughts, and she looked up at the friend she’d only recently made to see Luke frowning over in whatever direction Calum had walked off in. He looked down at her blue eyes meeting her slightly darker ones, the disappointment clear in his irises as he let out a breath. “He’s normally not like that, I swear. I don’t know what’s up with him.”

Annette gave a dismissive shake of her head, offering Luke what she hoped came off as a reassuring smile. Because she had a feeling Luke knew exactly what was going on with his friend, but he didn’t owe her an explanation. Just like Calum didn’t owe her a conversation; maybe Annette was just being overly sensitive for no reason. “Never meet your heroes, huh?” she said jokingly, and she half meant it. Calum wasn’t her hero—that just sounded ridiculous and overdramatic. He was just some guy who played at her local cafe, that’s all. Still, this wasn’t how she’d imagined their first meeting to go—not that she really thought she’d actually get the chance to talk to him.

Luke let out an airy chuckle, and Annette could tell he felt just as miffed and even slightly embarrassed about that brief interaction as she did. But it was whatever. Not a big deal. “Come on, let me get you a refill,” Luke said after glancing at her nearly finished drink, and she grasped onto that change of topic with both hands and stepped towards the countertop full of drinks.

As he made Annette her drink of choice of a Malibu, she noted the purse of his lips and a small smile quirked at her lips. “It’s not a big deal, Luke,” she told him truthfully. Sure, Calum basically walking away wasn’t what she’d thought would happen, but what could you do? Annette wasn’t one to hold grudges or hold onto any negative emotions for too long. Life was too short to be bothered by something for too long.

Luke glanced at her from where he stood on the other side of the counter, a whole head and a half taller than the girl next to him making her own drink, and shot Annette a small smile. “So much for first impressions, huh?”

*****

“Oh, there’s Annette.” Calum glanced up from his laptop from where he was doing his composition homework, gaze landing on Luke sitting across from him at their table in Blue’s. But his blonde friend was looking off to his right and Calum followed his gaze, eyes landing on the mention girl.

She stood on line to order, her red Beats deafening her to the world around her as she kept herself busy on her phone. For a moment, Calum found himself wondering how he’d never seen her around before; she was gorgeous, with thick blonde hair that curled at the bottom, a couple of tattoos inking the skin of her left arm, and a smile he’d gotten to see the other night at Ashton’s party before he’d abruptly left the conversation. Something Luke had reprimanded him on after the fact.

Calum watched her as she took a step forward on the line, adjusting her headphones before returning her attention to her phone. He looked away as well, brown eyes meeting Luke’s blue ones, blinking at the expectant expression on his friend’s face. “I think you should apologize to her.”

Eyebrows scrunching upwards, Calum scoffed as he leaned back in his seat and asked, “What for?”

Luke shot him a pointed look, aware that he didn’t have to answer that question because Calum knew the answer. His interaction with Annette had been quite brief all because Calum hadn’t really wanted to engage in a conversation. It hadn’t been anything personal against her; Calum had just wanted to stick to those he knew, be around his friends who already knew him well enough to know if he acted cold, it wasn’t their fault. It was just the mood he was in. That day hadn’t been the best, and after Luke introduced him to Annette, Calum had spent the rest of the party escaped up onto the roof, with the only thing keeping him company being his cigarettes.

“Listen, man,” Luke spoke up before Calum could say anything, letting out a sigh and crossing his arms on the table. He looked at him with an almost hopeful expression. “I wouldn’t care if it was anyone else, but Annette’s my friend, alright? And when she told me you were her, like, favorite musician here I thought it’d be cool if you two met. So when you brushed her off it just—it didn’t leave a good impression, you know?”

Pursing his lips, Calum took a breath at Luke’s words. The knowledge of him being someone Annette genuinely enjoyed listening to actually did make him feel like a bit of an asshole for the way he’d just walked away from her. Though, to be fair, if he’d stuck around then their interaction may have gone worse.

Just wrong timing, Calum figured. He always appreciated when people at Blue’s, or anyone really, told him they enjoyed listening to him perform. It gave him the push to continue on doing so, to come to Blue’s whenever he could and get up on the small stage and sing his songs and covers for the patrons. Calum figured he’d probably still do it if he wasn’t getting paid; the money was just a bonus on top of the positive feedback he received.

Yeah. He was kind of a jerk for brushing off someone who’d done nothing except for compliment him.

With Luke’s gaze burning into him, Calum let out a heavy breath of, “For fuck’s sake,” before pushing back his chair and standing up. He ignored the happy smile on Luke’s face as he made his way around the spread out tables, figuring the sooner he apologized to Annette, the sooner Luke would get off his back.

He got to where Annette was standing just as it was her turn to order, and Calum worked quickly as he pulled out his wallet and just as the cashier, Rick, told Annette the total, Calum announced his presence by offering his card and saying, “It’s on me.”

Annette blinked at him, startled, too surprised to object at the sudden offer as Rick, obviously knowing who Calum was, took the card and completed the transaction. Once Calum’s card was returned, he put it back in his wallet and shoved the leather accessory back in the pocket of his pants, gaze finally sliding over to Annette who was staring at him in bewilderment.

Her lips, pink and glossy, parted. “You—” she began, only to cut herself off as she glanced over her shoulder and stepped to the side, Calum following suit, to let the next customer place their order. Calum followed Annette to stand at the end of the counter where her order would be placed, watching as she took her headphones off and let them hang around her neck as she looked up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Calum shrugged, hands shoved into the pockets of his bomber jacket as he told her, “Consider it a peace offering. I hadn’t given the best of impressions at the party.”

He watched as Annette rolled her lips into her mouth, tapping her nails against the back of her phone as she considered his words. Her gaze, then, went around Calum’s friend to look at something behind him, and he noted the subtle quirk at one corner of her mouth as she lifted her chain. “Is the peace offering your idea or Luke’s?”

The musician pursed his lips, knowing she was valid in asking that question. What was more was that she didn’t make it sound rude, just genuine curiosity as her gaze met Calum’s once more, the questioning clear in the way she raised an eyebrow. Pressing his lips together, Calum let out a quick breath through his nose before answering her truthfully, “It was Luke’s idea that I come over. The drink really is on me.” Realizing he hadn’t actually done what Luke had asked for him, Calum added, “But I am sorry for acting the way I did.”

To his surprise, Annette twisted her lips to the side before giving a shrug. “You don’t have to apologize, honestly, though I appreciate it. It’s not a big deal—definitely not something to feel bad about.”

For a moment, Calum kept his gaze on her, eyes twitching ever so slightly to narrow as he considered Annette, trying to see if she genuinely meant her words or was just saying them to be nice. He wasn’t going to lie—he kind of agreed with her. It wasn’t a big deal, and while he was sorry for dismissing her the way he had and while he could’ve been nicer, it was too short of an interaction for him to feel an immense amount of guilt for. Sure, their first meeting was only cut short because of Calum himself, but wasn’t he allowed bad days? He’d only come to the party because his best friend was throwing it, and it made Calum feel less like a loser to have the reason of wanting to have fun so he could drink, and he really hadn’t been in the mood to meet new people and entertain them. What was so wrong about that?

Unlike Luke, Annette’s answer seemed to be absolutely nothing.

Maybe he got lucky with such a forgiving person.

Before Calum could say anything, Rick had called out Annette’s name and she received her iced coffee, turning to look at Calum with an appreciative smile as she held up the clear cup. “Thanks for the caffeine.” Her smile was sweet and still Calum felt something uncomfortable twist his stomach as she added, “I’ve got class. I’ll uh,” Annette paused, eyes darting before she looked at him once more, “see you around.”

She gave a nod before stepping away, fixing her headphones with one hand as she turned around and walked to the door, ignoring the way Calum’s gaze burned into her back. The frown involuntarily pulled his eyebrows together once she left, feeling a bit unsatisfied over an interaction he hadn’t really wanted to partake in the first place. He hadn’t really wanted to apologize, but there had been a part of Calum that felt a bit badly about their initial meeting, so he listened to Luke and now. . . It kind of felt as though Annette didn’t really care enough.

The tables seemed to have turned and it was unsettling.

*****

“This is a cute idea,” Annette hummed as she entered Blue’s after Sierra, Colin and Luke right behind them. She’d never come to the cafe during the nighttime, eyes taking in the place that looked transformed, unfamiliar than to what it looked like during the day. There were blue string lights lining the edges where the walls and ceiling met, providing the only light in the cafe save for the white spotlights on the stage. It was more crowded than normal, a pleasant buzz of chatter in the air as well as the occasional whir of the blender behind the counter as the employees made the drinks on order.

Apparently Blue’s, along with paying local artists to perform at their cafe during the day, had a showcase kind of thing every other month—which Annette had been oblivious to until Luke brought it up a few days back. Blue’s had all the artists they paid come together for one night every other month and perform for the patrons and would get paid extra, and sometimes there would be people who worked at record labels and scouts always looking for new talent in attendance, which Annette thought was pretty cool and a good opportunity for exposure.

“I’m surprised you haven’t come to one of these before,” Luke said to her as they walked in, him standing taller than everyone else as his eyes darted around in hopes to find the friends they were here to meet.

Annette huffed, a bit miffed at her own ignorance of this kind of event. She loved watching all of the musicians Blue’s employed, so being able to watch them all in one night sounded so great and she’d been missing out on it. Next to her, Colin snickered. “You’d think being a groupie for all the performers you’d know about this.”

That invited a round of laughter from Luke and Sierra, and Annette made a protesting sound before elbowing her cousin’s side, though it didn’t erase the all too amused smirk from his face. People around them moved, either talking to others or trying to find a table, and Sierra suddenly spoke up, “There they are.”

She started moving, the rest of them following after her as she led them to a table where they spotted Calum, Ashton, Michael and their girlfriends. They’d joined two tables together, enough to fit all nine of them, and greetings were thrown about as the four of them reached the others. Annette settled down on the chair next to Ashton after he gave her a friendly side-hug as Luke spoke up, “You ready, man?”

Annette’s gaze drifted to Calum, who sat on one end of the table, furthest from her as he offered a nod. He looked at ease, comfortable in a black and white Elvis shirt with the neckline lined by his chain necklace, hands resting on his lap beneath the table. Unsurprisingly, he looked good, Annette instantly noticed; she’d offered him a brief greeting when they’d arrived—nothing against him, truthfully, but because she figured that’s what he’d want.

When he apologized to her the other day, Annette knew it was Luke’s doing—a fact she’d flicked him off for the next time they had class together. To be fair, Calum had looked a bit miffed for his off-mood when they’d met, and the more Annette had thought about it after, the more she realized she had no reason to actually be embarrassed or anything. People were allowed bad days, they were allowed to turn down conversations if they weren’t feeling up for it, especially if it was with a stranger. It hadn’t been the most pleasant of first meetings, but it wasn’t something Annette couldn’t get over. She’d learned, over the years, what things were worth lamenting over and what were small enough to let go. Her first meeting with Calum had been the latter.

Still, him coming up to her to apologize to her had been kind of unexpected. But then she figured out Luke had been the one to push Calum to do it, and while Calum hadn’t delivered a half hearted apology, Annette could tell he wasn’t a hundred percent keen on doing it. And, in some way, him being forced to talk to her a second time was more embarrassing than the first time. She kind of hated her ability to read people so clearly up close. If the action had an off switch, Annette would keep it taped.

So, naturally, when she joined the group—after Luke’s inspired begging for her to come along—she’d greeted Calum with a quick and friendly smile before settling on the stool. No more forced interactions this time around.

“Yeah,” Calum responded to Luke’s question, leaning forward enough to prop his elbows up on the low table, linking his ring clad fingers in front of him, the metal of his chain bracelet hitting the wooden table as he rested his hands down. With a shrug and a small, brief smile he added, “’S not a big deal.”

It was a modest response, Annette noticed, which only reminded her of how comfortable Calum probably was on a stage, even a small one at some cafe chain in New York. She’d certainly witnessed his ease when she caught a performance, but to actually be within his company right before he went on stage was a side she never thought she’d be privy to, and was taking in intently. In the presence of his friends, Annette could see the relaxation of Calum’s broad shoulders, dark eyes almost gentle as he listened to his friends chatter around him. He didn’t look on edge like he had the night of the party, eyes darting and fingers around his cup tight; right now, it was easy to pick up on the air of calmness that surrounded Calum like a bubble.

“Are you performing anything new?” Michael questioned, sitting directly opposite of Annette.

Letting out a breath, Calum subtly raised an eyebrow as he responded, “I’d have to have something new written to perform it.” With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, Calum added, “Think I’m gonna go with San Francisco.”

Before she could help it, Annette chimed in, “That’s a good one.”

She pressed her lips together after the comment slipped, though it was an honest one. Annette had heard Calum perform that song a while back, thought the lyrics and guitar and his voice were lovely when he played it, and the prospect of listening to it again was exciting. Except she hadn’t really meant to make herself known, her words drawing Calum’s attention towards her as his brown eyes met her bluish ones, like he hadn’t expected her to say anything, either. Annette fiddled with her thumbs under the table, forcing her closed mouth to lift into the smallest of smiles at Calum as a way of appeasing his intense stare.

But Calum offered a small smile, a real one, as he responded with a simple, “Thanks.”

Soon enough, the small exhibition started, and Blue’s fell silent as the first performer of the night got up on stage. A couple of them were familiar faces for Annette, having seen them during the occasions where she came by and Calum wasn’t playing, but there were also a few she hadn’t ever seen before. Everyone was pretty good, had their own style and genre of music that they worked into the welcoming environment of Blue’s, and Annette found herself swaying gently to every person’s song or ballad.

And then it was Calum’s turn to go up, being introduced warmly and familiarly by the manager as a household name, and their table’s cheers were the loudest as he picked up his guitar and headed towards the stage, returning Luke’s fist bump as he made his way up. Annette shifted in her seat, as if physically preparing herself to listen to Calum perform a song she’s heard before. She felt as though her eagerness and excitement was radiating off of her, the sensation familiar as it was what she experienced whenever she came to pick up some coffee before work or class and Calum was at Blue’s, right up on the stage like he was right now.

The entirety of Blue’s was dark, save for the blue lights for the ambiance, and the bright lights on Calum as he settled on the stool in front of the microphone, his sleek guitar on his lap. Annette’s eyes were glued on him, much like everyone else’s, but unlike the rest of them, she was taking in every detail her eyes would allow her to. She observed the way his tongue poked out to swipe his bottom lip, rolling it into his mouth as he made sure the microphone was leveled. The bright lights shone against his skin, glinting against the chains he wore, and Calum needed a second to adjust his eyes to the beams and Annette wondered if he could see the faces waiting for him as his gaze swept over in front of him.

With his left hand holding the neck of the guitar on his lap, Calum offered a close mouthed, humbled smile. “Evenin’, everyone,” he started, his voice amplified by the microphone as the deep and gentle rasp of his voice resounded. “I’m Calum and, uh, tonight I’m gonna play an original called San Francisco.” Annette watched his right hand move into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a guitar pick as he offered another quick smile. “Hope you like it.”

Calum started playing the chords to the song and Annette took in a quiet breath as the familiar tune reached her ears. Then Calum leaned towards the microphone, lips parting as he began singing lyrics that he’d written, and Annette wondered if she was the only one feeling goosebumps rise on her skin at the sound of his smooth, rich voice resounding around the cafe. Unlike the other times Annette has watched Calum perform at Blue’s, it was utterly silent as everyone’s attention was on him as opposed to when he played during regular business hours and there was a quiet buzz of chatter.

Now, though, everyone was listening to him, their focus solely on him as his ring clad fingers effortlessly played the guitar, and Annette was completely entranced as she watched him, lips parting absently as she listened. The emotion Calum sang with made his performance all the more enchanting, and not for the first time did Annette wonder what experience Calum went through to write a song like this—something she wondered every time she heard him perform an original song.

Annette was creative in her own right, could make up stories and characters and create a whole world out of them, but writing a song wasn’t something she could be able to do. And she was always left in awe when she listened to the songs Calum chose to share, many of them about love and then losing that love, and it often ached Annette’s heart when she listened to them. The pain he delicately and beautifully described in his songs was almost familiar to Annette, having faced loss in her life before, and she often found herself wishing Calum hadn’t had to deal with something like that. Which was ridiculous, because she didn’t know him, and life wasn’t that simple. That didn’t stop Annette from wishing it was.

Next to her, she could feel Ashton lightly drumming along to Calum’s song with his hands slapping against his thighs under the table, head subtly bopping to the music. Although she didn’t want to take her eyes off of Calum, Annette still glanced around, took in the way everyone in the room was hooked on Calum and his music, and she felt a smile tug at her lips. She didn’t know him, but she was proud.

*****

“What are you drinking?”

Annette looked up at Calum once she heard him, patiently waiting to get the bartender’s attention, and he watched the way she blinked at him once before raising her eyebrows gently. Then, with a small smile, she asked, “Are you apologizing for something?”

Pressing the tip of his tongue to the back of his bottom teeth, Calum let out an airy chuckle, knowing she was referring to when he bought her that iced coffee as a way of making up for his behavior at the party. “No,” Calum told her truthfully, left elbow resting against the bar top as he faced the shorter blonde girl. “Just, uh, tryin’ to be nice, I guess.”

Calum had no reason not to be nice to Annette, and since she was basically Luke’s new best friend, Calum knew he couldn’t be an asshole to her without reason. She’d never given him a reason to act the way he did, and she really was a nice girl from what he could tell. Calum had seen her during his performance earlier tonight, had seen the way her eyes seemed to be glued to her in unabashed awe, and it only made him further understand that she genuinely did enjoy his music.

Just because he was miserable more than half the time, didn’t give him the right to treat others like that.

He saw her smile widen just a bit at her words, eyes flickering to the row of bottles behind the bar before telling Calum, “Rum and Coke.”

Flagging the bartender down, Calum relayed her order and added in his own. They were at a bar a couple of blocks away from Blue’s, the group of them shifting over after the performances were over around ten at night. The weekend permitted them to go out, though Calum didn’t plan on staying too late.

“So be honest.” He dragged Annette’s attention once more, and Calum could just barely see the hint of dark blue that lined the outer of her otherwise brown irises. In that moment, he absently decided she had the most interesting eyes he’d ever seen. “Did you think I was an asshole when we first met?”

“I—what?” The startled laugh that Annette released upon hearing Calum’s question wasn’t entirely expected, her eyebrows shooting up as she leaned back a bit. But he kept looking at her, raising his own eyebrows to let her know that he was, frankly, asking a genuine question, because he wouldn’t be surprised if she did. When Annette realized how serious he was, the smile on her face faltered a bit as she shook her head. “No, I didn’t. That’s just—that would be an extreme reaction, Calum. I’m not that sensitive.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, finger absently prodding at the bartop, nail scraping against a crack on it. “But I did, like, make you feel bad, didn’t I? To some extent?”

Annette looked at him, and Calum tried to remain neutral and unaffected by the subtle narrowing of her eyes as she took him apart with her gaze. She was trying to figure him out and Calum couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed because she was doing it so. . . Kindly. Her gaze was gentle, welcoming, like she didn’t want to alarm him or put him off as she tried to figure him out. Calum wondered what kind of magical fucking powers Annette possessed to keep him feeling comfortable even as her mind picked him apart. Maybe it was the glittering of her eyes, or the soft way she looked at him. Because even with her thick blonde hair and long lashes and tattoos, she still reminded Calum of soft.

“Are you trying to make yourself feel guilty about it again?” Annette asked, and this time Calum did feel himself freeze at her words. Had it really been that easy for her to figure him out? Or was she just generally that good at reading people? She gazed up at him, earnest and true. “Because I told you, Calum, it wasn’t a big deal. It happened and it’s over. Honestly—it’s not a big deal.” With an easy, light laugh, Annette added, “Don’t make it seem like you, like, bitched me out or something. It’s all good.”

She was terribly easy going, Calum realized, as the bartender handed them their drinks. Not the type to hold a grudge, it seemed.

Honestly, Calum wasn’t entirely sure why he was bringing it up again, wasn’t sure where the lingering guilt was coming from—or if guilt was too strong of a word. Maybe he just still felt bad? Especially after he saw how much Annette seemed to enjoy his single song performance at Blue’s. Through the bright spotlights at the cafe, Calum had been able to make out the faces of his friends once his eyes had adjusted, and while their encouraging smiles had been expected and welcome, Calum had also took in the way Annette had been watching him.

It unexpectedly warmed him. He knew it wasn’t the heat from the lights.

So, yeah. He suddenly found himself wanting to start a clean slate. Even if he started off thinking he didn’t care.

It was something about her eyes. Calum was certain of it.

“Come on,” Annette cut through his thoughts, lifting up her glass with an easy going smile lifting her pink lips. “To friends of friends.”

At that, Calum let out a quiet chuckle, quirking an eyebrow as the bar buzzed around them. The music was loud and people were chattering all over, but Calum’s eyes were on Annette’s smiling ones. “Think we can cut the middle man out here,” he told her with a small smile of his own. Annette raised her eyebrows, soft smile ever present, as Calum raised his glass as well, clinking it with hers as he corrected, “To being friends.”

*****

When Annette received her drink and turned around to head towards the door, she stopped when her eyes landed on the familiar face sitting at a table near the windows. It wasn’t hard because Calum was already looking at her, laptop in front of him but gaze on her as he raised his hand in a single wave, and Annette felt a smile tug at her lips.

She made her way over to him, because now she could, now they were friends. Ever since the event here at Blue’s and their conversation at the bar after, a friendship had been established between the two of them, discarding their first meeting all together in hopes of moving forward. He leaned forward in his chair as she approached him, arms folded and a small smile tilted his lips once she got to him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Annette greeted with a teasing grin, standing beside the round table.

Calum chuckled quietly, lifting his hand and tilting his head to let his fingers mess up his slightly unruly curls. “You headed to class?” he questioned, looking up at her with dark brown eyes that reminded Annette too much of chocolate.

“No,” she responded with a shake of her head. “I just finished a shift, actually, and I needed my after-work caffeine.”

He quirked an eyebrow as he asked, “So you’ve got nowhere to be?” Her smile returned at the knowing tone of his voice, felt something pathetically flutter in the pit of her stomach as she hummed out a no with a shake of her head and he gestured to the empty seat across from him. As she settled down, Calum’s eyes took in her drink visible through the transparent cup, and he raised his eyebrows before letting out an amused scoff. “That’s the. . . Froofiest drink I’ve ever seen.”

Annette let out a protesting, mock-insulted laugh as she defended, “Hey, don’t make fun of my drink.” She took a sip through the straw, watching Calum watch her with scrunched eyebrows raised and a bemused expression on his face. “It’s a passion iced tea. With blackberries.”

Calum, still, was not still not impressed. “It’s purple,” he deadpanned.

With a scoff, Annette said with a small pout, “Don’t make fun of my froo-froo drink.” Jutting her chin at his cup, she narrowed her eyes challengingly and mocked, “What about you? Black coffee is boring.”

Calum wasn’t offended or apologetic. “It’s normal. No froo-froo.”

Annette’s smile returned, unable to keep the teasing lilt in her voice. “Everyone needs a little froo-froo in their life.” She couldn’t hope to keep a serious expression on her face, the laughter bubbling past. Annette’s chest tightened happily when she managed to get a laugh out of him in response. A breathy, raspy sound that was short yet did show his amusement with the conversation. She wondered what he sounded like when he laughed with everything in him.

Their conversation moved on as Calum asked her about work, the noise of the cafe melting into the background, breaking every so often when the barista at the counter called out a customer’s name whenever their drink was ready. Annette had realized that talking to Calum, once she adjusted her nerves, was pretty easy. He was easy to talk to, once he decided he wanted to actually hold a conversation, and Annette felt pretty good about the fact that he actually wanted to talk to her.

That was probably pathetic, she knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

She liked talking to him, liked listening to the sound of his voice when he wasn’t singing, just as smooth and rich as he engaged with her. Calum talked leisurely, like he was in no rush, and he listened just like that, too. As if he had all of the time in the world to listen to whatever Annette was saying, and it was a complete change from when they met that first night. And it only proved to her that she’d caught him on a bad day, that the Calum from that party wasn’t how he actually treated people, but the one sitting across from her was a more honest and true version of him.

The way he stared at her as they talked was something Annette knew would take some time getting used to. His dark eyes stayed on her lighter ones, as if he was taking in every detail while also listening, and Annette often found herself with a dry throat, in need of clearing it to keep herself grounded. It was dangerously easy getting lost because of Calum’s stare. She wondered how many others had fallen victim to it.

“The Great British Baking Show? Really?” Annette asked incredulously, eyebrows raised as a disbelieving grin spread at her lips. She was gaping at Calum, who huffed with arms crossed over his chest as he frowned at her, though no true defiance was present.

“Why’s that so hard to believe?” he returned, obviously not getting why his admittance to one of his guilty pleasures was so shocking.

Annette laughed, good humored and melodious as she gave a shake of her head. “I just can’t picture you watching something like that. It’s just—there’s no image in my head,” she said with a laugh, her words only causing Calum to roll his eyes.

“Come over one day and then you’ll be able to—”

“Liana!”

Calum instantly cut himself off as the barista’s voice cut through his words, prompting Annette to raise her eyebrows in slight startlement at the unexpected stop. She watched him, eyebrows lowering slowly into a frown as his dark eyed gaze remained behind her in the direction of the counter, all previous lightheartedness completely vanishing from his expression. Brown eyes wide, there was a hint of alarm swimming in them as Calum pressed his lips together, the muscle in his jaw jumping, clearly looking like a man who didn’t like what he was seeing. There was a rigidness in his features, tight and uncomfortable with drawn together eyes lifted and worry reluctantly seeping into his eyes as well.

His lips parted, still looking behind Annette as he quietly breathed out, “Fuck’s sake.”

Calum’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he clenched his jaw once more and Annette grew more concerned over his suddenly irate demeanor, looking like he wasn’t sure if he was exasperated or just wanted to disappear from sight altogether. Hesitantly, Annette asked, “Are you okay?” Slowly, she turned around to see what he was staring so intensely at. “What’re you looking at?”

It wasn’t that busy during this time in the late evening at Blue’s, so Annette’s gaze went directly towards one of the few women she saw standing in the general direction Calum had been staring at. She was pretty, with dark brown hair just a little past her shoulders and legs that looked spectacular in the jeans she was wearing. The woman stood talking to a guy by the counter and Annette guessed he was waiting for his order or something, and with a curious quirk of her brow, she kept her questioning gaze on them as she asked Calum, “Do you know her?”

“Yeah,” came Calum’s response, slow and gruff, his change of tone as surprising as his fallen expression. “You can say that.”

As if hearing Calum’s voice from where she stood, Annette caught the way the woman’s head turned and gaze looked right past her—and right at the man Annette was sharing a table with. Even from where she sat, Annette saw the recognition flash across the other girl’s face, eyes narrowing ever so slightly before they widened in realization.

And then Annette watched her touch the arm of the guy she was with as she said something to him, before she began making her way over, and Annette’s eyebrows raised as she turned back in her seat to face Calum and matter-of-factly said, “Yeah, ’cause she definitely knows you.”

Her gaze finally landed on Calum, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but at Blue’s in that moment. Annette could tell he was struggling to school his expression, the tightness born out of frustration and something else fighting to make itself known on his face, and she couldn’t help but frown at him. Clearly whoever the woman making their way over to him was, was not someone Calum wanted to deal with as his hands wrapped around the edge of his laptop screen, and Annette was briefly worried he was going to snap it in half just as the woman stepped up to the table.

“Calum, hi.” She spoke in a friendly tone, though without even knowing her, Annette could pick up the subtle hesitance lying underneath. Glancing up at her, she saw the girl—Annette guessed her name was Liana, given that was the name that had Calum getting all closed up—nervously grab the strap of her back with her free hand, the other holding her drink. Her honey colored eyes swept over to Annette, a small smile present. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.” She looked back at Calum once Annette offered a no worries type of smile. Was it bad to say she was curious as to what was going on? Looking back at Calum, Liana said, “I just saw you and I, uh, wanted to come say hi.” She bit her lower lip hesitantly. “How are you?”

Liana seemed to genuinely want to know, and Annette’s eyebrows lowered ever so slightly as she watched the two of them. Calum had leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, and Annette had a feeling it was his way of defending himself from whatever weight this conversation was about to bring. Annette felt as though she was intruding, but getting up now would be too obvious and awkward.

“We’re not friends, Liana.” If Annette had thought Calum was cold towards her during their first meeting, it made that interaction look impeccable in terms of Calum’s demeanor now. She eyed him, silent in concern, at the edge that had bit into his tone and the way his eyes were suddenly void of all emotion. It was unnerving how good he was at that; like Calum had just flipped a switch and was able to hide everything he was feeling that had the chance of showing itself on his face. It was all gone, replaced by uninterested blankness with the creeping edge of dismissal and irritation. Those were the only emotions he allowed to convey, and Annette forced herself to remain a quiet presence. His gaze was sharp as he looked at the standing woman. “Wasn’t our last conversation meant to be our last?”

Annette pursed her lips, her gaze suddenly dropping to the table in front of her, like if she didn’t look at the two people, it’d be like she wasn’t listening in on the way Calum was completely shutting Liana down. She fiddled with her fingers in her lap, feeling the tension suddenly increase tenfold following Calum’s words. Annette understood that she had definitely caught Calum on a bad day the night of the party, because Liana was definitely not someone Calum wanted to be around at all. Annette felt bad for her; she hadn’t felt too great after Calum had walked away, she could only imagine how Liana was feeling.

There was a history there, that much was obvious, and Annette justifiably wondered what could’ve happened that had Calum talking to her like that.

Annette could see Liana shifting uncomfortably from her peripheral. “Come on, Calum,” she tried again, this time a nervous laugh escaping her. “It’s been—”

“Five months,” he cut in. Annette glanced up at him in enough time to see him say, “’S not long enough.”

She took a quiet breath when she noted the stare Calum was wearing: sharp, unforgiving, unapologetic. Annette wondered how Liana was still standing in the face of it, figuring that if she was on the receiving end of it, she would definitely turn and run away just because of the utter heat his glare was radiating. Holy shit—what had Liana done that warranted her such a hostile reaction from him?

Annette managed to look up, her gaze going to Liana, who had a defeated expression on her face that made the seated blonde feel sorry for her. Liana’s throat worked, her cheeks flushing an embarrassed pink, and Annette wondered why the woman didn’t snap back at Calum for speaking to her like that. Annette probably wasn’t one to say something like that, given how Calum had walked away from her the first time, but to be fair, their interaction wasn’t anywhere near as intense as this one. It was brief, quick, like ripping off a bandaid. This was almost too painful to watch.

Just as Annette thought that, she saw a shift in Liana in the way she tightened her jaw, blinking back the hurt Calum’s words enticed as she lifted her chin. With a calm tone that allowed for her own edge to creep in, Liana said to him, “If you remember the last time we spoke, then you remember what I said to you.” Her eyes gave him a once over, the corner of her lips quirking into the smallest of sneers, like she was disappointed but unsurprised with what she was looking at. “But I guess you didn’t listen. As usual.”

Annette saw the instant reaction Liana’s words invited on Calum’s face, the way his dark eyes narrowed instinctively, like he couldn’t believe what she’d just said. His jaw tightened. Like he was fighting to keep himself from reacting but couldn’t. Liana’s words, the meaning lost on Annette, clearly struck a harsh cord with Calum as his shoulders straightened, lips thinning as he fought the words threatening to escape.

But before Calum could say anything—Annette was sure she wouldn’t want to hear it—someone stepped up next to Liana and said, “Ready to go, babe?”

All eyes shifted to the newcomer, the guy Annette had seen with Liana earlier, as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He seemed oblivious to the tension as he smiled at Liana, gaze sweeping over Annette and Calum as a second thought. He offered both of them friendly smiles, one Annette returned automatically before her gaze flickered to Calum instinctively, because she felt as though she needed to keep an eye on him.

And she was right to, because otherwise she would’ve missed the tightness of his jaw and the way his throat worked as he eyed the guy, or, more accurately, eyed the way his arm was around Liana. She watched Calum take in the sight of the couple, her eyebrows twitching together in a curious and concerned frown as she tried to figure out what Calum was feeling in that moment. To say he was bothered would be putting it lightly; he almost looked uncomfortable, defeated. . . Not surprised as he let out an airy scoff, nodding to himself as he leaned back.

His gaze dropped to his laptop screen, pulling one corner of his lip into his mouth, looking completely finished with this conversation and Annette frowned at him. What the hell was going on?

“Yeah,” she heard Liana say, her voice growing tight with agitation. “Bye, Calum. Sorry to interrupt.”

They left, their footsteps growing faint the further they moved away, melding into the low hum of the cafe as they exited, leaving behind an awkward silence Annette wasn’t sure how to ease. She took a look at Calum hesitantly, pulling her lower lip into her mouth as she caught sight of him staring out the window to his right. The lights of the city reflected against the glass and his dark eyes, but the outside world melted into the late evening night as Annette watched the clench of his jaw and hardened eyes.

She had no idea who Liana was, but it wasn’t hard to connect the dots that there was some kind of intense history between her and Calum, and whatever Liana meant by her words had hit Calum more than he wanted them to. Annette parted her lips, hesitant, before pressing them together again. She found the courage quickly to gently ask, “Are you okay?”

Calum was silent for a moment. Then it was like something snapped in his head, motions quick and jerking as he shut his laptop, grunting out, “I need a drink.” His gaze dropped to the half finished cup in front of him, frown deepening. “Somethin’ stronger than coffee.”

Annette’s eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised as she watched him shove his laptop in his backpack before shouldering it as he stood up. Her eyes followed his movements and Calum paused when he noticed her still sitting, watching him. He raised an eyebrow, impatient as he questioned, “You comin’?”

“Uh.” She gaped at him, not entirely expecting the invite, not when he seemed so agitated. His grip on the strap of his bag was tight, and Annette figured he’d want to be alone since he seemed so upset. But if he was about drink in a pissed off mood, Annette would rather keep an eye on him. “Yeah, sure,” she quickly confirmed, feeling as if she took too long to answer, Calum may change her mind.

He waited as she stood up and pulled her jacket back on, grabbing her bag as she followed him out of the cafe. It was chilly, unsurprisingly, as they stepped onto the sidewalk and began making their way down, but Annette was quick to realize they weren’t walking in the direction of the bar they’d been at a week ago.

She eyed Calum as he walked along next to her, just a subtle pace ahead due to his longer legs, his dark eyes staring straight ahead as they went. Annette hesitated on opening her mouth but after they walked a few blocks in nothing but silence save for the buzz of the city around them, she slowly asked, “We’re not going to Mack’s?”

Calum licked his teeth. “If I go to a bar I’m gonna blow all my money. Better to raid my own supply,” he answered steadily, eyes shifting to glance down at her. “You cool with that?”

Annette raised her eyebrows as a way of agreeing. “Yeah, ’course.”

So she stayed quiet as she followed Calum through the city, finally reaching the apartment complex after they walked a few blocks, took a subway ride, and then walked another two blocks. The entire time, Calum had remained silent and Annette kept her arms crossed as every step closer they got to his place, the more she wondered if it was a good idea to go with him—if he even still wanted her to come along. He was clearly not in a good mood and Annette wasn’t sure if he still wanted her company, but she stayed silent. After all, Annette was still kind of wanted to keep an eye on him if he was about to drink.

Her body felt tense with nerves as they stood in the elevator, side by side in complete silence, until they stopped in front of a door that Calum unlocked and opened. He stepped in behind her, flicking on a switch to light up the living room, and Annette took in the dark grey couch facing a TV, windows not quite floor to ceiling but large enough to provide optimal natural light if the blinds weren’t drawn. It was an open plan kitchen and hallway leading towards the bedroom, probably, and Annette admired the apartment. It was simple, with hints of personal touches like concert posters and a shelf full of books and records in the corner, along with a bunch of plants placed strategically.

The sound of keys clattering startled Annette, head turning to see Calum’s hand retract from a small table behind the couch where he’d dropped his keys. She felt awkward, no doubt, given that this was her first time at Calum’s place, as Calum shrugged off his leather jacket and dropped it to the couch before making his way towards the kitchen.

He cast her a look as he went. “Whiskey?”

She followed him with her eyes before pulling out of the brief trance and shrugging off her own jacket. She followed him. Annette wasn’t entirely sure if she’d regret this, but she didn’t quite care in the moment. “Sure.”

The apartment was silent save for the clinking of the Jim Beam bottle and glasses Calum pulled out, placing them on the counter. It was a full bottle, untouched, and Annette felt an uneasy twist of her stomach at the thought of Calum potentially wanting to finish it all tonight. Had his conversation with Liana really affected him so much?

Annette kept her gaze on him, noting his features completely void of any expression as he uncapped the bottle and poured some in each glass. He lifted one of them, dark eyes finally meeting Annette’s light ones as he held the glass out to her expectantly. She took it, offering a small smile as she found herself asking, “What’re we toasting to?”

Calum paused, lips parting to roll his lower one in, tongue swiping over it as his gaze averted thoughtfully, free hand braced on the counter. Then a wry smile curled at his lips, head tilting as his eyes met Annette’s, the sarcasm in both his gaze and voice as he declared, “To being emotionally unavailable.”

That was not at all what she was expecting. Annette looked at him, eyebrows raised in bewilderment as Calum flashed her a derisive smile while clinking their glasses and taking a sip of his drink. But Annette kept staring, wondering why the hell Calum would say something like that—and the way he said it, too. Like he was mocking someone else’s words, ready to spit on them and shove them back in the face of whoever had uttered them.

And she watched as Calum downed the contents of his glass, throat working as he swallowed and sucking in a breath through his teeth as he eyed the now empty glass. “Right, come on,” Calum spoke up, looking at Annette as he grabbed for the bottle with his free hand and walked around the counter. He jutted his chin. “Let’s plant that image of me watching The Great British Baking Show in your head.”

“Uh—” Annette sounded, trying to wrap her head around what was happening. She frowned briefly. “Okay,” she finished slowly as she turned and followed him.

They settled on the couch as calum turned on the TV, and Annette sipped at her whiskey as Calum switched to Netflix. The sweet mixed with smokey taste tickled her throat as Calum played the first episode of one of the seasons.

Annette tried not to think of how. . . Strange this was. She hadn’t exactly planned on watching some baking show while drinking whiskey in Calum’s apartment, and yet here she was, wondering how the hell she ended up here. It didn’t help that Calum’s words were swimming around in her head, drowning out the sound of the TV as she wondered why he toasted to being emotionally unavailable.

They were silent, much like they had been since they left Blue’s, the only sounds emitting from their surroundings as the hum of the city was replaced by the TV. Annette watched Calum from the corner of her eye, sipping her drink and feeling it run smoothly down her throat once she grew used to the taste. He watched the show, slouched on the couch as he sipped from his own glass and kept his gaze glued on the TV, curls brushing across his forehead that Annette itched to push away.

She had so many questions.

But for now, she finished her drink, licking her lips and taking a breath before holding her empty glass out to Calum. He looked at her and then at the glass, lips quirking with a small grin she hadn’t seen since Liana had showed up, a sight that almost jump started her heart, and poured her some more whiskey.

*****

Annette wasn’t really drunk, but saying she was a hundred percent sober would be a lie. She felt slightly lighter than before, laying on the couch with her head resting on the armrest and knees bent so her legs didn’t go over Calum’s lap. He was still in the same position as they had started, slouched on his head of the couch, only this time he was hugging the now empty bottle of whiskey.

“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, startling Annette as she lifted her head to look at him. Calum was pointing to the TV, eyes wide and lips curling into a wide grin as he waved his hand in such a comical way that Annette couldn’t keep in her amused laugh. “Her biscuit tower fell! She’s fucked!”

Her gaze returned to the TV where a contestant’s tower of biscuits did, in fact, fall over as she scrambled to race against the clock to correct the mistake, and Annette couldn’t keep her laughter in because of Calum’s overreaction, too drunk to keep himself quiet as he guffawed. She watched him, feeling the giggles come a lot easier now that there was some alcohol in her, admiring the flush of his cheeks due to the entire bottle he’d finished after she only had about three glasses.

Annette wasn’t entirely sure how long she’d been at Calum’s apartment, laying on his couch and watching British people make baked goods as he let out drunken comments and laughs every now and again. When Annette had told him she couldn’t find an image in her head of him watching this show, she’d been right; but now, all she could see was Calum dropping comments of dough not proven for long enough or cakes that looked like a toddler iced them. And it was hilariously unexpected, bringing a lightness to her chest every time he said something. Clearly he spent some time watching the show, and it only kind of made Annette’s heart beat for him a little faster.

When she checked her phone, she sucked in a breath to see that it was almost one in the morning, and if she hoped to wake up for her nine o’clock shift tomorrow, she needed to head home now. So Annette sighed as she blinked slowly, a mixture of slight tipsiness and sleepiness as she pushed herself into a sitting position, running her fingers through her blonde hair to push it back.

“I should head home,” she said, her voice soft against the TV as she shifted to get her feet to touch the ground. Her sneakers were next to the couch as she bent to grab them and shove her feet inside.

“Already?” Calum shifted next to her, sitting up and Annette looked at him, feeling her heart jump at the frown lowering his eyebrows and pout on his full lips to go with the whine he’d spoken with.

Letting out a gentle laugh, Annette responded, “I’ve been here for four hours, Calum. It’s time for bed.”

“Well,” he dragged out the word as he looked around for the remote before finding it and pausing the show, shoulders slumped as he asked her sadly, “why don’t you sleep here? It’s late and—”

“I’ve got work early tomorrow,” Annette told him, her voice kind and heart warm at his offer. God, she’d stay here any other day. But neither of them were completely sober, and work the next day really was killing the mood. The way Calum was pouting at her, drunken and adorable, wasn’t at all helping her in any way, working against her to make her want to stay. But she couldn’t. She’d stayed to make sure he was alright, and while he was drunk, he seemed to be okay. Maybe she’d tell Luke to check on him tomorrow. “I’ll take an Uber. I don’t live far from here anyway.”

Annette stood up, blinking once as she made sure she had her footing, the lightheadedness present from the whiskey. Shrugging on her jacket, she pulled her hair from under the collar and looked down at Calum to see him staring up at her. His dark eyes were glazed over, cheeks and nose flushed cutely, and the sudden urge to kiss him that overcame Annette threatened to rob her of her breath. She needed to get out of here.

“Text me when you get home?” Calum questioned as he stood, and he had less balance than Annette, unsurprisingly, as he let out a quiet whoa with raised eyebrows as he dropped the empty bottle on the couch and grabbed the back of it to keep himself upright.

Annette let out a laugh as she began making her way towards the door, Calum right behind her once he got his footing. “Will you be awake when I do?” she questioned teasingly after opening the door, stepping into the hall, and turning around to face him with a raised eyebrow.

Calum let out a scoff of a laugh—was it a scoff? He almost blew a raspberry—as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe—whether it was just an absent action or because he couldn’t keep himself upright, Annette wasn’t sure. Being a bit tipsy was inhibiting her ability to read people. Still, she admired how fucking good he looked in his simple black full sleeved shirt, the fabric of it straining against his biceps since his arms were crossed, and across his chest.

“For you?” Calum questioned as a response to hers, raising his eyebrows as a lazy, boyish grin lifted at his lips. It was a smile that easily had Annette’s heart jumping to her throat, though it didn’t compare to the way a glint danced across his dark eyes when he finished with a factual, “Of course.”

Her cheeks flushed, warmer than the whiskey ever made her as she ducked her head, fighting off a smile, and Calum grinned at her reaction. He tilted his head, leaning it against the doorframe as he watched her, his gaze burning into her wonderfully. When Annette looked back at him, at the relaxed features he was finally expressing and the easy, yet drunken, smile on his lips, she suddenly felt the question that had been nagging her fall at the tip of her tongue.

She wanted to keep it in, to not ruin the moment, but Annette crossed her own arms across her chest and gently asked, “What was that about being emotionally unavailable, Calum?”

There had been no lead up or preemptive move before she voiced that question, but Annette had been keeping it in since the moment Calum had made that toast. Her curiosity itched at her, and with the bit of whiskey running through her veins, it gave Annette enough of an excuse to finally utter it.

She watched as Calum registered her question before his eyes closed, lips lifting into a smile as he let out another scoff while ducking his head. He looked at her once he straightened, curls once again falling over his forehead, and Annette was surprised there was no trace of the dry, humorless smile that had been on his face when he made that toast.

Instead, Calum returned to leaning his head against the doorframe, looking down at her shorter figure with a reminiscent smile on his face. Maybe it was the alcohol in his system that allowed Calum to so easily confess, “Liana and I dated for a while and, uh, broke up five months ago because, according to her, I was too emotionally unavailable to be in a relationship with her. So she found someone who was.”

He ended with a single shrug and a roll of his eyes, but Annette frowned as she saw past that mask. She had figured there was some kind of romantic past between the two of them, but to see Calum still hurt about it had her biting the inside of her cheek, empathizing with him. She imagined being told that you weren’t emotionally attached to your significant other by them couldn’t have been easy, and Annette’s chest tightened for him. And as she watched Calum drop his gaze to the doorframe where his nail was scratched at it, arms still crossed, Annette knew Calum probably felt dumb for being upset about it. But she wanted to tell him he was right to. Him being upset was justified, in her opinion. She didn’t like seeing him like this.

“For what it’s worth,” Annette spoke up, her voice quiet and soft, eyes on him even though he was avoiding her gaze. The tall, broad man in front of her looked small as he tried to hide behind an invisible wall, like he was ashamed of having feelings. Ashamed of being the opposite of the very thing he’d been accused of. So she spoke gently, honestly, in the silence of the late hour. “I think if you’re capable of writing those beautiful songs and singing them with the kind of passion you do, then there’s no way you’re emotionally unavailable.”

The pure honesty in her words had Calum lifting his head, brown eyes finally meeting her bluish-brown ones as he ceased picking at the door frame, and Annette kept the kind smile on her lips as she noted the whirlwind of emotions that flashed across his pretty eyes. She saw them under the glaze of the alcohol as he gazed at her, the sleepiness from the alcohol disappearing for a moment to be replaced with an appreciation for her and her words.

Her statement was followed by a silence that settled upon them like a blanket, and Annette could feel the way the two of them were drawing close to one another under the shelter of it. Their movements were gradual, eyes locked and hearts thundering the closer they got.

Somewhere in the back of her head, Annette could hear a voice telling her to stop; to pull back and turn and leave, but she was quick to shush it. This may be a bad idea, but she didn’t care all too much in this moment. She wanted to ignore her head and listen to her heart, wanted to let her body draw near Calum’s as every second went back, hoping the whiskey in her veins didn’t cause her to lose her balance.

As soon as Annette’s gaze dropped from Calum’s, his dark eyes only alluring her more, and flickered to his lips, there was no going back. Because suddenly she was feeling Calum’s hands cradling her jaw, thumbs on her cheeks as he tilted her head up enough to capture her lips with his in a surprisingly tender kiss. Annette’s eyes slipped shut instantly, her hands gently grasping his wrists as she slowly moved her lips with Calum’s, the sensation of his savoringly sucking on her lower lip sparking a fire in her fueled blood that she voiced through a satisfied hum.

It was a slow kiss, getting to know the feel of one another’s lips as the faint taste of whiskey danced on their tongues and Calum’s touch burned wonderfully at Annette’s skin. She callouses of his thumbs were nothing compared to the warmth his touch provided, or the electricity shocking Anette to her very core as Calum kissed her tenderly.

They pulled away moments later, not because they wanted to but because they had to, air becoming a necessary evil. The kiss ended but their lips dragged against one another’s, noses fitting together and foreheads pressed as Annette kept her eyes closed. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart, feel Calum against her, and inhale the delicious scent of his woodsy, summery cologne and something else that was just him and maybe even more inviting. Annette had no idea what the hell just happened, but she was glad it did.

She couldn’t stay though, no matter how much she wanted to. She needed to go home and maybe think of what she’d just done on the drive back, and maybe hope that the tingling sensation of her lips never went away as she found herself squeezing Calum’s slender wrists under her grasp. “Um.” Annette let out a short, breathless laugh, lips curled into a flustered grin and squeezing her closed eyes before opening them. Her gaze immediately went to Calum’s lips, the ones she’d just kissed, the urge to do so again rushing back powerfully. Annette took a breath as Calum brushed his nose against hers, humming quietly in response, as she finally found the reluctant words, “I should go.”

Against her, Calum brushed his thumbs across her cheeks. His voice was low with an enticing rasp as he responded, “Sounds like a terrible idea.”

Annette let out another breathless giggle as her hands dropping from his wrists and lowered to where his arms were bent at his elbows. Somehow, she found it in herself to pull away, head tilting back ever so slightly to look at him, stomach twisting happily to see his brown eyes already looking at her. She couldn’t be entirely sure if he was looking at her so adoring because he truly meant it or because he was drunk, but Annette didn’t want to ruin the moment by thinking about it. God, she needed to go.

“I’ll, uh, text you when I get home?” Annette responded, her words coming out as a question as she peered up at him, unsure if the offer still stood.

“Please.” He sounded far too earnest for someone who was drunk, and it didn’t make falling for him any harder.

Annette reluctantly pulled away from him, hands dropping from him as he did the same, gazing licking as she offered him a smile. Calum returned it, boyish and lazy, as he crossed his arms over his chest like he didn’t know what to do with them now that his hands weren’t on her.

He watched her go, and Annette could feel his gaze burning into her back as she approached the elevator at the end of the short hall. It opened up right away, and when she stepped in and turned around, her heart jumped at the sight of Calum, leaning out of his doorway to keep his eyes on her. She saw him grin, raising his hand in a two finger salute as the doors slid closed, and Annette desperately wanted to pry them open and go back to Calum.

Trying to figure out if that was just a drunken kiss or if it meant something would only dampen her mood. So Annette put it of her mind, and only focused on the way her lips still tingled and burned from Calum’s own. The smile remained on her face her entire journey home, practically permanently glued when she texted Calum she reached safely, as promised, and he returned it with a semi coherent Good. Night, doll.

*****

“Your two favorite people are right here. What do you keep looking at your phone for, Hemmings?”

Calum’s tease received an absent smile from Luke, though it faltered quickly as a worried expression crossed over his face and he placed his phone on the table. “Just checking in on Annette,” he sighed, leaning back and propping his elbow on the armrest of his chair, running his hand down his face.

Upon noticing Luke’s expression, and hearing his words, the smile on Calum’s face lessened as his eyebrows drew together, gaze flickering over to Sierra. His confusion grew when he saw the understanding expression on her face, and Calum sat up as he looked at Luke sitting diagonal of him. “Is she okay?” he asked, wondering what could prompt Luke to want to check in on her.

Luke’s blue eyes met Calum’s brown, the hesitation that crossed over his face only making Calum anxious as he frowned impatiently. “It’s just—it’s a tough day for her,” Luke answered, hand running through his blonde curls, a nervous habit of his. When he took in the look Calum was giving him, wanting an explanation, Luke held back the ill-timed yet absent chuckle that almost threatened to escape him. Calum’s interest in Annette was obvious, was endearing, which was why Luke found himself admitting, “It’s the anniversary of her parents’ death.”

The expression on Calum’s face went from blank to disbelieving in under a second, Luke’s words registering a bit too painfully in his head. Painfully because it was unexpected and because once Calum understood the heavy weight behind them, he felt his heart drop to the pit of his stomach for Annette. For a split, desperate second Calum was hoping Luke was delivering the punch line of a sick joke, but the somber expression on his face—and on Sierra’s—told Calum his best friend’s words were that of a sad, horrible truth.

He stared at Luke, incredulous and bewildered, eyebrows drawn together in a frown over widened eyes as he tried to make sense of what he’d just been told. The busy hum of the restaurant the three of them were in dissipated as a flurry of thoughts whirled in Calum’s head, driven by disbelief and even a hint of panic. Annette’s parents were dead and Calum had no idea.

Not that he had any business in knowing, because as much as this newfound information shocked him and even had his heart dropping, what astounded Calum even more was Annette herself. This girl who was kind of shy but had the prettiest, infectious smile had suffered a loss Calum couldn’t ever imagine going through. Of course he didn’t expect her to walk around advertising the painful fact, but knowing Annette carried something as heavy as that with her and didn’t let it show made his throat tighten.

Calum cared for her, more than he thought he would when they first met, his feelings for her growing unexpectedly and out of left field. Annette drew him in after Calum got his head out of his ass and started hanging out with her, getting to know her and her taste for weird colored drinks. She was quiet but chatted when she was comfortable, much like Calum, and the more he hung out with her, the more he realized how easy and effortless it was with Annette.

So effortless that Calum had no idea he was falling for her until the alcohol in his system pushed him far enough to kiss her. The fact that she reciprocated was thrilling.

At a loss for words, Calum licked his lips, throat dry as he asked Luke with his gaze dropping to the blonde’s phone, “Did she reply?”

The corner of Luke’s lips lifted as he disgruntledly clicked his tongue. “Yeah, she said she just got back from Jersey and was home now. Says she’s fine but, y’know, I’m worried.”

“Ten years,” Sierra murmured and Calum’s eyes drifted to her. Her dark eyed gaze was on the table absently, a sympathetic furrow in her eyebrows for the woman they were all talking about. Sierra pressed her lips together and gave a dejected shake of her head, finally looking at the two men as she let out a sigh. “That’s a big one.”

Calum barely knew Annette for ten weeks, yet he felt the powerful urge to be able to ease the ten years worth of pain she was probably going through.

Which is why after his late lunch with Luke and Sierra, he found himself standing in front of the dark green door of Annette’s apartment, lips rolled into his mouth as he debated on knocking. He’d texted her after he left the restaurant, his two messages of Are you home? and Luke told me being responded with Yeah, come over?

Now he was there, willing himself to knock. The last time Calum had seen Annette was two days after they’d kissed, and that was also two days ago. They were busy with work and school, and although they hadn’t seen each other, that didn’t mean they didn’t speak. It was as if nothing between them had changed when they texted, but there was an undertone present that reminded them of that moment at Calum’s door—as if they could forget.

Calum certainly couldn’t. He swore he could still feel the softness of Annette’s lips against his, taste the combination of whiskey and her watermelon flavored chapstick that he yearned for again. Kissing Annette had been an impulsive, drunken decision but it was not one he regretted. If anything, the alcohol pushed him to do something Calum had subconsciously been wanting to do for a while. Seeing Liana led him to wanting a drink, which turned into drinking a whole bottle of whiskey, which eventually led to him kissing Annette.

Seeing his ex hadn’t been the highlight of his day, but saying the day ended on a better note would be an understatement.

Standing in front of Annette’s door, though, Calum knew he didn’t want anything from her right now. He just wanted to be there for her. She may not have asked him to, and he feared he was imposing, but he cared about her in a way that tightened his throat at the thought of her hurting. Calum just wanted to offer any kind of help she may need. He wanted to try.

The door opened after his knuckles rapped against it twice, and Calum was greeted by the sight of Annette, his heart jumping into his throat. Her thick blonde hair was down in its loose waves, looking adoringly comfortable in an oversized sweater ready to swallow her with its sleeves too long and leggings underneath. Calum gazed at her, taking in intricate eyes and the long lashes framing them, as well as how her entire face had a flush to it. She’d been crying.

“Hey,” she greeted, and Calum felt the air rush out of his lungs as her lips quirked into a small smile. He didn’t want her to smile if she didn’t feel like it. Didn’t want her to smile at his expense. But he squashed that last thought when Annette’s eyes showed some relief, and she let go of the door knob when Calum took a step forward and lifted her arms. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He got the message instantly, pulling her in for the hug she was looking for with his arms around her shoulders, feeling Annette’s wrap around his torso. Her fruity scent enveloped him invitingly and Calum pressed his cheek to the top of her head, feeling her own press against his chest and her hands on his back. They held each other close, soaking in the other’s warmth, and Calum’s eyes slipped shut as he physically felt Annette let out a breath, the tension in her body seeming to release with it as she melted into him, the heaviness of her day, her life, weighing against her.

Annette’s voice was small, muffled against the material of his sweatshirt as she said, “I’m probably not the best company right now.”

Calum let out a gentle scoff, arms still around her securely, as he assured, “I’ll be here anyway.”

They eventually ended up on the carpeted floor of her living room, settled on the floor cushions with each of them nursing a cup of tea. Colin wasn’t home, the two of them having the apartment to themselves, the windows closed to keep the heat in as well as the noise of the city outside. It was quiet in the apartment, the only sound coming from the consistent ticking of the clock on the wall near the TV and the occasional clinks of Calum’s rings hitting the ceramic mug every time he adjusted his grip.

“I didn’t think I’d cry a lot today.” Annette’s voice was gentle, not quite shattering the silence but pushing through it. Calum glanced at her, sitting right next to him with their backs against the couch, but her head was slightly bowed and gaze was on her mug of tea. He saw the way the corner of her lips tilted, the smile humorless and not at all fitting her. “But ten years. . . It’s big, isn’t it? Feels like a lifetime.”

Calum stayed quiet, because she needed this. She wanted to talk and he wanted to listen.

“The first couple of years were awful, y’know?” she continued after drawing a breath, lips twisting to the side. “I was the angriest teen you’d meet.” Annette let out a short laugh at that, casting a glance at Calum, noting the attentive way he was listening, never looking away. She looked ahead, his gaze weighing on her comfortingly. “I was pissed that it was my parents who got killed in a car accident and that I had to live with my aunt and uncle and everything was screwed up. Twelve year old me was pissed and over the past few years, I decided I didn’t ever wanna feel like that again. Life was too damn short to stay feeling that way.”

Annette paused as she inhaled deeply, the tendons in her neck tensing as she blinked a few times, and Calum knew her to be fighting back tears. His eyebrows drew together as he watched her keep herself together, wanting to tell her it was okay if she couldn’t. Instead he rested his mug in the space between his thighs and reached his left hand over, grasping onto Annette’s right as he laced their fingers together. She looked down at the newfound source of warmth, a smile quirking at her lips.

“They missed out on so much,” she continued after swallowing with a quick frown. “Track meets, high school graduation, first love, first heartbreak, getting into college. All the things I took their presence in for granted and it hurt every time I went through those things and they weren’t there to support me but it got easier over time. But—” Her throat was tight, voice straining to fight through the emotions closing her up, and Calum felt the subtle burn in his eyes. He wasn’t an emotional guy other than on paper, but watching Annette reminisce the loss of her parents sent a shocking stab of pain throughout his body he hadn’t expected. It hurt seeing her hurt. She squeezed his hand, and he was quick to return the gesture. “Realizing it’s been an entire decade since they’ve passed is kind of. . . It’s unreal. And I hate that it just. . . Isn’t unreal.”

In that moment, Calum felt as though he understood Annette just a little bit better. Understood why she was always smiling and why she didn’t look like the kind of person who got pissed off easily—why she forgave him so quickly instead of being turned off by his behavior at first. She’d spent too long being angry and upset—rightfully so—that she minimized those kind of emotions in other circumstances where she knew she’d be better off just letting it go. The world was trying enough to give someone plenty of reasons to be angry; why hold onto shit that didn’t matter in the long run?

“Holding onto anger like that is exhausting,” Annette spoke up, an airy laugh escaping her as she did so, turning her head to look at him with that same smile she always wore, though this time a hint of sadness curved at her lips, accompanying the tired look in her bluish-brown eyes. Her long eyelashes seemed damp with tears. She offered a single shouldered shrug. “And holding grudges over the smaller shit doesn’t help anyone. When you allow yourself to move on from the little things, it kind of gives you room to make your way through the pain that feels like it’s always holding you back.” The something crossed across her glassy eyes, something akin to sheepishness that Calum caught before Annette quickly dropped her gaze back down to the mug. Quietly, she added in a mumble, “I probably sound stupid.”

“Nope.” Calum shook his head, instantly killing that train of thought before it could go off the rails. With his free hand, he moved aside his mug so he could shift his body to face him. He made sure Annette’s mug was out of the way as well as he grabbed onto her other hand, getting her to look at him. Calum’s expression was serious, but kind as he admired the softness of her skin touching his. “Saying you sound stupid is not giving yourself any credit for how strong you are. I can’t imagine going through a loss like that at the age you did.” He noted the way her lower lip trembled at her words, though she offered a grateful smile, and Calum squeezed her hands. “Your parents would be proud of you for pushing through, Annie.”

Something flashed across her eyes just then, something nostalgic and sad as her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly and a small smile curled at her lips. She looked down at their joined hands and let out a breathless puff of laughter. “No one’s called me that since my parents passed. They were the only ones who called me Annie.”

The guilt twisted at Calum’s gut as he tried to pull back, lips parting as he took a breath. “Oh—I’m sorry, I—”

“No, no,” Annette was quick to soothe, looking up at him with a smile lighter than the ones from before, this one not carrying the pain of her parents’ memory. It was a real Annette smile, the kind that rendered him breathless. She averted her gaze briefly before shyly murmuring, “I like when you say it.”

Her words had Calum smiling in return, seeing a glimpse of the shy and adoring girl he’d come to know, but this wasn’t about Annette making him smile. It was meant to be the other way around. So he tried in the best way he knew how.

“You know what else I know that you like?” Calum asked, raising an eyebrow as a smile quirked at the corner of his lips. Annette sniffled, tears gone and cheeks flushed, as she raised her eyebrows in question. His smile was gentle, kind, voice a soothing murmur as he let go of one of her hands to push some locks of blonde hair behind her ear. The back of Calum’s finger grazed along her cheek as he tilted his head down at her, soft gaze on her as he said, “I know you like it when I sing.”

Annette seemed to understand exactly where Calum was going with this, forehead smoothing out as the grateful smile on her lips returned, chest sinking as she let out a quiet laugh that Calum wanted to hear more of. He easily mirrored her smile, glad to see some of that light return in her eyes, as he briefly cupped her cheek before whispering, “Come on.” His words were followed by Calum shifting them, arms wrapping around Annette and pulling her into his chest, back against him. His arm was loosely across her collarbones and Annette held his arm in her hands and settled against him, feeling the line of his jaw against her temple as his other arm settled across her waist. His warmth against her had an instant reaction from Annette, relaxing her, and Calum brushed his lips against her temple before asking, “Any requests?”

Annette hummed, happy and comfortable, as her fingers tapped against his arm. “Are we talking originals?”

He chuckled, the deep sound vibrating against Annette. Calum couldn’t help but think how comfortable he was here, with Annette in his arms, her body providing more warmth than the tea. He was engulfed in her just like she was embraced by him and Calum was realizing, without pause, there was no other place he’d rather be. “We’re talkin’ anything you want, sweetheart.”

She was silent for a moment before saying, “That one song you had. . . It was really pretty. Uh. . . Waste The Night.”

Calum grinned, lips brushing against her temple once more. “Got it,” he said,taking a breath before he began singing the familiar sound. For the first time, Annette heard Calum just as him; just his voice, with no instruments nor the accentuating of a microphone. And it made this day a little bit easier.

*****

There was a regular customer at Blue’s who, upon sight, brought a grin onto Calum’s face without even trying. Whether it was when he was seated at a table and heard the jingle of the bell and saw her walk in, or when he was on stage and her face stood out in the small crowd—Calum’s eyes found hers and the smile she brought out was one he couldn’t ever hope to stop. It felt different. It felt good.

It was noticeable, the change in him, how the smile came more easily to his face when Annette was around. To the point where the employees at Blue’s noticed and made comments about it and instead of rolling his eyes. . . It only widened Calum’s smile more. And it felt real. He felt like himself before Liana and the heartbreak. He felt happy and good and it all had to do with Annette making him the happiest he could be for the past three months.

Stepping off the small stage at Blue’s, Calum took a minute to put his guitar back in its case before picking it up and walking over to the pretty girl sitting at one of the back tables, a smile on her face as he approached her. “Hey,” he greeted her with a grin, resting his guitar on the floor and leaning it against the table. Calum ducked to press a quick kiss to Annette’s lips, pulling away and standing straight as he raised an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Annette hummed, shooting him a teasing smile as she leaned back in her seat. “Because no one volunteers to work on New Years Eve.”

Calum scoffed with a roll of his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. “This doesn’t even count as work,” he pointed out, earning a light laugh from her. His gaze then dropped to the table and Calum smiled as he gestured to the cup. “And look, you even got your froo-froo drink!”

“Stop,” Annette pouted at him before breaking out into a grin as Calum shook his head with his own, the smile bringing out those adorable crinkles she loved. “Are you ready to go? We still have to get ready for Ashton’s party.”

“Yeah, let me go to the bathroom real quick,” Calum said and Annette nodded as he turned and went, disappearing towards the back of the cafe to where the bathrooms were.

She waited for him while busying herself on her phone, thought it was short lived when a voice spoke up, “I didn’t think he was capable of still smiling like that.”

Annette looked up, gaze landing on the woman standing by the table, her eyebrows drawing together as she tried to place the vaguely familiar face. It clicked suddenly as the crease in Annette’s forehead smoothed, realizing the woman who had spoken was Liana, Calum’s ex who’d told him, once upon a time, he was emotionally unavailable.

He’s told her about Liana, about how she’d found comfort and solace with some other guy when she was still with Calum. She reasoned that it was because she was lonely, because Calum wasn’t as invested in her and their relationship as she was, and maybe Calum should’ve tried harder, but it also didn’t give her a reason to run into the arms of someone else.

Annette had been angry on Calum’s behalf. But being with him now. . . Liana couldn’t have been more wrong about him.

Keeping her tone kind, as it always was, Annette responded, “He’s always been capable.” She reached for her drink. “It probably just took the right person to bring it out,” Annette added lightly, taking a sip of her iced tea through the straw.

Glancing up, Annette took in the way Liana raised her eyebrows at Annette’s sweetly delivered snide comment. She felt her heart jump a bit, not entirely one to make remarks like such directed at someone, but Annette wasn’t going to let Calum’s ex talk rudely about him to his back—to his girlfriend. Especially when Annette knew how much Liana hurt him, and while Calum got some great songs out of that heartbreak, it was something she uselessly wished she could’ve protected him from.

Annette wasn’t one to hold onto anger, but she was definitely capable of telling someone to fuck off—albeit, more kindly.

Trying to recover, Liana let out a forced chuckle. “It was just a joke.”

Annette pursed her lips, the sweet taste of her drink lingering on her tongue as she clicked it. “Oh, but it wasn’t.” She was surprised at herself for not feeling intimidated by the woman standing in heels over her seated figure, easily looking up at Liana with a cool expression. Surprised and proud of herself. “You don’t mess with someone and play it off as a joke. Especially if you see them better off afterwards.” One corner of her lip quirking up into an empty smile, Annette offered a single shrug as she added, “They’re happier despite what you did, not because of it.”

Liana looked disgruntled at Annette’s words, lips parting and eyebrows drawing together as she tried to find the right words to respond with. Annette doubted she had them. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe not,” Annette agreed with a nod, her eyes on Liana’s. “But Calum’s told me enough.” Annette’s eyes glanced towards the back of the cafe, hoping Calum didn’t come out just yet. “And from what he’s said to me, I know it’d be better if he didn’t see you.”

She kept her gaze steady with Liana’s, not letting the other woman intimidate her. Annette couldn’t entirely believe the way she’d spoken, but when it came to Calum, Annette couldn’t seem to shut up. Defending him came naturally, easily, and she didn’t regret a single word that left her during that conversation. And she let Liana know that with the cool, unwavering look she was giving her.

Of course, Liana didn’t seem to appreciate it. She lifted her shoulders, as if giving herself a backbone, probably feeling good about having to literally look down at Annette, not that that made Annette feel small. In this moment, she wasn’t. With a sneer, Liana said, “Hope his feelings don’t crap out on him again. He can be dysfunctional that way.”

Annette clenched her jaw at that, quite literally having to bite her tongue from snapping back at the brunette who was now walking away. But Annette was quick to calm herself down as she released a breath through her nose. The playlist Calum made for her for Christmas, all consisting of new songs he’d written, all about her, and recorder for her to listen to, would easily prove Liana wrong. But that was for Annette to enjoy.

She hadn’t realized she’d been smiling until Calum was in front of her, tugging at the hem of his leather jacket as he raised an eyebrow at her. “What’re you smiling at, weirdo?”

With a laugh and a roll of her eyes, she shook her head and stood up. “Nothing. Just excited about this party,” she dismissed, feeling a calmness settle over her as Calum grabbed his guitar case and allowed his free arm to rest over her shoulders.

Hours later, Annette stood by the large windows of Ashton’s living room, her eyes taking in the city before them past the reflection of the inside of the apartment where the lights were on and people were mingling. The entire city was partying—it was damn near hell getting from her apartment to Ashton’s since everyone was headed to Times Square—but Annette appreciated being in the warmth and comfort of the apartment than the bitter cold of New York. She also enjoyed watching the vague flurries of snow falling from the sky, high above the skyscrapers around them.

As she swallowed her sip of whatever fruity, alcoholic mixed drink Luke had concocted, Annette felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist and a somewhat scruffy chin deliciously scraping against the skin of her neck. “You good, Annie?” Calum’s deep, quiet voice questioned, keeping her back against his chest as his voice ran smoothly—she’d rather hear that than the music currently playing.

Annette leaned her head back, the smile quirking up her lips at him and the use of the nickname as she placed her left hand on top of both of his, right hand holding the cup. “Mhm,” she hummed, tilting her head slightly to press her lips in a quick kiss to his cheek. She loved kissing his cheeks. “How much longer until midnight?”

Calum hummed thoughtfully as he unwound one arm from around her, digging into his pocket to pull out his phone and bring it around so Annette could see the screen that read 11:58. Annette let out an excited, almost childlike gasp. “It’s almost time!”

Chuckling, Calum pressed his own lips to her jaw, widening Annette’s grin as she felt his scruff scratch against her some more, adding to the sensation of his soft lips. “Why do you think I came to find you?” She let out a light giggle, turning in his arms to face him, though Calum’s arms remained around her. Looking down at her, Calum tilted his head and asked, “So did you decide on your New Years’ resolution?”

“I did,” Annette grinned, the excited glint returning in her eyes as she practically bounced on her heel clad fleet, Calum’s grip on her keeping her in place as he let out a small whoa, eyeing her cup warily, though the smile remained present. Annette already knew of Calum’s resolution, since he’d told her yesterday, which was to secure a proper job at the label he currently had an internship at. Annette knew he could do it. He raised his eyebrows expectantly and she pressed a hand to his chest. “I think this is the year when I’m finally gonna pull out one of the thousands of ideas in my journal and write that damn book.” She poked him, shooting him a knowing, pointed look. “I’ve finally got some inspiration.”

Calum’s questioning raised eyebrows turned to surprised, excited ones that mirrored the brightness of Annette’s grin, her last comment sending his heart into a frenzy like she always did. The thrill she felt over her resolution brought a grin to Calum’s face, knowing that this was something she’s been wanting to do for a while, and planting the idea was the first step. “Seriously?” Calum grinned, widening so his crinkles appeared and he let out a delighted laugh. “Annie, that’s exciting, love.” He gave her a squeeze, eliciting a giggle. “I’m proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” Annette repeated with a laugh, tilting her head as she gazed at him, eyes glinting. “I haven’t even started. It’s just a resolution for now.”

“It’s the first step,” he told her firmly, giving her a look that spoke of how much he believed in his words and, more importantly, in her. His grin returned. “I can’t wait to read your first draft.”

Annette scoffed. “No way. You’ll get the final one,” she told him. Calum’s pout and whatever he was about to say next was cut off when everyone started counting down from ten, the announcement of the countdown even beginning something that they both missed. She shot Calum a wink, something that only made him grin as she started, “Ten. . . Nine. . .”

Calum shot her a wry grin, though the amusement lit up his dark eyes as he joined in with a teasing roll of his eyes, his hands pressed to her lower back as everyone’s voices echoed throughout the apartment. The two of them remained by the windows, glancing around to see everyone watching the TV that was playing the ball drop happening live, but Annette had seen it all the time—had even gone to it once with Colin and a few friends, a time she didn’t like remembering because of the chaos—and she would much rather be looking at her stupidly gorgeous, talented boyfriend.

He gazed down at Annette, the boyish, easy grin on his face finding home whenever she was around. It wasn’t at all difficult for Calum to admit to himself how he felt around Annette; she had him wrapped around her finger, and often had him questioning how he even fucking functioned before her. Being with her felt as natural as breathing, and every time Annette walked into the room, it was like coming up for air. All he had to do now was let her know and, unsurprisingly, he wasn’t scared.

Five. Annette’s free hand reached up, brushing away a curl from Calum’s forehead, the smile on her face ever present.

Four. He adored the blue that was just on the outer edges of her otherwise light brown irises—Calum could never tire of looking at them, framed with long lashes, dancing with a glint he hoped to find the meaning behind.

Three. After she basically ate her lipstick off, Annette made sure to put on Calum’s favorite flavor of her chapstick—watermelon.

Two. His heart was thundering in his chest, the excitement of the moment getting to him. But Calum knew it mostly had to do with the woman in his arms. It was always because of her.

One. There was so much swimming in his eyes, Annette could tell. So much that was rendering her breathless.

“Happy New Year!”

Their grinning lips met as cheers surrounded them, the entire apartment—and city—bursting into celebration as Annette leaned into Calum and the feel of his soft lips against hers. His arms left her waist so his hands could gently cup her cheeks, keeping her close as they commemorated the new year together, both secretly hoping this was just the first of many. It had only been three months, but they were ready for more.

Calum pulled away slowly, forehead still against hers, deaf and uncaring to the party going on around them as the warm of her cheeks tingled at his skin. He opened his eyes, smiling when he noted Annette was already watching him through hooded ones of her own, and the sight of her eyes and dazed smile made it all the more easy for the words to honestly spill out. “I love you.”

It was there. It was out for her to do with as she pleased. Calum’s heart was thundering in his chest but it was for Annette to have, and he felt his stomach twist in mild nervousness as he waited for her response. She didn’t even have to say it back, Calum realized, as she stared at him with those pretty eyes taken over with shock and disbelief. As long as she knew how he felt about her, Calum was fine. Because he hadn’t been good at this in the past, hadn’t been vocal about his feelings enough. And he would be damned if he let the same mistakes get in the way of his relationship with Annette.

Slowly, a smile lifted her lips and Calum watched her, just an inch or so of space between them, hands still on her cheeks as a gentle laugh escaped her. She felt warm under his touch as she mused, “Starting the year off with a bang, huh?” Her words had Calum letting out a breathless laugh, the nervous tinge to it not lost on either of them, and Annette’s expression softened. She leaned forward, capturing his lips in another gentle, slow kiss that Calum savored, the tension in his stomach easing. He felt himself come undone when Annette whispered back, “I love you too, rockstar.”

She loved him too. He’d always been able to breathe easily around Annette. Now he felt like he was fucking flying.

Her use of the nickname accompanying the very words he wanted to hear her say had Calum letting out a relieved laugh, pulling his lower lip into his grinning mouth as he stared at Annette. She called him that as if he wasn’t just some local performer at some cafe in New York, but Calum would be lying if he said he didn’t love it. She made him feel important, and she made him want to be someone who was worthy of how she felt about him.

Annette loved him and he loved her. They’d become each other’s inspirations, unwittingly and unapologetically—and Calum was ready to prove he was worthy of that title for her just like she already was for him for as long as she’d allow him to.

tags: @irwinkitten @glitterprincelu @sweetcherrymike @meetashthere @valentinelrh @softforcal @astroashtonio @hereforlukescruff @c-sainthood @novacanecalum @captain-what-is-going-on @angelbbycal @singt0mecalum @hopelessxcynic @lfwallscouldtalk @bodhi-black @findingliam-o @softlrh @calntynes @calumsmermaid @erikamarie41 @quintodosuniversos @longlastingdaydream @babylon-corgis @lukehemmingsunflower @spideyseavey @imfuckin10plybud @livibii123 @pastelpapermoons @malumharmonies @conquerwhatliesahead92 @rotten-kandy @metangi @neigcthood @ohhmuke @old-zeppelin-shirt @5sos-and-hessa @trustmeimawhalebiologist @vxlentinecal @pettybassists @vaporshawn @lu-my-golden-boi @buggy-blogs @visualm3nte @isabella-mae13 @dontjinx-it @lifeakaharry @neonweeknds @antisocialbandmate @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave @calpalbby @grreatgooglymoogly @sunnysideblog @cocktail-calum @miahelizaaabeth @madelynerin @dramallamawithsparkles @hzi0 @aulxna @mermaiden004 @theagenderwhocriedwolf @kaytiebug14 @hoodskillerqueen @bitchinbabylon @empathycth @xhaileyreneex @inlovehoodx @calistheloml @aestheticrelated @bloodlinecal @sublimehood @madbomb @raabiac @britnicole11 @outofmylimitcal @fluffsshawn @calumculture @sexgodashton

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