#and all pads come with th same thing too. like i get that its technically not harming anyone but please man cmon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

feelingfredly · 4 years

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Sometimes Not Seeing Is Believing

Bam, bam, bam. The loft door rattled in its track.

“Come on, dude… open the door.” Stiles yelled; frustration lanced through the words, but Derek didn’t move.

“I know you’re home,” more rustling, Stiles's hands were full of something, “and if you wanted to pretend you weren’t home, you shouldn’t have left the Camaro out front. Now open the damn door or I’m going to drop all this shit and the place is going to stink of l’eau de wolfsbane for weeks.”

Derek listened as Stiles juggled things from hand to hand and sighed. Which was worse, Stiles or wolfsbane? Stiles or… Yeah, he’d take the wolfsbane. It would hurt less.

He waited, listening as the bags shifted again, and rolled his eyes when he heard keys clinking together as Stiles finally gave up on him and unlocked the door for himself. The very same door whose locks he had just changed for the fourth time. In six months. He wondered if there was a spell Stiles used to copy his keys. He was too much of a spaz to be such a successful pickpocket.

“I’m not in the mood, Stiles.”

Long limbs flailed their way across the living room until Stiles finally coasted to a stop at the table, dumping bags and boxes on the surface, the smell of Thai mixing with wolfsbane and cinnamon and lightning. It shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was, but this was Stiles and for some reason rules didn’t apply to Stiles.

“You’re never in the mood, Sourwolf,” he snarked, a pink lip curled up in a grin that was half-mocking half serious. “If I didn’t know Braedon better, I’d recommend you get the hardware checked out, but clearly it’s a software problem, or you wouldn’t be such an asshole about it all the time.”

Derek refused to get angry; it had stopped keeping the younger man away a long time ago, and it was exhausting. “You know a lot about assholes?”

Stiles gave him a carefully casual look, his eyes just a little bigger than usual, but Derek could hear the stutter in his heartbeat as he responded. “Assholes? If you mean the coffeeshop kind or the grocery store kind, then yeah, I run into them all the time. But, like real assholes? Hardware kinds of assholes? I know as much as the next sexually curious bi-guy, but if you’re looking for something deeper—Oh my God, I just said deeper about your asshole—shit. No.” He scrubbed a hand through the long mop of hair that insisted on flopping over his forehead. “Assholes, right. Because if you do have an actual hardware problem, I could probably track down one of Deaton’s contacts and we could get you…”

Derek watched as the chaos unfolded in front of him, the blush that tinged the tips of Stiles's ears, and the way his voice dropped and graveled out as he spoke.

“They say,” he said, a little louder than usual, “if you run into an asshole in the morning, you run into an asshole.” Derek’s tone cut straight through the babble, and Stiles stared at him, surprised and confused at the conversational hijacking.

“Dude, that’s like Tautology 101, right?”

Amber eyes fixed on him, now curious and waiting for what would come next, and Derek forced himself to hold the gaze.

“Right, right, but it’s the next part that’s important.”

Stiles leaned forward, his chest a little out over the edge of the counter, and Derek noticed the way his nipples pressed against the fabric of his thin shirt, how the stretched-out neck showed the shadow along his clavicle, how it framed the hummingbird beating of the pulse point at the base of his throat.

“Okay,” he said. “Go on.”

“So, if you run into an asshole in the morning, you run into an asshole. But if you run into assholes all day—like at the coffee shop or the grocery or my apartment—then then you’re the asshole.”

Derek could see the wheels turning and felt a burst of satisfaction when Stiles froze as the penny dropped.

“Oh my God, Dude. You’re such an asshole.” Amber eyes disappeared in crinkled laugh lines, shoulders shaking, and floppy hair… flopping, and Derek couldn’t help the tightness that squeezed his lungs, his breath short and his heart kicking up a beat.

“And there’s my point made.” Derek rested a hip on the edge of the table, forcing himself back to blasé, and looked at the mess. “What is all this?”

Stiles was still staring at him stunned, his jaw now slack, pink lips parted, and Derek fought the urge to reach over and snap it shut or thumb it further open. He wanted to thrust the callused pad of his finger against Stiles's tongue and teeth, to hold his mouth captive and revel in its wet heat. He wanted to… well, he just wanted.

A moment passed, and then another, and suddenly Stiles was back with him, laughter gone and the full force of his attention a heavy weight in the echoing space between them.

“Well this,” he indicated the plastic bags full of takeout, “is dinner from that new place over on 4th. Peter mentioned that you’d been there and liked it, so I figured it was a suitable bribe for the rest of it.”

Thanks Peter, Derek thought tiredly. Peter and Stiles had been spending time together since the nogitsune was killed. He’d wondered about it in the beginning, half-afraid that Stiles was going to try to commit suicide by werewolf, but it made a strange kind of sense. Peter knew what it was like to be helplessly trapped in his own body, and although neither of them liked to admit it, they were people who lived their lives hyperaware of the chessboard that stretched out around them. They spent their days evaluating other people for their strengths and weaknesses and cataloging the weaknesses for the next time someone needed to be taken out of the game. As the Hale Pack’s Left Hand, Peter had been trained to ruthlessness from childhood. He espoused the belief that everything was a weapon if you knew how to wield it, and then the fire had stripped away any of his remaining hesitance to wield those weapons to their greatest destruction; the nogitsune had burned away Stiles's. They were predators and they recognized themselves in each other, and instead of fear or awkwardness they found companionship.

The world should be terrified; Derek was. He was also more than a little jealous of their closeness, but that was an entirely different problem.

“The rest of it? Including whichever one of these things reeks of wolfsbane? I’m not sure Thai is enough of a bribe for me to let you poison me.”

Stiles gave him a lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t poison you, Der.” His grin turned sharp and sharklike. “At least not much. I just need to test it on you to make sure it will work on other weres.”

Derek snorted. “And you didn’t think Peter would be a better target for your experiments?”

That got him a shrugged shoulder. “He offered, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Peter offered? To let Stiles poison him?

“Okay,” he looked at the younger man suspiciously, “you’ve got my attention. That requires an explanation. Or two. Uncle Peter—my Uncle Peter—offered to let you poison him? And you turned him down? I don’t follow.”

Stiles's grin softened a little, the shark-teeth disappearing behind pink lips, but the sharpness was still there in his smile. It was always there. Derek dreamed of that smile. Of those sharp eyes and teeth. “I know, I know. It seems too good to be true, but really, it isn’t a good idea.”

“And poisoning me is?” Derek poked the Gordian knot of Stiles's words harder. When Stiles danced around something like this it was never a good thing. Better to get it all out in the open and work backwards from no.

“Now don’t get your knickers in a knot, Grumpywolf. This isn’t like normally poisoning someone. I mean it is poisonous, but then so is water in the right situation. Or the wrong situation? You know, drowning, water intoxication, all that jazz?”

“No, Stiles,” Derek sighed. He sighed a lot these days. It was a bad habit he picked up from having been around too many teenagers over the past few years. “I don’t know what you mean by all that jazz. Enlighten me.”

Stiles nodded, and somehow having been given permission to spew data, instead his brain settled down and focused. “Poisoning is when any substance interferes with normal body functions after it is swallowed, inhaled, injected, or absorbed, lots of things can be poisons. Technically. So, I’ve managed to cobble together a combination of wolfsbane, kanima skin—don’t ask how I got it, you don’t want to know—and a few other wonders of the botanical and magical world and have created an incredibly potentially poisonous invisibility potion.”

Derek stiffened. “An invisibility potion?”

Stiles laughed a little shakily, waving his hands around, long fingers wiggling in his best abracadabra kind of motion. “I know right? Harry Potter eat your heart out. But really… it worked for me—mostly—but because it’s got a fairly massive amount of aconite in it, I’m worried about using it on any of our moon-affected family and friends. Plus, I don’t think Peter really needs the temptation of being able to turn invisible whenever he wants to. I mean, he’s hard enough to keep track of when I can see him. He doesn’t need any help creeping.”

An invisible Peter. Derek shuddered. Now that was a terrifying thought. Actually, an invisible Stiles was almost as terrifying. There was no telling what he’d get into and Derek wouldn’t be able to see him, to protect him, to… hang on a second. He said it worked for him. That meant that he--

“Are you insane?” Derek’s voice cracked under the strain of not yelling, the racing train of his thoughts running through all the ways that could’ve gone wrong, and he wouldn’t even have known that Stiles was in danger. His heart tried to beat its way out of his chest, and he felt his claws dig into the wooden tabletop. “Making something that dangerous without telling anyone?”

“Hey now, hold up, Sourwolf,” Stiles grabbed his hand, pulling Derek back to himself in a rush. “No need to get all growly. We’re in total agreement: no superpowers for Peter.”

Derek sucked in a breath, the heat of Stiles's hand on his drawing his focus, and he flashed his eyes angrily. “Kind of missing the point here, genius.” He forced himself to breathe. “I’m upset that you drank something poisonous. Superpowers for Peter would be better than you being dead.” His wolf howled in the back of his mind, protective and frustrated and helpless. So damn helpless when it came to Stiles. Didn’t the man have any sense of self-preservation? “So, before I call the Sheriff and start telling him things you would really rather he not know, you’d better start explaining. Now.”

He smelled the surprise rolling off the younger man, Derek’s reaction clearly unexpected, and he felt a stab of remorse. Over the years that Stiles ran with the pack his health and safety had often been an afterthought rather than a priority. He’d sacrificed his body time and again without appreciation or recognition. Derek was the first to admit that he had been a lousy Alpha to the human in the pack, and later, after he’d lost his Alpha spark, he’d abandoned Beacon Hills and everyone in it. Derek had wandered the world with Cora and Braedon finding himself, picking up the pieces of his own life, but he’d never been there to help pick up the pieces of Stiles's, never been there to help or hold or heal him, and now, for his sins, he couldn’t change the dynamic no matter how he ached to.

“Huh.” The hand resting on his pulled away finally and he watched it as Stiles pushed it shakily through his hair. “First off, I guess, I was never in any danger, so pulling the Dad card is totally unnecessary, dude. My, uh, my spark has gotten strong enough that I can pretty much burn out any poison in my system if I know what it is and that it’s there, so my testing the potion for its poison factor was a non-thing. Not a nothing, because the test was definitely a something, but it wasn’t a thing thing. Like a capital T thing. And as you can see, I didn’t turn into an ever-loving, blue-eyed Thing—although Peter’s eyes are blue and he’d probably love that comparison. He’d probably turn it into some sort of sex stamina reference and then we’d never hear the end of it.—the”

“Stiles.” Derek rubbed his eyes and sighed. Again. “Focus.”

Pink tinged Stiles's cheeks and he could hear the skip-skip-pause of his heart as the younger man wound down and refocused on the subject at hand.

“Yeah. Right. So, the point was there was no danger for the Stiles and no need to include the Sheriff—which is still a low blow, even if he does know about the monthly fur-and-fang-a-thon—but still superpowers for Peter would be a tick in the bad column, so I’m here with Thai and potentially poisonous potions for you to consume. If you’re willing.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think my having superpowers would be a bad thing?”

Stiles snorted. “Dude. You having superpowers would be awesome! You’d be like Thor to Peter’s Loki. Iron Man to his Ultron. Superman to his Lex Luthor.”

“Batman to his Ra’s al Ghul?”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him way too seriously. “All the points for knowing the pairing, but no. You’re never going to be Batman.”

Derek snorted. “Let me guess. Because you’re Batman?” Stiles shook his head.

“Wrong again, my wolfy friend.” Derek watched as long fingers pulled a bag across the table, rattling the vials and jars inside. “The Bat’s a loner that’s given up on relationships. He has like two people at a time that he lets in his world—that’s all he has room for, and all he wants. More than he wants, sometimes. No, you’re not Batman because even though someone killed your family, they didn’t kill your hope. The world may kick your ass over and over again, but you just keep getting back up and putting the Jenga-tower of your life back together, and every time it’s a little better, taller, stronger, sometimes with new pieces you find and adopt along the way. It ain’t pretty, but it’s pretty awesome.”

Stiles's eyes glowed a little around their amber irises and Derek didn’t hear a single hiccup in his heartbeat. The faith he had… it took his breath away. Was there anything he wouldn’t be willing to do for this man? Probably not. He just had to hope that no one figured that out—especially Stiles.

“Whatever,” Derek said, pushing away from the table and grabbing the bag of Thai with a forced eye roll, and moving it to the other counter. “But I’m not eating until afterwards. Throwing up when the potion goes wrong would suck.”

Stiles nodded and grabbed his things, settling on a stool at the table. “Sounds reasonable to me, which doesn’t mean much but hey! It’s better than sounding unreasonable, which is where most of our plans start.”

There was no point in arguing. It was true.

“So, this potion… I’m assuming that you have more of the wolfsbane you used in it to burn and dose me if it goes wrong.”

Stiles nodded as he pulled one of the jars from the bag and shook it before setting it out with the other assorting jars lined up in front of him. “I’ve actually already burned a couple of blooms and have them ready to go. I’m pretty positive that you won’t feel anything from the aconite—it should be completely neutralized now that it’s bonded with the other ingredients—but I’ve been absolutely positive about things that have gone sideways before, as Scott can attest.”

“Hell, I can attest to that.” Derek crossed his arms across his chest. “Remember the harpy repellant?”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something—probably to argue again that anyone that wasn’t an expert in medieval Latin could have mixed up the recipes for a repellant and an attractant, again—but the words faded as his gaze lingered on his biceps a little longer than usual. Derek’s wolf stretched and sniffed with interest at the faint spike of arousal that wove through the Spark’s scent, and he forced himself not to move, not to lean across the table and reel him in, not to cage him with the muscles that the younger man seemed to like so much. Once Derek crossed that line there would be no going back for him, and he wouldn’t let his wolf push him into grabbing something that would never satisfy.

He wanted all of Stiles or nothing, and he knew he’d probably never have all of him. Knowledge, though, did nothing to stop the yearning.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. But you have to admit that once we knew what I’d actually made instead of what I thought I was making, that it worked like fuck. I mean we had harpies for days. It was like a Best of Runescape monster farming mission. I swear Isaac leveled up three times that week.”

Derek shook his head. “You have the strangest way of looking at things.”

Stiles raised a shoulder rose in an unusually graceful shrug. “Silver linings, dude. You should embrace them.”

Derek didn’t say that he embraced the silver lining of having Stiles in the pack every day, regardless of how it tormented his wolf.

“Werewolves and silver don’t mix.” Stiles rolled his eyes and Derek gave him a half-hearted glare. “And don’t call me dude.”

“It’s Beacon Hills, Sourwolf,” he said. “The silver lining is the only thing that keeps me going.”

There was a stutter in Stiles's heartbeat, and Derek cast a sidelong glance at the Spark. It made sense that there was something important that kept him going, but it was strange that he felt the need to hide it. Derek respected secrets, though. He had more than enough of his own.

“Whatever works.” He let the subject drop and turned his attention back to the pile of magical detritus on the table. “So, are we going to do this or not?”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh. “Masochist. Can’t even wait for me to poison you.”

“Not a masochist,” he said, spreading his hands expansively. “More of a control freak. Peter isn’t the only one who likes to be in control of things you know.”

“Yeeeaaaahhh.” The word sounded like it had been stretched on a rack until it was just a breathless hiss. “Not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.”

Derek let the corner of his mouth twitch, grabbing the opportunity to tease a little. “You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it, Stiles. It’s like the boxers/briefs question you were obsessed with back in high school. The logical next step would be who’s a top and who’s,” he paused to let the words land between them, “not.”

The younger man shook his head, like the motion would dislodge the thoughts inside, and frowned. “Nope. Nope. Nope. Not playing that game with you, Sourwolf.”

The ‘wolf leaned in infinitesimally, enjoying watching the other man shift on his stool. “So, there’s another game you’d prefer to play. All you had to do was say something.”

The pink on Stiles's cheeks ripened to rose and the mottled edge of embarrassment spread beneath the collar of his shirt. The burnt cinnamon and ozone that was his constant scent deepened with musk and salt and the sticky iron scent of blood rushing close to the surface of moon-pale skin. Derek’s mouth watered, and he could feel the itch of his canines threatening to drop with his need to bite, to mark, to claim and keep.

Dark eyes, gleaming and liquid, fixed on him and he could feel the air thicken and slow around them, time bending around them, like a river passing over rocks.

“Keep that up and I’m not going to feel bad if this experiment goes badly.” Stiles's voice was rough, and Derek’s wolf howled with satisfaction knowing that he wasn’t the only one affected.

He considered teasing more, drawling something suggestive about experimentation or making sure Stiles never felt bad again, but he backed off instead. This was prey he couldn’t afford to spook.

“Well,” he said, rocking back on his heels to give the younger man breathing room, “I can’t have that. I am putting myself in your hands after all.”

It was more truth than he usually shared, but there was enough camouflage for it to look harmless.

Stiles stared, the heat of his blush still radiating even as the color faded, and Derek waited. His wolf wouldn’t let him drop his eyes, but he didn’t push beyond that challenge.

“Okay.” There was a world in the word, and he watched as the tightness slowly leached out of Stiles's shoulders as he sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s get this party started.”

Back in his safety zone, Stiles pushed the first of three vials across the table, keeping the larger jars of ash and herbs—and was that charcoal?—to the side, before tapping it with a long finger.

“This is the actual invisibility part of things. It doesn’t taste too bad, or at least it didn’t to my human taste buds. There’s no guarantee that you won’t smell or taste something I can’t, but it shouldn’t be too noxious. I measured the dose to give you about fifteen minutes of full activation. You’re bigger than I am, and this much lasted about twenty-five minutes for me.”

Derek picked up the vial. “Just drink it?”

“Yeah, dude, just knock it back like a bad wolfbane shot at one of the betas’ parties. It should have less aftertaste than the stuff they add to their liquor.”

“And instead of drunk I end up invisible.”

Stiles couldn’t hold back a little laugh. “That is the hope.”

Derek tilted the test tube and watched the silvery liquid run back and forth. “And the other ones?”

Stiles jerked a little, pulling his eyes away from where he’d been watching Derek’s hands, almost hypnotized. “Well, that’s the thing. For a human, making someone invisible is huge, but for weres there are other issues.”

Derek nodded. “Like heartbeat or scent.”

“Exactly.” Stiles held up a test tube of thick purple liquid. “This is my best attempt so far at something that will muffle the bio-sounds—breathing, heartbeat, joints popping, all that stuff. The other one,” he picked up the third, gently waving it, the shimmery rose gold liquid coating the glass, “masks scent. It’s going to be the hardest to test because scent isn’t a thing for me like it is for you, so I guess I could take it—”

“No.” Derek cut him off. The thought of not being able to smell Stiles's scent made him grit his teeth and fight back a growl. “It’d be better if we tested that with another were.”

“But I was thinking that as Alpha your senses are better than any of the betas, so if you can’t—”

“No, Stiles,” he refused. “I’ll try it later. We’re already pushing the parameters of a reasonable test with two senses.”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly ready to argue the points, but he backed down, probably realizing that he was lucky to be getting cooperation with as much as he was.

“I guess that’s okay,” he said, slipping the rose gold potion back into his bag, and Derek reached out and touched his hand.

“We’ll do it later. I would just be more comfortable doing this in stages.”

Something thoughtful moved behind Stiles's eyes and Derek watched as he came to some conclusion before he accepted everything.

“Sure, Sourwolf. It’s got to be a little weird for you, messing with the wolf senses and all. We’ll put the stealth potion back, too, for now.”

Derek wondered what Stiles would think if he knew just how much he messed with his wolf without the help of any potions, and how the wolf wanted more, not less.

“Probably a good idea. Isn’t like you’re the best judge of stealth either—I’ve seen twelve-year-olds on roller-skates sneak up on you.”

Long limbs flailed a little, like he could fend off the words that way.

“I was focused, Der. Focused.” Stiles huffed for a moment and then shrugged. “But to be fair, true enough. I should probably let you test those out against Peter. I’ve noticed that even though he doesn’t have the whole Alpha-upgrade anymore, he seems to be more aware of his surroundings than everyone else.”

Derek made a dismissive noise. His wolf didn’t like the careless praise of another’s skills. “Born not bitten. He’s had longer to get used to it; he doesn’t have to re-frame things when he notices them.”

He watched Stiles's face as the tumblers turned in the Spark’s head and could almost hear it when they clicked into place and another thought was unlocked.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. Kind of like learning a new language. In the beginning you’re doing that English to whatever translation in your head until one day it just sort of snaps into place and suddenly you’re thinking in Urdu.”

“Well, I’ve never studied Urdu…” He spread his fingers out on the tabletop and let the comment just hang, smothering a grin as he watched the man across the table’s eyes grow large in disbelief.

“Look who’s found his sense of humor finally!” The disbelief faded from Stiles's expression and was replaced by something that in the dark, when he was alone, Derek might call affection.

In that same dark, Derek might admit he wanted to see it again.

They sat there for a minute, the quiet stretching between them until it started to curl at the edges, and Derek knew he had to steer things away from the rocks just beneath the surface of his emotions.

He cleared his throat and uncorked the vial, the time for discussion past. He raised an eyebrow and Stiles raised one of his own in reply and that was it. He knocked back the few tablespoons of liquid, the scent of wolfsbane sharp but not overwhelming, and waited as the younger man watched him swallow.

Stiles's eyes followed the movement of his throat and when his forehead creased into a frown Derek thought the potion must have failed, but then a slow smile spread across the Spark’s face. He reached out, long fingers almost touching Derek’s hand on the table, but then pulled back at the last moment.

“Moonlight disappears down the hills, mountains vanish into fog, and Sourwolf vanishes not into poetry, but into thin air.” Stiles's voice was soft, almost somber. “Still with me, Der?”

Derek looked at his hands. He could still see them, so apparently the potion didn’t affect his view of himself, just how others perceived him. “Still here. Nothing actually looks different from my side of the equation.”

Stiles nodded. “That’s the way it’s supposed to work. No good being invisible if you misjudge your reach and knock shit over while you’re trying to be all sneaky. I know that’s probably more a me thing than a wolf thing, but still seemed like the better choice of action.”

Derek nodded and then realized how stupid that was. Stiles couldn’t see him. “I’m sure there are a few of the pack that would benefit from it as well. I know Isaac still doubts his senses sometimes.”

Amber eyes widened a little. “This is so freaky. I can hear you, but I can’t see you. Like, if I closed my eyes I could reach out and find you by touch, but just to look… you’re not there.”

Something about that image—Stiles reaching for him with his eyes closed—pleased Derek’s wolf. “Try it. See if you can find me with your eyes closed.”

He shifted his weight and moved a step to the left of where he’d been standing, but he left his hands trailing on the tabletop. Stiles tilted his head slightly and closed his eyes, listening, but Derek had been practicing stealth since he was a pup playing hide and seek in the Preserve.

A moment passed and he could almost hear Stiles's heartbeat in the silence. Another. And another. Suddenly a hand shot out and before he could move there were long fingers around his wrist, their grip tight and dry and slightly callused from wear.

“Caught you.”

The words were breathless and hoarse, and Derek froze at the sound. Then, he moved.

A twist and a quick levering of his arm had him free and he took two large steps to the side and then two forward, landing silently behind Stiles, ready to move again if he needed to.

“So,” the words, this time, came with a twist of a grin, “you want to play, hmm?”

Derek’s wolf pranced and pawed at the ground, wanting to nip and tug and pull and pin, but the man simply watched and waited as the Spark cocked his head to the side once more and listened.

He wasn’t sure what Stiles was listening to; he was holding his breath, and was standing stock still, no movement or sound of clothing to give him away, but somehow, he was fairly certain Stiles knew exactly where he was.

The Spark shifted his weight and pulled his hand closer to his body before spinning, his hand swinging out in an arc that ended with those damnable fingers wrapped around Derek’s arm just above his elbow.

“Caught you again, Sourwolf.”

His grin spread, taking over his face, and Derek found himself caught in the wild joy that gleamed in his eyes. Then, Stiles's face changed, the eyes focusing on him in a way they hadn’t, and he figured the potion had worn off.

“There you are!” The almost-fondness was back, and Derek couldn’t stop his answering smile.

“Here I am.” He looked down at the hand still gripping his arm. “I have to say, you’re a better hunter when you’re blind than I gave you credit for.”

Stiles let go slowly, fingers dragging over warm skin, until he’d pulled back completely, and all Derek could feel was the echo of his touch.

“It was strange. I couldn’t see you with my eyes, but I could feel where you were and could almost see where you were going to be.”

That was different. Stiles was a lot of things but tuned into his surroundings wasn’t one of them.

“Do you think you might have some connection to the potion because you made it? You could feel me through the magic?”

Stiles paused and looked at him, long and slow, and Derek realized he was looking at him with his spark and not with his eyes. He wondered what his wolf looked like.

“I suppose. Won’t know until we try it on someone else.”

There was a hesitance in his voice and Derek sighed. “Uncle Peter gets superpowers?”

Stiles grabbed the Thai and put it back on the table between them, dragging cartons and cutlery out before nodding reluctantly. “Looks that way, dude. At least this will give us a chance to test all the potions at once, now that we know that the potentially poisonous one isn’t actually, you know…” he waved his hand, “poisonous.”

Derek grabbed his Gka Prow Gai, frowning down into the carton thinking of all the ways this could go wrong. “Silver lining, I guess. And don’t call me dude.”

***

After five years you’d think he’d have lost the impulse to kill his uncle, but you’d be wrong. Very wrong.

“Darling,” Peter gushed, looking at the array of potion vials in his hand, “this is simply amazing. Let me take you away from here, Beacon Hills has nothing to offer you. We can go to Paris—I’m sure Chris would open the little pied-à-terre on the Rue de Ponthieu for us, and there’s a magick shop just down further along the Champs-Élysées that--”

Derek growled and Stiles rubbed a hand over his face. “No, Peter. We talked about this.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but that was before I truly grasped the depth and breadth of your talent. This,” he waved the invisibility potion back and forth dramatically, “this changes things.”

Stiles rolled his eyes hard enough that Derek could hear it. “Nothing has changed, Peter. Nothing. Back off. No means no. Consent is sexy. All those things. Write them on your hand if you need help remembering.”

“I’d be happy to help. I could carve them into the back of his hand with one of Chris’s wolfsbane blades,” Derek said, sotto voce. Peter, of course, heard him as if he’d shouted. Which was what he intended, so it all worked out.

“I just think that you’re undervaluing yourself, Stiles,” the older were said, ignoring Derek’s comment and lounging against the side of Stiles's jeep until he looked like an ad for one of those terrible smelling colognes that humans seemed to love. “With skills like these, you could take the world by storm.”

Stiles snorted. “You mean you could take the world by storm if you had constant and controlling access to skills like these, and I’ve told you before, I don’t need a manager, a gigolo, or an overgrown juvenile delinquent to help me prove my value.”

Derek smothered a grin. With his v-necks and his perfect tan Uncle Peter would make an excellent gigolo. Maybe they should set up a Craigslist ad for him. He’d have to suggest it to Stiles the next time Peter was being particularly annoying.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Peter shook his head, clearly dismayed at Stiles's short-sightedness. “Just promise me you’ll keep an open mind for when Beacon Hills finally loses its charm.”

The idea of Stiles wanting to leave made him itch, like his skin didn’t fit right. “I’m sure that Stiles could find a better offer if he decided that he didn’t want to be here anymore, Uncle Peter. He doesn’t have to settle for hauling his personal zombie plague around with him.”

He caught a flash of amber eyes, wide and surprised, and gritted his teeth. Stiles could have the world on a string. He should know Peter was never his best option.

“Be that as it may, nephew, Stiles isn’t foolish enough—”

“Can we get back to the testing?” Impatience, thy name is Stilinski. “I mean, all this back and forth about leaving is pointless because A) I’m not leaving Beacon Hills. I like it here. All my favorite people are here. And B) It isn’t like I’m going to take your advice anyway, Peter. The last time I did I ended up having to offer a favor to that skeevey ghoul guy that works for the FBI. Not something I want a repeat performance of, thanks.”

Derek jerked around and glared at his uncle. “You got him involved with a ghoul? Are you crazy?” He let out a huff of breath. “Don’t bother answering that. Of course, you’re crazy—we already knew that. Now we know that Stiles is crazy, too, because he’s definitely not stupid, and yet he lets you talk him into this crap.”

That got him an unrepentant grin. “It’s called plausible deniability, Sourwolf. Peter’s got broad shoulders—perfect for taking the blame for some of my less, ah, judicious decisions.”

Peter preened. “See Derek? Stiles needs me.”

It was going to take another five years to not want to kill him, at this rate. At least.

“What Stiles needs,” he said, trying not to think about Stiles's interest in his uncle’s shoulders, “is a guinea pig, and you are a pig. So, drink the damn potion, already. I’m going to sit over here and hope you get a rash from the wolfsbane. Who knows? The Universe might decide that today is my lucky day, and you’ll actually keel over from aconite poisoning.”

Stiles shifted his weight slightly, a chagrined look on his face. “Actually, Der, I was thinking about it, and I think that you should take the invisibility potion, and the other two this time, too, and Peter can do the whole Where’s Wolfie thing and see if he can sense you. It’s a better plan than you using your super-alpha senses to find him, because odds are good that we won’t be using this stuff to hide from alphas, just betas and omegas and puny little humans, so we need to see how a beta would fare against it.”

It made sense, but it still rankled. His wolf didn’t like allowing the older man to effectively hunt him. He wasn’t prey; he especially wasn’t Peter’s prey. It was what Stiles wanted, though, so he soothed the wolf with thoughts of satisfying his mate. It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to use all his advantages against the other wolf, though.

“That’s why I wanted to do this out here in the Preserve. Once the potions have kicked in, it should be a good road test for how it might be used in a fight situation.”

Peter stopped lounging. “So, you really have made this work? He was completely invisible?”

Stiles nodded. “Completely. There was some magical bleed through, I think. A vibration. I could almost feel where he was, but he hadn’t taken the sound dampener or the scent blocker, so those may solve the problem.”

Derek watched as the two of them discussed the finer points of the potions and he waited until they’d ironed out all the parameters for the experiment, and then braced himself for the terrible taste of wolfsbane and knocked back the three potions.

It was strange how similar Peter and Stiles's expressions were, until suddenly, they really, really weren’t the same at all. Peter’s eyes were wide and disbelieving, and Stiles's were bright, the amber lit with mischief and happiness as the invisibility kicked in.

“Told you, Zombiewolf. Now… you tell me what you can sense.” Stiles sounded smug, but honestly he deserved to be smug about this.

“Well,” Peter said, finally, “clearly I can’t see him. And I can’t hear his heartbeat or hear him breathing.”

Stiles nodded. “Good. Still just standing there, Der?”

A terrible, no good, very bad thought took root. He didn’t have to play along nicely, so he wasn’t going to. Screw Peter. He moved lightly to the side, circling a little towards the older wolf.

“Derek?” Stiles asked again, but Derek didn’t reply. The potion wasn’t supposed to block intentional communication, but he could play that off for a while.

“Huh, I wonder if the potion silenced his speech.”

Peter was scanning the area but still wasn’t focused on where he was standing. “It isn’t like we’d be missing much. My dear nephew isn’t exactly loquacious.”

“He talks when he needs to,” Stiles said, a slightly far-away look on his face as he turned and looked directly at where Derek was standing, “and when he does it’s worth listening to. Unlike a few others I can name.”

Peter cocked his head to one side and smirked. “Don’t let the bullies get you down, sweetheart. Your non-stop prattle is simply an idiosyncrasy of genius.”

“And yours is an idiosyncrasy of ego,” Derek muttered the words right next to Peter’s ear and raked his semi-sheathed claws down his uncle’s back before leaping away. Peter jumped in surprise and then crouched, facing the direction that the attack had come from, but he clearly still had no idea of where his attacker was.

Derek froze, trying not to let the grass under his feet rustle, and his uncle frowned. “Now that wasn’t very nice, nephew.” The words carried an edge and it pleased his wolf that the older man was flustered.

“Not nice, but still awesome,” Stiles crowed. “He totally snuck up on you.”

That praise pleased his wolf even more.

“I underestimated the efficacy of the muffling potions. I can’t hear him at all.” Peter scanned the area, panning back and forth over the clearing.

Derek didn’t move. He was fairly certain that Peter would quickly clue in on listening to the sounds his footsteps left behind, and he didn’t want to give himself away too soon. Hunting Peter was fun. Peter had never truly been prey, even when he killed him. Watching him, hackles raised and eyes tight, was very satisfying.

“And you can’t see him? Or feel him?” Stiles looked a little confused, but more curious than anything. He’d been watching Peter, but then, inexplicably, he twisted his head quickly and was staring straight at Derek—again.

“I can’t see him any more than you can, darling. I can’t smell him, either. It’s most… disconcerting.”

A minute passed and while Peter was facing the opposite direction, focused on a sound a little farther into the trees, Derek jumped away, landing as softly as he could, and Stiles's gaze never left him. It was as if he was completely visible to the Spark.

“Weird.” The word was quiet, but it got Peter’s attention.

“What’s weird, sweetheart?” He never stopped scanning the area, but he noticed that Stiles was staring at something. “Did you see something?”

A pause. “No, I can’t see anything. I just thought of something. Do you think emissary bonds might affect this?”

A gust of wind blew through and Derek took the opportunity to move again, the rustling of trees and grass giving him extra cover, but Stiles still tracked him.

“That would imply that you think your emissary bond might be affecting things, and that would further imply that you see something that I don’t.” Sometimes he hated it when Peter was smart, but there was no flaw in that logic. There was definitely something affecting the Spark.

“No,” Stiles denied frustratedly, “I can’t see anything, I can’t hear anything, and I certainly can’t smell anything, but... there’s just…”

Peter was careful about telegraphing his movements, but Derek could see when he’d triangulated on the position Stiles was staring at. He dodged before Peter pounced, but not fast enough to completely prevent contact.

“How interesting,” Peter practically purred the word, eyes fierce and bright as he shot a look back at Stiles. He tracked that amber gaze again and jumped faster than a cat, forcing Derek to give up on trying to minimize the sound of his feet in the grass.

Stiles realized what was happening and snapped his gaze to the older wolf, preventing him from being able to use him as a homing signal.

“Aw sweetheart, I almost caught him. Show me where he is again.” Fangs dropped and blue eyes flashed. “I owe him a pat on the back after all.”

Derek darted in and swiped a hand across Peter’s neck, just managing to avoid the temptation to actually rake his claws across the exposed stretch of skin, and then danced away again, growling. “And I owe you absolutely nothing, Uncle Peter. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m impressed, Derek.” A mean smile taunted him, even though Peter clearly still couldn’t track him without help. “This is the longest you’ve lasted in a fight against me in forever. Maybe I should cancel those remedial MMA lessons I bought you for Christmas—” He tutted and then sighed. “Oh, never mind. The invisibility isn’t permanent. Unfortunately.”

Derek’s wolf howled at the insubordination, his need to put the beta in his place thrumming through him, but this wasn’t the time or the place for that. Stiles wouldn’t approve, even though he’d probably understand if the thunderous look on his face meant anything.

“Alright Peter, that’s enough,” he said, all his playful snark gone. “I think the experiment has shown us everything it can at this point.”

Peter turned his ice blue gaze on the Spark. “Don’t stop us now. We were just starting to have fun.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You were just starting to get your ass kicked, now shut up before Derek stops being a gentleman and finishes.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s my ass he’s concerned with.” Derek wanted to knock the smarmy smirk from his uncle’s face. “But for your sake, Stiles, I’ll be big.”

Derek couldn’t smother a surprised laugh when Stiles muttered, “A big pain in the neck, and no I’m not making the mistake of saying you’re a pain in my ass again, either, jerkface, and yes I know you can hear me, but I don’t fucking care. I so don’t fucking care, Creeperwolf. Just…”

“Stiles,” Peter said with a laugh of his own, his earlier bloodlust fading, “calm down. Everything’s fine, and look, Derek has rejoined us, just in time for post-game analysis and commentary.”

Stiles settled his gaze on him, his mad muttering temporarily stopped, and gave Derek a half-hearted smile. “Welcome back, Der. Any side effects? Your senses still super-mega-alpha-awesome?”

Derek made a mental run through and found no problems. “Everything seems to be in working order. I didn’t lose anything while the potions were in effect either. Sound and smell stayed the same.”

That got him a satisfied nod. “Excellent. So, basically all the benefits with none of the drawbacks. I was afraid there at the beginning that it was muffling all your sounds, but you were just fucking with him, right?”

He let himself smirk, looking at Peter as he agreed. “Guilty as charged.”

Peter fumed for a moment—he hated being the butt of jokes, especially Derek’s jokes—but then refocused and stared at Stiles. “So, are you going to explain how you could track him when I couldn’t?”

Stiles just shook his head. “You have to have the most fragile ego I have ever seen. No, I don’t have any skills that you don’t, oh great shaggy hunter. It’s my spark, I guess. I made the potion so something about my magick clings to him and I can sense it. I can’t think of any other reason why I can track him, and you can’t. The next test will have to be another magick user trying to track him while he’s invisible. That will let us know if there’s a weakness that witches can exploit against us, or if it’s just something about me.”

Peter cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s another possibility…”

Stiles frowned. “What do you mean ‘another possibility’? You mean you think it’s being caused by something other than spark residue?”

There was something flickering behind Peter’s eyes that Derek didn’t like. He looked nervous, but he smelled almost… hurt? Disappointed?

The older wolf moved across the clearing to the spot where they’d dropped their gear and picked up Stiles's bag for him, ever the gentleman. “So, I suppose you’ll make another batch of the invisibility potion, and call someone—Maryam, maybe? She’s only a minor Spark, but her magick is similar enough to yours to be able to sense the residue if anyone could.”

Stiles took a minute to follow, still looking at Derek curiously, before finally heading over towards his uncle. “No, I’ve made enough that we don’t have to wait—thank the moon, that potion takes at least two lunar cycles—but Maryam might be a good idea… hey. Stay out of that! Peter!”

Derek watched as Peter reached into the bag and lunged for the older wolf as soon as he realized what was happening, but he was too far away to stop him before he’d managed to pull out another vial of silver liquid and swallow the contents faster than an underaged frat boy at his first party.

“Peter! You absolute fuckbucket,” Stiles snarled, staring at the space where his uncle had been standing. “I know you were miffed because you wanted to try it, but this is not the way to get me to cooperate. See what happens the next time you want some obscure tantric text translated. Your Sanskrit sucks, dude, and after that stunt I am so not feeling the love, so neither will you. Sneaky blue-eyed bastard.”

Derek crouched, waiting for an attack. “Where is he Stiles?” he asked around fangs that had already dropped. He scanned the clearing reflexively and then stopped, trying to focus on Peter’s heartbeat. It took him a moment to find it, but once he did, it was easy to track the other wolf. “Never mind,” he growled and then pounced, claws out.

Peter spun away, but Derek’s claws showed red when he pulled them back. “You shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to you, Uncle Peter.” He paused, recentering himself on Peter’s heartbeat. “You’ve never appreciated the things you’re given. I told Stiles you’d fuck up. I just didn’t think you’d be this obvious about it.”

A rough laugh cut through the empty space. “I wouldn’t be this obvious, nephew. This was a calculated risk. Stiles?” Peter called to the Spark. “Can you track me through your magick, sweetheart? Can you sense where I am?”

There was something almost hopeful in the question, like he wanted Stiles to be able to track him.

“No,” Stiles's reply was soft and perplexed, his eyes large and liquid as his brain ran through all the possible reasons. “I can’t sense you at all.”

Peter sighed, and before Derek could take another swipe at him, he’d picked up Stiles's bag where he’d dropped it on the turf, letting the bag floating in mid-air clearly mark his location. “So, the connection between you and my lump of a nephew isn’t connected to your magick, or the potion, at all. I’d wager,” he sounded rueful, “that you’d be able to find him blindfolded as well.”

Stiles chewed on his lower lip, hesitance sitting awkwardly on his typically confident frame. “So, it is the emissary bond that’s allowing me to follow him?”

“No, dear boy,” Peter slipped the bag over Stiles's shoulder. Derek watched the flannel wrinkle where his uncle was resting his hand and he growled lowly, unhappy at the contact. “If it were an emissary bond, you’d still be able to track me as Derek’s second. No.” The wrinkles disappeared, and he could hear Peter’s retreating footsteps. “It’s something else. I’m sure you two can figure it out. But I think I’m going to take this opportunity to stretch my legs. My wolf and I could use a little time.”

Suddenly there was a pile of abandoned clothes on the ground, and Derek could hear Peter’s heartbeat fade as he ran towards the deepest part of the Preserve, apparently in wolf form.

“Well, that answers the question about whether the things on someone using the potion stay invisible if they come off.” Stiles mumbled, gathering the fabric up and looking a little bereft. It made something in his chest hurt.

“You okay?” His wolf was whining, and he strangled his instinct to rush over and put his hands on the smaller man, to physically check that there was nothing wrong, to comfort him however he was allowed. He wanted to bury his nose in the divot behind Stiles's ear where his scent pooled; he wanted to soothe his mate. “Peter’s fine. He smelled a little upset, but his chemosignals read more like when he’s pouting than when he’s getting ready to go on a killing spree.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice a little rough around the edges, “not so worried about the killing spree thing. Peter likes his life right now, more or less; he won’t jeopardize it over not getting something he wants.”

He wants you. The words spun through Derek’s head and he gritted his teeth against speaking them. “Good. I’d hate to have to kill him again. Repetition is so boring.”

Stiles gave him a half-hearted grin and hiked his bag higher on his shoulder. “I know how you hate to be bored.”

Derek shrugged. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

They turned and started walking towards where they’d left their cars. “You going to tell me what Peter was talking about back there?”

He had a suspicion. Lots of people misjudged Derek’s intelligence over the years, assuming that because he didn’t say much he didn’t think much, but he wasn’t stupid. Whatever was bothering Stiles was more than just the theft of a potion. If it were anyone else, he’d just let it ride, but this was Stiles.

Peter had emphasized that it wasn’t an emissary bond. There weren’t many bonds that affected wolves, and pack bonds and emissary bonds were the most common. There was an Alpha’s bond with their betas, and of course, there were mate bonds. Mates had a connection that no other could supersede; not even an Alpha could break it without stealing all the memories the couple shared. His wolf had decided that Stiles was his mate years ago. Derek knew his heartbeat and scent better than he knew his own. He could pick the younger man out of a crowd—yes, even blindfolded—but Peter was intimating that Stiles was connected to him, and that… well, that didn’t seem possible.

Stiles was stalking towards his Jeep muttering, cursing under his breath about stupid Peter and his big fucking mouth and never doing another favor for the fucking asshole since he can’t stay out of other peoples’ business, until Derek’s suspicions had started to choke him.

What if Peter was right?

He reached out and snagged the strap of Stiles's bag, spinning him until they were face to face with the open bag between them. Several more vials clanked in the depths and Derek reached in and grabbed a handful.

“You know,” he said, voice rough, “it isn’t fair that I’ve been the only one running around being chased all the time.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “What does that mean? I told you that I tested the stuff before I ever brought it over to you.”

Derek nodded, rolling the test tubes slowly between his fingers. “True. But I never got to see it. I mean, I believe you when you say it worked, but maybe we should test to see if my super-mega-alpha senses can track you.”

He stepped close and could hear the click in Stiles's throat as he swallowed. “You think that would make a difference? You couldn’t track Peter.”

“Peter said there was something else connecting us,” he lifted a shoulder in a careful shrug, “we should test it and see.”

Wheels within wheels were spinning. If it was a mate bond. If Stiles had chosen him for a mate without telling him. The bond wouldn’t be stopped by the potions. He’d still be able to find his mate.

Find. Keep. Mark. Mate.

He held the three potions out on his open palm. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

Stiles stared at him, whiskey-bright eyes wide, and he reached for the vials slowly, almost like he wasn’t in control of himself. At Derek’s last words, though, he jerked back to himself and snorted. “Yeah, no. I’m not running off into the Preserve with you chasing after me. I don’t care if I’m invisible to everything and everyone, I’d still manage to trip over a tree root and kill myself. If you’re that set on me trying it, I’ll play along, but I can pretty much promise that you won’t be able to sense me any more than you could Peter. Whatever theory he was contemplating, I think he was way off base.”

He opened the corks and downed the potions with a grace and economy of movement that seemed completely out of place on the flailing body Derek was familiar with, and then, just like with Peter, Stiles was gone.

It took a moment for the rest of the changes to register. The electricity and spice scent was gone, as was the hummingbird heartbeat, and for a gut-wrenching instant Derek grieved their loss, a hole in his world that seemed to echo with emptiness.

“You okay there, Sourwolf?” The empty air spoke, and his wolf stopped howling, clinging to the sound of Stiles's voice.

“Fine,” he said, and he would be. It might just take him a minute. “I’m assuming from where I heard your voice that you haven’t moved yet?”

A hum of agreement sounded. “It’s weird knowing you can’t see me.”

Derek smirked. “That doesn’t mean you should make faces at me or flip me off.”

Stiles squawked indignantly. “You sure you can’t see me?” He huffed. “It isn’t fair if you lie, you know.”

He smiled. “I don’t have to see you to know what you’re going to do, Stiles. I’ve known you long enough to predict things pretty well.”

As far as teasing went, it was pretty tame for them, but Stiles didn’t usually have this kind of protection to hide behind when they were playing around.

Derek stood very still and took a moment to block out the sounds of his own heart and breathing, focusing on the grass and the breeze, trying to see if he could hear Stiles shifting position, but there was something niggling at the edge of his awareness, a quiet little tug that was pulling his attention to the left.

There.

He didn’t see anything, or hear anything, but he knew as surely as he was breathing that Stiles was standing right there. He didn’t think, he didn’t wait—he pounced, wrapping his arms tightly around the Spark and grinning wildly.

“Caught you.”

Stiles wriggled in his arms, and Derek could feel the heat of his skin wherever they touched. “Not fair! You said you couldn’t see me!”

He released the squirming man and stepped back. “I can’t. You’re totally invisible.”

A huff hung in the air. “Then how did you catch me?”

Derek waited a few seconds before responding, feeling as Stiles shifted position again. He didn’t turn to look at where he knew the Spark was standing. “I could just tell.”

That got him a frustrated growl that was ridiculously appealing to his wolf. “Not fair. Invisibility should give me at least a hope of dodging your wolfitudinousness.”

He moved more quickly, trying to come up behind Derek, apparently looking to surprise him with an attack of his own, but that wasn’t happening. At the last second, Derek turned and grabbed the invisible man with both hands, pulling him into a full-body hold. “What is it they say?” he asked, a little breathlessly. “All’s fair in love and war?”

Stiles's face was pressed into the skin of his neck and he shivered at the angry little snap of teeth he felt ghosting over the tendon there. “Last I knew we weren’t at war, Der.”

Derek slid his hand up Stiles's back, pressing him more firmly into the cradle of his neck and shoulder, as he whispered. “Who said I meant war?”

And just like that he knew, just like Peter had known, there was only one reason he and Stiles could sense each other, only one reason they could find each other no matter how many potions they took or how many senses they sacrificed. They were mates; they would always find each other.

The body in his arms had stiffened as he spoke. “This isn’t a game, Sourwolf. Let me go.”

Derek sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

The Spark made an angry sound deep in his throat as he thrashed around helplessly trying to get loose. “And I’d rather not be mocked, if it’s all the same to you!”

“I’m not mocking you, Stiles.” Derek tried not to sound angry, but his mate was doubting him, and it made him want to just sweep the Spark into his arms and carry him off to his den so he could keep him there until his mate was boneless and sated and convinced they belonged together forever. “I’m just saying that this isn’t a conversation I’m comfortable having with an invisible man that I’m halfway certain is going to run off into the woods the minute I let go instead of staying here and talking to me, calmly and rationally. At least if I hold on to you, I’m guaranteed I won’t just be talking to myself.”

Stiles stopped wriggling, and Derek couldn’t decide if he was happy or sad about it. “I’m assuming you’ve figured out what Peter was alluding to? About the bond?”

The Spark sounded so small and defeated; it made his heart hurt. “He meant a mate bond, didn’t he?”

Derek felt a hank of floppy hair rub against his cheek as Stiles nodded whispering like he was afraid of what would happen if he spoke the words too loudly, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for anything like this to happen. Honestly, I don’t know how it did happen, it’s not supposed to be something one person can trigger by themselves, but I’m sure I can find a way to control it. I’d never…” he swallowed thickly, hiding his face in Derek’s stubble. “I never intended to force anything on you. Never, Der. I swear. I’ll figure it out. I can fix this.”

And then, between one breath and the next, Stiles was visible there in the circle of his arms, whiskey-bright eyes wet with emotion. Derek raised a finger and gently traced the white-marble camber of his cheek, following an imaginary line connecting his moles in a dreamy dot-to-dot where the only picture brought into focus was how he wanted to touch that skin even more.

“There’s just one problem with that idea, Stiles,” he said, letting the smaller man step back from the cage of his arms, sensing that he needed the breathing room.

“Just one?” he asked. The question was accompanied by a wet laugh, self-deprecating snark back in full force, and Derek nodded. “Yes.”

There wasn’t much height difference between them anymore, but it felt like Stiles had folded in on himself in an attempt to hide somehow. He felt the smaller man brace himself against whatever emotional blow was coming next.

“What’s the problem, then?” He stood there, embattled and beautiful, wrapped in a wisp of defiance and refusing to meet Derek’s gaze. The wolf lifted his mate’s chin with a finger, forcing their eyes to meet, and shook his head slightly. “You can’t fix what isn’t broken.”

Stiles froze for an instant and then his eyes widened, the amber taken over by pupils shot wide in surprise, a deep breath sucked in reflexively against the suffocating panic. “It isn’t broken?”

Derek shook his head again. “Not unless I’ve been broken—my wolf’s been broken—for years now.”

The air between them shuddered with static electricity and Derek wondered wildly for a moment whether making love to the Spark would feel like being struck by lightning. He didn’t care if he burned, though. He’d burn happily if it meant Stiles was in his arms and in his bed and in his heart.

“So,” long fingers splayed over his heart and he knew that Stiles was wishing he could hear heartbeats, could hear lies, “you’ve felt this way? For years?”

It was time. “My wolf chose you as his mate before I chose you as my Emissary.” He wrapped his fingers around Stiles's. “You were an obnoxious kid, but even then, I knew you were smart and loyal. I respected that, even if you annoyed the crap out of me. My wolf paid attention to you, though. Then with the nogitsune, and Mexico, Boyd and Erica, and everyone leaving for school or parts unknown… We were both learning how to live. My wolf missed you terribly, and after a while I realized that so did I.”

Stiles struggled over a laugh. “That’s hard to believe. When I came back after working with Maryam and the other Sparks I was convinced you hated me.”

“Never!” The word came out more forcefully than he intended, but he didn’t apologize. “I didn’t know what to do with you. You’d… changed.”

Taller, broader, more confident, talented, powerful, and so, so sexy. He didn’t know how to explain without sounding like a stalker.

“You’d changed, too.” Stiles looked up at him. “After I came back, I mean. For the first time I felt like you weren’t staring constantly into the past. You’d decided that you were going to actually try to live. To try for a future. You’d let people in.”

Derek supposed that was true. He’d settled into his never-wanted but accidentally regained Alpha-dom and Peter and Cora had filled his need for Pack. Isaac had forgiven him for driving him away and had come back every few months to strengthen their connection. He’d taken a job at the library and spent his evenings writing his own stories, the outlet giving him a place to organize his thoughts without anyone judging him, and then Stiles showed back up, and he knew what he wanted for the first time in a very long time.

And now it looked like he was going to get it.

“I was jealous.” Stiles's voice was quiet, but strong. Derek heard no lie in the words. “I saw you one day at the library. A couple of kids, fresh out of high school and feeling their oats, were standing across the counter from you and you were laughing and teasing them, and you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen Lydia Martin naked, so that’s saying something.”

“You’ve seen Lydia naked?” The words were out before he could stop them, but it was surprising. After all those years pining, if he’d gotten as far as having Lydia naked, it was hard to believe Stiles wouldn’t still be chasing the Banshee.

“Yes, we got to naked times, and yes, she’s beautiful, and yes I still think she’s amazing and I love her, but I realized a long time ago that there was something missing in the equation of Lydia plus Stiles equals forever, and it was never going to work.”

Derek wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “What? What was missing?”

Stiles rested his head against Derek’s shoulder, the soft warmth of his breath teasing along the bare skin. “Lydia, at her core, lives to break things down. She is control and dissection and understanding and death and destruction. She takes people apart so she can see how they work, and then puts them back together. She loves people, don’t get me wrong, but she loves them after she understands them. I needed someone who loved me even though they didn’t understand me. I’m a Spark. I’m not a genie with infinite cosmic power and an itty-bitty living space, but my magick is all about belief and circumventing the impossible. I need someone who believes in me, even when—maybe especially when—I don’t make sense.”

Derek rubbed their faces together, blatantly scenting everything he could reach, a rumble of pleasure rolling deep in his chest at finally having his mate so close. “I’ve never thought you made sense, but that never stopped me from believing in you.”

He expected a snort and a snarky answer, but Stiles never did the expected.

“Good,” he said, eyes dark and serious for once as they lingered on his wolf’s face, “because I never stopped believing in you, either.”

The distance between them was only inches but it felt like miles, and Derek couldn’t stand it. He wrapped his hand around Stiles's nape and pulled him up, angling his head so that their mouths met halfway. Derek groaned, finally tracing the pink lips that had taunted him for so long. They were soft and pliant under his tongue, opening with a slick wet sound that cut straight through him, and he cursed his need for breath because it meant he had to pull away for air.

“God, Der,” Stiles moaned against his mouth, sucking in a desperate breath of his own, his hands hot and greedy as they trailed up and down over Derek’s chest, “wanted you for so long. Can’t believe I get to have you. Finally get to have you.”

Derek took advantage of his gasp and slipped the tip of his tongue into Stiles's mouth, first teasingly shallow, tracing the inside of Stiles's pouting lower lip, and then deeper, searching the corners for all his secrets. He breathed in the spiced ozone of his scent, dizzy with everything. “Yours. Been yours forever. Believe it. Please, please believe it.”

Stiles laughed, a joyous bubble of a thing that set his wolf dancing, and cupped Derek’s face with his hands. He stood there, staring, the amber of his eyes glowing molten gold in the afternoon light and said, “I’ll never doubt it again. Never doubt us again.”

And he didn’t.

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #spark stiles #bamf stiles #magic stiles #poor peter #derek deserves nice things #stiles is a nice thing #HEA #tooth-rotting fluff #late to the party #don't know how this happened #teen wolf

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calumcest · 4 years

Text

i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter four

[ao3]

is it technically tuesday? yes. are we going to talk about that? no. everybody lives in at least gmt-1 now suck it up

@tirednotflirting yet again...i cannot sing your praises enough for reading this ENTIRE fucking thing!! although it looks a bit different here to how it looks on the google doc because its not in bold and theres no ‘finishh’ in sight nor my insane random words that i write down when i know exactly the words i want to say but i’m too lazy to write them. am i the worst writer known to man? possibly

we are getting to the juicy stuff now...its quarter to fucking malum o’clock...

also if you saw the title of this chapter before i went to check you didn’t see it. close your eyes

By the time Calum wakes up the next afternoon, they’re already halfway back to Manchester, somewhere on the M40. Predictably, Liam's up, vibrating with that impatient energy he’s always got when he can’t snort or drink it away, and Calum’s the second one to rise, padding into the lounge area sleepily, yawning loudly and rubbing his eyes. His head’s fucking pounding, and his mouth is dry and disgusting, but Liam, because he sometimes is the angel his doe eyes and full lips make him out to be, has already put out a cup of water and two paracetamols for him.

“How the fuck are you never hungover?” Calum grumbles, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Liam and nestling into his side as he downs the paracetamol.

“Luck of the Irish,” Liam tells him, resting his cheek on Calum’s head. Calum makes a noise of discontent and turns to press his face into Liam’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut like it’s going to stop his head from hurting.

“You deserve a hangover,” he mumbles. “You were off your fucking head last night.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Never said that.” Liam huffs out a soft laugh.

“Nearly fainted in the fucking toilets, you did.” Calum scowls.

“Fuck off,” he says, as his memory flashes back to last night - yeah, he did almost fucking faint in the toilets, but that was only because- and then his eyes fly open, because fuck. Jesus fucking Christ.

Michael.

“Our kid barely even made it back to the bus last night,” Liam says, and it’s just meant to be casual conversation, maybe a little contemptuous, but it makes Calum’s lungs collapse in on themselves with guilt.

He’d spoken to Michael. He’d come to some sort of a fucking understanding with Michael, something he can’t quite remember and doesn’t quite understand. Fuck, he might have even called Michael pretty. Jesus Christ. He’s fairly certain any and all of that goes against his promise to Noel.

“Oh?” he says, when he remembers to speak. Liam just hums, and Calum tries not to exhale too shakily as his mind races.

It’s not his fault, he tells himself. Not really. He’d been there first, hadn’t he? Michael had been the one to walk up to him, and the one who hadn’t walked away. And sure, maybe Calum had been the one to strike up conversation, but it hadn’t exactly been friendly, had it? And Michael had been the one to ask questions, to change the topic, and to level the playing field when Calum had accidentally let something slip. Plus, Calum had been drunk and high, so he can’t really be held accountable for his actions, can he?

Liam’s still talking, but Calum’s not listening, and it doesn’t even matter because Liam cuts himself off when Tony stumbles into the lounge area, bleary-eyed and yawning. There’s no paracetamol set out for him, and Liam makes no move to get any.

“I’m looking forward to a fucking break,” Tony says a little hoarsely, and flops down on the sofa opposite Liam and Calum.

“Fucking when?” Liam says. “We’ve got Top of the Pops in two days.” Tony groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Fucking Top of the Pops,” he mumbles. “Why the fuck did we agree to that?”

“For the money,” Liam says.

“Don’t even get to play the fucking drums,” Tony says, muffled by his palms.

“Thank fuck for that,” Liam mutters.

-------

Top of the Pops is exactly the bland, boring nightmare Calum expects it to be.

They’re shepherded into some kind of studio for a rehearsal and informed that they’ll be recording a live track then and there which will be mixed together with the album version, and none of them will actually be playing live. Liam’s having absolutely fucking none of it, and for once neither is Noel, and Calum, Bonehead and Tony all decide to step back and enjoy the show that is both Gallaghers on the same team for once.

After a lot of shouting, swearing and a few threats of violence, it’s decided that they’ll go ahead with recording the backing track but Liam will sing live. Noel’s absolutely fucking furious about not being allowed to play live, but it’s almost entirely forgotten when he sees the setup for the stage - Tony on drums in the front, Calum and Bonehead on a step behind him, and Liam and Noel on another step right at the back. The BBC aren’t budging on that, though, despite Calum, Bonehead, and Alan all weighing in to agree that it’s fucking stupid to have the stars of the band stood right at the back, and a nasty row breaks out between the Gallaghers and the production team, ending in Calum having to move at the speed of fucking light when he sees Liam tense into the all-too-familiar I’m going to fucking deck you stance. A lawsuit with the BBC is still well beyond their budget, no matter how well the singles have been doing.

Calum manages to talk Liam down, and Liam manages to talk Noel down, and they’re only ten minutes behind schedule by the time that the brothers have reluctantly agreed to do the show, which is pretty good going for them. They trail to the stage to the sound of screaming and cheering, which makes Calum’s head spin a little bit as he picks up his unplugged bass. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks in awe, as he looks out at the sea of excited faces and spots a few white Oasis shirts. They’re really fucking doing this.

They get set up and pretend to play Shakermaker, and Liam sounds fucking gorgeous, like he’s making a point to the producers, and Noel slings his arm around Liam as they walk off, a protective, proud gesture that Liam grins at and leans into. They’re fucking unstoppable, Calum thinks, as he trails after them, Noel’s arm tight around Liam and Liam stumbling over his own feet as he tries to press as close to Noel as possible. The two of them on the same side is a fucking sight to behold.

They’re at a hotel that night, and Liam and Bonehead decide they want to go out but Tony and Noel want to stay in, and Calum decides he’s too tired to stay up for the length of time it’s going to take him to find someone willing to fuck him.

(“What d’you think coke’s for?” Liam says to him, and Calum rolls his eyes.)

Calum falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow, and he wakes up early to the sound of Liam stumbling into the room, high and drunk and probably something else, bruises blooming all over his throat and grinning giddily.

“Good night?” Calum says.

“The best,” Liam declares, and then passes out on his bed.

They have to drive back to Manchester that day, though, because they’ve got a show in Leeds tomorrow, so Liam only gets about four hours of rest before Alan’s banging on the door and yelling at them to get the fuck up, lazy fuckers, didn’t I fucking tell you bus call’s at twelve? To his credit, though, he only complains about a hundred times, and stops when Noel rolls his eyes, holds his arms open and lets Liam snuggle into him and have a nap while Noel chats to Alan about the setlist for America.

Calum tunes most of it out, because he’s not fussed about what’s on the setlist and he trusts Noel to pick the best of his own songs, and spends two hours getting absolutely thrashed at chess by Tony. By the time they’re back in Manchester, Calum’s lost a game of chess to literally everybody on the bus, including Liam, who's being taught the rules of chess by Noel and Bonehead as they play, and Calum decides he’s never fucking playing chess ever again.

(“We’re fucking buying some new games,” he says moodily, when Liam flicks his king over nonchalantly.

“No need to get so mardy,” Bonehead says, stretching out and grinning at Calum.

“Fuck you,” Calum grumbles, sweeping all the pieces off the chess board. “We’re getting a game that I can fucking win.”

“Alright,” Noel says, grinning. “How about Frustration?”)

Calum’s mum has dinner ready for him when he drags himself up the path and into the house, and she fusses over the state of his hair and his clothes and says really, Calum in a disapproving voice whenever Calum uses colourful language to describe exactly what he thinks about the production team of Top of the Pops. Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when she tuts at him for fondly calling Liam a silly cunt for the fourth time that evening, because it’s nice. It makes him feel like a kid again, but in the best possible way; warm, protected, like someone’s still looking out for him.

His dad gets back from work around seven, and they sit down to watch the Top of the Pops performance together. Calum’s heart swells with pride when it’s their turn to play, because they look fucking cool. The staging’s still shite, granted, but Liam looks every inch the rock ‘n’ roll star he claims to be, and the rest of them look lazily and effortlessly cool, helped enormously by the fact they’re half in the shadows, lights focused on the Gallaghers.

Calum’s parents are polite about the song, and he can see they’re beaming with pride, but he can also tell they don’t really get it. It’s okay, he thinks, unable to help the smile that creeps onto his face as he watches his parents watch him on TV. They like jazz. It’s probably for the best that they don’t think it’s good music.

Calum’s mum switches to some soap opera after Top of the Pops, and his dad grumbles not this again and pulls out his newspaper, but Calum can see his face popping over the top of the paper every two seconds. After three minutes he comments wasn’t Sheila dating Mark last week? She’s not having an affair with Bertie, is she? Calum snorts, and his dad glares at him, opening his mouth to make a defensive remark about how he doesn’t follow this show, it’s absolute rubbish, but then the phone rings.

“I’ll get it,” Calum says, before anyone has the chance to say anything, mostly to avoid having to listen to his dad’s I’m not watching this, Calum, don’t be cheeky spiel, and his mum just nods absent-mindedly, waving a dismissive hand at him, eyes glued to the TV. Calum heads for the phone in the kitchen, just because it’s the closest, jogging to get there before it rings out.

“Hello?” he says, when he picks up. There’s silence at the other end of the line, and he frowns. “Hello?” he tries again.

“Hi.” Calum’s stomach drops.

“ Michael? ”

“Yeah.”

“What the f- how the- what? What? ” Calum’s heart is beating out of his fucking chest, almost covering the embarrassment that’s flaring up as foggy memories of their last conversation drag themselves to the forefront of his mind.

“Sorry,” Michael says, and he sighs, and Calum can just imagine him running his fingers through his hair, a small crease between his brows. “Fuck, I- sorry. I shouldn’t’ve-”

“No,” Calum says abruptly, clutching the receiver, dreading the fucking dial tone. “No, I just- how did you get this number?” There’s a moment of silence.

“Only so many Joy Hoods in the book,” Michael says, and Calum exhales, hoping the crackling static of the phone line will hide how shaky it is.

“Oh,” he says. Michael had sought him out. Michael wants to talk. Michael still remembers his mum’s name.

“I saw you,” Michael says suddenly, into the uncomfortable silence that’s blossomed between them, neither of them knowing what to say next. “On Top of the Pops.”

“Yeah?” Calum doesn’t trust himself to say any more, but the question on the tip of his tongue is evident in the eagerness in his tone, anyway.

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. “Sounded good.”

“That’s because it’s a backing track.” Michael huffs out a laugh, sounding a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it to come out.

“I guess,” he allows. They lapse into silence again, loud and uncomfortable, before Michael sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds a little regretful. “I shouldn’t’ve called.”

“No,” Calum blurts. “I’m glad you did.” The phone’s warm against his fingers, slippery from his hot, sweaty hands, and he’s clasping it so hard he thinks it might break. He tries to focus on that rather than on what he’s just said, on the knife-edge he feels like they’re poised on, each word a weight that could unbalance them.

“Are you?” Michael sounds a little doubtful, and a little sceptical.

“Yeah.” Michael hums, like he’s mulling something over.

“Do your bandmates know?” Calum’s heart skips a beat.

“Know what?”

“That we talked.” At Glastonbury, while you were drunk and high and out of your fucking mind. You called me pretty, by the way. He doesn’t say any of that, but Calum’s mind tacks it on helpfully anyway.

“Do yours?” Calum says, deflecting, because his stomach’s bottoming out with the sheer weight of the guilt, of the broken promise. Or was it broken? Calum barely remembers, just remembers the look on Michael’s face, the tiny microexpressions, the glassiness of his eyes.

“No.” Calum inhales sharply, can’t fucking help himself - Michael’s talking to Calum, and the rest of Blur don’t know. That's got to mean something, even if Calum isn't entirely sure what.

“Oh.”

“Do they know?” Michael asks again. Calum stares at the hob opposite him, weighing up his answer.

If he says yes, he’ll be lying, and whatever the fuck him and Michael have going on right now is so fragile that one lie like that will send it all crumbling down, pulverise it so thoroughly that it’ll never be able to be built back up again. If he says no, though, he’ll be doing the same to Oasis, to his best mates, to his career. There's no right answer.

“Not yet,” he settles on eventually, straddling the line between Oasis and Michael. It’s the truth - he hasn’t told them, but they might find out at some point.

“Are you going to tell them?” Fucking hell. Trust Michael to pick at the loose thread.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” It’s true, and that’s the best Calum can offer him.

There’s a moment of silence, neither of them really knowing what to say, and it’s fucking gut-wrenching because Calum’s never had that with Michael. He’d never even had to think about what to say with Michael - he’d just existed, just been, and that was always enough.

“Luke and Ashton asked about you,” Michael says, and Calum’s breath hitches.

“Oh?” he says. “How are they?”

“Good,” Michael says. “They’re good.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds: “Luke’s a pilot, now. Or training to be, I think. I don’t know. Ashton’s a teacher.”

“Oh,” Calum says, voice small. Two of his best mates, in an earlier life; two spotty blonde teenage boys laughing on the beach at Calum splashing Michael in the water, shooting each other furtive glances across crowded rooms, getting high just for an excuse to shotgun. A fucking pilot and a teacher.

“Yeah,” Michael says.

“Did they ever get their shit together?” Calum asks.

“What? Oh, yeah. Fuck, has it been that long?” Michael exhales heavily. “They’ve been together for years.”

“Oh.” Calum doesn’t know what else to say to that. He’s trying to imagine it; a pilot and a teacher, fucking hell. Maybe Luke brings Ashton little gifts from his trips abroad. Maybe Ashton writes Luke postcards while his pupils work. Who does the cooking? Luke definitely doesn’t clean. Or maybe he does. If Michael’s changed this much, maybe Luke has, too.

“What about you?” Michael asks.

“What about me?” Calum’s not sure what Michael’s asking. Michael knows what he’s up to - he’s in Oasis, spending all his money on intoxicants, trying to exist alongside the supernova that’s the Gallagher brothers.

“Y’know.” Calum doesn’t know.

“I have no id-”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Michael says it all in a rush, like it’s taken a lot of courage to say it. It probably has, Calum thinks. He wouldn’t have asked Michael. It’s sort of reassuring, actually, makes something a little warm blossom in his chest, because that’s still so Michael . Michael always blurted out questions, always demanded answers, always kept social etiquette and politeness as an afterthought.

“No,” Calum says. He swallows, and then adds: “Are you?”

“No.” Good, Calum wants to say, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have Michael like that anymore; he doesn’t have the right.

“Why did you call?” he says instead. Michael hesitates.

“I saw you on TV,” he says eventually. That’s not a reason.

“Why did you call?” Calum presses. Michael inhales, and doesn’t exhale for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually, on a long, heavy exhale. Calum doesn’t blame him. None of this really makes sense to him either; the fact he feels like this after five years of not seeing Michael, after four years of not speaking to him, after three years of not thinking about him. He’s not sure why he wants this, whatever this is, not sure why he wants more of Michael, not sure why his heart feels drawn to Michael like it’s north and Michael’s south.

“Yeah,” Calum says, hoping it conveys I understand.

“I almost reached out,” Michael says suddenly. “A few times. Over the past year, I mean.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to.”

“Why didn’t you tell your band?”

“Didn’t know how,” Michael says. Calum gets that too; he’d thought about it as well, entertained the idea, turned it over and over in his mind, but he’d never known what to say. I fucked the guitarist from Blur - I was in love with him actually - and I don’t know why I can’t get him off my mind would probably have sparked even worse reactions than the way it had come out did.

“They seem really protective of you,” Calum says.

“They are,” Michael says, and there’s a small smile evident in his tone. “Not like yours, though. I don’t think all the money in the world could get Graham to start a fight on my behalf.” Calum can’t help the startled laugh that escapes him.

“I don’t think all the money in the would could get Liam not to start a fight on my behalf,” Calum says, and Michael huffs out a soft laugh.

"I'm glad you found such good friends," he says, and the smile is ripped off Calum's face at the jarring reminder that they don't know each other anymore. It sounds so distant, like Michael's content with this arm's-length distance between them, two people who used to know everything about each other and are now making polite small talk.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “I’m glad, too.” He can’t bring himself to say what he really means - I’m sorry it was good enough to take me from you. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say it.

“I should go,” Michael says after a minute. Calum wants to say no, don’t, stay, but he forces the words back down and nods, still staring blankly at the hob.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Me too.”

“It was-”

“Don’t,” Calum says abruptly, as his stomach twists. It was nice talking to you. It was nice catching up. He doesn’t want to hear the finality of the words, the forced politeness, the jarring dissonance that is the boy he’d known and loved for so long and the man he is now.

Michael doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he sighs.

“Look,” he says. “I- you don’t-” he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “D’you want my number?”

“Do I- uh, yeah,” Calum says, a little stupidly, glancing around wildly for something to write on.

“I’m on tour for the next few months,” Michael says, as Calum snatches up a recipe his mum had left lying out, and an incredibly unsharpened pencil. “But I’ll- y’know. When I’m home.” I’ll call you. He can’t bring himself to say it, and Calum doesn’t blame him.

“Okay,” Calum says.

“You got a pen?”

“Yeah.” Michael rattles off a number, some area code Calum doesn’t recognise, something starting 071. He writes it down hastily, hoping he’s heard it right because he doesn’t want to ask is that five like hive or nine like fine , and then rips the corner of the recipe off and tucks it into his pocket.

“Got it,” Calum says, dropping the pencil onto the counter with a clatter. “071, where’s that?”

“London.”

“Oh. Uh. Cool,” Calum says.

“Well,” Michael says, a touch awkwardly. “See you around, then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Calum echoes. There’s one more moment, the two of them listening to each other breathing, a second suspended in time, and then it’s broken by a click and a dial tone.

Calum puts the phone down a little dazedly, just as his mum wanders into the kitchen.

“Who was it?” she asks. Calum hesitates, and she raises an eyebrow, which means he’s lost the opportunity to say oh, just a cold call.

“Michael,” he says, and her eyes widen.

“Clifford?” she says. He nods. Who the fuck else is it going to be, Michael the sound engineer that had mixed two fucking tracks in Cornwall? “I didn’t know you two still spoke.”

“We don’t.” Her face softens.

“Oh, honey,” she says gently, and Calum swallows. He hasn’t told her yet, hasn’t told her about the awards ceremony and Glastonbury, and somehow, he doesn’t quite want to. She seems to sense it, though, because she just sighs and pulls him into a warm, tight hug. Calum wraps his arms around her, closes his eyes and buries his face in her shoulder. Even though he’s half a foot taller than her, even though she only comes up to his collarbone, it still feels like she’s the one protecting him, like he’s small and cocooned in her arms.

She lets go after a minute, fussing over him messing up his hair, and he groans at her and ducks out of the way of her meddling fingers, but the warm feeling stays, and when she smiles at him and tells him she’s going to bake him his favourite biscuits tomorrow, he feels seventeen again.

(Or maybe that’s just Michael.)

-------

July and August pass in the blink of an eye.

After Leeds, they have three weeks off. Calum finally fixes the garden wall, and for the first few days, he finds himself jumping every time the phone rings. It’s never Michael though - most of the time it’s one of the brothers, asking whether Calum wants to go to the pub or get high or go out on the pull, and sometimes it’s Alan, reminding him that he’s got to be here on this day at this time and there on that day at that time and is he writing all this down because he’s going to be responsible for getting Liam there too since Noel’s going ahead this time.

They go down to London for a few days, record a few new versions of songs and one demo of a new song that Noel’s written but isn’t sure about yet. As soon as he’s heard Liam’s vocals on it, though, his eyes light up, and Calum files the bassline away, because he knows it’s going to be on the next album now, no matter how much Noel’s pretending to hum and haw about it. He can’t fucking let Liam have anything, though, so when Liam comes out of the live room, bright-eyed and desperate for Noel’s affirmation, Noel curls his lip and tells him that sounded fucking shite, Christ, you’re almost as useless as Tony. It culminates in a huge fight that Calum and Bonehead manage to duck out of before it begins, only finding out about it when they get woken by a sombre-looking Alan in the middle of the night and informed they’re all being kicked out of the hotel because Liam’s trashed the bar and Noel’s chucked a TV out of the window of his room that landed on the hotel manager’s car.

They play their first show in America on the 21st - their first show outside of Europe - and it goes well. Noel’s not impressed by the country, having toured there with the Inspirals half a decade earlier, but the rest of them are in fucking awe, and Calum catches tiny, fond smiles playing on Noel’s lips when he sees Liam staring at the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, lips parted and eyes wide.

Noel’s finally managed to get his way on Live Forever too, it seems, because they’re shepherded into Central Park a few days later, half of them hungover and half of them still blind drunk, to film a video. The director seems to be even fucking higher than they are, because he comes up with ideas like Liam singing while sitting on a chair nailed to a wall, and the band take it upon themselves to start suggesting ever more ludicrous ideas, just to see what sticks. Liam throws in chucking a bucket of water over Bonehead, and Calum suggests burying the drum kit, and Noel goes why don’t we just bury the fucking drummer? The director thinks that’s a fucking brilliant idea, inspired, creative, and Noel shoots Calum a look and says wow, is that how easy this is? You just fucking randomly suggest nonsense and people just go and film it?

(He doesn’t bother showing up for most of the second day of filming, and Calum can’t really blame him.)

They fly back to the UK and play another festival on the 31st of July, and as Calum passes by one of the posters on the way to the stage he does a double take, because Blur are on there. Liam sees him looking, though, and taps the top of the poster wordlessly as he walks past - Sat 30th July. Calum can’t help the way his stomach sinks at that. Michael was here yesterday, and Calum’s here today. Maybe that’s a sign, he thinks. Maybe fate is trying to tell him something.

Live Forever comes out in early August, and people fucking love it. Calum’s getting stopped in the street in fucking Wolverhampton - Wolverhampton - and asked to sign autographs, which makes his head spin. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks, when he calls his mum from a payphone and she tells him that they’ve had people turning up at the door asking for interviews. This is what the rise to the top feels like, powered by coke and booze and Noel's guitar.

They play a festival in Sweden which sees Noel, Liam and Bonehead smashing up a hotel bar with the guys from Primal Scream, who they’d met at T in the Park, and Richard Ashcroft, who they’ve known for years, and once again Calum’s woken up in the middle of the night and informed that they’ve been asked to leave - not just the hotel this time, but the country. He’s driven to the police station where Bonehead, Liam and Noel are being held, and has to stand with the harsh lights hurting his eyes while Alan tries to hash things out with the Swedish police, and then the three fucking delinquents come stumbling out, grinning and reeking of alcohol.

("Are you trying to get arrested in every single fucking country we visit?" Calum asks Liam, as they make their way to the car.

"No," Liam says, "but that's a fucking mega idea, that."

Shit.)

They have to film another music video in August, but since it’s for Cigarettes & Alcohol Marcus at the record label lets them bargain the video down from a full on shoot to the filming of a live gig at the Borderline in London and hiring a few pretty faces to mingle with them backstage. It’s not bad, Calum thinks, as Liam hands him a beer and grins drunkenly for the cameras. Slap a fucking black and white filter on it and it’ll look almost intentionally dingy.

A week after that, the album comes out.

Calum hadn’t really realised what album releases would entail, but apparently, it’s a lot of fucking interviews. The first few are quite exciting - they’re still not that used to interviews; a few radio shows, a few TV shows, the odd magazine - but after days on end of answering the same questions hour after hour, Calum starts joining Liam for his hourly smoke breaks, just for something to liven the mood.

They play a show in London the day the album comes out, and Calum finds himself scanning the screaming crowd for blonde hair, pale skin, sea-green eyes, a pretty smile, but Michael’s not there. Calum hadn’t really expected him to be - it’s a small venue, and apparently it’s been sold out for weeks - but it doesn’t stop him feeling disappointed all the same, having to turn to the back of the stage for a minute to collect himself. Tony shoots him a strange look over his hi-hat, but doesn’t say anything, and Calum sends up a quick prayer of thanks that it was Tony and not Noel that had noticed.

The album goes gold in three days - the fastest-selling debut album in British history - but they barely even have time to celebrate because they’re heading to Sweden again the next day and Alan tells them with an unusually stern expression that he’s had to twist a lot of arms to get them back in and they’re absolutely fucking not allowed to get drunk or high or fight anybody until they’ve been in and out of Sweden. Liam moans and bitches about it but accepts reluctantly, spending the entire journey to Sweden yawning and rubbing his eyes and making sleepy conversation until he falls asleep on Noel’s shoulder.

The show in Sweden goes off without a hitch, and they’re in Dublin the next day - their first Irish show - and the brothers go fucking mental. Calum joins in for a bit but can’t keep up; two Irish Mancunians in Dublin is far too much for his Australian stomach to handle. Belfast is no better, and the day after that they play the Haçienda in Manchester - one of the most famous clubs in their hometown - and after the three-day-binge even the Gallaghers are worn out and sleep for the majority of the two days they have off before heading to Europe and then to Japan.

Japan is fucking insane. Fans are swarming around them the minute they step off the plane, drunk off the free little bottles of booze, and the crowd sings their songs back at them louder than any English fans ever have done. Calum’s glad he’s not singing, because he gets choked up when Liam steps away from the microphone for a second during Live Forever and the crowd scream did you ever feel the pain in the morning rain as it soaks you to the bone? He sees Liam’s eyes widen, sees the way he swallows before starting the chorus, sees the way his gaze flits to Noel and they hold each other’s gazes for a split second, something that only the two of them can read in it, and his heart swells with pride and love. God, he fucking loves his job, he loves the music, he loves his band, he loves the fans, he fucking loves it all.

They’re riding off the high of Japan when they get to America again, due to play a whole host of shows throughout the rest of September until the end of October, when it all goes wrong.

They’re not made for America, Calum thinks. They gets thrown out of a radio show for swearing live on-air; they get in a fight with the bouncers at some famous club in Hollywood; and one night in LA they even get a visit from the police, who arrive with their guns drawn, because Bonehead won’t stop playing Supersonic with his amp on full volume at six in the morning. Noel cackles when he sees them and tells them to fucking go ahead, shoot the cunt, and Maggie, their poor, overworked, underpaid tour manager, rushes out in her pyjamas and bargains with the police, tries to smooth things over. Calum thinks that’ll be it, that’ll be the big story of the tour, but it’s all overshadowed when they get to the Whisky a Go Go, some famous club that they’re told repeatedly it’s an honour to be playing.

Oasis being Oasis, they’re looking for coke. Someone procures a bag of white powder at soundcheck, and Liam grabs it greedily and starts cutting it into lines as the rest of the band circle around it like vultures, and as it goes up Calum’s nose he thinks fucking hell, this feels a bit fucking different. He shrugs it off, though, and hands the rolled up dollar bill to Bonehead - maybe American coke’s just stronger.

It hits him like a fucking train. He’s buzzing with the kind of energy that he’s never had from coke before, higher than he’s ever been before, more euphoric, feels fucking unstoppable, but there’s a dirty edge to it, something gritty and nasty that he just doesn’t like. It’s too late, though, because it’s gone down, and he thinks fucking hell - well, at least it’ll wear off in about half an hour.

It doesn’t.

He’s sweating, heart pounding in his chest, vision sharp and blurry at the same time when they get on stage. Everyone else seems to be in a similar situation - Bonehead’s eyes are wide and flitting left to right, right to left, and Liam’s jittery and bouncing on his heels. Noel’s somewhere else completely - he starts playing fucking Bring It On Down when the rest of them start up with Fade Away, and he plays the solo of Supersonic during Cigarettes & Alcohol. They have to play Roll With It one-and-a-half times, because Calum’s bass amp explodes a minute in, and Liam starts shouting at the audience after a crowdsurfer knocks his mic stand over, and then starts shouting at Noel for fucking God knows what, yelling at him to fuck off, until he launches his tambourine at Noel, hitting him on the shoulder, and storms offstage as the set ends.

Calum heads off dazedly, trying to slow his pounding heart and thinking fucking hell, what the fuck was in that coke? The brothers are still yelling at each other backstage, pupils dilated and faces red, and don’t stop yelling as they’re herded into a car to get back to the hotel, are still screaming at each other as Maggie ushers them up the stairs and into their separate hotel rooms. They each shout a venomous fuck you, you fucking cunt at each other before slamming their doors, and Calum, who’s due to room with Liam that night, decides he’d rather sleep on Bonehead and Tony’s floor than brave that.

He can’t fucking sleep, though. The high just doesn’t stop. He’s so wired, feels so fucking strung out and awful, barely cognisant of what’s going on around him but hyperaware at the same time and he just wants to fucking sleep, just wants to rest. He can’t, though, and neither can Bonehead or Tony, and they just pace around the room, vibrating with energy, muttering what the fuck do they do to the coke over here, eh? every few minutes.

Time passes so fucking slowly, every minute inching by painfully, and by the time it’s morning Calum’s starting to finally, finally come down. He feels semi-human by the time the knock on their door for breakfast comes, and wrenches it open, still dressed in last night’s clothes, to find a serious-looking Maggie, a crease between her brows.

“What?” he says, because he knows, he just knows something’s happened.

“Noel’s left,” she says. Oh. Well. That’s hardly grounds for a face like that.

“Will he be back for soundcheck?” Calum asks.

“He’s gone, Calum.”

“What d’you mean, he’s gone?” Calum’s not quite getting it.

“He asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says. “And he’s gone.” Calum stares at her. Noel can’t be gone. He might have left, sure, but he can’t have gone.

“Wha’s tha’?” Bonehead calls groggily, from across the room. He’d come down a few hours ago, managed to force himself to sleep, and he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Noel’s gone,” Maggie repeats, a little louder. Tony turns from where he’s sat in the corner of the room, twisting his fingers this way and that, eyes wide.

“Gone where?” Bonehead asks.

“I don’t know,” Maggie says.

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?”

“He’s gone, Bonehead. Took his passport, took some money, and left.” There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“Does Liam know?” Tony asks. Maggie bites her lip, and shakes her head.

“I thought I’d tell you first.”

“Shit,” Bonehead breathes. “He’s gone? ” Maggie nods.

“Yeah,” she says. “Suitcase and all.”

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” Calum mutters, and sits down on the bed. “He’ll come back, though, won’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie admits. “He sounded pretty certain about it.”

“Why the fuck did you let him go?” Bonehead demands.

“I can’t hold him hostage, can I?” Maggie says. “He’s fucking twenty-seven years old.”

“Shit,” Tony says. “Oh, God. Shit. ”

“I’m going to tell Liam,” Maggie says, sounding a little nervous about it. She probably should be, Calum thinks distantly, staring unblinkingly at the carpet. Noel’s gone.

“I’ll come with you,” he finds himself saying, more for Liam’s sake than Maggie’s. He stands up robotically, completely on autopilot, and follows her out of the room, leaving Bonehead and Tony in shocked silence.

Liam answers his door on the first knock, already awake and showered, and his face falls when he sees it’s not Noel. Oh, God. The kid’s going to be fucking beside himself.

“Can we come in?” Maggie says, aiming for sweet. Liam’s eyes narrow.

“What’s happened?” he says. Maggie hesitates.

“Noel’s gone,” she says softly, after a moment.

“Where to?”

“He’s gone, Liam,” Calum says. The words feel strange on his lips. Noel can’t be gone, not now, not when they’re finally getting somewhere. Not without fucking saying anything to them.

“Where?”

“We don’t know,” Maggie says, still gentle, still kind, still trying to soften the blow. Liam looks about five years old, damp hair plastered to his face, eyes wide and shining with something that looks like fear, maybe, or loss, or rejection. Or maybe all of them with a sheen of anxiety.

“Fuck,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Is he going to be okay? Is he alright? Did you speak to him?”

“He just asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says.

“But he’s okay?”

“I- he seemed okay, yeah, but-”

“Okay,” Liam says, like he’s trying to steady himself. “When’s he coming back?”

“I-” Maggie cuts herself off, and takes a deep breath. “I think he’s gone for good, Liam.”

Calum can see it, the moment it registers in Liam’s mind, sees it in the way his eyes widen and his lips part, in the panic that rises in his eyes.

“He’s not,” Liam says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “He wouldn’t fucking do that.”

“He’s gone,” Maggie says again, softer than before, and then reaches inside her coat pocket. “He left you a letter.” Liam stares down at the folded envelope in her hand, and then snatches it and shuts the door in both of their faces.

They stand there for a moment, and then Maggie turns to Calum.

“Well,” she says, like she’s bracing herself. “That could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Calum says vaguely, still staring at the door.

It couldn’t be worse, though.

-------

Alan tells them not to worry, for the first few days. Noel’s disappeared before, and he’s quit before, and he always comes back.

So they try not to worry. Bonehead starts drinking at eleven in the morning, and Calum tries not to worry. Tony and Maggie have hushed conversations under their breath, and Calum tries not to worry. Liam doesn’t leave his room, and Calum tries not to worry.

They get a fucking bollocking about the gig from Alan, from Marcus, from fucking Maggie, even, but it feels hollow because they all know they’re not going to get the only bollocking that really matters - the one from Noel. They sit there silently while Alan rages about how embarrassing it was, while Marcus runs through numbers and statistics about sales and how they’re going to be affected, while Maggie gives them disappointed looks and says really, snorting meth hours before a concert, what were you thinking?

Yeah. They’d snorted fucking meth. Some absolute fucking idiot - William John Paul Gallagher - had mistaken meth for coke. It’s why they were absolutely out of their fucking minds, why Calum hadn’t been able to sleep that night, and why Liam and Noel’s argument had been more ferocious than usual. It might also explain why all of this feels even more overwhelming than usual, why the comedown feels like it’s just not going away, why whenever Calum walks past Noel’s empty hotel room he feels like he’s suffocating.

By the third day, even Calum’s at a loss. He’s been getting out of the hotel, going for long walks and getting lost and having to ask for directions to get back, standing by the sea and breathing in the salty air to try and clear his mind. He’s worried about Noel, more than anything - Noel doesn’t usually leave without saying anything, without getting the last word in, which is what makes this feel all the more real, like this is the time it’s going to stick.

Although, Calum thinks, maybe Noel did get the last word. He’d written a letter to Liam, after all; maybe he’d said something in there about where he was going, what he was doing, something that makes this whole situation make any sort of sense. Maybe Liam knows something the rest of them don’t.

He knocks on Liam’s door after he doesn’t show up for lunch again, and Liam answers, looking a little dishevelled, and a lot drunk.

“What?” he says dully.

“What did the letter say?” Calum asks. Liam stares at him for a minute, and then opens the door enough to let Calum walk in.

The room’s a fucking tip. Liam’s clothes are strewn all over the floor - which, granted, isn’t exactly new - and Calum can see white powder residue on the coffee table, the desk, even the fucking bedside table. Next to the smudges of powder on the bedside table is the letter Noel had left, rolled up tightly, but creased all over. Liam’s been reading it, using it to snort drugs, smoothing it out and reading it again, rinse and repeat.

Calum sighs, and sits down on the chair next to Liam’s bed, throwing him a doleful look. Noel’s Calum’s best friend, sure, and Calum’s not got a clue what to do without him, but he’s Liam’s brother. His flesh and blood, the boy who held Liam’s hand while he crossed the road, who nursed him through his first black eye, who writes songs with lyrics like please, brother, let it be, after a fight. Liam's never not had Noel looking out for him - through exasperation and curses and fists connecting with jaws, but there nonetheless. Liam hasn’t got a chance without Noel.

Liam throws himself down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, and Calum puts his hand on Liam’s shin, fingers resting lightly against rough denim. I’m here, he’s trying to say, but it feels hollow to the both of them, because he’s not Noel.

“What did he say?” Calum asks again. Liam stares up at the ceiling, blinks once, and then opens his mouth.

“He told me he loved me,” he says. Calum’s stomach twists. That’s not a good thing, not from Noel. He’d never say that, least of all to Liam, unless what he was trying to say was goodbye.

“Oh,” Calum says, and tries not to let the panic seep into his voice. “Did he say where he was going?” Liam shakes his head.

“Just a bunch of shite about how can we be brothers anymore, blah blah blah,” he says, voice rising mockingly on Noel’s words. Anger works for Liam, especially where Noel’s concerned. It’s the only way he knows how to feel about Noel. “Can’t do this anymore, it’s not me it’s you, all that breakup bullshit.”

“What about your mum?” Calum says, even though he knows the answer to that, because Alan’s been calling Peggy pretty much every hour. Liam shakes his head.

“She’s fucking beside herself,” he says, fury licking at the edges of his tone. “I get doing it to me, up and leaving like that, because that’s us, innit, but to mam? I’ll fucking kill the prick myself if I ever see him again.” He doesn’t mean it, but Calum lets him pretend that they both believe it.

“You should eat,” Calum says, after a moment of silence.

“Probably,” Liam says, to the ceiling. He blinks up at it one more time, and then rolls onto his side.

“He’s a fucking cunt,” he announces, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and his voice wavers a little. Calum sighs and reaches his hand out, and Liam extends his own to lace his fingers with Calum’s, blinking at him with glassy, tired eyes.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, and his voice is definitely wobbly now. “I didn’t mean to push him away. I love him.”

“I know,” Calum says, and squeezes Liam’s hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “He knows, too.”

“I wouldn’t’ve said it if I knew,” Liam says, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t’ve been such a cunt.”

“Yeah, you would’ve,” Calum says, but it’s not unkind. “That’s how you two are.”

“Cain and Abel.”

“Doesn’t Cain kill Abel?”

“Isn’t Noel killing me?” Calum’s not really sure what to say to that. He supposes, in a way, Liam’s right. One of them’s got to fall off the tightrope at some point, and Liam’s never going to push Noel. And Liam would be all too happy to fall off, if it were for Noel.

“He needs you,” he says eventually. “He’s always needed you.”

“Does he fuck,” Liam says flatly.

“He’d never let anyone but you sing his songs,” Calum says. “That’s the highest praise you can get from Noel.” Liam’s silent for a moment, because he knows Calum’s right, and then he sighs again, loud and heavy.

“I’m hungry,” he says, and Calum closes his eyes in relief. "I want fish and chips."

“Order room service,” Calum suggests. Liam blinks at him.

"Do they do fish and chips?"

"They will if you offer them enough money." Liam hums, like he's thinking about it.

“Will you stay?” he asks lowly. Calum hesitates, and then nods.

“‘Course I will,” he says, and gives Liam’s hand another squeeze. Liam smiles at him, small but genuine.

“Love you,” he says. Calum smiles back, soft and fond.

“Love you too,” he says.

“Enough to find me good fish and chips in LA?” Liam says hopefully, and Calum laughs.

“Nowhere near enough for that,” he says, and Liam sighs dramatically, but he’s smiling too, which is the best Calum can hope for.

-------

A few hours later, while searching for a pack of cigarettes, Calum comes across the spare room key to Noel’s room that Noel had pressed in his hand wordlessly on their first night. Calum hadn’t really been sure what to make of it - was it an invitation for late-night songwriting, or the first acknowledgement of that night a few years ago either of them have ever made? - but it hadn’t even mattered, because Noel had left so soon anyway.

He’s heading to the room before he’s even really thought about it, unlocking the door and taking in the too-empty, too-clean room. The bed’s been perfectly made by the staff, nothing like the slapdash job Noel usually does, and there’s no suitcase with clothes spilling out of it kicked in the corner of the room, no shoes strewn across the floor as Noel had kicked them off on his way to the bed. It’s almost overwhelming, to know that this room housed the decision that could end Calum’s career, and that this is the last connection he could ever have to Noel. It feels almost suffocating, like the walls are too big and too white for Calum, and he finds himself sitting down on the bed and reaching for the phone before he’s really thought through what he’s doing.

He’d memorised the number, of course. He hadn’t really meant to; he’d just read the little scrap of paper so often that it had stuck. He barely even hesitates as he dials, chest so heavy with the crushing weight of the empty room, of the silence Noel's left in his wake.

The phone rings four times and Calum doesn’t even realise his fist is clenched until there’s a click and a shuffling sound, and his fingers relax.

“Hello?” Michael sounds casual, relaxed, a little sleepy. Calum clutches the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” Michael repeats.

“Michael.” He hears a sharp intake of breath.

“Calum?” Michael says. “Aren’t you in America?”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking hell. You’d better make this quick, then.” He doesn’t hang up, though, which is something. Calum just listens to him breathing for a minute, not really sure what he actually wants to say, or if he wants to say anything at all.

“Calum?” Michael says, jolting him back to reality.

“Noel’s gone,” Calum says.

“What d’you mean, he’s gone? Where?”

“Dunno.” There’s a pause.

“You lost your songwriter?”

“He’s gone. Left.” Michael inhales deeply.

“Where? Where’d he go?”

“We don’t know.” Michael exhales.

“Oh, Calum,” he says, and he sounds sorry and sad. Calum’s eyes flutter shut, trying to soak in the sound of his voice.

“I-” Calum cuts himself off, because he doesn’t actually know what he’s trying to say.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, and he sounds like he means it.

“Are you?” Calum can’t help but ask, a little bitterly. If Michael rang him and said Damon had left Blur, Calum would probably feel honour-bound to tell Noel. Or, he wouldn’t, now. Fuck.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Michael says, tone a little hard. Calum puts his head in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles.

“Why did you call me if you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Calum says again, hearing the hopelessness in his own voice. “I just- I don’t know.” Michael sighs.

“How’s Liam taking it?” he says. He’s trying, Calum can tell. He’s trying, for Calum’s sake.

“Fucking terribly,” Calum admits. “Noel wrote him a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Yeah. A- a fucking, like, goodbye note, I don’t know. He’s a mess.”

“Jesus.” Michael hesitates for a moment, and then adds: “What happened?”

“Him and Liam had a fight,” Calum says. “And we played a fucking awful gig in LA.”

“Don’t they fight all the time?”

“Yeah.”

“Why this time, then?” Calum shrugs.

“We did meth,” he says.

“You- you did meth? ” Michael sounds horrified. “ Calum, fucking-”

“We thought it was coke,” Calum says.

“How the fuck- ”

“I don’t fucking know, Liam’s a fucking idiot,” Calum says, even though he’d put the stuff up his nose too.

“Fucking hell,” Michael breathes. “Alright. Jesus. And Noel just- just, what, took off?”

“Yeah,” Calum says, gut twisting at the words. “Took his passport and some money and left.”

“Passport?” Michael says. “Did he go home?”

“No.” There’s a pause.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Calum agrees, and it sounds listless, but he means it with every fibre of his fucking being.

“I’m sorry, Calum,” Michael says softly. Calum blinks at the wall.

“Yeah,” he says again. “Thanks.” Michael sighs.

“What are you going to do now?” he says.

“I have no fucking idea,” Calum says, the words acrid in his mouth. What the fuck are they going to do now? None of the rest of them can fucking write, can they? Not like Noel, at least.

“Are you going to finish the tour?”

“I don’t know, Michael,” Calum says. All the questions are making his head hurt. He hasn’t even thought that far ahead, hasn’t really considered anything beyond where the fuck is Noel, I hope Noel’s alright, I’m going to fucking kill Noel. He doesn’t even know if they’d be allowed to play Noel’s songs - there’s got to be some kind of legal bullshit about royalties involved, hasn’t there? God, Noel’s always handled that stuff. Calum’s never read a fucking contract in his life, just signed where Noel told him to sign. Noel had been the one to sort out their management, to negotiate the record deal, to get the contracts for the tours. Who the fuck are Oasis without him?

“Hey,” Michael says gently. “It’ll be alright.”

“Will it?”

“Yeah.” Michael has nothing to back his words up, no events or facts he can point to and say see, it’ll be fine, but somehow, Calum believes him. Maybe because he wants to believe him, with every scrap of his soul, or maybe just because it’s Michael.

“Thanks,” Calum says, and it comes out tired. Michael just hums in response, and they lapse into silence. It’s not uncomfortable, though, not like the last time Michael had been at the other end of a phone line. They’re existing in tandem, and it feels like something slotting into a place that Calum didn’t know was empty.

“I can’t believe you did meth ,” Michael says after a while, in disbelief, and Calum can’t help the way his lips hitch up in a faint smile.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

“Y’know, the tabloids aren’t wrong about you,” Michael says, and there’s a smile in his voice too. He’s teasing Calum. “Always calling you a bunch of hooligans. Taking meth because you think it’s coke, fucking hell.”

Calum huffs out a laugh, fingers curling around the receiver as his heart flips in his chest. Michael reads about him in the papers.

“That’s just Liam,” he says.

“So you weren’t deported from Sweden?”

“Well-”

“Exactly,” Michael says, and Calum can hear him grinning.

“That was because of Liam,” Calum says. He pauses, and then adds: “And Noel. And Bonehead.” Michael laughs, soft and melodic, and for one split, giddy second Calum thinks fuck, I want to spend the rest of my life hearing you laugh. He’s sure he doesn’t mean it, though. It’s probably the fucking days-long comedown, and the fact he’s feeling Noel’s absence like nothing else. It's the first time he's heard someone laugh since Noel left, after all.

“I can’t believe that’s what I’m up against,” Michael says, and it’s still soft and amused, but Calum can hear the slight tinge of sadness to it.

“Yeah,” Calum says, smile fading. “That’s your competition.” Michael exhales heavily, and Calum thinks they might be thinking the same thing. How did we go from us to competition?

“Why did you call me?” Michael asks. Calum’s fingers twitch against the phone.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just- I don’t know.” He hesitates, and then adds: “Why did you call me? After Top of the Pops, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Michael says. He’d said the same thing two months ago. But, two months ago he hadn’t added what he does this time: “D’you really want to do this now?”

“Do what?” Calum says.

“Talk about this. Us. Now.” Calum swallows.

“No,” he says. He never wants to talk about it. He wants to walk the edge of this precipice forever, doesn’t ever want Michael to say c’mon, let’s jump, because he doesn’t know what he’ll find at the bottom. He doesn’t know whether Michael’s just biding his time, waiting until they can have their big what happened to us? talk to say everything that he’s thought for the past five years, get it all off his chest, and then fuck off and leave. He’d be well within his rights to, Calum thinks, but that doesn’t stop the mere thought of it from making his heart ache.

“Okay,” Michael says. “But we-” he’s interrupted by Calum and Liam’s door slamming open. Calum starts in surprise, phone slipping out of his fingers, and whips around to see Bonehead standing in the doorway.

“We’ve found him,” Bonehead says breathlessly. “He’s in San Diego.”

“You’ve found him?” Calum repeats. “What? How?”

“Maggie got his phone bills and traced all the numbers,” Bonehead says. “Found one in San Diego. Remember that girl, whatsherface, Leah? Dunno, doesn’t matter, we’ve found him. ”

“And?” Calum says, heart in his mouth. “Did you talk to him? Is he okay? Is he coming back?”

“Yeah,” Bonehead says, grinning widely. “He’s coming back.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Calum mutters, stomach somersaulting. “Does Liam know?” Bonehead’s smile falters.

“Yeah,” he says. Oh. Noel’s going to have fucking hell to pay.

“Oh,” Calum says. Bonehead looks at him for a moment, both of them thinking the same thing - there’s going to be fucking fireworks - and then he grins again.

“Well,” he says, “at least we’ve got our fucking songwriter back, eh?”

“Yeah,” Calum says, and laughs, a little lightheaded. Fucking hell. Noel’s coming back.

“Bonehead!” he hears someone yell - Liam, he thinks - and Bonehead sticks his head back out of the door.

“Aye?”

“...go out...fish and chips...you ask Calum?” is all he can make out. Bonehead casts a glance over at Calum.

“Fancy going out for tea?” he says. “Liam reckons he’s found a chippy.” Calum raises his eyebrows. Fucking hell. Might as well have one last supper before Noel gets back and all hell breaks loose.

“Alright,” he says, and gets up to leave, making the phone clatter to the floor. He picks it up hastily, and Bonehead frowns at him.

“Who’ve you been talking to?” he says. Calum clutches the receiver to his chest.

“No one,” he says. “Was going to ring my mum.” Bonehead’s face doesn’t clear, and his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to work something out. Shit, it’s fucking three in the morning in England, isn’t it? Fuck.

“Bonehead!” Calum hears Liam yell again, sounding more aggravated this time, and Bonehead sighs in exasperation and turns back around.

“Fucking hell, who the fuck are you, my missus?” Bonehead yells back. “I”m fucking coming, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“I’ll just-” Calum motions at the bed vaguely, hoping it’ll come across like he’s got some final organising to do - fucking make the already-pristine bed, or something, anything to make Bonehead leave so he can hang up on Michael - and Bonehead just nods, already halfway out of the door and on his way to Liam.

Calum brings the receiver back up to his ear, ready to make some excuse to Michael, but all he hears is a dial tone.

Michael’s already gone.

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chapter five

#malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos slash #god do you know how long it takes to format fic on ao3 because of how i write it in google docs #a solid 15 minutes of deleting line breaks #anyway i hope everyone is well i have been busy but i will be back on my bullshit #imminently might i add #might even write some more of soulmate au but don't hold me to that #odds on i put some cheeky britpop references in #everyone will hate me but you know what! its my fic! i can make them hear dlbia in costa if i want!#anyway now that i'm safely at least 8 tags down i can mention noel gallagher #i can't even tell you how much i fancy this man its actually uncouth #like yall thought richard madden was bad this is richard madden but x834273472349234 #and its NOEL FUCKING GALLAGHER #can my brain make a SINGLE good decision please i'm BEGGING you #this is going to be my quarantine memory #like in years to come when people are like what did you do during quarantine!#oh just thirsted over a 53 year old man wbu :)#anyway off topic i have missed being here #im signing off for the night now but i'll be back tomorrow #please leave inane shit in my inbox and especially comments about noel gallagher #although if i see ONE submission of that picture of his feet this blog is getting deleted

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cherryfi · 5 years

Text

Bedtime Stories

Word Count: 4424.

Plot: Siren!Doyoung x female reader. The only way to get your kids to sleep is with a bedtime story and this time you tell them about how you met their father.

A/N: It’s Halloween Hoes!!! I’m kicking off the series with some fluffy Doyoung goodness! I’ve been sitting on this one for like a week now :(. I’m a little disappointed with it but, tell me what you think.

Requests are open!! Let me know if you have any other idols/ pairings you want for the series!

“Can you put them to bed for me?” Your husband’s frustrated voice calls out from the top of the stairs down to the kitchen; where you sat working on your next book. The sound of socked feet padding down the stairs quickly followed. With your deadline fast approaching, you were working double time, trying to pull extra hours so that you could finish it on time.

Technically, it was finished but, following the success of your first book, there were obviously expectations set for you to write something bigger and better, the added pressure was stifling your creativity and making you question the directions you took your stories in. A lot of the added pressure came from within. You were a perfectionist by nature; and you wanted to prove to your fans that you could consistently produce incredible works but, you also wanted to silence your critics.

You weren’t a one hit wonder; you were here to stay.

“Y/N? Did you hear me? Can you put them to bed for me?” Now normally, your husband wasn’t this easily frustrated but, it was the holidays and both of your children: your 6-year-old daughter and 3-year-old son were at home all day because it was the holidays. Which meant their father (your husband) had been watching them all day while you worked on your novel.

“Just one more line and then I’ll take over, I promise.” Doyoung wraps his arms around you from behind, squeezing you tightly and rested his head on your shoulder. A small sigh leaves his mouth, his lips next to your ear.

“I’m sure it’s perfect already, you’re just a massive worrier so everything looks like crap to a perfectionist like you. Plus, you’ve been looking at that screen all day , you need a break before you go mad. Anyway, the kids want you to read them and I need to head out. You’ve got it covered yeah?” You kiss his cheek and quietly agree.

“What time is it anyway?”

“It’s 9, you’ve been on it all day. I’m only going to be gone for a few hours but if you’re not up when I get back; goodnight and I love you. Tell the kids I love them too.” He kisses you tenderly and heads out the door into the crisp night air. You watch him grab his car keys from the breakfast bar and the gold plate from its spot by the door.

You roll your shoulders and prepare to get your energetic kids to bed.

“Alright you two little monsters I’m coming to get you!” You hear shrills of laughter as you comically stomp up the stairs; making roaring noises as you go.

As you turn the corner into your son’s room, you see both children dive under the bed.

“I see you!” You drag them both from under the bed, all 3 of you in fits of giggles. You tickle them both until you’re all on the ground, tired from laughing .

“How about a bedtime story?” Quick to their feet both of your kids climb onto your little boy’s bed.

Wracking your mind for a good story to tell, you try to find one in the bookshelf when your daughter pipes up.

“No Mummy I don’t want a book, make one up please?” She bounces excitedly with a sweet smile and who are you to tell her no? Especially when your 3-year-old chants “No books, no books!”

“Alright, Have I ever told you about when I used to be a fisherwoman?” You give a pause and watch both kids dramatically shake their heads.

“No? All right then.”

Deadhorse was a small town, just south of nowhere, that lay along the coastline. It was a fishing town, with no discernible features and nothing interesting to do. There were no tourists here.

If you had the displeasure of being born in Deadhorse, you did everything you could to get the hell out of town.

It was that kind of town. The kind of town that wasn’t on any major map and didn’t connect to the freeway. With a population of 1000, it was relatively sleepy. Everybody went to the same schools and worked in the same places.

The biggest attraction was a beaten up, old pub: ‘The moon and mermaid.’

It was boring and filled with small minded and old people but, it was home and until you could escape, you would the make the most of your situation.

But, it also had it’s perks. Being a sea town there was never a shortage of sea shanties and fire-side tales.

In every small, rural town there are the legends.

Be it myths about harbingers of death in the form of old hags carrying brooms or rakes, or whistled songs from forest depths carried on the wind that lure people in; each town had its story.

For Deadhorse it was the sea.

The sea was a dark and beautiful mistress – calm on the surface but bustling with activity in its depth.

Many a fisherman came into the pub and shared stories of sea creatures who would protect their boats during heavy storms or, recount hearing eerie songs that wrapped around them like the briny air. Though they’d remember hearing the song, they could never recount what it sounded like.

But this wasn’t about them, this was about you.

It was the summer of your 18th birthday, and your life was finally beginning to take shape.

You were going to a big college in the city and you were so close to achieving your dreams you could almost taste them – the same way you could taste the sea brine on the air.

“Pass me the crab cage Y/N?” Your father’s voice breaks you out of your stupor and shake your head. Reaching down, you pick up and hand him the cage. Loose sand shakes itself from the cage and you dust it off your arm.

You loved your parents more than anything, they were kind, hard-working people. They’d worked hard to put food on the table and keep you safe. You weren’t ashamed of your humble beginnings, in the same way that you weren’t ashamed of Deadhorse; it just wasn’t what you wanted.

Fishing was never your dream (was it ever anyone’s?).

“We’re going to have to come in earlier than normal today, Pete called in last night and told us that there’s a storm brewing and the meteorology office just put in a warning to the rest of the guys – storm’s coming in at about 5 so we’ve got to be back by the latest 4. Plus, have you seen the sky? It’s fire red.” He shrugs, throwing the cage into the back of the boat and unties the rope from the harbour.

“Yeah. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s take warning.” He laughed as you rattled off the saying in a deadpan voice.

You and your dad were close in an odd way. You could spend hours together in silence, doing absolutely nothing or working on tasks together. You were always in sync and that’s what you had done the day everything changed.

You fished together, hauling nets and cages with the occasional remark until around 3pm.

The sky, that was previously a blazing red had gone black. As if the sun’s fire had been snuffed out.

If that wasn’t terrifying enough, the sea had gone eerily calm and there was stillness in the air that was choking.

It was the only time you’d seen your father scared. As an experienced fisher he’d seen his fair share of storms, so you knew this one would be huge.

“Let’s head in.”

“Yeah.”

You’d arrived home in the nick of time, as the waves had begun picking up as you headed back in.

It had gotten worse throughout the night, the thunder and waves beating a chaotic cacophony against the small town. Truly, it was the stuff of nightmares and had been one of the worst storms the town had seen in a long time.

But, in the morning, it was as if nothing had happened at all.

Everything resumed as normal.

Except it wasn’t.

It started with the singing.

Every night, just as the sun was setting a mournful song carried itself across the island – seemingly from the depths of the sea.

In the pub local fishermen debated that it must have been the sea itself.

“It’s the storm, brewin’ up all sorts of trouble. You know the sea’s alive. She needs to settle.”

“Don’t be foolish Pete! The sea’s not alive but, what’s in it is. I bet that storm probably woke some long dormant creature.”

“Maybe it’s the whalien.” Everyone turned to look at the new voice; curious to hear about this newly mentioned sea creature that they’d never heard of before.

“It’s this whale that sings at a different frequency to every known whale in the world. Apparently, it’s always singing because it’s lonely. Scientists think it’s probably one of the biggest whales in the world.” Sean was a level-headed, young Marine-biologist – he knew what he was talking about so, they agreed it must have been an amalgamation of all those things.

The Whalien, disturbed by the churning waves must have become scared and was calling out, hoping to find another whale like itself. It was plausible except for the fact that the song sounded entirely too human to be from any animal.

They were all wrong.

You’d heard the song and it wasn’t a whale.

It had to be a siren or a mermaid and to be fair, those that didn’t believe it was a whale were in agreement that it must have been some kind of Siren.

You’d read about them in the library (the only place where there was anything fun to do), you knew about them from ‘Odyssey’.

But that wasn’t what bought you to that conclusion.

2 days after the storm, you were walking along the beach in an area that was seldom travelled.

You hadn’t been searching for anything in particular; just walking. But the glare from the sun, reflecting off something in the sand made you take notice.

It was a gold plate.

It was heavy when you picked it up and to the best of your knowledge it looked like real gold.

There were inscriptions on it but, you couldn’t decipher anything – it wasn’t in any language that you could recognise (not that you were a linguistics expert).

You took it home to look at it later but, for some reason, it didn’t feel right to tell anyone.

The singing started that night.

Describing a siren song was hard. In Greek mythology, the song was meant to be captivating.

Sirens would sing of the loneliness they felt – trapped on their island and of the betrayal of the Olympians and the Muses.

It would lure pirates and sailors alike, who, hearing of these foreign tongued songs, would lose all care and steer into the island. They would be stuck there because their ships were ruined and would eventually perish not because (as is commonly thought) the Sirens would eat them but, because the Sirens couldn’t feed them.

They were immortals trapped on an island that had no need for food but, their mortal companions did.

They would forgo all human needs to hear the Siren song and would die.

This song, however, sounded like a warning.

It was a threat.

You didn’t know how to explain how you knew this; because you couldn’t understand its song and no one else in your small community seemed to have the same experience as you.

One thing everyone agreed on, was that the song was getting louder and seemed to take on multiple voices.

It had something to do with the golden plate. You just knew it.

The louder the song grew, the closer you knew the Siren was to the island – it was hunting you.

By the 5th day, the town had no fish.

Nets were empty and any catches made were often dead before they entered the net. The fish were avoiding the town.

This pushed the fishers into deeper, often unchartered, waters that still yielded no results. Savings were running dry fast and to top it off, the song was so loud that no one got any sleep.

You had to do something.

It was 2am on what would be the 6th day and here you were on the beach, plate in your satchel.

You took it out of the bag.

“Is this a scary story mummy?” Your little girl interrupts your flow, you’d lost yourself for a moment, almost able to smell the brine of the sea; wafting in your face.

Her blanket was up to her eyes and her brother was hidden behind it completely.

You sat on the floor opposite the bed. You quickly got up and picked up your daughter, setting her in your lap and pulling your son beside you.

“It might sound a little scary now but, I promise it has a happy ending. Should I continue?”

“Finish it please.” Your son responds hugging your arm tightly and you turn to your daughter for confirmation.

She gives you a toothy, gap-filled smile and nods quickly.

“Alright, where was I?”

“The plate!” They shout unison.

Yes, the plate.

You tried to hold it up above your head but, it was far too heavy.

Somehow, it had increased in mass (to the point where you couldn’t even hold it up) and was getting warmer, to the point where it soon began to glow white-hot.

“I guess you know that it’s here because it’s never done that before.” The singing had grown quieter and the plate was no longer glowing.

You kept talking.

“I don’t want it. I didn’t mean to take something that’s obviously so important to you, I just found it on the island. I’m guessing you lost it in the storm? I would love to return it to you. It must be awfully important given how loud you’ve been singing. Please bring the fish back. I was the one that did something wrong, no one else and I take full responsibility. You can get it whenever you’d like. Please just bring the fish back.” Honestly, you feel dumb.

Talking to the air, to the sea but somehow, you knew that the Siren was listening.

“Also, you have a lovely voice.”

You left quickly after.

In the morning, or well, the evening, it had become clear that you did the right thing.

The fish and crabs were back, almost as if they’d never left.

“How was today’s catch?” Your mother had asked. She’d been worried for your father. Aware of how tense he’d been since the storm. But his answer immediately put her heart at ease.

“It was good. The sea was kind to all of us today. So, I’m thankful. I also apologise for making you so tense.” Just like that the balance was restored.

But, that night, there was no singing.

This should have meant that you could relax but, you were restless.

The plate was still in your possession.

After hours of tossing and turning, you finally fell asleep.

Only to wake with a jolt.

Your bed was soaking wet. The air heavy with the smell of, salt.

You couldn’t breathe. There was something lying on top of you.

In your alarm, you tried to sit up, only to be pushed back down and what felt like a hand reached around your neck, squeezing a little.

It was a warning.

Your eyes couldn’t adjust to the dark, couldn’t see what was on top of you but you knew.

It was the Siren.

“Y/N.” A hissed whisper next to your ear confirmed your suspicions. The voice that spoke to you was much deeper than the one that sang to you.

Fear shot through you like a jolt of electricity and you tried to scream but then it placed a hand on your mouth.

“Y/N, you have something of mine, I would like it back. If you cooperate, I will let you live.” The voice continued as the siren sat up, straddling your waist.

Please let this be sleep paralysis, please be sleep paralysis.

“I don’t know what creature causes this paralysis but, I am not he. I want what is mine and then I will leave.”

“I need to find it for you, can I get up?” The siren gets up and sits beside you on the bed.

“Do what you must but, if you deceive me, I will kill you and I will enjoy it.” You’re terrified and the Siren knows this, smelling the air around and laughing.

“Human fear, it’s so strange to me. Why are you scared when I’ve said I won’t harm you?” He laughs.

You’re certain this Siren is a man.

It’s only confirmed when you turn on your bedside lamp.

You look back at him and despite how wet he is; he’s beautiful. His large eyes watch your every move, waiting for any sign of deception.

“Stop staring and do your part, human. Do what you promised me. Where is my Aegis?” Despite his hissing and the threats – he sounds tired.

“Here.” You take it from your bag and give it to, he holds it protectively.

“Hey, you’re bleeding.” His eyes are wide as he looks up at you, insulted that you would point out the obvious.

“Why is that your business?” You sigh as he looks at you, unsure. He curls in on himself defensively.

“Wait here.” Honestly, you don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe it’s because his aggression only came from the fact that he was injured or, maybe because you felt like you owed him (you did, after all, accidentally steal his property), you felt the need to take care of him.

Despite his obvious apprehension, he was still sitting on your bed when you got back. Your cat had taken up residence on his lap and was purring up a storm.

“I like your animal, this cat, he’s friendly.” You placed your first aid kit on the bed beside him and his large eyes immediately focused on it, his lips curled in warning.

“Yeah, that’s mouse, he’s a Maine coon. He loves everyone.” The cat meows in response, almost as if he knows he’s being spoken about and snuggles into the Siren’s lap. He shifts his stare back to you and juts his chin towards the kit, prompting you to explain.

“I’m going to clean your wounds, okay? It’s might sting a little but, I promise it’s going to help.”

“Are you an Apothecary? What is this cream? What is in it that will sting me? Is it venom?” He picks up the tube of antiseptic cream and sniffs it. You’re not sure if he’s a nervous talker or is just very curious but, it’s almost cute. As you watch him, curious yourself, you notice he’s a little green.

“It’s antiseptic cream. I’m going to clean your wounds with it and then dress them. You’re going to need to stay out of the water for a while; just until they close.” You clean the wounds, trying as hard as you can to be gentle.

It still hurts regardless, and he hisses at you when it touches his skin.

“How is this poison meant to help me when it burns this way? How do you know it won’t poison me? I am, after all, not of your kind.” That’s a good question actually – he’s clearly not human so how will it affect him?

You pointedly avoid his question.

“How did you find me? What are you anyway?” He smiles slowly; pointed teeth on full display. His dark eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light of your bedside lamp.

“You called out to me, with my Aegis, I followed your call.” He shrugs and goes back to playing with Mouse and you notice the webbing between his fingers.

Pointed teeth bare at you when you apply the liquid dressings a little too heavy-handed in your shock. Mouse only meows in confusion but, doesn’t move from his spot on the sea creature’s lap. You cringe.

“Sorry. What got you so banged up anyway?” He looks at you quizzically, eyebrows furrowed.

“What injured you?”

“It was the storm, I lost my Aegis; the plate you stole, when the waves became rough. It heals me of injuries. You seafaring people used to steal these from creatures like me, mainly because you think it will give you immortality. Or because you want to trap us.” He’s finally calm and you take this time to really take his features in. He’s very slight and shivers a little as the water on his body chills him.

You gasp when Mouse climbs out of his lap and curls up on your bedspread.

“You’re naked.” He looks at you, incredulously.

“I have no need for clothes, I am a sea dweller.”

“Well, you’re going to freeze because you’re wet, and this is land. I’ll get you some clothes and you can stay here tonight and heal up.” He smiles, his jagged teeth on display.

They still scare you a little.

You smile when you realise that both your kids are asleep.

Picking up your daughter, you quietly carry her to her room, hoping that she doesn’t wake up.

Gently placing her in the she snuggles into her pillow, turning on her side.

“I love you, Peanut. Your daddy loves you too.” You kiss your forehead and head back to your son’s room.

Tucking him in, you kiss his forehead as well. “Good night, Honey. We both love you so much.”

You laugh when you think about the first time you met Doyoung.

He had stayed the night, curled up on your bed with Mouse; while you took the sunbed under the window in your room.

He was gone in the morning, as was his ‘plate’.

You didn’t see him again until the summer was coming to an end.

The coastal winds were sending a chill across town and the days were getting shorter. It had been a month since Doyoung had ‘answered your call’; it didn’t feel real.

If it weren’t for the wet sheets and the briny smell in the air of your room, you would have been sure that it was a vivid dream.

In the weeks that followed, you’d spent every night at the beach’s edge calling out to him, the bitter night air whipping against your body and the moonlight casting an eerie glow against the crashing waves – he never responded, and eventually you gave up.

You walk to your balcony and take a seat overlooking the sea.

The waves looked much the same as they did, the night that Doyoung finally came back.

You were heading away to university, finally. You had bought a house, just off campus, with some of your friends and had all your things packed up.

As much as you’d always complained about your small, middle of nowhere, town; you were going to miss it and all the characters that lived there.

But you also wanted to see Doyoung, just to know that he was okay.

The night before you left you walked to the beach again.

It would be the last time for a while that you would get to see the water and be this close to the coast. It was probably the last chance you would ever have to see him.

So, you’d called out to the sea, one last time.

“It’s me again. I’m sure you probably don’t care to hear from me, to be fair, I don’t even know if you can hear me; but I just want to know if you’re okay. I won’t be home for a while because I’m leaving. So, I suppose this is goodbye, unless I see you again.”

The moon casting a white glow on the inky waves as it hung larger than normal in the sky looked the same as seas at home in Deadhorse. No matter where you went, the water always looked like home.

A ‘Super’ moon the meteorology dept. had called it. They’d issued a warning about the high tide to the local fishermen and coastal folk.

And like the tide to the moon, your husband was drawn once again to the water. That’s where he was now;

Somewhere out in the water, he was doing whatever it was that Sirens did. Was he looking at the moon too? Was he thinking of you?

When you and he first got together, you often worried that each time would be the last time you would see him. The call of the sea was powerful, and you feared that it would one day mean more to him than you. Maybe some day he would never come back. But, after 8 years and 2 beautiful children, your mind was at ease.

As selfish as it sounded, you always wanted him to be by your side; from the moment he walked into library and sat across from you, you were hooked.

“What are you thinking about?” You nearly jump out of your skin when wet, webbed hands place themselves on your shoulder.

It rattles your mind for a moment until Doyoung’s smiling face comes into your view, teeth pointed again.

He always turned when he went to the sea. You’d never seen what he looked like in the water but, you’d seen its after-effects.

“I told the kids about how I first met you and I was just reminiscing about everything.” You shrug, leaving out the part where you were worrying about him leaving you.

Doyoung sits beside you and rests his head on your shoulder, making you gasp.

“Ew, you’re wet Doyoung!” He laughs and shakes his head – splashing water droplets all over you.

“I just got out of the water, I’m still a little green but wait until I’m all dry, I’ll be back to normal. The water was great tonight, you should come with me on the next full moon.” He smiles and his jagged teeth show, slowly returning to a normal state. You smile in surprise.

Whenever Doyoung returned to the sea, it was his private time. This was the first time he’d opened the suggestion to you.

“Why now?” Doyoung dries his hair with a towel and wraps his arms around you.

“You’ve always been curious about that part of my life and I think it’s only fair that I share with you.”

#nct #nct u #nct 127 #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct 127 imagines #doyoung #doyoung imagines #doyoung scenarios #kpop halloween #kpop halloween imagines #halloween fic #nct 127 scenarios #nct u imagines #nct u scenarios #bedtime stories

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redeyedryu · 5 years

Text

Cross Dimensional Problems

Chapter 2 - Hmmm... | [Ao3] | 1 | x | » |

Hey look! Another chapter! And it hasn't even been a day! Amazing, I know. Who knows when the next one'll come though.

Summary: What if I told you that your whole existence is nothing more than a creation meant to entertain people?

What if I told you that you're not even the original, that you're just some recolored imitation?

So. This is apparently a thing that's happening. And you’re pretty sure it really is because those slaps to the face didn't exactly feel pleasant. Neither did the pinches. Your company is probably questioning your state of mind after that display and honestly? That's fair because you're currently doing the same thing.

The proverbial “they” say you can't feel pain in a dream but what if your brain is just really good at playing pretend? It'd make more sense than this—sitting on a thread bare, obnoxious green sofa that doesn't make you think of a very certain event in a very certain game. The skeletons kind of drive that point hard enough, you don't need more reminders, thank you.

Someone clears their …throat? Whatever, the sound is made and it draws your attention, your eyes drifting to one skeleton in particular out of the three—the Classic™ one.

“heya,” he says and oh boy, that is a really deep voice. Very nice, very rumbly. You could listen to it for hours, you think. “what’re uh… what’re ya doin’ down here, bud?”

You purse your lips and squint your eyes, fingers pinching and pulling and scratching at the suede fabric of the couch you are sat on. It’s wedged off to the side of the safety hazard that is the sparking boiler-thing, just near enough for you to have dazedly stumbled over to.

“Hallucinating, I think,” you eventually reply as you continue to fidget. The fingers of one hand slip and you accidentally stab the side of your thigh with a particularly sharp nail. You don't so much as react to the stabbing pain. “Or maybe I'm actually having some kind of mental break?”

You watch (see: blatantly ogle) as the skeleton’s expression shifts, his sockets pinching as his brow furrows, as that perpetual grin of his dips at the corners. He pulls his shoulders in a shrug, that iconic blue hoodie of his bunching and creasing with the motion.

You never did get around to ordering one of those. Too bad, it looks really comfy.

“gonna be honest, kid,” that deep, soothing bass breaks through the wandering of your mind. “wasn't expecting to see a human down here.”

“Didn’t really expect to be down here,” you shoot back. You let loose a heavy sigh, pushing air through your nose as you slouch and violently throw yourself back against the couch. Your arms flail as you rant, “There’re bags of popato chisps and Grillby’s takeout bags and talking skeletons and couches from video games and nothing is making any sense! ” An arm lays across your face, shielding your eyes, as the opposite lays bent above your head.

There’s an awkward stretch of silence, though you're pretty sure you hear the ruffling of fabric, the sktch of someone’s shoes coasting along the filthy floor. And then,

“uh… what?”

Your arms shoot up, fingers splayed, and you glare at the ceiling as you shout,” Video games, Sans! Video games!!” You pull yourself back into a proper seated position and meet the eyes (eye sockets??) of the vanilla bean. Oh. Huh. He’s doing that pitch black eye socket thing. Looks like the edgy bastard behind him is doing it too. Maybe the tall one is as well. You can't tell with Papyrus types--sometimes they have eyelights, sometimes they don't. Oh well.

“What?” Your brows furrow and you purse your lips as you tell them to, “Stop doing that eye-thing at me.”

They don't listen, of course. Just continue to creepily, silently stare at you.

“Stop it!” you demand, and in an effort to get them to cease and desist, bring your hands together in a rather forceful clap. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at the way they jolt at the noise.

Sans clears his non-existent throat again, then he shuffles in place, before finally, “how’d ya know my name, kid?”

You quirk a brow.

“What? You're telling me most people wouldn't recognize the brother of monsterkind’s mascot?” Hey, look at that, he really does sweat blue magic. Neat. “Aren't there only like two skeletons in all of existence? Your alternate copies don't count.”

Op. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say ‘cause the voided eye sockets are back again.

“Hey, no! You stop that!” You snap your fingers several times in quick succession and thankfully, it seems to work.

”I mean… Y’all are on the surface, right? This is a post-pacifist ending timeline, right? It usually is in these kind of scenarios.”

And before the sweating Sans so much as squeaks, you hear a rumbling growl, see a blur of reds and black, and then you’re being pinned to the sofa. Underfell Sans is literally right up in your grill, his snarling, sharp-toothed face mere inches from yours.

“th’ fuck kinda shit’re you spoutin’, ya sack a’ shit?”

Oh. This is awkward. Not to mention uncomfortable. He’s practically kabedon’d you, arms on either side of your head, a sneakered foot precariously positioned between your legs.

Kinky.

His voice is pretty nice, too; a deep bass like his vanilla counterpart, though there’s an edge to it that the blue-clad skeleton’s clearly lacks. You think you could listen to this guy's voice for hours too.

You sink into the couch a bit, entirely unimpressed, and shift your weight to the side, bringing up a hand to push against his arm, and slide to the side, out from under him. Your nonchalance seems to catch him off guard as he just stares, befuddled, as you casually extricate yourself, resettling against the arm of the couch.

“C’mon,” you start, gaze shifting from Underfell, to Undertale, to Underswap, “you're smarter than that. You can pick up on the context clues, can't you?”

“the machine…” Your gaze shifts back to the tall, lanky skeleton still standing towards the back as he speaks. His voice is definitely somewhere in the tenor range, though it’s a bit raspy. It's nice, but nowhere near as smooth, broadcasting quality as Sans's is. “you're from an alternate timeline.”

He sounds so convinced, so sure of his deduction. You? Not so much.

“Mmm… something like that? I guess?”

The edgy skeleton beside you shifts, lowers his arms from the couch and instead just… lets himself flop into the cushions. The action causes you to jostle slightly.

“whadda ya mean, ‘summin’ like that’?” he all but growls, scowling at you.

“I mean what I mean. It's something like that but not quite? Because uh…” You drag your eyes from one skeleton to the next and then back again before shifting your gaze to the left and right. Man, this place is an absolute pigsty. “Because hmmm….”

Sans, the Classic™ one, chooses that moment to re-engage with the conversation. He lets loose a world weary sigh and plops onto the other end of the couch, sandwiching his Underfell variant between the two of you.

“‘hmmm’?” he prompts.

“Yes, hmmm,” you respond, face scrunching up in thought. Well, the cat’s pretty much out of the bag (not that it was ever really in one to begin with) so. What’ve you got to lose?

“It's a game,” you begin and you don't miss the way they all seem to snap to attention. “Undertale, by the way. That's what it's called. Came out a few years ago. Actually just had its what… fourth anniversary the other week?”

Underswap Papyrus, likely envious of everyone else sitting but him, comes over to the couch and props himself against the opposite arm. “so… what. we’re just a buncha video game characters to you?” He appears to be frowning as he fishes a honey sucker from his hoodie pouch pocket and wedges the treat between his teeth.

“Mmmmmmm… no. Not exactly. Sans—the original one—” and you point to the blue-clad skeleton, “is technically the only video game character. Which by the way, congratulations on making it into Smash, even if it’s just as a costume.”

Sans’s expression twists in confusion, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his skull as he responds, voice slightly higher pitched, “…thanks?” He has no idea what you’re talking about.

“You’re welcome. But as I was saying, Sans is the original, the main branch, as I’m sure you’re all familiar with that particular analogy. You,” and you point to the Papyrus, who quirks a brow, “and you,” you point to the scowling, sharp-toothed Sans whose scowl only tightens in response, “are from AUs—Alternate Universes created by fans curious about different takes on canon. Underswap and Underfell, respectively.”

It occurs to you, then, that maybe you should go at this a little lighter, maybe don’t be so blunt about everything… but. Well… you don’t really know how else to lay this down. You’ll apologize about any existential crises you induce later, you guess—asking for forgiveness over permission and all that. Besides, it’s not like you asked for this situation to unfold, either; it’s not like you know what the hell is going on. You’re pretty much in the same boat as these jokers.

The skeleton seated beside you growls (he likes to do that a lot, doesn’t he?) and twists to face you, the little lights in his eye sockets burning red hot.

“s’what? we’re s’posed t’believe yer a human from sum kinna reality where we ain’t even real? jus’ summin made up fer yer own sick entertainment?”

You recoil at the sheer animosity in his voice, back sinking into the worn padding of the couch’s arm. It’s a miracle you don’t just tumble over the side of the thing, honestly, with how far you pull away.

“Uh… I mean. No? You’re free to believe whatever you want but it’s not like I just decided to break into some random dingy basement in my lounge clothes for shits and giggles.”

He just stares at you, his scowl tightening, his sockets creasing and his face just absolutely scrunching in anger before he’s just. Gone. Poof! Shortcutted right the fuck outta here.

Well.

That was a thing that happened.

You can empathize with the guy to a certain degree but well. You don’t exactly want to spend too much energy thinking about things. Not right now. Like a lot of things in your life, you’ll deal with it later.

Brushing that exchange aside, you find yourself releasing a lot of pent up tension you hadn’t realized you were holding onto (in your shoulders, your neck, back, even your jaw ) and address the two remaining skeletons still sat with you. Sans doesn’t appear to be sweating anymore, though he does look like he’s thinking something over. Underswap Papyrus is much the same, though he’s taken to fiddling with the stick of his honey sucker.

“So hey,” you start, effectively drawing their attention, “got any popato chisps?”

You want to know if they taste any different from regular potato chips.

#Red Drabbles #Undertale Fanfiction #Reader Insert #Cross Dimensional Problems #Reverse Harem

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scribblestatic · 5 years

Text

Warning: Shitty adults attempting to use their power to try to coerce children into unsavory acts. No actual activity occurs. Still. Black Tea’s attempts at coercion can be triggering.

Please protect yourself above all else. If it will be too much, please scroll down until you see the second set of bolded text.

---

(PLEASESTOPREADINGHEREIFTHISWILLTRIGGERYOU)

“Listen. I’ve been letting you do whatever you want, really. You set your hours, set your personality for the position, and do your own makeup. I let you create Chouko here, and I let you make her flourish.”

Black Tea sits across from Izuku at a small, circular wooden table. Not Chouko, Izuku. Because right now, there’s no fantasy he can crawl into that will help him feel better about what’s happening. Black Tea’s spoon clinks against her tea cup.

“But, listen. I get that this is technically your first job, but something you have to do is pull your own weight. You have to work really hard to deserve your pay. That’s why I’m lowering your wages.”

Izuku’s mouth drops open. “W-Wha—”

“Instead of $12 an hour, you’ll make $6.”

Black Tea sips at her tea as Izuku stands to his feet.

“Th-Tha-That’s half! That’s a whole half of my—“

“Of your illegal wages, yes.” Izuku freezes as Black Tea opens her eyes, smiling behind her cup. “I have been very kind to you, little boy. I have let you prance around my establishment as you pleased, despite the fact you don’t do the same things as the other girls do. But that is going to change, starting now.” The woman reaches down to her side, into a folder she has sitting there. She then takes out a laminated sheet and slides it over to Izuku’s side of the table. He looks down at it and glances over what’s written there.

There’s...activities. None of them are sexual but.

It’s as he feared.

Massages, foot rubs, conversations in private back rooms, allowing random men to put their heads in his lap, all for money. They have prices to them, depending on how long the person wants the service. Things like fortune telling and conversations cost less money. Things like massages and having Izuku sit and rub on a random man’s head cost more. They cost just enough to cover the losses he’d experience with his new pay cut.

He feels sick.

“I’m sure you can find three things on this list here that you wouldn’t mind incorporating into your menu. Of course, this will be a part of your secret menu, but all girls here need to have at least three selectables for their patrons.” Black Tea taps with her clean red nails at the headrest one, charging $25 every 15 minutes. “I know of at least three of your regulars who would love to see you have this one on your secret menu. Why not add this one?”

“This...this is...this is illegal—“

Black Tea raises an eyebrow. “You working for me is illegal. I can fire you right now and have you out my hair, then demand that you pay me back every dollar you stole from me. I mean, after all, you’re not an employee here. And even if you were to become one, you’d still owe me for all the taxes that you haven’t paid on your money.”

Izuku’s hands curl in his dress, trying not to hyperventilate. He...he has to think. Has to find a way out of this situation. Has to...has to make it work.

“What then? Will you find a new job? But you don’t turn 16 for another year, so I guess the duty would fall on your mother to pay me back. And so far, I’ve given you well over $8,000 for your services...ah, plus the taxes. Consider that interest since I want my full, earnest amount. And, you see, I like my payment up front, in full, preferably in cash. Otherwise, I get antsy and I don’t trust it.” Black Tea shrugs and grins with bright red lipstick. “So, I suppose, unless you have $8000+ stashed away somewhere, you’re quite in a pickle, aren’t you, Chou-Chou?”

Tears build in Izuku’s eyes, and he finds himself backing away from a careful finger.

“Oh no, dear, don’t ruin your makeup. You look so cute... Like a little doll, really.” She laughs a little. “And the best part is that you’re just as weak and pitiful as one, too. Quirkless...gods, the instant you told me you were Quirkless, I knew I would have a field day. What can you do against me right here, right now?” Black Tea stands up and leans forward, whispering in Izuku’s ear. “Not a single damn thing, dear. If I were to let my Quirk loose on you right now, you’d be helpless as a bleating sheep.” Black Tea’s eyes gleam hotly as her nails grow sharp. Izuku bites at his bottom lip, trying to contain the frightened squeak he wants to squeal out.

“What was it that you said when we first met? ‘All men are not created equal’? It takes a long time for many girls to understand that. I’m glad you understand it first hand. So...let’s not make this any harder than it has to be on you, yeah?”

For a moment, Izuku doesn’t reply. He stands still, his hands curled into his dress. Then slowly, he relaxes. His fingers release the skirt folds and the tension in his neck slowly dissipates. Then he pats his hands on the creases he made and looks up at Black Tea.

His eyes are still hidden behind the bangs of his wig, but he smiles lightly, his attempt ruined by how wobbly and false it is. When he speaks, it’s in Chouko’s voice, a seamless, feathery falsetto.

“O...Okay...”

Black Tea grins gleefully. “Perfect! So now, how about you let me choose what’s on your secret menu? You won’t have to worry your little head about it. I don’t want you to be too worried over it all.”

“But...but what about the...the massage and the...I just...I don’t want to do something like that yet. C-Can I please wait?”

“Hmmm...well, I’ll tweak my plans a little bit for you, how about that? But you are going to have the lap rest on your menu. Your patrons have been explicitly requesting that this be an option. You can’t deny them their rights!”

Chouko keeps her smile on her face, relaxing her body further. “O...Okay...”

The woman coos. “Gosh, Quirkless brats are so precious. You should’ve stayed at home with your mommy, dear.”

(ITISSAFETOSTARTREADINGAGAINTHANKYOUFORYOURPATIENCE)

When Chouko leaves Tea Cats that night, its in a daze.

She’s dressed in his outside clothes, still wearing the wig, chest pads, and makeup as she heads home. She can’t be Izuku again until she’s there since she can’t be recognized while at school. If she were recognized, she could be expelled, then she’d really be in a shithole.

Not that she isn’t now.

With her will in Black Tea’s hands, now, she’s practically a comodity. That woman has cornered her into something...unsavory. It’s not bad yet, but Chouko knows how these things go.

It starts small, then steadily increases until it gets worse and worse...

Then she’s...

No.

Chouko digs into her pants pocket, digging out something she wants to keep on hand.

See, Chouko’s been Quirkless for a long, long time. No matter how long Black Tea has had her business, Chouko’s been Quirkless since birth. So, as sheltered as she was in her mother’s house, she still learned things very quickly.

She learned that all men aren’t created equally. Learned that people abuse the weak to feed the strong. Learned that kindness that’s too good to be true is a scam.

She’ll admit that all her moves to get hired weren’t smart. She should’ve kept her mouth shut about her Quirklessness. But it was precisely that Quirklessness that ended up getting her hired, along with how cute she can look.

That was another thing.

The world unfairly benefited the cute. If you were born naturally adorable, the world loved you from the beginning.

But there was a way to cheat that, too. Those who can alter their appearances to be pleasing to those around them are like caterpillars. Maybe they look ugly going into their chrysalis, but they can change.

They come out very, very beautiful. And distracting.

Chouko digs out the little voice recorder she had on her, holding the entire conversation she had with Black Tea. A quick click of the play button confirms the woman’s voice is still there, and Chouko lets out a short laugh.

Had the woman not been distracted by how cute she is, she surely would’ve noticed her fiddling with the damn thing to try to get it to turn on and record. But she’d been so focused on her facial expressions, she hadn’t noticed. Black Tea hadn’t noticed at all.

And now, Chouko’s let the woman talk herself into a hole. One they could both fall into if she’s not careful, but a hole nevertheless. And if it turns out that Black Tea is one of the last villains she takes down, so be it.

Butterflies don’t live long either.

Chouko continues walking home with more pep in her step, more confidence to her stride and a small, pretty smile on her face.

Yeah. The world’s unfair.

But if Chouko has to, she’ll cheat at its game for as long as she must.

#you can see the kakegurui inspiration now can't you #static speaks #drag au #hacker au

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maevefiction · 5 years

Text

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 52

Tom and I were able to spend just over two weeks together alone with Henry, and we’d quickly become a well-oiled machine. It was seamless, really…which made me wonder how I was going to function when he left on March 1st for Kong promo. I cried, and so did Tom as he was leaving, a puzzled Henry in my arms looking back and forth between us during our final hug goodbye. He’d be returning to London on the 13th, and I made sure to cross every single day off on the calendar before I ate breakfast because nothing makes you lose track of time more than when you’re caring for an infant while thoroughly sleep deprived and missing your partner so badly it actually aches.

All in all I thought I was handling things well, though there were days when breakfast was the only real meal I ate and showering was such a rare and special treat that if I actually took one two days in a row I almost felt guilty. There was one day I managed to shower and eat three meals within a 24-hour period and man, I felt like I’d conquered the Kingdom of Domesticity, lemme tell ya. Alongside the chaos and the exhaustion, though, there were countless moments of joy and discovery as Henry and I got to know each other as separate entities. I’d already begun naming objects during playtime and while flipping through picture books, and, honestly, I blathered on with such constancy that I figured the first discernible sound he’d make would be ‘shh’. Every night we’d sit together in the nursery room rocker and I’d read to him, mostly rudimentary level children’s stories. Skippyjon Jones always seemed to get him amped up the most, his little arms waving as I voiced each character accordingly, sometimes to the point where I’d be laughing too hard to continue. And, of course, I sang. I sang when he was fussy, which wasn’t often, I sang when I changed his diapers, I sang during bath time, I sang when he nursed, and I sang as I rocked him to sleep. Actual songs, songs I made up on the fly, lullabies, humming classical tunes…he appeared to enjoy it, and the day before Tom was due home he flashed me a great big gummy smile from his bouncy seat when I added dancing to my rendition of Melanie’s ‘Brand New Key’. Despite all official guidance suggesting babies were only capable of smiling reflexively until they were nearly at the the two-month-old mark or later, Henry’s was genuine. I know this because I spent a good portion of that particular day testing my theory, and every time I sang that damn song and danced like a fool, there it was. I thought about Skyping Tom in order to share my super-scientific findings, but decided it was only one more day until he’d be able to see it in person…also, I was dying to see what would happen if he sang it and danced as well.

Tom’s flight was scheduled to land at six PM, which meant he’d probably be rolling in around seven-thirty at the earliest. Henry typically nursed every two or three hours, sleeping in between at nighttime and napping here and there during the day. That evening I’d tucked him in at six-thirty and turned on the baby monitor, fully intending to squeeze in a snack and a shower before Tom got home, but then I made the grievous error of sitting down in the rocker for a brief spell just to make sure that Henry was really and truly out before I left the room, because I’d learned the hard way that sometimes he’d pop awake. Nothing like having shampoo in your hair when your kiddo starts crying in the adjoining room, you know?

I must have dozed off immediately, because the next thing I knew I was dreaming that Tom was saying my name, and the dream was so vivid that I could actually feel his hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. Dream me tipped her head to the left to nuzzle dream Tom’s hand, and when the fingers of the hand grasped the back of my neck and the thumb stroked the magic spot behind my ear I inhaled sharply, catching his scent as I did so. My eyes flew open, and there he was, sitting on the ottoman in front of me. I reached up to grab his wrist, finding it warm to the touch which reassured me that I hadn’t lost my damn mind. A long, deep, delighted sigh from me broke the silence.

“You’re real. You’re back. I missed you. So, so much. I thought I was dreaming, you know, but there you fucking are and…”

He cut me off with a kiss, his tongue parting my lips and thrusting into my mouth in order to tousle with mine. We hadn’t been intimate since before Henry was born, given that I was technically on the disabled list until after my six-week checkup. It hadn’t been an issue for me, really, because I’d still been bleeding rather heavily right up until the day after Tom left. The bleeding had ceased completely by the 5th, but prior to this scenario I hadn’t even felt a tingle of desire since giving birth. Nothing. Nada. Deadsville. With a combination his scent and a smooch it was resurrected, back from the beyond, good to go, and ready to rock times infinity. I reciprocated, first sucking on his tongue, then his lip, then continued to devour him until we had to break to breathe. He stared into my eyes, dazed and panting, his left hand slipping under the bottom of my robe and up my thigh, coming to rest between my legs, a throaty ‘oh’ escaping him as his fingers brushed my panties and he realized I wasn’t wearing a pad. When I propelled my hips forward against his hand he groaned, then began to rub my mound, circling slowly. As the cotton grew damp, his eyes rolled back into his head briefly, then focused on me again…they were impossibly full of want, and I bit my lip. He shook his head, dutifully trying to clear it and pull himself back from the brink.

“Maude. I’m so sorry. I know perfectly well that you can’t…I have no idea what I was thinking.”

I exhaled through pursed lips, my chest heaving. “I’m fine. Wait, that’s not what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that I am on fucking fire…”

He whined, a low and thoroughly devastating sound. “May I…I…taste you? Make you come? Please? I can smell you and it’s…I…I can’t…I need to…”

I lifted my hips off the seat to signal that fuck yeah, yes you can, get these things off me but it turned out that wasn’t necessary because he ripped my underwear clean off as if the fabric was a piece of ancient, crumbling parchment. He slid off the ottoman and down onto his knees, lifting my legs in the process.

“Feet. Shoulders. Now. Please.”

It was then that I remembered that hello, a baby recently popped out of there and your husband hasn’t seen this part of you at close range since then and what if it’s different and/or totally unappealing? I hesitated, and he nipped the inside of my right thigh before placing my feet where he wanted them on his own, then dove right in, licking a stripe from my asshole up to my clit, then back down and up again and again, finally taking the nub between his teeth to shake it gently before closing his mouth around it and sucking rhythmically. I had to slap my hand over my own mouth to keep from screaming as I humped his face until I came. He kept going, reducing his suction just enough to leave me on the edge, and I felt the tip of his finger at my entrance. Still not ceasing his ministrations, he peered up at me and I nodded. In it went, inching its way up to my G-spot. He stroked back and forth, round and round, until I began to swivel my hips in the opposite direction. After adding a second digit he began to slide them in and out ever-so-slowly, gradually increasing the speed until the sliding became thrusting, and as I felt another orgasm was imminent I covered the hand already over my mouth with my other one, just in case.

My muffled screams were accompanied by his moans, almost entirely suppressed by my flesh. He stopped sucking completely, instead navigating every fold and crevice with his tongue and waiting for me to apply pressure to his forehead before he pulled his fingers out and his head away. He shifted and lowered my legs back to a resting position in order to rise up so he was vertical, though still on his knees. The sight of his face slick and glossy, eyes narrowed as he inhaled and exhaled rapidly through his nose was so intensely arousing that I leaned forward, grabbed him by his white T-shirt and pulled him in for another kiss…a sloppy, noisy wet one that assured me that if nothing else, my flavor hadn’t changed whatsoever. The rocker began pitching forward and back with more force that it had while he was eating me out, and the cause, I established, was Tom humping the seat cushion. I reached between us and began to unbutton and unzip his jeans, but he stopped me in my tracks, fingers wrapping around my wrists and shifting them to the side as he cut short our kiss, shaking his head back and forth as he moved away.

I growled, then frowned, ready to question his behavior until he stood and held out his hand to help me up. Without a word, he led me through the adjoining doorway and to our bed, stripping naked in a flash and gesturing for me to do the same. Again, I hesitated. He’d seen my boobs plenty of times before he’d left to do promo, but other than a glance after a shower or something similar he hadn’t seen me in all my post-partum glory as yet. I had, though, and while I’d thought all along that I looked pretty damn good, somehow standing in front of this gorgeous being resulted in my confidence bubble deflating like a balloon that’s not successfully knotted. Squeak pffffttt, there it goes. He stepped forward and undid the belt tie at my waist, then slipped his arms around me inside the fabric and pulled me against his warmth, hard cock pressing into my belly, and as he ground it against me his unspoken message came through loud and clear…that was because of me, and for me. And one should never pass when offered cock, should one? Hell no. I shrugged off the robe and let it fall to the floor, and he stepped back to look me over as he licked his lips, took both my hands in his own, squeezed, then released them to gesture for me to lie down on the mattress. I obliged, glancing at the monitor station on the night table along the way to make sure Henry was still sleeping. And, you know…still there in his crib and breathing, because that’s apparently a side effect of becoming a parent, frequent intervals of sheer terror followed by obsessive observance.

Tom placed first one knee, then the other on the foot of the bed as his hands nudged my legs apart, pressing outward on the inner portion of my knees until there was enough room for him to crawl in between them. He knelt there, staring at me, until I sat up, reaching forward to take him in hand. He gasped at my touch, his arms lifting, hands coming to rest on my shoulders.

“Ohhhh…Mauuuddee…” He continued to moan as I stroked him, and though my intent had been to finish the job I couldn’t stop thinking about how it felt when he was inside me, and how long it had been since we’d been able to fuck face-to-face, and how much I missed witnessing the way his head fell back and his neck tensed so gloriously when he came. First my rhythm faltered, then I released his cock and lowered myself back onto the bed, leaving him with the options of joining me or letting go of my shoulders and staying where he was. He leaned forward with me, still holding on until his knuckles scraped the mattress, wherein he loosened his grip and positioned his hands on the bed to either side of my head.

He remained on all fours, both of us staring at each other, until I wrapped my legs around his waist and attempted to pull him downward. The gesture was met with resistance, and after a short pause to consider how to proceed, I spoke. Three words, our gazes locked, the sound breathy, the tone pleading.

“I want you.”

A tiny smile from him, then the corners of his mouth tipping downward in a frown of concern. “And I want you. So badly. I’m desperate for it, the feel of you all around me. Are you certain…is this…is it alright?”

I reached up and around him to clasp my hands behind his shoulders. “Only one way to find out for sure. You willing to give it a try?”

He groaned, biting his lip, his body already beginning to gravitate downward toward mine. “You’ll tell me straight away if I’m hurting you?”

“Uh-huh.”

Balancing himself on one hand, he used the other to line himself up and nudge the head of his cock against my opening. His eyes never left mine as he worked himself inside at a snail’s pace, ever-so gently, and the shade of red his face had turned served to me as an indicator that the anticipation might actually be killing him so I canted my hips upward in order to speed up the process. He gasped, his own hips reflexively driving him forward in reaction to my action, and with one more thrust from me he was finally fully sheathed.

“Oh. Maude. Oh. OH.” He blinked and shook his head, the hand that had been guiding him into me returning to the mattress just above my shoulder, his lower belly now resting against mine. “You’re okay? Any pain? Discomfort? Just say the word…”

“I have two words. Fuck, and me. Fuck me. Please. Now. Tom. My god.”

He grinned. “Am I?”

“Are you what?”

“You said ‘Tom, my god’.”

I raked my nails down his back. “Yes, Tom. You’re my god. Now, I pray, wield thy rod and deliver us to the promised land.”

Snorting, he began to circle his hips. “Oh, that was awful.”

Smirking, I lowered my arms back to my sides, then reached up to tweak his nipples. “Oh, I know. But still…the rod. Wield it. I need it.”

He moved in and out, still circling, my own hips moving in time with his thrusts. As our tempo increased everything else around us grew hazy, the lines of objects blurring until all I could see clearly was his face, his shoulders, his chest…and there was indeed no pain, no discomfort, the only possible difference from before being that I was slightly more aware, more sensitive, but that was easily attributable to it having been so damn long since we’d been in this position and as far as I was concerned missionary had never, ever been so fucking heavenly. I’d wondered if I’d still be able to squeeze, and was relived when I gave it a go and Tom screeched like a banshee, then began pounding into me, harder and harder until I came with him doing the same seconds afterward. As his hips continued to twitch I locked my legs around his waist by way of my ankles and rode his still-hard cock until I came again, then again, chanting his name the entire time. He collapsed on top of me, face nuzzling my neck, nibbling here and there as I rubbed his back. He shifted so he could see me, his smile beatific.

“Hi.”

I smiled in return. “Hi.”

His left eyebrow rose. “Everything all right?”

“Everything is spectacular, thank you.” My once again confidence faded, as did my smile, when I wondered what his experience had been, post birth. “How did it…you know…was it…for you…was it…different, or anything?”

“Yes. It was different.” He leaned in to touch his forehead to mine. “Because I’ve come to love you even more than ever before. Which I would have thought impossible, yet, it’s…happened. What I witnessed in that room, Maude…using this body, your body, you performed a miracle right before my eyes…you endured and persevered and brought forth life, the embodiment of our physical and ethereal union…and the fact that you find me worthy of giving, receiving and sharing pleasure with you in this way, experiencing the divinity of your flesh…I just…I…”

In lieu of weeping, I opted for sarcasm. “So, the sex was okay, then?” He chuckled, and I giggled, and when the chuckle transitioned into full on laughter the force of it shifted him to the side a smidge, at which point I noticed wetness between us where it decidedly did not belong. “Shit, sorry babe…it would appear the divine flesh has sprung a leak. It’s baptism by breastmilk for you, my dude. Wow, the religious references just keep on coming today. Pretty sure I just heard Anne clucking her tongue at me all the way from California.”

Tom grunted, grinding against me. “All I heard was ‘coming’ and ‘tongue’.”

As his lips met mine we were interrupted by the sound of Henry whimpering, which caused my boobs to leak even more. Tom’s torso lifted off of me, and I placed my palms on his chest. “Alas, play time is over for now, good sir. Tiny human requires a snack.”

He pulled out and knee-walked backward to the foot of the bed, then stood. “Would you like me to bring him in here for you?”

I shook my head as I got up, then bent to grab my robe off the floor. “Nope. There’s no way I’m missing the expression on his face when he sees you.”

After I slipped my arms into the robe, Tom handed me the T-shirt he’d been wearing so I could clean up. “Here you are, my love. I’m going to grab a pair of shorts…can you wait for me?”

Nodding, I did a brisk mop-job, dropped the T-shirt back onto the floor, then tied the belt loosely in place. We held hands as we walked to the nursery, but I fell back and let go once we we entered in order to allow Tom to lead the way. Henry’s whimpering had evolved into what I liked to call the Universal Baby Siren Wail, and as Tom first approached then leaned into the crib, I hustled to find a vantage point from where I’d have the best view of both of them. Tom reached down to move the Pooh quilt aside, then rested his hand on Henry’s torso.

“Hey now, baby boy. It’s all right. We’re here.” He slipped his other hand underneath Henry to support his head, then shifted the hand that had been on his torso under his bum, lifting and holding him out directly in front of him, then turning him sideways to cradle him against his upper chest. “Shh, shh, we’re here.”

Henry quieted immediately, eyes un-squinching, then opening widely as he fully realized that someone other than the food-giver was holding him. Tom’s megawatt smile broke out across his face, and when Henry smiled in return I damn near died right then and there. Tom’s mouth dropped open, his head turning toward me so fast that whiplash was an actual concern.

“Maude, he smiled. Did you see? He smiled at me. I mean, I think he smiled at me. Perhaps it’s just gas or…”

“Oh, it’s not gas. He smiles. And he totally just smiled at you, the little bugger.” I moved closer to my dudes and slipped my arm around Tom’s waist. “It started yesterday, but he only does it for me when I put on a show for him.” It had crossed my mind to keep that bit of info to myself because I didn’t want him to feel as if he’d missed out on something, but I knew there would without a doubt be firsts either he or I would miss along the way, because children develop at such a rapid pace all you have to do is be looking in the wrong direction for a second and that’s that. It initially appeared that Tom seemed thoroughly unaffected by my statement, however, and returned his focus to Henry.

“Henry, that was quite a spectacular smile. It’s made Daddy feel very, very special. Thank you. I missed you so much while I was gone, and I want to keep you all to myself but I know you’re hungry, so here’s Mamma, all right?” He passed him to me, and I headed over to the rocker, pausing before I sat down when I felt Tom’s hand on my shoulder. I turned to look at him, and he smiled bashfully as he spoke.

“Would you mind if I sat with you? Or if there’s not enough space would you consider sitting on my lap while you nurse him? I…I’d like to be close to both of you.”

I smiled back. “Sitting on your lap sounds like perfection. Park that pretty ass, Tom.”

He complied, and I lowered myself carefully into place, resting semi-sideways. He wrapped his right arm around me to serve as support, his hand grasping my hip, fingers splayed. We remained silent until I’d burped Henry for the second time and Tom began to rock us all forward and back slowly. He spoke, voice hushed so Henry’s attempting to doze off wouldn’t be disturbed.

“I knew it was possible…likely, even…that certain milestones in his development might occur in my absence. And I’m aware that such moments are fleeting, even if I happen to be nearby. But having it actually happen the first time out of the gate…well…we’ve yet to discuss it, though I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit, and I don’t know how much consideration you’ve given to it, if any, because lord knows you’ve been busy here on the frontlines all alone, but...where do you see us, going forward, in regard to our occupational statuses?”

While I hadn’t committed to anything, my plan while pregnant had been to take twelve weeks off, then return to work at Prosper at least three days a week and continue to be the Great and Powerful OZ behind the curtain for Manageall. But those weeks, man, they were whipping by at warp speed. The few instances so far wherein I’d needed to handle urgent business issues despite being on leave had been atypically stressful, and that had given me pause, though I was onto the next task at hand so rapidly there was no thorough evaluation as to whether or not I wanted to proceed as planned or rework it all lock, stock and barrel. I shook my head.

“I thought I had the answer for that…there was a plan, you know? But honestly, Tom…now…I’m kind of questioning, like, everything. Which I did not expect.” Glancing down at the beautiful, now soundly sleeping, being in my arms, I shifted my legs forward, then stood. “Welp, someone’s out cold. Let’s tuck him in and adjourn to the bedroom once again so we can speak at normal people volume. Before you comment, let me rephrase – normal Maude volume.”

He chuckled, and both of us whispered our good-nights to Henry, then returned to our marital bed, this time remaining mostly vertical instead of horizontal. We sat, side by side, each waiting for the other to start until I elbowed Tom in the ribs.

“You’re the one who mentioned it, so it only seems fair that you should go first.” He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, and I reached out and grabbed his knee. “Thomas. I understand. It’s all good. You’re my partner, I love you, and I’ll support whatever choice you decide to make.”

He placed his hand atop mine. “God, how I love you. Thank you for that. All right. Out with it. Here’s what I’m thinking…for the remainder of this year, I’ve got Early Man to finish up, a very short shoot for the next two Avengers films, then Ragnarok promo. All the Early Man stuff will take place in a studio within driving distance, so while I’ll be working, I won’t have to be out of town. Avengers won’t take more than a few days, but Ragnarok promo…that’s another story, and though it’s unavoidable, it’s not until late fall so there’s a nice span of time during which I’ll be able to remain in London. Early next year I’ll have Early Man promo, then Avengers promo, and since the format of the Vampire Chronicles has been switched from a cinematic release to a streaming series filming has been pushed back until 2019 at the earliest. So, my schedule for the foreseeable future is relatively clear. And…other than possibly entertaining a London-only stage production…I’d like to keep it that way. I want to spend every moment I can here, at home, with you and Henry, until he’s old enough to travel easily. Though honestly, I’m not even sure about that anymore. There are several aspects other than my personal preference to be considered, however. How will this affect us financially? How will this impact my career? And finally, how does this fit with your line of thinking, if at all?”

“Let’s address my line of thinking, then the rest, because it’s all relative. I like working. I can’t see myself not doing some sort of work. And I think you’re the same with your work, with acting. It’s a significant component of who you are, at your core. For me, while I’m really, really good at PR, if I do say so myself…” He snorted, and I shrugged. “Like Peggy Carter says, I know my value. Anyway. I’m skilled at it, but it’s not my passion. It’s never been. Coding and design…those are my passions. PR is just…work. Bear in mind that if Manageall had never happened I would not be considering this, but…I don’t see myself returning to Prosper other than as an outside consultant. The staff has become well-versed in how to handle social media and instructing clients, which renders me non-essential in that realm. Where I can be of benefit is on the front lines…however, that position is very taxing from an emotional standpoint…and, let’s face it, the entire industry is kind of soul-sucking. I could handle it, before…no problemo, dude. But now that we have a kiddo, I feel compelled to reserve as much of myself for him as I possibly can. And, bottom line from a purely financial standpoint, my earning potential when working at coding and designing is far greater than in the PR world. It’s work that offers nearly complete flexibility in regard to time and location. I want to begin to pursue…slowly… developing and improving Manageall. I want to see how far it can go, and, eventually, I want to explore other projects. Mainly apps. Apps. I want to create and design apps. Wow, that’s quite the revelation right there, and fuck, I really feel like a ginormous turd for essentially bailing on Luke for the most part, but I have to be honest with myself and honest with you and the truth is…the thing that’s most important to me right now and probably will be forever or at least until he’s an adult with a life and stuff but then, grandbabies…fuck me, that’s nuts…anyway…the most important thing is Tom and Maude and Henry being…together. Long story short, we’re in excellent financial shape and could live a perfectly lovely life if neither of us ever worked again, you know that, I know that, and I’m incredibly grateful for that, and time is the enemy, and after all we’ve been through, why the fuck not step back a bit so we can enjoy our son, and each other? Oh, your career. Forgot that part. Will there be an impact? Yes. Will you be able to jump back in at full speed whenever you want? Technically, yes, though it may take a little time if you’re way off the public radar. Is there any guarantee that you’ll ever enjoy the level of notoriety you have right now? No. Will that impact your earning potential? Entirely possible. How does that make you feel? How does everything else contained the verbal version of explosive diarrhea that you just listened to me spew make you feel, other than wicked sorry you asked for my opinion?”

He snorted. “I asked, and I received…not at all sorry. Exhausted, perhaps, but not sorry.” Sobering, he stared down at the floor for a moment, then looked up and turned his head toward me. “I came across an article a few years back…a list of the biggest regrets expressed by patients in hospice. At the top were working too much, and not spending more time with family. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, now…we all have two lives. The second one starts when we realize that we only have one. Throughout that one, our priorities change as we live, love, and grow, but the constant is time. The sand is flowing ever-downward through the hourglass and there’s no stopping it. Time is, as you just said, is the enemy. At the end of my time on this plane of existence I don’t want to find myself staring in the rearview at the life behind me with words of regret upon my lips. I want to be replaying all the moments of beauty and joy I experienced with the people I loved, finding peace in knowing that even if I were able, I wouldn’t change a blessed thing. The path to that is clear…Tom and Maude and Henry being together, as often as humanly possible.”

He paused, and just as I was about to wrap my arms around him, he smirked, then grinned mischievously. I cocked my head to the side, left eyebrow raised. “You’re totally thinking about that first day on the beach when you said you wanted to know me and I said biblically and you said…”

“…as often as humanly possible. Yes, Maude, yes I am. That was quite a day, was it not?”

I nodded. “That it was. Mind-blowingly strange and spectacular. And though there’ve been so many ‘best day evers’ since…without that one, none of them would have happened. Thus, I’m inclined to delegate it as the most important best day ever.”

He reached for me, the sides of his hands resting on my collarbones as his fingers stroked my neck and his thumbs brushed my jawline and cheeks. “I concur, my light in the mist.” He kissed me, feather-light at first, then firmer, finally sucking my lower lip into his mouth and doing the thing…with the result exactly as expected.

My thighs were still clenching as I spoke. “Thomas William Hiddleston…first of all, how dare you. Second of all…HOW DARE YOU?!”

He laughed loudly, releasing me to raise his hands up as if he were praising the god of his choice, then rotating his wrists and turning his palms skyward. “Still makes me feel like a fucking rock star.”

I reached out to pinch his nipples. “As a reward, the rock star will be given the honor of changing the next diaper. If he can handle it.”

Nodding, he wrapped his arms around me and began pushing me backward onto the bed. “He can. But he’s going to handle you first, if you can, you know…handle him handling you. Again.”

“She can handle him handling her again a few times, probably.” With that, Henry began crying again, and we both rose quickly to our feet. I poked his bicep. “I regret to inform you that there’s been a sudden but not entirely unexpected modification to the handling schedule. You’re needed at the north stage immediately, Rock Star. The woman will have to wait her turn.”

He linked his arm with mine as we walked though the bedroom door and into the nursery. “Well, I hope she won’t mind too much.”

I shook my head. “She won’t. You’re worth it.”

He kissed my cheek as we reached Henry’s crib. “So are you, my Maude. So are you.”

After Tom fulfilled his doody duties, which I figured would be the case because Henry typically didn’t wake up when he was only wet, I stood back and observed, attempting to absorb and retain even the most minute details of his interaction with our son. Kissing his little feet one at a time before placing them back into his footie sleeper, carefully closing the snaps, bending down to hold him against his chest as he lifted him from the changing table, breathing him in as he re-positioned him so his head rested upon his left shoulder. And then, he began to sing. So softly I couldn’t quite make out the words, but I knew the tune. And so I stepped forward to stand before him, and the words became clear.

I feel my heart beating I feel my heart beneath my skin Oh, I can feel my heart beating 'Cause you make me feel Like I'm alive again Alive again Oh, you make me feel Like I'm alive again

Turn your magic on, to me she'd say Everything you want's a dream away Under this pressure, under this weight We are diamonds taking shape We are diamonds taking shape

I joined in after that verse, somehow managing to not dissolve in a puddle of tears after hearing my husband remixing our wedding song into a lullaby for our son.

If we've only got this life This adventure oh then I If we've only got this life You'll get me through, oh If we've only got this life And this adventure, oh then I Wanna share it with you With you, with you

As we finished, I found myself transfixed by the sight of Tom’s body rocking gently from side to side, and his fingers drawing small circles on the back of Henry’s sleeper. It was soft, 100% cotton, white with purple horizontal stripes and a powerful sense of deja vu overwhelmed me, though it escalated beyond ‘I’ve been here before’ quickly and transformed into glimpse of the future, similar to the dream I’d had immediately prior to waking up on the day of our public wedding ceremony…Tom and I, three children, brief instances throughout time, the moments occurring in various places, with one thing in common…all of us, together. A vision of myself, looking downward at hands that were starting to wrinkle, holding the sleeper Henry was wearing in the here and now, then passing it to someone, into the hands of a younger man, his face blurry, but his hair very clearly black, and I could hear voices around me speaking, Tom’s being the only one I recognized. Though I wasn’t able to make out the words, I could feel the joy emanating from everyone around me, and from within me. A vignette that, whether it turned out to be real or imaginary, imparted upon me a sense of finality. Not an ending, just a bookmark in the story of my life’s adventure for this year, this day, and this hour, when I could see the purpose of the past and the promise of the future and recognize that I was precisely exactly where I was always meant to be. Tom quietly asking if I was all right snapped me back to the present, and I looked up to see those blue eyes gazing back at me, eyes in which I’d seen darkness and light and everything in between, eyes that were indeed a mirror, a reflection of the soul housed within that had called to mine so strongly, so loudly, across time and space, until, finally, the hand of the universe had been forced to relent and bring us together. I grinned, nodding in the affirmative, my answer a single whispered word.

“Absofuckingloutely.”

#your light in the mist #chapter 52

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gaypasta · 5 years

Text

do you want fries with that?

CHAPTER 12

Read on Ao3 Chapter Directory

Stan can’t really say he saw much of Richie the week following their… well, whatever it was. Richie hadn’t mentioned it afterwards, not even in passing, so Stan was left trying to grapple at all the words in his mind to find one that fit his and Richie’s rather odd predicament. See, they had sex - Stan was aware of that much and he couldn’t justify dumbing himself down to call it anything but. The only issue is, that sex is a heavy word, a word which is sexual in nature - obviously - the word sexual literally stems from sex. And that right there is the big, glaring issue. In big glaring, neon letters. They had sex but it wasn’t sexual . It was just messing around. A bit of fun, they had both agreed.

Can sex be non-sexual? Does that even make sense? Well, Stan supposes that nothing really had to be anything. Kissing under an alter is technically the same action as kissing Richie with a belly full of booze - but the context changes its meaning so drastically that Stan’s head spins at the notion that they may even be related at all. So sex - with Richie - his best friend - Richie - was hardly comparable to the romantic throws of passion he had witnessed painted across the big screen of the Aladdin on the occasions that they had managed to sneak into an R-rated movie.

Richie’s lips were sucked into his teeth, barely letting the sharp pants that were being punched out his lungs. His eyes screwed tight and fingers wrapped almost painfully in Stan’s curls - cupping the back of Stan’s head to bring him closer. Stan tried to hold back a groan as Richie panted openly into his mouth - tongue licking at Stan’s lips. Stan entertained the kiss, more hot panting and wanton licking than anything else - but it made Stan’s stomach ache for more. Stan increased the pace of his thrusts, letting a keening groan escape into Richie’s mouth, feeling the way Richie tightened around him. Richie let out a broken curse, voice strained and arched his back into Stan, fucking back onto him with earnest.

Stan thought carefully about the previous week - trying his best to compare the moans and violent reactions of Richie - laid sprawled out on the bed, writhing with Stan’s dick up his ass - with the gentle, almost rose-tinted feminine breaths of passion from one of Bill’s stupid romance movies. Stan found himself grimacing at the thought. They were always fucking terrible. Terrible, but granted Stan with a vague understanding that what he and Richie did was different, it wasn’t sexual or romantic at all. It was just as they had said, fun.

Stan forcibly shook the train of thought from his head as he focused on work. He overcomplicates things, or so his friends say.

The Diner was no busier than usual, having two or three orders coming through every couple of minutes. The casual steadiness was nice, giving him and his friends enough to keep them busy - or in Richie’s case - out of trouble, without overwhelming them. Beverly and Ben were kept just busy enough to keep them out the front, which Stan is sure that Ben is secretly glad of, getting a chance to talk to Beverly without Beverly skirting out to talk to Bill or Mike - not for any particular reason other than Beverly likes talking to everyone. Although Eddie usually ushers her away when she starts to describe the customers whose lips were wrapped around the forks he was cleaning.

Stan was currently busying himself by writing next week’s rota. Which thankfully, was much simplier now that the kid with the piercings had ‘quit’, since the only part-timers who were employed were all currently working. Although, it did mean that each of them had to pick up an extra night shift a week in his place which admittedly, meant their nightly trips to the Marsh were always on member down, but they managed to adjust alright.

He popped his head out through the red swing-door to catch Beverly, who was organising some notes in the cash register. She was watching Ben with a sort of dopey expression, as he wiped down a fairly clean-looking table near the door. Stan felt as though he was somewhat intruding, as he usually does when he interrupts a conversation - verbal or not. So he coughed, and Beverly turned her smile to his direction.

“Hey, I was meant to catch you earlier - but you were busy talking to Bill.” She said, folding over a wad of twenties and slipping them into the drawer.

“Oh?”

“We’re out of band-aids.” She had this sort of knowing smile tugging at her lips and with great reluctance, Stan sighed.

“Richie tried juggling the vegetable knives again?” Beverly responded with a half laugh and a roll of the eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how he gets himself dressed in the morning, honestly.”

Richie - who had a strange tendency to appear whenever he’s being spoken about - walked out through the swing door, jostling Stan, who was half in the door, in the process, carrying a plate of pancakes and setting it down in front of a rather unimpressed looking trucker, who barely waited until the plate was set down before stabbing his fork into the food. Stan glanced down at the half a dozen plasters stuck around Richie’s fingertips and he couldn’t help but follow Richie’s hands down to his thighs and - oh my God - Richie was wearing his shorts inside out.

Beverly must have noticed it too and grabbed Stan’s arm and squeezed - don’t say anything - and he didn’t, just held the door open for Richie as he bowed and made his exit at the two. “I think I spoke too soon. How long do you think it’ll be before he spills coffee on his legs?”

Beverly dropped her hand and snorted, shaking her head, “It’s like fifty degrees in here how is he not freezing?”

Stan handed over the clipboard he was holding to Beverly, who began to fill her name into some of the blank spaces of the table. “He’s a nuclear reactor - he never gets cold, he sleeps without a shirt on some nights with the window open. In the Winter. I believe he has advanced brain-rot.”

Beverly paused for a split second, “You have a lot of sleepovers?”

Stan blinked, oh - probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. Not that it’s a big deal, friends have sleepovers all the time - it’s not like he has anything to hide. Well, within reason. “We used to have sleepovers all the time - before we started working here - now between work, school and the marsh I think if I had to look at any of you anymore I would blow my brains out.”

“Hey!” She said it lightly, clearly finding it more amusing than rude.

“We don’t have any classes together. You, Ben and Mike are exempt from my previous statement.”

“Not true, we have Gym together.”

Stan rolled his eyes as he took the clipboard she presented back to him, “Yes, we converse so much in Gym, between stopping Richie from pulling Bill’s shorts down, stopping Bill trying to break a Tennis racquet over Richie’s head and shoving Eddie’s aspirator in his mouth every two minutes, I always have plenty of time to stop you for a leisurely chat over the fence.”

She laughed and turned back to the cash drawer, eyes falling straight back to Ben, who was now fiddling about with the jukebox. Stan was tempted to tell him that no, they haven’t got any New Kid on the Block added yet, Ben, but there’s only so many times a man can have that conversation before he loses his mind, so he decides against it and moves back into the kitchen - setting the clipboard on a space beside Bill, who was staring intently at a frying egg.

“Stare at that egg any longer Big Bill and you’ll fertilize it!” Richie barks out, appearing from nowhere as he usually does and poking Bill in the ribs, earning himself a smack in the shoulder from Bill’s spatula.

“Don’t puh-poke me - you know it hu-hurts!” Bill tried to look upset, but Bill was terrible at controlling his face and his mouth twitched a little as he battled a smile.

“It only hurts cuz you’re so skinny.” Richie rubbed his shoulder dramatically.

“No! Your fingers are just b-b-boney.”

“You’re both technically right.” Stan pointed out. Richie scoffed and knocked Bill’s hat to the floor as he moved past Stan, shouldering him as he went past. Stan pulled a face and rubbed his shoulders - even his shoulders were boney.

Bill picked up his hat and set his attention to the clipboard, sending the egg what could only be construed as threatening glances every so often as he all but carved his name into the sheet in his unnecessarily heavy chicken scratch. “Do you th-think I’m too skinny, M-Mike?”

Mike made a nuh-uh type of low noise from the fryers, “You’re a stud, man.”

Bill glowed at the praise, everyone, including Bill himself ignoring the obvious glaring lie. Somewhere from the direction of the fridge Stan heard Richie sing the opening to Scat Man, replacing Scat with Stud. No one made any notice to him, except a small groan from Eddie when Richie starting scatting.

Bill waved the clipboard at Stan, who took it from him and managed to catch a glimpse at the griddle. “You’re burning your egg there, stud.” Bill’s face dropped into a scowl as he spun round and started scraping the blackening egg off of the surface, swearing at it in anger. Stan doesn’t understand how, but anything Bill keeps his eye off seemingly burns in seconds. At first they blamed Richie, thinking he would turn the temperature up when Bill’s back was turned - turns out Bill just has bad luck. This usually meant Bill would just stand and glower at whatever he was frying, tongue stuck up out of his lip in concentration. Richie would say if Bill concentrated that much in Math then maybe he wouldn’t be failing, Bill usually lobbed his spatula at him, wordlessly pulling another from the large pocket of his apron.

Stan moved away, purposely avoiding making eye contact with the black char left on the griddle - it usually burned into his skull until he would go over with a wire scouring pad and scrub it clean - burning his fingers in the process. Whenever Bill sees him moving over to his station after that particular incident, Bill moves his body in front of the griddle, an almost guilty smile on his face, like a child hiding Mommy’s favourite mug behind his back after seeing how far he could drop it before it broke.

He asked Eddie if he wanted to work any nights next week - Eddie was a fifty fifty shot - depending on how he felt. See, there was no cook come evening time, so usually it was just coffee - maybe the odd sweet treat from the display cabinet but there was usually little to do besides cleaning. The prospect didn’t bother Eddie - except the risk of having to touch the dirty coins from a dirty trucker’s hands. He would rant about how many particles of excrement have been discovered to live on coins, and how 99% of one dollar bills have traces of cocaine on them - that means it’s been up someone’s nose guys.

This week, Eddie barely let Stan finish his question before deadlining a hard no. Stan side-stepped a small puddle of bubbles that he has begun to just expect whenever Richie slinks his way over to Eddie, and made his way to the fridge - where he could hear Richie still scatting. Stan groaned into himself, preparing his mind for Richie. He tapped the handle of the fridge six times before opening it, hardly recognising that he had done it.

The cool air of the fridge blushed his cheeks almost immediately, and there Richie was stood, balancing several stacked tins of buttermilk on his finger, wobbling around trying to balance the teetering tower, wearing inside out black basketball shorts and a grey t-shirt which looked a size too small for him, clinging onto his shoulders. Stan assumes he stole it from Bill, who seems to come in complaining every other week about losing the shirts he wears to work.

Stan closed the door behind him, to keep the fridge at 35 degrees, as per regulation. He taps the handle six times after he closes it. He opens his mouth but before he even begins to form a sentence, Richie raises his free hand to silence him, swaying in the opposite direction to counteract the motions of the tins.

“Staniel, I am extremely busy - this better be important.”

“Don’t call me that - I’m completing next week’s rota, what evenings do you want me to put you down for?”

“I thought I said it better be important, and this ” Richie waggled a finger at him, “doesn’t fit the bill.”

“I can tell you what does fit the Bill though,” Stan taps the pen six times against the paper as Richie accidentally kicks a box, edging it every so slightly into an angled position. Stan found it difficult to tear his eyes away from it.

“Pray tell.”

“That shirt you’re wearing.”

Richie swears as he overbalances himself too much, and the tins clatter to the floor. “Aw fuck, almost beat my record.” Richie gives Stan a look that Stan knows is a prompt for Stan to ask him how long his stupid record is. He doesn’t. Richie makes a face to himself and picks up the tins, one is dinted, Stan notes. “Well, one of Georgie’s shirts could fit Bill so that doesn’t really add a notch to your belt.”

That’s a fair point. Bill is an estimate of three inches wide and thirty-seven feet tall, well - five foot eight - but in the middle of a growth spurt, which if the constant complaining about the pains in legs are to go by, is set to send him shooting.

“What shifts, Richie?”

“Well, tell me what’s left and we can work from there, pardner.”

Stan grimaced at the voice - and also at all the tins not being rotated so the front text and the dusty-coloured orange label sits front.

Stan reads Richie the rota and Richie contemplates it for a moment before fixing his glasses and taking the clipboard and pen from Stan’s hands. “How come Beverly always gets first dibs, is she giving her supervisor … sexual favours?” He winked suggestively at Stan and wiggled his hips a little. Previously, Stan would have thought nothing of it, but the sight makes Stan think back to Richie’s hips wiggling to adjust to Stan being full flush inside him made his mouth turn to cotton.

“Shut up, Richie.”

Richie quickly scrawled his name down and pressed the back of the clipboard into Stan’s chest, pushing until he was walking Stan into the door of the fridge. Stan’s eye caught the smudge of ink on the fleshy part of Richie’s hand - he was left handed so Richie usually had ink markings there during class, but he usually washed them off when he was at the bathroom. The black smudge stayed fixated on his mind even as Richie opened the door behind him, almost sending Stan sprawling to the floor. He managed to regain his balance, as Richie cackled at him.

He didn’t tap the door handle.

Stan knew this wasn’t significant. A door handle didn’t need to be tapped six times before it was opened and closed, it’s redundant and time consuming and sure, before he got his meds he would have cried for hours into his Mother’s shoulder about it, convinced something terrible was going to happen. He’s better now, he knows better. So that leads Stan to ponder, why was he pushing Richie back into the freezer and furiously tapping on the door.

Six times for Richie opening it.

Six times for Stan closing it.

Six times to open it again.

Simple.

Stan felt ridiculous doing it, a strange heaviness in his belly of embarrassment - he wasn’t quite sure what was causing this particular tick to come back and to be honest, it was worrying. He made a note to call his Doctor on Monday.

“Is that morse code? Who are you signaling, Stanny-boy.”

Fuck, he was almost done, too. With Richie’s interruption he has to start again, “Richie, shut up for a minute - just don’t talk or say anything.” He continued tapping, and Richie - who had his hand raised to his brow in a salute - stayed dutifully silent until the tapping ceased and Stan sighed in relief as he opened the door.

Stan waited for Richie to walk out after him and tapped six more times before closing it. He moved the clipboard back into the shelf near Eddie - top shelf of all the clean plates and such was reserved for the paperwork and rotas. Not that Eddie knew - he couldn’t reach it.

Stan went to move to go over to the Kitchen area, to make his way out the front and make sure everything was running smoothly but came face-to-face with Richie, who seemed to be looking at him rather strangely.

“What are you-”

“Why are you acting so weird?”

Stan scratched at his wrist, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He said, moving around Richie and through the kitchen, barely getting to the red swing-door before Richie was putting on the bow of his apron. “Get off, you’ll mess up the knot.” He tried to slap Richie’s hands away - hands which have a smear of ink on the flesh.

“Why were you tapping the door like that? Were you having a minor epileptic fit or something?”

“Richie.” Stan warned, trying to pry Richie off of him. Richie lowered his grip on his apron, but Stan didn’t move away, rather he turned around to face the boy in question, hands folded behind his back, gently scratching at his wrist.

“I’m just wondering why the stick up your butt is deeper than usual today, that’s all.” He had the audacity to twist his voice into one of genuine concern. Stan itched his wrist quicker, he needed to move his fingers. Then, suddenly, without reason and without prompt, the world got very overwhelming all of a sudden.

Richie absentmindedly tousled his hair, as he does sometimes. Only, Stan could feel the knots, he could see Richie’s fingers catching them and tugging a little. Stan could feel Richie’s straw-like hair all over him, again. He could smell the faint smell of cigarettes masked with Febreze overpowering his nose and making him choke. The sizzling of the boiling oil to the right of Stan bled into his ears and he tugged on his earlobe to dislodge the sound from his head.

Stan’s head was blistering, why was everything so much all of a sudden.

“Earth to Stanley? Hellloooooo? Oh my gawd - we’ve lost him, Bill!” Richie’s accent smoothed over his head like acid, Stan slapped Richie’s smudged hand out of his face and tried to breathe around Richie’s smell. “Geez Louise, what the hell is wrong with you, you look like you’re gonna spew.”

“Richie. Leave me alone.” Stan choked out, Richie must have taken what Stan was saying somewhat seriously, because he stepped back a little out of Stan’s personal space but didn’t leave. Richie wasn’t wrong, Stan’s stomach was twisting and knotting every time Stan noticed something that made his skin itch. One of Bill’s shoelaces is untied, the clock is hanging off-centre on the wall, Mike had a black mark on the back of his otherwise white t-shirt, Richie was wearing mismatched black socks - his right one had a ribbed lip, the left one was more of a blue-black than the inky black of the other. The ink stain on Richie’s hand, the box in the fridge being left lopsided, jutting out over the perfect squares of tile, the buttermilk tins not being lined up. Every single thing Stan seemed to look at made him want to peel his skin off. “Were you too busy jackin’ it to take your meds this morning?” Richie asked, before slapping himself on the forehead in a mock- duh moment, “I knew I shouldn’t have watched those Indiana Jones movies with you last week, you always get so heated seeing Indy - ugh but who can blame you, those biceps just call out to you.”

“I don’t have a crush on Harrison Ford.” Or any guy for that matter. He bit his lip and clawed a little at his sleeve.

“Oh! Is it me then? Because I definitely remember you getting pret-ty heated last weekend about someone .”

Bill’s voice stuttered for a second - Stan hadn’t even noticed he was listening, but thank God, Bill was going to tell Richie to shut his mouth before Stan stuffs it with breadrolls, “No one wuh-wuh-wuh-wants you to stick their-their dick in you, Rich, I swuh-swear.”

Not quite the diversion that Stan was hoping for but thanks for the help, Bill. Richie eyed Stan up like a dog eyeing up a steak, “Oh no, you haven’t heard?” Richie sing-songed, it pinched Stan’s ears. “Our Stan is a pitcher! See, Bill, I even put it in baseball lingo for you - anything to help the cogs grind in that empty head of yours. Yes, our little, innocent Stan, loves nothing more than to go for a quick cave exploration under the sheets.”

Stan felt his resolve snap, like Bill accidentally snapping his ‘shatterproof’ ruler in half to test its claims, “Just because you take it up the ass, Richie, doesn’t mean we want to hear about that shit all the time. I know you think it’s funny, or cute or whatever but it’s not. It’s gross, and I don’t want people in the Synagogue talking about me even more when they overhear you saying shit like that - if they find out I’m friends with a queer I’ll be fucking killed, are you really that self-centered that you can’t get that?” The words seethed out of Stan before he even had a chance to stop them. As soon as they were out of his mouth he regretted them, but he stitched his lips shut and stood his ground.

Richie’s face took the shape of an injured puppy before he let out a laugh which sounded so forced Stan was surprised he didn’t choke on it. “Better than convincing myself I’m not a queer with my dick in a guy’s throat, like some people.” Richie didn’t say it in an accusatory way, but Stan knew what Richie was getting at, he just said it in such a way that Stan didn’t receive any questioning glances.

Stan opened his mouth to reply before he felt Ben’s firm grip on his shoulder, he noticed one on Richie as well. “I th-think we should ta-take a breather.” Stan didn’t need to be told twice before he shook Bill’s hand off his shoulder took himself to the smoking area. It was freezing and he didn’t have a coat but he didn’t care, he came out half out of spite because he knew Richie would be dying for a cigarette, and half because being outside usually helps to calm him down.

Stan tapped a fast tune into the inside of his wrist, stinging the slightly tender flesh that he had been scratching at. The cigarettes littered around him were burning into his flesh, so Stan looked away.

Breathe.

Stan forced his staggered breath through the movements he had coaxed Eddie with so many times before, breathing deep and slow, trying to calm the sharp staggered breaths that had his lungs burning with the sharpness of the cold air.

He was angry. He directed that anger at Richie - because it was Richie who had made him mad, surely. Richie had absolutely no right to say shit like that to him. Richie knew what they were doing, he had initiated it that night, with cigarette smoke in his lungs and six shots in his belly - so why was Richie suddenly being all bitchy about it? Stan couldn’t understand, they were having fun, they were messing around and spending time together in such a distinct way. Richie and Stan’s connection was special, Stan knew that much, I mean - he wouldn’t dream of making out with Eddie on top of his perfectly made baby blue bed sheets, or bucking up against Bill and breathing breathy groans into his mouth, or laughing as Beverly accidentally brains herself on Stan’s headboard as he bottoms out. Stan’s face involuntarily twitches - thinking about Beverly like that made his stomach twist in discomfort.

He found himself replaying that thought, he has too much respect for Beverly to think about her like that, imagining her sprawled out, so dirty and open like Richie had been felt wrong. Stan feels dirty. Rightly so - Beverly is one of his best friends and picturing her in such a position feels inherently misogynistic in a way. He isn’t sure why.

He finds himself quickly shaking the thoughts from his head, fingers dancing up and down his arms as he folds into himself to try and warm himself up from the cold. He loved Richie, of course he loved Richie, Richie was his best friend and that was a title that as juvenile as it may seem, Stan takes seriously. He and Richie have a connection, a special one that makes Stan’s stomach twist and turn whenever he thinks too much about it - their bond is so special, so definitively them that Stan finds a little pride in the way he and Richie spend their evenings together, whispering moans into each other and grinding against each other with laughter and moans on their lips, the best way to practice for whatever girl Stan may find himself with, and for whatever girl or boy Richie finds himself with too.

The thought makes his gut lurch so violently he almost falls off the plastic chair.

Richie was using him as a trial run before he falls into bed with someone else. Stan, of course, was doing this as well - but the thought barely ghosted his mind as the turning of his stomach moved up to his chest. Richie was essentially using him. Their heavy make-out sessions, with Stan whispering for Richie to stop making stupid fucking jokes were under the pretense that it was all, ultimately, for someone else. Someone that Richie would kiss with the ghost of all those nights with Stan and the person would be none the wiser. The thought made Stan feel ill, he felt his chest ache.

They would stop, then. If Richie finds someone they would have to stop. Stan doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t want to stop. He likes what he and Richie had, he likes the secret whispers and quiet breathy moans that they braid together under the covers of Richie’s bed. He likes it, he loves it. Of course he likes it, he’s relieving sexual tension and he’s doing it with his best friend. There’s nothing in that which Stan doesn’t like. Richie’s dick is maybe, inconvenient, Stan thinks, nodding to himself. It would be better if Richie was a girl.

He finds his stomach growing sicker and sicker by the minute.

No, he’s been through this already. Richie being a boy means there’s no risk for pregnancy, there’s no risk for … feelings getting involved - it’s actually better that Richie is a boy - since Richie knows how to kiss and pull on his Adam’s apple perfectly, knows how to grind with just enough pressure to hurt a little bit, knows how to twist his wrist at the right part under his head that makes Stan grapple for purchase on the sheets. Stan breathes through the blood pumping through him. Which definitely is not pumping down south at the pictures of Richie mouthing on his cock flood his vision.

Then it’s not his cock. Richie is grappling a faceless body, moaning and writing under a stranger, crying out in desperate breaths into someone else’s mouth. Punching moans out like he’s getting paid for it, fists curling in his hair, in his sheets, around the stranger’s shoulders. Stan feels his face flush with anger. Stan wants to scrub at his skin, he feels dirty, he feels used. Stan doesn’t spend nights tangling his legs with Richie, grinding until he feels tears prick his eyes, just to be thrown to the side when Richie finds some random John to keep his bed warm.

Stan doesn’t dwell on the thought that pushes through his head that maybe he only wants Richie to himself. He wants them to keep their nights of fun exclusive to each other forever. The thought is too much for Stanley to wrap his head around, so he promptly ignores it and imagines it never crossed his mind at all.

#stozier #it fanfiction #stan uris #richie tozier #it 2017 #it 2019 #dywfwt #and i oop-

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jincherie · 6 years

Text

happy kitty | seokjin

↠ silly kitty after-story!

↼pairing: Seokjin x reader ↼genre: fluff, romance, drabble, hybrid!au ↼words: 2.4k+ ↼warnings: fluff, mistletoe kisses, confessions-- the works ↼notes: AH! I was planning this for a while but didn’t get around to it for ages, but I’m glad I got it done before Christmas was completely over! also its 4am and I haven’t edited this sue me <3 Merry Christmas again!!

After trying to confess your feelings for two weeks after Seokjin’s birthday, you finally trap him under some mistletoe.

↼posted; 25.12.2017

↼masterlist | silly kitty

It was with a certain sense of resignation that you watched Seokjin’s broad back as he fled quickly around the corner after seeing you walking towards him, disappearing from sight just as quickly as he’d entered. It was Christmas day, and all of you had gathered at Jungkook’s apartment for the occasion. The day had begun in high spirits, and even now everything was going perfectly and you didn’t think you’d ever had a better Christmas. Everyone was happy, laughter echoed throughout the house and blended perfectly with the beats coming from the small but powerful set of Bluetooth speakers Yoongi had gifted Jungkook. Food was out, presents had all been open, and now you were all playing games in the living room—well, everyone but Seokjin and yourself.

Seokjin had confessed to you. It had been an accident, of course, something that slipped out in the heat of the moment on his birthday, when he’d been so overwhelmed with happiness he’d peppered your face with kisses and accidentally blurted his love for you. He hadn’t realised then, and it had happened so quickly that the moment was over before you had the opportunity to tell him that you loved him to. That night went, and so did the two weeks after it, and Seokjin still didn’t know you returned his affection. There were opportunities, of course, but you being you, you managed to miss every single one of them. It probably didn’t help that after Seokjin realised he’d confessed to you, he grew so embarrassed and awkward he’d avoided you for three whole days before he gave up somewhat, and even then he was still stiff and embarrassed whenever he met your eyes.

You just wanted to let him know you returned his feelings, but on the occasions where he didn’t run away from you, you suddenly found yourself tongue-tied. Instead of “Hey, I love you”, it was “Wow, the weather’s crazy today, huh?” that came out of your mouth as you spoke over dinner. When you were sitting behind him on the couch, brushing your fingers through his hair and scratching behind his ears, it wasn’t “I adore you” that passed your lips, but “Seokjinnie, your hair is so soft lately!”. You were growing more annoyed with your own inability to confess when you had the chance than anything.

But you needed to do it, and you wanted to— you wanted to spill your heart to him, brush your hands over his cheeks as you told him every single thing you adored about him and how truly precious he was to you. You wanted to hold him close and never let him go, pepper his face with affection and kiss him softly, passionately, until he knew and felt just how much you treasured him. You were so in love with this boy, you couldn’t bear the slight tension and distance between you and you knew he felt the same and could do something about it.

So you’d made a resolution— on Christmas day you were finally going to confess to him. The day had finally come, and although you had managed to steel your nerves you had yet to pin him down. For some reason, the raven-haired hybrid had been avoiding you again— almost as much as he had been in the day or so after his birthday. This, understandably, made it very difficult for you to confess to him like you planned. You’d need to try a lot harder, because you were not letting this day pass without you doing what you wanted so desperately to do.

Letting out a great sigh, you turned and made your way back to the kitchen for a drink of water, eyeing the mistletoe hung over the doorway as you went. Jungkook had told Taehyung and Jimin all about mistletoe, and from the very get-go they’d been nothing short of excited at the concept. Jungkook had bought some as decorations when they asked, and the two hybrids had gone to town on the place. There was mistletoe hanging above almost every doorway in Jungkook’s apartment, and it was… dangerous. Taehyung, the cheeky pup, had tried more than a few times to playfully nudge you under it and earn a kiss, but Seokjin had stopped him every time. It was like he had a sense for it, because every time Taehyung even neared a doorway with you in tow, Seokjin would spin and pin the puppy with a deadly glare that had the younger hybrid letting out a yelp and backing off. It was kind of amusing, but still if Seokjin could chase others off then he could definitely talk to you. But he wouldn’t go near you alone, especially when you were standing near a doorway…

Shaking your head, you got your drink, then went to join the others in the living room. The time for lunch came and went, and with full tummies you spent the afternoon with your friends laughing and playing games together. You didn’t manage to pin Seokjin down at all. You came close once, but Jungkook walked in before you could force the words from where they sat at the tip of your tongue— and as much as you wanted to confess to Seokjin, you really didn’t want to give Jungkook that kind of ammunition to tease you with, even if he and Yoongi had pretty much already guessed your feelings anyway.

You were growing restless as daylight fled and night seeped across the sky. You’d all had dinner, although not too much since you were all too full to really gorge yourselves. Currently, you were all alternating between quiet conversations and watching the movie splayed across the wall from the old school projector Jungkook had managed to scrounge up at some second-hand place. You couldn’t stop your gaze from wandering over to the raven-haired feline where he sat on the other couch, squished between the arm and Hoseok but looking every bit as satisfied and happy as you wanted him to be. The sight warmed your heart, but you couldn’t help the thoughts niggling in the back of your mind. Technically, you didn’t have to confess to him today, but you’d already worked yourself up so much and made up your mind. If you didn’t do it today, you didn’t know if you ever would.

The movie continued, leaving you to bounce between being immersed in your thoughts and staring at the beautiful feline hybrid that had captured your heart. About three quarters of the way through, however, your attention was torn from the movie as the object of your affection pulled himself from the couch, declaring that he was going to the kitchen for some water. He was immediately bombarded with requests for drinks and food, and as he turned to make his way to the kitchen you seized the new opportunity that had made itself apparent to you.

Not a second after he left the room were you leaping from your spot cuddled against Jimin and Taehyung and stumbling after him, attempting to be somewhat stealthy and failing miserably. You caught him in the doorway to the kitchen. He stiffened as he heard your soft footsteps padding rapidly towards him.

“Jinnie!” you cooed, shooting him a winning smile as he turned to meet your gaze. “Do you need some help?”

Inwardly, you cursed yourself for giving him an opportunity to refuse your presence. It was like you’d never learn. Seokjin, cheeks colouring a soft pink under your gaze, stuttered slightly as he spoke, “N-no thanks, y/n. I think I got it by myself.”

He then turned, and you panicked. It was getting late, Christmas day was almost over, and if you missed yet another opportunity to confess you didn’t think you could live with yourself. Without thinking you lurched, grasping his arm and tugging him slightly. “Wait! Seokjinnie I need to tell you something.”

He peered at you, a mixture of confusion and curiosity in his gaze as his ears flicked towards you and his tail swayed behind him, and you gulped. Fuck, you were really about to do this, you couldn’t let yourself back out now. Seokjin’s voice was slightly raspy as it escaped his throat, “What?”

You tried to steel yourself, tugging the hybrid closer so he stood in the doorway with you and grasping both of his hands in yours, his skin pleasantly warm to the touch. “I, uh, need to get something off my chest.”

Immediately Seokjin looked worried, and you winced internally. That could have been more delicately put. You tried to remedy it quickly. “It’s nothing bad! Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.”

Seokjin still looked slightly dubious, but remained in his place nonetheless. “What is it?”

You gulped. This was it. you’d come too far to back out now. “I… do you remember your birthday?”

Not what you wanted to say, but it was a start. Seokjin nodded, feline eyes trained on yours. You continued after taking a deep breath, “Well, do you also remember how you, uh… you said…”

At the mention, even as indirect as it was, of his accidental confession, Seokjin’s entire face flushed pink, his eyes widening as he sputtered and attempted to form a coherent response. Watching his reaction caused a sudden rush of courage within you, and you decided to ride it while you could. You didn’t give it a second thought before you blurted out the words that had been on the tip of your tongue for the past two weeks. “Seokjin, I’m in love with you.”

The hybrid froze, an expression of pure, unadulterated shock painting his beautiful features as he looked at you in disbelief. It wasn’t often Seokjin was rendered speechless, and since you were still riding that wave of courage you decided at this point it was either go big or go home. Mimicking an action he’d done to you once before, you brought the large hands in your grasp to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles, before lacing your fingers together. His cheeks were such a vibrant pink they almost glowed. You shot him a smile as you spoke, “You’re one of the most important people in my life, Jin. I’ll never be thankful for anything more than I’m thankful to have you. You’re precious to me, and I wanted to let you know that I love you too.”

Seokjin stood, shaken, before you for a few moments more before his angelic face split into one of the most beautiful, radiant grins you’d ever seen. He positively beamed at you. “y/n…” he started, voice wavering slightly and the slightest traces of unshed tears budding in the corners of his eyes. His tail flickered wildly and it was the only warning you got.

He threw himself at you, wrapping his long arms around your form and burying his face in your neck as he sniffled, holding you tightly, “I love you, y/n, so much—”

“Silly kitty, don’t cry,” you laughed, arms coming up immediately to return his embrace. There was a warmth blossoming in your chest that soothed every worry your mind could have ever conjured. You couldn’t get the stupid smile off your face.

Seokjin sniffled, pulling back with a roll of his eyes, yet fondness remained in his gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me before now? I’ve been so embarrassed thinking you didn’t like me back and I’d ruined everything.”

You poked his nose, “You were avoiding me! I couldn’t tell you. Plus… I don’t know, it’s hard, okay? Be thankful I told you now. I could have left you in suspense until New Year’s.”

The slightest traces of fear trickled into Seokjin’s gaze, and he was quick to cover it with a sheepish, sunshine-y beam. “You’re right,” he acquiesced, leaning down to press a prompt kiss to the tip of your nose, all the while wearing a giddy smile. “I’m glad you told me— now no one else can steal a kiss on New Year’s Eve.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to help your grin, and he continued with a soft look. “Now come on, love, I actually do need help getting all those things from the kitchen.”

He shot you a sheepish yet somehow still cheeky smile, before he turned and went to walk away. You gripped his hand and tugged him back before he could move, your eyes wide. “Wait! Where do you think you’re going?”

Seokjin seemed confused, raven ear flicking, “The kitchen…?”

You shook your head, pointing above you. The hybrid turned his gaze upwards and instantly flushed pink, mouth dropping open in surprise as his gaze whipped back to you. You smiled at him brightly, before leaning up to press your lips against his own in a prompt kiss before he could protest or run away again. You’d only meant for it to be short and sweet, but the second you felt the plump, pillowy flesh of his lips against your own you were gone. Your hands came up to cup his cheek and thread smoothly through the hair behind his ear, a soft noise of surprise escaping you as Seokjin reacted to your touch and his mouth began to move against yours. His hands gripped your waist and back and you delighted in the press of his fingers into your flesh.

When you pulled back it was at though he’d stolen the very breath from your lungs. His cheeks were entirely pink, and eyes still wide with surprise as he stared at you in open adoration. You saw an opportunity and you took it.

“Well,” you said, breath coming slightly quicker than usual. “Have I ever told you, you take my breath away?”

Seokjin blinked, before a large smile tugged those pretty lips and he let out a loud laugh. “You’re a silly human,” he said fondly, eyes warm as they held your gaze. “Taehyung told me he put the mistletoe up for me and you, but I didn’t think it would actually work.”

You grinned, glancing at the decoration hanging above your heads. “I’m glad it was there,” you said, “It sure was easier than trying to track you down and keep you nearby long enough to get a kiss.”

Seokjin flushed further, if possible. You leaned up and pressed a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Now we can go get the things from the kitchen. You still need help, don’t you, silly kitty?”

The beam Seokjin flashed at you nearly split his cheeks. “Anything for more time with you.”

You playfully bopped his arm, but your heart was singing and the tune soothed your soul. Finally, the last pieces had fallen into place, and you were happy. You were happy with your kitty, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

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