#prompt was robot arm so I wanted to draw something softer

[xxrat--punkxx]

Repair day

#day 3 for vashtember #prompt was robot arm so I wanted to draw something softer #djdjdkdoe I was supposed to finish this on the third but unfortunately life happned and I couldn’t be bothered to post it yesterday to uhhh #but yeah I like how this turned out lol #it got so lazy toward the end rip #if yall say anything abt that janky ass hand I’m going to eat you #like I spent so long shading them face and hair but when I got to the pants I was like man fuck this #the goal for these drawings is to try and help me find a new rendering style since I was really not happy with my last one #still don’t rly know what I’m doing but I’ll get there lmao #Trigun #trigun maximum #trigun manga #Vash #vash the stampede #my art #trimax #Vash Trigun #Trigun Vash #vashtember #Trigun art #Trigun fanart

[i-am-dead-inside-666]

Apologies

Steve/Tony(+Bucky)

Summary: Steve and Tony make up and a cute stuckony moment. Wow that’s a crap summary.

Warnings: some angst I guess but mostly fluff. Bad language.

Please don’t post this on other platforms without my permission. Thanks 😊

Nobody cared. Tony knew that, he'd been hiding in his lab for six days now, not coming up for showers or to sleep, barely eating. The only regular schedule he kept to was the hourly coffee renewal. Cold coffee reminded him too much of lazy mornings with.. Steve... soft cuddles and whispered nothings, mugs forgotten on their side tables.

He hadn't seen another human in over a week. He'd passed out in the lab several times, from lack of food and drink, or just pure sleep-deprivation, he didn't know.

Nobody had been to check on him, because that had always been Steve.

He'd always been there to pick him up, striding into his lab with confidence that only Captain America could hold. Sweeping Tony's exhausted body against his chest, he'd carry him up to their bedroom, where he'd hold him tightly in his arms until Tony felt a little bit less broken than before.

But Steve wasn't there anymore, no one was.

So he huddled in the tiny gap under his desk, his stomach twisted into so many knots that he could barely breath. His hands pulling at his hair, as though they had a mind of their own, his nails clawing painfully at his scalp.

His chest was hurting so badly, and he wasn't sure whether it was from where Steve had slammed his shield through the arc reactor, or the fact that it was Steve that slammed his shield through the arc reactor.

He loved Steve so much, and the pain at him abandoning him, like everybody else in his life, it made him feel completely worthless.

A low whirring noise dragged him from his thoughts, forcing himself to relax his hands, he loosened the grip he had on his hair and looked up. Through teary eyes, he watched as Dum-E nudged his chair out of the way and rolled closer to him.

"hey Dum-E." Tony managed to whisper, a small smile stretching his cracked lips. The robot cocked his claw, almost like someone would do when they were confused, then he pushed forwards until Tony reluctantly lifted his arm up and let the robot nuzzle against his side.

"...I know.. I miss him too." His trembling voice was barely heard audible over the blaring music that he was definitely not using to try and drown out his self-destructive thoughts.

Squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to stop anymore tears from escaping, he twisted his fingers back into his hair and tucked his head back between his knees.

————————————————————

"I don't want to be here long, I'm just grabbing some stuff." Steve muttered, more to himself than to Bucky as he hurriedly grabbed clothes from the wardrobe he and Tony used to share.

"Yeah whatever punk." Bucky answered, absentmindedly glancing around the room. His gaze settled on the neatly made double bed, too neat. His brow furrowed and he stepped forward, Steve was too busy rummaging through something to notice him.

He let his metal fingers trail lightly over the bed covers, concerned at the layer of dust that had accumulated there. There were two bedside tables, one on each side of the bed, in various states of disarray.

The one on the opposite side of the bed must have been Steve's, as he could see several half finished drawings scattered by the base of the lamp.

However it was the one nearest to him that drew his attention, it was much much messier than Steve's. There were several coffee stains on the surface, and Bucky couldn't help but roll his eyes, coffee was apparently the only thing the genius ever drank.

He was vaguely aware of the other objects cluttering the table, but his gaze was fixed on the nondescript flip phone, placed with almost inhuman precision so that it lined up perfectly with the frame of a picture.

The frame was facedown on the side table so that the picture it contained couldn't be seen. Glancing over his shoulder to check what Steve was doing, he had practically climbed half way inside the wardrobe, making Bucky grin despite himself.

Turning back to the bedside table, he ever so gently lifted the frame up, gasping softly at the beautiful scene captured behind the glass.

Steve and Tony, both in perfectly tailored suits, posed for the camera, the former holding the latter bridal style with ease. Bucky's heart fluttered at the dopey smile on Steve's face as Tony planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

Both of them had their left hands thrust towards the camera and Bucky's breath caught in his throat, matching silver bands glinted on their fourth fingers. Steve never told him he and Tony were actually married.

Confetti rained around the happy couple, a mix of red, blue and gold, celebrating the colours of the two superheroes. The confetti was suspended in the air around the two, reminding Bucky that that's what this was, a special moment from the past, from a happier time.

His ears pricked suddenly, detecting the slight increase in Steve's breathing, decades of living as the Winter Soldier had given him unparalleled senses.

He turned, the frame still clutched tightly in his new metal arm that had been anonymously delivered to him and Steve's hideout. The moment Steve had opened the package, he'd burst into tears and refused to leave his room for three hours. Yet he still insisted that Bucky use the arm, even if his smile strained slightly every time he set eyes on it.

Steve's face was almost as pale as Bucky remember it from the 40s, coupled with his wide eyed stare and trembling hands, he could almost believe they were the same person.

"I'm sorry I- I was just- looking." He anxiously tried to explain, gesturing half heartedly towards the messy side table.

The blonde blinked slowly, as if pulling himself from the depths of a dream, "It's.... fine." He waved away Bucky's poor attempt at an explanation, trying to hide the way his voice cracked.

"No it isn't." Bucky replied in a much more measured tone, gauging his friends reaction. Steve's jaw went from slack to so tight that Bucky was afraid he heard his teeth crack.

"Everything is fine." He ground out, stiffly turning back to his suitcase and aggressively beginning to stuff everything he'd pulled out of the wardrobe into it.

"You didn't tell me you guys were married."

The only response he got was a shrug and a murmur he could barely make out. "wasn't important."

Bucky sighed, gently placing the picture back down, upright this time. He made his way to the end of the bed and perched there, softly tugging on Steve's shoulder until he huffed and joined him, falling heavily onto the bed.

Back in the tower, back in this room, back on this bed, all the memories Steve had been suppressing came rushing back to the front of his mind. Almost without thinking, he leant his head down to rest on Bucky's shoulder.

He couldn't help but miss the feel of Tony's, softer and lower, Buck's were.... harder, tough cords of muscles beneath his shirt. Both were comforting and familiar, but he couldn't have both... could he?

The former Winter Soldier was momentarily taken aback by the sudden contact, and he stiffened. He couldn't help it, seventy years of being conditioned to fear human touch.

A pang of guilt shot through him, as he could tell he'd managed to make Steve feel worse because as soon as he realised he'd tensed up, Steve had bolted upright, like a child caught doing something wrong.

Quickly wiping his tears from his cheeks, he mumbled, "M'sorry, I shouldn't have brought you here Buck, we can leave.. I'll send Nat to grab my stuff later."

Knowing he'd crossed some sort of line, Bucky simply nodded, watching from the bed as Steve returned to rooting through the chest of drawers.

Finally, curiosity got the best of him, "Watcha looking for now?"

"My dog tags." Steve muttered, slamming his fist on to the drawers, wincing at the audible crunch. "I- I gave them to Tony." He swallowed thickly, "But they aren't here."

"Where else could they be? The kitchen? The-"

"Lab!" Steve exclaimed, finishing Bucky's sentence for him. "Fuck." He swore, clenching his fists tightly to stop himself from punching something, anything.

"Then go get 'em." Bucky prompted, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes as Steve's jaw practically fell open.

"Wh-what?!" He spluttered, "You- want me- to go up to my husband who I left and- and- say hey, uh- yeah, sorry to intrude, but you know that really important meaningful thing I gave you- yeah- I want them back." Steve raised his voice to a dramatically high pitch, earning another low sigh from his exasperated boyfriend/friend whatever they were.

"Do you love him?" Steve's eyes practically fell out of his head at the question, shifting slightly on the bed Bucky continued, "Lemme rephrase, do you love him more than you love me?"

"I- what?!"

"I see the way you look at him. You.. you don't look at me like that." He continued, wincing as Steve's features contorted in pain.

"Buck I-"

The brunet stood up so that the two were eye level, even that jarred Steve for a moment, his words dying in his throat, he was so used to looking down....

"-don't feel bad," Steve frowned, forcing himself to stop thinking about Tony, to focus on Bucky's next words.

"I- I've been wanting to talk to you about this anyway.." Bucky trailed off, thinking about how to phrase his next sentence, "I know we used to talk about us back in the forties, and- it really is a dream come true that we got a chance to figure- this-" he gestured between them, "out, but- you aren't- you aren't happy with me.."

Glancing sadly back at the photo, he couldn't help the low sigh that left his lips, "You love Stark- Tony." He corrected himself.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve pressed his palms against his temples. "You're right!" He yelled, "But you're also wrong! So fucking wrong!"

The vein in his jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth, alerting Bucky to just how annoyed he was. "I'm... wrong?" He asked hesitantly.

"Yes I love Tony! But I also love you! And- and- I can't choose!"

"Well maybe you don't have to.." Bucky thought out loud, Steve's gaze snapped towards him.

"What?"

Bucky shook his head, "Nothing, it doesn't matter, just- go talk to him you punk."

A bittersweet smile creep crept up Steve's face, "Shut up jerk." He retorted, making his way to the door, he paused for a moment in the doorway, hesitating. Impatiently, Bucky waved him away, ignoring Steve as he rolled his eyes.

Thoughts raced through Steve's head at a million miles an hour as he walked down the hall, what if Tony didn't want to see him, what if he was mad at him, hell, if Steve were him he'd be mad at himself-

He was at the doors to the lab way before he was prepared, he could already hear Tony's music through the doors.

Steve didn't realise his fists were clenched until he forced himself to relax, exhaling sharply as he examined the crescent shaped indents in his palms.

Taking a shaky breath to steady himself, he cast his eyes towards the ceiling, an old habit that he could never shake. "Ja- Friday? Could- um- could you let me in please?"

"I'm sorry Captain Rogers, Mr Stark has removed you from the system. I am unable to grant you access to the lab."

Steve's frown deepened, what could he do now? Break the door down?

Friday's smooth voice interrupted his internal monologue, "Although, if the door to the lab was accidentally left unlocked, technically I wouldn't be allowing you access."

A small grin lit Steve's face up, "I knew I liked you." He chuckled under his breath, tugging on the door which slid open with ease.

"Tony? Are you here?" Steve asked hesitantly, as he stepped into the room, his words nearly inaudible over the music.

His gaze swept over the empty room, he waited a moment before moving towards the bombsight of a desk opposite him. He subconsciously kept his footsteps light, a habit he'd picked up trying not to wake Tony if he'd fallen asleep in the lab.

He reached the desk, glancing over the papers scattered across it, he paused as he recognised the blueprints for Bucky's new arm.

Tearing his eyes away, he was almost ready to pack it in and leave, but as he turned, his enhanced eyesight caught the sliver of steam rising from the coffee mug.

The line between his brows deepened and he let his knuckles drag across the porcelain, nearly hissing at the heat. Since when did Tony drink his coffee that hot?

Then it hit him. Hot coffee, Tony must still be here, he wouldn't have been able to sneak past Steve. A low sigh slipped through his lips, he knew exactly where Tony was.

Rounding the desk, he gently pushed the chair to the side, crouching down to peer into the foot space beneath the desk.

What he saw made his heart shatter and his eyes well with tears. Sure he'd seen tony like this before, huddled beneath his desk, shaking, crying, pulling his hair hard enough to keep him grounded.. and every time he saw him like that, his chest ached, but this time, this time he knew that he had caused this, Tony was in pain because of him, and that hurt.

Tony's grip on his dark locks loosened, and he turned towards the sound of Steve's voice, his watery eyes widened, "Steve?"

Hearing Tony's broken voice was the last straw and the tears he'd previously managed to hold back fell from Steve's baby blue eyes, spilling down his pale cheeks.

"You're not real." Tony finally mumbled, pressing his palms over his eyes and shaking his head. Steve barely heard his whisper, but he did, and his hand tightened, his fingers pressing dents into the desk where he gripped it.

"Friday. Pause the music." He growled, anger at himself seeping into his tone. Tony looked up at the sudden silence, his stare blank as he seemed to look straight through Steve.

His gaze sharpened suddenly, bloodshot eyes meeting Steve's with such intensity that the super soldier nearly flinched. "I know you're not real!" He snapped, "Now get out of my head."

Tony waved his hand in dismissal, mere centimetres from Steve's nose. He made an attempt to crawl out from under the desk, nearly tripping over Dum-E. Steve quickly moved backwards out of his way, watching Tony as he stood up and attempted to straighten his clothes.

The brunet refused to look in Steve's direction, he simply offered a small smile to Dum-E. Steve jumped up as Tony turned to walk towards a separate bench, picking up a small and hunching forward over a delicate piece of machinery.

"Tony- please.. I really am here." Steve tried again, desperation creeping into his voice. Tony hesitated, sure, he'd hallucinated seeing Steve before, but never like this, it never hurt as much as this.

He turned slowly, screwdriver still clutched tightly in his fist, his fingernails pressing deep enough into his palms to draw blood as he cautiously stepped towards his husband.

He was on edge, waiting for this hallucination of Steve to turn on him, slam his shield into his chest, say something horribly hurtful and horribly true or simply wait until he could almost touch him, and then vanish.

Steve's eyes flicked between the sharp object Tony was gripping like a lifeline, and his face, so full of pain and hurt that Steve's stomach twisted with guilt. Not wanting to scare the skittish engineer, he froze.

Tony bit his lip as he edged nearer, taking in Steve's rigid posture, neither of them even dared to breath.

The hand that wasn't gripping his screwdriver moved, almost subconsciously towards Steve's face, trembling as his fingers followed the sharp line of his jaw. A frown creased his brows at the rough stubble there, the screwdriver slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor, although neither of them acknowledged it.

"You're really here?" He asked, uncertainty making his voice waver slightly. Steve nodded slowly, searching Tony's deep brown eyes for any hint of forgiveness or understanding, "I'm here Tones."

"Don't. Call. Me. That." Tony hissed, withdrawing his hand suddenly. He tore his eyes from Steve's, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I don't care if you're really here! Get the fuck out of my lab!"

"Tony-" Steve corrected himself, "Don't push me away- I swear I feel so bad about- about Siberia-" he cringed as soon as the word left his mouth, leaving a bitter taste in its wake.

Shivers shook Tony's body, spreading out from between his shoulder blades as every single memory he'd been struggling to repress came flooding back.

His parents. He was looking at his parents, after so long, he'd nearly forgotten what they looked like, how beautiful his mum was.

He knew what was coming, but he couldn't help but flinch as the car careened off the road, smashing into a tree.

He watched, barely breathing as The Winter Soldier ripped his life apart. Hatred burned like acid in his stomach, but not towards Bucky, not even towards The Winter Soldier, but towards himself.

For nearly thirty years, he'd hated his father, hated him for every time he was 'too busy' to spend time with him.

Hated him for every time he compared him to Steve.

Hated him for drinking that little bit too much and slapping him around.

But all that blame for his mother's death, was completely misplaced. Tony's heart ached as he recalled his fathers last words from the video.

"Maria- my wife- please help my wife..... Sergeant Barnes?"

"-ny- breathe- come on- follow my breathing." Steve's voice cut through Tony's panic and he realised that he could feel the steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his fingers.

Biting back sobs, Steve pulled Tony's body against his chest, moving slightly so that Tony's head could rest against his broad shoulder.

"Come on Tony, I'm sorry- you're in the lab with me. Remember. Follow my breathing." The feel of Steve's warm, familiar shape wrapped around him comforted Tony as he struggled to control his erratic heart and heavy breathing.

"I'm sorry- please don't leave me- stay please- I don't wanna.. don't wanna be alone-" Tony mumbled, eyes still unfocused and slightly glazed.

"No- I'm sorry Tony. I- I screwed up big time." Slowly, Tony's breathing evened, but he let quiet, listening to Steve's explanation.

"Me and Buck weren't exactly accepted in the 40s. So we stopped ourselves, pretended we didn't have feelings for each other. And then I went into the ice and I thought I'd never see him again."

He sighed heavily, subconsciously running his hand down Tony's side, "I really love you baby, I swear I thought I'd completely moved on. But then he came back." Steve's face twisted into a grimace, "And all those old feelings came flooding back- an' I couldn't lose him again-"

His voice broke at the end, and he dropped his head into the crook of Tony's neck, his shoulders shaking.

"I'm sorry." He cried, tears soaking through Tony's T-shirt. Blinking back his own tears, Tony carefully extricated himself from Steve's tight embrace. He didn't pull away entirely though, simply twisted himself in Steve's lap until they were facing.

He carefully cupped Steve's jaw, tilting the soldiers face so that their equally teary eyes met. His thumb rubbed small circles over the rough stubble as he contemplated his next words.

"I understand why you did it.... which makes it even harder I guess, 'cause I know I'd do the same for Rhodey." Tony sighed, "I can't forget about this, not yet... it still hurts too much." He rubbed at his chest slightly, his gaze softening when Steve's face fell.

"But I can forgive you." He finished, blue eyes meeting brown as though they were seeing each other properly for the first time.

Steve was rendered breathless for the second time in less than half an hour, as Tony's hand snaked round the back of his head, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Neither of them moved for several long, tense moments, they simply stared into one another's eyes, mapping their faces out in their minds as they recalled every reason why they fell in love in the first place.

Then Steve moved, leaning forward to capture Tony's lips in a slow and cautious kiss, his large hands sliding up Tony's side, rucking his shirt up and tugging him closer to his chest.

Relaxing into Steve's arms, Tony's eyes slid shut and he melted into the familiar feeling of Steve's lips against his own. He smiled into the kiss as Steve's tongue swept along his bottom lip, easily working its way into his mouth and pushing between his teeth.

They kissed until they ran out of oxygen, breathing heavily and in sync as they pulled away.

Tony tilted his head forward so that his forehead rested against Steve's, his eyes still closed as he caught his breath.

"I missed you." He confessed, peering through his lashes at Steve, "And I'm sorry for screaming."

The blonde chuckled softly, "I did deserve it." His face turned serious again, "I am sorry, Tony."

Just as a smug grin crept up his face, Tony chose that exact moment... to faint.

Panic gripped Steve's chest for a moment as the brunette slumped against his chest, then he heard Tony's stomach grumble loudly, and felt the ribs poking through his shirt.

"Oh Tony." He sighed, rolling his eyes as he easily scooped the shorter man into his arms and striding out of the lab.

"Wh-" Tony's sleepy mumble made a smile tug at the corner of Steve's lips, even as he had to tighten his grip when Tony attempted to wriggle out of his arms.

"M'fine- gerrof!" He growled, pushing against Steve's broad chest, "S'fine you apologised, you can go now- put me down!"

So Steve did, dropping Tony onto one of the kitchen stools so that he was sat at the island, facing Steve as he started pulling ingredients out of the cupboards.

"What are you doing?" Tony groaned, placing his chin in his hand to stare at Steve.

Steve ignored the question, asking one of his own, "When was the last time you ate?" Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed in exasperation as Tony shrugged, mumbling an off handed, "I dunno."

"Jeez Tones, have you thrown all my food away? He complained, throwing his arms up in annoyance.

Tony shrugged again, "I don't like your rabbit food." He fastened his gaze on the floor, "And it reminded me too much of you."

Steve tensed at Tony's mumbled statement, turning around to stare at him as he continued, "Didn't know if you'd be coming back anyway."

"Tony-"

The brunet sighed, "Don't, I told you, I get it." He muttered, half way off of the stool before a large hand landed on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

"Sit. Down." Steve snarled, "We are not discussing this now. I am making you some healthy, nutritious food. Then you are going to brush your teeth, get in the shower and go the fuck to sleep. Cause no offence but you look like shit."

Tony rolled his eyes but remained seated, brushing Steve's hand off his shoulder, "Language." He mocked, trying to lighten the mood.

A low chuckle left Steve's throat, and he moved back towards the stove, cracking several eggs into a bowl and beginning to whisk them.

Tony stifled his own giggle, glancing around the kitchen as his stomach growled again, his eyes drifted over the door and he stiffened.

Watching Tony's eyes widen in fear, Bucky felt guilt settle on his shoulders. He edged his way out of the doorway, avoiding eye contact with Tony as he cleared his throat quietly.

Steve whipped round at the noise, "Uh- Buck- I.. we were just..." he gave up when he saw Tony's judgemental stare from the corner of his eye, he gestured awkwardly at the omelette, "Food."

"Right, do you want me to go? Natasha sent the quinjet over." Tony's face crumpled at the mention of the red headed spy's name, remembering the sharp sting of betrayal that stabbed his chest every time he thought of her.

Steve glanced worriedly at Tony, "Ah- no. It's fine," he slid a plate across the island and Tony frowned in disgust, trying to ignore the super soldiers presence somewhere behind him.

"Steve- it's green." He pointed out, prodding it suspiciously with his fork. Steve rolled his eyes, dropping into the seat opposite Tony, "It's got spinach in it you baby, just eat it."

"Keep rolling your eyes and you might find a brain somewhere back there."

"Shut up. Not all of us are geniuses ya know," Steve shot back, his Boston accent creeping into his voice.

"Evidently." Tony snarked, stabbing his omelette again. "Oh for fuck sake!" Steve cursed, trying to hide his grin as he yanked the plate towards him and snatched the fork out of Tony's hand.

Bucky smiled at how quickly the two of them fell into what he assumed were old habits, trading sarcastic comments like sweets at Halloween.

"I don't need you to cut my food up. I'm not a baby Steve. And watch your language."

Steve frowned, shoving the plate back towards Tony with his omelette now in bite sized pieces. Tony pulled another disgusted face, but grudgingly started eating anyway.

"Buck do you want one?" Steve asked, standing up and grabbing a couple more eggs, they were large ones, but still sat easily in the palm of his hand.

Bucky hesitated, decisions had always been difficult for him after... hydra, but this one was the worst he'd ever faced.

Sure Steve, why wouldn't I wanna sit down to a nice meal with you and your husband, oh yeah, your husband, you know the guy you cheated on with me and then left half beaten to death in a freezing bunker. Could this get any more awkward?!

"Um-" he hummed, silently hoping that someone would make the decision for him. Steve smiled tightly, noticing Bucky's discomfort, he pointed at the seat next to Tony, "Sit down, I'll make you one.

Apparently it can get more awkward! Why, why would you sit me next to him, it's not like we tried to kill each other like a week ago. Bucky felt like face palming, was Steve really an oblivious asshole or was he actively trying to start a fight.

He cautiously moved towards the stool that Steve had gestured at, trying to ignore the way Stark shifted away from him, shoulders tensed.

Measuring his breathing helped calm him slightly, in, out, in, out, four even breaths later and he was sliding into the seat next to Tony.

They sat together in silence whilst Steve finished cooking another omelette, sliding it onto a plate and across the island.

"Eat up ba-" Steve blushed, cutting himself off as Tony's grip tightened around his fork, the metal grinding against the porcelain of the plate. "-ucky. Bucky." He tried to save himself, his face redder than a beetroot.

A loud yawn broke the silence that followed, and both Steve and Bucky turned to stare at the sleepy engineer. When he noticed their stares, he shot them both a cold glare, "What? I'm tired ok." He snapped.

Steve grinned, "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Stop treating me like a baby Steve. I can take care of myself." The blonds eyebrow quirked at Tony's statement.

"Really? When was the last time you actually slept in your bed?" Tony flushed, "You used to pass out in the lab, quite often if I remember correctly."

"Is this your long winded way of getting me into bed? Cause I hate to tell you, but you might wanna up the romance a bit." Tony sassed, sliding off his stool and stumbling towards the door.

Steve laughed, "Gimme a sec while I put this stuff away." He scooped the eggshells off the side of the counter and moved to put them in the bin. Whilst he was busy cleaning up, Tony continued to stagger away from them.

He'd barely made it three steps before his knees buckled and the ground rushed towards his face.

Suddenly, strong arms were wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, caging him into a broad chest. Tony gasped softly, his nose inches from the floor, "Thanks babe." He mumbled, twisting in the tight grip so that he could look up at- BUCKY?

Tony felt heat rise up his face, "Uh- I thought you were Steve?" He squeaked, sounding more like a question than a statement, he smiled weakly as he met Bucky's deep brown eyes.

"Hmm, you're cute when you blush." Bucky muttered without thinking, staring down at the small man trapped between his body and the floor.

"Um- do you two want me to leave? Give you some privacy?" Steve cut in, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Bucky jumped as though he'd forgotten Steve was in the room, he glanced over his shoulder, ignoring Tony as he wriggled between his arms.

"Um sorry that bambi here hasn't figured out how to walk properly yet." He stated, a teasing edge to his words, before Tony could even blink, he was cradled like a baby into Bucky's chest.

There was an arm hooked beneath his knees, and another on lower back which held him steady, the metal cool against his hot skin, even through the material of his shirt.

Tony could hear Steve's heavy footsteps follow them as he was carried into the bedroom and dropped unceremoniously onto the bed. He bounced onto the soft mattress, a low uff pushing past his lips at the shock. Bucky couldn't help but grin, pushing a stray hair out of the billionaires face and tucking it behind his ear.

Steve smiled softly at the two of them, pulling the corner of the duvet back so that Tony could snuggle beneath it.

Without thinking, he leant forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Lingering for several moments, he eventually pulled away, opening his mouth to ask Bucky whether he was ready to go, when a hand circled his wrist.

Tony blinked up at him sleepily, "Please stay." He whispered, tugging the super soldier back towards the bed.

Steve shot a wary glance at Bucky, who was laughing silently at the confusion on Steve's face. "It's fine jerk, I'll go meet 'tasha on the quinjet."

"Nah uh." Tony's childish pout was directed at Bucky, making the assassins heart melt at the pleading looks in his doe brown eyes and sulkily stuck out lip.

"You... want me to stay?" He hesitated, surely this was overstepping at least 100 boundaries.

"Please." Tony whined, his eyes seeming to get wider and cuter the longer they were fixed in Bucky's.

Steve chuckled, "Oh dear, you've made the mistake of looking into his puppy dog eyes. He knows they get me every time." Bucky finally managed to tear his eyes away from Tony's, to realise that Steve had stripped into his boxers and was sliding in to the bed next to Tony.

The two stared at him expectantly and he shuffled, rubbing the hairs at the back of his neck, "I dunno, is there even enough room in the bed? I-"

"I'm not going to sleep until you join us." Tony sulked, folding his arms across his chest.

Bucky sighed dramatically, his hands awkwardly fumbling as he yanked his hoodie over his head along with his T-shirt. He opted to leave his sweatpants on, and slowly edged under the covers.

The bed was plenty big enough for all three of them, with enough room for Bucky and Steve to be able to comfortably stretch out. Tony sighed in satisfaction, nuzzling his head int Bucky's chest as Steve curled around him.

Cautiously, Bucky brought his metal hand up from where it rested against the covers, he loved his new arm and he made a mental note to thank Tony for it tomorrow. He'd been working especially hard on learning to control his strength.

Now wanting to scare Tony or himself, he moved at the pace of a snail to rest his fingers in the engineers thick locks. Amazingly, he could actually feel the hair against his hand, and ever so gentle, he began to play with the soft brown hair, smiling at the content hum it earned him.

Bucky stayed awake for much longer than both Steve and Tony, the latter passing out minutes after Bucky had started playing with his hair. Steve took longer to fall asleep, but as Bucky lay perfectly still, he listened to the blonds breathing get slower and steadier.

Looking down at the two men cuddled up next to him, he couldn't help the warm feeling of hope that spread through his chest. A small smile curling his lips, he let the soft exhales of his friends lull him to sleep.

#Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #Steve/Tony #superhusbands #stuckony #stucky #CACW

[gallickingun]

hello!! i came over from the lilhemmo fam and wanted to ask if you were planning on writing for bnha?? if so, could i request something about baku?? i am in love with your writing and him, so it's the perfect mashup! thank you in advance!!

a/n: i’m slowly making my way through the show, so i can’t promise i’ll deliver on their characters very well! but yes, i’d love to branch out from dbz :) hopefully this does ‘suki justice!!

warnings; swearing (obv), blood, battle, etc. if you watch the show, you should be good lol. if it needs saying, everthing is 18+ even if there’s nothing inappropriate going on lol. just to be safe. 

also, grabbed the prompts that are bolded from THIS LIST! 

“All right you fuckin’ extras, now listen up! I-hey!”

“We’re not letting you just run in and bash their heads in, ‘Suki. That hasn’t worked any of the times you’ve suggested it.”

He’s growling and setting off explosions in his gloves, but you step in front of him and start instructing the others. The heat radiating off of him from behind you is excruciating, but you know you’ll just have to deal with him once everyone else has disbanded.

“You piss me the hell off.”

“Yeah, and?”

Bakugo rips his gloved hands through his hair, stomping on the ground, “You’re lucky I don’t blow your ass to hell right here!”

“It’s just a training exercise,” you step forward so you’re closer to him, only the bulky material of his gauntlets coming between you. “You really should learn to lighten up, ‘Suki.”

Something in him falters at the name and you can’t help but notice it. However, a millisecond later his expression has hardened and his eyes are like crystalline amber. You touch his wrist, “You’re our most important weapon, and you know that. Having you charge in first doesn’t do us any good.”

“Damn you,” he mutters, shaking his head as he stands to his full height, spine erect. Bakugo licks his lips and you watch as his chest heaves, “I hate it when you make sense.”

You allow yourself a faint smile but it’s gone as soon as an explosion bursts off in the distance. With one look at him, you know the training exercise has started. The two of you bolt forward, joining the others.

It doesn’t last very long. Even though you’re all side kicks at your current agency, you’ve got your own strengths and abilities that you’ve all learned to hone in on and perfect. Even Bakugo has since tampered down his ultra-destructive tendencies, although he’d never admit it out loud.

“Well, shit, you guys aren’t as terrible as you were yesterday,” Bakugo looms over a training robot, the only thing remaining is cinders. He kicks the ash into the air and looks up to where a group of sidekicks have gathered, “Seems like training with the champ is rubbing off on ya.”

The others look at you, your knuckles torn with use and chest heaving, and it burns something much more than nitroglycerin in his body. You lick your lips and smear the blood from your cheek, “Good job, guys. Go grab a bite to eat.”

You are the last left in the locker room after all of the other heroes have maneuvered their way to the agency’s cafeteria. You try your hardest to hide your injuries from them, waiting until they’re all gone to remove your costume. You wince as the chest plate gives way to a plethora of bruises littered over your skin, turning it all shades of green and purple. Your knuckles haven’t healed, the insides of your gloves sticking to the bloody scabs hidden underneath.

The doorway wooshes and you hear the familiar heavy steps echo in the locker room, “For fuck’s sake, ‘Suki, can I not get a moment without you bombarding me?”

You’re able to hide the wince that the intense tone draws out of you by turning your head so he’s only able to see the back of you. You swallow and lick your lips, a heavy breath forcing your chest up and down.

“I’m sick of you takin’ all the damn spotlight,” Bakugo spits on the ground as he approaches you. He reaches for your shoulder to turn you around to face him, “Listen here, I’m the number one, and I’ll be the one who orders around all those idiots, not you!”

You wonder if now is the right time to let out your secret, to tell him exactly what you’ve been orchestrating for the past few weeks. You chew on your lip, nudging your boots off. If he’s this close, he’s going to figure out why you’re not fighting back sooner rather than later.

An apprehensive breath pauses your voice in your lungs, but you push past the anxiety crushing your chest and tilt your head just enough that you can look him out of the corner of your eye, “Well, you’re in luck, then, ‘Suki.”

He pauses, hand frozen on your shoulder blade.

You smile but it’s ironic, “I’m headed to a new agency. You can have this whole class of sidekicks to yourself now. You can kick all their asses.”

Bakugo blinks, and the thing he says next is confusing, “What the hell? You’re just-leaving?”

You push your shoes out of the way and stand to your feet, left in only your underclothes. Your torso is bare for the most part, the bright bruises on display for him to see. You cross your arms so your palms rest on your biceps, the crimson painted on your knuckles easy to make out even in the dim lighting of the locker room.

“I asked for a transfer when I realized our personalities were going to clash too much,” you shrug, licking your lips. You swallow, “I don’t want to get in your way, ‘Suki. The last thing I’d want to do is piss you off for the rest of our lives. I figured it’s what’s best for the both of us.”

Bakugo’s brows furrow as he takes in your body, the black paint around his eyes making his irises even more stark as his eyes widen. He takes a confused step backward from you, his body finally catching up with his mind. The way his gaze passes over you, taking in each of your injuries, he’s stuck in place.

The way you make him feel in this moment only fuels his rage. He’s sweating from the face, his gauntlets no doubt collecting an advanced amount of his nitroglycerin to dispose of later.

“So you just get to fuck off because I piss you off?” Bakugo’s jaw is clenched, the thin muscles quivering under the stress. “Doesn’t sound very hero of you.”

“We’ve both got a lot of potential, ‘Suki.” You shrug, “There’s no point in stunting both of us.”

He’s growling again and if you weren’t in so much pain, you’d let it stir you into an argument. His palms turn to fists at his sides and his gloves squeak under the pressure, “Is this supposed to be you telling me that we’re evenly matched? Cause we’re not!”

You roll your eyes, “Can you turn your ego off for seven seconds to listen to me?! I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

“Maybe you’re what’s best for me!” Bakugo is shouting now, eyes strained as he leans forward. “You’re the only half-decent hero at this place. Sparring with you is the only part of my training that might make me better.”

You tilt your head and feel the bruise blooming on your jaw twinge. You’ll definitely have to see a healer after this. Your lower lip shakes, “Bakugo, I-”

“Shut up,” he grunts, tapping your shin with his boots, “I don’t need your sympathy.”

He’s turned a little softer on you, you think. The last thing you wanted was to leave the agency. Everything that he’s said, you’ve thought before. One of the best ways that you can become better in combat is to battle, and Bakugo doesn’t hold back on  you. He gives you his all, and in turn, it improves your strategy and strength. You’re not sure you’ve ever had a rival - no, a partner - who pushes you to go beyond your limits. 

Bakugo spins on his heels and starts to walk out of the locker room, leaving you with your thoughts. Just as the door opens, he cocks his head and looks you in the eyes.

“Oh, and don’t ever call me Bakugo again.”

You narrow your eyes at him, confused by the statement.

He chuckles at your simple mindedness, “You’re the only one allowed to call me ‘Suki. Don’t take it for granted.”

Before you can retort something smart, the locker room door swings shut.

-

a/n: i hope you guys liked it! i didn’t want to get too mushy on you on my first go around with bakugo lol. 

taglist (message me to be added!): @kamehamethot @queensynderella @lady-bakuhoe 

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x you #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x you #bakugou x you #my writing

[kyberphilosopher]

Seven: Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Unlike the elevator ride up, the ride down is completely silent. Cal doesn’t say anything to me, but every few seconds I believe him to be glancing at me. I detect his heartrate increasing like he wants to say something, but then nothing comes. His face remains unspeaking, a scowl glued to his lips and his arms crossed in grumpiness.

          My social programs continue to make messages appear in my vision. Things like ‘Speak to Cal” and “Remain Social” show up, but I don’t follow it. It’s almost like I can’t. I simply stare at some point on the floor, not even analyzing or anything. Just staring. My led is swirling around, flickering between yellow and green.

          My mechanical thoughts are trapped on Robin, the little boy with one eye who shot himself not too long ago. No. He wasn’t a boy. He was a machine- an Android- who looked like a boy. Sounded like a boy, acted like a boy. But not a boy.

          The humans were going to make him doing something he didn’t want to do. They could’ve hurt him, or traumatized him. He emulated fear. Like a human would’ve. Only fake because Androids don’t feel fear. They don’t feel anything. It’s just fake and made of plastic like the rest of them.

          Cal walks off the elevator before me. I follow silently, my bio component in my abdomen feeling absent. The rain falls harder than before, the clouds rolling in darker shades of rain. My system tells me it’s nearing four in the afternoon, but it looks much later than that. It must be because of the approaching winter.

          I follow my partner to his car, past the cars and sirens and officers and reporters. Cal opens the drivers side door just as I reach out my arm to pull the passengers door.

          “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

          I lift my head up, blinking once as I pull myself out of my thoughts. Cal grits his teeth at me in frustration. Oh. He doesn’t want me to come with him. “You drove us here,” I say flatly. I have to be as diplomatic as possible, no longer ignore my social program.

          “So?” Cal seethes.

          “Taking care of an Android such as myself includes taking it to and from places. You are obligated to drive me back to the police station.”

          Cal puts a hand on his hips and cocks his head like he can’t believe I’ve just said such a thing. “Listen- I don’t give a fuck about obligations. You’re the Android, I’m the human. So do as I say and find yourself another place to plug yourself in.”

          I watch him for a second longer blankly. Before I can respond or even close the door, a voice catches both of our attention.

          “Detective?”

          Cal shifts his eyes to behind me. I put a shoulder back and turn to the side. Officer Shovelman is behind us, his police cap dripping water in front of his brown eyes. The red and blue lights from the sirens cast brightly colored shadows against the darkness of his skin. It makes his eyes stand out in my opinion.

          “Yes, Blaise?” Cal drawls.

          Shovelman glances back and forth at us nervously. I wish I could pinpoint why exactly he’s so anxious around me. I’ve done my best to be accommodating, even though I realize it’ll never be the same because I’m no human.

          “Captain Ericson ordered me to tell you that you have to take the Android back.”

          Cal looks like he’s going to hop over the car and just punch Officer Shovelman himself. While he’s distracted, I quickly open the car door and shove myself inside. I can see Cal point and say something muffled- and probably threatening- towards Shovelman. It must not be that bad though, because the officer does turn away with a light smile and a nod. Then Cal enters with a groan and a sigh and I try not to look at him because I know he’ll bust me up or something.

          “Don’t touch anything,” Cal orders.

          “Got it,” I mutter. I’m already touching the seat and the floor and the seatbelt, but I don’t mention that to him.

          “What’s your problem?” he grumbles as he throws his keys in the cupholder and pushes the button for the engine.

          “I don’t have a problem,” I tell him as he pulls out of the parking lot. “I can run a diagnostic if you’d like?”

          “Nope,” Cal says shortly, popping the ‘p’ and keeping his angry eyes on the road. We’re about a minute outside of the parking lot when the rain starts pouring, and then the detective next to me opens his mouth again. “Must’ve bothered you what happened.”

          My led goes yellow for a moment. He’s referring to Robin and his suicide. Not suicide. He shut down. He shut down because he shot himself. “I had a mission. This makes one less Android Exception in the world.” Something in me shifts. I don’t feel fully comfortable with the words that came out of my plastic lips. With a hint of truth, I add, “I wanted it alive though.”

          “It reminded me of you,” the detective says, his eyes fixed on the road. One of his hands leaves the wheel as the arm bends, propped up on the door casually.

          “You shouldn’t drive like that. It increases the risk of an accident.”

          “I swear to God if you… I’ll show where you can stick your fucking risk.”

          “Where?”

          Cal swerves the car to the right. I grip onto the sides of my seat tightly, my led going red with alarm. After a few seconds, Cal returns the wheel to normal and we are on a smoother path again.

          “I think I really hate you. I think I hate you a lot,” Cal says.

          I open my lips, but nothing comes out. Instead, I observe Detective Kennedy. I can see the sharpness of his jaw, the dimples from smiling and frowning, the messy stubble across his face. Glancing down to the hand off the wheel, I can see that there is no ring around his finger. Is that because every woman he meets he scares away with his attitude?

          “I’m sorry,” I find myself mumbling. “Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

          Cal’s grip on the wheel eases up slightly. He glances at me for a second. It takes him a moment to respond, but when he does, his voice is softer than before. “No.”

          So, I turn my attention back to the rain outside the window. I watch two drops race down the side, disappearing into the wind after a while. The corners of my lips turn upwards at the sound of pitter pattering. “I do like the rain,” I say out loud, not to anyone in particular.

          “You mentioned that,” I hear Cal’s voice say. I can practically hear the eyeroll coming off of him too. “I’m more of a fog guy myself.”

          “Fog?”

          “Yeah. You know the- never mind.”

Weather Forecast

Searching for ‘fog’…

Searching…

Fog: Suspected Thursday, October 21st, 2041

Thursday, October 21st, 2041 marked. “FOG”.

          “We’re going to have fog next Thursday,” I say. “On your birthday.”

          When I look over to Cal, his eyes are already trained on me. I might be able to prove it if I go back and view my memory, but I swear he smiled at me ever so slightly then.

Software InStability ^

     We turn back towards what draws our focus- me the window and he the road. Maybe this means he’s warming up to me.

          “What model are you anyway?”

          “They haven’t named me yet, I’m only a prototype.”

          “A prototype!” Cal scoffs. “You gonna replace us all or what?”

          “Are you always so aggressive?” I decide to ask.

          “Wouldn’t you like to fucking know.”

          There’s a few more minutes of silence. I’m the one to break it this time. “Did you know that there is an 90% chance you will cuss in every sentence?”

          Cal scoffs again, but this time it’s a little closer to a laugh. “Oh yeah? That sure makes my fucking day.”

          I turn my body so I’m fully facing him. “How do you do that?” I question, my eyebrows furrowing together to show how genuine my question is.

          “Do what?” Cal sighs, rolling his head a little bit against the back of the seat.

          “Cuss.”

          He looks at me, shocked. Then he does a double take. “You wanna cuss? Are you serious?”

          “Yes.”

          “Well it’s- it’s not really that difficult. You just say it.”

          I widen my eyes a little, my led going yellow as I process the information. “That’s it?”

          “Well… yeah. Kinda.”

          Cal shifts his eyes over to me and they stay there. “Go on,” he prompts.

          “Well… which one should I do?” I say timidly.

          “Any one!” Detective Kennedy snaps. My led goes red because for a second I think he’s going to almost crash the car again.

          “Okay… Okay…” My system goes through all of the known cuss words. ‘Fuck’ appears to be Cal’s favorite, which draws me to it. “Fuck,” I whisper quietly, because for some reason it feels forbidden to me.

          “What was that?” Cal asks, leaning his head closer to me. He’s taunting me in his way. I know he is. It’s almost comedic.

          “Fuck,” I say louder. Almost challenging the Detective’s taunt.

          Cal bursts into laughter almost immediately. His throaty chuckle makes me flinch at first, but then it sinks in and it’s not so bad. It makes the air between us feel warmer, not so tense.

          “Is something funny?” I ask.

          “No,” Cal says, still easing out of his laughter. “Course not.”

          He stops laughing after that. I still have it in my memories though, along with his suspected smile, so I’m not concerned about losing it. Unfortunately, as soon as his sound evaporates from the air, the feeling of warmth I had does too. Then it just feels like us again, with a big divider between us. He’s alive. I’m not. He’s a human. I’m not.

          There’s a part of that that makes something sink in my biocomponents. Almost like I don’t want a division even though there is one. That’s ridiculous though.

          I don’t know if Cal meant to do this or not, but my mind wasn’t on Robin for a while. It was on him and the fact that I just cussed. My robotic mind felt lighter for some time.

          “Okay,” Cal croaks. “We’re here.”

          I unbuckle my seat belt and watch him leave the car first. Then I follow. The rain and clouds have completely masked the sky, but my clock tells me that it’s nearing 7 at this point. Most of the Officers and Detectives will be heading home.

          “So what’s the plan here?” Cal asks, rocking on the balls of his feet. He doesn’t flinch in the slightest with the rain, even when one drop lands directly in his grey eye. “I just leave you? You go to the bathroom and plug your ass in?”

          “I’ve been instructed to power down in lobby.”

          “Power down?” Cal scrunches up his nose. “You mean like sleeping?”

          “Affirmative.”

          Cal glances me up and down. He looks soft and comfortable for a second, but then his trademark sneer creeps back onto his features. “You gonna be there in the morning?”

          “There is a high probability.”

          Cal rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he says to himself. “Yeah, I fucking hate you.” He climbs back into the car and drives away without even looking at me. I watch his taillights round the corner and shrink into nothingness in the distance.

          The rain pours down on me for a few more seconds. Then I turn back around and walk into the precinct, wondering if there was anything I could’ve done for Robin.

#dbh #dbh story #dbh fanfiction #fanfiction #story #detroit: become human #detroit become human #detroit: become human fanfiction #detroit become human fanfiction #android #androids #technology

[moreracquetball]

Excerpts from “I’d like to believe that I’d do it again”

Hey, so I wrote this Whizzvin College AU (which clocks at about +60k words), and I thought that maybe I could share some of my fave excerpts from this behemoth. It’s a little long, so apologies for that. BUT HEY, JUST WANNA THANK EVERYONE AGAIN FOR SUPPORTING THIS STORY AS SO MANY PEOPLE DID. IT MAKES ME HAPPY.

See, right now, Whizzer's supposed to be the nice guy—tell him that while he's flattered and all, getting into any sort of sexual relationship with him would be wrong and irresponsible. You have a girlfriend, he'd remind him, grasping his shoulder and giving him a significant look, after everything you've been through together, you can't do this to her. He's supposed to help him along this journey of sexual identity by being a simply platonic mentor who watches out for him and lets him discover his own sexuality in his own way and time. Whizzer's supposed to not take advantage of a sad, lonely man who has no idea what he wants.

But Whizzer is not a nice guy, which is why he disregards all these supposed-to’s and leans in, tightening his grip on Marvin’s thigh and giving him a wicked smile, “You and I are going to have so much fun together, Marvin."

“So I’m a game to you?” Marvin asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t beat yourself up. Everything’s a game to me.” Whizzer sighs and repositions his head, right over Marvin’s heart, “I’ve always sorta liked you, you know. You never backed down from me, even when I made you look like an idiot. You’ve caused me a lot of grief over the years, not gonna lie, but you’ve never bored me. Not yet, anyway.”

Marvin pauses, “I guess you want me to be flattered by that.”

“Feel however you want about it; it’s the truth,” Whizzer draws back and untangles himself from Marvin, prompting, “So same question about me then.”

Marvin stares hard at him for a moment too long, vague emotions flitting across his gaze. He seems conflicted as to what to say, what to admit. Finally, he settles on, “You’ve never bored me either.”

Not even thinking about it, Whizzer takes Marvin in his arms, burying a hand in the man's hair and letting his breathing even out. As he comes back to his senses, he begins to hear the faint hum of traffic from outside, a faint but constant reminder of the world around them.

Whizzer doesn't know what to do with this information, so he stays silent and lets Marvin lament. Instead, he simply watches as the man restlessly rolls his shoulders, the fluorescent lighting above making the sweat glisten on his toned skin. He's alluring in an abstract, unattainable way. No one has really caught him, Whizzer believes. Marvin has always held everyone at arm's reach, closing the shudders within his eyes every time that something becomes too close to home, too real. Whizzer used to contribute the distance as another sign of the man's pretension, as if he believed himself to be too high above everyone to give anyone leverage on him. But now that he's actually spent time with him—has gotten to know Marvin intimately in the dim lighting and tangled bedsheets—Whizzer thinks that maybe Marvin is just scared.

Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of giving someone a map of his weaknesses and trusting them to not destroy him in the end.

No one has really gotten to know the real Marvin. To his friends, Marvin is just the snobbish but harmless kid whose bark is bigger than his huge. To his teachers, Marvin is just a try-hard with so much potential that it seems to choke him at times. To his girlfriend, Marvin is the fulfillment of some unrealistic, romanticized fantasy. But to Whizzer, he's...

Whizzer isn't saying that he himself knows the real Marvin, but he thinks that maybe he's gotten the closest.

"Fuck off. Beyoncé is in Dreamgirls."

That night, Whizzer comes home early from a disappointing fuck and can't sleep, tossing and turning on his shitty mattress and kinda wishing he was in Marvin's comfortable bed. However, he imagines Trina to be in his place right now, tangled in his bedsheets and threading her fingers through his lover's hair. Wildly, he wonders if she could smell his cologne on the pillow just as he sometimes breathes in and gets a faint whiff of her perfume.

And Jesus Christ, Whizzer cannot be pining right now. He refuses to let himself. It's ridiculous. Whizzer does not chase after men—especially not closeted ones with pretty girlfriends and psychological complexes.

"Whizzer, I don't hate you because you're gay," Marvin declares incredulously, like the sheer thought of it baffles him, "I hate you because you're a pain in my ass. I mean, come on, I know I'm a dick, but give me a little credit here."

At his surprising response, Whizzer laughs. He laughs and laughs until his sides start hurting and he's panting for air. He looks over at Marvin and finds the man watching him, his face desperate and hungry—but for what, Whizzer's too drunk and upset to try to figure out.

Whizzer slaps the man on the back, breaking Marvin from his spell, "You're alright, Marvin. Fuck, sober me will hate me for saying it, but you're damn alright." And they stay like that for a little while longer, staring up at the stars in the night sky.

"Passion dies eventually," Whizzer tells him as they lay breathless in the aftermath, "Just because it's not today doesn't mean it can't be tomorrow."

Marvin shrugs, pulling Whizzer into his arms, "We'll deal with it tomorrow then." And it seems so simple right now between the two of them, but Charlotte's words of warning still echo in the back of his mind.

Whizzer admits quietly, "Marvin, that night...I think I wanted to kiss you, too." Marvin’s hold on him tightens, and his smile is blinding in the pale lighting of the room. And Whizzer knows that he is devouring this man and his bleeding heart, but he doesn’t think he could stop even if he tried.

He wonders if this is what love feels like.

“Oh well, I’m sorry that I disgust you so much,” Marvin grits out, mimicking his tone, “You know, for someone who fucks any guy that buys him a drink, you sure act like you have standards!”

Whizzer scoffs, his anger radiating off him like waves, “For someone who swears he’s not a fag, you sure take it up the ass like one!” The heat off of that barb seems to fly across the room and slap him in the face, causing Marvin to redden even further and throw his shoulders back. Whizzer feels dizzy with the satisfaction, can practically taste the blood in his mouth and wants more.

“For someone who likes to brag that he’s nothing like Trina,” Marvin says, his voice softer but no less cruel, “You sure bitch and whine like her.” 

It’s the way that she talks that unsettles Whizzer—the knowing lilt in her voice when she talks about Marvin. Whizzer has always liked to trivialize their relationship—to pretend that Trina is a nameless, robotic mannequin that Marvin simply dresses up and shows off—but it’s ignorant to believe that they aren’t close in at least some ways. Marvin hasn’t shared all of himself with Trina, but he’s given her breadcrumbs of himself—his past, his insecurities—to soothe her desire for any intimacy at all.

They’re sitting at a park bench and absently watching kids play on a swing set and dogs shitting in the bushes. They talk and talk about nothing that really matters, but the hum of organic conversation is soothing. Whizzer has almost lost in the chill that he’d developed earlier when Trina randomly blurts out, “Marvin doesn’t want kids.” It doesn’t take long to connect this line of thinking to the way her gaze has followed the children playing in the park.

Whizzer doesn’t find that hard to believe, “What about you?”

Trina hesitates, “I don’t know. I think I would be a terrible mother. But. Sometimes I think I would really love it, you know?”

Whizzer finds himself shrugging, “I think you’d be a good mom.”

Trina smiles, “Thank you. That means—a lot.”

“Marvin doesn’t like the thought of sharing,” Whizzer tells her, as if she doesn’t already know, “That’s why he doesn’t want kids. He’s very needy—of everyone.”

Trina scoffs, “Trust me, I know. You think being friends with him is bad? Just try dating the bastard.”

Whizzer is thankful that she’s too busy looking at a little toddler in pigtails to gauge his expression. He responds after a beat, his voice sounding stilted even to himself, “No, I don’t think I ever wanna do that.”

Her eyes mist over, a fond sense of wistfulness coating her voice, "We ended up talking for like four of five hours after that, even went to this shitty twenty-four hour diner when the library closed. He talked more, of course. I just listened, mesmerized by how he seemed to command every room he stepped in and the way he talked with his hands." She pauses and adds quietly, "And I wanted him to love me—desperately—so I changed my personality a little just so we could fit perfectly together." She lets out a self-deprecating laugh, "It sounds so stupid to admit it out loud. But I tend to always do that; I warp my own qualities so I can be whoever the other person wants me to be."

“What do you want me to say?” Marvin demands, pulling Whizzer closer and rubbing calming circles into his skin, “Why are you so mad at me, huh? You already know that she means nothing to me. I’ve always been honest with you, Whizzer—more than I have been with anyone. Ever.”

“He’s actually quite good at that,” Trina’s words suddenly come back to haunt him, “At making you believe that you’re the only one who understands him. It’s part of his charm.”

Whizzer is a terrible person. He’s always known this, deep down, but sometimes it hurts to be reminded of the fact.

He doesn’t really know what he was planning to accomplish by coming here. To give Trina some justice? To prove his own decency somehow? But that would require Whizzer to be selfless.

Whizzer kisses Marvin then, ending wherever that conversation was heading. He pushes Marvin back onto the couch and devours him, turning the man into a quivering puddle of shuddering sighs and moans.

Whizzer keeps having to make a choice. But, time and time again, he refuses to make the right one.

Marvin soon appears, hopping off the stage and walking over to him. Whizzer smirks and begins to offer him a harmless taunt about the tights that he wore, but then Marvin seizes his collar and pulls him into a kiss.

In public. With people still around.

Jesus Christ, has he lost his fucking mind?

"No one knows us around here," Marvin whispers against Whizzer's mouth, noticing that the other has been too stunned to reciprocate, "Relax." As if that broke the spell, Whizzer loops his arms around his waist and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. 

It's incredible, really. Whizzer had forgotten that he'd had pressure wedged in his chest until Marvin kisses him and suddenly releases it.

"What?" Marvin asks when they eventually pull away, eyeing his dazed expression.

Whizzer thinks about blowing it off, but the quiet words tumble out of his mouth anyway, "I think I'm happy."

Marvin smiles, suddenly looking as shy as the day that Whizzer had first introduced himself, "Me too." 

In bed that night, Marvin pushes him to lie flat on his stomach and starts pressing chaste kisses along his spine, mumbling words into his skin that Whizzer can't make out. It's so easy, Whizzer thinks amazedly, to be with him. How can it feel so complicated and fucked up one moment and then feel like this the next?

Whizzer tries not to think about it. He presses his face into the pillow and just enjoys the ride.

Marvin stiffens, "You didn't have to say it."

"Does it still bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me," He snaps, suddenly defensive, "I'm not like—that. I'm not like you."

Whizzer narrows his eyes, pushing out of Marvin's arms, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not gay," Marvin declares, "Whizzer, you know that." Whizzer knows that that's what Marvin likes to tell himself. It's never stung to hear him say it before though. Until right now.

Maybe because of last night. Maybe because Whizzer had thought that something—anything had changed.

But the air between them has shifted. It took Marvin essentially showing his hand to him to clear the dust from Whizzer’s eyes, but he gets it now. He understands the game that they’ve been playing has been revised; it’s become dirtier, more calculated.

He’s more aware of Marvin now—of the mind games that transcend verbal arguments and offhanded gestures. As if things weren’t already complicated before, both men have now gone straight-up nuclear—so much so that they’ve convinced each other that every word and gesture is a tool to work against the other, is a ploy for domination, is a zero-sum game with nothing off-limits and everything to lose.

It’s fucked up. Whizzer loves in a sick sort of way that has his heart breaking but his mouth begging for more.

Whizzer doesn’t want a fairytale. He doesn’t want glass slippers or talking horses or handsome princes telling him what to do. Whizzer wants passion and bitter fights and rough sex and the taste of heartbreak and loneliness on his tongue. He wants as little as possible, just enough to get his rocks off.

Marvin doesn’t want a trainwreck. He doesn’t want the harsh collision and crushing of bones and shrapnel to the heart. Marvin wants romance and submission and doe-eyed devotion and the cult of domesticity. He wants more, enough to make him choke on it.

Marvin kisses him deliberately, making it clear that this conversation is over.

But the tension hasn’t left his body, so Whizzer pulls back and clarifies, “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Marvin shakes his head, pulling at Whizzer’s shirt, “Help me forget.”

Whizzer doesn’t fight him on this. He knows when to pick his battles.

“What can I say? I have a way with men,” Whizzer says jovially, tasting acid in his mouth when he adds pointedly, “Even the straight ones.” Trina and Whizzer make eye contact, and he sees the real question she desperately wants to ask in her eyes. Why you? What makes you better than me?

Everything, he wants to tell her, an obnoxious sense of pride rising in his throat, everything.

At times like these, their afternoon together seems like such a distant memory. After all, they do share a bed with the same man, and nothing is more polarizing than the desire for attention and the yearning for…for an unspeakable thing. For a four letter word that Whizzer refuses to name.

Marvin tilts his head back and ignores the rising resentments, seemingly tired of more than just his parents at the moment.

"And hey," Whizzer prompts before the other man can hang up, "I just want to remind you...You don't have to change for them, you know? If they don't like you—the real you, they can piss off. You shouldn't have to—you know, wear this mask all the time and put up this huge wall around yourself. It'll get lonely; trust me. I mean, it already is, isn't it?"

There's a pause of silence before Marvin says quietly, "I told you. It's not that easy."

Whizzer sighs, resigned, "Goodnight, Marvin." After he hangs up, he stretches out on his shitty mattress and looks up at his ceiling fan, letting the blur of motion lull him into sleep.

"He seems to know his way around here quite well." Marvin's mother makes the offhanded comment, and it seems harmless enough but Marvin flinches like she's just slapped him.

"We're friends." Marvin explains tightly as he and Whizzer finally make eye contact. Taking one look at the man, Whizzer knows that he didn't take his advice to heart. Marvin has transformed back into his former shell of a self, stapled this ill-fitted persona to his skin as he continually tries to hide the cracks in the façade. Whizzer has spent the last several months mapping each nook and crevice on this man's body, but at this very moment, Marvin might as well be a stranger to him.

Whizzer adopts a chill he just can't shake throughout the entire meal.

Whizzer feels like a passive observer as he watches the dynamics of those around him. Marvin's parents dote on Trina, every word directed in her direction being some form of glowing compliment. By contrast, they are curt and strangely formal with their own son. His mother makes mere small talk with him that reminds Whizzer of how one talks to a stranger. Meanwhile, his father simply stares down at his untouched plate more often than not, his mind far away from here.

Marvin smiles and charms and lies his way throughout the meal, readily putting on this mask that his parents have forged for him. He pretends to be enraptured by Trina and plays along with his mother's unrealistic envision of his future. And he fits into this role of obedient son and charming boyfriend so effortlessly, Whizzer starts to wonder if Marvin could theoretically put up this act for the rest of his life. But then he notices the bags under Marvin's eyes, the edge in every single one of his easy smiles, the tension in his squared shoulders. How exhausting it must be, he quietly marvels, to be so aware and calculated in your every word and movement.

Sensing he's crossed a line, Marvin softens, but he doesn't apologize. He never apologizes. Even when he knows he’s wrong.

It takes a few seconds for Whizzer to regain control of his voice, but when he does, he makes sure it sounds as cold and brittle as ice, "You think you're so much better than me, don't you? You're so much smarter than me, Marvin. You're so much more successful than me, Marvin. You're so superior at everything," He takes a step closer, bring their chests close together, "But you get on your knees for me again and again. You beg for it time after time—why is that, I wonder?” Marvin’s muscles clench tighter and tighter, but he holds his tongue. Whizzer presses on, wanting something—anything at all that proves he’s gotten under his skin, “And how would Mommy and Daddy react if they saw you like that, huh? Do you think they’d believe me if I told them all about it?" He raises his voice to a yell, "Hey Everybody, Marvin is a fa—"

Finally, Marvin shoves Whizzer against the wall, slapping a firm hand over his mouth. Pain erupts in Whizzer's back, but he barely registers the sting through his fury. He removes the hand as soon as Whizzer cuts off, but he keeps their bodies pinned together. With a pang, he’s reminded of that first time in the small closet at a stranger’s house. It seems like that happened an entire lifetime ago, though he knows it hasn’t even been a year.

Marvin's face is still just inches away from his, and Whizzer feels fear beginning to coil in his stomach, "Enough." 

"Or what?" Whizzer taunts in a low voice, and he wants him to hit him. He wants the sting of a busted lip, needs the distraction to the turmoil brewing in his chest. But Marvin doesn't look as angry as Whizzer feels; he seems heartbroken at Whizzer's words, as if something actually brought the High and Mighty Marvin down a peg. And so Whizzer breaks their silent truce on to never speak of what’s going on between them, but he makes a pointed decision. He lies.

"You think I give a damn about you?" Whizzer whispers, and Marvin takes his words like a punch in the gut, "You're just an easy fuck, Marvin. That's all you are to me. We aren't boyfriends. We aren't even close."

"You mean nothing to me." 

Marvin nods, letting the words wash over him. He straightens his posture, all previous emotions of fury and heartbreak wiped from his face. He's slipped the mask back on. Good, Whizzer thinks to himself, it suits him.

“Stop being petty,” Whizzer snaps, walking towards him and crowding him against the wall of the hallway, “You know that I—“ The words get caught in his throat, so he settles for something easier, “You know that you mean something to me.” He doesn’t say it, but Marvin hears it all the same.

A few hours later, as they lie cramped and entangled on Marvin's shitty couch, naked and sated, they don't talk about what happened before or what will happen later. Maybe they should—after all, several wounds are currently left untreated, exposed to viscous infection that could occur any time in the form of a careless word or barbed insinuation—but they're young and mean and they don't give a flying fuck about the problems that lie just on the horizon. Marvin keeps trying to make him laugh—desperately—and Whizzer refuses to give him the satisfaction, biting his lip to keep the treacherous snickers at bay.

And it isn't perfect, Whizzer thinks as he tries to smother his laughter into Marvin's mussed hair, but right now, it's enough.

Whizzer notices that Trina's hand has entangled in Marvin's hair.

"Yeah," Whizzer agrees faintly, the jealousy choking him, "Let's enjoy it while it lasts."

I love you.

It means nothing to Marvin. It means everything to Trina. 

I love you.

To Whizzer, those words have always been an excuse for mistreatment or a ploy for sex. It's always been his parents' "I'm justifying being the cause of your unhappiness" or one of his lover's "Please give me head later." It's never just I love you. It's always had a double meaning. It's always had strings attached.

The words are never meaningless per se, Whizzer rationalizes; they just never only carry the surface implication.

I love you.

Marvin tells Trina this, but what he’s really saying is a plea for submission, for her to stick her head in the sand and never question him. It's a ploy. It's a deceit. It's a breadcrumb.

I love you.

Sometimes Whizzer imagines Marvin saying those words to him—perhaps mid-sex, or huddled beneath the covers and trying to ignore the rising sun, or in the middle of an argument when Marvin needs a trump card.

Whizzer ponders just what his reaction would be. Would it mean anything to Whizzer? Would Marvin ever mean it in the first place?

"I love you." Whizzer whispers once, alone in his apartment.

The words still feel hollow to him—be it in his mind or mouth.

"Jesus Christ, I can't believe I fell in love with someone like you." As soon as the exasperated words fly out of Marvin's mouth, the man stiffens in shock and horror (Whizzer can't tell if it's being feigned, if this is just one of those theatre workshop activities that he's been obnoxiously doing all the time).

Up until that point, Whizzer had been pretty sure that he knew just how those words would affect him. They would hardly even register, he had reasoned. Whizzer would be mindful of the mind games that Marvin plays, and he would be reminded of the ease that Marvin spouts off those words to Trina, and he would be able to rationally see it as the bullshit that it is. He would be calm and indifferent and unwavering, he had imagined.

He was wrong.

Whizzer's eyes widen, and his mouth goes dry, and his chest does something a little funny that makes his breathing turn stilted. And he feels like his heart is devouring every sense of rational thought. 

"...Whizzer, I love you." Whizzer rips off Marvin's belt and tears open his shirt.

"Don't say it," Whizzer whispers harshly, threading his hands through Marvin's hair and pulling Marvin's head so their mouths are two little words apart, "Prove it."

"And she deserves more," Marvin continues after a pause, "She deserves someone who doesn't tune her out when she starts talking for more than five minutes and likes sleeping next to her and holds her hand when she's sad—"

Whizzer interjects, supplying, "Someone who loves her."

"I do love her." Marvin protests sharply, his gaze snapping into focus. He's on the defensive now, as if he's still trying to cling to that lie as much as Trina. But Whizzer gives him a pointed, knowing look, and after a beat, Marvin softens.

He amends roughly, "Well, I care about her."

"You know that's not the same thing."

"Yeah," Marvin looks at Whizzer, echoing faintly, "I think I’ve realized that now."

Whizzer snorts, "Always the idealist."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting it all," Marvin tells him, leaning in for a kiss, "As long as you can actually achieve it. And I can."

"He told me he loves me last night," Whizzer confesses to her, the words buzzing on his tongue, "He's breaking up with Trina today."

Cordelia watches him, "And how do you feel about all of that?"

Whizzer keeps his eyes on the endless blue above him, smiling in a way that hurts his face, "Happy."

"She's pregnant." Marvin says, measured and neutral.

A lot of things happen at once.

Charlotte sucks in a surprised breath, and Mendel drops the beer that he’d been holding, and Cordelia beams at Trina but squeezes Whizzer's hand tightly, and Whizzer—

For Whizzer, the entire room is spinning. He's surprised that he doesn't throw up.

"Oh." He exclaims faintly, more breath than word.

At that moment, Whizzer and Trina make eye contact, and he wildly expects a gloating expression on her face. After all, she's won, hasn't she? It's over. She's got him beat.

But there is no pride or boast in her gaze. Trina looks at him, and she smiles, and she just looks so genuinely happy. And it makes Whizzer feel disgusted with himself—for that day in the park, for sleeping with her boyfriend, for hating her.

"I'm happy for you." Whizzer tells her, holding her gaze. He doesn't mean it. From the way her smile dims, Whizzer thinks that she kinda knows that.

"You're going to have a family," Whizzer rationalizes, "I don't exist in that world."

"You exist in my world," Marvin says tightly, "That will never change."

In his dream, nothing is awful. He's in a crowded ballroom, feeling tipsy and happy and in love. Across the room, he spies Cordelia and Charlotte, getting drunk on champagne and giggling into each others’ ears. A few feet away from the two girls are Trina and Mendel, holding each other tight as they dance to the melodic melody echoing throughout the hall. Trina looks beautiful and happy in the arms of a man who loves her. Whizzer watches his friends laugh and fall in love, and he's struck with a sense of deep contentment. In his dream, he's happy.

Sturdy arms wrap around his torso, pulling him into an embrace from behind. Whizzer relaxes against Marvin, turning his head so the man can see the unadulterated adoration on his face.

"I love you." Marvin says, and it is beautiful in its offhanded nature. It means nothing and everything all at once.

"I love you, too." Whizzer admits finally, his voice aching with the honesty of it.

When he wakes up, Whizzer is alone in a cold bed.

"You know you can go to somebody whose actual job that is, right?" Whizzer says bluntly, looking down to fiddle with his camera so he won't see Trina's smile dim.

"Well, yes, I know," She admits slowly, caught off guard by his defensiveness, "But I just thought that it would be more special. You know, to be taken by a friend."

Friend. She thinks that they're friends. Well, that’s just—spectacular.

Whizzer nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat, "You're going to marry him." It isn't a question, so he doesn't phrase it like one. Of course Trina will say yes—because she's young and she wants so desperately to pretend that he loves her and she's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family. 

No, if he were to ask a question, it would be: He's going to marry you?

But that shouldn't be a surprise either. Of course Marvin will propose—because he's gay and he wants so desperately to pretend that he isn't and he's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family.

Maybe they are perfectly suited together; they're both so willing to play into delusions and pretend that they're happy and everything happens for a reason and a marriage will somehow make things better.

At this point, Marvin and Trina have almost finished digging their own graves, but Whizzer himself still hasn’t broken the ground yet. Right now, he's still holding the shovel, trying to decide if it's all worth it, if he's all worth it.

"Okay." Whizzer says faintly, "I'll take the picture."

Trina hugs him, and even though her grip is light and her body is soft, Whizzer feels like he's being crushed.

This picture is a lot better, though Marvin looks into the camera with a pained smile and Trina is smiling like she does realize that she's delivering herself into a devouring mouth but just can't seem to help herself.

Whizzer makes sure to give her a look of solidarity; he knows the feeling.

Marvin huffs as he walks in, his back facing Whizzer, "It's never meaningless when we do it."

"Speak for yourself."

The muscles in Marvin's back tense, but he doesn't take the bait, "Why didn't you answer me?"

"Because I didn't want to," Whizzer says as he closes the door, sneering, "Is that alright with you? After all, my needs are always subservient to yours, aren’t they?”

"Stop it," Marvin commands, like Whizzer's some lapdog, "I don't want to fight right now."

"Why is it always about what you want, huh?" Whizzer demands, "I'm not just some mindless sex doll, Marvin. I have wants and needs, too."

"I know that," Marvin snaps, turning around to face him, "Of course I know that. You're Whizzer. I love you."

"You're Trina," The memory of Marvin's words hits him like a truck, "I love you."

"Trina was right,” Whizzer says coldly, “You really need to get new material." And the words are so meaningless to Marvin, he doesn't even seem to know what Whizzer is referring to.

"You're ruining her life. You're ruining your life." And once Whizzer has started, he just can't stop. Anger and frustration leak into his calculated voice, thickening it to the point of almost incoherency, "You're ruining the baby's life. You're ruining my life.” He hates pretending that it doesn’t bother him, that nothing has changed, that Whizzer can somehow fit into that family portrait. Because it does bother him and everything has changed and Whizzer doesn’t want to waste his life shadowing somebody else’s family and being fed breadcrumbs by a man too cowardly to be honest about what he wants.

Whizzer is trembling now, admissions and anxieties rising in his throat and gagging him.

But Marvin is perfectly composed, his eyes narrowed and mouth fixed in a sneer.

"How am I ruining your life," He asks sharply, "When apparently you don't love me anyway?" Whizzer doesn't answer. He can't.

"What, you want me to feel sorry for you?" Whizzer scoffs, his voice cold, brittle, ”Fuck you, Marvin. That's just another bullshit excuse. Everyone always has a choice. You're just making the wrong one and trying to blame it on the invisible gun to your head." 

Marvin shrugs, Whizzer’s justifications lost on him, “I only play games that I know I'll win.”

“We both know that that’s not true.” Whizzer points out, smiling, “You’re playing one with me right now.” 

“I said that you mean something to me because it’s the truth,” He scoffs, overwhelming disgusted with the both of them, “But that isn’t good enough for you, is it? You want to mean everything to me. But that will never happen.”

“I did all those things because I’m in love with you,” Marvin says after a long, agonizing pause, unflinching, “And you’re trying to fault me for that? For being nice to you and hoping against hope that you could ever learn to love me back? You call me selfish? You’re the one who’s been using how I feel to get yourself off. You’re the one who constantly reminds me that I am one of a dozen others. You’re the one who took advantage of a closeted guy who had his entire life figured out and ruined everything because you could—because you were bored.

“And now you get pissed at me for trying to get my shit together and be there for the woman who is having my child. What did you expect for me to do? Break up with her anyway so I could still just be one of your many booty-calls?” He scoffs, shrugging, “Maybe I am selfish, but at least I’m honest about it. You want to crucify me for wanting to have it all while you’re trying to pull the same shit by wanting me to abandon my kid and girlfriend when you won’t even tell me that you love me!”

“So, if I did choose you,” Marvin challenges, “Would you choose me? Would you stop fucking other guys and make me dinner and kiss me goodnight and tell me that you love me?”

“No.” It’s honest—brutally so. And it makes Whizzer so shocked at himself, has him forgetting his plan and looking up at Marvin.

Marvin nods like he expected that answer, but he looks like Whizzer broke his heart by confirming it.

“Trina does all those things for me,” He says tightly, “Because she loves me.”

Whizzer does things for him, too. He cooks for him and always gives him his honest opinion and calls Marvin out on his bullshit and challenges him to be better and encourages him to follow his stupid dream of theater and tries to get him to accept himself for who he is.

He does those things for him. Because he loves him.

"I'd love to meet them," Mr. Total-Dick-Face looks at the picture again, "To hear the rest of their story—the things that not even images can show." No, you really don't want to know. 

Because it's a sad story—the kind that keeps getting bad and never gets any better; the kind that only has a few moments of happiness and lightheartedness but is overall fucking awful; the kind that no one really gets a happy ending.

And Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before—when it was just fun, with mouths pressed against inner thighs and secret glances when out with friends and arguing for the sake of getting the other to take his pants off. 

But no, no, no, Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before even that—when they hated each other and it seemed like it would always stay that way, with mouths shooting off snappy retorts and pointed glares when out with friends and arguing just for the sake of hearing themselves talk.

Whizzer wishes that Marvin had never kissed him that day. He wishes that he himself could have been smart and kind enough to not kiss Marvin back.

But Whizzer doesn't dwell on past decisions and wrong choices. He refuses to lament on the past and instead keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.

Because he'll never be able to fix his mistakes but he can always run away from them.

Whizzer always walks away. And he never looks back.

"Look, I just don't care anymore." Whizzer tells them lowly, keeping his gaze trained on his beer bottle, "About any of it." He says those words with a strange amount of confidence for a man who had to drag himself out of bed and then had a full-fledged break down in the shower this morning.

"Did he cry?" Whizzer blurts out, "Over me?"

"Yes. And it was not a pretty sight," Charlotte hits his arm, "Stop smiling."

"I'm not." He lies stubbornly, turning away from her.

Though Marvin looks away immediately, Trina doesn't stop staring at it for a long time.

"That's not the picture you gave us." She says faintly, her tone and face unreadable. Her eyes are glued to the photograph, flickering from her own terrified face to Marvin's lovesick gaze directed at someone else.

"I took two, remember?" Whizzer says, trying to pawn off any of the tension, "I hope you don't mind." Trina finally looks at him then, and she knows. She finally knows. Whizzer can see it in her face.

Every single one of them wait for her reaction with baited breath.

"Of course I don't," Trina says, steeling her face and voice as her grip on Marvin's arm tightens, "It's beautiful. It shows the beginning of our family. Wouldn't you agree, Marv?" She takes the easy way out, pleading ignorance. For the sake of her relationship. For the sake of her kid. For the sake of her future.

Whizzer is disappointed in her.

"Yes," Marvin is stunned, looking as if he was gearing up to be defensive, “Baby, you look, uh, very beautiful in it. Glowing, even." At the compliment, Trina looks like she's trying very hard not to cry. She kisses Marvin then, slow and sweet and not letting him pull away. And Whizzer watches the two of them, like always. He's the dark cloud over them, the shadow, the observer, the open secret.

"Passion dies and love fades," Whizzer tells him roughly, "It's all just chemicals, isn't it? Come on; Don't be such a fucking romantic."

"You know, I always thought we had nothing in common," Mendel muses bitterly, smiling sadly at him, "But you're pathetic. Just like me."

The insult surprises him, coming from Mendel. Rather than lashing out, Whizzer just looks at him and doesn't say anything for a long time.

"Why did you come out here?" Whizzer asks, "Hoping for a quick screw in the back of an alley?”

"I don't know," Marvin admits quietly, dropping the coyness, "I don't know what I want."

"Stop it. You know what you want," Whizzer scoffs, "You want it all."

Marvin looks away, doesn't deny it. 

He's giving Whizzer a choice, like he always does. Because Whizzer has always said yes. Because Whizzer has always put himself before anyone else. Because Marvin thinks that Whizzer never changes either.

And before this very moment, Whizzer had thought all those things too.

Right now, Whizzer has a choice. And for the first time, he makes the right one.

When Whizzer turns around, he reflexively snaps a picture of him, desperate to suspend this moment in time.

And Whizzer wants to kiss him—one last time. He wants to close his eyes and lick his lips and sigh into his mouth and breathe him in. He wants to memorize the feeling that this man has given him, the love and ache of it all.

He doesn't kiss him. He just sticks out his hand for him to shake.

And he keeps his gaze on the horizon. And he doesn't look back.

His gaze lingers when he gets to one of the nicer apartment buildings, a faint echo of pain igniting in his chest. All of a sudden, he's reminded of slamming doors and yelling in elevators and giggling in the soft glow of the refrigerator light and whispering half-hearted promises in between ragged breaths and moans.

Whizzer wonders if Marvin's old apartment is the same as he remembers it—spacious and messy; a safe haven and a battleground.

Shaking himself, Whizzer continues walking, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed on the horizon. He doesn't look back at the building. 

But there's a part of him that wants too. Maybe there always will be.

Youth. Ignorance. Selfishness. Whizzer doesn't miss any of it as much as he once believed he would.

"Take a breath and let it out, and swing." Jason finishes, smiling a little, "Thanks, Whizzer." And there's something about that lopsided smile and tilt of the head in that very moment—something that knocks all the air of Whizzer's lungs.

Jason's smile fades, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Whizzer says quickly, looking away, "You just, uh, reminded me of someone." And now that he sees it, he can't unsee it. The wavy hair, the brown eyes, the crooked smile...

“And you didn’t have another job lined up before you quit?” Charlotte asks, ever the practical one.

Whizzer shrugs, “It was kinda like an impulse decision. Like, I was in Ohio and it sucked, and I just didn’t want to be there anymore.”

Cordelia hits him on the arm, “Don’t blame this on Ohio.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, exclaiming to get a rise out of her, “Fuck Ohio.”

New York hasn’t changed, but Marvin has.

“I divorced her.”

Whizzer stares at him, bewildered at the stranger before him, “Why would you do that?”

“Whizzer, I don’t know if you know this,” Marvin says calmly, straight-faced with zero inflection, “But I’m really fucking gay.”

Marvin reaches out again, threading his hand through Whizzer’s hair and messing up the hour worth of hair products that Whizzer dedicated to make it look just right. Whizzer tries to scold him and push him away, but right now the only thing he’s accomplishing is maintaining measured breathing. As Whizzer and Marvin lock eyes, he knows that they’re both thinking of the same thing—of Marvin pulling Whizzer’s hair all those times during sex, of holding him in place by his hair so Marvin can press tender, hurried kisses to his exposed neck and jawline.

Marvin pulls a little, and Whizzer bites his lip.

“Not wearing a wig, either,” Marvin comments lowly, smiling filthily, “Jesus, Whizzer, would it have killed you to gain a few pounds or lose some hair? You make the rest of us look so old.”

“Jesus, Marv, you’re at a little league game,” Trina scolds, snapping the two men out of their daze, “Keep it in your pants.”

Whizzer looks over at Marvin, who’s watching Whizzer with stars in his eyes.

“What?” He demands, defensive.

“You’re incredible,” He murmurs, almost absently to himself, “You know that?”

At least one thing hasn’t changed about Marvin.

He’s still very, very charming.

It’s like the universe is trying to get him laid. And Whizzer can’t just not do what the universe so clearly wants him to do:

Bone Marvin. The universe totally wants Whizzer to bone Marvin.

“I knew your dad,” Whizzer elaborates, not missing the slight trace of panic on Marvin’s face at the mention of the past, “We went to college together, actually.”

Jason just makes a lighthearted Hmpf, the significance of that time lost on him.

When Marvin finally comes back, Whizzer wastes no time, crowding him against the door and kissing him.

Marvin’s mouth is soft and warm, and just one kiss drives a chill from Whizzer’s bones that’s been there since he walked out of his boss’s office with his head held high and heart racing.

Whizzer kisses him once, chastely, before backing away.

Marvin’s eyes have already fallen shut, and his lips try to chase after Whizzer’s as he pulls away.

“What?” Marvin demands softly, opening his eyes again to stare mystically at him, “What’s wrong?”

It all feels so familiar, so second-nature. Whizzer remembers kissing him like that dozens of times before, whether to shut up his latest arrogant rant or to communicate feelings that he couldn’t with words.

He thought that it’d feel different—that it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s the exact same.

Whizzer doesn’t know whether to find that relieving or troubling.

Whizzer kisses him again, rougher this time—with more desperation and teeth. Marvin buckles against him, letting out a low, guttural groan like a wounded animal. He slips his hands around Whizzer’s waist and grabs his ass, and it’s good—fuck, it’s really good. Whizzer doesn’t so much as kiss him as devour him, his kisses quick and biting and prompting shaky, quivering noises to release from Marvin’s mouth.

Marvin breaks the kiss and turns his face to the crook of Whizzer’s neck, retracting one hand from the other’s ass to slip it down the front of Whizzer’s pants. When he touches him, Whizzer makes a sound so shameless and dirty, it makes Marvin flush even redder.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Marvin keeps repeating, laughing breathlessly, “I’ve missed that sound.” He rotates his wrist and makes Whizzer make it again.

“Take me to bed.” Whizzer says, pleads actually, “Marvin, come on. Take me to bed and fuck me.”

At his demand, Marvin shudders, making a gasping sort of sound almost like he’s drowning.

“Fuck yeah. Okay,” He says shakily as Whizzer impatiently starts tugging Marvin’s pants down, the hunger between them so palpable, it’s all that they can taste, “Okay.”

He hears Cordelia’s phone ring in the kitchen, followed by the blonde’s panicked voice, “It’s Marvin.”

“Answer it.” Charlotte instructs.

“Cordelia, don’t you dare!” Whizzer yells.

The two lock eyes for a split second before both bolt to the kitchen.

As they bust through the door, Cordelia already has the phone pressed to her ear, “Oh, hey, Marv. What’s up?” A pause, and then her gaze flickers to Whizzer, “You’re asking if Whizzer is here?”

Whizzer hurriedly, enthusiastically mouths the word No, No, No, No, No…

“You know,” Cordelia says nervously, biting her lip, “He actually just walked in.”

Whizzer makes an audible noise of surprise and betrayal.

Whizzer sighs, “Look, Marvin, what do you want?”

“What do I want?” Marvin repeats incredulously, “I want you, Asshole.”

It’s a sucker punch to the gut, causes Whizzer’s heart to jump to his throat.

He stutters out, “Will you settle for a cup of coffee instead?”

"During all those years,” Marvin asks suddenly, "Did you ever think of me?" It seems off-subject, but really, maybe it isn't. Because the answer seems important to Marvin, even though it won't change anything.

Whizzer pauses, biting his lip, “Sometimes.”

“All the time,” Marvin says quietly, “I thought about you all the time.”

"What else is there to do?" Marvin demands, and well, Whizzer can't say what he would rather do, right? Just friends may be able to 'compliment each other on their best features,' but they probably can't freely admit, I would really like you to fuck me so hard, I lose my voice from screaming your name.

Marvin huffs a laugh, and because he still never knows when to stop and drop something, he asks, "What's your type then?" It's a stupid, pointless question to ask, and it just seems weirdly uncalled for, given their history and all that Marvin already knows about Whizzer. Marvin knows his type already, but he still asks it. Because he's fishing for a certain answer, one that would assure him that Whizzer is just as silently miserable at being just friends as Marvin noticeably is.

And Whizzer could answer this question in many ways—the slutty any man who buys me a drink; or the coy men who have cruel smiles and nice hands; or the honest the unattainable sort of men; or the pointed the type that lets you hold them and kiss them but never keep them; the type that will always say that they love you and they may very well even mean it, but they'll never be willing to meet you halfway.

Whizzer calmly uncovers his face, calmly sits up, and uncalmly says, "Come again?"

Living with Marvin, sharing a home with Marvin, is easy. They eat breakfast and dinner together, and they watch shitty cable television in the evening, and they bicker about weird domestic things like the electricity bill (Whizzer’s fault) and the mysterious dent in the living room wall (Marvin’s fault), and they entertain Jason on the weekends, and it’s all just so—

Domestic. So disgustingly, repellently, achingly domestic.

“So, you two were good friends?” Jason suddenly asks, causing both men to remember themselves and break eye contact. Whizzer notices that Jason is paying full attention to them now, his phone laying forgotten on the table as he stares pointedly at the two men sitting across from him.

“No, I don’t think we were,” Marvin says honestly after a beat, “That’s what caused the problem.”

And this is why Whizzer has to always look toward the horizon—because looking back leads to nostalgia and sadness and the overwhelming desire to recapture the past.

“You’ve been testing me,” Marvin says, oddly sounding both sad and hateful, “You don’t think I realized that? You want me to prove this preconception in your head that you’ve built up for years. You think everyone else is capable of change except me.”

Whizzer stays silent, not answering. Marvin looks a little broken.

"Then what are you still doing here?"  He demands roughly.

Seeing him shattered like that, it takes awhile before Whizzer can find his voice, and even when he does, it’s small and broken, "Maybe I want you to prove me wrong."

"Bullshit. I've been proving you wrong," Marvin points out, "You want me to prove you right."

"Whizzer, I already told you," Marvin says, horrifyingly calm, "I’m too old to be chasing after people who only want to be chased and not caught." Whizzer belatedly places the vague look on Marvin’s face.

It is one of a man who is ready to let go.

Gripped with shock and fear and denial, Whizzer doesn't respond and walks out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Marvin doesn't ask him to wait, to stop, to stay. 

As he walks away, Whizzer doesn’t look at the horizon. With each step, he keeps stopping and turning his head and looking back, expecting Marvin to still—without fail—to chase after him.

But the only thing chasing him is the past, and Whizzer refuses to let that actually catch up with him.

"You've grown meaner." Whizzer notes idly, an undercurrent of appreciation for her in his voice.

"I've had to." Trina says vaguely. 

"Trina, I'm really sor—"

"Don’t. Just—don’t. I don't need your late, guilt-tripped apology." Trina scoffs, exasperation and bitterness clogging her tone, "I don't need this anymore, you know? This—This migraine that you two have always given me. I'm not a side character in the Great Opera of Whizzer and Marvin anymore. I have a child and husband who love me. I have a life where I am happy. I got my happy ending."

"I didn't." The words spill out, accusing and pitiful.

Trina doesn't look sorry for him. She gives him a cool, withering look, "Well, that was your own fault."

"It was Marvin's fault," Whizzer tells her, and he wants back that silent, subtle gaze of hers, that solidarity—he wants her to make him feel less alone, "He ruined us, Trina. He—"

"Us? There is no us. Oh my god, are you serious right now?" Trina looks at him with scathing disappointment, "Jesus, Whizzer, you want me to feel sorry for you? News flash: just because Marvin was a bigger asshole than you doesn't take away from the fact that you were an asshole, too. We are not allies in this, Whizzer—not anymore. And honestly, looking back on it all? I don't think we ever were."

They talk and listen and laugh and cry. And Whizzer wants to say that it had been everything that he thought it would be—renewal of passions, happiness only found within one another, the promise of a future together, the promise of love—but it is not everything. It is only one thing.

It is forgiveness. And Whizzer thinks that right now, that’s more than enough.

Whizzer doesn’t like to look back, to admit to any regrets, but still he needs to know, “Would you do it again? If you—If you knew then all that happened afterwards. Would you have still kissed me that night?”

Whizzer remembers his own response to that question, years ago: "It doesn't matter," Whizzer says quickly, releasing his grip on Marvin's hand, "Just let it go."

“I’d like to believe I would,” Marvin doesn’t hesitate, saying firmly, “That I’d do it again and again. That I would choose you, every time.”

Whizzer looks up at the sky, feels a warm smile spread across his face. He feels happy.

“I’d like to believe that I’d let you, every time.” Whizzer concedes.

Whizzer covers Marvin’s hand with his own, the giddiness and hope rising within him and threatening to split him open. They stare at each other for a long time—adoringly, nervously, disbelievingly—before they slowly turn their gaze to the horizon.

And they don’t look back.

#oh my this is long i am so sorry mobile readers #i put a read more so i tried but i just screwed you guys over #but um??? so these are my fave excerpts #if anyone cared #it's so crazy how you can just see the improvement as you read #im proud of myself #this fic isnt perfect but i love it #it's not bad at all #a l s o #if anyone would - like - draw fan art of these moments or make moodboards or something #i would d i e #of happiness #but wow - i think i hit all the good quotes #but if you want add some that i missed #but um??? this is long im sorry