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beelsnack · 3 years

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Obey Me! Boys Taking Care of a Sick MC

In honor of me no longer having covid, I decided to write down how I mentally coped with having the plague some headcanons about our boys and a sick MC. Because I’m all about the hurt/comfort life.

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Lucifer: “You should be resting.”

The human scowled. Of course Lucifer was standing guard at the bottom of the staircase.

“I’m just going to get some water,” their voice sounded like sandpaper against wood as they spoke. They felt like the living dead, and judging by the cool stare Lucifer was giving them, they looked it, too.

“No, you’re just going back to bed.” He caught them by the elbow as soon as they were within reach. “I’ll bring a pitcher of water to your room for you.”

“Lucif--” their complaint was cut off by a sudden coughing fit. The force of it made them double over, and they clutched at their chest with one hand while the other went to cover their mouth. Demons couldn’t catch human illnesses, but old habits die hard.

It wasn’t until their lungs stopped trying to eject themselves from their body that they realized that Lucifer had sat them down on the bottom step. He was rubbing slow, soothing circles on their back, a rare look of concern in his dark eyes. “Easy now, my dear,” he murmured as they caught their breath. “You’re shaking, are you chilled?”

“...Just a little,” they wheezed. They must not have sounded very convincing, because Lucifer quickly removed one glove and gently pressed the back of his hand against their forehead.

“Your fever has come back.” In one quick, fluid movement, he had taken the cloak from around his shoulders and wrapped it around them like a blanket. “Go back to bed, now. I’ll bring you water and something to bring your fever down,” he spoke softly, like raising his voice would trigger another coughing fit.

It was too bad they were too sick to appreciate Lucifer’s soft side.

Mammon: “…A’ight, that should be everything.”

Admittedly, he might have gone a bit overboard. But, could you blame him? He’d never nursed a sick human back to health before!

…Okay, so Lucifer may or may not have let Mammon use his credit card to get stuff for them. And he may or may not have taken a few liberties. It was for the human though!

“Mammon, holy shit,” they mumbled, poking their head out from the blanket burrito they had cocooned themselves in. “Is there anything left at the convenience store or did you buy them out?”

“Shut it.” he set the last six-pack of Gatorade (well, the Devildom equivalent of it, anyway) at the foot of their bed. “Ya’ weren’t specific, so I just got one of each!”

Their room looked like a doomsday prepper’s bunker. Cans of soup, a myriad of flavors of instant noodles, a portable heater, the works. Maybe they should have been more specific.

“Do ya’ need anything else?” Mammon sounded vaguely annoyed, but underneath the gruff tone he spoke with, his concern was obvious. They had given him a scare when they first came down with the flu two days ago, temperature so high that they ended up collapsing on their way to RAD. He had been fussing over them since. They weren’t even sure if he had slept.

“...Just one more thing.”

“Yeah?” he perked up like a dog waiting for an order from its master. “Whaddaya need?”

Instead of speaking, they wiggled their arms free of the blankets and held them out. For a moment, Mammon just stared at them in confusion. When what they were asking for finally clicked, his face grew so hot they could use it as a space heater.

“What are you, a little kid?” he grumbled, but there wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation as he climbed into the bed with them. They settled themselves against his chest, sighing contentedly. Sleep had taken over in a few heartbeats.

“...Get better soon, you hear?” they didn’t, obviously, and Mammon took the opportunity to gently pat their head, like they so often did for him. “If you’re gonna be all cute and stuff, I want ya to be conscious of it.”

Leviathan: “You know, I really thought you would take longer to go through all of these.”

The human looked like a whole new person compared to the last time Levi had seen them. They were sitting upright, although they looked ready to slide back down into their previous coma-like state any minute, and the number of blankets wrapped around them had been reduced to just one instead of three. They managed to shoot him a weak grin as they handed over the manga he had let them borrow.

As much as Levi loved staying locked away in his inner sanctum, it was only an enjoyable experience if one’s source of entertainment was also locked away with them. And he couldn’t, in hood conscience, let the human die of boredom instead of dying of illness, so he had ventured out of his lair armed with his collector’s edition box set of I’m A Scholarship Student At An Obscenely Rich School and Now I Have To Work Off A Debt Because I Broke A Vase That Belonged To A Host Club!

That had only been a few days ago, but this morning he had gotten a text from them saying that they were finished.

“It’s not like I have anything else to do, Levi.”

“Pretty sure you could have been sleeping, but okay.”

They stuck their tongue out. “I couldn’t put it down.”

“Right?” Levi nodded enthusiastically, clutching the box to his chest like it was worth his weight in gold. Actually, knowing him, he probably paid his weight in gold for it. “I definitely bawled my eyes out at the end. You have to watch the anime next, the music really brings the scene together. And, like, I’m not usually into pastel themes, but the color scheme actually really fits the mood, and - “

Somewhere in the middle of Levi’s overly-excited info dumping, the human’s eyes had slipped closed. By the time Levi realized he was geeking out, their breathing had evened out and they had slumped against the headboard.

…Oh. They looked really cute like that.

“Sheesh, c’mon, normie,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I bored you to sleep.”

He set down the box on their nightstand and, very carefully, so he didn’t wake them up, inched them down to lay were laying against the mountain of pillows they had. Once they were settled into a position that wouldn’t give them a crick in their neck, he pulled the blanket up to their chin.

“There,” he nodded to himself. “You rest up, because you and I are going to have an anime marathon, and I won’t forgive you if you fall asleep in the middle of it.”

They mumbled, but otherwise stayed unconscious. Levi had definitely seen this in an anime before. His heart was pounding somewhere around his throat, but he wasn’t getting this opportunity again any time soon. Gently, like he was approaching a wild animal, he leaned in close and pressed his lips to their forehead.

“Seriously, get better soon.” he murmured. “I don’t like seeing you sick.”

Satan: His leg was falling asleep.

He had been sitting in the same position for at least an hour, and if it were anyone else he simply would have shoved them off and went about his day. But, how could he push the human away when they were curled up like a kitten in his lap?

They had been complaining about being bored, since they had been too feverish to attend RAD for the past few days. So Satan, always the man with a plan, had arrived in their room ready to binge watch his favorite crime drama. Even though he had seen this show at least eight times, he still found himself getting absolutely sucked into the plot. So much so that he didn’t notice the human starting to nod off until they landed against his side.

“Honestly, you could have just told me you were tired.” he muttered, gently rearranging them so their head was resting in his lap. They made a small noise in their sleep, but otherwise remained unconscious.

It was so rare that the human was still. They seemed to have an endless source of energy, able to be embroiled in all of the shenanigans that tended to happen around the family without absolutely disintegrating. To have them finally at rest, even sick, was quite the treat. Satan couldn’t quit help himself as he reached down to pet their head.

Well, if he was going to be stuck here until they woke up, at least he had a good show to watch.

Asmodeus: “Asmo, I can bathe by myself.”

“Yeah, no, don’t even try it.” Asmo shook his head as he ushered the human into his bedroom. “You passed out in the shower the other day, darling. This is the only time I’m grateful for Mammon’s snooping, because you might still be there if he hadn’t heard you fall.”

They subconsciously touched the sore spot on their shoulder where they had collided with the wall. The pain blended in with the rest of their body aches, but the bruise certainly didn’t.

“Besides,” Asmo sat them down on the chaise lounge. “A nice, hot bath with some quality oils will rejuvenate you like nothing else. Now, go on, strip.”

When they gave him a clearly unamused look, he just laughed. “Not while you’re sick, darling. You know full well being with me requires you to be at peak energy.”

With a sigh, they began peeling themselves out of their days-old pajamas. Admittedly, they did feel like a bath would help them feel a little better. They were pretty sure they read somewhere that the steam from hot water would help clear out all the gunk in their chest. And if anyone knew the intricate rituals of bath time, it was Asmodeus.

While they were stripping, Asmo had made his way over to the Grecian temple that was his bathtub and turned on the tap. After a few moments of running his hand under the stream to test the temperature, he stood and began browsing his impressive collection of bath accoutrements. “Hm, let’s see, let’s see…here it is!”

Asmo turned around, holding up the little bottle like he had just found buried treasure. “Eucalyptus, to help clear out the lungs. It’s good for muscle aches, too!”

With a flourish, he put a few drops into the water. “Alright, ready. Can you get in yourself or do you need my help?”

“I’ve got the flu, not the plague, Asmo.”

“You. Fell. In. The. Shower.” he punctuated each word with a poke to their cheek before holding out his hand to help them. Although they grumbled, they were still feeling kind of weak, so they allowed Asmo to pull them up.

“There, now, easy does it,” he spoke softly as he guided them to sit on the edge of the tub. If this were any other situation, they would be painfully aware of the fact that they were completely naked in front of the Avatar of Lust. But, the fragrant steam rising from the water was beginning to ease the ache in their chest, and Asmo’s soft hands had begun massaging their shoulders. They barely even noticed when they were fully seated.

“You’re not coming in?” they murmured sleepily as Asmo sat himself along the edge of the tub. He just laughed.

“Next time, darling. Now, you just relax and let me take care of you.”

Beelzebub: The phrase “don’t have much of an appetite” just didn’t make sense to Beel. How could someone not want to eat? Maybe he was a bit biased, being the ever-starving Avatar of Gluttony, but still. Humans needed lots of nutrients to get better when they were sick, right? He was pretty sure that was what Satan told him.

Beel scowled, scrolling through the eighteenth listicle about foods to eat when sick. Honestly, he was making himself hungry, but he was starting to get the general idea. Looks like he’s making them some soup.

The kitchen was separated into “human” and “demon” sections, after the one time that they almost used cyanide instead of salt. Human cuisine took less time and involved less magic, so Beel knew his way around the human spice cabinet. Making the soup was the easy part, making sure it got to its intended recipient was another matter.

Climbing the stairs to the human’s room felt like a Herculean task, but he did it - mostly. He may have taken a few bites here and there. But he had purposely put more in the bowl than he knew they would be able to eat, so it was fine, right? He knocked on their door twice, listening to them shuffle around before they finally called out weakly that the door was open.

“I brought food.” he said, shutting the door behind him. “You haven’t been eating much lately.”

They poked their head miserably out of the blanket burrito they had wrapped themselves in. A thin sheen of sweat covered their forehead, but they were shaking, which meant their fever hadn’t broken yet. Did humans always take this long to get better? Another question for Satan.

“I’m not really hungry, Beel.” they mumbled, voice thick and gravelly due to the sore throat they had. “You can eat it.”

Shaking his head, Beel sat himself down on the bed beside them. “I had some already.”

“Have some more.”

“No, I made it for you.” his stomach growled, completely undermining his words. “It’s basically just broth, you can drink it.”

They wiggled around for a bit before they managed to extract themselves from the absolute cocoon they had made. “…What kind of broth?”

“Just chicken, I promise.” he laughed. “I wasn’t about to try to get you to eat a Devildom recipe.”

Finally, they got themselves into a sitting position, but even that seemed to wear them out. They flopped against Beel’s shoulder, and he definitely didn’t like how hot their skin felt against his. Their breathing was ragged as they tried to get the energy to sit up.

“Here,” Beel dipped the spoon into the broth. “I’ll help.”

“I’m not a baby…”

“No, but you are really weak.” he replied gently. “Let me help you.”

He could feel the urge to protest vibrating through their body - their independence was definitely an endearing quality of theirs. But, eventually they must have come to the conclusion that a content of tenacity between the two of them was going to take longer than simply waiting out their illness. With a huff, they opened their mouth and let Beel feed them.

“Oh, wow, this is pretty good.”

“I’m a good cook if I don’t eat the ingredients first.”

Belphegor: “I thought humans slept a lot when they got sick.”

The bags under the human’s eyes were almost as intense as they glare they gave him. When the rest of the brothers had begun arguing over something stupid, Belphegor had taken the opportunity to bundle them up and whisk them away to the peace and quiet of the attic. His intent had been to take a nice long nap with them, but apparently their lungs had a different plan.

“We should,” they groaned, sounding like their throat was made of sandpaper. “Every time I feel like I’m going to fall asleep, I start coughing.”

“That sounds counter-intuitive.”

“Tell me about it.”

Belphie rolled over so that he was lying on his side, facing them. “Well then, you picked a good nap partner.”

They blinked blearily up at him. “Why is that?”

“Come here, I’ll show you.”

He reached out, tugging them towards him until they were settled comfortably against his chest with their head tucked beneath his chin. Although he wasn’t the tallest of the brothers, he had enough height to basically surround the human. “Can you hear my heartbeat?”

“I’m too tired for you cheesy lines, Belphie.”

“No, seriously, just listen.”

He could practically hear them roll their eyes, but they quieted down. Once he was sure they were synced up with the steady ba-bump, ba-bump of his heart, he began to work his magic - literally.

He brought his hand up to cup the back of their skull, fingertips tingling as he focused his magic their. They squirmed for a moment before sighing as the cool rush of Belphie’s special brand of sleep magic washed over them.

“I told you, being tired isn’t the prob - “

“Hush,” he murmured, letting them feel his voice rumble through his chest. “Just relax for me, okay?”

Belphie massaged their scalp like he was washing their hair, working his magic into their skin. Slowly but surely he felt them soften, the tightness in their chest easing. Finally, their slightly labored breathing evened out, and the poor human finally succumbed to sleep.

“About time,” he kissed the top of their head. “You need to rest if you want to get better, so let’s sleep as long as we like, okay?”

#seriously I just kept thinking about them taking care of my while I was sick #because even though I was sick I had to take care of my parents when they ended up getting it #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie

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binniesthighs · 3 years

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hello stranger | reader x changbin |

a/n: hehe hello cuties, before i get to the chapter, I just wanted to say thank you so much for all of the support and lovely messages you that you sent to me for the last chapter. as I said, it was one that was super personal to me and for it to be so relatable and emotional for you all makes my heart feel so, so full. these themes are going to continue, so please read the warnings cuties. as always, thank you so very much for reading my stories <3

Part 6

Pairing: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!changbin, rapper!jisung, establishedfwb!jisung, artist!reader, skz side characters, bestfriend!chan, bestfriend!felix, roommate!minho, explicit language, HARD fluff to HARD angst, some sensual-azz fuckin’ (muhaha), unprotected sex (stay safe cuties!), lil bit of breath play, nipple play (f), cumshot, mentions of food, changbin has a cute butt (that’s the tweet)

CWs: aftereffects of traumatic experiences, mentions of past toxic relationship, self sabotaging tendencies

Word count: 6.6k (remember when i said i wasn’t gonna write long chapters? wellllll...ooP)

Chapters

When you were back in high school, before you knew a thing about what love was, your Art teacher had given you an assignment: what do you think that love looks like? At first, all you had really known love to be was the kind that you shared with your friends and your parents, and maybe with your family dog. You had read about love in your favorite books and seen it in your favorite movies, but you had never really considered what it looked like. Obviously, the assignment was all up for you to decide, but there being a million and one things that you considered love to be, to put it to paper with your own hand was something different entirely.

At first, when you thought of love, you thought of the typical: hearts, hugs, the colors red and pink. But, this was too simple.

“What are you drawing?” You had sneakily whispered to your classmate.

She shrugged, and continued scratching away at her sketchbook. You had peeked to see what she was putting together, and for her, she had started to draw what looked like a house on the edge of a lake. The house was in the middle of nowhere and it was surrounded by trees of all different kinds and there was a single bench that sat at the edge of the water.

You figured, love can be a place, so you started drawing that.

Your pencil swiped over the paper in strokes big and small, and the lead rubbed off on the side of your pinky as you outlined the corners of your apartment building.

You thought, I love the people who live here, therefore, this must be love.

It made sense. People and places could make up love.

When you turned in your drawing of your apartment building you were surprised to see the variety of other paintings and drawings that the other students had turned in. One student had turned in a whole piece that had been drawn with oil pastel. It was a jumbling of colors: mostly red, as you had expected, but it also held streaks of gold, black and teal. You remember your teacher really liking that one.

Today, if you would’ve gotten that assignment, it would’ve been completely different.

It was a sunny afternoon when you sat at your easel with your pencil in hand. Drawing out the mere outline and rough draft, tears welled in your eyes. A long time ago you had promised yourself that if your art didn’t mean anything, what even was it?

The sun filled your room in the golden hour of the day best it could from your frosted glass window. The warmth that the rays held made your whole body swell with a warmth, and it gave your shaking arms the power to keep going.

You brushed lightly over the rough canvas with your pencil, tracing out the lines as if they were the very memories that you had kept painted in your mind.

You drew a snowy night, not much unlike the ones that you had been seeing recently. You drew an empty alley, not lit by much light. You drew the way that the oil slicked in potholes mixed with the snow. You planned out the way that the industry of the city lit his back as he stared out into that dark expanse where you knew that darker figures were hiding. You drew him. You drew him on that exact same night that you had fist seen him: a dark outline, who would become full of color.

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“What’s that?”

Changbin pointed to your easel with a sheet draped over it.

“A surprise.” You answered. “I know that I’m not good with surprises, but, are you?”

“I don’t mind them.” He chuckled. “For me?”

“Mmhm. Its not ready yet so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m fine with waiting.” He sighed out.

You nuzzled closer into his bare chest, right up to his heartbeat. Both of you were admittedly a bit dewy in your sweaty afterglow, but this was of no concern to you. These past few days, this had been your preferred way to drift off to sleep. Even on the occasional times when the both of you would be too busy to make the time, when you finally could see him, it was everything to you. In his large and muscled arms, there was no place else where you had felt safer. You too wrapped your whole being around him with a feeling so close it must’ve been unreal. If you could hear the muffled little rhythm of his heartbeat, you were sure that he could hear yours.

“Soon, all this snow is gonna melt, and then I can take you to loads of other places. I’m just getting started.” Changbin’s airy breath tickled your scalp.

“Really? Taking me to all the usual places?” You mocked.

“No.” He said seriously. “I want to take you to places I haven’t taken anyone before. My secret places. I...you know...wouldn’t mind if you could draw them for me either.”

You giggled, “Ever heard of taking a picture?”

“Hey! It’s not the same.”

“Fineee. Okay, okay. I’ll draw them for you.” Your fingertips traced down the muscles of his back. “Maybe I should start charging if you’re gonna keep being like this.”

“You don’t do pro-bono?” He ran along with your joke.

“If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll consider it.”

He tsked, “Could you please draw for me?”

You masked another adoring chuckle. “I do like it when you say please.”

Everything about the one moment felt so sickly sweet, it was like you must’ve dreamt it up. In between the swaddling of sheets, you tried your best to enjoy the one moment: it was just enough to keep the doubtful whispers away. After all that he had done, said, all the pain that he had kissed away, or compliments he had hushed into your ear, the creeping feeling that you hardly deserved it all would rear it’s head time and again, even when you didn’t expect it to.

The two of you were quiet for a moment as you fell into the serenity of just existing together. After a while, you would narrow your focus best on the way that his breaths would rise and fall and the way this his body heat would melt into yours under the mess of sheets that neither of you bothered to fix. He would use his thumb to rub reassuring little strokes into the back of your neck where he had you.

Your hand would fall down his arm, all the way down this wrist where his scar lived. Ever since you had noticed it, you couldn’t stop looking at it. Every time that you did, you were given a tangible reminder of everything that he had been, and was, to you. You rose the uneven skin to your lips to gift a little kiss to it.

Changbin tried his best to hide his giddy smirk at the action.

“Do you have to leave tonight?” You settled his arm around you once more.

“No. Not tonight. But, for the next few days I don’t think I’ll be able to. They put me on the matinee shifts at the theater. I fucking hate those. No one comes in at all so it’s like I’m just sitting there.”

“Wanna sneak me in some time this week? I should have a break.”

“I would but...I’d prefer to keep that job. As much as I hate it.”

“We could do something this Thursday? You aren’t busy on Thursdays as much right?”

“Ahhhh I think so.” Changbin rolled the two of you over, allowing himself to lean over top of you. With a sly smirk he lowered his voice to say, “You know, my ribs really aren’t hurting as much any more.”

“Oooh? Good to know.” You ruffled his curly strands.

“I’m trying to say that I can go for another round if you would like to?” He bowed his head to kiss lightly into your neck and the fading love bites that he had put there himself.

Your eyes wandered to your clock telling you that it was nearly 2 in the morning. If you had better judgement, you would’ve said no. But, these days, judgement wasn’t something that you took too seriously.

He kissed down deeper, and pulled at your skin just in the way that he knew you liked it. Changbin knew the ins and outs of you perfectly, as well as exactly what to do send you quivering under him. All he had to do was press his body into yours so you could feel his weight, and it made you fold just for him. He followed his kisses up your jaw where he then lead them into your bottom lip and over every angle that your mouth would crave him. He often didn’t mean to do it intentionally, but between your parted mouths, his tongue would sneakily find yours, and he would slowly slide it against yours.

“Do you want to?” He muttered between kisses.

Under the covers, his hand cascaded down your side in a way that tickled slightly, but also made you shiver.

He broke from his kiss to hold your eyes seriously. “We don’t have to.”

“No, I want to.” You reached up to hold his sleepy and puffy face in your hands.

Changbin said nothing more, but instead returned to weaving kisses back down your neck. Under your waist, you felt him angle up your hips higher and the heat of his tip teased at your entrance still slick with your arousal from before, and now renewed. He bowed his head down to your chest to pump himself with a few muffled grunts. After, he rose his head to hold your eyes with his own. The muscles on his arms flared where he held himself up, and those adorable little stretch marks in the corners of his arms moved with them.

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

You melted under his compliment. No matter who many times he had said it, you still weren’t use to it.

“So are youuuu.” You said with a dreamy tone. One other thing that you had figured out about him was that returning such comments to him made him a flustered mess. It was utterly adorable for someone as stoic as him at times.

“Psh.” He scoffed, then lowered his voice once again. “Beautiful how I fill you up sweetheart?” Changbin angled your waist up higher, then spread your thighs, finally pushing them into your body to tighten you. He aligned himself over you, then pushed himself in agonizingly slow. “Beautiful how I can fuck you so deep? How I can m-make you...”

He had given up on talking, but rather thrust himself further into you with his shaking breaths and little “mmm’s” getting caught on his tongue.

“B-Bin...fuck, f-feels s-so good--”

He pushed your legs up closer to your body, allowing himself greater access to graze your g-spot. Your busy fingers found their way around his back to claw all the way down. He still relished in taking his time with you, and would never rush fucking you--it was as if he had all the time in the world to unravel you. You returned around him, tightening has he fucked in and out with his own pace. After a while of doing the same, his hand crept around your neck to give you a couple choking squeezes that made you whimper out like a kitten. He would never keep it going for long however, but rather indulged himself in the way that your gasps would remind him of how good it all felt. After, Changbin dipped his thumb into your mouth to run the pad over your tongue.

The tip of his teeth caught the skin of his lip which he bit into hard.

“You feel so good baby. F-feels so good on my cock. It’s all for you angel.”

An unrestrained groan escaped from your mouth as he continued and your orgasm pooled steadily. In and attempt to steady yourself you clawed back into your pillow supporting your head.

He swiftly changed your position, taking both of his hands to turn you on your stomach. Without a pause he lead his swelling head back into your pussy where he kept on going at his favored slow pace. Your face smushed into the pillow with hips raised in the air. The fluffy fabric muffled your helpless moans.

“Louder for me princess.” He growled.

With one hand he arched over to tweak at your nipples with force: twisting and pulling, then he wet his hand with his own saliva to let your skin feel the cold and wet sensation. His other hand he used to reach around and rub circles into your clit. He was gentle at first, but worked your bud harder and faster. Your knees and legs shook the faster he rubbed, and you spilled your loudest and most unapologetic moans into the room that had risen in temperature.

“Fuck...” He swore. Changbin allowed himself to quicken his pace inside of you. The action alone sent you spinning wildly into your orgasm: a tear of white hot heat that shook your whole body and turned your swollen bud into a sensitive mess under his fingers which did stop, even when when he knew that you had just cum all over them. The harder he pressed, the more wonderfully painful it felt, and you let your tears fall hot from your eyes to the sheet. You attempted to call out his name, but no words that left your mouth made sense.

He turned your body once more, using brutish hands on your hips as he pulled you overtop of the sheets to fuck you into the bed once more with your sweating back stuck to the comforter. Your body shook with your orgasm still, and you needily brought his lips down to yours to kiss him with your thank you’s as he milked himself out in your tightening walls.

Changbin was animalistic in the way that he finally let his hips snap over you, at last reaching his orgasm mere seconds after he had pulled out and jerked himself over you. Ribbons of his white cum came spilling out over your gasping chest and stomach and dripped lazily from his pink and flaring tip. He took in shallow inhales as he did, and kept rubbing until the very end and he had nothing more to give. Even as his hand dropped, you took his dick in your own hand to just twist lightly and ride out the last of his orgasm. He softened in your hand with eyes closed in his focus and came down.

The combination of your lust held in the air for a few silent moments, then he collapsed back down next to you into a blushing and exhausted mess. His pink chest shook, and his soft heather eyes found you.

“We should...probably take a shower right?”

“Probably.” You grinned.

Changbin leaned over to plant even more sugary sweet kisses on top of your lips. He always was one to admire his work, so he chuckled lightly seeing the way that he had properly covered you in his cum.

“I can help you clean that off.”

The bed shook and he rose to get you something to clean up. You wished that you could’ve moved to see him saunter around your room without a single piece of clothing on. It was no secret that he had one hell of a cute butt.

Changbin helped you out of the bed, finding that your legs had started to shake and betray you a bit more harshly than you had intended. He ran the water for you both, inviting you in to take the task of cleaning you to himself. He took the suds in his own hands to brush them all over your body and took careful and gentle attention to the more sensitive parts of your body. He giggled a little at the way that even under the warm water, your nipples would still harden when he ghosted his fingers over them with soap.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You scolded him.

He took care of the little bruises on your neck and collarbones, giving them kisses under the clear stream of water as if he was healing them. After he was done, you did the same and cleaned out his hair with your shampoo. He always let out happy little groans when you would massage his scalp. He still had a couple scrapes on his face from a few weeks ago, so you kissed all of them too.

Changbin’s favorite part was how he could mess up your hair with the towel afterword and make you look as ridiculous as possible. Of course, you would do the same. You would brush your teeth together, and dress somewhat all of the way back again. A while ago he decided keeping clothes at your place was a good idea, but you ended up wearing them more than he did. You blamed it on dirty laundry, but you really did just like the way that they would smell all tangled up in your blankets on your nights alone.

With bare legs, you would tangle yourselves all up in eachother once more, and not even bother to look at what time it was then.

As it had become his habit, before the two of you drifted to sleep, Changbin would kiss into your forehead “l love you. You know?”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Chocolatey goodness wafted up Felix’s nose, and he let out a happy little squeal.

“~Thank youuu~” He beamed to the waitress.

He took a careful sip not to burn his tongue, then turned his head to watch the way that the snow had started to flurry outside of the diner window. Minho flipped the pages of his book and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Whatcha reading?” Felix said with a little tap of his feet under the table.

Rather than answering, Minho sighed out and closed his book. “Nothing now. If you’re gonna ask questions, then I’ll get distracted, so, nothing now.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Felix frowned.

Minho rolled his eyes, suddenly becoming exasperated over his new friend’s dramatic reaction.

“It was something that I’m assigned to read for one of my classes. It’s about economics or something like that. I’m kind of just skimming; reading because I have to....” He took a sip of his coffee. “Y/n should be reading the same book considering that we are in the same class...but I haven’t even seen you with it yet.”

You prodded at your plate of half eaten waffles. “About that...”

“If you think that I’m gonna give you the SparkNotes you are sorely mistaken.”

You writhed in your seat a bit like an upset toddler. “Come onnnnn, Minho, you know that I don’t have time for that, working at the library and such...”

“--More like stealing my roommate from me. I hardly see him at our apartment anymore.” Minho made his remark with a type of snark, but knowing him, he was still just as sarcastic.

“Yeah,” Felix piped up. “The three of us haven’t hung out in a while either!”

“...Sorry, I’ve just been getting...caught up in things.”

Minho cleared his throat. “I’m not saying that its a bad thing. It’s just something that I’ve noticed.”

Felix nodded, “Me too! I’m really happy for you!! So is Chan, don’t get me wrong. We haven’t seen you so happy and like, not serious in such a long time. Really, I’m so so glad that you have someone like him for a boyfriend.”

Your fork scratched your plate. “--Boyfriend?”

“Yeah!” Felix beamed. “Isn’t that what he is?”

Minho too held an expectant gaze.

“I-I don’t think...we hadn’t really talked about what it is that we’re doing...or are.”

“So you’re saying that he’s not your boyfriend?” Minho cocked his head in his confusion. “Well, you ask him and he’ll think that it’s a different story.”

“H-he talks about me?” You sat up straighter.

“Well, he hasn’t explicitly said anything, but the way that he never shuts the fuck up...” Minho suddenly became much more interested in his coffee.

“What? You don’t want him to be your boyfriend?” Felix looked just as confused.

In your hands, you crinkled up the napkin that you had resting on your lap. You hadn’t in fact, ever thought of such. Merely, you had thought that you loved him, and that you enjoyed being around him and that he had made you happy. Was it odd that the thought had never crossed your mind?

“And he hasn’t said anything about it either?” Felix leaned in. To his side, Minho nudged his arm in the most non-obvious way possible.

“...No?”

Your heartbeat quickened in pace.

“Af...after everything that happened back then? Didn’t you say that he like, confessed or something and you did the same? You’ve only been hanging out with eachother for weeks?” Felix pushed his cocoa away from himself to lay his hands flat on the table.

“I...don’t think that we should press the issue.” Minho patted down the boy sitting next to him.

It was the feeling that you had been avoiding for weeks: that kind of uncertainty and fear that you had pushed down so far after the night that it all came together, but you didn’t expect it to manifest like this. In your chest a knot tied itself together tightly and in a way that you couldn’t explain.

“I...just like what's happening right now between us, I didn’t think that he would want--”

Felix nudged Minho by the hip, motioning for him to let him out of his side of the booth. Minho rolled his eyes, but did so muttering, “I said we shouldn’t press the issue but here you go...”

Felix slid over to your side of the booth, nearly shoving you up close to the wall with how near he scooched to you. Carefully, he removed the napkin that you had scrunched up into your palm.

“Relax okay? You’re doing it again. Just calm down.” While his tone was sweet, you couldn’t help but find some condescending edge--real or not.

“Doing what? I don’t think that I’m doing anything wrong??”

Felix let you squeeze his hand tight, as patient as ever.

“Do you not want him to be your boyfriend?” He repeated. “But he treats you so nicely? There’s nothing to worry about.”

At first you were angry at yourself, angry at yourself for feeling the hot tears well up in your eyes in public,

I’m so fucking pathetic.

Secondly, you were furious at yourself for feeling anything less than the happiness that had made up your whole world for the past few weeks. You had worked so hard just to make something that made sense, and he made sense. Why did it have to be much more complicated than that?

“Y/n?” Felix bowed his head down with his softening gaze.

“F-Felix, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m just trying to understand so I can help you out with this. Clearly there’s something that’s upsetting you about, I don’t know, putting a label on it? If that’s the right word--”

Minho sucked at his teeth, “He’s too nice to say that you’re self sabotaging again. Listen, you don’t have to have the answers right now, we’re just saying you’re getting in your own way at having something that could be really great.”

Felix shot daggers in Minho’s direction.

“I wasn’t gonna say this, but Bin’s been going through shit right now with his family that I’m sure he isn’t telling you about. Someone tipped them off about what he’s been doing and they’re furious. He’s been telling them that no one knows that he’s tied to them when he raps but they aren’t listening. Literally when he goes to see you it’s like, what’s helping him forget all that shit. He cares about you a fuck ton, and I’ve heard about it all. He wants you to be his girlfriend. Believe me. Don’t know why he hasn’t brought it up yet, but...”

Felix took in a shaky breath, then turned his attention back to you. “Besides all that, I think that you should at least talk to him about this all. I had no idea that you felt this way. I’m sorry for making assumptions. At least, if you and him talk about it, you can figure something out right?”

You took at the papery and crinkled napkin and dabbed it harshly on your eyes to dry your tears before they had a chance to run further down your face.

“Why the fuck doesn’t he tell me anything?” Your voice wavered.

Minho folded his hands on the table. “Knowing him, he probably thinks that it would be burdening to you. Selfless dick. He thinks that putting that shit on you somehow makes him seem like a handful or some shit.”

“B-but I don’t feel that way?”

“Then tell him!!” Felix’s volume rose. “When you talk to him, tell him that.”

“What the fuck is this, a drama?” Minho laughed a little. “These communication skills are god-awful.”

“Oh fuck off Minho,” Felix rubbed your back to soothe you. “This is real life, and we’re here to help out Y/n.”

“That’s fuck off Minho-hyung to you.” The older boy stuck out his tongue.

You wiped your nose against your hand, then Minho threw another napkin from the holder in your direction.

“I promise that things will get better when you talk to him.” Felix nodded. “Talking always helps.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Thursday afternoon came, and the forecast had called for snow, but none had come. Rather, the atmosphere had turned to be dreary and grey the whole day long, and the temperature dropped so low that some local schools had to cancel classes for the day. Your university had decided to do the same. While you had been thankful and decided to spend the day working on your various projects, you couldn’t bring your hand to the canvas.

All day long you had spent figuring out what it really was that you wanted to say to Changbin, and you still hadn’t figured it out yet. Even you didn’t know what it was entirely that scared you deeply. But, you knew that somewhere you did.

Why her?

You could do better.

Isn’t she...boring?

You hugged your legs to yourself as you waited on your couch. The memories seeped into your brain like some kind of poison diffusing its way.

No, no. You’re wrong. You tried your best to banish them.

You’re all mine. No one else’s. Don’t you ever forget that. Tell me. Who’s baby are you?

You squeezed your eyes shut, and dug your nails into the fleshy part of your knees where you held them.

You don’t own me. You don’t have the fucking power.

Three knocks clicked at your door, and you knew that it was Changbin. Your chest shook with a type of anxiety that felt like prickling thorns. You rose to open the door.

“Fuck. It’s so freezing out there.” Was the first thing that he said. “I wouldn’t mind not having to go back out there if you are?” He slung his coat over one of chairs to your two person dining table. As soon as he was undressed, you were overcome with the desire to be as close as possible as you could get to him. It had been your safe place.

Changbin let out a little surprised noise when you launched your body at him, but he just as quickly held you back firmly.

“Is everything okay?”

For a moment you let his rosemary and cedarwood cast aside all the ideas and words that ate away at you.

“Can we talk?” You mumbled.

“Yeah, of course. Can we sit down? Get a blanket maybe?” You nodded and let him do the work of going back to your room to get back your knit blanket that he knew you liked best. He threw it over his shoulders them beckoned you to join him in his arms. You snuggled right up into his chest where he had tucked himself into the corner of the couch. “Want to talk about it now?”

With glistening eyes you tried your best to look up at him. His cheeks were still bitten pink from the cold.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about your parents? Or about what’s going on right now?”

Changbin sighed and bit at his lower lip in his discontent. “Minho said something didn’t he?”

“You can tell me, you know?”

Changbin shook his head. “It’s not your problem to worry about, so I don’t want you do.”

“But you’re my problem to worry about. Don’t you get that?”

He sighed once more, then rested his head atop of yours. Where he held you around your arms, he rubbed gently.

“And if...being with me helps you...I’ll come around anytime alright? You don’t just have to come here.”

He laughed a little. “My place isn’t as private as yours is.”

You toyed with the fraying fabric of the blanket. “You know that I can be quiet if I need to be. Or if you just want me to sleep over, I can do that too.”

“I don’t want you going out of your way--”

“--I don’t mind.” You nuzzled a little deeper. “So, your parents are giving you a hard time?”

He tsked. “Yeah. It’s just...stupid is all. They care so much about what I do and don’t do when I left so it wouldn’t bother them. They’re trying hand out some kind of threats to me like they have the right to do so....they don’t.”

“What are you going to do?”

Changbin helped you up a bit higher up his body so your head could rest on his shoulder. “Nothing. Keep doing what I’ve always been. No one knows except the people I have closest to me. They’re worrying over nothing.”

You formed a “oh” with your lips.

“But, it’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”

Already, you had forgotten what you really had decided to talk to him about. It had slipped from your mind just as quickly as you had let it arise. The two of you grew quiet, and you let yourself become overcome with the feeling and warmth that his body and the blanket gave to you. You wondered if he would’ve gotten mad if you had fallen asleep just then. It didn’t seem like the worst idea.

“As long as we’re talking about things, do you mind if I ask you something?” Changbin asked after planting a small kiss on your forehead.

“What’s that?” You said with a sleepy and cracking voice.

“You...don’t have to have the answer right now, but I just thought it would be worth it to ask, since we’ve been doing you know, this, for a few weeks now. You already know how I feel about you, I think that I’ve made it pretty damn clear, but, I was thinking that we could make things exclusive between us? Like, it just becomes me and you?”

Drip by drip, the drowsiness that had swept over your eyes dissipated.

“Would you be up for that? I just, it seems a bit odd to me that we haven’t talked about it yet considering...well, I think that it would be easier if we knew what we were so then we could, I don’t know, plan or something like that? It’s kind of a commitment, I know, but I want you to know that I’m willing--”

“Bin...” You pulled yourself up from his chest.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? Did-did I say something wrong?”

Who’s baby are you?

“You want me to...be yours?”

“Well, not exactly, you know what I’ve said before, but, I would like you to be my girlfriend--”

A sob clogged your throat. Now that he had finally said it, the realizations came flooding over you like the deathly winter chill.

“Angel, are you scared again? I told you that you don’t have to with me, I swear that I don’t ever want to hurt you or anything like what happ--”

“--Like happened what? Back when I was so fucking stupid to get myself locked up in something that I thought would be good for me? Why is it that you want me to be your girlfriend, huh? I-is it because I-I fall over for you? I can’t run away from you? Am-am I just a good fuck for you? What is it?”

“What the fuck? Where is this coming from? Y/n, you know that I love you, I fucking love you like crazy and I don’t think any of those things!! I’m not trying to restrain you our use you or anything like that, I don’t know why the hell you would think that!”

“B-because you might not now, but what about later down the line...when I get boring or you figure out that I’m not as exciting like I used to be or--”

“--What?! No! That’s not gonna happen!” Changbin reached out to pull you back into his arms, but you shook him off.

Salty tears filled the corners of your mouth. “The last time that I-I did something like this, I--”

“--Well this isn’t last time, this is this time, okay? It’s different! I swear to God that I’m not that fucking asshole. I get that you’re scared, okay, that’s totally understandable, but I’m asking you to trust me alright? Can you trust me?”

Part of you wanted to trust him. In fact, a much larger part of yourself wanted to trust him so bad, it hurt. But, a smaller part of you, a much smaller part of you still screamed into the abyss that he was the last person in the world that you could trust; and that voice, was much louder.

“I want you to be my girlfriend, and I want to give you everything that I have. All my fucking time, my attention, hell, just minutes ago you said that I was your problem, can’t you be mine? Is that not allowed? I’m just...I DON’T get you!!!” Changbin growled out the tail end of his sentence and only after he had said it he realized it was much louder than he intended. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...please. I’m not mad at you.”

Your body had weakened, so when he had reached out for you, you let yourself fall into his arms.

“Angel, can’t you see that what I’m trying to do is the complete opposite of what you think I am? Yeah I mean, it would be nice to call you my girlfriend, but not because I’m trying to control you or anything, but because...fuck, you make me happier, made me feel like I’m less lonely in this fucking crazy-ass world. I want to be that for you and you only.”

Poisonous thoughts. Why were they even more alluring than the antidote that you had right in front of your face?

Your limp body mustered up the strength of push yourself off his chest. Looking into his eyes you felt numb. With all the care that he held for you, you felt as if you didn’t deserve one single ounce of it.

Why her?

You figured that in some parallel earth, you would’ve been able to have said yes. In that parallel earth, nothing bad would’ve ever happened, and you wouldn’t have been crouched in that alley with snow melting into your dress. You would’ve lived a normal life without pain and doubt. Maybe you would’ve met him there too, and you would’ve been able to say yes.

“You...don’t have to have the answer right now, but can you please consider it...for me? I meant everything that I said, but I...I also can’t wait forever.” You heard his voice grow thick. “I know that if...you can’t do it, or iff you don’t know, then I can’t just make it happen. There’s not a lot else that I can do. But at least I want to try.”

You could do better.

“I-I think that I need to be alone...right now--tonight.” Two more hot tears fell down your cheeks with a sting like a papercut.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, just--there’s things that I need to think about, I don’t..I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“No. I understand.” Changbin sniffled.

Slowly, your two bodies seperated, and the heat from his body faded. You thought to yourself, it wasn’t yours to keep in the first place.

You lead him quietly to the door where you watched him lace up his shoes and throw on his coat. His eyes had become puffy, as much as you figured you had looked as well. His grey eyes looked tired, just like the dreary day that you had spent all day hiding from. Still, he smiled.

“Y/n. I know that you think that you’re hard to love. But you’re not. If you take away anything from this, I hope you know that your past doesn’t define you, and that you can have happiness after it all. I want to be that for you. If you’ll let me. Only if you’ll let me.”

Your clogged nose made a horrible stuffed sound and you nodded. You had listened to his words, but had you heard?

He sighed with finality, then bent down to kiss at the salty taste on your lips.

“Call me, okay?”

You closed the door after him, then collapsed down the door. Your pent up sobs flew out of your chest with loud and ugly sounding sobs. Each one hurt more than the last to get out. You crumbled against the wood door, and didn’t even mind the cool draft from under the crack. Your world became a blur in front of your watery eyes and your hands shook as they took your phone from your pocket.

Words of self loathing filled your ears as you searched up the name, but it was the only one that you could think of in your blind emptiness.

If only things could go back to the way that they were.

╚ ——————————————— ╝

The walk to his apartment was cold, freezing even. You had worn the shoes that you had been scolded for, and the coat that provided you with barely any warmth. You knew the way to his apartment well--it was almost muscle memory by now. Streetlights passed you overhead, and finally the snow that was promised started to drift from the heavens and before you.

Your hands cracked with the cold when you pushed the button to his intercom, and he buzzed you in without saying a word. You showed yourself up the staircase with empty sounding footsteps echoing against the walls. Your eyes had welled with tears once you reached his floor, but you blinked them away harshly. It was a futile attempt considering that he would see how red your eyes had become.

His door was cracked with old paint, and the number had been scratched off with age. You knocked one time, no more than that. Somewhere a tiny voice had hoped that he wouldn’t hear the knock at all, and figure that you hadn’t even come up, and that you could quietly slip back away.

But he didn’t. He must’ve been waiting.

He too looked to be a mess: his cheeks and eyes had puffed up and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. He wore minimal clothing that hung loosely on his frame.

“--Jisung--”

Before you could say any more, he had leapt into you, and wrapped his arms around you so tightly that he could’ve rid you of all your breath.

“Baby, thank you so much for coming. Thank you so much. I’m sorry how I acted at the concert. I just missed you so much....I missed you so much.”

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passivenovember · 3 years

Text

And Everyday was Overcast.

Part One : Hammers and Nails

Billy needed someplace to go when the grave was desecrated.

When his eyes unglued themselves, peeling off eyelashes in their wake, when the earth was overturned, torn and left hanging like shreds of old fabric; Steve had been there. By some miracle he had been consumed like he always was, sat thinking by a plot that had grown yellow flowers to blanket Billy in his eternal sleep. And maybe it was those small visits sheltered between morning runs and eight hour shifts stocking the horror section that Billy had come back.

From the grave. From the brink.

The Earth started vibrating, spidery cracks turning volatile, and Steve was met with ocean blue. Red rimmed eyes locked on his face, hands reaching and gripping. Nails digging in as Steve wrapped Billy's grime covered shoulders in his own jacket. Rubbed the chilled skin of his arms, looked in his eyes, and took him home.

Someplace Billy could wash the day from his skin.

The blonde haired boy who had turned from human to creature and back again deserved something more than what he was left with. He deserved warm meals, and sunshine on his skin, and soft bed sheets that opened like a celestial sky when Billy felt like shelving the enormity of what he had discovered. What waited after death.

Steve wanted that for him.

Not happiness, not closure, exactly, but something close to it.

At the root of it all, Steve knew Billy should feel safe. Welcome and warm and comfortable, in the house that Steve’s father had built for his mother all those years ago when she was plump and round with child. Steve felt like his father that day as he carried the last box over the threshold and took in the rigid, tense line of Billy’s shoulders.

He let the moment rest. Let it breathe, as his father always instructed. “Do you think you could feel safe here, Billy?”

The air sat heavy. Cold and wet and warm, somehow, like the morning after a night of heavy rain. Billy sucked in a sharp breath and pivoted slowly, face reverent, as if standing barefoot in a cathedral among gods and heroes. Met with divinity.

Instead he got Steve.

Just Steve, trying not to stare at the lone curl hanging over Billy’s forehead when he offered a tight, controlled smile. “It’s fine.” Billy said, only.

Steve tore his eyes away. Focused on the second story banister to stop his gut from falling through the floor. ”Fine? As in, I would rather eat my own toenails than live here, fine or, like. It's okay, I don't mind it here, I might even like it someday, fine?"

Billy adjusted the strap across his shoulders. “It’s just what I expected it would be.”

Steve shook his head. “What’s that mean?”

"Relax, Harrington, it's." Billy turned again, eyebrows scrunched together. “Its. Pastel. And huge. Obscenely decorated—“

”My mom had it professionally done before they—“

”It was built for a happy family with lots of kids. Lots of love, but now it's. It feels. Lost.”

Billy had started saying things like that.

Heavy, saturated, impossible things that left Steve scrambling. Wishing for the intelligence to absorb the meaning rather than question it. Steve rested the box at the foot of the stairs and offered a smile to the second story. Runoff for the pools of blue that looked on.

"That's a lot of adjectives. I can get you a hotel, maybe. Or an apartment. I could cosign, I know they gave you a pretty penny and you could probably afford your own, but. I could. I would." Steve said harshly. "For you. I would."

"It's fine here. It's okay."

Steve felt like a science experiment. Egg boy with three heads and ten legs or something. Suckers on the tips of his thumbs, the way Billy studied him. Steve counted the freckles on Billy's nose--one, two, three, four--trying to stay afloat.

Dinner was made every night though Steve never saw it happen.

The cookbooks sat alphabetized over his mother's antique bar cart on that little periwinkle blue shelf. He'd come home, every night, at six on the dot, to a set table. The mixing bowls were always clean and put away, counters wiped and ingredients stored neatly on the shelves his pantry, but the wooden spoons spelled it out for Steve, still shifting from dark to light as they lay drying on the dish rack.

"You don't have to make dinner, you know." Steve took another bite of Salisbury steak, furious that it tasted so good. Like love soaking into his skin.

Billy shook his head. "I want to."

"I know, I'm saying it's okay if you decide not to, one day. Like if you get caught up reading. Or if you can get Max to drive you to the history museum, or if you--"

"It's the least I can do."

Steve hated that. He let his fork clatter to the table. "I'm not expecting repayment for this."

"I'm not a freeloader."

"And I'm not an asshole." Steve deadpanned, lifting a finger that sewed Billy's smug lips together. "Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you were thinking, with that clever glint in your stupid blue eyes."

Billy cracked his knuckles, clearly fighting a smile. "Never thought you noticed the color of my eyes, Harrington."

"Yeah, sure." Steve stood, gathering the plates and forks and knives from the table, his own eyes counting primary threads. "Can see those things from space, Jesus." He finally looked up, at Billy's curiously pink face.

Pink lips, cheeks, nose.

Steve gripped ceramic. Swallowed against a swell of guilt. "You don't owe me anything, Billy. I like having you here. I want you here."

Billy gave a simple, controlled nod.

Steve got used to it.

The shack wasn't built until the doctor told Billy that he'd probably wouldn't remember all of what happened. The big things would stick out, neon greens and blues against the forest head, but Billy shouldn't be too hard on himself if the important things got thrown away.

And some of those jagged little pieces were there. The bad things. Anger and hatred, both for self and world, left hanging on the cliff of who he was now. Everything that had formed Billy Hargrove--the person he was, the person Steve had pretended not to notice--were packed away. Soft, silky emotion covering knives left dull and rusted in their drawer.

Billy remembered like flashes of lightening across the summer sky--sudden and then gone. Here and away. He remembered Hawkins high and Max who'd grown six inches in three years. Dustin who had been wearing that stupid shirt when the mall burned down.

And Steve.

Always Steve, sat next to him. A foot away at first and then holding his hand, later, when Owens said Billy should be kind to himself. Gentle.

He wasn't.

And he didn't come out of his room for three days after that, after the wall was placed in front of him. The crack under Billy's door always keeping Steve at bay. Trapped behind the starting line. He paced around on the carpet, lifting his fist and letting it fall again, never breaking up the silence.

Billy was crying.

Billy never cried, anymore, but he cried that night and Steve felt helpless. Pathetic and stupid and useless, locking himself in his father's study and trying to formulate a plan, just like Owens had told him to when the sun fell on a world without Billy Hargrove and then suddenly rose again, set anew.

Set crooked when Billy stormed from the hospital room, slamming doors that echoed like rolls of thunder in his wake.

Figure out a way to help him.

Sterile, eerie white walls stared back at him as Steve shrugged his shoulders on the third day, aluminum hospital chair groaning beneath his weight.

I'm not sure how to do that.

You don't have to do anything. Owens said. Just help him get the emotion out. Let him write, draw, sing, dance, whatever he needs to assist in telling us his story.

Potato casserole and red wine bore witness to Steve's leap of faith. Billy turned away from the novel he had tucked under his arm when Steve got home from work that day, eyes curious. "Spit it out, Harrington."

"I'm not sure what you--"

"You've been giving me the side eye since you got home." Billy turned the page in his book, still managing to read both it and the room as he urged, "Tell me what's wrong."

And nothing was wrong, and.

Everything was wrong. Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Do you want to come with me to the art store tomorrow?"

Billy frowned. "I don't need anything from the art store."

"It's not always about what you need," Steve reasoned, patting his mouth with a napkin. "We could get stuff you want. That's all, just pretty things. Nice things. It could be a treat."

"Paper and scissors are considered a treat?" Billy cocked an eyebrow. "I do love touching shit, it's one of my favorite hobbies."

Steve scrubbed at his mouth, swallowing down against a big, fat, crooked smile dripping with affection. "C'mon, it'll be fun. We can get whatever you want; clay, oil pastels, acrylics--"

"I wanted to check out the library tomorrow."

"You go everyday, blue, you're a regular bookworm."

"So?" Billy demanded, taking another bite of casserole. "I like to read. Just 'cause you can't doesn't mean the rest of us have to hold back." He grinned, low and slow. "Don't let your jealousy turn you into a tyrannical landlord, pretty boy."

"God, you're the absolute worst."

Billy turned back to his novel. "The art store will just inspire me to paint nudies."

"So paint them." Steve challenged.

Bait. Hook and line.

"You gonna pose for me if I let you buy out the joint?"

Steve shrugged. "Maybe once, if you look at the easels while we're there."

"No shit?" Billy leaned forward, biceps flexing in his cutoff as he stuck a polaroid of a smiling blonde woman between the pages of his novel. "The fuck is this about, Harrington?"

"I'm worried."

"That you'll take me to a crafts store and I'll put you out of house and home? Reasonable concern, I guess."

"About the diagnosis, dipshit. About you." Steve gulped down the rest of his wine. Made sure every last drop had seasoned his words before any were said aloud, where they might do damage. He let the glass rest on the table between his fingertips, stem rolling from pad to pad. He took a deep, steadying breath. "You haven't been the same since--"

"I got hijacked by a space demon or crawled out of my own grave?" Billy shrugged, picking at something in his teeth. "Be more specific."

Steve fiddled with the handle of his fork. Hand picked his words. Refined the meaning. "Yes, and. Both."

Billy didn't say anything for a while and the room finally settled. Falling fast asleep, thick with inertia and silence until the book was opened once more and Steve went back to digging through his casserole, picking at the spring onions.

Letting the moment breathe.

Until, finally. "I feel like I could crawl out of my own skin."

Steve tripped over himself to get those blue eyes on him once more. "That's understandable--"

"I feel fucking useless." Billy snapped, voice cracking in two, and. Suddenly Steve couldn't look at him. Couldn't bare to see his face. "I'm trying to replay what happened. Every second, I'm trying to figure out why. Why me."

Steve counted the primary threads in the table cloth. One, two, three. "You can't go on asking yourself questions like that."

"I can do what I--"

"It wasn't your fault, Billy. Any of it."

"I'm not talking about the Fourth of July, I'm talking about. Death. I'm talk about what comes before and what comes after and how they're the same." Billy turned the page in his novel furiously, eyebrows scrunched together. "I never thought they'd be the same. It's like I've started over."

Steve couldn't possibly understand, but.

He watched pools of blue scan the page. Took measured breaths, never pushing until Billy was ready to share more. Until he tossed the book on the counter and sighed, head buried in his hands. "I don't understand how I got here."

"Easy," Steve whispered. "That's easy. You were born from love--"

"My parents aren't in love anymore."

"But they were, once." Steve shook his head. "When you were made. They loved each other, and they loved you, and your life was full of love that never made sound but it was still there." Steve willed Billy to look at him. Willed the skies to turn blue again.

They didn't.

Billy sighed, low and slow. "Did love bring me here again?"

"I guess so."

"Who's love?" Billy demanded, leaning forward into the table and crushing his novel where it lay against light oak tabletops. "Who loved me enough to bring me back here? To wish for me."

And.

There were a lot of things Steve wanted to say. Lines he wanted to map out, directions that lead from A to B and back again, but it didn't seem useful. Didn't rest important, as Steve took the novel from its place on the table and smoothed worn pages, tucking the polaroid in its place. "I'm sorry things feel weird for you." He said softly.

Billy grabbed the book, staring down at his casserole. "'S not so bad, I guess."

And, for Steve, that wasn't good enough.

Billy worked mostly in charcoal. He painted nightmares, and doorways into the past, delicate, swirling lines telling a story that made Steve's heart ache to see. To hear, with every drag of material across fruited canvas'.

Steve asked him about it, once. Over dinner, with the lights turned low. "Why do you paint such horrible things?"

And Billy had smiled. Bright and true. "How's that?"

"Y'know. Black scabs and eyeballs melting out of skulls and sliding down the ridge of people's faces, and--"

"It's what I see." Billy replied, voice soft. Measured. "It's what follows me around."

So Billy spent every hour locked in his shed, curls tucked over a growing body of work. Fingers turned rotten with charcoal soot as he made sense of what happened.

Steve liked to watch him work.

Liked to see the tension ease more and more from the strong shoulders that travelled beside him up the stairs each night. Steve felt the dig of each pencil in the crevice between his ribs when Billy finished masterpiece after masterpiece.

Still, it wasn't enough.

Along the ridges of creation, therapy lay half buried in the sand. It was state mandated, that Billy go and learn how to deal with the things charcoal couldn't straighten out for him. Like the nightmares, and the migraines that kept him from eating dinner at the table when June gave way to July.

Steve worried. Constantly, fervently, but Billy refused to go, always wiping his hands on the powder green apron Steve got for him at the art store, and insisting, "This is a form of therapy." Billy gestured around the room. To the mountains of loose sketch papers and half finished canvases that lay strewn across every surface. "This is how I cope."

And it was.

And it happened the same way every time.

Things got bad for him and Billy would disappear into his shed. Steve would come home from the office to find that his mother's prized Thomas Kincaid collection had been replaced by Billy's work. It was haunting. Sick and twisted and so, so beautiful.

He found himself standing and staring at it for hours, eyes tracing over the swirling lines of purgatory.

It made Steve feel helpless, but.

Still, Billy refused to go. Still, he buried himself in his work. Still, he painted himself into a hole.

The path toward recovery was littered with charcoal drawings until it wasn't.

Until Steve came home one afternoon to find Billy talking with a little boy who had his throat cut open.

#harringrove #psychological horror #idk man i just needed to get the words OUT #for Lis <3 #happy birthday honey bee

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bosspigeon · 3 years

Text

one for sorrow

Pairing: Gen, M!Detective/Mason Word Count: 3483 Summary: Juniper Fenn reflects on memories, nursery rhymes, loneliness, and wanting to be wanted.

Just a little (uh... kinda big, actually?) character study for my soft boy, Juni! It wound up a lot more emotional than I originally intended, but I like having this insight into his character.

CW for (implied) deadnaming, misgendering, coming out, and in the last portion a non-graphic post-sex scene with some allusions to said sex ahfdsjh.

One for sorrow, two for joy.

He thought the needle would hurt more than it did. He closes his eyes and looks away, and the artist gives him the hairy eyeball when he clutches at Tina’s knee, like she’s afraid he’ll jump off the bench and bolt for the door. He wants to ask if that’s happened before, but he thinks he’s made enough of a fool of himself so far.

“You sure you’re good?” she asks, giving him an out. Somehow, that just strengthens his resolve.

He takes a slow breath and nods, closing his eyes.

He hears the buzzing, and when the machine first touches skin, he almost jumps, but he’s more worried about looking like more of a baby than he already does than he is startled, so he bites his lips and forces himself to holds still. And it does hurt, but not like he thought it would. He squints one eye open to watch the progress of the first line over his skin. He expects to be repulsed, like when he’s having bloodwork done, and he has to look away from the needle going into his arm. But this is different, somehow. Doesn’t make his stomach turn.

“This is the quietest I’ve ever seen you,” Tina teases, when the first wing has taken shape. He almost jumps again, but he manages to contain it to a twitch. He’s going to tip the artist as much as he’s able after this is done, just for dealing with someone as fidgety as him.

He chews at his lip. “It’s… I dunno. I wouldn’t say it feels good, but it’s kind of soothing, in a weird way?”

She leans over, watching, and the artist gives her a bit of a look, so she backs up again. “Have you told your mum?” she asks.

He snorts out a laugh and looks away, back at the stencil on his arm that will soon be filled in with black feathers and ringed with flowers. “Of course not. She’d probably kill me.”

“She doesn’t like tattoos?” Tina tilts her head, watching his face like she’s waiting for him to start whining about how it hurts. She’s always been the tougher of the two of them, and he’s got no illusions about that, so he’s sort of proud of himself for keeping his cool—as much as he’s got anyway.

He shrugs the arm that’s not under the machine, and wonders when he’ll get his next tattoo. He’s already got ideas for more, and knowing that it’s not so bad as he was worried it would be is exciting. Not to mention, it’s something that’s just for him. Not for anyone else. He’s… never really done anything like this before. “I don’t know what she likes, but I doubt she’d approve.”

She sucks her teeth and he squeezes her knee again when she gives him that soft, sad look she sometimes does when his mum comes up in conversation. “What’s it going to be?” she asks suddenly. Tina’s a good friend, changing the subject before he can get moody about it.

“A magpie,” he says softly, looking back down to watch the lone bird slowly taking shape on his skin.

Three for a girl, four for a boy.

He asks what happened to all the pretty paintings around the house when he’s ten, because they disappear sometime after one of Mum’s visits, when she seemed more distant than usual. Maybe she hopes he won’t notice, but he misses them immediately. The house is too bare without them, it feels so lonely. It’s always been lonely, ever since Dad passed, but the bare walls make it even lonelier. Mum brushes it off, of course. He’s used to it at this point, so he doesn’t push her, but he’s also stubborn, so he goes looking. He’s even more determined when she tries to shut him up by replacing them all with clean, impersonal prints in neat little frames. He finds them in the attic, tucked away in a box, each one slipped carefully into a protective sleeve or folder and wrapped in tissue paper. He finds a dreamy matted watercolor of him as a baby, fat and freckly and smiling with no teeth, and he has to take a minute to sit down and cry as quietly as possible before he can start going through the rest. There’s a folder of scrawled pencil portraits, too. He finds one of Mum sitting on a pier, peeking back over her shoulder with her hair blowing in the wind. She’s smiling. He can’t remember the last time he saw her smile.

There’s a self portrait that makes him laugh through his tears, because the reflective surface Dad seems to have used as his mirror is a Christmas ornament, so his face is distorted, one eye huge, his tongue out, drawing himself drawing. He keeps that one for sure, and a few of the other ones he thinks he can get away with. An oil pastel of a wooden swing dripping with honeysuckle, a colored pencil drawing of the library, a few studies of people and plants and animals, and another watercolor of the three magpies, sitting in a juniper tree.

There are three magpies painted on his bedroom wall, from back when it was his nursery. Dad painted them right after he was born, before they brought him home from the hospital. They’d waited until he arrived to know what his gender would be. Of course, he went and messed that up, like he did most things. Sometimes he wonders if Dad would be disappointed, or if he’d think it was funny.

They used to be above his crib, and then his bed when he outgrew that, but he moves his bed to the opposite side of his room when he’s fourteen, and covers them with a poster. He thinks for sure Mum’s going to give him an earful about it, but he’s surprised she hasn’t tried to cover them up herself. He supposes it’s not really an issue, since when she is home, it’s not like she spends any time in his bedroom.

And then he's sixteen, and he’s been practicing his watercolor for years at this point. Sometimes, he creeps into the attic when he’s got the house to himself, rifles through Dad’s paintings, studies his style for as long as he can. He’s been old enough not to need a proper nanny for years now, though someone comes to check up on him frequently and make sure he’s got food and necessities, but beyond that he’s got plenty of time alone. He sits in the attic until he's sore from the wooden floor, trying to think of how Dad’s hands might have looked while he worked, the speed and angle of his brush strokes. He doesn’t think he can find anything new at this point, as many times as he’s snuck up here to look at Dad’s work, but out of the blue, he finds what might have been a really nice landscape, if it weren’t marred by fat little handprints in bright yellow and green, as if he’d smeared his hands across the palette the second Da took his eyes off it, and slapped them down in the middle of the paper. He comes back to it a lot, when he spends time in the attic, because when he looks at it, he swears he can hear what he imagines Dad’s laugh sounded like, his voice calling him a little menace with all the fondness in the world.

And then he’s eighteen, and he’s alone on his birthday. Mum calls, tells him she loves him and she would come and visit him later on, so they could do something together, but she couldn’t take the day off. She tells him how proud she is of her daughter being all grown up, and he winces, but keeps his mouth shut.

And then he maybe gets a little bit drunk, drags out his paints and brushes, rifles through the portfolio hidden carefully in the back of his closet, and finds the painting with the juniper tree and the three magpies

He takes another shot to steady his nerves, and paints in a fourth.

Five for silver, six for gold.

He shouldn’t be surprised Mum doesn't come to his graduation, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. She’s busy, she’s always been busy, she’s been busy since he was a toddler.

He was stupid to believe anything he did would be important enough for her to bother with. To believe that he could matter to anyone enough.

Tina’s stepmum had more foresight than he did, inviting him along to her and Tina’s celebration dinner at a fancy restaurant out of town, and he has to take a minute to cry in the bathroom after they proudly present him with a messily wrapped gift and a card that practically explodes with glitter when he open it, but he can’t even pretend to be annoyed because it has his name in it, and while he's trying very hard not to break down crying in public, Tina hugs him so tightly his spine creaks and tells him she couldn’t have wished for a better brother.

When they drop him off at home, his eyes are still red and a bit wet, he’s full of good food and affection, and he’s smiling like an idiot in spite of the fact that he can’t stop sniffling. The heavy sterling silver magpie skull charm rests against his collarbone, the weight comforting in a way he can’t hope to put into words. He'll never forget Tina’s dewy, smiling eyes as she clasped it around his neck and told him proudly, “Now you’ve got two.'"

He falls into bed holding the charm, reluctant to take it off, but knowing he should put it somewhere safe before bed. He exhales a happy sigh, laughing a bit wetly to himself.

And then his phone vibrates in the pocket of his slacks, and his heart seizes in his chest.

He doesn’t have to check the ID to know who it is. Nobody ever calls him, and his eyes flicker anxiously to the pressed dress in its plastic garment bag still hanging untouched on the back of his closet door. He’d given Tina the expensive name-brand heels for her own graduation outfit, because even if he did want them, he couldn’t walk in the damn things anyway. Lucky for him, they wear the same size shoe.

He takes a moment to calm his breathing, but that means he has to fumble to answer the call before it ends, and he winces when he sees two more missed calls in his log. “Mum!” he blurts, his voice instinctively pitching higher. “Hi! How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she tells him easily. “I’m sorry again I couldn’t make it today. There was a—”

“A big project, I know,” he finishes. It’s always a project, or a trip, or a meeting. The details are always scant, but Mum knows how to make it sound big and important and in need of her attention. He’s tried not to be bitter about it, but there’s always been a part of him that wishes, for once, she’d decide he was important enough to need her attention. “It’s okay, Mum.” It’s not, it never was, but it would be selfish of him to tell her that. She’s got enough to worry about.

“Well, I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten, so I had a gift delivered. It should have arrived today.”

He bites back a sigh. He wonders if it would be easier if she had just forgotten. If it would hurt less than knowing she always made the decision not to see him. “Oh, I’ll go check!” he blurts, trying to inject as much enthusiasm into his voice as possible. He rolls out of bed and heads for the door, poking out to check the mailbox. Of course, inside there is a slim, rectangular package, wrapped in tidy brown paper. The address and names are printed on stickers.

He takes it inside with the phone tucked against his shoulder, weighing the box in his hands. It’s light, and he wants to be excited about whatever it is, but he’s suddenly drained from the day, from crying and laughing and crying some more.

The dining room, somehow, has always felt more lonely than anywhere else in the house, and he’s never been able to figure out why, but he puts the package on the table and starts picking at the neat wrapping. Mum is quiet on the other end of the phone, waiting, and Juni wants to break the odd silence, but can’t even begin to think of what to say. He wishes he didn’t bite his nails, because it takes him way too long to break into the pristine paper, and inside is a long red jewelry box. When he lifts the lid, there is a delicate gold necklace resting on a soft velvet pad, understated and objectively lovely, if not really his style, but it’s the note that flutters out of the box that catches his attention. His eyes skim the note, expecting her usual platitudes that he sometimes wonders if she has someone else type for her.

I am so proud of the woman you’ve become.

His breath leaves him in a painful, strangled rush, his lungs squeezing tight in his chest. And before Mum can speak, he blurts "I can't take this," trailed by a ragged sob.

“Of course you can,” she says gently, kindly. “I know how you get about expensive gifts, but really, it’s no trouble—”

His head fills with screaming static when she calls him what she’s always called him, what she doesn’t know better than to call him, because he’s never told her. He’s never had the chance, it’s never been the right time, it felt wrong not to do it in person, but whenever he sees her in person he feels like he shouldn’t waste the time with her by bringing up something so…

“My name is Juniper!” It explodes out of him, louder than he’s ever been with her, and it stuns her into silence. “I’m not your daughter!” he cries desperately, “I’m your son. You can’t be proud of the woman I’ve become, because I’m not a woman!” He sounds insane, he knows he does, shrill and frantic, but his heart is hammering so hard he feels dizzy, the walls are yawning wide around him, the dining room feels huge and so empty and so bleak. He’s never felt more alone in this dark, quiet house he’s spent his entire life rattling around in than he does in this exact moment, and it’s suffocating. His phone drops from shaking fingers onto the floor, and he drops with it, curling into a ball and struggling to remember how to breathe, dizzily hoping he won’t need to go scrambling for his inhaler. His fingers clench so tightly around the heavy silver charm he’s almost worried he’s going to snap the simple leather cord, but he needs to ground himself or he feels like he’ll dissolve entirely.

He hears Mum calling the name that’s not his, and when he finally manages to fumble his phone with nerveless fingers, he winces seeing the screen is cracked. “I’m sorry,” he sobs weakly, his eyes burning with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He can’t even be sure what he’s apologizing for, but he knows he has to, especially when he slams the end call button and buries his face in his knees so he can cry alone in the dark.

Seven for a secret, never to be told.

Juni’s skin is starting to get clammy, but he’s too comfortable to move. Eventually, he’s going to have to, if for nothing else than to get up and get cleaned up, but for now, he’s happy, if a little chilly. He nuzzles into the soft curls dusted across Mason’s chest, and lets his eyelids fall to half-mast, just open enough to absently count the freckles hidden under the chest hair, inevitably lose count, and start counting again. Mason smells good, cooling sweat and sandalwood, and dozy as he is, it takes a moment for Juni to realize he doesn’t really smell like smoke at all anymore. His room doesn’t smell lke smoke, either, he realizes. His heart thuds hard behind his ribs.

He gets distracted when a shiver rolls over him, the chill suddenly overwhelming against his sticky skin, and he curls further into Mason’s chest in an attempt to leach some of his warmth.

Mason clicks his tongue, and Juni’s whole body stiffens, worry zinging into his gut to rattle around there like a bird in a too-small cage. Mason shifts underneath him, and he starts to roll away, to apologize, to get out of his hair, before a strong hand clasps the back of his neck.

“Hold still,” Mason grunts, sitting up and patting around for the edge of the blanket. He pulls it out from under them both, which almost sends the detective rolling off the bed against his will this time, but Mason's hand shifts down to spread across his lower back and hold him steady until he can get them both tucked underneath.

He flops back against the pillows again, one arm tucked under his head and the other loose at his side, and slowly, cautiously, Juni crawls his way under it. The hand lands on his hip and squeezes, and Juni settles his head back on the vampire’s chest just in time to hear the pleased little rumble there. He flushes down to his chest and bites his lip, distracting himself by petting at Mason’s chest hair.

And then he pokes his flat, brown nipple and says, “Boop!” on some stupid impulse, and giggles like an idiot.

Mason scoffs and rolls his eyes, but shifts so that Juni’s thigh hitches up over his. “Keep that up, sweetheart, and we’ll be going into round two sooner rather than later.” Juni can feel the truth in that statement against his thigh, and he blushes so hotly he knows Mason can feel it at every point their bodies are touching. He might be approaching supernova levels of heat when Mason smugly adds, “Well, round two for me. Three for you.”

He hides his face in Mason’s chest with a long groan. “I’m going to explode,” he declares. “I’m going to collapse like a dying star.”

Mason laughs, sharp and startled and shockingly bright, and Juni’s head shoots up so he can see his face. His hair is a mess, but of course it still looks amazing, hanging around his face in loose, sweat-damp spirals. His vulpine grey eyes are crinkling at the corners, even his sharp nose wrinkling in a way that makes Juni’s heart almost stop. And his mouth, usually either pinned into a scowl, or twisted into a sly (and stupidly attractive) smirk, is curled into a smile, breathtaking in its open softness.

God, I love you, Juni wants to cry, his heart pounding in counterpoint to the desperate, silent declaration he traps behind his teeth by digging them into his lower lip so hard he’s almost afraid he’s going to make himself bleed. And it doesn’t stop. I love you, I love you, I love you drums in his chest, hums through his blood, and when Mason catches him looking, he reaches out to push the tangled forelock of curls hanging in Juni’s eyes out of his face, cupping his cheek to pull him into a kiss. Juni shivers and braces his hand on Mason’s chest, feeling the vampire’s heart thumping there, steady and stable and achingly familiar. His own matches it beat for beat, and thankfully his mouth is too occupied for the pulsing plea of love me, love me, please love me to spill out. So he dives into it, clings to it, and when Mason breaks away to let him breathe, Juni buries his mouth against the arch of his throat instead, presses messy kisses to his collarbones, his chest, his shoulders, throttles the words before they can escape him and pushes them into touches instead. Touches can’t damn him the way words can.

There’s a soft, shameful part of him he ignores like he always has that whispers to him that maybe, just maybe, if he pours enough of himself into every kiss, every touch, that the words will finally be understood. That the weak little part of him he buries deeper and deeper every time it cries out will finally be seen, and answered, and cradled tenderly in someone’s strong, freckled hands.

But until then, it will sit there in his chest under lock and key and ache, like all his secrets do.

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mimssides · 3 years

Text

Never Met You

Chapter 10: Revelation

Things will reveal themselves in the least expected moments. They will be there when they are most needed.

“We still have no clue for where as to start with our investigation,” Virgil sighed and put the letter opener back on Janus’s desk.

Janus sat on the chair behind it, while Roman paced around the room and Logan sat on the armchair in the corner of the room. Roman was muttering silent curses under his breath and Janus watched him closely. They had been sitting together for a few hours. He and Logan had retold over and over again how they had met Green but nothing out of the ordinary had happened that day, except for Green’s arrival, of course. The day before was also quite unremarkable to the point of both Logan and Janus not having anything important to say about it.

“I am aware Virgil,” Logan said and scratched his eyebrow as he looked over to the window. It had the view to the inner courtyard, where the makeshift medic tents had been put up. “But there is nothing else I can tell you. We didn’t learn anything about his background from himself, so we have to reconstruct who he might be from the things we have seen ourselves.”

“Well, we know that he had a partner. Possibly, a husband.”

Janus, Logan and Roman stared at Virgil, who took the letter opener in his hands once more and fiddled with the blade.

“A husband?” Logan asked with a shivering voice.

Virgil glanced over to him and nodded.

“Yes. He mentioned him. No details but that one existed. I assumed he… He never mentioned this to you?”

Logan shook his head and stared down at his left hand. Did he imagine it or was there a band of lighter skin around his middle finger? He blinked and the image was gone, the skin just as brown as the rest of his hand.

A loud stomp almost shook Logan out of his chair and he looked over to Roman who stood with his back turned to them. His hands were balled into fists. For the first time Logan noticed how broad Roman’s shoulders were now that they were held with tension.

Dramatically, Roman turned around and glared at the others as he announced: “We know him! We know him and he obviously knows us! He knew how to calm me down, he knows exactly how to get on J’s nerves, he knows what all of Vee’s nods mean and he knows everything what you think Lo! And so do you! You just throw each other a look and it’s clear! You just know and it’s like it’s all we should need to know in order to figure out who he is but there is something preventing us to make the last connection and it’s driving me mad!”

“I can see that Roman,” Janus said and vaguely motioned against Roman’s hands, “but what are we supposed to do? We have nothing to go off and-”

“He knew where about the panic room. He brought me there. He knew it was safe. He knows the castle; he knew the courtyard but he was no servant. And we can’t remember it because of a curse.”

With that Janus stood up. His brows were furrowed deeply and his lips were pulled into a harsh snarl. Roman growled at the expression and pressed his hands against the side of his head while shaking it vehemently.

“You can’t deny this anymore! It has to be a cruse!”

“Don’t lightly talk about magic, which has been used to eradicate my ancestors. The only ones who would dare to use such powers would be the unnamed and she hasn’t been here since months before Green’s appearance!” Janus hissed.

Roman wasn’t affected by Janus’s anger. In the contrary, he seemed to get even more worked up and turned away towards the door.

“Come on Janus,” Roman said as he gripped the door handle, “this thing is affecting me. Which means it had to be her. No other magic is strong enough to do so.”

Roman pressed the handle down and left the room. Immediately Janus went after him and both Logan and Virgil followed rather confused about what the two had just talked about. They watched Janus getting next to Roman and how he opened his mouth to chide the prince but stopped. His expression changed and he silently kept walking next to Roman who steered towards the backroom in the servants’ wing.

Nobody said anything when Roman opened the door and entered. Nobody made a noise when Roman paced around the room for a few minutes. They just came inside and Virgil closed the door as he was the last one to enter and waited with the others for Roman to get a grip on himself again. He watched his partner walk in circles and eventually stop in front of the wall opposite of the door. He was staring at it and Virgil exchanged a worried look with Janus.

“Ro?” Virgil began cautiously and walked up to him. “I know you wanna solve this but there is nothing in this room. He has been inside here only once; we won’t find any clue here.”

Roman stepped closer towards the wall and put his hand on one of the stones.

“This wall opens.”

“What?”

Perplexed Virgil stepped back. Frantically Roman moved a chest to the side and again put his hand on the same stone as before and pushed down on it. A low creaking sound. The wall slid aside and opened a passage into a dark tunnel.

For a moment four men just stared inside. Then the prince went inwards unbothered by the dark, his eyes adjusting effortlessly and taking on a red colour. His ears were taking in every sound, he knew immediately that the light steps just behind him belonged to Janus, that the heftier but muted ones were Virgil’s and that the hasted loud ones were Logan’s at the end of the group.

“Roman, where are we going! We can’t see!”

Janus had grabbed his arm and Roman halted. He turned and looked down to his friend. In his head something was revolting. Revolting and trying to get his memories back but it wasn’t working right. Instead, he turned to the side and gripped a torch which had been placed in a torch holder. He didn’t question why he knew exactly where the holder was or why it was hanging rather low but just took it and rubbed the top of it against his palm, flame enlighten immediately. He held the torch up over his head for a moment and looked back to the others before he resumed in walking down the tunnel.

There were crossings and other walls which slid aside when Roman pressed them. Nothing of it seemed unfamiliar to him and he knew that that alone should have freaked him out. Yet it didn’t and he followed the way he somehow knew he had to go. In his focus and the others’ worry none of them noticed that on several stones sat little coal drawings. They didn’t notice that there were little signatures beneath them, one from Roman and another they would not have been able to read, not because the language or scripture was different, but because their brain would refuse to put the letters together to a word.

They walked down into a dead end with a wooden door in the middle. Roman opened it, stepped inside with no hesitation and set the torch into a torch holder to his left as if he had done so a million times before.

As if he had done so before? Roman shook his head. The others entered behind him but he just looked at the room. It was a square room, maybe ten feet long and wide, a worn-down couch was standing against the wall in front of him, a little shelf left to it, with books and pencils and coal sitting inside them. On the wall of the door, close to the torch, was an easel, a blank canvas sitting on it.

“I have been here,” Roman mumbled.

He hadn’t noticed how Janus had stepped to his side and flinched when he said: “I would hope so! Leading us through a tunnel system you didn’t know anything about wouldn’t be something I approve of. Also, when have you even found these tunnels? Why am I not aware of them?”

Roman didn’t respond. His eyes had deviated to the wall to the right and his breath was stuck in his throat. Silently, he walked towards it. Walked to the wall with a portrait hanging on it. With a family portrait. Oil pastels. Vibrant colours and strong gradients, which made the four people in it look like they would come alive any second now.

Janus inhaled sharply as he saw it. Virgil’s eyes went wide. Logan gasped and leaned against the wall.

In the portrait they saw a man with light brown skin, short brown locks, eerily green eyes, and a well-kept beard standing next to a woman with slightly darker skin, dark brown hair in a beautiful bun, brown eyes and in front of them two boys, looking identical with brown skin, dark curls and eerily green eyes. They all were wearing regal clothing, man and woman wearing each a crown which hadn’t been worn in over two decades at this point.

It was a portrait of King Aneas, Queen Rhea, the young Prince Roman and…

“It’s him,” Roman choked out.

Janus shook his head and pressed his hand against his forehead: “No - how – we – how did we never see the resemblance? It- it can’t be! It can’t. It can’t?”

Roman’s head was pulsating and he let himself fall back on the couch. Virgil was beside him immediately, holding his hand and trying to not think too much about what he was seeing right now. Janus kept staring at the picture, at the boy in front of Aneas, with the green tunic and the wide grin with so much more confidence than Roman’s.

And Logan pushed himself off the wall and slowly stepped towards the picture. He looked at the colours at the way they blended into each other and he recognized the technique. He saw the hand putting the colours down on the canvas in front of his inner eye. He saw the same hand holding coal and sketching him. He heard a voice telling him to sit naturally. Heard the voice asking him fondly teasing if he could draw a nude. And he heard himself say in a just as fond teasing way that he could if he could behave himself.

“He drew this. He used to draw me…” Logan whispered and he felt his memory slowly breaking free. “He draws things he sees in his nightmares and burns them. He moves so much in his sleep. He has almost threw me off the bed when we started sharing. He doesn’t like it when he has to sleep alone and he usually comes to check on me when I take a nap. He – he didn’t-”

Logan panted. The day before. The day before Green.

That day-

“He didn’t come check on me when I took a nap.”

***

“And there you are.”

██mus froze. It had been a normal day. He had spent the morning with Logan and had a meeting over the alliance talks with Janus after that. Lunch had been calm and nice, Logan had excused himself soon after dinner to take a nap because he felt a little tired. ██mus had taken the time to get back in his room and relax for a while. He had just wanted to go and check on his husband but got caught up in the view over the gardens, the rose maze, his home.

██mus gulped and turned around. His grin was maniacal as he stared into the glowing green eyes of the Dragon Witch.

“There I am!” ██mus cackled and looked her over with a wicked grin. “What has you come here to my humble chambers, Dragon Bitch?”

The creature scowled at the name. She stood far taller than ██mus, her greyish skin, the black flames miming hair and the deep red coat underlining how foreign and out of place she was amongst humans. She was a creature of nightmares and the underworld, her name a testament to the creatures she has eradicated.

“Don’t test me, child. You will pay for your arrogance!” she growled.

██mus grinned as sweat began to form on the back of his neck. It made no sense that she was here now. She was only allowed in the castle at certain times. Janus knew the schedule by heart and he would have been with ██mus at all time had one of her visits been close to come.

“Oh, will I?” ██mus hummed and wracked his brain for the reason why she would be here.

And the reason took his breath and smile. The creature saw his change and began to grin. She walked towards him, held her hand under his jaw and forced him to look up. He had to control himself to not snap for air.

“Who was stupid enough to make a deal with you?”

Her chuckle was wicked and her eyes glimmered with satisfaction.

“Oh, look at that,” she hummed and let her thumb stroke over his cheek. “Your father’s desperation and your mother’s rage. I didn’t think I would ever see such a delicious last expression ever again.”

██mus’s heart stopped. He grappled her wrist and pressed it down from his face.

“What did you just say?”

“Last expression, my dear,” she answered unimpressed and pulled her hand out of his grip and began to pace through the room. “I was ordered to kill the last demon blood in this kingdom. I am here to get rid of your treacherous family once and for all.”

“You killed our parents. You killed my father for making your powers ineffective everywhere but within our kingdom’s boarders.”

██mus was glaring at the Dragon Witch who simply raised an eyebrow.

“Oh child, you should know we can’t do anything against our own kind without a deal. Someone sent me. And someone sent me again to kill you. The last demon blood-”

Loud and hysteric cackling stopped her words. ██mus was overcome with grief. With disbelieve. His father who had decided to stop all the bloodshed his family had brought over these lands, his father who had never shed a single droplet of blood despite having hungered for it, his father who had been nothing but kind to his people and the other kingdoms had been assassinated for the blood he had been born with.

But there was also relief. Relief in the fact that contracts with demons had to be followed closely and ██mus knew that she had made a grave error.

“Already breaking down? I expected more of you, Thea,” she snapped at him.

He regained his composure and tilted his head to the side. With a smirk he began to match her pacing, both of them walking in circles around each other.

“Oh,” ██mus hummed, “I am not breaking down, dearest demon. I just think you might have made a deal you can’t fulfil here.”

“Why would that be?”

“Tell me what the contract is. Not the contractor, I know the rules.”

She hissed but complied: “’I, the Dragon Witch, shall end the life of the King of Theana, the last demon blood in the lands. I shall do so as brutally and cruelly as I please.’ They were almost kind this time; They didn’t even tell me to go for your lousy husband.”

██mus almost snapped at the comment over Logan but kept his anger to himself and simply huffed with a grin.

“Your deal is faulty. Because I may be King of Theana, but I am not the last demon blood.”

“What?”

██mus eyes glowed at her rage and he said ever so pleased: “It’s my brother.”

"̶̨̮̖̹̤̋̌͆̏̕̕W̶̘͓͋̿̽͜ĥ̸̠̤̬̮͇͖̻͓̓̅͛̇̄͒̂͘͜a̸͕͔̦̦̔̿̔́͑̃͌̚t̴̹̃͂̾̏̐̓̂͌!̴̳͖̬͙̝͕̈́̑͊͛͊̌͆̽̚?̴̨͍͕̥̦̪̣̔̐̈́̓́̐̚̚͜͠!̸̨̼͉̫̣̯̯͐"̴̗̬͈͚̞̼̙͓̑͜

The Dragon Witch screamed. ██mus jolted back, hands shooting up in front of him and eyes opened widely to see what she was going to do next. Angrily she threw her arms in the air, screeching and revolting under the revelation she just had and went straight forward for ██mus’s neck. He couldn’t do anything but choked as her fingers grappled him against the wall and she brought their faces close to each other.

"̷̳̩̼͚̲̥͙̩̪͐̈́̃̒̌̆Y̵͍̟̣͙̹̠̝̱̰̆̌̅̍̽̄͒̔̕ͅo̷̧̠̺̔͐͒̆̈̓͝u̴̢̧͖͒̒̎̇̔̾ ̷̖̟̤̲̯͕́͆̒ͅs̸̡͈̦̲̞͕̖̙̤̎͊ͅp̴̬͛̐̎͒̌̕ǎ̴̪̘̼̘̲̗͍́n̵̡̺̪̲̬͂̈̀͒͌̽̕ ̶̫͙̗͍̯͉̍̄̉̓̊̋o̷̖͗̉̏̇ḟ̷̢͇͚͍̹̗̮͚̳̬͒̍͊̒͆̂ ̶̣̣̂͊̇̑̓͒̂t̵̫̩͓̪̥̞̠̥̩͊̋̀̉̿͌̉h̴̫̲̱͋̊̚a̵̙͍͔̥̼̮̹͖̞͑͝t̸͖̉̊̂̔̉̅̔̎̅̕ ̸̻̗̯̜͚̪̤̟͎̲͗́͂̄̕͝͝͠s̶̞͇̾̎t̶͕̥͌͋u̶̧̡͔̠̝̎͝͝p̸͖͋i̴̢̺̝̪͖̫͕̥͐̅ḑ̷̧̪̯̭̏̋̑̑̊̊̓̉̒ ̶̡̛̱̝͍̪̹͕̾̑̓̚͝w̸̧̜̮̰͔͕͕̄̏̑̄͝ò̷̪̩̳̈́̑̎̎̉͒̿̚m̶̧̳̳̫̺̈̈́̈̒a̸̫͓͈̗̦̱̥̽̽̎͛͝͝n̶͖͍͇̓͌̑̇͗̆̊̈́͂͠!̷̝͍͖͎̂ ̴̤̅Y̵̥̱̚ǫ̵̦̦̺͇̫̗̠͛̄̽́̏̉̄͐̍̌͜u̸͈̭̼̥͑̏̚ ̵̧̻̤̓͝ĉ̷͔̖͍̰̘̈́̎͆͜r̷̂̏̂̂̄ͅe̷̢͍̰͇̱̪̻̎̃ͅa̴̡̨͙̟̤̲͆̎͊͘͜͝ͅṫ̴̢̡̼̠̦̞̝̘ḯ̴̢͙͕͑̐̓o̶͎̗̱̘̞̾̎̂̈́͒͝͠͝͠n̴̡̢̮̟͚̩̩̦̽͌̓͗͊͝ ̵̨̨̭͘o̷̠͙̮̮͍̹̯̪̿̋̇̔͌͛̆͆̚f̵̢̪̱͖̥̬͕͈̎̈́͌̆̍̚͝ ̶͕̼̇̀̾̿̔̓̔f̷̮̝̮̟̮̦̔̀̄̇̎͗͘͝͝ơ̵̤̈́͂͐̈́̇̂̔́̓o̴̧͙̥̩̮̓̎͂͊̋͒͘͜l̷͕̳̞͌̄̍̃ị̶̯̈́̆̽͠s̸͚̥̗̝͎̲̖̖̦̟͆̄̓̓̔͝h̴̫̼͑̀̈́͋ ̷̢̪͆͆̌́͋̕l̸̨̧̙͇̱̖͚̠͒͑͂̒̽̽̐o̷̞͙͕̜̰̽͌͆̊̿̔̽͜͝v̵̞̳̜̝͎̅̇̌̾̓͘͜e̵͓̼̥̭̻̭̫͍͕̟̾̽͛͑̊̽̐͠!̸͔͈̘̪̟͓̮͒͂͛̃͆̽̔̏̈́̚ ̷̨̛̰͙̗̈́̄͝Y̶̫̝̩̰̼̬͚̣͌̏̇͐o̸̥͈̲̱͔͆̓̐̃͌̋̾̈͒̉ŭ̷̧̝̈́͐̊̐͘͠ ̸̩̦͚̰̼̖͝k̵̢͙͕̹̺̺͑̓̓͆ͅe̷̯̼͇̖̪̎̑͊͆͛͌̚͝ẻ̵̡̜̰̞͙͎͉͎͓͛̓̈̈́͆̚͠p̷̨̧͉͍͇̙͉̼̯̘̈́͗͋̔̈̂͒̆͠͝ ̴̼̘̏̏͆́̇͘̕͠m̸̨̲̱̻͖̮͇̝̃̉̈́̓͆̉͗̎̓͘e̴̮̗͚͎̬̻̳̋̓̾̀̒̀̍̿ ̴͍̲̙̬̪̮̺̮̈̍̿͜f̶̨͎̈́r̵̺̪͎̼̀̽̏̔o̶̭̼̟̼̻̥̓͐m̵̧̺̯̼̣̙̙̹̱͕̀̅ ̸̧̧͖͉̤͎͙͈̪̌́͌͂́̽̀̽ͅm̶̹̜̘͌̅y̴̡̰̘̣͇̳̯̦͊̌͐̓̿͂́̕͝͠ ̷̧̨̰̘̘͍̪̣̽̈̑̈́́ř̷̫͗̊̆ȅ̶̢̡͚̗͍͈̩̜͙́̽̒̒̽͌w̶̰͚̫̱̼͖̔͋̽̈́́̌͑ȧ̵̞̙̖̻̫͙̤͙̱̮͌ṙ̷̢͓̘̟͚̠̗̼͈̣̊̔̑͆d̸̥̫͙̂͑̈ ̴̧̛̼͓̹̠͔̳̇͂̉̅͌͘͜͜͜͝͠y̷̡̨̢̬̘̹̮̳̱͇͑̾à̶̡̙̝͂̎͊̔͒̀̃͝n̵̪͍̹̫̦͇̟̦̪̖̓̏̃̆͊̿͝d̷̺̘̯͔̱̬̫́̑͜ ̵̨̧͕̮̩̩̞̜̼͚̀̈́̇̂̿̈́͆͝͝y̴͕̜͈̙̆͜ơ̸̧͕̜̻̗͔̖̮̣̣̎͐̒͝u̸̡̼̖̰̇͌ ̴̢͎̘̳̗̈k̷̻̟̦͇͕͎̆̈́̈́̈́͆̕é̶͈͙̏̐̅e̴̢̪͖͇̻͔̥̻̼̓͘p̷̢̺͙̙̐͝ͅ ̸̡̲͎͕̜̳̘̩̙̄̅m̸̧̞̞͚̲͙̓̌̄͐e̷̲̪̜̤̗͕̍͂̉̈́̍̐͝͝ ̸̢̲͖̖̥͕̻̦͕̫̆f̷̧̙͉̭̲̮̗͙͒̇r̸̼͘ͅo̶͇̭̙̟̦͔͔̩͊̈͂̈́̀̓̓͝m̶͈̦͍̟̽͒̀͒͗͌̃͊̎ ̷̟̊̿̃͆͂͊͊m̷̻͕̠̺͓̟͒̎y̸̪͇͇̺̺̪͗̔ ̶̛͎̈́̓̋͂̊̓̕f̸̬̟̩̫͙̠̩̱͍̙͝r̸̳͇̩̱̘̝͓̲̘͂̓̾͊̌͛͑͜͝e̵̡̺̫̲̜͍̠̱̘̺͛̀͊͝͝e̴̪̦̠͙̱͕̗̋̍̄͑̇͝͠d̷̮͖̝̟̩̞̿͂̈̐̇̚ǒ̶̰̻̻̓̈͑̈́̒m̵̧̨͍̖̫̗͔̏ͅ!̵̨̖̲̎̓͗̅͒̚͠"̶̢͔̰̣͊̌͑̈́̆̐̈́͝ͅ

██mus yapped for air and she lessened her grip. He took a deep breath and grinned dangerously at her.

“Shitty being an incompetent demon bitch, huh? Couldn’t be me-”

She screamed right in his face, the breath smelling rotten and toxic as it hit his nostrils. A clicking sound got lost in the noise.

“Oh, I will make you pay, wrenched thing, you,” she whispered sweetly and ██mus felt his stomach turn. “I will kill the king with demon blood. He’s not next in line now, but he will be if you don’t exist, won’t he?”

“If you kill me-”

“No.”

Her voice was wicked and smooth. Sugar in a deadly dose.

“I won’t kill you. I will erase your existence from their minds. I will make your precious advisor, your best friend, forget you. I will make your people, your most treasured people, forget you. I will make your brother, your last living blood, forget you. I will make your husband, the only one who you ever dared to ask for his love, forget you. And you will suffer seeing them, knowing them and not being able to say a single word about it. You will see your brother die as a king he never wanted to be. And it will be all your fault.”

██mus’s eyes were wide with horror. From the words he just heard, from the realization he just, but mostly from the look Logan shot him over the creature’s shoulder. And his terror grew as Logan shouted in white rage: “Let go of him!”

She was faster as Logan charged forward. She lifted ██mus from the ground holding her fingers up to snap. Logan’s look changed. ██mus tried to reach his arm out for him but he was already too high up the ground.

It dawned them that it was too late.

“Logan!” ██mus cried.

“RE-”

Snap.

***

“REMUS!”

___

Link for AO3, Taglist, Masterlist, and next Chapters are in my first reblog!

#intrulogical #logan sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #almost choking #curse #swearing #threats #distorted text #capslock #fantasy au #Never Met You #eir writes #please reblog

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cockasinthebird · 3 years

Text

Laced up and ready to get dirty

Fingers tighten around the leather of the steering wheel, tensing till his knuckles go white then relaxing again. Deep breath in, then a long exhale. In… and out...

Steve is excited and thrilled and eager but also completely, devastatingly… nervous.

He angles the rearview mirror to look at himself and fidgets with his hair- not that it needs to be retouched for the fifteenth time today already, but it buys him time. Precious time to waste away on hesitation, and the longer he gets to hesitate, the less likely he is to actually.... He glances down the tan, buttoned up trench coat and triple checks that it’s closed all the way up and pulls on the belt to tighten it around his waist till he loses breath, JUST to be safe and secure.

It was a stupid spur-of-the-moment idea he got last week when he was visiting Hawkins to clear out whatever was left of his childhood home; his parents selling it now that Steve doesn’t live there anymore, all with such a lack of grace that shows they never really cared for that house, as if it was nothing more than a lavish cage for their only child. In a bag of clothes marked for donation - his father’s idea of philanthropy - Steve found an old Burberry trench coat, truly as fashionable and fitting now as it was back then, only difference being that as an adult who pays for everything himself, this coat would now be the most expensive thing in his and Billy’s entire apartment. Maybe he should have been more grateful for all that he had back then, or so his father would say whenever he found time to reprimand his son, but that wasn’t what he needed.

“Arrh, fuck!” Steve groans and rubs his face in hopes of recentering himself on the task at hand. He could mope around and be sad about his terrible father later, right now there’s more important things to do.

Such as opening the door to the same old BMW, the car soon on its last legs, having only survived this many years thanks for Billy’s expertise truly. It’s a bit colder out on the street than Steve expected, or maybe just a bit too windy, but he isn’t exactly wearing it to stay warm as much as he is to stay covered.

The hem of it grazes against the top of his suede boots as he takes decisive but careful steps around his car, now facing the open carport that exposes the inner works of the small service shop. It’s been almost a year since Billy got hired here as a mechanic, and it is possibly the happiest Steve’s ever seen him. Neither of them ever dreamed of big and important lives, no wanting to be a doctor or president or astronaut. All they wanted to be was happy, and they’ve found it in the simplest way possible.

He spots Billy immediately, past all the sweaty men, scattered car parts, and open hoods, he sees his boyfriend rise up from having just been shoulders deep in the guts of a shiny pontiac, coveralls tied around his waist, his white tank soaked with sweat, arms stained black with oil and grease.

The sight of it all sends delightful shivers down Steve’s entire body, ears to toes, and as he watches Billy wipe away sweat from his brow, well suddenly Steve’s far more confident in what he came here to do.

It shows in the way he marches towards Billy, who turns with a cocked brow at the assertive footsteps approaching him, where once he sees that it’s Steve demanding his attention, the most effortlessly smooth and charming smile spreads across his face, lids heavy to match the way Steve stares - something so salacious in the way his eyes glide up and down Billy’s dirty body, shiny with sweat.

“What are you doing here, princess?” Billy asks in a low and gravelly tone, quickly glancing around to see if anyone heard.

“Hmmm well…” Steve coos and plays lightly with the belt of his coat, the way his fingers flirt with the fabric hopefully clear with his intent, then speaks bluntly, “I woke up kinda horny today, y’know? Thought I’d save it for later- for when you come home, and tried distracting myself with doing the dishes or vacuum or anything really, but my hand just kept going down to jerk myself off-”

“Jesus Christ Stevie,” Billy breathes harshly.

“-and so eventually I wound up back in bed, on my knees, three fingers deep in me-” Steve wiggles said fingers for certain emphasis. “-but it just wasn’t enough. I need something thicker and veinier.”

With every word his stomach ties knots around itself, yet his dick is filled with life at how risky this is, with how much he needs to feel Billy pounding him sore and weak.

“And what do you want me to do about that?” Billy licks his lips, a hand reaching down to inconspicuously cup at his growing erection.

“I was hoping you could help me with my little problem? Ensuring that my engine is properly lubricated,” Steve’s naughty little smile fails at his own words, growing wider and betraying the sexy facade.

But it doesn’t seem that Billy minds as he laughs a bit too loud, biting his lower lip as if that would help keep his own smile more casual than one filled with exuberant joy. “You’re a menace- that was absolutely horrible,” he chuckles and brings both hands to his hips.

“Don’t be mean, I worked on it all the way here!” Steve’s own amusement bubbling over and into his voice.

Billy dares take a step closer, eyes slipping from Steve’s lips down his neck, pausing where he should be able to see the collar of a shirt. “You don’t have to try so hard for me, baby. Just tell me what you need, and maybe I can be of assistance.”

Steve’s expression dips back into something most indecent, his gaze burning with desire, pink lips parted as he slowly enunciates, “I need you to fuck me, hard and rough. I want your hands all over me, want your cock in me so fucking bad I think I might go insane without it. Please Billy, I-I can’t wait till you get home,” desperation seeps in as his tone goes almost whiny.

And Billy gapes like a fish, lips hesitating around emptiness as he tries to formulate thoughts. He glances around the shop, up at a clock hanging above the “Employees Only” sign, brow furrowed as he contemplates his options, all the while Steve waits as patiently as he can, pulling the belt tighter around his waist as if it would magically open up if he didn’t.

“Why don’t we… step into my office, and I’ll see what I can do?”

Unfortunately by “office” Billy meant the blindingly bright, claustrophobically small employee bathroom. It’s maybe 6 by 6 feet large and not at all what Steve had in mind, but he’s not going to complain about the abnormally large mirror above the sink. And at least it looks clean… enough.

Steve’s quick to turn to Billy as soon as the lock clicks, grabbing on to the white tank and using it to guide him to sit down on the toilet.

Billy, however, disagrees with that immediately and moves to touch Steve, who just as swiftly grabs his wrist, restricting his reach.

"Billy-" he starts off a bit agitated, but smoothes into something more agreeable, "Baby, if you get my coat dirty, you'll be eating cornflakes till you can afford to send it to the dry cleaner."

The way Billy laughs at that is mocking in a sense, but his shitty grin simply reminds Steve of the thrill he felt back in high school, after they started fucking around but before they became serious about one another.

"Forgot what a priss you can be sometimes, princess," he drawls and leans back, licking his lips as he settles with something vaguely familiar to patience.

“Hmmm…” Steve hums, slowly untying the belt of his coat. “You like that I’m high maintenance sometimes.”

He smoothly slips out of the heavy boots.

“Makes you feel real good about yourself though, getting to fuck someone with above average standards.”

In a show of how agile and limber he is, Steve stretches out his leg where the coat parts in front, and hooks his heel over Billy’s shoulder. Who in turn stares with a bit wider eyes at the silky soft, pastel pink nylon stockings clinging to Steve’s shin. Billy’s grip on his own thighs tighten with self restraint, the urge to touch the smoothness of Steve nearly unbearable.

“Did you shave your legs?”

“I did, for you.” Steve generally doesn’t care about leg hair, but found it a bit awkward looking when his thick, dark hairs stuck out of the bright nylon. “Wanna see what else I’ve shaved?”

Leisurely but with gentle pressure, Steve lets his foot glide down Billy’s chest, over his abs and all the sweat stains of his tank, past where the sleeves of his coveralls have been tied together, till he finds Billy’s hard cock tenting already, eliciting a lurid little hiss as he rubs it with the sole of his foot.

“God, you’re so easy, baby,” Steve speaks low with intent, drawing circles, revelling in the choked groans. “Getting you hard like this is effortless.”

At an all too agonizing pace, deliberate and mean, Steve unbuttons his coat from the bottom and up, exposing more and more of his thighs, the build up thrilling him as he watches how Billy sweats and struggles to remain dormant. Oh how he cannot wait to get the coat off and let his boyfriend ravage him completely, even the mere thought of it makes his own prick throb and beg for attention.

Billy stares with the most attention he’s probably ever shown any one person, eyes following the movement of Steve’s fingers, up and up and up, until a hint of lace gets revealed at the end of the stocking, cute and floral and feminine, a dozen small roses hugging the pale flesh, shiny straps leading further up to hide beneath the tan of the trench coat.

Steve caresses his thigh, hooking a finger beneath the strap and pulls it up only to let it snap back against his skin loudly, the sound reverberating, all the while never looking away from how Billy watches with intense hunger.

The burning gaze affixed to fingers follow right along, as Steve makes a bit of a jump and starts unbuttoning from the top now. One by one, till he runs his index along the hem, up to where it grazes against his neck, to pull slowly so that one shoulder can slip out, uncovering the strap of what can only be a bra, reaching down to hold on to delicate lace.

Harsh sighs escapes Billy as he attempts to control his breathing and himself, tongue darting out to wet his lips - Steve can feel the way Billy’s fat cock pumps full of blood beneath his foot.

There’s only two buttons left, and as one of them falls free, the coat drops down to bunch around Steve’s waist and the sink he’s leaning against, putting the pink, lacy bralette on full display; roses and leafs arranged into small triangles that sits tight against Steve’s pecks, his nipples just barely visible beneath the gorgeous and elegant fabric.

“Stevie, babe, please, I’m going to explode here,” Billy complains in an almost hilariously irritated manner, raising his hand up towards Steve’s thigh-

“No touching yet, I’m not done.” Steve swiftly kicks away that dirty hand.

“Thought you needed me to fuck you so bad,” the mocking response comes as Billy’s hand retreats to dig into his pocket.

And Steve pauses with his fingers around the final button that will unravel everything. “Well yes, but the thrill of anticipation gets me so hard.”

He pushes it out, wraps his hands around the coat and slowly pulls it apart, like a curtain revealing a true masterpiece of craftsmanship. And if Billy’s eyes were wide before, they’re now threatening to pop out at the sight of the garter belt attached to the stockings hugging Steve’s waist perfectly, and a thong matching the bralette in shape and lace, that might once have had a chance of containing all that Steve is, but now his long, full dick reaches up towards the belt with hard pride.

“Holy fucking shit,” Billy gapes, “I didn’t forget our anniversary or something, did I?”

Steve chuckles and blushes slightly at the attention and knowledge of just how stunning he looks. “Can’t I just surprise my boyfriend for no reason other than fun?”

“I’m sure you can, but I’m also sure you have some ulterior motive… not that I’m complaining.”

The sly smirk across Steve’s face suits him well as he slips out of the coat entirely, and reaches out to hang it on the hook attached to the bathroom door. Now fully exposed before Billy, Steve spreads his legs a bit further, runs his fingers lightly over the lace of his bra, and bats his eyes slowly.

Who stands up just as slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s still awaiting orders, as if Steve will tell him to stop and sit down any second now. When he reaches out Steve grabs his wrist, firm and assertive, but doesn’t linger in that moment; brings Billy’s hand up and up to touch his cheek, brushing fingers against pale skin and defiling it with dark smudges of oil. Still Steve doesn’t relent as he guides the hand down again till the rough palm presses against his throat, and Billy takes the opportunity immediately to squeeze.

A gasp hurries out at the sudden tightness around his airway and Steve’s eyes rolls back with the pleasure that jolts through his system, making his already painfully hard prick pulsate worse.

“Fuck, Billy…”

The other hand lands on his thigh, besmirching the pretty pink there, pushing into the soft flesh. As Steve closes his eyes to enjoy the euphoric, brutish hold he’s under, Billy dives in all tongue and teeth, biting at his lower lip and licking in to taste how sweet his spit is. Steve lifts up his free leg to hook it around Billy’s hips, drawing him in, finally allowing them both some heady friction, encouraged by strangled moans.

“Mmh- arrh, shit, pretty boy, this really couldn’t wait till I got home?” Billy growls against Steve’s lips, tickling as they brush together.

“I- mmh-ah, I wanted you dirty and risky like this,” Steve coos as low as he can and chases a kiss, but Billy leans away with such a shit eating grin. “Billy-” Another chase. “-Billy, please.”

“Don’t gotta beg, princess,” Billy’s laugh rumbles like thunder on a summer night; warm and deep and comforting

He takes a step back, Steve’s body instinctively trying to follow at the abrupt lack of touch, and with quick hands Billy undoes the way the sleeves are tied around his waist, unzips the rest of his coveralls that fall without effort to the floor, and pulls down his dark trunks enough for his steely cock to practically spring free.

The way Steve audibly inhales at the sight of it is almost humoristic, his body now acutely aware of everything that’s about to happen.

“How do you want it?” Billy drawls.

And it brings Steve back from the more indecent places his mind went at the sight of what he’s been hungering for all day. Half of him wants to drop to his knees and suck Billy dry till he’s delirious, the winning half however… He looks away for only as long as it takes him to retrieve the small and discreet bottle of lube from his coat pocket and pops it open before Billy can even speak again. He pours it into his own palm and closes his hand around Billy’s thick dick, stroking him quickly with impatience, slicking up every inch of hard flesh.

“I want you to fuck me from behind, bend me over the sink and pound my hole till I’m on the verge of tears,” Steve’s voice a lewd little thing, a salacious whisper only Billy would ever be found worthy of hearing, ghosting across his lips.

To which the only appropriate response Billy deem fit is to grab on to his boyfriend’s naked hips and spin him around, leaving clear, gross handprints that get smudged when those same hands smooth their way down to fill out with Steve’s ass.

Steve’s all too eager to bend down over the short sink, bracing himself on the porcelain edges as he watches how Billy admires the view through the mirror. The way those clear blue eyes stare down at his exposed self, tongue out to lick his lips like a wolf would before pouncing on an innocent lamb; it makes his heart beat faster, drowning his senses in quick waves of heavy lust.

“So pretty for me, baby, all laced up and fingered, wish you could see this.”

Billy gazes up through his lashes to meet Steve in their reflection. He grins with his tongue caught between teeth as he raises his hand just enough for Steve to have a moment of realisation before there’s a loud smack and stinging sensation.

“Mmh- ah! Fuck…” Steve barely manages to catch the moan with a bite of lips, his cock dripping with pre cum into the sink, whining with elation as the firm palm on his ass massages the red print.

A finger hooks itself on the slight string of the thong that runs between spread cheeks, pulls it aside, allowing Billy a good eyeful of Steve’s rim still wet with lube.

“You really just stood out in the shop in nothing but this, all slippery and ready for me to fuck your tight little hole with my fat cock?” He pulls on the fabric till it can’t stretch any further, wrapping it around a finger to allow himself freedom to grab on to Steve’s ass again. “Came all this way because you needed me to fill you up with my cum so bad.”

The blunt head of his cock lines up perfectly with Steve’s greedy entrance, and the poor, needy brunette can’t help but push against it, eyes fluttering closed as he slowly slides further and further along Billy’s dick, who hums with appreciation at the way the other is so willing to do all the work, velvety muscles clenching around him when he bottoms out.

“That good for you?” he asks kindly and squeezes Steve’s fleshy, pale cheeks.

Steve draws shallow circles with his ass pressed firmly against Billy’s hips, breathing in a manner that would be moans at home in bed, panting and sighing now; low drawn out hums. He sounds relieved, like Billy’s girthy cock was exactly what he needed, swallowing thickly as he nods, incapable of words lest they come out too loud.

Billy leans in to kiss up Steve’s shoulder, giving every mole on his way the attention they deserve, moves up his neck to the shell of his ear, snaking an arm around to hold Steve by the throat softly and tenderly.

“You’re so fucking tight, princess,” he purrs and nibbles at Steve’s ear as he leisurely starts moving his hips back and forth, adoring how breathless Steve looks in their reflection, mouth hanging open.

With his other hand he leaves a trail of oil stains up Steve’s stomach, leading to where Billy smoothes his fingers across shaved pecs, caressing the skin as he teases the frilly edges of the pink bralette, his every touch like fire igniting inside of Steve, his body tensing delightfully.

Billy squeezes tighter around Steve’s throat, a gesture that can be felt vividly in the way his wet dick pulsates and drips - pre cum running down his aching flesh to wet the thong even worse. The thrusts grow longer and deeper, Billy pulling out till just the head is inside, then tentatively pushes back in till he’s balls deep, and every time he runs over that certain spot inside of Steve a sensuous little gasp escapes those perfect lips.

“Look at what a mess you are, baby.” He brings them as close as possible - Steve’s back against his chest, rim choking around the base of his cock.

And Steve opens his eyes just enough to get a good view of how oil and grease has stained his pale skin and somewhat expensive lingerie, pastel roses and delicate embroidery defiled and tarnished beyond repair no doubt. His painfully hard dick that with a stroke or two would have him come undone. Billy’s crystal clear eyes that stare back intently; hungry- no, starved for this.

“A beautiful…” Billy kisses Steve’s neck with undeniable love and infatuation. “Needy…” Lips at the crook of his neck. “Desperate…” His shoulder. “Mess.”

Billy pulls out and slams back in so suddenly it barely leaves Steve time to catch his lucid gasp before it would have been heard from outside the door. Billy’s hips snap against Steve’s ass again and again at an indelicate pace, his teeth sunk into a shoulder as he bites back his moans, eyes trained on the way Steve’s brows knit together, eyes squeezed shut tight as he struggles with his own wanting to give sound to the burning desire lighting him up.

Skin slapping together, the obscenely wet sounds of Billy pounding Steve’s hole, ramming against that glorious sweet spot over and over, it’s intoxicating, fueling the white hot fire that coils at the bottom of Steve’s gut. Both of Billy’s hardened hands grab at Steve’s pecs, the skin of his fingers toughened up from fiddling with engines all day, rough against Steve’s sensitive nipples as Billy pulls down the bra to pinch and squeeze.

“Mmh ah- fuck-” Steve’s eyes roll back at the flourishing bliss that forms in his chest. “Billy…”

“Yeah, you like that?” A rhetorical question that barely receives an answer before Billy presses his dirty thumbs harder against the strutting buds.

Steve’s thighs tremble from it all, teeth biting at his lower lip as he fights every instinct to let it all out. And from the way Billy leers and grins mischievously at the sight in the mirror, there can be no doubt he knows.

Moves his hands to grab Steve’s hips with near bruising tension as he starts slamming into him, thrusting with intense fervor; the pace punishing and the sounds of how their bodies collide worse. Billy’s eyes are pinned to the spread of cheeks where his steely cock pounds into his boyfriend’s tight, slippery hole, his breathing ragged and tongue out wagging enthusiastically.

And Steve’s helplessly lost in his own euphoria of the moment; a hand flies up to clasp at his mouth, the other pressing against the mirror for the sake of balance so as to not get shoved against it whenever Billy rams inside, helping Steve inch closer and closer to climax, with breathless groans and grunts, sighs and whines, all too loud for such a public setting, yet not loud enough for such an intimate act.

Billy bends over to press his sweaty forehead against Steve’s shoulder, gaze still locked to where heat flares up at every plunge, at the way Steve’s body clings to his veiny dick.

“You’re so perfect like this, baby,” his voice rough like wet gravel, “So eager and greedy. Gonna cum in you, Stevie boy, fill you up till you’re ready to burst.”

“Please,” the self-restraint apparent in his tone. “I-I’m so close.”

Then there’s a hand in his hair, yanking and pulling his flushed face off of the mirror and back, his intense breathing fogging up the mirror as he struggles to keep hushed through his sudden orgasm that washes through him, the intensity blinding, his every nerve buzzing vividly at the unexpected release till there’s nothing left in him, but the sensation of Billy vigorously driving his girthy cock in and out, sending forth slight waves of static heat.

Till it comes to a stop with one forceful shove, the hand in his hair tightening, the fingers by his hip digging in, as Billy buries himself completely, pressing Steve against the sink till his thighs hurt from the porcelain edge jabbing him.

But it’s worth it to feel how every muscle flexes, Billy’s teeth closing around Steve’s shoulder to muffle his deep rooted moan that almost escapes in its entirety. Worth it when Billy comes down from his high and relaxes again, yet stays here like this, softening inside of Steve’s well used hole, arms wrapping around his chest to hold him close whilst they both catch their breaths.

Billy kisses gentle apologies across the imprints his teeth made on Steve’s skin, up his neck and as far across his cheek and jaw as he can reach from behind.

And Steve simply stands still, caught between his boyfriend’s broad figure and the white sink, convinced he would fall if Billy stepped back. He leans into the loving attention he’s receiving, every press of lips to his sweaty skin a blissful little source of tender satisfaction. When he finally opens his eyes again after having mindlessly drifted away in the afterglow, he just barely catches the way Billy glances down and grins in a rather humoured way.

“At least you got most of it in the sink,” he rumbles against Steve’s shoulder.

Looking down Steve sees his cum splattered into the sink, yet a few good drops made it up around the faucet and almost even to the wall. Yet his first thought is that he could have made it onto the mirror if he had jerked himself off to completion.

“Who’s going to clean it up?” Steve huffs a little laugh and meets Billy’s gaze in their reflection.

Who tries to hide his smile with kisses. “Hmmm I dunno, kinda wanna see what happens if we just leave it like this; who my boss is gonna blame for cumming in the employee’s bathroom.”

“Gross.”

“It’s yours, princess,” Billy chuckles out and rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“So you’re saying I should clean up after myself?”

“Mhm, yup,” the p pops.

When something changes in Steve’s expression, a clear difference from one second to another, lids heavy as he turns his head to look at Billy with lips inches apart.

“Then it’s only fair that you clean up after yourself, too, don’t you think?”

#Harringrove #My writing #lemon #4.4k words #Including some public fun #Mechanic!Billy #and Steve in lace lingerie #It's also on ao3 if that's easier to read

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glitching-desert-snake · 3 years

Note

“Last time I ask you for a favor!” with some venom sibs! :^)

It 'tis done! 3k worth of venom siblings and some lovely StarParty for ya. Hope you like it!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31265705

(appologies if the read more doesn't work smh)

:readmore:

"Order up! Can we get two blue plates and a Destroya special, hold the cactus!" Party called from the booth they're waiting to Ghoul and Kobra in the kitchen.

"On it!" Ghoul called back.

"Hey," a voice said from behind them, tapping them on the shoulder. Poison turned around to see Jet Star and their cheeks flush.

"Did you um need something Star?" They asked

"It's noon so Venom's are off, I can take it from here."

"Right" They hand him their notepad and pen, "Oh the girls over there want just one milkshake to share so make sure Ghoul puts extra in it."

"Got it, have a nice break." Jet smiled and they try not to beam right back, a small wave and they are hanging up their apron and heading outside.

"Heyy, Party Poison." A killjoy was at their heels as soon as they exit the swinging doors.

"And who might you be?" They pause and lean on one leg as the 'joy caught up to them.

"The name's Band Saw, and well- you don't happen to like roller skating do you?" It took Party a moment to hide their curiosity. They didn't care for tricks or anything but you could find them rolling around. Not like Show Pony who was on quads 24/7. But they did know a certain blue haired someone who was dying to learn to skate.

"Say I did,"

"Well would'jya maybe want to come with me to the rink party Pony's holding this weekend?" Party Poison looked up with intrigue but quickly hid it with a long eyeroll, "I would sooner go with you than get my finger stuck in a band saw." The joy recoiled and took a deep sigh, "Oh ok um, nevermind then." they scurried off. Poison felt a twinge of regret but then happily didn't as they looked up to see Kobra Kid leaning on the back wall smirking.

"Don't they know the first rule of The Diner is no flirting with the waitstaff." He chuckled, "I made the rule to get rid of goonies like that."

"Eh, they technically weren't in The Diner when they asked." They noted as the two walked out to the fields.

"I guess. Here, slap up the sun's nice today." Kobra handed them some sunscreen and went to find a spot in the dry grasses to lie down. "Ghoul said Helibomb is going to come by on Sunday to see about the warm water not working."

"Oh the gal who wears heelys everywhere? I didn't realize she did more than just well work."

"Yep, they say she can even roll on her heelys up hill."

"Seems like just a frequency static rumor to me."

"If it's true then I'm taking one from her book for my bike. I don't care if it's magic or what, I want a piece."

"I'm sure you do. Hey Kobra, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure, what's up?"

"Did you hear about Show Pony's gig this weekend?"

"The partner skate? Sure I have, but I'm not planning on going on account of too many love birds in one flock."

Party swallowed and went red even though they knew better.

"Well duh, I know you're not going. That'd be like me walking into the bathrooms at Hyperthrust during a party." They both laughed and fake gagged.

"But man, for all that I'm supposedly talk of the town, apparently I'm also the last to hear about major events." They threw up their hands. "Anyways, think you could be a messenger pigeon?"

Kobra grinned, "Party,"

"Look- I can't go asking myself, I have an image to uphold!"

"A damn bitchy one" Kobra quipped, chewing his lip. "But no, I get it. Who's the lucky 'joy?" he looked sharply into Party's eyes and they quickly looked down.

"You're going to hate me for this." They said with a flush creeping onto their cheeks.

"I'm not gonna be mad Pois, you know that." he said, hugging his knees and looking at them.

"It's Jet Star." They say with a gulp.

"Party fuckin Poison, what to say." Kobra was grinning and shaking his head as he spoke in a sing song drawl, "You pick good ones. Aesthetics? Top game."

"Shut up!" Poison giggles

"And yes, of course I can do the honors for you- but it better be at The Nest because we all remember the last time drama happened while at work."

"Yeah, bacon and avocado do not belong on the ceiling." Party shook their head and smiled. Their face is still hot but they stand up and shake twigs from their jacket. "Thank you for this, Kid, really."

"Oh I wasn't done-" Kobra said, standing up and pointing a finger at them. "Because I want a favor in return."

"Alright shoot,"

"I don't know what it is yet," he said as they began "It all depends how much of a chaotic disaster the ask winds up being." He laughed and the sun glinted on his braces.

"Of course," Party said with a chuckle but they can't help their mind racing with every dismal possibly that could happen.

"So we only sold five milkshakes today on account of the machine breaking, big deal! Helibomb is coming Sunday afternoon, don't stress it Ghoul." Jet was leaning on the table and poking through music to put on.

"You know they're are biggest seller when it's hot out." Ghoul reasoned as he reached for a brush from the couch and worked on undoing his braids.

"Pst, Poison get over here." Kobra tapped his sibling on the shoulder. "I'm not being your wingman if you're just going to hide in the kitchen." Poison gulped and reluctantly drifted into the living room and stuck to the side of the wall. Kobra looked back at them and smiled and then walked over to Jet who was putting Earthling into the cassette player.

"Hey Jet, I've got a proposition for ya." Kobra grins as Little Wonder came on intermixed with static.

"Oh yeah?" Jet tucked a curl behind his ear. Party cringed at The Kid being so formal but couldn't look away.

"Party Poison here wants to go to the skate party at Pony's rink tomorrow night. And they want to know, if you'd do them the honors of being their date." Kobra put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and rests a contented look on his face. Jet for his part looked astonished.

"Really?" He asked, with a smile creeping over his face, looking from Kobra to Party and back.

"Yeah- but like, only if you want." Party said. They got themself off the wall and managed to stay standing despite harboring no trust in their legs to function.

"No I'd like that, sound's rad. It's just- man I don't even know how to roller skate."

"Oh"

"But I'd love it if you showed me how." Jet finished and Party beamed

"Hey you should pick some skates from the shoe pile, I think TCM dropped off some that might fit you."

"Oh yeah!" Jet bobbed his head and smiled.

He left to the nest and Party followed after him but not before siding up next to Kobra to mutter, "Thank you," with a breathy sigh.

"'Course" The Kid chuckled, "But remember, you owe me."

"Yeah yeah." Poison smiled as they exchanged their secret hand shake. Poison bounded down the hallway after Jet.

"Hi." Star said, quickly turning around. He brushed his hair back for like the fifth time that day and Poison couldn't help but notice all the freckles that had come out from being in the sun on the walk home from The Diner where Kobra's whispered heckling and teasing just made Party more giddy than they already were.

"Hi" They repeated. They knew enough to not think that something like What's your shoe size? was a deemable conversation but were lost of what to say instead.

"Did you really mean me?" Jet was asking.

"What?" Poison looks at him with concern as they pull out the pile of shoes and start handing skates to Jet.

"I mean like, you really want to go on a date date with me, not just like as friends?"

"I- yes." they swallow and look away, "Jet if you don't want to go that's fine. Just tell me now so I can sort out my feelings in peace."

"What? No no I'm not breaking up with you- I mean I'm not- I'm pastel for you too, Party." It's Jet's turn to look away but Poison drops a skate in their lap to stare at him. "I didn't think you felt any way for me, I mean you're Party 'I insult everyone' Poison, I never thought you'd like someone like-"

"I don't insult every one." They interject with a sigh. "You and Kobra both on top of me over this." They shake their head, Ghoul understood the need to cover everything up and keep things safe with a shell of spite but Kobra and Jet would just zip shut over anything touchy. Well, or punch your lights out if it was Jet.

"Wait a minute, what were you going to say?"

Jet turned slightly towards them, "I didn't think you'd like someone all well, quiet n' stuff. Man, I come home from work and then just work on my bots whiles you off partying the lights away."

"Pff Star, you think I go to parties to pick up 'joys to date?"

"I mean, yeah?" Jet looks at them confused as he puts on another skate, "Think these fit." he said absent mindedly, still looking intently at Party.

"Star, I go to parties for the music, for the friends, and yeah maybe sometimes to blow off some adrenaline without a raygun, but I-" they stuck out their tongue slightly as they slipped the lace into an eyelet, I don't take people home from parties and I'd never fuck anyone, ever they want to say but instead just mutter, "I don't go to the club for crushes. And besides, I didn't think you liked me. Whyd'ja think I sent The Kid to ask for me."

"Party what do you mean! How could I not be pastel for your smiles and when you wear tank tops while tagging up the radio station, or skirts out to parties, and the way you get all nervous before reading."

"Okay now that's just not fair. You're so cute when you're covered in motor oil and showing me your bots, not to mention how sharp of a shot you are both at darts and dracs. But also you know you make the best milkshakes this side of the radiation pools."

"Stoop now you makin me all melted." Star shoves them and laughs,

"Not before you did!" Party retorts and they dissolve into a fit of laughter.

The following night Party and Jet rode down to the rink. The lights were bright and the pizza was pretty shitty but it was ok. Jet told them about his plans to try to make a drone while Party tied his skates for him. They stepped out on the rink and skated in a small circle then rolled back to the edge where Jet was still standing on the carpet. On other days they would stare at the black and bright colored carpet wanting to look like it but they knew Jet was just scared.

"If you fall, I've got you." They whispered in his ear and he looked up. Poison hadn't seen Star actually scared, not since ray blasts streaked the sky. He stepped onto the rink and diligently kept his feet exactly parallel.

"Here see, you skate like this." Party kicked off and skated a few feet, then turned and slid back to Jet.

"Here goes nothing." Star said and tried to put his feet into a V like theirs. He started to pick up his foot but fell off-balanced onto Party who hit the rink on their wrist guard. Star was mortified but his body was so close, Party reminded themself to breathe. They ran their hand along his arm.

"Hi" they breathed

"I suck at this for real." Jet groaned and then took their hand. Party got onto their feet and pulled Jet up to standing.

They spent most of the night very close to the nice friendly padded wall. Party showed Jet how to get comfortable on his skates and every once in a while left him on the shore of the rink to practice a spin or skating backwards.

"Now you're just showing off." Jet laughed as Party vogued to the song playing.

"C'mon you can at least do this." They insisted and rolled their wrist against their neck. Jet was much better at voguing than skating, shaping his face square and sweeping circles in the air. Party watched with a quiet smile intently trained on Jet, watching him slowly get more confident until the fear from the beginning of the night melted away.

Eventually Jet did manage to skate without holding onto anything, only to realize he didn't know how to stop. Veering towards Party, he pressed them up to the wall. Poison just laughed.

"Can I kiss you Star?" Party asked

"Only if you show me how to stop after." Jet smiled and Party pressed a kiss to his cheek. Jet held onto the wall as Party kicked off into a simple forwards skate.

"Point your toes and bring your legs together." Party half shouts over the music. Jet takes a couple of tries but eventually gets the hang of it. He skates up to Party and stops right in front of them. They hold his hands and he kisses them. Poison flips up to stand on their heel stops and leans into him. When they finish skating Jet's legs are shaking. He thinks it's on account of it being his first time skating. Party can't tell if it's from skating or being on a date with Jet. But really it's all three mixed into a wavering walk home bubbling with laughter and then dying down to quiet murmurs on the wind.

"So, what's your revenge against my innocent little ask?" Party said with their hand on their hips and a sarcastic lilt in their voice.

"You know how little Mr. Tommy Chow Mein's got that one spot on the back shelf that damn no body supposed to touch?"

"Oh noo, what about it."

"Well, I've been peeping this helmet he's got up there, right? And I think it'd be perfect to go with my wheels now that I have some races under my belt as Lucky No. 27 this dinky BLI helmet got nothing on the other guys. I want you, with all that charisma you got packed away in there, to get it in my hands."

"Oh come on Kid, it's TCM! I can't just walk up to our used-to-be-dad and ask him to sell me contra!"

"It's not actually contraband though, red." Jet Star chimes in from where he's listening bemusedly to the venom siblings. "Hand me a hair tie would you Ghoul?" he asks Ghoul, who's patiently getting his hair braided by Jet.

"I got 50 carbons you can use for bartering."

"Oh sure that'll help but it's still the no sells shelf. And TCM isn't pastel for you like Mx. Propulsion here." Ghoul said with a smirk and Jet flicks hair in his face.

"Alright alright, I'll try but no promises alright Kobra."

"What? Just try, that's BS."

"Hey I didn't know if I'd be getting a joyfriend or not out of your favor, I don't know if you'll be off with a helmet or not."

"Fine." Kobra said in a drawn out whine.

Poison grabbed the ring of carbons and Ghoul tossed Jet the keys to the Trans Am.

"You're coming too?" Party asks as Jet leaves with them

"You know I want to see how this plays out." He said with a laugh and Party rolls their eyes.

"Make sure they're putting in effort, I want that helmet next sunrise race!" Kobra called as they left.

"Heyy Tommy C! How's it hanging?" Party said

"It's hanging like a plastic bag in a 'crow's nest- what do you want Party?" Tommy shuts off whatever audio drama he'd been listening to and leaned on the counter looking down at Party.

"Jus' wanna talk, that so bad?" Tommy just rolled his eyes.

"Look are you buying something or just here to make me change the station. I've heard enough of your rants, I'm not turning on the radio my books are just fine."

"So listen, I was just wondering about that helmet you got over there. It's pretty bonus track and a uh, associate of mine was looking into it."

"This is not the helmet you're looking for." TCM said and a wave of calm washed over Party. They were immediately confused, they were never this calm. There was something they needed but it wasn't here. Wait of course it was. Jet wouldn't be standing in the corner watching the whole scene amused if it hadn't been for Kobra. What was it about Kobra? He wanted the helmet right. It took half of Party's effort just to remember this but then he was at it again.

"Where'd you get it anyways?"

"A long time ago. It's very old, your sibling doesn't want it."

"Oh yeah?" That pang hit their thoughts again but they kept going. "Where'd you get it?"

"No where near here, a galaxy far far away, you could say."

"Well look, since you already know it's The Kid who's trying to get his hands on it what do you even have against him?'

"Yeah, Jet pipes up- me and Ghoul were the ones always pulling pranks on you. He didn't do nothing to you."

"Let me do this, it's not your trade." Party said, putting their hand on Jet's chest.

"Fine." Jet sighed and went back to browsing the zine rack.

"The Kobra Kid can't have my helmet, and no one else can either."

"Ok but what if I gave you 50 Cs?" Party asked, stifling the blow to their train of thought.

"Agh! Why don't these work on you rascal?" Tommy threw down his sunglasses in annoyance. "Fine you want to know about this helmet. I got this helmet pod racing until my rival decided to blow out my hyperdrive frequency and led me to crash land by ship on this measly planet. And then what? Jammed radios from a certain somebody meant I couldn't fly anymore. Set up shop instead, an the rest's history.

"But you know what? If it's useless to me, it's just as useless to you and yours." Tommy sighed and took the carabiners of 25 carbons each and slid them onto the rods in his cash register and begrudgingly passed the helmet down to Party.

"Kobra! We're home!"

"Did they get my helmet?" Kobra asks as he runs into the nest.

"Sure did! Diligently and without help from yours truly." Jet reported back and kissed Party quickly on the cheek to the return of a grin on their face.

Kobra ran over and took the helmet from Poison and immediately put it on.

"Uh Party?" He waved his arms around

"Do you like it?"

"Pois, I can't see a thing." Kobra took the helmet back off and examined the front, realizing that not only was GOOD LUCK painted across the entire screen but the inside was also painted black.

"What the-" Party grabbed it from him and put it on, only to find completely darkness and if they crossed their eyes, a bit of shine to the paint.

"Man you get a joyfriend and I get a fuckin useless helmet!? Last time I ask you for a favor!" He pouces onto Poison and they topple onto the couch, wrestling each other until it dissolves into a pillow fight.

#snake writes #this was so fun to write #ask to tag #jet star #party poison #kobra kid #ttlotfk #ttlofk #danger days #starparty #jetpoison #answered aks

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shhh-no-ones-home · 3 years

Text

december 23 - ricky horror

title: one in seven

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its official where i live! marry christmas and happy holidays to yall. i hope you all have a great day and enjoy the last couple fics of the year! thanks again for reading and sharing, i love you all and wish you all the best in 2021.

prompt: Notes and gifts from a "secret Santa" take a strange turn

request from: n/a

tag list: @musicsexandpizza69 @svintsandghosts @alilpunkrock @cynic-spirit @theoneandonlykymberlee @joeynihil @lifeisabitchandsoareyou @thisplace-ishaunted @xyours-eternallyx

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one week. thats all that was left. five days till christmas day and i was all but turned off by the idea of gifts and celebration and parties and everything else that came with the holiday. i think my secret santa knew that though, whoever it was. dont get me wrong, i didnt mind being on the road for christmas, i didnt like the day, and i didnt have family to spend time with so it didnt really matter. but little did i know at the beginning of this that everyday i would wake up to something weirder in my stocking. and not even in a bad way, cause the two things id received already were super awesome.

and yes, it was the guys idea to put stockings up and do secret santa. that way we each got something small the seven days before christmas and the day of we would ultimately find out who our gift giver was over dinner as they gave us one final larger present. and dont get me wrong, i was an excellent gift giver, already two days in and vinny had loved the two things i had secretly slipped into his stocking but i was getting more impatient. i wanted to know who was getting me things only a few people knew i wanted. and ultimately i wanted vinny to know who was giving him his gifts.

when i got up today i wasnt exactly sure what i was going to be pulling out of the stocking hanging outside my bunk. the first day i had gotten a skeleton hand mug, the second day i had gotten a bag of death wish coffee, and i really just wanted to know if the theme would continue. maybe this person was trying to tell me something. i laid in my bunk as my alarm went off, silencing it almost immediately since i was awake already, just staring at the ceiling. i tossed the blanket off and slid out of my bunk slowly, looking up at chris as he leaned back into the opposing one, sipping out of his Starbucks cup from yesterday.

"morning."

i said and he held his cup to me in cheers.

"morning."

he said groggily.

"you check your stocking yet?"

i asked and he nodded.

"yep, todays was a voodoo donut and a starbucks giftcard."

he said with a smile and i laughed.

"guess you get it twice a year now huh."

i said and he nodded contently,

"whats in yours?"

he asked and i turned around, my eyes going wide at how thick it looked. i drew my brows and reached my arm into it. i felt something soft graze my hand before pulling it out.

"awe, its so cute."

i said as i pulled the plush bat out, taking the black silk eye mask off of it and petting its head. i showed it to chris.

"either my secret Santa thinks i sleep too much or not enough."

i said with a laugh, putting the eye mask into my bag next to the coffee and mug. chris laughed a little bit as ricky slid his curtain over from behind him.

"what you guys talking about?"

he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"y/n's concerned with the gifts from her secret santa."

chris answered and rick raised a brow.

"how come?"

he asked and i shrugged, hugging the bat to my chest.

"ive gotten two things of coffee so far and two things to sleep with. im getting mixed signals to say the least."

i said with a laugh and he nodded, jumping down from his bunk with a thud.

"maybe they think you needed something to help you keep up the good work, and something to help you relax. you do work harder than all of us combined."

he mentioned, making me smile.

"thanks rick, i guess ill just have to wait another few days and ask when i find out who it is."

i said and he nodded.

"guess so."

---

"okay, this is getting more and more confusing."

i said, unwrapping the fuzzy blanket, holding it out to look at what was on it. the whole thing was solid black with alchemy symbols, pentagrams, crystal balls, and the likeness on it in bright pastel pinks and purples. it was really cute and matched the bat perfectly. all this stuff just had me wondering what i could be getting at dinner. i knew this blanket wasnt cheap, it had a black craft tag on it after all.

"whats confusing?"

vinny asked, holding the new bulls jersey in his hand.

"the theme of these is a little skewed to say the least."

i said and he shrugged.

"that looks comfy."

he said, running his hand over the side of it and i nodded.

"what else have you gotten?"

he asked and i sighed.

"coffee, a mug, a plush bat, a sleep mask, pastel bath bombs, a coffee and honey face scrub mask, fuzzy black and pink socks, and now this blanket. its like a care package."

i said and he shrugged.

"guess youll just have to find out at dinner, which we should probably get ready for."

---

as we all sat around the table i watched intently as we went down the line, each person giving their last gifts. justin had chris, chris had ryan, ryan had aj, aj had justin, i had vin, vin had rick, and finally rick had me. as he got up he reached for a large box and my eyes went wide.

"okay y/n i know all week youve been trying to figure out what the hell this all could be leading up to but i asked all of the guys if we could pitch in on something so its not just from me."

i drew my brows.

"we all know you work ten times harder than the rest of us so we all wanted to do something special for you."

he said, setting the box down in front of me on the table.

"you guys didnt have to do that. you guys put so much into the band, im nothing special."

i said and he sent me a disapproving look.

"but you are, without you none of this would work. so as a thank you from all of us..."

he said, pointing to the box and i moved slowly to open it, all of them watching me intently. i ripped the paper off first, then going in to rip the tape off it and popping the sides open one at a time. when i pulled the tissue paper out of the way i drew my brows. in it was a large wooden box.

"okay?"

i asked, pulling it out and setting it on the table in place of the carboard box.

"open it."

chris said from across the table and i pushed the gold tab up, lifting the lid. as soon as i saw what was in it my mouth dropped. i wanted to inspect it more but my vision was going blurry at the tears behind my eyes.

"you guys."

i said, closing it and standing up to give rick a hug.

"so i take it you like it?"

he asked and i nodded against him, pulling away and wiping the tears off my face.

"its beautiful."

i said, opening the box back up and looking over the kit of art supplies. there was everything i could ever ask for in here: a water color palette, gouache, oil pastels, soft pastels, colored pencils, drawing pencils, two sketch pads, brushes, the whole nine yards.

"we wanted to get you something that you enjoy and that relaxes you. this whole week ive been building up stuff that could make you comfortable during or after a long work day: comfy stuff to sleep with, coffee when youre running around making sure we're all in line, spa stuff to help you chill at home. they all helped with this idea but we thought it could be something to get you out of the real world when youve had enough. and now youll think of all of us when you use it."

he said with a wide smile and i couldn't help crying again.

"you guys take such good care of me."

i said through a sniffle as vin leaned over and hugged me, then Justin leaned in and did the same, pretty soon all of them were standing around me in big a group hug.

"we love you y/n, we wouldnt get anything done without you and we're so glad to call you a team member and most importantly a friend."

rick said, as they all stood back up and went back to their seats.

"thank you guys, for everything. and thank you especially for making this a special christmas, the most special christmas ive ever had."

he squeezed my shoulder gently.

"youre part of the family now y/n, and we wouldnt want it any other way."

#25 days of christmas requests #x reader #ricky horror #imagines #one shots #im so far up miws ass

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suntrastar · 4 years

Text

abstract: chapter 2

chapter 1!! chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.

Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!

A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.

You hate it.

In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.

Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.

You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.

There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.

You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.

You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.

The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.

You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.

You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.

***

At least you can move on from the watercolors.

Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.

You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.

“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.

But Steve takes two mirrors.

You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.

It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.

“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.

“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.

You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”

Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

“What?”

Steve sets his mirror down.

Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.

“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.

“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”

“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.

“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”

You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.

Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.

You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.

Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.

“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”

You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”

He blushes.

“Use people you know.”

You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.

At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.

“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.

“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”

You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.

Okay- lame.

But also, like, funny.

Then it starts to click.

“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.

Or maybe he just wants you to leave.

“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”

“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.

That’s exactly it.

“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.

You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.

Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.

***

He’s not genuinely interested.

This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-

To his basic peace of mind.

He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.

There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.

He doesn’t care.

The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.

There is a lot of information.

Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.

He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.

Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.

A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.

And there’s lots of yellow.

And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.

Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.

It makes his head hurt.

He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.

Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.

The twenty-first century is stupid like that.

When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.

Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.

He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.

“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.

“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.

To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.

“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”

“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.

“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.

He can handle himself.

Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.

***

He doesn’t need to go.

Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.

Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.

You start right on time. Always so prompt.

“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”

You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.

You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.

“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”

Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.

He takes the yellow one.

You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.

“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.

“Your shoe is untied.”

Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.

Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”

He considers the question. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.

He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.

“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”

Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.

“They just are,” he says.

You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?

“Awesome,” you say.

Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.

“Wait, one more thing.”

You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.

You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.

Floor-length. V-neck.

“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”

He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.

Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.

A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.

“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”

You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”

“Out of town.”

Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.

It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.

“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”

You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-

“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.

Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.

“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”

You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.

It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.

Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.

You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.

You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”

“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.

She’s not leaving early.

You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.

“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”

Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.

Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.

All by yourself.

Or not.

Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?

“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.

“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”

You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it.

You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.

But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?

“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”

He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.

It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.

“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.

***

Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.

“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”

You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.

He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”

In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.

It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.

Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.

There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-

He’s there.

Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.

“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.

“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.

God.

You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.

“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”

Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.

“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.

If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.

Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.

“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”

You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.

Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.

Acrylic paint- the love of your life.

“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”

That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.

Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.

It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.

You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.

Then, of course, you head to the back.

Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.

You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.

Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors.

Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?

You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.

It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!

You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.

It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.

You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.

Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.

Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself. The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.

Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.

He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?

Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.

The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.

You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.

The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.

You didn’t talk to him that much, today.

“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.

“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.

And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.

Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.

“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.

Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.

“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.

He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on.

Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.

“Why, is there something you-”

Steve cuts himself off. He understands.

“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”

He leaves.

“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath. “Are you here to help me clean up?”

No, but he’ll do it, if...

“Yeah.”

You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.

“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”

He starts to wipe down the tables.

You get the sink running.

The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.

Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.

What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.

It sets up the atmosphere.

You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”

He shrugs.

It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.

“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”

He gets it.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.

You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.

“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Is Bucky your real name?”

The fuck?

You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.

“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”

You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.

“My real name is James.”

You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.

“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.

He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.

“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”

“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.

His heart leaps to his throat.

“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.

“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”

That was not smooth.

At all.

But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.

“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.

Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.

He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.

“When will I hear from you?”

He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.

You’re pretty.

“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.

Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.

Right now, he’s all thawed out.

“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.

You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”

“Mystery girl.”

“You know it.”

His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.

45 notes · View notes

scratchbandicoot · 4 years

Text

Based on this lovely lil thing

He swears on all the comedy shows he’s ever watched, this would be the exact moment where things would freeze frame, record scratch, and insert corny line, like, “Hi, I’m Steve, you’re probably wondering how i got here-“

And normally, in a situation like this one, it wouldn’t at all be the case. Baking is like, a seriously mundane thing a lot of people do. Mostly housewives, grandmas or kids with their parents but it just so happens that Steve is the one doing the baking right now- and it should have gone without a hitch. So, 20 minutes of digging into the cabinets of his mom’s cook books- he began. He wanted it to be good, not a cop out box of mix because making it from scratch makes it more special. And it’s a fucking cake; how hard could it really be?

Apparently super fucking hard actually. Because what should have been a completely mundane, simple task that takes like 40 minutes tops- Steve was left with this. Referring to the absolute disaster that is his kitchen. There’s like, 8 eggshells scattered all over the countertop- one somehow ending up on the floor and another on his knee. There is a spilling bag of sugar on its side creating a hectic little pile that leaks onto the stove top- (Thank god for his parents expensive ass glass-top stoves.) Somehow he managed to spill olive oil around the sink when the recipe doesn’t even call for it- and to top it all off there is flour covering every inch of the kitchen and himself. The apron he has on does absolutely nothing, the powder covering his pastel blue cashmere button up- and he’s sure he somehow managed to get flour on places where the sun don’t shine. He’s three hours 45 minutes deep at this point and he knows he’s literally about to cry. He can feel his eyes burning with frustration and a huge lump tightening his throat with the threat of unshed tears. How did he get to this point? Well, lets backtrack.

It’s Billy’s birthday tomorrow . Steve has always done something special on Billy’s birthdays- even though he is like, super weird about gifts and being given things. Seriously, last time Steve gave Billy just a dumb little birthday card with snoopy dancing, and text that read ‘a big-smiling, fun-having, great-feeling birthday’- his nose srunched up like he had to sneeze and he gave the most awkward thanks followed by a back pat that- felt so absolutely “hiya pal” that Steve cackled out loud to the point he was in tears. Billy just burned red and sputtered all irritated, “Stop fucking laughing, Harrington.” Guy just cannot handle shows of affection.

This though, was a little more special. A little more personal than a rinky-dink peanuts birthday card- because billy really loved confetti cake. It brought back memories of his mom; how they used to bake the cake together on his younger birthdays, and how much he really missed it. Nothing could really beat the warmth of those memories, or the fondness painting Billy’s face when he recalled them- but goddamit- steve was gonna try, was trying, his actual best. He even convinced Keith that he’d take his next Saturday shift if he let him off the hook today to do this. His nonna had baked with him when he was young-like, 6- so he figured he’d pick it back up. Which was so not the case here. It’s safe to say he is more than a little rusty. So rusty in fact, that his old bike that he got for his 12th birthday that sits in the garage decaying and untouched, had absolutely nothing on him right now.

The first try was peppy; with a shimmy of hips and a waving whisk to the song playing from the sound system in the living room, and Steve thought genuinely that he did it right. He might have, maybe, with the recipe, but the lump of coal that was pulled out of the oven indicated heavily to the opposite. The smoke in the kitchen made Steve cough and gag, having to open up all the windows along with the screen door. The second attempt was a different outcome. Terrible, but different. A cake with singed edges and a liquidy inside that stuck to the pan and got scraped out with an uncermonious plop into the garbage. Mush, really, something akin to the texture of apple sauce. The third attempt Steve really focused, he swears, but that just ended up with a cake that didnt even rise and he was back to square 1 before he knew it with a beautifully new sense of defeat.

So, before he had an actual mental break over a goddamn cake he knew 7 year olds could make better, he called up Ms. Henderson for help. The lady is practically a god when it comes to baking and he really does not know how she does it. Whips out cookies and tarts and cupcakes like it’s going out of style.

“Hmm...oh! Sweetie, I think it might be the cornstarch. It sinks to the bottom of the pan if you don’t add baking soda- did you add baking soda?”

Steve glances at the forgotten unopened box of baking soda leaned against the stoves backsplash. He slaps himself mentally.

“Um, no. No i did not do that.”

“Well then, that’s it! You simply forgot a key ingredient is all. Not a big deal in the slightest.” Ms. Henderson was always very sweet to steve. Maybe because Dustin had become a little brother to him, but she never ever made him feel dumb. Always assured him mistakes are simply human.

“Right, right, yeah. I’ll add that. Thank you Ms. Henderson.” Steve goes to run a hand through his hair but is met with the headband pulling Steve’s hair from his eyes.

“Its Claudia sweetie, you know that.” Steve could hear the smile in her voice. She makes him feel better.

She gave a few more tips, how just white sugar might dry out the cake when used too much and using brown sugar will make the cake’s texture fluffier. He thanks her and hangs up with a sigh. Back to work.

He follows each step meticulously, following Claudia’s directions to a T and slips it into the oven; prays to god that this will be the last time he tries this. He’s only got one egg left and the overly sweet assortment of smells is starting to make him nauseous. After 45 excruciating minutes, Steve huffs and pulls out the cake. It looks... actually it looks like a cake. He smiles crookedly- holding his breath as he slips the cake onto the tray. It comes out in one piece, albeit lopsided, Steve whoops. He finally fucking did it- the cake actually looks like a confetti cake- and Steve is just so fucking proud of it, already going in to make the frosting before theres a ring at the door.

He frowns, wiping the flour on his watch head. It’s midnight- 12:07 am. Jesus christ, he started this at 7 pm, he didn’t even realize-

He hurries up to the door trying to wipe off the flour and make himself semi presentable. The door swings open and it’s Billy. He’s holding a six pack of Natural Light and a smirk that warps into a surprised raise of his eyebrows at Steve’s current state. He’s sure he must like he just ran a drug cartel or something.

“Hi, pretty boy.” Billy says as he walks in, checking Steve up and down. “Whats uh, whats up with your threads? Look like you jumped head first into coke or got real personal with Frosty the Snowman”

Stve rolls his eyes. His breath catches when he sees Billy start walking to the kitchen. He runs and blocks Billy in the doorway.

“You can’t go in there.”

Billy frowns, “What, you actually got drugs in there or somethin’?”

“No- you just- you can’t go in there. Not allowed.”

“Cmon baby whatcha got in there?” Billy starts to nudge past him; never was good at waiting.

“Wait, no- Billy- don’t-“

Billy takes in the state of the kitchen with a confused look and low whistle before his eyes land on the unfrosted confetti cake sitting on the kitchen island in all it’s lopsided glory. He freezes.

Steve waddles up behind him; following his gaze as he chews on his lip.

“I’m sorry, didn’t have time to make the frosting. Wanted it to be a surprise.” Steve scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly.

Billy’s still just standing there, and for a moment Steve is afraid he overstepped. That he was hijacking a moment from Billy’s mom that was only okay to do if she did it. He tries to get a read on Billy from his side profile since Billy is only turned slightly towards him but he can’t. A few more seconds of Billy standing there- and what Steve hopes is stunned silence- before Billy quietly murmurs,

“You made me a confetti cake?”

Steve holds his breath after a strained little, “Yeah.” The unshed tears from earlier are threatening to fall again, “You said you loved confetti cake, and that it made you happy. Wanted to make you happy.”

Billy spins on his heel fast, catching Steve’s face in his hands and lips with his own. Steve’s heart bursts and jerks a little with the surprise. It’s a chaste thing, just a press of lips, before Billy pulls away.

“You’re so... you just...” Billy trailed off and it was, like, a huge thing for Steve in that moment. Billy? Speechless? Steve never thought he’d see the day. It makes his face heat but his heart full and he beams.

“I’m... what?” He draws out.

“Fuckin’- somethin’. You’re somethin’ else.” Billy tugs him in by the waist and uses the other hand to swipe at the flour on Steve’s cheek. He looks so goddamn fond it makes Steve’s heart rate skyrocket.

“Is it okay?”

Billy hums, “It’s so okay. So much better than okay.”

He presses sweet little kisses to Steve’s lips and Steve can’t stop smiling.

“Well,” he says between pecks, “I wanted to do something special.”

Billy hums again, kisses trailing pepper like to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose and now down his neck.

Steve fights down the urge to shiver as he wraps his arms around the other’s shoulders. But-then he feels a wetness at the crook of his neck and makes a soft concerned noise at the back off his throat. He tugs Billy gently off and is met with blue, glassy eyes. Billy was tearing up.

“Thank you.” Billy says wetly, gently, before hugging Steve tight. “God- i- thank you.”

Steve smiles sweetly, hands going into Billy’s hair. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t need to. Knows that this is Billy being happy, knows that this isn’t bad, knows Billy. Loves Billy.

Steve pokes Billy’s sides- grins, “Happy birthday, baby.” And punctuates it with a kiss.

#my writes #harringrove #billy x steve #steve x billy #harringrove fic #drabble #stranger things #steve harrington #billy hargrove #ahhhh i wanted some soft n sweet fluff #thank you for this idea #scratch writes

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tungstenb · 4 years

Text

WIP Weekend Whenever

Tagged by @rpgwarrior4824, @ljandersen, @natsora, and @inquartata30. Thanks for the mentions, everyone!

Inq and Nat asked for fluff, so that's what I'm gonna try. I don't think my writing style is suited for fluff. But! An attempt was made. ^_-

I'm planning a bit of an intermission between SAtS and BODS — a series of vignettes from the trip to Thessia first referenced in "Cardamom and Cloves" — so here's a snippet from that (~2,500 words).

Enjoy!

Thessia: Day 2

Something's wrong.

It wasn't so much a thought but a feeling, an instinct. A surge of adrenaline to rouse her from sleep, to tense her slack muscles and propel her to act. One short intake of breath and she shot upright. Eyes keen. Mind ready.

Stillness. Early dawn.

Not wrong, only different. She'd forgotten.

Armali.

Shepard sank back down onto the plush bed, her sigh lost in the breeze rumbling with the crashing surf. Beyond the vast bedroom windows and billowing sheer curtains, new light tinted the scenery outside in a cool muted grayscale, the sky dilutely inky, the ocean mercurial, the scattered islands and jutting rock formations awaiting the colors of day, just beginning to come to life with swaying trees and flocks of birds. She sighed again. Allowed the last of her hypervigilance to bleed away. And as she shifted, turning to her left, she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips.

Beside her, Liara slept soundly, facing away, curled up comfortably under a drape of sheets. The relaxed curve of her shoulder rose and fell slightly with her steady breathing, the gentle sheen of microscales still somehow catching the dim early light. She glowed, even in the gray.

Shaking her head, Shepard barely suppressed a quiet breathy laugh, all amazement and relief and disbelief. She never thought she could have this. Never thought her heart could feel so full. She reached out, stopping just short of running her knuckles gently over Liara's arm, or sweeping the fallen strap of her nightgown back up over her shoulder.

She wouldn't wake her.

Hand sinking into the pillowy mattress, Shepard propped herself up and swung her legs over the bed, taking a deep breath, rolling out the residual soreness and tension in her shoulders, stretching her neck, massaging her bad leg. She stood. Breathed. Stretched again. The woven rugs were soft beneath her feet and the stonework cool as she made her way to the kitchen. Priority: coffee. Leave it to the asari to perfect the tech even for that. She hummed as she scooped the fragrant grounds into the machine, tapping a few buttons to start it brewing.

By habit she brought up her omni-tool before remembering she'd decided to ditch her usual early-morning reading for the week, her daily newsfeeds and all but the highest-priority messages muted, their pinned widgets grayed-out and transparent on her homepage. She clicked her tongue over the whirring and dribbling of the coffee maker, then wandered to the refrigerator, idly appraising its contents.

The rental house had been stocked with essentials before their arrival — maybe standard Armalian fare, maybe items a bit more suited to human tastes, maybe things Liara had requested specifically, Shepard couldn't be sure. Two large glass bottles, one green juice, the other milk (or something milk-adjacent). A variety of eggs cradled in a basket, some small and pastel, some larger, textured and mottled with bluish spots. A package of dense, doughy bread, sliced, cylindrical in shape. Small blocks of what appeared to be cheese, or butter, or another sort of cultured or aged dairy product, wrapped in decorated waxy paper. Assorted vegetables in crisper compartments. A bowl of shiny berries. A jar of… whatever the hell. She grabbed it, unscrewed the top, took a whiff. Fishy.

Best wait for Liara to wake before attempting to cook. Bit out of her element, at least with these ingredients. Chances were she'd fuck it up, Liara would wake up laughing at her and her sad burnt breakfast lump, and they'd have to go out to eat. And maybe Liara'd prefer to go out anyway, head to a quaint little cafe on the waterfront that starched its cloth napkins and served fancy drinks with like, olives and celery sticks or whatever the garnish for socially acceptable breakfast/brunch booze was here. Probably best to defer to her judgment; this was her home, after all. But she could, at the very least, have tea ready for her when she woke.

Taking the milk-like bottle and setting it on the counter, she readied and leveled her translation overlay. Tapped for an audio sample. Melikhratun, said a silvery voice in her earpiece. She poured some in a glass and tasted it. It was reminiscent of melted vanilla ice cream, even in thickness, and it coated the interior of the glass. Kinda weird, oddly tasty. She shrugged and set the glass aside, skimming through the article.

Melikhratun: a sweet liquid cream/yogurt made from haavi milk, rich in… well, everything. Fat, sugar, protein, vitamins, sometimes probiotics; eezo content variable, generally ranging from 0.5 to 5.0 ppm, depending on livestock origin and feed. Ideal for the energy needs of those who make ample use of biotics. Many regional versions, cultured and uncultured, in a multitude of flavors, some seasonal, some staples, some festive varieties only making brief appearances for annual holidays, most notably porfuranq flavor, for Janiris. Either drunk straight, used in recipes, mixed with other beverages — and essential for serving arwamaasi, a tea made famous in Serrice.

She tapped the link to arwamaasi, the article popping up beside the one for melikhratun, humming a tune as she shuffled over to the pantry.

Arwamaasi, arwamaasi… that one also sounded familiar.

The hinge squeaked as she opened the pantry door, and she turned. In the sliver of the bedroom still visible from the kitchen, she found Liara still sleeping soundly, face serene, arm relaxed resting before her. Thankfully undisturbed by the squeal of oxidized hardware needing oiling — constant humidity and salty sea air would do that. With a quiet breathy chuckle — and a mental note to tend to it later — she turned back to her search.

Translation overlay active she scanned the labels, looking for a match among the tins and boxes and jars lining the shelves. The pantry was well-stocked — nonperishables left by previous guests — and she scanned over the bubbles of transliterated text that popped up in real-time.

Arwamaasi, arwamaasi, arwamaasi, she repeated, silently. Liara had said the word before, back on the Normandy, the syllables rolling off her tongue as sweetly as the scent of spice that permeated the air and lingered on her lips after she'd drunk cup after cup, counting on the kick of caffeine to keep her awake and alert long after staring at her terminal had strained her eyes and made her mind weary.

"It's just not the same without melikhratun," she'd explained to Shepard, but assured her she enjoyed it even without the rich, sweet Thessian dairy product. Not practical to keep it aboard: perishable, spendy, difficult to acquire without eezo contamination. I'll see what I can do, regardless, Shepard had thought. Errands on the Citadel. What's that stuff called again? Alone, she'd detoured on Tayseri Ward and ordered coffee from an asari-owned cafe, hoping to jog her memory. Thought to ask for something nice to put in tea, a specific kind of tea, what's-it-called? Stopped. No, just the coffee. But… god, no. The gesture would be too forward. Her omni-tool chimed as she finalized the transaction and rocked, agitated, on her heels.

Pull yourself together.

It had ached, hurt like hell back then. Soft freckled cheeks and supple lips and spiced tea and she'd punched the Normandy's elevator console just a bit too hard, because it wasn't right, all these impure thoughts she couldn't shake, but what could she do but go run on the treadmill for half an hour and blow off that steam and longing and frustration because fuck, Liara had to know what she was doing to her when she talked so smart and sucked on her teeth and licked her lips and smiled like that.

No fucking way in hell should she even think about making the first move.

But if Shepard swiveled to her left — and she did, then — there, only meters away, Liara slept, that placid comfort clear on her face in the early light, and that sight ached too, but it ached so good. Warm and full and perfect and — god, how did she get so lucky? Bouncing on her heels, she quietly hummed while her nose and her eyes crinkled in a grin she couldn't fight, and she shook her head, scoffing in disbelief.

Shepard turned back toward the pantry, peering through the hovering transparency over her forearm. And a match. She waved the translation app away, tin in hand, flicking back to the article.

Arwamaasi: developed by tea artisans in Serrice. Made with leaves soaked in concentrated spices, then expertly woven into packed shapes designed to bloom when steeped; then fermented, where they grow in pungency; and then aged, where they condense into pellets as they dessicate. High in caffeine, this tea is treasured for its distinctive flavor, heightened with the addition of melikhratun.

Making it would be simple enough, and she collected the rest of what she needed — the melikhratun already sitting out — and switched the electric kettle on. The dry, compact tea pellets rattled in the tin as she pried off the top, then stuck her nose inside. Sniffed once and pulled back at the pungent sting. Punchy. Smells like a concussion but probably tastes real good. Gingerly, she plopped a pellet into a glass teapot.

Shepard poured a mug of coffee and drank, leaning against the counter as the tea kettle heated. It was good coffee. Really good, actually. Even better in the quiet, with the gentle humid air, the soothing rhythmic crash of the waves, the incredible view. She smiled, eyes lingering on Liara, still fast asleep —

The kettle beeped shrilly and Shepard spun to turn it off, shushing and admonishing it for its disruption, and quickly poured the boiling water into the glass teapot while sneaking glances toward the bedroom.

Stupid noisy thing. Hopefully it didn't — nope, still sleeping.

The packed cluster in the teapot unfurled lazily like some sort of sea creature, releasing amber swirls as its delicate leafy arms swayed in the steaming water. Shepard sipped at her coffee, waiting for the tea to finish steeping, tapping her fingers against the countertop as she sang soundlessly. She topped off her own mug before finishing Liara's tea preparation.

Coffee in one hand, tea in the other, she returned to the bedroom, setting the tea cup down on the nightstand. And as she lingered there, smiling, the sweet scent of arwamaasi spices wafted on the humid breeze. She leaned over, kissing Liara lightly on the cheek. When she pulled back, though Liara's eyes remained closed, a sleepy smile warmed her face.

⁂

Something warm and sweet tinged Liara's fading dreams. She stirred. Yawned. Stretched, breathing deeply as she sat upright, spilling out of a loose cocoon of soft sheets. Before her, on the nightstand, was the steaming source of that familiar scent, sweetly spicy and full as it mingled with the fresh air and tickled her nose. She picked up the cup and swiveled to look behind her.

Unsurprisingly, Shepard's absence on the bed meant she was out on the balcony. There, she sat, ankle on the opposite knee, coffee in hand, staring out at the ocean.

For a moment Liara just waited, watching her, one leg tucked up on the bed as she drank her tea. She'd never seen her look so relaxed. Never had her heart felt so full.

Eventually she slid off the bed, greeting Shepard with a light brush of her hand on her shoulder and a playful tousle of her hair.

"Mornin'. How's the tea?" she asked, scooting over in her chair to make room.

"Perfect." Liara sat, their shoulders brushing.

They didn't speak for some time, Shepard resting her head on Liara's shoulder, both watching the birds and boats and waves as the sky continued to lighten and the comfort of closeness was enough. Shepard set her mug on the table first, hopping off the chair and heading down the balcony stairs before Liara could ask where she was going. Reluctantly, setting aside her own tea, she followed.

The bottom tier, at water level, served as a dock. As Shepard leaned against the partial railing, taking in the scenery, Liara nestled up beside her. "Did you see something?" she asked.

"Something?" Shepard scoffed in amazement. Gazed back out at the ocean. "Everything," she said, awed.

Liara only chuckled softly in response, the warming breeze tickling her crest and her affection leaving her speechless. Pausing, she traced the curve of Shepard's cheek, her skin soft and slightly — as she'd recently learned to say — peach-fuzzy. "What did you want to do today?"

"That's such an open-ended question." She took Liara's hand and cupped it in both her own, running her thumb over her knuckles. "Dunno. This's your home. Anything. Surprise me. I'll even close my eyes the whole way there, if you want."

Liara shook her head, amused. "I would be willing to wager a significant credit sum that you couldn't manage to keep your eyes off me for a minute," she teased.

"Oho. Oh. One whole minute."

"An entire minute." Liara smirked. Lowered her hand from her grasp. "Okay. Let's practice."

"Okay." Shepard's gaze was unwavering as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, hands at her sides.

"I'm starting a timer," Liara warned, and brought up her 'tool.

Shepard closed her eyes, the hint of her smile still there, as she took Liara's hands in her own.

Hands occupied as they were, Liara couldn't reach out and cup Shepard's cheek, run her fingertip over the scar on her brow, trace the stubbly texture of the buzzed hairs on the sides of her head. But she could, in this moment, lean forward and kiss her.

"Five seconds," Liara announced smugly, pulling away.

"Hey — uh, no!" Shepard sputtered. "Sabotage. Doesn't count."

Liara flicked up her brows. "Try again, then?"

"I have a feeling by 'try again' you mean — ahhh…"

Liara kissed her again, pulling her close. Suddenly, she gasped and staggered back — and not because Shepard's fingertips had found pressure along the ridges on her spine.

A trio of maidens skipped by on a motorized skiff, squealing and hollering their delight at the show while triumphantly waving protective hats and fishing gear. Liara clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Shepard, shoulders rocking with silent laughter, cleared her throat. "Uh, where were we?"

"Day plans," Liara said, removing her hand from her mouth just enough to speak.

Shepard continued to rock with laughter. "Right," she deadpanned.

"Hmm." Liara gazed upward, sucking on the inside of her cheek as she thought. Looked back to Shepard, raising her brows. "Armali Natural History Museum?"

"Oh shit, dinosaurs!"

"Excuse me?"

Shepard, expectantly wide-eyed, mouth excitedly open, burst into actual laughter.

"Is that a 'yes' or a 'no'?" Liara pressed.

"It's a 'whatever you want to do today, Li.'"

"Petraaa."

That earned Liara a nose-wrinkle. "Nobody calls me that."

Liara tapped the end of Shepard's nose and shrugged, grinning. "I do."

"At the very least," Shepard said, playfully swatting the arm attached to Liara's nose-bopping-hand away, "we should talk breakfast first." She took Liara in her arm, pulled her close, kissed her shoulder. "There's some weird-ass eggs in the fridge if you know how to cook those. Or we could eat out… hey, why are you looking at me like that?"

Her grin turned devious. "I think I'd like that," she said, and she grabbed Shepard's hand and pulled her up the stairs.

#wips #SAtS #LWLS #my writing #shiara

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boreothegoldfinch · 3 years

Text

chapter 10 paragraph xvi

Gyuri left us out in the Sixties, not far at all from the Barbours’. “This is the place?” I said, shaking the rain off Hobie’s umbrella. We were out in front of one of the big limestone townhouses off Fifth—black iron doors, massive lion’s-head knockers. “Yes—it’s his father’s place—his other family are trying to get him out legally but good luck with that, hah.” We were buzzed in, took a cage elevator up to the second floor. I could smell incense, weed, spaghetti sauce cooking. A lanky blonde woman—shortcropped hair and a serene small-eyed face like a camel’s—opened the door. She was dressed like a sort of old-fashioned street urchin or newsboy: houndstooth trousers, ankle boots, dirty thermal shirt, suspenders. Perched on the tip of her nose were a pair of wire-rimmed Ben Franklin glasses. Without saying a word she opened the door to us and walked off, leaving us alone in a dim, grimy, ballroom-sized salon which was like a derelict version of some high-society set from a Fred Astaire movie: high ceilings; crumbling plaster; grand piano; darkened chandelier with half the crystals broken or gone; sweeping Hollywood staircase littered with cigarette butts. Sufi chants droned low in the background: Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Someone had drawn on the wall, in charcoal, a series of life-sized nudes ascending the stairs like frames in a film; and there was very little furniture apart from a ratty futon and some chairs and tables that looked scavenged from the street. Empty picture frames on the wall, a ram’s skull. On the television, an animated film flickered and sputtered with epileptic vim, windmilling geometrics intercut with letters and live-action racecar images. Apart from that, and the door where the blonde had disappeared, the only light came from a lamp which threw a sharp white circle on melted candles, computer cables, empty beer bottles and butane cans, oil pastels boxed and loose, many catalogues raisonnés, books in German and English including Nabokov’s Despair and Heidegger’s Being and Time with the cover torn off, sketch books, art books, ashtrays and burnt tinfoil, and a grubby-looking pillow where drowsed a gray tabby cat. Over the door, like a trophy from some Schwarzwald hunting lodge, a rack of antlers cast distorted shadows that spread and branched across the ceiling with a Nordic, wicked, fairy-tale feel. Conversation in the next room. The windows were shrouded with tacked-up bedsheets just thin enough to let in a diffuse violet glow from the street. As I looked around, forms emerged from the dark and transformed with a dream strangeness: for one thing, the makeshift room divider—consisting of a carpet sagging tenement-style from the ceiling on fishing line—was on closer look a tapestry and a good one too, eighteenth century or older, the near twin of an Amiens I’d seen at auction with an estimate of forty thousand pounds. And not all the frames on the wall were empty. Some had paintings in them, and one of them—even in the poor light—looked like a Corot.

I was just about to step over for a look when a man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty appeared in the door: worn-looking, rangy, with straight sandy hair combed back from his face, in black punk jeans out at the knee and a grungy British commando sweater with an ill-fitting suit jacket over it. “Hello,” he said to me, quiet British voice with a faint German bite, “you must be Potter,” and then, to Boris: “Glad you turned up. You two should stay and hang out. Candy and Niall are making dinner with Ulrika.” Movement behind the tapestry, at my feet, that made me step back quickly: swaddled shapes on the floor, sleeping bags, a homeless smell. “Thanks, we can’t stay,” said Boris, who had picked up the cat and was scratching it behind the ears. “Have some of that wine though, thanks.” Without a word Horst passed his own glass over to Boris and then called into the next room in German. To me, he said: “You’re a dealer, right?” In the glow of the television his pale pinned gull’s eye shone hard and unblinking. “Right,” I said uneasily; and then: “Uh, thanks.” Another woman—bobhaired and brunette, high black boots, skirt just short enough to show the black cat tattooed on one milky thigh—had appeared with a bottle and two glasses: one for Horst, one for me. “Danke darling,” said Horst. To Boris he said: “You gentlemen want to do up?” “Not right now,” said Boris, who had leaned forward to steal a kiss from the dark-haired woman as she was leaving. “Was wondering though. What do you hear from Sascha?” “Sascha—” Horst sank down on the futon and lit a cigarette. With his ripped jeans and combat boots he was like a scuffed-up version of some below-the-title Hollywood character actor from the 1940s, some minor mitteleuropäischer known for playing tragic violinists and weary, cultivated refugees. “Ireland is where it seems to lead. Good news if you ask me.” “That doesn’t sound right.” “Nor to me, but I’ve talked to people and so far it checks out.” He spoke with all a junkie’s arrhythmic quiet, off-beat, but without the slur. “So—soon we should know more, I hope.” “Friends of Niall’s?” “No. Niall says he never heard of them. But it’s a start.”

The wine was bad: supermarket Syrah. Because I did not want to be anywhere near the bodies on the floor I drifted over to inspect a group of artists’ casts on a beat-up table: a male torso; a draped Venus leaning against a rock; a sandaled foot. In the poor light they looked like the ordinary plaster casts for sale at Pearl Paint—studio pieces for students to sketch from—but when I drew my finger across the top of the foot I felt the suppleness of marble, silky and grainless. “Why would they go to Ireland with it?” Boris was saying restlessly. “What kind of collectors’ market? I thought everyone tries to get pieces out of there, not in.” “Yes, but Sascha thinks he used the picture to clear a debt.” “So the guy has ties there?” “Evidently.” “I find this difficult to believe.” “What, about the ties?” “No, about the debt. This guy—he looks like he was stealing hubcaps off the street six months ago. “ Horst shrugged, faintly: sleepy eyes, seamed forehead. “Who knows. Not sure that’s correct but certainly I’m not willing to trust to luck. Would I let my hand be cut off for it?” he said, lazily tapping an ash on the floor. “No.” Boris frowned into his wine glass. “He was amateur. Believe me. If you saw him yourself you would know.” “Yes but he likes to gamble, Sascha says.” “You don’t think Sascha maybe knows more?” “I think not.” There was a remoteness in his manner, as if he was talking half to himself. “ ‘Wait and see.’ This is what I hear. An unsatisfactory answer. Stinking from the top if you ask me. But as I say, we are not to the bottom of this yet.” “And when does Sascha get back to the city?” The half-light in the room sent me straight back to childhood, Vegas, like the obscure mood of a dream lingering after sleep: haze of cigarette smoke, dirty clothes on the floor, Boris’s face white then blue in the flicker of the screen. “Next week. I’ll give you a ring. You can talk to him yourself then.” “Yes. But I think we should talk to him together.” “Yes. I think so too. We’ll both be smarter, in future… this need not have happened… but in any case,” said Horst, who was scratching his neck slowly, absent-mindedly, “you understand I’m wary of pushing him too hard.” “That is very convenient for Sascha.” “You have suspicions. Tell me.” “I think—” Boris cut his eyes at the doorway. “Yes?” “I think—” Boris lowered his voice—“you are being too easy on him. Yes yes—” putting up his hands—“I know. But—all very convenient for his guy to vanish, not a clue, he knows nothing!” “Well, maybe,” Horst said. He seemed disconnected and partly elsewhere, like an adult in the room with small children. “This is pressing on me—on all of us. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you. Though for all we know his guy was a cop.” “No,” said Boris resolutely. “He was not. He was not. I know it.” “Well—to be quite frank with you, I do not think so either, there is more to this than we yet know. Still, I’m hopeful.” He’d taken a wooden box from the drafting table and was poking around in it. “Sure you gentlemen wouldn’t like to get into a little something?” I looked away. I would have liked nothing better. I would also have liked to see the Corot except I didn’t want to walk around the bodies on the floor to do it. Across the room, I’d noticed several other paintings propped on the wainscoting: a still life, a couple of small landscapes. “Go look, if you want.” It was Horst. “The Lépine is fake. But the Claesz and the Berchem are for sale if you’re interested.” Boris laughed and reached for one of Horst’s cigarettes. “He’s not in the market.” “No?” said Horst genially. “I can give him a good price on the pair. The seller needs to get rid of them.”

I stepped in to look: still life, candle and half-empty wineglass. “Claesz-Heda?” “No—Pieter. Although—” Horst put the box aside, then stood beside me and lifted the desk lamp on the cord, washing both paintings in a harsh, formal glare—“this bit—” traced mid-air with the curve of a finger—“the reflection of the flame here? and the edge of the table, the drapery? Could almost be Heda on a bad day.” “Beautiful piece.” “Yes. Beautiful of its type.” Up close he smelled unwashed and raunchy, with a strong, dusty import-shop odor like the inside of a Chinese box. “A bit prosaic to the modern taste. The classicizing manner. Much too staged. Still, the Berchem is very good.” “Lot of fake Berchems out there,” I said neutrally. “Yes—” the light from the upheld lamp on the landscape painting was bluish, eerie—“but this is lovely… Italy, 1655‥… the ochres beautiful, no? The Claesz not so good I think, very early, though the provenance is impeccable on both. Would be nice to keep them together… they have never been apart, these two. Father and son. Came down together in an old Dutch family, ended up in Austria after the war. Pieter Claesz…” Horst held the light higher. “Claesz was so uneven, honestly. Wonderful technique, wonderful surface, but something a bit off with this one, don’t you agree? The composition doesn’t hold together. Incoherent somehow. Also—” indicating with the flat of his thumb the too-bright shine coming off the canvas: overly varnished. “I agree. And here—” tracing midair the ugly arc where an over-eager cleaning had scrubbed the paint down to the scumbling. “Yes.” His answering look was amiable and drowsy. “Quite correct. Acetone. Whoever did that should be shot. And yet a mid-level painting like this, in poor condition—even an anonymous work—is worth more than a masterpiece, that’s the irony of it, worth more to me, anyway. Landscapes particularly. Very very easy to sell. Not too much attention from the authorities… difficult to recognize from a description… and still worth maybe a couple hundred thousand. Now, the Fabritius—” long, relaxed pause—“a different calibre altogether. The most remarkable work that’s ever passed through my hands, and I can say that without question.” “Yes, and that is why we would like so much to get it back,” grumbled Boris from the shadows. “Completely extraordinary,” continued Horst serenely. “A still life like this one—” he indicated the Claesz, with a slow wave (black-rimmed fingernails, scarred venous network on the back of his hand)—“well, so insistently a trompe l’oeil. Great technical skill, but overly refined. Obsessive exactitude. There’s a deathlike quality. A very good reason they are called natures mortes, yes? But the Fabritius…”—loose-kneed back-step—“I know the theory of The Goldfinch, I’m well familiar with it, people call it trompe l’oeil and indeed it can strike the eye that way from afar. But I don’t care what the art historians say. True: there are passages worked like a trompe l’oeil… the wall and the perch, gleam of light on brass, and then… the feathered breast, most creaturely. Fluff and down. Soft, soft. Claesz would carry that finish and exactitude down to the death—a painter like van Hoogstraten would carry it even farther, to the last nail of the coffin. But Fabritius… he’s making a pun on the genre… a masterly riposte to the whole idea of trompe l’oeil… because in other passages of the work—the head? the wing?—not creaturely or literal in the slightest, he takes the image apart very deliberately to show us how he painted it. Daubs and patches, very shaped and hand-worked, the neckline especially, a solid piece of paint, very abstract. Which is what makes him a genius less of his time than our own. There’s a doubleness. You see the mark, you see the paint for the paint, and also the living bird.”

“Yes, well,” growled Boris, in the dark beyond the spotlight, snapping his cigarette lighter shut, “if no paint, would be nothing to see.” “Precisely.” Horst turned, his face cut by shadow. “It’s a joke, the Fabritius. It has a joke at its heart. And that’s what all the very greatest masters do. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Late Titian. They make jokes. They amuse themselves. They build up the illusion, the trick—but, step closer? it falls apart into brushstrokes. Abstract, unearthly. A different and much deeper sort of beauty altogether. The thing and yet not the thing. I should say that that one tiny painting puts Fabritius in the rank of the greatest painters who ever lived. And with The Goldfinch? He performs his miracle in such a bijou space. Although I admit, I was surprised—” turning to look at me—“when I held it in my hands the first time? The weight of it?” “Yes—” I couldn’t help feeling gratified, obscurely, that he’d noted this detail, oddly important to me, with its own network of childhood dreams and associations, an emotional chord—“the board is thicker than you’d think. There’s a heft to it.” “Heft. Quite. The very word. And the background—much less yellow than when I saw it as a boy. The painting underwent a cleaning—early nineties I believe. Post-conservation, there’s more light.” “Hard to say. I’ve got nothing to compare it to.” “Well,” said Horst. The smoke from Boris’s cigarette, threading in from the dark where he sat, gave the floodlit circle where we stood the midnight feel of a cabaret stage. “I may be wrong. I was a boy of twelve or so when I saw it for the first time.” “Yes, I was about that age when I first saw it too.” “Well,” said Horst, with resignation, scratching an eyebrow—dime-sized bruises on the backs of his hands—“that was the only time my father ever took me with him on a business trip, that time at The Hague. Ice cold boardrooms. Not a leaf stirring. On our afternoon I wanted to go to Drievliet, the fun park, but he took me to the Mauritshuis instead. And—great museum, many great paintings, but the only painting I remember seeing is your finch. A painting that appeals to a child, yes? Der Distelfink. That is how I knew it first, by its German name.”

“Yah, yah, yah,” said Boris from the darkness, in a bored voice. “This is like the education channel on the television.” “Do you deal any modern art at all?” I said, in the silence that followed. “Well—” Horst fixed me with his drained, wintry eye; deal wasn’t quite the correct verb, he seemed amused at my choice of words—“sometimes. Had a Kurt Schwitters not long ago—Stanton Macdonald-Wright—do you know him? Lovely painter. It depends a lot what comes my way. Quite honestly— do you ever deal in paintings at all?” “Very seldom. The art dealers get there before I do.” “That is unfortunate. Portable is what matters in my business. There are a lot of mid-level pieces I could sell on the clean if I had paper that looked good.” Spit of garlic; pans clashing in the kitchen; faint Moroccan-souk drift of urine and incense. On and on flatlining, the Sufi drone, wafting and spiraling around us in the dark, ceaseless chants to the Divine. “Or this Lépine. Quite a good forgery. There’s this fellow—Canadian, quite amusing, you’d like him—does them to order. Pollocks, Modiglianis— happy to introduce you, if you’d like. Not much money in them for me, although there’s a fortune to be made if one of them turned up in just the right estate.” Then, smoothly, in the silence that followed: “Of older works I see a lot of Italian, but my preferences—they incline to the North as you can see. Now—this Berchem is a very fine example for what it is but of course these Italianate landscapes with the broken columns and the simple milkmaids don’t so much suit the modern taste, do they? I much prefer the van Goyen there. Sadly not for sale.” “Van Goyen? I would have sworn that was a Corot.” “From here, yes, you might.” He was pleased at the comparison. “Very similar painters—Vincent himself remarked it—you know that letter? ‘The Corot of the Dutch’? Same tenderness of mist, that openness in fog, do you know what I mean?” “Where—” I’d been about to ask the typical dealer’s question, where did you get it, before catching myself. “Marvelous painter. Very prolific. And this is a particularly beautiful example,” he said, with all a collector’s pride. “Many amusing details up close—tiny hunter, barking dog. Also—quite typical—signed on the stern of the boat. Quite charming. If you don’t mind—” indicating, with a nod, the bodies behind the tapestry. “Go over. You won’t disturb them.” “No, but—” “No—” holding up a hand—“I understand perfectly. Shall I bring it to you?” “Yes, I’d love to see it.”

“I must say, I’ve grown so fond of it, I’ll hate to see it go. He dealt paintings himself, van Goyen. A lot of the Dutch masters did. Jan Steen. Vermeer. Rembrandt. But Jan van Goyen—” he smiled—“was like our friend Boris here. A hand in everything. Paintings, real estate, tulip futures.” Boris, in the dark, made a disgruntled noise at this and seemed about to say something when all of a sudden a scrawny wild-haired boy of maybe twenty-two, with an old fashioned mercury thermometer sticking out of his mouth, came lurching out of the kitchen, shielding his eyes with his hand against the upheld lamp. He was wearing a weird, womanish, chunky knit cardigan that came almost to his knees like a bathrobe; he looked ill and disoriented, his sleeve was up, he was rubbing the inside of his forearm with two fingers and then the next thing I knew his knees went sideways and he’d hit the floor, the thermometer skittering out with a glassy noise on the parquet, unbroken. “What…?” said Boris, stabbing out his cigarette, standing up, the cat darting from his lap into the shadows. Horst—frowning—set the lamp on the floor, light swinging crazily on walls and ceiling. “Ach,” he said fretfully, brushing the hair from his eyes, dropping to his knees to look the young man over. “Get back,” he said in an annoyed voice to the women who had appeared in the door, along with a cold, dark-haired, attentive-looking bruiser and a couple of glassy prep-school boys, no more than sixteen—and then, when they all still stood staring—flicked out a hand. “In the kitchen with you! Ulrika,” he said to the blonde, “halt sie zurück.” The tapestry was stirring; behind it, blanket-wrapped huddles, sleepy voices: eh? was ist los? “Ruhe, schlaft weiter,” called the blonde, before turning to Horst and beginning to speak urgently in rapid-fire German. Yawns; groans; farther back, a bundle sitting up, groggy American whine: “Huh? Klaus? What’d she say?” “Shut up baby and go back schlafen.” Boris had picked up his coat and was shouldering it on. “Potter,” he said and then again, when I did not answer, staring horrified at the floor, where the boy was breathing in gurgles: “Potter.” Catching my arm. “Come on, let’s go.” “Yes, sorry. We’ll have to talk later. Schiesse,” said Horst regretfully, shaking the boy’s limp shoulder, with the tone of a parent making a not-particularly-convincing show of scolding a child. “Dummer Wichser! Dummkopf! How much did he take, Niall?” he said to the bruiser who had reappeared in the door and was looking on with a critical eye. “Fuck if I know,” said the Irishman, with an ominous sideways pop of his head. “Come on, Potter,” said Boris, catching my arm. Horst had his ear to the boy’s chest and the blonde, who had returned, had dropped to her knees beside him and was checking his airway.

As they consulted urgently in German, more noise and movement behind the Amiens, which billowed out suddenly: faded blossoms, a fête champêtre, prodigal nymphs disporting themselves amidst fountain and vine. I was staring at a satyr peeping at them slyly from behind a tree when, unexpectedly —something against my leg—I started back violently as a hand swiped from underneath and clutched my trouser cuff. From the floor, one of the dirty bundles—swollen red face just visible from under the tapestry—inquired of me in a sleepy gallant voice: “He’s a margrave, my dear, did you know that?” I pulled my trouser leg free and stepped back. The boy on the floor was rolling his head a bit and making sounds like he was drowning. “Potter.” Boris had gathered up my coat and was practically stuffing it in my face. “Come on! Let’s go! Ciao,” he called into the kitchen with a lift of his chin (pretty dark head appearing in the doorway, a fluttering hand: bye, Boris! Bye!) as he pushed me ahead of him and ducked behind me out the door. “Ciao, Horst!” he said, making a call me later gesture, hand to ear. “Tschau Boris! Sorry about this! We’ll talk soon! Up,” said Horst, as the Irishman came up and grabbed the boy’s other arm from underneath; together they hoisted him up, feet limp and toes dragging and—amidst hurried activity in the doorway, the two young teenagers scrambling back in alarm—hauled him into the lighted doorway of the next room, where Boris’s brunette was drawing up a syringe of something from a tiny glass bottle.

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