#GOD i remember some people pushing for there to be like a fourth angle of superwholock with hannibal. people made supernatural hannibal
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SOURCES AND SIGNIFICANCE - READERS
Baena, C. (2019). Top Five Things NOT to Do On Your Demo Reel. [online] Animation Arena. Available at: http://www.animationarena.com/demo-reel.html [Accessed 31 Dec. 2022].
The five things an animator SHOULD NEVER DO in their demo reel are covered in this article. I picked this as my reader since im on my own journey of becoming a sucessful animator. so i thought this would be a reliable source and help me. The first thing to remember is to keep our resumes tailored to the studio for which we are applying, and if the departments are specialised, we should choose one specialty and only include works that highlight that. The second tip is to avoid adding too much because it will become chaotic for those seeing your demoreel and they will quickly lose interest. The third recommendation is to make our reel's interior as unique and inventive as its exterior or cover. The fourth tip is to leave out anything that is overly distracting, especially the audio, as harsh sound design can quickly throw viewers off and undermine the reel's intended message. This article's last rule is to never include content that has been animated by others and credit any references taken.
Giesen, R. and Khan, A. (2017). Acting and Character Animation. [online] CRC Press, pp.99–101. Available at: https://www.taylorfrancis.com/chapters/mono/10.4324/9781315155036-20/heroes-antiheroes-villains-men-rolf-giesen-anna-khan?context=ubx [Accessed 25 Dec. 2022].
The portrayal of heroes, villains, antiheroes, and men in animation is covered in this chapter. I picked this since i majorly focus on the characters in my projects more than anything. This chapter makes the case that heroes from before World War 2 had significantly different attitudes from those from after. The old age antiheroes in the Greek tragedy are claimed to have had their fates decided by the pleasure of the olympian gods, whereas the new age antiheroes are said to have acquired their distinctive qualities by chance (like a God-given fate). We live in a world where people only focus on the negative, and this society has been labelled as excessively pessimistic by the media and press, therefore it is believed that people no longer believe in heroes after World War 2. Joseph Campbell, a well-known mythologist, had the view that heroes were those who sacrificed their lives for a greater good and that "Star Wars" represented the final stand of heroes.
Hernandez, E.A. (2012). Set the action! : creating backgrounds for compelling storytelling in animation, comics, and games. [online] New York: Focal Press, pp.5–15. Available at: https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/14848218-set-the-action-creating-backgrounds-for-compelling-storytelling-in-anim [Accessed 27 Dec. 2022].
This chapter covered the value of perspective and the additional cinematography it may provide to a scene. This article teches me some new things and seems fairly reliable since im struggling to create dynamic backgrounds for my projects. The author tells us right away that we must learn how to set up a scene in order to plan the events that take place there. For this, perspective and layouts are the first few things we need to concentrate on because they will help design strong backgrounds, after which we will be able to achieve dramatic and energetic visuals. He gives us an illustration by displaying a scene that is drawn from a side view with absolutely no depth or perspective. He continues by displaying a second drawing of the same scenario from a different angle, demonstrating to us how it gives the scene a dramatic push and significantly increases the tension. He then discusses the One Point, Two Point, Three Point, and Four Point/Zero Point perspectives before wrapping up the chapter.
Katatikarn, J. and Tanzillo, M. (2016). Lighting for Animation. [online] CRC Press, pp.72–75. Available at: https://academyofanimatedart.com/lightingforanimationbook/ [Accessed 28 Dec. 2022].
The roles of several types of lights in animation are covered in this chapter. I really liked the part where the author emphasised that it's crucial to comprehend the tools at the lighter's disposal and how they will be used and positioned in a specific scenario to suit the artist's aesthetic.The key light is the main source of illumination for the scene. According to him, The key light's colour is crucial, and even the smallest mistake or misalignment will make the scene appear unappealing. He describes fill light as the type of light that just modifies the existing parameters of the existing lighting arrangement. The gentle light that emanates from below is referred to as bounce light. Rim/kick light refers to a light that virtually acts as an outline and distinguishes an object from its surroundings. He concludes by describing the The utility light, thats an additional light in a scene like cell phone screen, Sirens.
Landgraf, H. (2019). The Increasing Role of Character Animation in Games. [online] Animation Arena. Available at: http://www.animationarena.com/character-animation.html [Accessed 30 Dec. 2022].
The high standards and significance of a character animator are discussed in this article along with what makes a good game. The publisher describes how, in the past, players would get extremely pumped up and excited to play two-dimensional games that were merely sports simulations. However, as technology has advanced, players today prefer to play games with much higher graphics that provide a more immersive experience, and the game and animation industries are constantly working to meet these demands. A group of graduates of the Animation Mentor programme who had received character animation training responded that gamers become more invested in the game and get into the character by developing empathy for them and making them as believable and relatable as possible. She ends the post by stating that the game industry moves very quickly and that there is a growing need for character animators.
Meir, D. (2019). Acting and Animation. [online] Animation Arena. Available at: http://www.animationarena.com/acting-and-animation.html [Accessed 29 Dec. 2022].
The author of this article contrasts actors and animators and explains how acting is crucial to animation. In order to demonstrate that an animator is an actor as we're attempting to tell a tale with a character, he begins by quoting one of the oldest proverbs: "An Animator is an Actor with a Pencil ". He continues by pointing out that, despite his respect for the technological advancements in animation, he believes that the new characters in animated films are a step backward and inferior to the previous ones since they lack individuality. He proposes that instead of using a formula to elevate themselves, the characters should just be themselves. After that, he examines and breaks down what makes a good actor. He believes that characters should exhibit their thought processes, respond to circumstances in a reasonable manner, and have a consistent attitude that sets them apart from other characters.
Natcoll Design Technology (2019). Motion Capture Animation. [online] Animation Arena. Available at: http://www.animationarena.com/motion-capture-animation.html [Accessed 1 Jan. 2023].
The use of motion capture for 3D characters is debated in this article as to whether it falls under acting or animation. This idea was inspired by one of the most watched movies of all time, James Cameron's Avatar. Performance capture technology, which was similar to motion capture but for facial expressions, was employed in this movie. Every expression and reaction the actor makes is recorded and accurately replicated in the 3D character they are portraying. The actors will be able to complete each act entirely on their own because nothing will be added during preproduction. The distinctions between animation and conventional filmmaking have become more hazy as a result of this technological advancement.Cameron defended the technology and asserted that this performance was acting, and anyone who disagreed needed to be properly informed.
Thomas, F. and Johnston, O. (1995). The illusion of life : Disney animation. [online] New York: Hyperion, pp.393–395. Available at: https://books.disney.com/book/the-illusion-of-life/ [Accessed 26 Dec. 2022].
The technique by which Walt Disney creates characters is covered in this chapter. In contrast to writing the plot first and then adding the characters, it is believed that Walt prepares his characters before writing the story. Additionally, he recommended that before really creating these people, his character designers learn as much as possible about them. Since he believed that a character's charisma and personality were the most important aspects of good material, he would pay more attention to these aspects than to the character's goals or motivations or how they affected the plot. At times, he would become so engrossed in the characters that he would even play them out, losing all awareness of his surroundings. His coworkers would have the time of their lives watching it because of his contagious enthusiasm and confidence in these people, which spread wonderful energy throughout the office.
Weaver, T. (2013). Comics for Film, Games, and Animation: Using Comics to Construct your Transmedia Storyworld. [online] CRC Press LLC, Oxford, pp.99-100. Available at: https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/herts/detail.action?docID=1092832 [Accessed 3 Jan. 2023].
This book's intermission talks about the five mantras for creating a comic strip. The first credo is to always keep in mind that comics and movies are two very different genres, each with their own advantages and disadvantages. The second credo is to always keep in mind that comics are nothing more than very private experiences. The third point is that we need to comprehend the specific guidelines and components of comic book storytelling. The fourth recommendation is to make use of the infinite storytelling potential while crafting a comic book story. Choose "the moment" that grabs everyone's attention and tells a lot of stories as the fifth and final catchphrase. a number of the chapters in this book drew my attention, therefore I think I might use it for my critical analysis.
Wheless, J. (2019). Become a Better Animator. [online] Animation Arena. Available at: http://www.animationarena.com/become-a-better-animator.html [Accessed 30 Dec. 2022].
The publisher of this article asserts that becoming a good animator requires far more than simply having the necessary technical skills; it also requires having a positive attitude and controlling our ego. This article highlights the attributes an animator should possess.According to the publisher, he has encountered numerous animators who lacked these characteristics and who ultimately ended up ending their own careers as a result. He believes that an animator needs to be able to work well with others and be receptive to ideas. Additionally, if he wants to finish it on time and realises that he won't be able to accomplish it on his own, he should be able to accept constructive criticism and request technical assistance from other animators without fear. He ends the post by stating his personal convictions, which are that having an 80% positive attitude and 20% talent will help us succeed in life.
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dating fred weasley and being a ravenclaw
wow i am a SIMP for this man! this ain’t new info but! he is truly such a divine man and like…yeah i had to- also this might be longer because Fred has a lot more things to cover in terms of this and his own issues sksksjjs
warnings: light smut, angst at parts, wicked hot men named frederick gideon weasley, mentions of sexual degrading and not the hot or kinky kind :/ basically dudes being scumbags
people that might like this (?): @whiz-bangs78 @wand3ringr0s3 @gcdric @thatdumbbitchxx @pansydaisy@vogueweasley @slytherinsunrise @thehufflepuffwife @theweasleyslut dm me to be on the twins taglist or for requests for blurbs/ships/one shots :)
fred thinks you’re an actual literal on god 111% angel sent by god
i swear-
he basically runs into (…literally) when escaping from filch, and knocks into you coming out of transfiguration
and i shit you not, he catches you by the waist like mid dip
oh my GOD please I’m in love with him
Fred Weasley, professional jackass, looked down at you hand still on your waist. He grinned at you and winked and you swore to god you heard the sparkle sound effect. “Hullo, gorgeous.” He heard filch scream “WEASLEY!” and broke away from you, pulling you up and pushing you off of him, leading a running filch to slip in the middle of the hallway, the hall erupting in laughter: including you. Fred inhaled harshly, heart pounding at you laughing at something he managed to pull off. “I’ll…I’ll see you again, yeah?” You froze smiling in place. “Um…yeah…yeah you will?” “Yeah?” He grinned. “Yeah.” With another wink he sped off down the hall…
he couldn’t stop thinking about the wicked hot girl in the hall
god what house was she he thought?
oh shit she had blue on fuck she’s a ravenclaw he thinks. why does he think like that?
she’s outta my goddamn league, he thought before he could stop himself
“Freddie, I know you’re not giving up on the idea of this girl this easy.” George shook his head smirking in the Hall.
“I’m not giving up on anything - she’s just…too good for me.”
“Mate, you know nothing about her except how her eyes ‘sparkled like the stars’ or some whack Tolstoy shit like that…besides, you always did love a challenge, yeah?” At that Fred grinned.
“Georgie, I was thinking exactly the same thing…”
frederick gideon weasley knew what he had to do
FUCKING RUN AROUND THE CASTLE AND LOOK FOR YOU DUH
i swear he probably skipped like a half a day of classes just running from classroom to classroom tryna find your gorgeous self
he also probably was like “anyone seen a literal angel around” and everyone was just like ~please shoot this kid he cannot be deadass~
anyway, he’s starting to run out of breath guys, pobrecito is about to give up for the day and throw in the towel but then
then, fellas and foals-
he sees you
sitting in the center of the quidditch pitch
reading a book and writing in your notebook
and god when i tell you he physically had his ass floored
i mean, Jesus Christ, it’s the way you were just serenely sitting in HIS favorite place in hogwarts, not even in the stands, just absorbing life in the ACTUAL PITCH just
just being there
“What are you doing here, love?” You look up and see Fred, chest heaving, rosy cheeked and fucking glorious. He looked otherworldly with the sun at his back, seemingly glowing. “Knitting a sweater.” You said coolly, and gave a small smile. He bit his lip and made his way over to you and sat down in front of you.
“I’d like that sweater somewhere else, gorgeous.”
“Where, in your mum’s dirty laundry?” He scoffed
“No silly, on me but I’ll take that option too ;)”
You scoffed back and rolled your eyes. “On you? Please, this is made to fit an actual person with a body, Fred.”
“And I don’t have a good enough body for it?”
You bit your lip, gathering courage to look straight back at him. “I wouldn’t know I haven’t seen it.”
and that alone has Fred Weasley garnering a massive tent in his pants
He gulped. “Whats your name, darling?”
“Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”
He grinned, blushing wildly. “Y/N, you’re never getting rid of me now”
that, my dear, was the truth at its finest
for the first time, he’d found a woman that matched his energy
his banter his intellectual mind was finally satisfied by this beautiful, honest, blunt girl that made him
HIM, THE MAN THAT CAN NEVER SHUT THE FUCK UP, be still.
be quiet. be at peace
“freddie, don’t fucking prank first years you’re better than that”
“Fred, please don’t be a bully. You’re not an unkind person so don’t act that way, okay? Come on”
it’s about three to five days of just non stop flirting
constantly leaving him breathless and without a rebuttal, again something no one has ever been able to do
after this period, he’s eating in the great hall, not having talked to you today and bouncing his knees violently
and he sees you get up and leave the hall
this prompts him to get up and run after you
“Y/N!” You turn to see him running full speed behind you, and you smile widely, blushing a fair ton as he stops in front of you, chest heaving. Your smile falters as he doesn’t say anything “Fred, w-what’s wrong?” He then bites his lip “I’m sorry but I have to” and presses his mouth to yours. You kiss back immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck as he backs you up against the wall. The kiss is hungry, passionate, and after a few moments he pulls off you and leans his forehead to yours. “I need you.” He says hoarsely. “And I need YOU, Freddie.” He smiles and you wrap your legs around his waist…
from that moment, you two are inseparable
we are talking handsy too
oh fuck this about to get fluffy as hell
freddie basically waits until you’re out of class and then will pin you against the wall and kiss you like he hasn’t seen you in years
“My angel, it’s been far too long.” He says breathlessly, smiling wide before giving you a kiss attack, sending ammunition of kisses all around your face, making you giggle uncontrollably. “My love, it’s only been an hour,” you say in between full body laughter. He then stops, looking at you very seriously. “Darling, that simply will not do,” he clucks and then throws you over his shoulder, sending you into fits of laughter again as he takes you to your next class.
you and fred have so much sex
empty classrooms
in his dorm
in your dorm
in the locker rooms
in the library
“Freddie, harder baby, please” you gasp out as he’s thrusting inside of you at a rhythmic pace, him slipping into you like hot oil, skin slapping as he has you in the shower. “How much do you need me, angel? Cmon love I wanna hear your words...” “yes, yes I need you please” you moan as he hits a new angle “That’s my princess, taking me so well, do you love it when I fill you up? Fuck you so good you can’t walk?” You nod and throw your head back. “Freddie, I’m gonna come” “Good girl, princess, come all over my cock” He growls setting a faster and harder pace, as he chants your name like a hymnal, his hips and movements getting sloppier as he finally releases into you, chest heaving and presses his lips to your forehead.
“Where should we try next, gorgeous, hmm? I think snape’s office should do it, he won’t even know us from the grease stains from his nose” this earns him a smack on the arm
fred marks you up constantly too
wants everyone to see how much his “good little princess” really feels
anything that says “I choose/belong to fred weasley” he’ll make you do
and you adore it and think it’s hot as fuck
he’s also marked his name onto your thighs and boobs before
george basically accepts the fact that you’re his new baby sister too, and when fred isn’t there will protect you like it ashsajdsahjsa
by this i mean fred has employed him to (but mainly george just does it because he loves you too)
but basically
during potions, draco slides in next to you and propositions you:
“How about we strike a deal, Y/L/N?” He looks at you smugly. You roll your jaw. “Yeah I agree, you shut the fuck up and let me pass our project, and I get all the credit without you destroying my handiwork?” He flares red and grabs your wrist. “I know Weaselbee the fourth probably tastes like the rest of his family - trash - but how I about I let you try something different, hmm?” You immediately pull away from him when he releases and make an attempt to focus back on your book.
fred obviously hears about this because some slytherin guys in the hallway are talking about how much Y/N wants to suck Malfoy’s dick
he’s not stupid, he knows you get sexualized by that dumbass constantly, even before y’all started dating
basically he finds draco in the boys bathroom, corners him, and beats the fuck out of him
“if you ever get near my girlfriend again, i swear to godric i won’t be so nice next time - don’t wanna get your balls cut off before 17 do you?”
oh and he’s stupid hot when he’s mad btw but we all been knew
he finds you where he always finds you once you start dating, in his dorm stop his bed
He swallows thickly at the sight of you clearly upset, watching you sit up immediately tears welling in your throat as you begin to apologize. “Freddie, love, I didn’t do anything I promise I didn’t want him to come onto me-“ “Y/N, it’s never your fault. You have to trust me with that I...I hate seeing people hurt you love.” He pulls your body into him whne he reaches the bed, touching you like you’re porcelain, careful not to break you. “I know I get violent and angry or pouty when guys do that to you because I feel like you’ll either choose someone else or I can’t protect you and...you mean everything to me, my angel.” He whispers into your hair, tears stealing on his cheeks. “I promise no one will hurt you anymore because I love you and loving someone means you do anything for them.” He babbles like a small boy, convincing himself of everything until he realizes he’s said it and he inhales. “Y/N y-you don’t have to say it ba-“ “I want to say it back. Remember? I love you and I need you, Fred.” You look up at him softly, chin on his chest and he smiles through tears on his face. “And I love you and I need YOU, my love.”
fred knows you love him and choose him over everyone but again
he gets insecure
in the way George is scared people won’t see him as Fred
fred is afraid you’ll find someone better
someone more stable and less quick tempered
you guys have fights sometimes that end in frustration or angry sex
but fred is always there an hour later sitting outside your dorm door praying to god you forgive him for his mistake
he’s never abusive or malicious
he just gets impulsive with pranks or doesn’t consider feelings sometimes
ON TO THE BURROW!!!!
molly is so thankful for you and hugs you immediately as you walk through the door whispering
“Thank you for making my son feel how he deserves” and your eyes water lightly murmuring a thank you
you instantly catch bill’s attention as he notices the way fred is so much calmer and confident with you around
he seems more sure of himself, and not as angry
his temper too is calmer with your presence, as if the very essence of you is soothing to all youre around
he is, so so in love with you
and yes he can be brash
and yes he can be insecure
and yes he can be impulsive
but yes he would do anything for you
but yes he sees you like no one else can
but yes he knows you struggle and he wants to be there
fred weasley is absolutely incandescently in love with you
and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
#fred weasley headcanons#fred weasley#fred weasley smut#fred weasley x ravenclaw!reader#Fred weasley imagines#Harry Potter#harry potter imagine
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Floor 200
I’m still working on part two of vampire!Hisoka but here’s a different, shorter piece with him
Warnings: threats of noncon, implied death, implications of smut
You yelped a bit as you moved out of the way of the two young boys who burst out from the elevator, barely managing to avoid them plowing you down as they sprinted past you.
The boy wearing green at least had the decency to call back a “sorry!” to you as they ran, and the rather messy-looking man with glasses that followed behind them also offered you a quick apology before going on his way. Just as quickly as those three had come, they were gone, leaving through a side entrance of Heaven's Arena while your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest at how sudden and unexpected all of that had been.
The encounter was more confusing than anything. With the amount of dangerous characters that lived in the tower, it certainly wasn't a place for children to be running around like that. Some of the people here really didn't give a shit, and if those two ran into someone who was actually dangerous and bloodthirsty, you feared what the end result of that would be.
The elevator doors sliding shut brought you back to reality, and you pushed your arm against one door to hold it open as you slipped inside, pushing the button for the 200th floor.
Thinking about those boys again brought back memories of your own childhood, of running around and playing with your friends and getting into trouble. You sighed a little bit, thinking of the things you used to do and wondering where all that energy had gone now that you'd grown up.
….. Dear God, had you really gotten to the point in your life where you'd be reminiscing about your childhood and the fact that you'd grown up to be as miserable as everybody else? It wasn't like you were that old.
You didn't want to focus on that slightly depressing thought, so you turned your attention to the bags of groceries you held and the meal you planned to make. Tonight was special. After finishing up a few jobs and going through his Hunter exam, Hisoka was actually back and planned to stick around for a while. So to celebrate both his success and return you were planning on cooking dinner for the two of you. You couldn't help feeling a little bit of excitement at the thought of it. It was such a small thing to eat dinner together, but it had been a while since you had seen him last, and you wanted to make the most of it.
The downside of living on the 200th floor of the arena meant that the elevator rides were terribly long, so you usually let your mind wander as the car made its way up the numerous floors. At least the long ride helped you to calm down from that little bit of shock earlier.
The ding of the elevator and the sound of the doors sliding open alerted you when you reached your destination. You left the elevator car and veered to the right towards the hallway that lead to Hisoka's room.
“Hey you- Oh.”
A voice sounded from behind, and you turned around to see who had spoken, finding three men that you knew better than you wanted to. Though for the life of you, you could never remember their names. You only knew them as the one in the wheelchair, the freaky-looking one missing an arm, and the other freaky-looking one in red. Gido.... That one was named Gido. You were about 90% sure that was correct.
“Can I help you?” you asked them.
They all avoided your gaze.
“We were waiting for someone else,” the one without an arm said, “thought you were these two kids that made it to the floor.”
“Do I look like two kids?”
None of them responded to your question. It was clear that they wanted you to leave, but after the last time you had been confronted in these hallways, they knew better than to even say anything out of line.
Hisoka had been pushing you to move in with him, and while you weren't really sure you wanted to live at the tower full-time, you couldn't deny that the room he had on the 200th floor was nice. A lot nicer than anything you could afford in that city. And since there weren't any rent or utilities that needed to be paid, it would be a good opportunity to save up some cash. So you agreed, much to Hisoka's delight.
The incident occurred when you had been moving in; Hisoka had gone on ahead of you, carrying a few boxes while you were bringing up a few bags full of clothes. On the way to Hisoka's room, those three had stopped you, along with a fourth man, one who was covered in burn scars and missing an eye. It was obvious you weren't a nen user, so they'd demanded to know what you were doing up there.
“My boyfriend lives here; I'm moving in with him,” you told them.
“Boyfriend, huh?” the one with the scars asked, “what, you cozied up to one of the fighters here so you could live in luxury without working for it?”
“I don't have to explain myself to you,” you answered.
“No, but you'll do it anyway.”
“Fuck off.”
At that he grabbed you by the throat and slammed you into the wall, the other three laughing behind him as he held you in place.
“It just isn't good for the arena's image if any random slut off the street can be living up on this level alongside the quality fighters,” he said, “so beat it, you stupid bitch. You don't belong here.”
“And a bunch of losers who barely survived their initiations do?”
Your words seemed to hit a nerve for all four of them, and the air around you grew deadly as the grip on your throat became that much tighter. But as he did so, the one with the scars smirked as a thought came to his mind.
“I've got an idea,” he said, “why doesn't your boyfriend make a wager with me? If he fights me and wins, you can stay. But if I win, my buddies and I get to have you for the night, and then you get the fuck outta here.”
“You want to fuck me? I thought I was a slut,” you spat, “is this about humiliating me or are you four just that desperate because no one is stupid enough to willingly get in bed with you?”
He reached with his other hand to grab your jaw and force your mouth closed. Egging him on really was so stupid, but the familiar figure you had noticed from the corner of your eye made you feel a bit more bold.
“You've got a mouth on you. But I've got a few ideas on how to shut you up and put that little smartass mouth to better use.”
The other three had grown quiet, but the one holding you didn't notice.
“So how 'bout it? Will you ask your boyfriend about that wager, or should I?”
It was hard to speak with how he was holding you, but you responded as you pointed to your right.
“I think.... He already heard.”
The scarred man's eyes followed where you were pointing, and when he saw Hisoka standing within earshot, you swore that man's soul just about left his body.
The other three had already noticed him, and were actively trying to distance themselves from their fourth.
Hisoka was smiling, but the second the man laid eyes on him bloodlust he had been holding back oozed from him, filling up the hallway and consuming all four.
The man who had been on your case backed away from you, holding up his hands in surrender.
“I-I-I d-didn't know,” he sputtered.
Hisoka didn't answer at first. He casually walked up to you two and wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you against him. With how Hisoka's nails dug into your hip, you could tell that Hisoka was well and truly pissed off. The man had stayed where he was, the murderous aura keeping him in place.
Hisoka looked to him.
“I accept your wager.”
The fight between them was one of the most gruesome things you had ever witnessed, and it went down as one of the bloodiest matches in the tower's history. The remaining trio didn't go anywhere near Hisoka after that, and they did everything they could to avoid you as well.
Whatever they were waiting for must have been important to them, seeing as they weren't turning around and leaving at the sight of you. They had mentioned kids, and you wondered if they were referring to the two boys who had come from the elevator.
But ultimately, it wasn't any of your business, and you motioned to the hallway you had been headed for as you asked “do you need me for something? I've got stuff I need to do.”
They shook their heads, their eyes still averted, and you continued on your way. The petty side of you wanted to throw back a quip of some kind, but you decided against it. They already didn't like you; there was no point in making things worse and have them resent you further.
Though it was probably hard for them to start shit when they remembered the way their old buddy was cut to pieces.
When you entered that hallway, to your surprise, you found Hisoka sitting on the floor at the other end. His eyes widened and he grinned when he saw you, flicking the card he was holding and throwing it into the wall. Reaching the end of the hallway, you found several playing cards that had been sliced into the wall at various angles. What the hell was he doing?
“.... What'd the wall do to you?” you finally asked.
Hisoka paused, a new card he was about to throw still between his fingers as he looked over to you.
“After we've been apart for so long, that's the first thing you say to me?” he responded, his eyebrow raised. Though he still had that teasing grin.
“You're making a nuisance of yourself,” you answered, “who exactly is going to clean this up once you're done here?”
“Who knows. It's not my problem.”
“I used to work in jobs like these, Hisoka. Trust me, cleaning up something like this won’t be fun.”
“The people who will clean this up aren't you, so I don't care,” he responded.
You sighed. You wouldn't be getting anywhere with this argument; better to just let it go.
“Is there a reason you're sitting on the floor out here?” you tried instead.
“I'm waiting for someone.”
“Hm. I'm guessing it's not me.”
“Afraid not.”
“Who then?”
“Two promising little fighters who've caught my eye,” Hisoka mused, “but they aren't quite ready to be up on this level just yet. And unless they can get past me, they won't be advancing any further.”
“So this is some kind of initiation thing?” you asked.
“In a way.”
“And how long is this going to take?”
“They need to be back before midnight, so possibly until then.”
Your eyes narrowed at that bit of information.
“Oh? Is something wrong?” Hisoka asked, tilting his head as he looked at you.
“Haven't you forgotten something, Hisoka?”
Seconds passed by as he looked up at you, and you couldn't tell if he was just bullshitting you or if he had genuinely forgotten your plans for the evening.
“Oh!” he exclaimed after a moment, “we were planning on dinner, weren't we?”
“It seriously took you that long to remember?” you asked dryly.
“You'll have to forgive me, pet. I simply got caught up in the moment. You know how I get sometimes.”
“Unfortunately, yeah, I do,” you sighed, “so you're just going to blow me off tonight?”
“It isn't anything personal. This is just something I need to see through,” he explained.
“Oh, of course. At least I know how high I am on your list of priorities,” you responded sarcastically.
Hisoka frowned at that, and as he threw the card he had been holding into the wall, he said “you know I don't like it when you say things like that, even as a joke.”
'Just like you know I don't like it when you cancel last-minute,' was what you wanted to say to him. But as disappointed as you were, you didn't want to get into an argument immediately after seeing him again. And it was easy enough to reschedule a dinner.
“Whatever. We can move dinner to tomorrow,” you shrugging as you conceded.
“I appreciate it,” he said, smiling.
“I guess if I'm not awake by the time you get back, I'll see you in the morning.”
Hisoka nodded, and you began to walk forward, passing him and heading to your room.
A thought occurred to you then, and you turned back.
“When was the last time you ate, Hisoka?”
He seemed caught slightly off-guard by the question, and he looked to the side as his brain tried to recall the last time he had done something as basic as making sure he ate.
“You can't even remember, can you?” you asked him.
“I'll have something when I get back,” he said, shrugging.
You sighed again. Adjusting the bags so you held both on one arm, you rummaged through as you walked back to him. Hisoka looked at you curiously as you held out an apple for him.
“Eat something, idiot.”
Hisoka chuckled.
“If you insist,” he replied, taking the apple.
“I always appreciate the way you take care of me, pet.”
“Yeah, but maybe one of these days you could start to take care of yourself. Kinda sad you need me to remind you to eat, of all things.”
“I can't help it. I like it when you dote on me.”
“Idiot.”
A slight blur of movement from the end of the hallway caught your attention. Someone was listening in, it seemed. Based off the slight bit of red you had seen, it was safe to assume it was Gido. Why he was listening to you and Hisoka you weren't sure. And it didn't seem that Hisoka had seemed to care; if you had noticed him, than Hisoka definitely knew he was there.
“Something wrong? I wouldn't want to keep you out here as well,” Hisoka said.
“... No, everything's fine. I just need to do one last thing.”
“Oh?”
“Since you're blowing me off for dinner, I want something from you.”
You knelt down on your knees and set the bags to the side before you moved in to place a kiss on Hisoka's lips, resting your hands on his chest. He had seemed rather surprised at first and didn't move. But when you began to pull away he reacted, his hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pressing you harder against his lips. When you felt his tongue trying to force its way in you relented, opening your mouth and allowing him access. You weren't able to stop the groan that came out of you at the sensation of his tongue moving against your own, and to you it sounded like the noise echoed slightly in the empty hallway. Hisoka always made his kisses intense, and you were always left with flushed cheeks by the end of it.
When you pulled away again, he allowed it. His finger twirled a strand of your hair as he breathed “if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were using me to keep certain pests off your back.”
“Well, you have to be good for something, right?”
“Cheeky thing.”
You hummed as you stood back up, Hisoka trailing his hand down your arm as you did so, the sensation of his nails running along your skin giving you goosebumps. One glance back down that hallway and you could sense that there wasn't anyone there. Probably too awkward for even Gido to keep watching you two. Hisoka had already pulled out another playing card as you picked up the rest of the groceries.
“See you later, Hisoka.”
You began to walk away again, but when Hisoka called out your name, you paused and turned your head. There was a mischievous look in his eyes.
“Don't think you can rile me up and then get away with no consequences,” he told you.
“I don't know what you mean,” you said, feigning ignorance.
“Then I'll have to show you what I mean when I come back tonight.”
“It might have to wait until tomorrow; if you're coming back after midnight I'm going to be asleep. I'm not waiting up for you.”
“Trust me, pet,” he purred as he flung another card at the wall, “you won't be getting much sleep tonight.”
You felt your cheeks heat up at the way he said it. It was hardly even that dirty, and he had certainly said much dirtier things to you before. But in a way that only he was able, Hisoka managed to leave you flustered and incapable of keeping eye contact with him. Turning your head away from him just made it worse, as he chuckled at your embarrassment.
“We'll see,” was all you could say.
It was a pretty weak response, and you were quick to head back to the room, trying not to walk away too quickly and show him how much of a hurry you were in to get out of that situation.
Despite all that, you couldn't help the slight feeling of anticipation from what he promised.
You'd probably end up waiting up for him after all.
#hisoka x reader#Hisoka#hxh hisoka#reader insert#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere hxh#hisoka morow#yandere hunter x hunter
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Going, Going, Gone (Spencer Reid x Reader) Chapter 5
Warnings: Mentions of death and injury/much angst
Word Count: 2k
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-Spencers POV-
His heart stopped. There she was. Right there, if only he could climb through the screen and grab her, shielding her from further harm. He was angry, she looked so small, from what he could make out on the screen you were tied to a bed, bound by chains, blood and wounds scattered in different shapes and sizes over your almost naked body.
Spencer heard a gasp from behind him, turning he noticed JJ staring at the screen seeing exactly what he was. He didn’t have time to deal with peoples feelings, he just needed to figure out where his girl was and quickly. Emily had joined him back at the laptop.
“Oh my god.” Her voice was full of panic and hate. Then her eyes went wide when she heard Rossi’s voice travelling up the attic stairs.
“Spencer, did you find anything yet.” Spence turned to look at the man and then back at the screen, angling his body so it was in front of Rossi’s line of sight. Emily was trying to get him to go back down stairs but he was having none of it, pushing passed her to get to the source of the commotion. Spencer couldn’t bare to listen to the angry cries of his colleague, the angry, broken cries of a father. He was too focused on taking in everything he could, trying to look passed your broken and beaten down, still breathing body, to figure out if there was anything to lead them to you.
Spencer hit a button on his mobile, a direct line to Garcia who was anxiously waiting for anything back at her cyber lab.
“Go boy wonder what have you got for me.” Penelope’s joking voice faltered when Spencer informed her of their findings. He sent the video clip of Y/N over to Penelope to analyse further. Her voice quivering as she promised Spencer she’d be found.
Spencer took a look at the screen again, noticing marks up the algae covered walls. They were water marks, which told you how high the water sometimes flooded inside the building. He let Garcia know so she could narrow her search to a building that would be underground near water and it took her mere seconds to come back with a location.
“It’s an old underground bunker, the Unsubs father was some kind of doomsday preparation nut, it’s next to the Teal River, i’ve sent the exact location to your phones.” The team were out the door in seconds, hoping and praying that this is where they would find you alive. They needed to find you alive.
“Were coming for you sweetheart just hold on, were coming.” In that moment Spencer did something he never did, he prayed.
-Un-Subs POV-
“It’s almost time. Almost time to get rid of the girl. She put up a bigger fight than I thought she would. A few more stab wounds and cuts aught to do the trick, let her die slowly in her cell, die slowly just like my girl did. They will pay, they will all pay.”
-Your POV-
You coughed. You could hear that your breathing was getting worse and it felt like the air was slowly being sucked out of you. You knew you didn’t have long left. You would have liked to cry, feel sorry for yourself, for the fact that you’d never have a future with Spence, never see your father again and never see the team you called family again, but you were too dehydrated and your body couldn’t even function enough to produce a single drop. You slumped against the sticky cold wall, dry blood smeared across your face and in your hair. Your leg was still bleeding but you’d managed to stop it slightly by using some dirty cloth from the mattress you were sitting on. An infected leg was better than bleeding out.
Your eyes closed and you thought about Spencer. How his mind would be working over time trying to piece together the clues and find you before you met your demise. You wanted to believe they would find you in time but your hope was slowly fading away with your consciousness.
You thought about your father and how he’d been in the BAU for so long, founded it with your godfather Gideon, how it was basically his whole life, as well as you. You hoped that when you were gone he’d be able to move on, that he wouldn’t hurt for too long and hopefully one day he’d re-marry, god knows he could use a strong woman in his life after your mum died.
You thought about your friends.. family at the BAU. Your best friend Luke Alvez who treated you more like a little sister, always taking you under his wing and giving you advice even when you didn’t need it. You hoped he’d stay at the BAU, that if you died, it wouldn’t effect him too much and he’d be able to get back to some kind of normal life. You wish there was a way to tell him he could have your baseball card collection, he’d always wanted it. You laughed a little, a sad laugh, already grieving for the people you were going to lose. Thinking about all the things you still wanted to do in life. They say that when you die you life flashes before your eyes, they were wrong. It’s before that, it plays through your head like a movie, going over all the things you’d never get to see.
In your mind you pictured what your wedding day would be like. Spencer would want a small wedding full of close family and friends and you’d agree. The perfect setting your fathers large back garden, flowers everywhere, surrounded by the people you love. The gentle exchanging of rings and the kiss he would give you that would still make your toes curl even when you were old and grey.
Children. You wanted at least 4. You wanted so many children with Spencer because you knew he’d make the most amazing father, even if he’d be scared they’d carry the gene for schizophrenia. They’d have his curly hair and your eye colour, his calmness and his smarts while they had your artistic nature and kindness. They’d love to stay with Grandpa, who would tell them all kinds of stories of his time in the FBI, obviously leaving out the heavy stuff. Your friends would come over and you’d always have big dinners and get togethers, BBQ’s in the summer, your lives full of life and laughter and there would always be him. Right by your side. Your Spencer. You’d grow old together, still love each other as hard as you do now. Until your last breath. You pictured going out like the scene in the notebook, old and in each others arms. The world would always be right, if you had your Spencer Reid.
You could feel your breathing slowing, the sound of heavy footsteps running down the echoing corridor. It was too late. You were sure the Un-sub was coming to finish you off once and for all, leave you somewhere for your family to find, another body in another case the BAU would eventually solve. But it was too late for you. The door swung open and your eyes closed. The pain was gone and so were the chances of seeing your Spence one last time.
-Spencers POV-
The SUV’s came to a screeching halt outside the bunker. There was a gravelled path that lead towards the doors that were hidden behind shrubs. It was one of those lucky by chance things, the team arrived and the Un-sub was outside, about to go into the bunker. While Prentiss and JJ read him his rights and stuck him in the back of the car, Spencer, Rossi and Luke threw open the metal doors and made their way inside cautiously. Spencer wanted to throw all caution to the wind. Guaranteed the two other men he was with wanted to as well. All they wanted to do was get their girl back. But sometimes looks could be deceiving and more danger could be lurking up ahead. In this case, there wasn’t.
Spencer ran down the long echoing corridor, medics behind him. The cells were empty apart from one.
“Y/N! Y/N! Can you hear me? Were here Darling just hold on okay, i’m here baby i’m here.” Spencers voice was full of panic as the three men used all their strength to open the tightly sealed bunker door. Spencer could faintly see through the porthole door, the grime and condensation obstructing his view slightly. You weren’t moving. He started to panic even more and when the door hissed and flung open it was if the world was moving in slow motion.
You were pale, eyes closed, dry blood across your practically naked body. Dirty cloth wrapped around your blood soaked thigh and cuts littered your body in all shapes and sizes. One of your hands was handcuffed to a railing next to the rusty spring covered bed and you looked smaller than you’d ever looked before. Spencer was on you in seconds. Luke had bolt cutters and had snipped the handcuff from the railing. Rossi was frozen in his spot, his daughter lifeless in front of him. Spencer lifted you carefully in his arms laying you on the ground.
“She has no pulse! She’s not breathing! She’s not breathing!” He started pumping your chest, 1,2,3,4…. check, no sign of breathing. He held your nose and blew into your mouth twice, Luke took over chest compressions as the paramedics set up the defibrillator. More Paramedics arrived, pushing the two FbI Agents away so they could work on you more thoroughly. Some tended to your still bleeding cute, needles attached to you for IV bags and then.
“Everyone clear!” The defibrillator sounded up. The shocking noise and the thud your body made against the cold floor seemed to echo all around. They shocked you a total of four times before they managed to get a weak pulse.
The ambulance ride wasn’t long, especially now that you had a police escort and most of the flashing lights in the city. You died and came back 3 times in the ambulance. Spencer hadn’t stopped crying since he found you bleeding and lifeless.
On arrival to the hospital you were instantly taken to surgery, some of the stab wounds too severe to be treated normally. The BAU occupied the waiting room, Rossi sat numbly staring at the floor, Spencer paced back and fourth, Luke kept on asking the Dr for updates every ten minutes and the rest of the team just waited for any news at all.
——————————————————————————————————
-Your POV-
You hadn’t remembered your cell being this bright. Maybe your captor had taken you outside. Maybe you hadn’t died in time to be spared of the cruel torture that was about to follow. What was that dreadful beeping sound? You blinked, your eyes taking their time to adjust to your surroundings. You were defiantly somewhere else and you started to panic, the beeping got louder and faster. You tried to sit up.
“Spencer! Spencer! Wake up she’s awake!” You couldn’t make out the voice clearly, it sounded like… your dad? But how? Were you dreaming. Maybe this was your body in its final stages playing a cruel trick on your subconscious.
You tried to talk, but your throat was dry and you were hit with a wave of pain. Someone pressed ice chips to your lips, slowly but surely you accepted them, the coolness coating your vocal cords.
“Please, please tell m-me this isn’t a d-dream.” A tear leaked from the corner of your eye and rolled down your cheek only to be kissed away by… your Spencer.
“Baby, it’s not a dream, I found you, we found you. You’re safe now and I’m never letting you go again.”
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Welp, There we go. The final chapter! I hope you liked this mini series! If you like Criminal minds or want me to write for anyone else.. maybe Luke Alvez... let me knowwww i'll consider it ;) Please Reblog/follow/like <3333
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Three Strikes [you're out]
It was his fault, really.
Wearing that jersey at Citi Field practically required Nina to hate the mass of muscle sitting in front of her on sight. Plus, he didn't know how to score a baseball game. So, honestly, it made sense. To hate him. Ardently, even. To push buttons, metaphorical or otherwise. A game within the game.
And, if, she found herself having fun, well, that was neither here nor there.
———
Rating: T, with sports and kissing because of who I am as a person
Word Count: 9.1 K, also because of who I am as a person
AN: I don’t know, guys. I got thoughts. I got feelings. The only way I know how deal with either of those things is to write about them with sports and kissing. Did I suggest that being a Mets fan was a bit like being Grisha? Perhaps! Perhaps, I did! If this is out of character just...don’t tell me.
Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll
———
The suggestion that an idea was capable of boiling a person’s blood, even in the most abstract and metaphorical sense, had always appealed to Nina. Not in a particularly violent way, of course. More in regards to the visual.
Conjured up all sorts of possibilities.
Little bubbles beneath her skin, searing emotion through her veins that inevitably led to tufts of smoke pouring out of her ears. Like one of those old cartoon characters, she could now only dimly remember. In moments like this, especially. When she wasn’t quite boiling, but certainly racing toward the vast and admittedly surprising precipice of abject hatred. Directed almost solely toward the mass of muscle who dared to wear a Chase Utley jersey to Citi Field on a Thursday in May.
He needed a haircut, she thought.
The muscle. Not Chase Utley. She couldn’t possibly care less about the state of Chase Utley’s hair. Unless he was choking on it, somewhere. Obviously. Then Nina cared very much. About Chase Utley. And this guy. With too-long strands that she was starting to believe fell almost artfully across the back of a vaguely golden-skinned neck, as if they existed solely to torment her.
On a Thursday in May.
Sitting there, with a seat digging into the middle of her spine and her frustration threatening the enamel on the back of her teeth, Nina was loath to admit, even to herself, that she couldn’t stop staring at him. Partially because of the hair. Which looked very—pushable, really. As far as her finger’s potential went. But mostly because of everything else. Watching the muscle was a bit like watching a statue at the Met, waiting with bated breath for it to actually surge to life because when she was that same kid who watched cartoons on weekend mornings, she rather strongly believed that the statues at the Met were wholly capable of smiling and turning and living. Artwork prone to the mystical and potentially magical.
She blamed Ben Stiller for that, honestly.
Amy Adams to a slightly lesser degree.
Robin Williams would suffer no criticism in this argument, naturally.
The muscle shifted.
Twitched just a hint in his seat. Altered the angle of his, frankly, impressively wide shoulders. Rolled his neck between them. The seat was too small. He was too big. That jersey must have been ancient.
And, really, when it came down to it, Nina hated him most for the pencil. Tucked behind his right ear, it looked comically small whenever he pulled it between his fingers, scratching across a legitimate scorebook because in the thirty-seven minutes or so she’d spent observing this fascinating specimen of humanity, she’d noticed it was, in fact, a scorebook.
Not a piece of paper.
Not a printout.
Not even the one she was only vaguely confident they handed out in the rotunda downstairs.
An actual scorebook.
That he brought with him to Citi Field.
She glanced down to make sure she had not actually burst into literal flames in section 205. Row F. Seat 27. No such luck. Weird.
The pencil was back in his hand. One leg crossed the other, leaving his knee propped in the air, and there was just so much of the muscle that it was a rather small miracle of an exceptionally narrow field of science that it didn’t collide with anyone around him. Instead, it provided a built-in desk, that stupid scorebook propped up against jean-covered skin and even more muscles, pushing against fabric like they were personally offended by the concept of the blue-colored prison.
Nina bit her lip.
Tried to keep breathing. Because fires required oxygen, and there could be no boiling without fire and—
“‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me, ‘scuse me, just trying to—” Blood flooded Nina’s mouth, making it impossible for her to open that same mouth and let out the laugh already pushing against her lips. There were at least four little wrinkles pinched across the small expanse of Jesper’s nose, two boxes of popcorn clutched in either one of his hands and a soda between the slight bend of his elbow. He tiptoed his way around disgruntled fans, glaring at a few red jerseys for good measure. As if he actually wanted to be there. Nina kept biting her lip. “Just trying to get back to my seat,” Jesper finished, “won’t bother you again, rest of the game, absolutely, one-hundred percent guaranteed.”
Nina’s lips tilted up.
Scrambling to her feet, she couldn’t quite balance on the edge of the seat that immediately swung back up. Something sticky stuck to the bottom of her shoe and eventually, she would find herself wondering why she didn’t simply move into Jesper’s seat. For a myriad of reasons, she assumed.
Some of which might have mystical and potentially.
Goddamn, Ben Stiller.
“Accommodating sort of group, isn’t it?” Jesper mumbled, pushing past her and Nina had to applaud his dexterity. Not a kernel lost in the battle.
“Should have waited ‘til the middle of the inning. This is just bad form on your part.”
“And miss all—” He waved an imperious hand toward the field. “What am I missing, exactly?”
Opening her mouth, Nina was certain she’d come up with a reasonable explanation for the romantic nature of baseball, only she was a little busy. Keeping her head connected to the rest of her body.
Snapping to the left, her breath caught. In that dramatic sort of way that always seemed like the perfect soundtrack to any great sporting moment. Eyes wide and fingers digging into her palm, hope mixed with the bubbles and the boils, and she barely noticed the awkward angle of her bent knees. Or just how close she was to—
Him.
The muscle.
She heard his pencil drop, she swore.
Oh, Gods, but he had blue eyes. Sharp and staring right at her, Nina resisted the very real urge to let herself melt right there. In section 205. Row F. Seat 27. Well, in front of seat 27, technically.
Pulling her knee back did not do that same knee any favors, muscles almost audibly objecting to the force of Nina’s split-second reaction, but then she forgot about the pain and the concept of depth perception. The yell tore itself out of her lungs, found its way to the rest of the noise circling the stadium, wrapping its way around people until the hope of that one, singular moment settled on the tips of her eyelashes and the backs of her heels and she wasn’t sure if she heard him at first.
No one should be capable of possessing a voice quite so gruff, that’s why.
“Not going to make it.”
Glaring at the monstrous mass of muscle and questionably good hair wasn’t so much as a decision as something far closer to instinct, pulling her brows together and letting her tongue push at the bottom of her teeth, and he—
Looked. Right at her. And her tongue.
Shoulders tensing, a hint of nervous energy appeared in those same ridiculously blue eyes, gone almost before Nina had a chance to realize it was there at all and she didn’t see the play. Heard it, though. The groans and the grunts, complete despair, and the first shreds of desolation drowning out the hope and pulling it from a grip that was always a little tenuous.
No home run. No hit. Just a run-of-the-mill fly ball in center field.
One side of the muscle’s mouth tugged up.
“Told you.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Surprise, she thought, was a very good look on him. Most of them would be, she imagined. But right then, on a Thursday in May, with two outs in the bottom of the fourth, Nina relished the surprise.
And sat back down.
To be a Mets fan, was to believe in the impossible.
The amazing, even.
It was right there in the slogans. The advertising campaigns. On a variety of shirts, both legitimate and those sold at the bottom of the 7-train stairs. To accept the amazing, to wish for it, even, was part and parcel of the history of an organization that relished its underdog status. Thrived in its role, the second team in a city that toed the line between excess and restraint.
Winning with this team was unexpected and unpredictable. Came without much pomp. Certainly no circumstance. Only a few trades that drew national eyes and back page headlines. More often than not, this was a team that discovered amazing when it simply should not exist.
Misfits who created something wonderful. Who sparked something among people who, at least for nine innings, believed orange was a worthwhile color to wear. Who smiled at a mascot with a massive baseball for a head. And his wife, who sported some rather impressive eyelashes, actually.
To be a Mets fan, was to understand heartache.
To accept being the butt of jokes across decades.
Every year, the knowing smiles came. Paying goddamn Bobby Bonilla. Cracks about pyramid schemes and owners who couldn’t find their way out of a money-based paper bag, team antics that occasionally drew those headlines, and players who fell in wayward ditches on their farms, ending their season before it ever really began.
Winning didn’t come often, but it was loud when it did. The crack of a bat and a ball finding the back of a glove, shoulders slamming into the left-field wall with its massive M&Ms ad. Feedback from a microphone as David Wright thanked the Seven Line Army, in all their orange-clad glory, memories of that near-perfect October and what could have been imprinting themselves across a generation.
To be a Mets fan, was to live and die with each pitch. Each hit. To hold your breath and wait for magic that lingered beneath skin and forced its way into bloodstreams.
To be a Mets fan, was to hate anyone wearing a Chase Utley jersey.
“Stew, stew, stewing, a rather hearty beef stew.”
Nina narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You are stewing,” Jesper said pointedly, as if it was an obvious affliction and they both hadn’t casually descended into madness caused by extra innings. Putting a runner on second was supposed to help avoid all of this. Runs were meant to be scored in extra innings. Nothing had happened yet. “Any more and that little divot between your eyebrows is never going to disappear. Then what will we do?”
Answering would only acknowledge that the divot was more like a rather obvious ravine now, and the little half-moon circles left by her nails were going to be permanently etched into Nina’s palm.
He was still keeping score.
How he hadn’t run out of columns in his scorebook was beyond her, but Nina figured if the muscle was someone willing to purchase a scorebook, he probably made sure it was one that also included, like, fifteen innings on each page.
If they made it to the fifteenth inning, she would cry.
It would be embarrassing.
Jesper probably wouldn’t come back for the rest of the series. If she cried, that was. And she needed him to come back for the rest of the series. Sitting anywhere else wasn’t all that appealing, even if it might have been warmer up there now.
She wrapped her arms around herself. Better to stew with, that way.
“Do games normally last this long?”
Nina shook her head.
Jesper groaned. Loudly, complete with his head thrown back for extra emphasis and even clearer frustration and she didn’t think she imagined the way the muscle tensed. Staring at him was becoming something of a pastime in the middle of a more acceptable one. Light didn’t quite reflect from the hair she was starting to become just a hint obsessed with, but it certainly appeared determined to try, and his ability to hold so much tension in the region directly surrounding his jaw would have been impressive in any other circumstance.
As it was, Nina was a little concerned about the state of the muscle’s back molars.
It was why she didn’t react as quickly as she should have. Or so she would argue for the rest of time.
Once she got the popcorn off her feet.
A waterfall of butter-coasted kernels landed on her shoes, a few bouncing as she did, thrust out of her seat like a canon. Whatever bit of her heart that existed solely to document the ebbs and flows of the New York Mets success flew into her throat, where it immediately took up residence directly in the middle. Wide eyes immediately started to water, which brought her straight back to the entirely metaphorical cliff of her potential embarrassment and the muscle was leaning forward.
With his own brand of emotion.
No obvious tension, just that steady sort of hope born among the din of baseball-type sounds and, even more importantly, baseball-type feelings and Nina was mumbling.
“Turn ‘em, turn ‘em, turn ‘em, two, two, two, two, get the—” Suggesting she screamed made it seem as if she weren’t in complete control of her faculties. And despite the potential of extra innings insanity, Nina was just as lucid as ever and just as capable of throwing her hands in the air, while also screaming.
Undeniably so.
As soon as the ball jumped over the outstretched glove at short, Francisco Lindor’s lanky and overpaid body stretched out across the infield grass. Curses flowed from Nina’s mouth, some of them sharp enough to make even Jesper choke on whatever bits of oxygen he was able to gulp down, and she didn’t stop. Kept screaming and shouting, increasingly mobile hands and dexterous shoulders, miming her own throw home because whoever was playing left field was not moving quickly enough for her.
He didn’t make the throw.
Not in time, at least.
Dirt flew into the air as a leg stretched over home plate and the umpire’s arms were nearly as impressive as Nina’s. Marking the runner safe and giving the Phillies their first and only lead of the night.
Frustration mingled with out-of-place despair, far too early in the series and the season to be feeling quite as desolate as Nina suddenly was and, really, she wasn’t sure why she looked. Something about magnets, or simple curiosity, but her eyes drifted and her head tilted and she felt her jaw drop as his stupid, little pencil scratched out E6 in his scorebook.
“What the hell, man?”
He didn’t turn. Figured. Screaming was becoming her base setting, so Nina wasn’t entirely surprised that the muscle didn’t acknowledge it, but then she was moving and leaning and tapping on a shoulder that somehow seemed sturdier when she had kneed it several innings earlier.
“That’s not an error.”
Moving in slow motion only made sense if the man was, in fact, a piece of marble. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, acting as little paths toward his eyes and they were still blue. Good, that was good. Bad, that was bad.
Jesper wasn’t even trying to contain his laughter.
“Excuse me?”
“Not an error,” Nina repeated, careful to pause between each word for emphasis. The muscle didn’t flinch. Stared at her incredulously, though. “Did you not see that hop?”
“I saw your multi-million dollar man throw his arm out without much regard to actually making a routine play. Is that what you’re talking about?”
“How is that possibly an error?”
He lifted a shoulder. She was boiling over. “Should have made the play.”
“It was impossible!"
“C’mon now,” he chuckled, and the good fought with the bad. A symphony of contradictions blaring between Nina’s ears. Neither of which were steaming, it seemed. “Nothing is impossible in baseball.”
“That was!”
“Might need to come up with a better argument.”
“Home scorer is not going to give Francisco an error on that. He had to dive!”
“Maybe he should have been in better position, to begin with.”
“The shift was on.”
“Well, the shift is ruining baseball, so—”
Nina gagged. Let her tongue push between rows of teeth that she couldn’t believe were going to survive the rest of the night if the acid churning in her esophagus was any indication. He looked. Again. Whatever heat lapping at the base of her spine was only marginally distracting. “A baseball purist cannot possibly wear the jersey you are wearing.”
“I wasn’t aware of the rules, but, please, go on.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“Getting less and less creative.” His eyes hadn’t moved. As if he was documenting each twitch of her lips for his own personal posterity. Nina found she didn’t mind the idea as much as she should.
Jesper was going to crack a rib.
“Chase Utley is an asshole who doesn’t know how to slide.”
“Ok.”
“An asshole!”
“I heard you the first time,” he said, losing the war with his lips. Curled up, they cut across the serious mask his face had become in the world’s least serious conversation. It was nice that Jesper ended up crying before Nina, honestly. “And he wasn’t a Phil when he hurt your guy, so I don’t think that should count at all.”
Nina did not know what noise she made. Wasn’t human. Hurt a little. “Did you just call him a Phil?”
“Guys,” Jesper mumbled, but she couldn’t be bothered with something as menial as the bottom of the inning when the muscle in front of her kept doing that thing with his eyes and his hair and—
Reaching out, she managed to bypass his rather impressive reaction time, grabbing the pencil before he could stop her and the crack of it between her fingers was as loud as any grand slam this slightly ugly ballpark had ever witnessed.
Not that Nina would ever admit she thought Citi Field was slightly to moderately ugly.
It was the color scheme. Way too much green involved.
She gave herself exactly seven seconds to relish the look of pure amazement on the muscle’s face.
“Use a pen,” Nina sneered, “at least stand by your scoring convictions.”
“Chase Utley is going to be in the Hall of Fame.”
“As a Phil?”
“World Series champion.”
His ability to emphasize words with meaningful pauses was far better than Nina’s. “It wasn’t an error.”
“You’re paying that guy more than anyone in the world deserves to get paid, if he’s going to lay out for a liner, then he should be able to make the play, don’t you think?”
Nina bit her lip. Boiled. Stewed.
Ah, damn.
Her silence was an answer in the middle of a sea made up of equally disheartened fans. Who all suddenly remembered how terrible they looked in orange. Always worse after a loss.
The muscle nodded. Once. Exhaled. Through his nose. As if he’d won, and not just his team, and Nina didn’t offer to replace his pencil.
On a Friday night in May, Nina genuinely believed that he wouldn’t come back. Hoped for it, even. And something else almost akin to the exact opposite.
Both were very strange feelings to feel contained in one human, body. Draped, even as it was, in blue and orange and New York City’s less famous pinstripes. With PIAZZA splashed across her back, Nina felt as if she were obligated to sit a little straighter. As if slumping in her seat — by herself tonight because Genya was not at all interested in sitting in the stands and Zoya would have laughed at the suggestion, and Jesper had to get back to the Crow Club — would somehow tarnish the reputation of a name that didn’t belong to her.
Didn’t it, though? Just a little.
Wasn’t that how sports worked? Throwing yourself into the camaraderie with both feet and occasionally flailing arms, willing to sit in an uncomfortable seat that she’d have to mention to Nikolai at some point because these were starting to feel a bit like torture devices masquerading as plastic, and a piece of paper floated onto her lap.
He’d folded the piece of paper.
The muscle. Not Nikolai. Who was sitting in the owner’s box, in fact. Nina assumed those seats weren’t rising up in revolt against him.
The muscle wasn’t wearing a jersey this time. A cup of what smelled like over-brewed coffee, though, was held tightly in his left hand, while the right clutched his scorebook as if it were made of gold. Nina’s tongue swiped her teeth.
He watched.
Documented.
Kept track.
“What the hell is this?”
“Is that your favorite curse, you think?”
“Why are you throwing paper airplanes at me?”
Lifting shoulders appeared to be his default form of response. “Felt just quirky enough not to be overtly threatening.”
“Because of the guns generally associated with fighter planes?”
“What do you know about fighter planes?”
Rolling her whole head did not get her a smile. Or even a hint of such a thing. It did get him a few grumblings of frustration from those whose view he was blocking. Because there was so goddamn much of him. Imposing, that was the word for it. Taking up space and settling into the seat with a near amazing amount of grace, practically folding in on himself, like he was made of smooth lines and crisp edges, capable of soaring through air in a way that belied that flimsy nature of paper airplanes, and there was that word again.
“Always liked the ones that had painted teeth on them,” Nina said, somehow fully prepared for the huff of laughter that fell out of him. He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket.
To hand to her.
“You would.”
“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?”
“It means,” he said, nodding at the pen when she kept gaping at it, “that in my limited experience with you, Ms. Met—”
“Thought we covered lack of creativity last night.”
He ignored her. Eventually, it might be a good idea to learn his name. Where that might also be the worst idea in the history of the world. Maybe Nikolai could track him down. Like through ticket sales, or something. That seemed like a breach of power, though.
“You do have a rather impressive set of teeth on you, yourself.”
“Oh, that’s an insult.”
“Should unfold the paper airplane.”
Most of her wanted to crumple up the piece of the paper, toss it back in his face and then possibly stab him with his own pen. But Nina also didn’t know the muscle’s name, and cold-blooded murder on a Friday night in May required a certain sense of personalization that they hadn’t quite reached yet. So, there was no crumpling. Her fingers didn’t shake. Her heartbeat held steady in her chest.
Unfolding the paper with his eyes on her, Nina did hold her breath. For eight straight seconds, approximately. Until it all rushed out of her, entirely amazed and perpetually annoyed because the paper airplane left creases between the boxes of what was very clearly her own personal scoresheet.
With provided pen.
“This is a trick.”
“That not being a question gives me pause,” he said, but it sounded like an admission. One tinged with regret. Presumably for Chase Utley’s tendency to be a complete and utter asshole. Prone to injuring Mets’ middle infielders.
“Is it not?”
He shook his head. And the pen in his hand. “Get to stand by the convictions of your scoring actions.”
“Errors occur only on routine plays.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“You’re here by yourself.”
“Also not a question.”
“Or an answer,” Nina pointed out.
“Where’d your friend go?”
“What do you put in your coffee?”
“Nothing,” he answered, “seriously, where’s the friend?”
Something lingered on the edge of the question. Something Nina didn’t want to notice, but couldn’t possibly ignore. Not when it came with concave shoulders, curling toward her like they were preparing themselves to block wind and glares in equal measure. The second of which was really a more pressing problem at the moment.
“Had to work.”
“As a stand-up comedian?”
“Hardy har har,” Nina grumbled. Leaning back against the force of his ensuing smile was as natural as wearing a Mike Piazza jersey and searching for the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. What she was less prepared for was the ability of that same smile to twist its way between her ribs, lighting another new and imaginary fire and if her mouth dried just a bit, then that was neither here nor there.
Between her and the baseball gods, fickle as they were.
“You don’t put anything in your coffee?”
He shook his head. “Sugar makes me nauseous.”
“God, what a depressing way to live life.”
“Eh, there are things that make up for it.”
“Chase Utley?”
“I think you might be obsessed,” he said, dropping into his seat so as to avoid being pelted with cheese fries from Shake Shack. The guy three seats away looked real serious. “Going to write him a letter asking for a game of catch?”
“You’re making pop culture references.”
“Not a question, either.”
“No, a stunned statement of fact.”
She wanted that laugh on loop. Wanted it to play as the soundtrack for the rest of the night and the rest of the series and quite possibly the rest of her life, lingering softly in the background of everything she did for the rest of forever.
Matching in perfect rhythm to the predisposed nature of her blood to boil.
“Where are all your friends, then?” Nina asked, almost desperate to change the direction of the conversation and her internal dialogue. The blue evolved. Right there in his eyes. Darkened until it looked like the sky before a storm and that was ten-thousand times worse than any other drivel she’d come up with so far.
Licking her lips was idiotic. Naturally, that’s what she did.
“Not here,” he replied, “but I know the hitting coach.”
Strictly speaking, that should not have been quite as awe-inducing as it was. Nina hadn’t paid for her tickets, after all. Had no intention of paying for tickets ever again, if she was being honest. So, really, seeing how caution swept the muscle’s face was kind of a dick move.
On her part, specifically.
“Should I be impressed?”
Shoulder lift, right on cue. “I knew him in college. Was, uh—”
“—Wait, did you play baseball?”
Color didn’t rise on his cheeks. Not in any romantic way. Nothing about it was swepping, which was good because the Phillies had won the night before, meaning any sweeping would also guarantee Mets losses. It arrived in splotches. Bits of pink and nearly-red, tiny pinpricks of unregulated emotion that immediately affected the ability of Nina’s pulse to stay even.
She grinned.
Wide and honest, ignoring the strands of hair that fell in her eyes when she let her head fall.
He didn’t look away.
She’d think that was important, later.
“You contain multitudes, Muscle.”
“Insulting,” he grumbled.
“Quite possibly the tallest man I’ve ever encountered in the flesh.”
“That can’t possibly be true.”
“You don’t look like a baseball player.”
Back to the correct shade of blue. Just for a moment. Disappearing in the haze of a 90 mile per hour fastball. Right up the middle. But Nina had always been fairly good at tracking pitches, and she might not have been a former baseball player, but picking out the slider amongst a never-ending stream of heaters was like her personal superpower.
“So I’ve heard.”
“From scouts?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“Of the professional variety?”
“Every now and then.”
Letting out a low whistle, Nina’s spine relaxed. Tension that had taken root between her shoulder blades loosened, watching the face in front of her and the mask it was so obviously clinging to. Kept slipping, though. While staring directly at her.
It was, she would argue, why she did what she did. Without mumbling.
“You wanna sit?”
“With you?”
“Rude. You threw paper at me.”
“It was a well-constructed airplane,” the muscle argued, “so you could also score the game. This was a nice thing I was doing.”
“Past tense.”
“Am doing,” he corrected. “Currently.”
“That mean you're going to sit?”
She counted. Seconds. Moments. Breaths. Dug her teeth into her lower lip. Against the side of her tongue. He nodded.
And climbed over the seat.
So, that was only going to marginally mess with her brain.
“Alright then,” Nina said, doing her best to flatten her paper against the bend of her knee, “tell me everything about your baseball tale of woe.”
He didn’t.
At least not at first.
It took until the fourth inning for them to begrudgingly agree that mowing patterns in the outfield was an abstract art form that did not often get the credit it deserved, before deciding, in no uncertain terms, that the NL East boasted some of the better uniform options in all baseball, even if that was mostly because of the Marlins and—
His hand moved to his shoulder.
The right one. More than once. Gently massaged the muscle there, a slight grimace that Nina only noticed because she was sitting squarely in the middle of objectification and she didn’t even know his name. Yet, she reminded herself.
They’d get there.
They didn’t. Not in that game, anyway.
A Saturday afternoon in May didn’t present the same sort of chill that required scalding hot coffee with absolutely nothing else in it, but Nina was playing with hope and resting on her not-so-cautious expectations. Seeing how wide his eyes could get was extra.
Sugar on top, if you will.
They got very wide. Frozen, even. Stuck halfway down the row, still no jersey, just his dropped jaw and slumped, possibly injured shoulders, ignoring the jabs from nearby season ticket holders who were starting to believe this mountain of muscle existed solely to block their sight lines.
Nina figured that’s what it was, at least.
He smiled.
That smile. Her smile. When she’d begun to claim it, she couldn’t begin to pinpoint, but it might have been six and two-thirds innings into last night’s game when his left arm had bumped her right, just enough warmth wafting off him to be noticeable. To leave goosebumps in his awake, too.
“There’s no sugar in it,” she promised, “so you don’t have to worry for the state of your stomach.”
“I didn’t once think you were trying to poison me.”
“High praise.”
“Deservedly so.”
She flushed. Ducked her eyes. Tried not to chew her tongue in half, or allow the burning-hot blood racing through every single one of her extremities to burst its way out of her skin. That would be off-putting. And traumatic.
“Here,” he added, tugging another folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, “for you.”
“Are you printing these off in the hotel?”
“Should be a private investigator, Ms. Met.”
“Did your coach make you stay in Queens, Muscle?”
The hand that landed on her waist — to move her, just to move her — was warm and blistering and those were two very different words with a pair of very different meanings and even more jarring consequences, and he sat down next to her.
Huh.
Huh.
“Been taking the train in from Grand Central.”
“Ugh, he’s making you stay over there? There’s no good food in that part of the city.”
“Quiet, though.” Sticking her tongue out when she gagged continued to be one of Nina’s less impressive traits. “I blew my shoulder out my junior year of college.”
One of Nina’s knees buckled. Only one. The right one, actually. She refused to believe that was a sign. From baseball gods, or otherwise. “Hitting?”
“Throwing. Probably because of the hitting, but the blowing out actually happened on what was considered by most in the know to be a pretty routine throw from left field. Hurt like hell.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“I don’t remember a ton of what happened right after. Might have yelled? Quite possibly blacked out. Definitely heard something snap, which admittedly terrified me, but then there were a bunch of people talking and walking me down the tunnel and more lights and tests. The phrase never the same again was thrown around with alarming regularity.”
Cold. Nina was cold. Freezing beneath a mid-afternoon sun, one of those May days that tease of summer yet to come. They smell like cotton candy and potential, of a distinct lack of responsibility and SPF 70.
She had sensitive skin.
“Were you by yourself?”
Asking questions she somehow already knew the answer to was equal parts cruel and unusual, particularly when asking it of a man whose name never got to back pages. Or her ears, it seemed. She swallowed whatever was sitting in the back of her mouth.
“Brum was there,” he said, but it sounded like an excuse. A practiced line that had started to reek of insincerity. “My—well, my parents had been gone for a while. Same old sob story you always hear, y’know? Kid loses everything, finds salvation in the dogma of sports, gets pretty good at it, and then—”
“—Loses it all again?” Nina finished. She thought she did. Whoever was talking didn’t sound like Nina. Sounded like someone who had painstakingly refolded her paper airplane the night before. To keep on the nightstand next to her bed.
“Some of it, yeah. They wanted me to stick around. Stay on staff. Coach. But that was—” He clicked his tongue. Distant eyes stared past that goddamn M&Ms ad, and Nina didn’t think. Wasn’t that how the best athletes were, though? All instinct and lightning-fast reaction times. Responding to a situation before the rest of us mere mortals could even begin to fathom the circumstance.
He didn’t push her hand off his.
The coffee was going to go cold.
“Very maudlin way of approaching things.”
She chuckled. Tried not to cry, for entirely new reasons. “Impressive vocabulary for a jock.”
“Keep workshop'ing your insults, Ms. Met.”
“Brum, he just got hired by the Phillies, right?” She knew that answer too. “Is this the first game you’ve been to?”
His eyes slid to hers. In that same slow motion as before, and that couldn’t possibly have been less than seventy-two hours ago, but life had a tendency to be weird like that and good like that and, well, you can’t predict baseball, Suzyn.
“Why the Mets?”
It wasn’t the question she expected. Felt far too big and more than a little terrifying, jumping into the deep end of the pool from the highest diving board. But that same pool was always crystal clear, the sort of blue they wrote songs about. Summertime and the living was easy. That sort of thing.
“Because there’s something wonderful in a team that defies every bit of sports conjecture. That breathes in the chaos and spits out something that, every now and then, is absolutely beautiful. That lets me be bigger than myself for nine innings and a minimum of one-hundred and sixty-two games. That takes all my shortcomings and accepts them because one time this team claimed there was a raccoon fighting with a rat in the dugout tunnel. Because they don’t play The Imperial March during lineup announcements.”
Something, something—she needed better sunscreen.
So as to not get burned by the force of his sun-like smile.
“I think a raccoon could probably take a rat, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” Nina wavered, “I own a fair amount of Staten Island Pizza Rat merch.”
His hand flipped. Fingers curled around hers and held on with an ease that settled her acid and cooled her blood, finally finding that middle ground between frigid and fission.
“Explain the single seating.”
“I had a friend here on Thursday.”
“And he had to go back to work. Where does he work?”
“Bar in Jersey.”
Curiosity flashed in the blue, but then it was gone and Nina must have imagined it, looking for more common ground and mutual understanding. Her fingers looked minuscule between his.
“If I told you that I know the new owner of the Mets,” Nina started, “because I went to college with his girlfriend, and he’s been listening to me talk about this team for the better part of a decade now, so he decided to spend some of his inherited millions to buy it, and now that same girlfriend is sitting up there perpetually confused why I like to be out here, do you think you’d hate me on principle?”
One blink. Two. Head tilt. Jaw clench. His lips popped when they opened.
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” he echoed, “Nikolai Lantsov shouldn’t have spent so much money on your shortstop’s contract.”
“Wasn’t an error.”
Both shoulders lifted.
“Nina Zenik,” she said, a tardy greeting that should have happened well before the hand holding. The hand holding continued.
“Matthias Helvar.”
“Did you bring a pen?”
He pulled another one out of his jacket pocket.
They disagreed on no less than half a dozen calls.
Impressive, since they didn’t actually start paying attention to their separate score sheets and books until early in the third inning after Nina had barely cleared the cheese sauce off the corner of her page.
Introducing themselves made it feel as if they’d crested another level in whatever the proper term for this not-quite relationship was.
Jabs weren’t nearly as sharp, but elbows brushed and noses scrunched. Makeshift disdain blurred against subtle infatuation, sunshine in his hair and pressing against the barrier of Nina’s consistently reapplied sunscreen. They talked. Laughed. Shouted and screamed, standing at different times. Much to the chagrin of everyone around them.
She didn’t bother asking about the Chase Utley jersey. Knew that it was as much a part of Matthias’s fandom as the Piazza jersey was to hers. Connecting him to something that was only partially his, because no matter how much this sport might be capable of sweeping over them, of bringing them along with the current, there was a riptide always threatening just below the surface. Capable of drowning and filling lungs, leaving them both taking on water and hastily constructed metaphors.
Plus, they both hated the Yankees. So, they talked about that.
Talked about places in the city they liked to go, Nina’s knowledge of hole-in-the-wall restaurants leaving his eyes as wide as she’d hoped they could be, tiny pools she was more than willing to dive into. With perfect form.
Laughter became the new normal for the pair of them, chancing glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking. They always were. As if those magnets were real and forceful, leaving them both grinning like idiots whenever they were caught in the act.
Once an inning, then.
Matthias didn’t sing during the seventh-inning stretch, but Nina was loud enough for the pair of them. Especially when she was standing on her seat, a hand flat on the small of her back.
“So you don’t fall,” Matthias explained, and the words immediately branded themselves on that corner of her brain where Nina kept good things.
They shared a plastic helmet of swirl ice cream. With rainbow sprinkles.
He called them jimmies.
She made fun of him.
And then—
It was over.
No drama. No walk-off hits. No extra innings. Just a Mets win that didn’t require the bottom of the ninth. And she was happy with that, she was. Less so with the way her stomach dropped as soon as her knees bent and her chin lifted, barely tempered hope and the sort of want that did not require magnets to direct her gaze.
Matthias loomed above her, casting shadows and the desire to finally push her fingers into his hair was nearly too much to ignore. Nina did. In favor of what came next because she knew what came next, and this was not that serious. Sitting on opposing lines of a flimsy at best baseball rivalry did not mean she couldn’t push up on her toes and catch the mouth of someone who no longer felt like a stranger. Until that same mouth inevitably opened and she got to do whatever she wanted with her tongue.
Only—
One of the season tickets started grumbling, and the sea of fans pushed forward and the only way Nina stayed upright was because of the arm around her waist. Matthias’s nose ticked her skin along the back of her neck.
“Told ya,” he mumbled, and if he saw the goosebumps, he didn’t mention them.
That was nice.
He was nice.
She was—
A mess, at best.
Mostly because there was no kissing. Almost like they were nervous of what would happen if they did. Of shattering this tremulous understanding and shaky alliance, but Matthias’s fingers squeezed Nina’s hip before he said, “See you tomorrow.”
She did not see him tomorrow.
When tomorrow was tonight and now and Zoya and Genya kept doing circles around the room.
Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN required a certain amount of protocol and it was the first broadcast with Nikolai in the owner’s box, which meant plenty of shots at the owner’s box, and Nina sat in her very plush, decidedly warm seat, with only minimal argument.
There was champagne, so. That helped.
Plus, she figured she’d—
“Is it a guy?” Genya asked without preamble, propping her chin on her hand. “Is that why you don’t want to hang out?”
Nina sighed. “You know me better than that.”
“Sure, sure, sure, looked real cozy down there, though.”
“Are you spying on me?”
“Nah, Zoya was.”
Frustration clawed at Nina’s consciousness. Surprise did not. This was par for the course and several other out-of-place sports cliches.
Zoya finished her drink before adding, “I didn’t leave this suite all afternoon, yesterday, the security guards that Nikolai knows in that section though…”
“That’s splitting hairs,” Nina argued.
“And they were just doing their job,” Nikolai added, shouting in a way a multi-millionaire absolutely should not. Zoya rolled her eyes.
“Whatever they were doing,” Nina said, “they didn’t need to be doing it. What if someone got robbed while they were watching me?”
“You think people are getting robbed in broad daylight inside this stadium?”
“Maybe!”
“Were lots of Phillies fans here,” Genya pointed out. Laughter clung to her words, quiet snickers from the rest of the assorted peanut gallery. Before they noticed that Nina wasn’t lacking. Might have paled, if the matching expressions she was met with were any indication. “Oh,” Genya exhaled, “good looking Phillies fan, huh?”
Nina grit her teeth. “He knows Brum.”
“The bastard,” Nikolai sneered.
“Most people don’t like him.”
“Because he’s a bastard, yeah.”
“How’d the Phillies fan know Brum?” Zoya asked, and it wasn’t like Nina wanted to tell them. Words poured out of her all the same, excitement carving its way into the conversation because even if she could rationalize the lack of kissing after a three-day conversation and occasional argument, none of her friends could understand how she didn’t get his number.
Neither could she, quite frankly.
“This is either disgustingly romantic,” Nikolai said, “or it’s exceedingly dumb. Of both of you.”
Genya clicked her tongue. In agreement, Nina figured. “Second one, for sure. Do we have to go arrest him for something? Bring him up here, nervous and scared—”
“Same sentiment,” Nina mumbled.
“—Only for him to see you, awash in a sea of moonlight and outfield lights, and then you live happily ever after despite your baseball allegiances?”
“He hates the Yankees too.”
“Something, at least,” Zoya said, but it was missing the edge. The acid. The anger Nina had almost prepared herself for. “You going to go down there, or….”
Finishing the sentence was pointless when Nina was already standing, Nikolai’s laugh ringing in her ears as she did her best to push her finger straight through the elevator button. She bobbed on the balls of her feet, impatience skittering up her spine and there were too many buttons and too much laughter, but that was likely a good thing, and the security guards didn’t stop her.
From running into the section.
Only to find two sets of empty seats. His and hers. A weird, depressing, matching set.
Nina waited. Stood at the top of the section stairs, waiting for a flash of familiar hair or those eyes that she probably hadn’t dreamed about the night before. Never came. The goosebumps did, for an entirely new and even more depressing reason.
The security guard asked her to leave. Twenty-eight minutes after the last out.
Matthias hadn’t been at the game.
To be a Mets fan, was to wait.
For wins. For David Wright’s body to heal. For that same rush that came in 2015, only this time, it also came up with a World Series championship attached to it.
Nina wasn’t very good at waiting.
Summer crept forward. As it was apt to do. Going back to the ballpark was second nature to Nina, but the Mets were on their West Coast swing, and spending a week and a half with Zoya and Genya touring the greater California coast wasn’t entirely appealing. So, she was in New Jersey.
Leaning against the bar of the Crow Club, Nina watched the crowd. Most of them saturated with fruity alcohol, drinks that never came with those little umbrellas because the thought of such a thing would have set Kaz’s teeth on edge, but this was Atlantic City and that required a certain level of nonsense to be met consistently.
Plus, Nina knew Inej liked those drinks.
And that was that, for Kaz. As they say.
Heads turned at tables while she watched, conversations that only occasionally acknowledged the baseball games on TVs hanging above them, others recounting beach exploits from that afternoon and plans for the rest of the evening, a steady din of noise and humanity that somehow made it easier for Nina to breathe.
It smelled like salt when she did.
“Looking awfully thoughtful,” Inej said, appearing out of nowhere to grin knowingly at Nina. “Give you a nickel for them.”
“They’re not worth that much.”
“What about one of those tokens from the casino down the boardwalk?”
“Does Kaz know Jesper went to play there again?”
“Absolutely.”
“And?”
“And what?” Inej parroted. “Who are you looking for, exactly?”
“No one.”
It was the wrong answer. A telling answer. An answer Nina didn’t realize she was capable of providing until the very moment those five letters in that specific order passed between lips in desperate need of ChapStick. And kissing. Gods, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t kissed him.
“Our dear, darling Nina is pining,” Jesper explained. Drink in hand, the soft clink of casino tokens was as absurd as it was not, a mix of youth and age and responsibility and not. The perfect blend of summertime status.
Nina took a sip of his drink before he could offer. She assumed he would offer.
“For that,” Jesper hissed, “I’ll tell Inej the rest of the story.”
He did. Spared no expense, really. Recounted scorebooks and shouting matches, although some dramatic license was taken at that point, drawing a small crowd that included a guy Nina had never met before, staring openly at Jesper like he’d hung the moon. She’d make fun of him for that. Maybe. After the story. Probably.
Inej was a rapt audience, taking in details and occasionally letting her eyes flit toward Nina. Who never once disputed anything. There was nothing to dispute. The goddamn paper airplane was still sitting on her goddamn nightstand.
“And you just never saw him again?” Inej asked. Nina shook her head. “That’s tragic. Not—maybe not grand scheme, world level, but tragic all the same.”
“No kissing either,” Jesper added.
Nina’s heart dropped. Shattered at her feet. Like one of those plates, you could shoot at in the arcade. “How do you know that?”
“I didn’t, until right now. Simple assumption, though. Who could pine at your level if there’d been previous making out?”
“Two different things,” Inej murmured.
Jesper hummed in agreement. “And Nina wanted both. Fraternizing with the enemy.”
“He hated the Yankees, too.”
“So, what? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? My good-looking friend?”
“He was good-looking, right?”
That earned her another hum — and got Jesper a look of passing consternation from the guy at his side. Nina desperately needed to learn names in a more timely fashion. Determined to remedy at least one situation, she took a deep breath and immediately, very nearly died.
It was very dramatic.
Sweeping, even.
Because the door opened and she knew the music didn’t stop and the Earth didn’t pause mid-rotation, but it felt like her center of balance had been inextricably altered and that wasn’t the bad thing it should have been when Matthias Helvar took his first step into the Crow Club.
Not falling over really was a rather monumental miracle.
If she decided to move, Nina did not remember it. Could not bother with something as menial as cognitive reasoning or the ability of the neurons in her brain to properly fire, not when she was twisting around tables and reminding herself of all the very important properties oxygen possessed. In regard to continued consciousness.
He didn’t move.
He waited. Watched. Documented her, it felt like.
She wasn’t entirely opposed.
Their shoes nearly brushed.
“Huh,” Matthias breathed, slumping slightly to get into her eye line. Or just closer to her. The specifics didn’t matter. “I was right, then.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You said your friend worked at a bar in Jersey.”
“This is a bar in Jersey.”
“Yeah, we might be going in circles, actually.”
“What are you doing here?”
Nina was dimly aware of Jesper shouting something, but the buzz between her ears was far too loud and even the concept of pulling her gaze away from Matthias’s made her want to grit her teeth together until she ground them down completely.
She licked her lips.
He smiled.
“After I got hurt,” Matthias explained, “I didn’t know what way was up. So, I went...up. Best as I could, really, up the Shore.”
“Is that a joke?”
“No, I thought your friend looked familiar. Was driving me nuts, honestly.”
“How?”
“Twenty questions, Ms. Met.”
“Matthias!”
Her voice cracked. Her foot stomped. Air crackled and the world very likely did shift because the hands on Nina’s cheeks were warm and perfectly sized to pull her that much closer and she was legitimately proud of herself. For not stepping on his feet. He didn’t really give her the chance.
Rocking against each other, there was a joke about tides and current to be made and Nina pushed them back, down or up, and direction didn’t matter and time didn’t matter. Sports allegiance was the least of her worries. Not when Matthias’s arm found her waist and there was something to be said for the stretch of his upper body. Capable, as it was, of lifting her up and he was ten-thousand times better at any tongue thing than she could have possibly imagined.
Tracing her lips and twisting around her own, like he was taking a very personal and detailed inventory. One of his thumbs brushed against Nina’s cheeks, but she honestly couldn’t figure out which one. Everything was sensation and feeling, a bases-clearing double that kept the rally alive and the roar in the background wasn’t the crowd at Citi Field, but Inej perched on the edge of the bar and Jesper balanced on the rungs of a rickety stool, and they only broke apart to fall back together.
Nina closed her eyes.
Better to remember, that way.
To let her breath catch whenever Matthias’s neck dipped again, the sort of angle that sonnets were written for, and epic romances documented. Right side up and cross dimensions and Nina’s eyelashes fluttered. Open, closed. Once, twice.
He was still there.
“You go down the Shore, everybody knows that,” Nina whispered, still somehow sounding like herself. Good, that was good. And only good, that time.
“I think you’re getting paid by the disagreement.”
“I liked shouting your name.”
His eyes—
Sparkled, maybe.
She didn’t even hate herself for thinking that.
“Probably about as much as I enjoyed hearing it,” Matthias said, “and I’ve been here before. Spent that summer drinking at,” his head jerked toward the corner where Inej waved, “that corner. This was as far away from school and baseball and everything I thought was gone as I could find.”
“Ah, the scorebook makes sense now.”
“Does it just?”
“You know baseball isn’t often predictable nor nearly that organized. That’s the appeal, so people claim.”
“They do,” Matthias admitted, “but I—is that demon-looking guy still working here?”
“Kaz owns this bar.”
“Of course he does. You know everyone, don’t you Ms. Met?”
“Impressive like that.”
Humming wasn’t really her favorite of the audible, non-word responses, but Nina heard something different in that sound than she ever had before. Almost like hope and something worth waiting for, if only because the waiting found her first.
She kissed the bottom of his chin.
It was all she could reach.
“I really wanted you to be here, Nina,” Matthias said, “and I’m sorry I wasn’t there Sunday. For that game, I—that wasn’t part of the plan, but...well, Brum had set up this whole interview with a college team in the middle of nowhere, thinking I’d be good with that and—”
“You weren’t good with that?”
His hair shook when his head did. “Not really, no.”
“Did he kick you out of your hotel?”
“Smart too.”
“Total package.”
“Yeah,” Matthias said, a note of awe that made Nina’s skin prickle, “anyway, I’m pretty much in New York full-time now, but trying to find you there seemed impossible.”
“So you figured you’d try a bar in the middle of Atlantic City?”
“I leave a very strong impression,” Jesper yelled, practically jumping off the stool when Kaz glared. Inej’s smile was hypnotic.
“Something like that,” Matthias agreed, “so this is the part where we actually give each other our phone numbers and then—” His arm tightened again, finding a bit of space that certainly hadn’t been there twelve seconds before. Just enough to make sure Nina heard him mumble I like you before he kissed her. Or she kissed him.
Either or, really.
They went to Yankee Stadium on Labor Day weekend.
Nikolai pulled some strings to get them suite seats with complimentary well drinks and never-ending popcorn and both Matthias and Nina wore wholly out of place jerseys. Supporting neither of the teams on the field. Just each other, maybe. At least without much argument. They had better things to do, anyway. Fingers laced together, Nina shouted at the field and Matthias stared at anyone who dared glance in their direction and it was weird and wonderful and exactly what sports was supposed to be.
Caring about something beyond reason, something bigger and better than any one person was alone.
#matthias x nina#helnik#helnik fanfiction#nina zenik#matthias helvar#soc fanfic#insert shrug emoji here#every now and then i have these like...five hour bursts where i write all these words at once#this is the product of one of those
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Music to my ears
Music to my ears- 1.7k
Blurb night: (Request: What abt like something in the studio? Like studio sex 🥵 your header inspired me lol)
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Y/n always loved when Harry brought her to the studio with him, seeing her man all in his grove and in his element made her happy. She couldn’t deny how sexy he looked when he was strumming on the guitar or sitting with a clenched jaw, drumming his fingers while tweaking some lyrics to make it perfect.
Harry was all smiles when he heard the studio door open, his beautiful girlfriend making her way into the room holding some water bottles for him and the band, and some nice food- remembering to skip any item with dairy in it since it can clog up his throat with phlegm which wouldn’t be too good while trying to belt out another billboard hit.
“There she is! Hey darlin’” Harry craned his neck to peck her as she walked by, he was seated in a office chair going over some sheet music Mitch had written that belonged to the instrumental section of one of his works in progress and Y/n gave him a good once over decided he looked especially hot in his black slacks and wrinkled rolling stones shirt. “I brought treats! The BLT for Mitch, Cesar salad hold the crotons for Sara with a side of soup, two blueberry muffins and a black tea for Jeff and a sparkling lemon water with a vegan chicken noodle soup for my Harry- with of course- the breads you requested with it my dear.”
Y/n handed out the goodies to the group of artists, giving Harry his food with a kiss on his cheek perching herself on the table in front of him to snag a few bites of his food every so often as she talked with the group listing to some of the music they’d already got down dancing in her spot a little bit enjoying the behind the scenes of his upcoming album. “Sound’s good, I think you got another hit in the makin’ here baby. ‘m proud of yeh bub!” Y/n ran her fingers through Harry’s hair, the man giving her a content coo and grip on her thigh in return rubbing his thumb on the denim covered skin lovingly.
“Thank ya’, couldn’t do it without these guys or you my love. You guys make me great, would be nothin’ without ya’” his sweetness got a chorus of adored ‘awes’ which the slightly arrogant artist bathed in dramatically waving his hands and pretending to be bashful earning him some chuckles from everyone in the room.
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It was nearing 10 in the evening when Mitch finally decided to call it a night, everyone else besides Harry and Y/n had left over the last few hours. Each trickling out with some yawns and good bidding's as they decided to make their way home but Harry was focused on his music, and Y/n knew once he was this much in a grove, he wasn’t going to pack up till he felt it was time. in the meantime Y/n was sprawled out on one of the couches in the room, her left hand absentmindedly running over the suede pushing the material back and fourth in a satisfying pattern while scrolling through her phone texting a few friends and replying to some emails in between playing random games on the device.
Harry was deep into his work, tongue tucked between his teeth while his knee bounced slightly to the melody playing in his head. He was currently trying to put the finishing touches on medicine , a rather proactive song that he was still on the fence about releasing or keeping a concert special. His inspiration behind it was his journey through sexuality, romance and the fast pace lust that he’s experienced as a star during his formative years. Of course his Y/n was a big inspiration on that track, their sexual endeavors prominent in his mind while coming up with the lyrics.
His mind was filled with photographic memories of the times they did various naughty things. The foursome in brazil where they both explored bisexuality, having Harry, Y/n and then another couple join them, the hand full of times they’d had sex in public. In his car, in an alley, in bathroom at the VMA’s. on the roof, in a pool, and even the once Y/n went down on him in his mothers back garden while she ran to the shop. He thought of the sloppy kisses, the spitting, cum eating, rim jobs and pussy eating. It was all so dirty and god he knew this song would drive people mad. So being the cheeky bastard he is, he made two final decisions about the piece of work right then and there.
1- It would be an exclusive concert song
2- He wanted to have some special audio in it
Harry knew the idea was daring, likely to turn heads and cause mothers of concert goers to place a hand over their heart with a raised eyebrow but this was his music and he never had an issue with controversial art.
The man then looked to his side, seeing his love in her natural state. Relaxed, lips slightly pursed with her eyelashes batting every few seconds as she focused on the screen. Somehow even when she was lying in a lazy position, hair in a messy bun with a small stain from her tea on the bottom of her shirt, she still looked insanely beautiful.
“Love?” y/n shifted her eyes towards her boyfriend when she heard the pet name, turning onto her side to give him her full attention. “What’s up, H?” she rested her chin on her fist, blowing a few stray hairs out of her eyes. “How would you feel about helpin’ me out with this song?”
Harry gave her a bit of a suggestive taunt of his brows, the girl tilting her head slightly. “Sure, what do yeh have in mind, bub?” Y/n was quick to her feet walking towards him to peer down at the notebook full of lyrics, yet her attention was soon focused on the sensation of being tugged into his lap and the feeling of a rather firm lump pressing into her bum. Her head turned to look at her now smirking boyfriend, pursing her lips slightly in question. “Well, the songs a bit alt to what I usually write…going to keep it off the album make it exclusive but I think I want some background audio of us…making love princess.”
To be clear, Y/n wasn’t a prude. She wasn’t shy about her sexuality, she actually felt very empowered by how confident she was about her sex life and Harry found it exceptionally sexy to be with a woman who was open and not shy at all about trying new things, and this was definitely a new one for her to consider.
He gave her a moment to mull it over, seeing her head sway slightly while she weighed the offer before she gave a shrug and a nod to her boyfriend. “Sure, why not? Gonna be music layered on it right? So it’s not full blown balls smacking into ass?” her question made the man snort, nodding his head. “Yup, gonna layer the instrumental over it. Hoping to isolate the vocals of the moaning to mesh into the music then my singing. I think it could sound fuckin’ excellent and well I get to fuck yeh, so I think it’s a win win hmm?” his hands migrated to her tits, giving them a firm squeeze as his lips pressed into the back of her neck. His touches achieved his goal of sending a shiver through his girl, her spine tingling and hips starting to squirm as he sponged open mouth kisses from the nape of her neck to each shoulder.
“Yea…yea lets do it.” Her words were breathier, his touch putting her under his spell instantly. Lust hung in the air while he kept his grip on her his free hand used to turn on the mic in the sound booth before starting the recording and pushing them both in the padded room.
“god, you’re a doll lettin’ me fuck yeh for my track. I love you so much baby..” his words were as rushed as his frantic hands tugging their clothes off. Hers were prying the buttons of his trousers undone while he ridded her of her bra and started on her pants their mouths crashing together in a sloppy, needy dirty kiss. One that left the lower half of their faces shiny and their teeth slightly clenched from knocking them together in the heat of their movements.
“I love you more, jesus Haz, please hurry up need you in me.” Y/n worked on shoving her panties to the side, Harry hoisting her leg up to have her angled just right to sink his cock into. These were the moments he praised whoever invented birth control, nothing beats getting to spontaneously fuck his girl without having to worry about finding a condom.
Gasps, moans and whines filled the booth. The pleasured noises bouncing off the foam glued to the walls, the insulation amplifying their noises as Harry pounded himself inside Y/n relentlessly, his cock forcibly spreading her inner walls stimulating the deepest parts of her making her pour out a river of beautiful moans he couldn’t wait to mesh into the song. He did little to contain his own groans, deciding if they were prominent in the recording he’d match them with the bass so the deep tones complimented each other.
“ ‘m gonna cum”
The string of words every guy loves to hear from the woman they are pleasuring, it boosts their ego and gives them an extra shot of stamina to push her over the edge satisfying her fully before he lets himself go.
When the tightening of her cunt gripped onto his cock, sucking him in further happened the best moans of the session were let out. Harmonious perfectly pitched moans spilling from her mouth, his joining hers in a duet soon after as his balls gave everything they had inside of her. the pair were a sticky mess, but it didn’t matter to them they both were still in the orgasmic haze complimented with the rush of voyeurism.
“Jesus baby, I think we just secured a grammy.”
#harry styles fluff#harry styles angst#harry styles imagine#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles writing#harry styles smut#harry styles blurb#harry styles concept#harry styles x yn#harry styles x reader#harry styles au#harry styles request#harry styles
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Fourth Time's the Charm
Soulmate September Day 25: you have a special object that glows when it gets close to your soulmate's object
Ship: Virgil/Remus/Logan/Janus (idk the right name), referenced royality
Tags: polyamory, band au, punk au, music festival
Words: 3485
Summary: Each of the band members' special objects was glowing brightly. Some instinct, probably born of a very vague and fragile hope, had Virgil slowly unzipping his hoodie, just enough to sneak a glance at his own brooch. The one that was now glowing a vibrant purple.
Notes: I have realised I haven't actually read anything with this ship in it, simply cause I never got round to it. Anyway, I have a feeling the "festival experience" described here is very British, or possibly even specific to the one festival I go to. So sorry for that I guess.
Warnings: feeling slightly insecure, cursing
AO3
Virgil pushed through the crowd around the main stage, doing his best to follow Roman and Patton. He wasn't really sure why they were watching this band in particular. Sure, it sounded like it might appeal to him, but his best friends only ever listened to punk music when Virgil had it on in the car so he didn't know why they were more eager to see Siding with the Dark, a band none of them had heard of, than he was.
At least it wasn't raining anymore, but the earlier bad weather and then hundreds of people walking through the main field had churned up the earth. Virgil's wellies were caked in mud, and his ripped jeans were sticking to him uncomfortably. He supposed this was just all part of the festival experience.
Virgil was just thinking about how it was getting close to sunset, and by the end of Siding with the Dark's act it would definitely be night, when he suddenly realised he wasn't with his friends anymore. He was alone, in a large cowed, and it would really annoy a lot of people if he tried to force his way back out.
His feet hurt and the flowers Patton had painted on his face earlier were starting to flake off, and he really needed a shower, and he didn't want to see this band anyway and basically everything sucked.
Well, everything sucked until Siding with the Dark started to play.
They exploded onto the stage with blazing lights, leaping into position with energy that Virgil could never hope to accomplish, and burst into their first song.
Virgil was enraptured.
The music thudded through him, making his heart pound and every muscle feel alive, and when the lead began to sing...how could someone sound so much like an angle and a demon at the same time?
Every thought of the friends that had disappeared, and the discomfort of his clothing, and the stuffiness of the crowd, was swept from his mind. The song was some sort of powerful break-up song, with the sentiment of being better off without the person, and Virgil had respect for that.
By the time the song came to a close, with flashing lights (but not too many to distract from the actual music) and the most incredible guitar riff (which was showing off, but in a good way), Virgil was dancing and singing along with the rest of the crowd.
He remembered why he liked festivals so much - the atmosphere of the music and the lights and the euphoria rolling off every person around him instantly drove away his every worry. There was just something about singing badly and dancing stupidly and looking up at that stage and seeing those three men so utterly in their element...it almost made Virgil want to be part of that forever.
Maybe a bit more than almost.
The lead singer leaned into the microphone and Virgil found himself leaning forward in turn, just to get that bit closer.
"Salutations!" His sooth voice rang out across the crowded field. "There certainly are a lot of you tonight, a great deal more than we anticipated-"
"How you all doing out there!" The lead guitarist interrupted, getting a huge cheer from the audience in response. "Oh god you sound awful, I'm sure there's nothing we can do about that."
"Don't worry J!" The drummer said into his mic. "They'll scream themselves hoarse by the end!"
"Do not take his words to heart, throat injuries due to overexertion would be far from ideal." The singer said, the nerdy-ness of the words making laughter ripple through the audience.
"Oh you're definitely improving with the whole 'engage the audience' thing, Lo."
There was a bark of laughter from the drummer and then they were launching into the next song.
This one was some sort of protest song, seemingly against landlords and mortgages. Virgil found himself being drawn forward, pulled through the crowd by the power of the song. With each between-song bit of banter, and each guitar riff, and drum solo, and high note, Virgil pushed further forward. It helped that he was small, he supposed - it was easier to slip through the gaps.
It was dark by the time he's danced his way to near the front, and the lead singer was announcing they only had a few songs left. Here, Virgil was finally close enough to see the band members and if he wasn't enthralled already, he was then.
The lead singer, Lo as the others called him, had a slightly nerdy attire to match his persona, but it was still definitely punk. His tie was around his head, polo-shirt unbuttoned and slightly ripped further down the front, his blue jeans were ripped, his leather jacket studded and painted with galaxies and planets all over, the front swoop of his hair was dyed electric blue, and the dangly silver star earring, glasses and combat boots finished off the look.
The guitarist, who the drummer had called J, had taken on quite a bit more of the steampunk aesthetic. He wore a bowler hat with studded goggles resting on top, a mesh of brass cogs were painted up the side of his face with a bright yellow contact in that eye, there were leather buckles all the way up his knee high boots, his clothes covered in what looked like pieces of metal but were probably leather, he wore a cape with a bronze snake clasp, and had a snake-bite piercing.
The drummer had a different look again. Of what Virgil could see (he was sitting down and further back on the stage) he was wearing a tank top made of green camouflage netting, black fingerless lace gloves that went up past his elbows, his hair was jelled up in a mess of crazy spikes, and he wore a choker made of a literal piece of chain with a clear glass pendant hanging off it. He kept sticking his tongue out and playing with the piercing there.
They were all so hot! All cocky smiles and sparkling eyes. Virgil wouldn't have been surprised if the rumours about all three of them dating were true, he wouldn't blame them.
Virgil still felt that inexplicable urge to get close though. As the chorus was being played for the final time there was a sudden opening in the crowd and Virgil found himself leaning right on the barrier, barely twenty feet from the men on the stage.
And perhaps it was because he was now close enough, or maybe Virgil just wasn't that observant before, but as the flashing lights calmed again he noticed a single, very important detail about each of the men on the stage.
The silver star earring, the bronze snake clasp, the glass pendant were glowing. One blue, one gold, one green.
It was a light Virgil recognised so very, very well. Whenever Roman and Patton came near each other Patton's necklace and Roman's ring would glow in just that way. It meant the three band members were soulmates.
But that didn't make any sense! They couldn't be soulmates or someone would have noticed the special objects glowing by now. Was it possible that all three of their soulmates were somewhere in the audience and close enough to the stage to make the objects glow? They would have to be right at the front, or in the wings for that to happen...
The song finished and it seemed that the band members had noticed their objects were all glowing for the guitarist quickly hurried over to the singer and muttered something. The singer considered it for a second then gave a sharp nod before turning back to the mic.
"I regret to inform you all that this will be our last song of the night-" a resounding noise of protest rose up from the crowd but Virgil was more focused on the guitarist and drummer who were talking quickly to each other near the back of the stage. "Unfortunately so. It has been a pleasure to play for you tonight, and I will remind you that we shall be in the merchandise tent, after the show, selling our latest album. Now," he paused and glanced over at the guitarist who was back in position by his mic, "this song...is a love song."
Those must have been the magic words or something for the crowd went absolutely wild. The guitarist played a single chord that seemed to resonate right in Virgil's soul.
"And tonight it shall be dedicated to our soulmates, wheresoever they may be."
The music started up and Virgil felt more and more like he wanted to climb over the barrier, to charge the stage to be with them. He was swept up by the drums pounding in his ears and the melody making his nerves tingle, and the smooth voice flooding his veins. They sounded incredible, blending together in perfect harmony.
But suddenly Virgil realised there was something missing. The music just didn't flow quite like it should, there was some element, something often unnoticeable, that just...wasn't there...
There was no bass!
That warm, steadying beat that Virgil focussed on so much when he needed to calm down...the one that usually thrummed so surely right in his heart...from the only instrument he knew how to play...it just wasn't there. But Virgil had heard bands that didn't have a bass guitar before and they sounded fine, so now did the music feel incomplete? Why was the space to the right of singer so empty?
Subconsciously, Virgil placed his hand on his chest as if it would help him better feel that little something that was missing. What he felt instead was the little brooch he wore pinned to the inside of his hoodie. The little brooch that had appeared in his hands when he was twelve years old and had never been separated from him since.
Some instinct, probably born of a very vague and fragile hope, had him slowly unzipping the hoodie, just enough to sneak a glance at the black circular brooch with a spider carved on it.
The black brooch that was now glowing purple.
Virgil slammed his hoodie shut again, yanking the zip up and glancing around wildly to make sure no-one had seen. Then he was looking up at the stage again and right into the eyes of the lead singer.
He froze. Had he seen? The singer gave him a small smile that made Virgil's heart stutter, and then looked back out to the audience once more.
Virgil's gaze shot to the guitarist who gave him a smirk, making his heart pound more, then he looked to the drummer who winked in an extremely flirtatious manner and Virgil almost stopped functioning.
Had they all seen? And why were they all looking at him? Surely from the stage they couldn't see him properly?
It took a moment for the realisation to sink in that this probably meant he was the soulmate of one of the band members. But when the thought did cross his mind, his internal organs did a very impressive swooping-rising-flipping-sinking-twirling motion as he was simultaneously elated and panicked.
On the one hand, that would be amazing! They were all so cool and talented and handsome and Virgil's heart leapt at the thought that he might get to know them as more than just a fan. But on the flip side, what if they thought he was faking it for attention? Or if he was just too boring and plain for them? Well that last thought was unlikely seeing as the universe would have paired them up for a reason - surely it must be meant to work...
As the song drew to a close and Virgil automatically clapped and cheered and hollered with the rest, the thought rose to mind of which one would it be? As he looked at the exhilarated faces of the members of Siding with the Dark as they walked off stage, Virgil genuinely didn't know which one he'd want it to be. And with that came the worry of what if he fell in love with not just his soulmate but with all three of them? Would he get in the way, and cause drama, and end up destroying the band?
The crowd began to disperse into the night and Virgil found himself slowly making his way towards the merch tent. He had no idea what he was going to say to them. Just wait until no-one was around and then show them his glowing brooch? Would that convince them? What if he was wrong and his soulmate was someone else in the crowd and he'd lost them now?
Worries continued to spiral around Virgil's head as he waited on the edge of the crowd, but he didn't leave.
It was a long time before the band came out, and a goodly amount of people had given up and left by then. The crowd gradually dwindled, though with the amount of people there the band must have been getting through sales and signings at a rate of knots.
The next band was tuning up by the time Virgil was close enough to actually see them, still in their stage outfits and grinning like they were still high on the euphoria of the show. With each person that chatted to them, the pit of nerves in Virgil's stomach worsened. He could see their special objects, glowing slightly again, and checked that his own was still glowing too. At least that confirmed one of them was his soulmate.
He hung back at the edge of the tent until the last person in the queue was finished, feet seemingly stuck to the floor. The band members seemed almost despondent now, glancing hopefully around the tent but not noticing the man stood in the dark just outside. They turned to leave with a few inaudible sighs and that was enough to spur Virgil into action.
"Wait!" He found himself hurrying over. Ok he was doing this. It was happening.
They turned back at the sound of his voice. "Unfortunately we have sold out of CDs" the lead singer said, "but we can sign something if you would like, and we can direct you to our website for when we have more in stock."
Virgil knew he was blushing. They were all even more attractive up close, even in the odd light of the tent, and he felt out of place standing next to them in mud-caked clothes with the purple dye fading from his messy hair.
"Oh it's not that! I just wanted to say uuuhhh" he tried to will himself to say the words, "you guys were amazing out there! It was...it was incredible."
The drummer, who Virgil could now see was wearing booty shorts and fishnet tights too, looked instantly happier somehow. "oohh thank you-"
"Yeah totally wouldn't sound better if we had a bass." The guitarist nudged the lead singer.
"For the last time Janus, I am incapable of playing a bass guitar and we have not yet found anyone who coordinates well enough with us."
"I play bass guitar." Shit! He had not meant to say that! Now he looked like he just wanted to talk to them because he noticed an opening in the band.
Janus raised a sceptical eyebrow and the lead singer sighed. "We aren't looking to-"
"Aw Logan, don't be like that! Give him a chance! He's cute enough to fit in with us~"
"Remus," Janus said exasperatedly, "try to keep it in your pants."
"I shall write your name down..."
Virgil rushed fix his mistake. "I'm Virgil but wait, I don't know why I said that, I'd probably get stage fright or something. Anyway," he wracked his brains for something to change the subject, "thats not actually what I wanted to say..." He tried to calm his breathing.
"Oh take your time, we have all day."
"Yeah c'mon, spit it out!"
"Don't pressure him you two." Logan said mildly.
"uhhh" Virgil swallowed "I was wondering if any of you had found your soulmates cause I was right at the front when your objects started and...glowing mine started too..."
"Really?!? Let's see let's see let's see!"
Virgil unzipped his hoodie and took out the glowing brooch, placing it hesitantly on the table between them.
Remus struggled with his choker to get the pendant off, Janus unclasped his cape, and Logan removed his earring. Each one was still glowing brightly and they were all placed on the table right next to Virgils and then...there was a bright flash and suddenly each object was glowing strongly and now the same colour as the light they emitted.
All four objects.
For four soulmates.
"Ohmygod we are all soulmates!" Remus shrieked.
"Fascinating..." Logan was muttering "it seems that for poly soulmates the objects do not glow until they are all present..."
Janus just stood very still, staring at the objects as if checking to make sure this wasn't just some elaborate trick, and then very suddenly turned and threw his arms around the other two.
Virgil was quickly feeling very out of place. These three clearly knew each other very well and might even like each other in that way already and he was just some new, awkward outsider that they would probably only like because he brought them together...
"Ah. Virgil I think I can trust that you will not tell anyone about this as yet," this was it, they were going to dismiss him, "so I think it is safe to inform you, and also the honest thing to do, that the three of us have been in a romantic relationship for quite some time now, which we were keeping from the public."
Virgil found himself taking a step back. They didn't want him, they didn't want him, they didn't want him, they-
"But I suppose you do not count as a member of the public anymore...that is if you are amiable to getting to know us better." Somehow Logan was speaking perfectly calmly, as if completely unfazed by the way Janus and Remus were holding on to him and kissing passionately behind his back.
"Wait...you...you mean you're ok with me just randomly being dumped into your relationship."
"Of course. Firstly you seem like a very lovely person, secondly it would be quite convenient if you would be our bass player, and third-"
"You're really fucking pretty and sexy!" Remus exclaimed, emerging from Janus's embrace.
Virgil's face turned a vibrant shade of scarlet. "Wha...? I'm not..."
"Virgil why else do you think we each noticed you in the audience, if you weren't very aesthetically pleasing."
"Wow, you're so romantic Logan. Really, it's a wonder you haven't swept the pretty emo off his feet by now."
If it was possible for Virgil's face to get any redder then he was sure it would have. "I-uh" He didn't usually have such trouble talking but the last hour had been a wild time and it was taking him a while to adjust to the fact not only had he found his soulmate, but he had four of them. "I'd like that...to get to know you guys I mean."
"Excellent. You may come backstage and we shall talk further if you'd like, we still have an extra friends and family pass, or we could meet you back here in a few minutes as I at least need to get changed, and then we could explore the festival together. Or go up to that tent that does the tea and just talk, if that would appeal more."
"Jeez Lo, everything you say sounds like a business proposition."
"Come one Virgey! Let's hang out!"
"Ok, if you guys are sure I'd...I'd like that a lot." Virgil allowed himself to smile a little as the three band members helped him scramble over the table.
It ended up being a wonderful night. The conversation flowed non-stop as they made their quick trip to the tents so the others could change, and then went out into the rest of the festival. They wandered around a bit - the band having not had much time to explore earlier - and ended up in the little tent at the top of the festival that served hot drinks late into the night. They sat round a small fire, bathed in its flickering glow, drinking hot apple and cinnamon, and spiced wine, and mint tea, and hot chocolate with every topping available.
They laughed and chatted early into the morning and Virgil didn't know why he'd worried about this at all. He'd never felt more at peace with the world than being here, with his soulmates.
~~*~~
I'm not massively happy with this one but I think it came out ok. Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it!
Who do you think had which drink? I have my opinion but I'm wondering what other people would say.
@tsshipmonth2020
#tsshipmonth2020#soulmate september#sanders sides#sanders sides fanfiction#analoceitmus#intruloxieceit#anaintruloceit#virgil sanders#logan sanders#remus sanders#janus sanders#I dont know what the ship name is#band au#soulmate au#god I am so tired#this fought me tooth and nail to write#ro's writing
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There were four things Eric Dier knew for definite.
1. He’d had better Monday’s.
2. The girl sat across from him was definitely staring.
3. His school needed to invest in better vending machines.
And
4. Apparently if you punch someone in the face three times it will result in being summoned to the Principal's office no matter how much you think the guy deserved it. Go figure.
Eric grimaced as he flexed his fingers. The tendons felt tight and he could already see the purple bloom of a bruise appearing over his knuckles. He lifted his hand up forced the fingers to straighten, the pain shooting up his arm. He wriggled them, moving them one by one and he smirked slightly. Nothing broken he thought wryly. His eyes flicked up and he raised his eyebrows causing the girl who was sitting behind the desk opposite him to blush. He studied a cut on the dip between his second and third knuckle, the area around it crusted with blood. He remembered the clean connection he’d got on the guys face the first time, the sharp sting of his nose ring nicking at his skin. Totally worth it, he said to himself as he made a fist, biting the inside of his mouth as he tried to ignore the way his nerves were screaming.
“Yo dickhead.” The double doors crashed open at the other end of the room and Eric looked up to see Jan and Toby walking towards him. He flipped them the finger in response and scoffed at the tutting come from the secretary's desk. The girl who’d been staring at him had dropped her phone when they’d entered and she was failing miserably at trying not to gawk at the two of them as they passed her desk. Toby threw himself down in the chair beside him and pulled his phone from his pocket, opening it without saying anything. Jan came to a stop directly in front of Eric and kicked at his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. Eric glanced up at him, pursing his lips together and raising his eyebrows. He knew that look and he huffed, shifting in his seat. “Don’t fucking start man,” he drawled and Jan smirked, jutting his chin towards Eric’s hand.
“What was it this time? Did they insult Dele’s shoes?” Jan asked cocking his head to the side. Toby scoffed and Eric shook his head. The smug look that the stoner dude had given Dele before he’d wiped it off flashed across his mind and he leaned forwards, staring down at his hand again. He remembered throwing himself in front of Dele, grabbing his wrists and pushing him backwards. He remembered Dele trying to fight of his grip, blood pouring from a gash on the side of his mouth. Everything else was a little bit of blur until he’d heard someone shout ‘scramble’ and the assistant principal had appeared in front of him. Dele had been dragged off before he could turn around and he’d been sat waiting in the same god awful plastic chair for what felt like an age. “Seriously bro, what if you had broken your hand this time? You can’t do this every time he pisses someone off and they retaliate.” Eric hated it when Jan turned all disappointed father on him and he rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat. They’d known each other since kindergarten, had been inseparable since they had bonded over their favourite superhero and Jan was the only person in the whole school who could challenge Eric without regretting it. Still didn’t mean that he allowed it to happen too often.
“It wasn’t like that this time,” Eric answered, his voice level. He knew the girl was listening, she was basically leaning over the desk, her ear angled towards them. No doubt it was the talk of the corridors again. Eric Dier, the most popular guy in school, loses his temper and everyone needs to know why. Especially when it’s becoming a bit of a regular thing. Jan laughed. “It never is,” he said commented but held his hands up in surrender, recognising that he was never going to win this particular debate.
“All I’m saying man is that your hand better be good for Friday, I’m not putting up with shit from coach if you can’t play.”
Eric was about to tell Jan not to worry about it, that he knew full well he’d be playing but the Principal’s door swung open and he didn’t get the chance. “Mr Dier, please,” a low voice sounded and Eric rolled his eyes as Jan patted him on the shoulder. He didn’t see the point in this, the conversation he was about to have but he plastered a guilty look on his face and turned around as Jan dropped down in the seat he’d just vacated.
“I feel like I should enter you in my diary, it’s almost like clockwork,” Principal Evans commented as he pushed the door closed behind them. Eric didn’t react, just pulled on the back of the leather seat nearest him and dropped himself down. He waited as the older man walked behind his desk and seated himself, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him. He clasped his hands together and sighed, staring directly at Eric’s bruised and bloodied hand. “No broken bones?” he asked curtly and Eric shook his head, flexing his fingers. Principal Evans nodded slowly and smiled tightly. “Well good, we wouldn’t want this little outburst getting in the way of Friday now would we?” he said as he pulled open a drawer and lifted a notepad out of it. Eric really did not see the point in this little charade they put on every time this happened. He knew it was to make it look like he was being reprimanded but it was getting boring now. Silence filled the room and Eric shifted in his seat, watching as Evans picked up a pen and started to write.
“Where’s Dele?” he asked, the words coming out sharp and loud. Evans didn’t answer and Eric clenched his jaw, bouncing his leg up and down. “Sir, where’s Dele,” he repeated, his voice lower this time, a little softer around the edges. The Principal looked up at him and shook his head. “We sent him home,” he answered, waving his hand, dismissing the question. Eric looked down at his hand and pressed on bruises, the discomfort distracting him from the retort he wanted to fire across the room. Of course they’d sent him home. Why would they do anything else?
“And the other guy?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “Mr Lomax received a warning,” Evans said, rubbing his hand across the paper before ripping it off and holding it out to him. Eric snatched it off him, rage roaring in his ears. He stared at the note in his hand, the scrawled handwriting excusing him from his afternoon classes. “I suggest you spend the rest of the day looking after that hand, get some ice on it. You know how much is riding on your performance of Friday and I won’t have a little ruckus over nothing ruining it.” His voice was low and hard, a warning mixed in with the concern. Sure Eric might be the most popular guy in school, people either wanted to be him or be with him but deep down he knew he was a commodity and it was getting extremely difficult to keep biting his tongue. “Don’t you worry I’ll be there,” he said pushing his chair back a little to forcefully as he stood up. He turned to leave, the anger he’d felt earlier simmering under the surface. This was the fourth time in three months that he’d been summoned here, the fourth time he’d had to sit and listen to Evans talk about him like he was some cash cow the school depended on.
“Oh and Eric?”
“Yes sir?”
“If you see Mr Alli could you please tell him he’s treading on very thin ice. I do worry that next time, and I assume there will be a next time, we will have a broken hand to deal with and I would hate for the blame to fall on his shoulder. He seems to listen to you.”
His name is Dele. Eric bristled at the blatant dismissal of Dele’s request to drop his last name and he nodded curtly not daring to open his mouth. Evans inclined his head, turning towards his computer and Eric took that as a sign that he was free to leave. He yanked the door open and stepped outside, not bothering to acknowledge Jan and Toby as he marched towards the doors that led back to the main corridor. He heard them scramble from their chairs and catch up with him, assuming their positions either side of his shoulders. His note was screwed up in his fist and he tossed it in the nearest trash can without looking. People moved out of their for them as they always did and he stared straight ahead of him as he walked. He knew there would be talk, conclusions drawn about why he kept on getting into fights over Dele but he didn’t care. He was untouchable, the school talisman and whilst he was their main hope for securing funding and would therefore face no consequences he’d continue to challenge anyone who was stupid enough to try it. As he came to the main entrance and threw open the doors he caught a snippet of conversation.
“I don’t get what’s so special about Dele that means he gets all the protection from Dier.”
“I know right? Come swing some of that rage my way, I know a perfect way to burn off some steam.”
“Ohmygod Kelsey!”
“What? He’s hot when he’s angry.”
Jan and Toby chuckled and Eric rolled his eyes before stepping out in to the daylight He might be the most popular guy in school and enjoy all the perks that came with it but he really was getting fucking sick of the place.
#have a sneak peek of the high school AU#well when I say sneak peek#I mean all I actually wrote#my writing
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panning for gold
@bardingbeedle here is your birthday fic!!!!! ily, i hope you enjoy <3
--
Tony is not a stupid man. So when Captain America asks him if he wants to “step out” with him, of course he says yes.
He’s amused because Steve plans the date and picks him up at six o’clock on the dot. His amusement must be written on his face because Steve ducks his head like he’s embarrassed and says, “Ah, I know this isn’t exactly how things are done anymore, but it took it out of me just to ask, so...”
He’s sweet, painfully so, and Tony couldn’t stop himself from smiling if he wanted to. “Hey, who’s complaining?”
Steve smiles back, his shoulders relaxing a little, sweet and appreciative. He’s really something else and if Tony’s not careful he’ll be in trouble. Steve’s a good guy—the best, really, but there’s no way Steve is interested in dating Tony long term. It’s probably not conscious, but he’s interested in the experiences Tony can provide. Fancy dinners, lavish vacations, expensive presents. Sure, maybe there’s some attraction there, some connection, they’re friends, aren’t they? But it always comes down to Tony’s money. He’s not about to hold that against Steve. They can have a little fun. “Come on,” he says, slipping his arm through Steve’s. “Take me out on the town.”
Steve beams, hand curling around Tony’s on his elbow.
–
They go to a place called “The Big Gay Ice Cream Shop” and Tony barks out a laugh. Steve smiles, glancing at him slyly out of the corner of his eye. “I thought it seemed appropriate.”
“You aren’t wrong.”
Steve holds the door open for him, which is another charming gesture. They spend a little while at the counter sampling flavors and leave twenty minutes later with waffle cones the size of their heads. Tony automatically goes for his wallet at the register, but Steve catches his hand and pushes it back into his jacket.
“My treat.”
Tony blinks, surprised. “Oh.” He shrugs after a moment and grins. “Okay, then.”
He can’t remember the last time someone paid for him for...anything. It may have never happened. He’s always been the one with more means than sense. The experience is novel and he can’t help the way it lingers in the back of his mind through the rest of the date, which is a long walk back to the Tower.
Steve is funny in the driest way and smart as hell in a way that’s unlike Tony’s own intellect, but that just makes it all the more fascinating to talk to him.
Plus, he’s gorgeous, which Tony is reminded of when they finally meander up to the Tower and into the elevator. Steve leans back against the elevator wall, hands in his pockets, his head angled toward the floor, and he smiles at Tony, looking at him through his sandy eyelashes.
It knocks Tony for a loop.
He still hasn’t quite figured out how to breathe again when Steve says in a low voice, “I had a really good time tonight, Tony. Can we do this again?”
Tony works his tongue around his mouth for a second, trying to get some moisture back into it. “Yeah,” he says faintly, “me too. This was fun. How’s, uh, next Tuesday?”
Steve glows at him. That’s the only way to describe it. Tony’s stomach swoops like he’s pushing Mach 5 in the suit. “Six?”
“Yeah,” Tony rasps.
Steve pushes off the wall as they arrive at the floor that holds his apartment and Tony feels his passing like electricity over his skin. “Okay. See you then.”
Oh, Tony thinks as the doors close, yeah, I’m in trouble.
–
“IFC is playing The Shining,” Steve says while he and Tony head downstairs on Tuesday. “I thought we could go see it?”
“You’re into horror?”
Steve shrugs. “I don’t know, but I hear it’s a classic. One of the best of all time?”
“I saw it when I was ten so I can’t comment on anything other than the fact that it scarred me.”
“You were ten?” Steve says with a look somewhere between incredulity and amused of-course-you-did, which is a look Tony is used to getting.
“Dad kept telling me I was a baby and I wanted to prove him wrong. I snuck into the theater. I couldn’t sleep for a week.”
“Well, now I’m really curious.”
“Wow, asshole,” Tony says.
Steve shrugs, hands in his pockets again. It’s like he thinks he’s too big—taking up too much room. “I keep tryin’ to tell people...”
It feels like Tony’s heart grows in his chest. God, he’s so fond of Rogers. He’s a shit.
–
Steve pays for the movie and their concessions, too.
Tony thinks about saying something, but he’s not sure what exactly he’d say. Stop it? I have money (obviously)? He can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound ridiculous. So he just keeps his mouth shut and watches the movie.
It’s definitely not as scary as he remembers, but there are still some creepy moments. Some of it just gets him because of how much it reminds him of Howard.
When they leave the theater, Steve is in a somber mood.
“That was...interesting,” he says, obviously struggling for words. “They implied that Jack was in the hotel in the past, too.”
“Yeah.”
Steve goes quiet, mind obviously churning.
They walk in silence for nearly a block before Steve finally shakes his head. “Sorry, that was… I wasn’t expecting that.”
He’s unsettled Tony realizes. “Are you okay?”
Steve looks over at him, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “Yeah, uh,” he scrubs a hand over the back of his head. “It’s just—the way he lost control…”
“Reminds me of my dad,” Tony says, before he can think better of it and he only just manages to stifle a wince when Steve looks over at him, eyes wide.
“Howard was like that?”
“I mean he never tried to axe me, but—” Tony shakes his head, brushing that all away. “He was your friend, let’s not get into that—”
Steve grasps Tony by the wrist, bringing him to a stop on the sidewalk with barely any pressure at all. Tony gets the sudden urge to shake him off, but he mashes it down. Steve’s face is serious, tinted orange in the sodium vapor lights. “You and I are better friends than we ever were, Tony. If he ever did anything like that to you—” His mouth goes tight. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Tony stares at him, feeling strangely overwhelmed, so much so that he can’t speak. He can’t find the words for—anything.
Steve’s face softens and he puts a hand very lightly in the small of Tony’s back. “C’mon. Ice cream?”
Tony nods and lets himself be led.
–
He’s doing it deliberately, Tony realizes after they’ve gone on three more dates. On their fourth date, Tony pulls out his wallet early trying to beat Steve to the payment, but Steve says, “That’s okay, Tony. I’ve got it.”
“You’ve gotten it every time so far,” Tony says.
“Yeah,” Steve says mildly, handing over his credit card, “what’s your point? I want to.”
Tony doesn’t actually have a good argument to counter that, so he lets his hand drop. Steve smiles at him and it’s like Tony can feel the Pavlovian neuro-paths forming in his brain. Jesus, he’s a sucker. This was supposed to be a fun little fling because when you’re offered the chance to date Captain America you don’t say no, but Steve keeps asking him and Tony keeps saying yes. And Steve’s sticking around even though he’s the one paying for everything. It doesn’t track at all.
Coney Island is a blast, partly because of the attractions, but mostly because of all the stories Steve tells him about what a scrappy little cuss he was. He even tells Tony about a time when Bucky made him go on the Cyclone and he threw up and he actually manages to smile during the story. It’s the first time Tony’s heard him talk about Bucky without a thread of raw agony in his voice. It sounds stupid, but he’s honored. It’s taken the team two years to start cracking through Steve’s walls and it’s humbling to realize Steve feels like he can say these things to Tony and that it’s helping.
They stay until well after sundown and Tony can’t stop looking at Steve under the kaleidoscope of multicolored lights. He’s relaxed, happy, and it’s beautiful.
“Let’s ride the Ferris wheel,” Steve suggests, and Tony just says okay. He’d say yes to just about anything Steve suggested at this point.
It’s a warm night with a cool breeze—pretty much perfect as far as nights go. Despite the fact that the line is fairly lengthy, they end up in one of the fixed cars alone. Tony’s stomach flips when Steve sits and pulls Tony down next to him, wrapping his arm around Tony’s waist. The midway is all lit up below them, backed by the beach and the dark water beyond. This is the first time Tony’s been on a Ferris wheel in years and it’s making him feel like a kid again. It’s goofy, but there’s something magic about it.
“It’s pretty amazing this is still around,” Steve says, and Tony drags his gaze away from the view. “There was a big fuss when it opened. It was called the Dip-the-Dip back then, but it was just like this.”
“People do some incredible things,” Tony says, and Steve meets his eyes.
“They sure do.”
Their car reaches the apex of the wheel and rocks slowly to a stop as the wheel pauses. The breeze is cool, blowing Tony’s hair in his eyes and he reaches up to push it back. When he can see again, Steve is close enough Tony can feel the heat of his skin against his cheek and he sucks in a breath, heart breaking into a sprint.
“Gonna kiss you now,” Steve says, voice low. Then he cups Tony’s face in both his big hands and kisses him so gently it feels like his thoughts go spiraling away on the breeze.
The blood roars in his ears and he only realizes he was holding his breath when Steve draws back and Tony sucks in a gasp, his hands clutching at Steve’s leather jacket. Steve is warm underneath it, but the lining is cool and smooth against the back of his knuckles.
Steve smiles at him, sucking Tony’s stomach right back out of his body, and then leans in again and presses another featherlight kiss to his mouth. “Been wanting to do that for weeks.”
Tony makes an inarticulate noise and shifts impossibly closer to Steve, the heat of his thigh like fire against his leg. “Well, don’t stop now,” he rasps.
Steve lights up, his eyes reflecting back all the colors of the lights as they go by, and then he’s kissing Tony again, tongue easing into Tony’s mouth and sending sparks through his scalp. He moans, blown away by how good it feels to kiss Steve. Oh, god, he’s supposed to give this up? Like hell.
–
After that he’s plunged from “getting in over his head” to “in way over his head”. He tries so goddamn hard to protect himself from the inevitable heartbreak caused by people who don’t realize they’re in love with his money and not him, but he wasn’t ready for Steve Rogers.
Steve who hasn’t let him pay for a single thing in the three months they’ve been dating. Not so much as a coffee. What is he supposed to do with that? What is Steve getting out of this if he won’t take Tony’s money?
“STOP,” Tony bursts as Steve takes the check holder, “Stop. I can’t take it anymore. What is this, the world’s longest con?”
Steve blinks at him and the waiter slowly backs away from the table and disappears. “What?” Steve finally says.
“You won’t let me pay for anything! But people date me for my money. So I don’t understand what’s going on here. Are you trying to lull me into a false sense of security? Because, if I’m being honest, I’m already fucked. I’m into you. Way into you. So even if you are, you can just cut it out. You can have whatever you want.”
Steve’s face pinches and he puts a crease in the check holder, his fingers are gripping it so hard. “No, Tony. It’s not...it’s not a con. I didn’t want you to think that I even might be interested in you for your money.”
Tony shrugs, feeling small. “Everyone is.”
“I’m not,” Steve says firmly. “And I’ll keep paying for things as long as it takes you to believe that. I don’t need or want your money. I want you.”
Tony swallows, shoulders hunching and his fingers curling reflexively when Steve reaches across the table to put his hand over Tony’s. “You’d...pay for stuff forever? Even though I can afford—basically anything?”
“I’m dating you to spend time with you, Tony, not so you can buy me things. And I don’t want you to feel like it’s unfair or I’m coddling you or something. If you want to pay for your share, that’s fine. But I don’t need you to pay for mine. And I’ll never expect you to.”
Steve really is unbelievable, Tony thinks, staring at him across the table. “You would,” he says, knowing it’s true even as he says it.
“I will,” Steve says, like a vow. A shiver goes down Tony’s spine.
He curls his fingers around Steve’s and looks down at the tabletop, flicking aside a crumb. “And what if I wanted to buy you things?”
Steve is quiet for a long moment. “We can talk about it. The idea makes me uncomfortable, I won’t lie.”
“Because you feel like you’d be taking advantage.”
Steve smiles crookedly at him. “You thought I was running a con on you.”
Tony huffs and digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Okay, fair. I’ve...I’ve never dated anyone like you, Steve.”
Steve’s eyes soften into something almost like sadness. “Maybe after awhile then, Tony. We can start with splitting the bill and see from there.”
Tony nods jerkily. “Yeah. Okay.” After a beat, he blurts, “Thank you.”
Steve sighs and smiles ruefully. “You don’t have to thank me for caring about you as a person. But you’re welcome.” He kisses Tony’s knuckles and it sends a chill up Tony’s arm. “Now can I pay for dinner?”
“Please do,” Tony says, hooking his ankle around Steve’s under the table. “I’m ready to go home and give you a very...thorough thank you.” To his delight, Steve’s eyes go dark. He pulls a stack of bills out of his wallet and tosses them into the check holder without looking.
“Let’s go.”
Tony laughs all the way out of the restaurant. Maybe this is going to work out after all.
#stevextony#musicalluna writes#steve rogers#tony stark#iron man#captain america#bardingbeedle#fluff#get together#money#tony stark has issues
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Fade
Word Count: 3.4k
Bingo slot: Vigilante AU
Pairings: Takami Keigo x Reader
Tag/Warnings: Slight violence
Synopsis: Dealing with this vigilante was almost like an endless game of tag. Hawks knew it was only a matter of time until he found out her identity. What he didn't expect was realizing she was closest than he thought.
A new entry for @bnhabookclub's bingo event! Thank you @pixxiesdust for helping me bounce off some ideas! This one-shot's for my dear wifey @Hawks-senseis!
“Suspect’s heading your way Hawks. They’ve sustained a fair amount of injuries, should be a piece of cake for the number two hero.” The intercom died down with a wave of static.
Sighing tiredly, Hawks kept his regular pace, flying leisurely across the dark sky cluttered with stunningly bright stars. The scenario above and the lights from the buildings dispersed all across the city, shining just as strongly as the dark sky in the middle of the night, are a scenario that he could easily consider breath-taking.
If only he wasn’t so busy chasing after this one particular villain, then he’d certainly be relaxing at the top of a building, admiring the view with a satisfied smile, allowing the soft breeze of the night to brush peacefully against his face. All while enjoying a nice, warm canned drink in the middle of this cold night.
Maybe once this runaway criminal was finally trapped behind bars, ready to face justice, Hawks could actually manage to take that well-deserved break. And perhaps, some of his favorite yakitori would accompany that drink as well.
“Come on, where is he?” For a villain as quick on his feet as the reports mentioned, this guy was seriously taking his sweet time to show his god-damn face. Groaning impatiently, Hawks finally had enough and began flying in the direction the villain should have come from a long time ago.
But what he witnessed in its place was more than enough to make the hero do a double-take. Not only was this villain face down on the floor, but there was also someone else standing tall above him, tying up the struggling, seething criminal, who kept swearing like a sailor as he attempted to get out of the restrains.
“What took you so long birdy?” Said person slowly turned around to face the winged hero. When their “eyes” met, Hawks couldn’t help groaning in disdain once he recognized that costume. A black sleeveless hoodie, accompanied by matching pants and military boots. But the most characteristic trait was that white kitsune mask, adorned with six stripes across the cheeks; two purple ones, and a gold one in between, a total of three marks adorning both sides of her ‘face’.
“You again? I swear this is the fourth time this week!” Hawks ran a hand all over his face out of frustration. Even with that mask on, he could feel the smug vibes around her, and he could almost swear she also gave him a sly smirk.
“You should know this by now. Vigilante work is illegal.” Eyes wandered up into the dark sky as he breathed in deeply, before exhaling slowly as he looked back down. Hawks turned his attention back at the woman standing before him with her hands on her hips, confidently angled to the side.
“And you should know by now that isn’t going to stop me. I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.” Jerking the rope in hand, she easily pulled the villain off the ground, dragging him in between her and the hero standing before them. “Here, Merry Christmas!”
The villain was sent crashing down on the groaning hero, courtesy of a swift kick to the back. The near-collision was a good distraction for her. As Hawks became busy catching the delinquent, a loud “poof!” was heard, and when he looked up, there was a golden, glittery mist, and at the top of the roof, she observed him for a solid minute, before running off.
“Oh no, you won’t!” Hawks quickly pushed the stumbling criminal away from himself, and towards the arms of an upcoming sidekick that only happened to appear at exactly the same time this vigilante ran off on her own. Quickly spreading his vermilion wings wide open, Hawks took off into the sky, decided to catch this girl once and for all, so he could finally give her a piece of his mind.
He had to admit, she was pretty fast. Once he got her on sight, she was already a good distance away from the scene, and she hadn’t even used her quirk to keep the distance with the blond.
Looking back over her shoulder, he could almost feel that smug grin again as she kept jumping swiftly between rooftops, not losing balance for a single second as she kept dashing with an elegant and balanced step.
Finally, Hawks eventually caught up and landed in front of her with a soft thump as his feet touched hard surface below, wings raised high in the air folded into themselves before settling down on his back. Hawks smiled at her nonchalantly as both of them stayed still, looking at each other for a solid minute before he coughed in his hand to break the silence.
“You do realize this is illegal behavior? don’t you, Fade?”
“Fade” just tilted her head, feigning innocence while staring at the hero before her. She may be wearing a disguise to hide her identity, but even with it, Hawks just knew she was giving him a teasing smile underneath that mask.
“Oh? Is that so? What are you gonna do about it, pretty bird? Handcuff me?” She places her hand closer by the wrists, presenting them before the hero, it was a taunt, a challenging for him to arrest her at once, and for a second, he was tempted to clap those wrists in between the metallic restrains. “First you’re gonna have to catch me!”
Fade’s body started giving out the same sparkly smoke from before, just to be interrupted as a hand wrapped itself firmly around her wrist, snapping her out from focus, and preventing her from teleporting away from the hero.
“I just did. Now, you have to report everything to the police and who knows? Maybe they’ll let you off the hook easily, maybe they won’t.” But Fade wasn’t fazed in the slightest by his statement or even bothered moving from the spot. “As much as I appreciate your help back there. I’m gonna have to turn you in for illegal hero activity.”
His hand reached out for her mask. The idea of seeing her face for the first time after dealing with her intervenience for months now was so enthralling, that he completely missed it when something hit him on his side with force, knocking his breath away for just enough time for Fade to quickly escape from the hero’s grasp.
“For one of the fastest heroes out there, that sure was a slow reaction!” Her teasing laughter echoed through their surroundings like that of the Cheshire cat itself as she held a retractile staff in hand. Fade began walking backward with a bounce on her steps before a golden, glittery mass spread around her figure before teleporting her away from the scene much to Hawk’s frustration. He was so close this time!
“Shit, she’s good.”
Feathers fluttered wildly around in the air out of pain and pent-up frustration. This was the first time he managed to get this close since the very first time they met. He glared irritatedly at the spot where Fade once stood before him with a confident stance.
The chance to look for Fade disappeared just as fast when the shrill sound of his transmitter went off inside his ear. The voice of the sidekick who had taken the villain off his hands could be heard through the other side, as they gave the hero a status report.
Disappointed, he opted to call it a day before heading back home. Next time he ran into Fade it would definitely end with her caught. But right now, his body begged for some well-needed rest that unfortunately couldn’t be provided just yet, remembering the piles of pending paperwork, waiting patiently at his desk back at the agency, Hawks sighed tiredly before heading back to the office. Today would end up being one of those nights he’d spend sleeping on the couch even though he was single...
“So much for a nice, quiet night…”
The next day was followed by clear skies, engulfing everything around with a pleasant warmth. At least this was something Hawks could enjoy with tranquility as he walked to one of his favorite restaurants in town, mouth-watering at the idea of having one of his favorite meals and one of the house specials.
As soon as he stepped inside the small building packed with people, a cheerful chorus welcomed the hero inside. Every employee and customer inside greeted the hero eagerly, excited to see one of the top heroes coming for one of his favorite dishes and his usual meal at that small, but enjoyable local that greeted everyone inside with their tender, family-friendly environment.
After chatting with some of the staff and fans, Hawks quickly strolled towards his usual spot and took a seat, staring outside through the crystal walls separating everyone inside from the outside. Not only did This little restaurant had some of the best food, but it also had some of the best views he could ask for, the perfect spot to relax as he watched people passing by and at the same time he kept an eye open for any villain activity.
He may be on break, but you never know when a hero is needed, right?
The soft clank on the table catches his attention and he smiles knowing just who is beside the clothed table, serving a glass of cold water with a sweet smile on her face.
“Is nice to see you again Hawks!” You welcomed him happily before pulling out the small notepad from a pocket at the side of the uniform’s small apron, next was a pen that spun gracefully in between your fingers before its inky tip was pressed over the smooth, blank paper. “Let me guess, having the usual again, am I right?”
The hero just leaned on his hand with a chuckle “You know me too well, don’t you, y/n?” He observed you, quickly writing down his order without having to ask twice for anything else. sides? something extra? You already knew his order like the back of your hand.
Speaking of hands….
If there was something Hawks as good at was being observant, as he noticed the bandage carefully wrapped around the girl’s wrist and the slight, almost unnoticeable wince she gave every now and then as she had to move her hand in a way that put pressure on the joint.
“Aaaalright! The house’s special coming up hot! Same drink, as usual, right?” He nodded in response. Despite the discomfort from the small injury, you kept serving the hero with nothing but a cheerful smile and attitude of literal sunshine that always left the hero entranced.
A few minutes later, he saw you coming back with a steaming plate of fried chicken, but not just any fried chicken. This restaurant was well-known for its secret seasoning they used to marinate most of their dishes. Not only that, but it was also covered with this rich, homemade spicy sauce that left everyone on cloud nine after the first bite, and even those who weren’t fans of spicy food ended up obsessed with its peculiar flavor.
“Here you go Mrs. Hero! The house special with a side of fries, enjoy your meal!” As soon as the plate was placed down, one of his hands grabbed yours. His slender fingers traced the outline of the bandage with a soft caress that sent shivers down your spine.
“What happened to your hand, y/n? Is not what I think it is, right?” He asked, voice full of concern as you began stuttering.
“I-it’s nothing, I just tripped back home and landed on my wrist, don’t worry about it, Hawks!” You reassured the blond, pulling your hand back from his grasp before heading back to get his drink.
His gaze followed after you for a while. For a second he thought it had something to do with an abusive partner until he remembered you mentioning being single. How did he ever forget that when the two of you have been throwing mixed signals at each other for months now? He could still remember the first time your eyes met when he came to check the place out for the very first time and how much of a mess you were, after all, it was your first day of work.
So for the time being Hawks just let it slip with some hesitation, eventually he stopped worrying so much before taking a small bite of his chicken and groaning with gusto by that mouth-watering flavor of the sauce, the food in this place was really out of this world.
If he hadn’t been so busy with his food, Hawks would have noticed the cautious look you sent him from the other side of the local, waiting for another customer to order.
A few weeks later…
Once again, Hawks was busy flying through the skies as he patrolled the city at late hours of the night. The way the building’s lights illuminated their surroundings was a sight to remember when you had the chance to see them high up in the sky.
For once, it appeared that he was finally gonna have the chance to enjoy the scenario without a single disturbance. That is until he sees someone sitting at the edge of a rooftop, who seemingly had the same idea as him as they leaned back looking at the vast, dark sky.
That’s when he caught sight of that all too familiar mask. The mere sight was enough to make him groan internally, knowing that whenever Fade was around, the night would be anything but calm…. But then he thought, maybe this time he’d finally get the chance to find out just who was hiding underneath that mask.
Quickly, he landed a few feet behind the masked hero and tried to get close enough. But instantly she leaned forward, letting herself fall off the building before disappearing into a golden burst. surprised, Hawks strolled all the way to the edge and looked down, just to see nothing but that unique mist.
A foot quickly shoved him from behind, followed by that peculiar laughter as he struggled to regain balance for a second, completely caught off guard by the vigilante’s antics before his wings began thrashing wildly in a desperate attempt to help him regain balance. And once the hero finally was back on his normal stance, he turned back to give the cackling girl gripping the sides of her stomach a small glare.
“ahahaha! The look on your face!” She wiped away an imaginary tear, or maybe she was actually tearing up, Hawks couldn’t tell with that cursed mask “Should’ve brought my camera, that look was gold!”
Fade’s shoulder kept trembling the more time she spent laughing at the winged, who’s only response consisted of a bashful glare in her direction.
“Oh come on birdy, don’t give me that look.” Fade walked up to him, hands placed confidently over her hips as she leaned forwards, face tilted up slightly to be face to face with the hero. “For someone who enjoys teasing others non-stop, you’re too easy to rile up y’know?”
She quickly jerked her body back to dodge the hand that aimed for the mask, narrowly missing those leather gloves, which barely grazed that intricate piece of wood that did such a good job when it came to hiding her identity from both the heroes and the public.
“Geez, so forward! Buy me some dinner first!” She sassed, walking backwards again, with a turn on her heels Fade turned her back on the blond and began running away. The sound of wings fluttering swiftly pulled the corners of her hidden lips into a smirk when she literally felt as the hero quickly followed after her.
But if there was something Fade was just as good as Hawks, was at speed. Inhaling deeply, her body became surrounded into golden energy before she rapidly began teleporting from building to building, a special movement that focused on distracting her foes.
Her little trick managed to confuse Hawks only for a moment, quickly he used some stray feathers in order to pinpoint her next location with the aid of their ability to detect vibrations. The feathers managed to feel a small trembling in the spot where she was meant to appear next and Hawks quickly moved in position.
Just as predicted, that golden burst appeared all of sudden and this time Fade nearly crashed into the hero standing in her way, had it not been for her quickly maneuver, placing her hands on the hero’s shoulder to propel herself high in the air, nearly sending Hawks crashing down on the floor.
“Getting slow, aren’t you birdy?” She mocked him, still in the air while he growled in frustration “Maybe you should tone it down on that spicy chicken and extra fries!”
…Wait a second…
He quickly turned around with eyes widened in realization, that sentence was like the missing piece he was looking for “What did you just say?”
The realization hit Fade like a slap to the face, her body became tense once she realized what she told him. Just that little bit of information was more than enough for Hawks to know her identity once and for all. After all, he was no idiot, he just pretended to be.
“You idiot…!” She whispered to herself before attempting to teleport once again, but this time Hawks was ready. In the blink of an eye he had already caught up to her, when she teleported again the stray feathers were already doing their job looking for her next location, the chase quickly turned to Hawk’s favor when it became obvious just how nervous Fade had become.
There was one thing he just didn’t get...Why was someone like you doing as a vigilante? After getting to know you for months now, it was so hard to understand for him. But right now his main focus was to catch you. He knew the police would go easy on you, the only reason he said those words last time was that he was irked with Fade- well, you to be exact….
In the midst of his distraction, he barely noticed when you crashed into each other with force, knocking the both of you off balance before falling off the rooftop in a tangled mass of limbs. His protective instincts kicked in as he quickly turned around mid-air, pulling your startled body into his chest out of reflex. Somehow a part of your jacket had become tangled into his wings, preventing them from moving around to stop the fall…
It seemed luck was on their side when they fell into an empty alleyway. The trash bags littering the floor helping to cushion their fall, but they couldn’t help when Hawk's breath was knocked away by the impact on his back, as well as your weight landing harshly on top of him.
“You ok?” He couldn’t help asking, more worried about the girl in his arms than his own well-being. Hawks sighed with relief when you slowly lifted yourself up with a small, pained groan before looking at him, feeling slightly awkward once the realization hit in, that you were sitting on top of the winged hero.
He received no vocal answer, but rather a physical one as your hand grabbed the lower part of the mask to lift it off your face for a small moment, then swiftly you leaned down to plant a deep kiss over the male’s soft lips.
The gesture caught him off guard at such point, that for a minute Hawks forgot how to breathe. Eyes wide in surprise and body going stiff as all he could concentrate on was your soft lips moving against his own.
But before he had the chance to kiss back, you had already shoved him away by the shoulder with a devilish smile back in that sweet, flushed face as you slowly licked your lips teasingly.
“This isn’t over Birdy...See you around~”
You vanished from view in a flash, leaving behind a sparkling, golden cloud. As well as a stupefied hero laying into a pile of trash bags who only draped his arm over his face.
He would definitely need to have a chat with you the next time he went to the restaurant.
#bnhabookclub#mha imagine#bnha imagine#bnha hawks#takami keigo#keigo takami x reader#bnha imagines#mha imagines
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My Life With You
IV. So There's This Guy...
Dean's been spotted around town and made quite the impression on the local singles. (All chapers can be read stand-alone)
Read on AO3 | Fic Masterpost
The sun was long past the horizon, the high street illuminated by the yellow-amber glow of the street-lights and the dim coloured lights spilling out from the bars. The spring air was cool and still, the whoops and hollers of the rowdy Friday night crowds echoed through the centre of town.
In one of the bars that lined the street, a group of early-thirties women gathered together to toast to another week of work behind them. Pushing past their exhaustion was their relief, their ecstatic joy at being free at last, even if only for two days. The ladies sat around a high circular table covered in a rainbow of different fruity cocktails, curly straws, and paper umbrellas. Already the table was littered with empty glasses of drinks long since backed.
“So…” began one woman, Rachel, pushing her long blonde hair behind her shoulder. “I saw the hottest guy at the playground the other day.”
Tia, a tattooed, bespectacled brunette, leaned in eagerly. “Oh?”
Rachel gave a knowing look to her friend before she began her story…
“It was on Wednesday, on my day off. I took Ethan out to the playground near my house, and it was all normal; the usual moms and nannies,
“Anyway, then I spot this guy helping his little kid, the cutest kid by the way, on the slide. There are a few dads around sometimes, you know, but this guy- when I tell you he was cute, it’s an understatement,
“He was so good with his kid too. The way he smiled at that kid, it was like he felt just so lucky to have him. Every five seconds he was squeezing him, or ruffling his hair, or kissing him on his little forehead.
“I just thought, I bet he’d make such an amazing step-dad, maybe I should get on that. A guy like that’s definitely not single I bet. I don’t know if he’s married, I couldn’t see a wedding ring from where I was sitting, but I was pretty far away.”
“So you didn’t speak to him?” a third woman, Sara, with hair in a neat puff and arms wrapped tight in a thick cardigan, asked, straw perched just below her lip poised to take another sip.
“No, I just watched him from afar.” Rachel sighed dreamily, recounting the man’s devilish smile and angled jaw in her mind.
“Why not?” Tia pushed, playfully slapping her friends arm. “You need to get back out there since Mike.” she spits the name and follows up with a gagging gesture.
“I know, I know.” Rachel shrugs, shrinking somewhat from her earlier excitement. “I’m still working up to it, but if I see him again I swear I will.”
The fourth woman, Yulia, took a big sip of her mojito, almost like a deep inhale, then added. “I have a cute guy story too.”
Tia perked up immediately and starting bouncing in her seat. “Okay, okay, spill.”
“So,” Yulia began, fiddling with her tall glass and nervously shuffling in her seat. “He’s been coming into the café every morning to get coffee,
“He’s tall- actually not that tall, maybe six foot? But still - tall. Anyway, he came in on Thursday morning and he actually made conversation with me. When he got up to the counter he gestured up to the menu and was like ‘I don’t know what half these things mean’. And I just laughed really nervously; it was so embarrassing. His smile was so pretty, you guys, I just melted. Then he said ‘Cas is the one who knows about all this stuff, I can’t keep up, you know, coffee is coffee.’
“I think Cas is his wife or something ‘cause then I clocked he had a wedding ring on. Shame. Anyway I just said ‘yeah’ really awkwardly in a sort of half swoon; I couldn’t come up with anything to say. Then he goes on to order the most complicated drink with like, three different flavour shots in it. He says ‘it’s not for me’ like he’s so embarrassed about it, it was so cute. I was like ‘no judgement, you can order whatever you like’. I really didn’t mean to sound so thirsty.
“Then he leaves and, I don’t wanna admit this, but I watched him go, you know. Nice ass.”
Sara, who was seemingly the most composed of the four, shook her head, snickering at her usually timid and reserved friend openly thirsting for coffee shop guy. Tia was frowning, trying to string together a thought that was forming messily and incoherently in her slightly tipsy mind.
“That kinda sounds like the guy who fixed my car…” Tia mused, voice a little slurred.
“Oh my gosh,” Yulia gasped, more excited than this particular revelation really called for. “I think coffee shop guy did say he was a mechanic at one point.”
“Wouldn’t it be crazy if it was actually the same guy though,” Tia said, before taking a big sip through her straw. “The car guy was really hot too. Like, I was twirling my hair the whole time laughing at everything he said.”
“Oh my god, Tia,” Sara shook her head. “Did you know he was married?”
“Yeah I saw the ring, whatever,” Tia laughed. “I bet I can steal that bitch’s man.”
“God, stop it.” Sara scolded through her laughter.
“Seriously, unless she is the perfect vessel of divine beauty, I could totally steal him,” Tia continued. “I mean, when I came to pick up my car there was definitely something there,
“I walked up and he, unprompted, was like ‘you’re the girl with a cute little bug, right?’. I was like,” Tia stuck out her chest, letting her cleavage peek out of her tank top in a cartoonish pose, and began to speak with an over-the-top sultry tone.
“‘Yeah, that’s me; cute girl for the cute bug.’. And then he laughed a little bit. Then he even commented on my tattoos he was like ‘nice sleeve’ and we talked about them a little bit and I asked him if he had any and he said he has one, but it’s on his chest. So… I was a little brave and I said ‘Oh, well you can show me some time if you want’ and I could have sworn he got a little flustered.”
“He probably got flustered because he was at work and he’s married!” Sara protested.
“Maybe,” Tia conceded with an unbothered shrug. She seemed a little lost in her thoughts. “He looked so good with a little car grease on him though. I’d buy a calendar of that guy. You know, I would so objectify him.”
“Tia, please.” Rachel grimaced. “Here’s me talking about a sweet loving father, and then there’s you flirting with a married mechanic.”
“I mean, not to be judgemental,” Sara added. “But how do you know he’s not like a typical misogynistic macho type?”
“What, just because he’s a mechanic? That’s so judgemental, Sara, you can’t make assumptions like that.” Yulia scoffed. “He seemed really sweet. When he was talking about his wife, you could tell he really loves her. I didn’t get a typical ‘I hate my wife’ vibe from him.” Yulia gave a sympathetic look to Tia. “Sorry, Tia.”
“Doesn’t matter, I still think I have a shot.” Tia shrugged. “What ‘bout you, Sara? You got your eye on anybody? Some nerdy glasses guy who reads Jane Austen or whatever it is you’re into.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Actually yeah, a really sweet guy came into the library this week with his kid. He’s probably too old for me, and I think he’s married, but he had dark hair and really nice blue eyes,
“He took out a bunch of picture books and he told me that he’d just moved here recently. He also borrowed some gardening books, which was like, swoon. He just seemed so genuinely sweet and honest. The way he spoke was just… kind?”
“He’s definitely gay.” Tia asserted. Sara just gave her a weary look. “I’m just saying every guy you like turns out to be gay. You have a type, and it’s gay guys.”
“No way! Dan wasn’t gay.” Sara pouted.
“Yeah, but he was bi, and he moved to Florida to be with his boyfriend Julian.” Rachel added.
“Well technically I had a shot with him. You know, before he moved to Florida.” Sara said, deflated. “I mean, library guy didn’t seem gay. Not that it matters anyway.”
“How does someone seem gay?” Yulia pondered honestly.
“Well it’s not like there’s one set of traits for gay people,” Tia said. “But I think a pretty good predictor is if Sara has a crush on them.”
“Shut up.”
“Woah guys, oh my god!” Rachel hissed, patting Yulia’s arm furiously. “The guy, the hot dad, he just walked in. Don’t look, but he’s right by the bar!”
The other three immediately started craning their necks, very obviously, to get a good look. There at the bar seeming to be ordering a pair of drinks was hunter, husband, and father; Dean Winchester.
“Dude, that’s the car guy.” Tia said, getting a good look by standing up on her tippy toes.
“Yeah, that’s coffee guy.” Yulia confirmed.
Tia sat back down. “Don’t tell me that’s library guy too?”
“No,” Sara shook her head. “Library guy had dark hair, remember.”
“Uhhh, that him?” Tia said, pointing towards the table that Dean was quickly approaching, two beers in hand, where a smiling Castiel sat in wait.
Sara gasped. “That is him.”
Dean, as soon as he had placed the two bottles down on the table, leant down to plant a quick kiss on Cas’s lips. As he pulled away, the girls could see Cas smiling up at Dean, his gentle gaze soft and sincere, while Dean looked back at Cas like he was looking at the most precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on, which he was.
The ladies sat in stunned silence; what they’d just witnessed was somehow disheartening and heartwarming all at once. Tia was the first to speak.
“Sara, you’re cursed.”
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stronger than my demons - nolan patrick
Pairing: Nolan Patrick/University Student!Reader
Mentions: Travis Konecny
Warnings: Description of depression and anxiety, curse words. Does not follow the “canon timeline” of this season (:
Word Count: 1.8k
Summary: Nolan makes a bad day better. He always does.
* * * * * * * * * *
With Nolan gone, without his arms to hold you firm, you fall asleep sometime in the middle of the pink-tinted hours of the pre-dawn and wake around noon. You wake and immediately try to remember what time your thoughts had finally decided to take a break, to give you a break. There’s no way you’d gotten a full night’s rest, or even a half night’s rest — but maybe you’d gotten enough that you wouldn’t feel a failure at even sleeping.
When your mind decides to race ahead of you the way it’s been doing lately, it always feels like your own brain is a whole other entity from you, like it’s an enemy you just can’t seem to beat. How are you supposed to beat yourself, anyway? In what universe would you not end up the loser, however the battle ends up going?
You wake with resentment heavy on your tongue, thick in the back of your throat, you wake cold and alone and praying for the clock on your bedside table to show you an hour closer to dusk because that would at least mean that you have fewer hours of the day to get through.
But you wake at noon, with the sun directly overhead as though judging you for your sins — and that means you haven’t missed Nolan’s lunchtime call. He never misses it, calls exactly once at half past twelve whenever he’s away. Doesn’t matter if he’s just out for lunch with Travis or if he’s mid-roadie. He calls. Just once, though, and if you don’t pick up when he does he just waits for you to call him back.
And he never blames you for it.
Sometimes you’re asleep, insomnia or a late-night burst of productivity hitting you hard enough that you destroy whatever semblance your sleep cycle had to an actual functioning thing. Sometimes you’re in class, and you dig your phone out to text him an i love you and an on tuesdays i have biochem, remember? and sometimes an oh my god prof anderson’s even more boring than usual this week.
On Tuesdays he’d text back an i love you more, like it’s a competition and like he genuinely believes he’s winning, he’d text you a new science meme he found online, he’d text you a focus on ur prof anyway, and stop checking out your TA.
You’d always reply to the last one with a sneaky pic of your TA, usually while he’s bent over one of your classmates’ desks to explain a concept to them in detail. There’s a reason why your classmates keep asking him to explain the most basic of things, and it’s not just because he’s incredibly enthusiastic about doing it.
But it’s — Thursday, you think, you’re not quite sure, but it’s media day for the flyers and that means that Nolan’s probably going to be busy all day. For the second time since you’d woken up, you pray - for a moment - for time to move faster than it’s doing.
A peek at the clock tells you that your prayer’s gone unanswered, and — hey, at least that gets you to direct your annoyance outward. To the clock, to god, maybe, or just to the concept of time.
But because you still have about twenty five minutes before Nolan’s call, you climb - slowly - out of bed and head to the bathroom — if nothing else, you could at least brush your teeth before he calls you. That’s how he pushes you, when he’s there in person: just brush your teeth, babe, or just have some of the toast i made, i’ll make more if you decide you’re hungry or it’s okay if you don’t hit the gym today, Newton’s been whining for another walk.
And you both know by now that things are always easier after you’ve taken the first step. You brush your teeth, shower, even go through your (pretty basic) skincare routine before Nolan’s Facetime request pops up on your screen.
By the the time you accept the call, you’re feeling halfway-human again, though you’re in one of Nolan’s ratty old Wheat Kings jerseys and not your own clothes. You manage a smile for him, tired and - at the same time, and just from seeing his face - not, smile widening as he swings his phone sharply around.
You see something like a patch of orange fur flying through the air, Nolan ducking it just in time, and you hope that he hadn’t just dodged Gritty. God, were parts of Gritty - aside from his bellybutton patch - detachable?
Nolan laughs, the low, rumbling sound making you smile a little wider, even as you’re wishing that he’s there with you so that you can feel the sound. Nolan’s a grade A clinger when you both have the energy for it - you know exactly how his laughter feels when his chest is plastered against your back.
“I’m under attack, babe,” he tells you, and you think that you’re looking better than you feel, because he’s grinning at you with flushed cheeks and messy hair, a disaster of a masterpiece of a person and he’s not trying to quiet himself down for you.
Nolan is - well, most people would think of him as quiet. private, even secretive, restrained. But he trusts you, and even on the days when you feel more walking dead than alive he feels like there’s more of the world to see - and feel, and experience - when he’s sharing it with you.
He tries to quiet himself - makes himself soft and safe, soothing and easy - when he knows you’re having a rough day. But you love him when he’s like this, too.
Okay - in all fairness, you love all versions of him.
“Baaaaaaabe,” he whines at you, still grinning, and you realise that you’ve been staring.
“Is it Gritty, baby?” you ask, and you can feel yourself grinning back now — it feels like a mask stretched thin over your face, but it feels real, too. “You know I’m not getting in Gritty’s way. Ever.”
“Fuck, no, I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he promises you, and he’s turning again, the camera catching a shirtless Carter Hart in the background. They’re in the locker room, you think, and even though the other guys might be there too, you make sure to wolf-whistle at him.
Hartsy looks up to grin at you, giving a small, awkward wave that you think means he’s still a little shy with you, and Nolan swings the camera around again — this time so that his face is filling the screen, and he’s arching an eyebrow up at you.
“It was Teeks, actually. You wanna flirt with him too?” he asks, and it’s your turn to laugh — and it’s like something slips off your shoulders when you do, a weight you hadn’t known you’d been carrying.
“Think he still likes me after the last girl I hooked him up with?” you ask — you haven’t had the time or energy to hang out with TK in a while, thirty minutes with him is about as much social interaction as you’d get from five hours with literally anyone else, but the last time you did hang out together there had been a fourth person there, a lab partner you’d had earlier in the semester.
Teeks had seen her profile picture in your Whatsapp chat - he had zero sense of boundaries or personal space - and had insisted on an introduction. And, as it turned out, he’d come to regret it.
“Fuck you, she talks like she’s spitting out a dictionary,” you hear Teeks shouting from somewhere, and Nolan turns away from the phone - and from you - then, though you recognise the furrow in his brow even from his profile.
“Dude, I told you not to talk about her friends like that,” he tells his friend, sounding disapproving and stern, and Teeks - who’s the opposite of serious, especially when it’s Nolan being serious - goes pfffft in reply.
“You said to not call her a n-e-r-d, and i didn’t,” Teeks shoots back, like you’re a genius who just happens to be incapable of spelling, and you’re laughing again.
Nolan turns back to face you, then makes a face like he’d just been jabbed before he angles the camera so that you can see Teeks, too, maybe standing on tiptoe so he can hook his chin over Nolan’s shoulder.
“‘Nerd’ isn’t a bad word,” you tell both boys, mock-serious like you’re settling a dispute, and TK pumps a fist in the air.
“Y/N can say it, she is one,” Nolan protests, and you’re making a squawk of - exaggerated - affront while he goes bright red.
“You know what, Teeks? You can have him,” you tell them, and then it’s Nolan’s turn to make a sound of protest. Instead of pumping his fist again, though, TK makes a face like he’s considering it before shoving Nols aside - you’re giggling when he stumbles, but when he straightens up again he’s all yours.
“We’re having lunch in a little bit, babe. Have you had anything to eat?”
You shake your head, feeling a little guilty, but Nolan looks unfazed.
“That’s okay, we’ll have an early dinner tonight, yeah? I miss you,” he says, the last words coming in a low mumble. You’ve been missing each other a lot - you had a summer internship as a research assistant while he’d gone home over the off-season, and even as the season’s coming back into swing now you’re feeling more pressure from a heavier courseload.
“Sounds perfect, Nols. I can’t wait.” And you’re not lying, not just trying to be good enough for him - pretending to be a girl capable of going out for dinner in the city. You don’t have to lie or pretend. If Nolan wants to have dinner out, you want to be there with him. And if later you decide you’re too tired, or too anxious to be surrounded by people, you know he’ll want to be with you - on the couch, in pyjamas, eating takeout and fighting over who’s getting the better fortune cookie.
“Love you,” you say to him in a whisper, even though there’s no one around you to laugh and tease about you being so mushy.
“Love you more,” he replies, each word crystal clear, and you see another orange thing flying by - still just Teeks? - right before you cut the call.
#nolan patrick#nolan patrick imagine#nhl imagine#philadelphia flyers#philadelphia flyers imagine#hockey imagine#au where the flyers aren't suffering from lack of Stupid#lyss writes hockey
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Pace of Play
She can’t believe she’s never noticed it before. Because, honestly, Emma can’t even come up with a number to try and calculate how often she’s watched Killian step into the batters box. And that’s the thing. He never really steps out, either. It's a weird approach, but that could be the subheadline for their lives at this point and she’s mostly concerned with the power behind that swing.
—-
Word Count: Like 3.4K
Rating: Teen, but with kissing!
AN: This is solely for and because of @distant-rose who deserves every bit of baseball fic I have ever written and all the good things in any known universe. And speaking of universes. This is set in that Yankees one where Emma and Killian secretly date because David also plays for the Red Sox. If you’re so inclined to read more:
Batting a Thousand (the original one) || Puppy Love (the one where they get a puppy) || The One Where They Elope || The One Where Killian and David Take the Rivalry Too Far
Let’s go Yankees.
—
“Is it weird that he does that?”
Emma makes a noise — barely more than a passing acknowledgement, eyes never leaving the field because Killian is up to bat and she’d lost feeling in her left foot at some point. She’s twisted at an awkward angle, legs draped over the suite seats in front of her, but she absolutely, positively cannot move.
On pain of death.
Or baseball superstition.
They’ve got to win this game. They can’t go down by two in the series. Not with the way they’ve been hitting and they need to hit better and Emma genuinely cannot remember the last time she took a deep breath.
She fiddles with the ring on her left hand.
And the ring hanging around her neck. It’s some sort of weird pattern, the weight of Mary Margaret’s gaze boring into the back of her head and David had started pacing at some point in the fourth inning.
“He’s swinging half a second too late,” David announces, which only leads to Emma nearly strangling herself. Mary Margaret has to lean over to untangle her fingers.
“Thank you, player not currently competing in the postseason,” Emma mutters.
“Ah, that’s mean.”
“And,” Mary Margaret adds, “it’s not like David would be hitting in this series anyway. Plus—“
“Mary Margaret, if you tell me that David could really add something to the Yankees starting rotation right now, I may actually scream,” Emma warns. Elsa moves her hand over her mouth.
Her laugh is still very loud.
“Ok, that’s not what I was going to say at all—it’s not, seriously stop glaring at the field, it’s freaking me out.”
Emma rolls her eyes, but she’s definitely glaring at the field and she cannot fathom a world where this game doesn’t end with a win and the season doesn’t end with another title and they got married, in the middle of the season, in secret. There are rules about happily ever after.
And sports emotions.
He’s definitely swinging half a second too late.
“See,” David mutters.
Emma grits her teeth. “I am not in the mood for I told you so, right now.”
“I mean, I didn’t say that.”
“Technically,” Elsa amends. She’s stood up as well, a hand pushing on David’s chest when he threatens to wear out the carpet in the suite. “And is no one going to answer my question? Because I know I know nothing about this painfully long sport—“
“—It is the sixth inning,” Emma interrupts.
“We’ve been here for hours, seriously. How often can you change pitchers?”
“Bring it up to Rob Manfred,” David says. Elsa swats at his shoulder that time. “Three-batter minimum for relievers. No more specialists. Pace of play.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
Emma mumbles a curse under her breath, ignoring the growing ache that’s circling around her knee and, somehow, the side of her hip. Killian rocks back on his heels in the box, hardly unbending his knees, even when he swings the bat in front of him, and Emma is dimly aware that Elsa is still talking. She’s not listening. She’s staring. Watching, really. Intently.
“Em, seriously are you listening to your brother and whatever tongues he’s started speaking in?”
“Nah, not at all.”
Elsa clicks her tongue in reproach. It doesn’t matter — Killian’s already digging his toes into the dirt again, quick taps of the bat on the front and back of the plate and—
“Seriously, why does no one else bat like this?”
Emma may growl. Although she’s not sure if that’s because Killian’s just fouled off a ball in the dirt or because Elsa isn’t making any sense, but it really may just be because of the pins and needles stretching into her calf and she snaps her jaw no less than a dozen times.
They’re pumping the live broadcast into the suite — more words Emma hasn’t really been paying attention to, what with the swirling nerves in the pit of her stomach and her heart’s apparent determination to linger in the very center of her throat.
“You know that’s not true,” Mary Margaret mumbles, finally getting Emma to pull her gaze away from home plate.
“What?”
“You cannot have an even count. That’s not how numbers work.”
Elsa sighs. “If you guys are going to keep not making sense, then I’m going to leave. Also, I totally saw Emma and Killian making out before the start of the game.”
David sounds like he’s dying.
“Oh my God,” Emma sighs. “We are married.”
She enunciates every letter of each word — as if that will make them more official or remind the world that she deserves good things and drama-free wins and, maybe, a few home runs over the short right field porch with impressive exit velocity.
“An even count does not make sense,” Mary Margaret repeats, as if they simply hadn’t heard her before. Maybe Emma can find another suite to watch the rest of the game in.
It probably wouldn’t be that hard.
Everyone at the Stadium knows her now, quick smiles whenever she’s downstairs and the security guy at Gate 4 has started waving at her, a muttered Mrs. Jones that never fails to make her heart clench and do several metaphorical somersaults in quick succession.
Killian hits a fly ball over the third base line.
And Emma slumps further into her seat. Her knee does not appreciate it at all.
“How does an even count not make sense, babe?” David asks, all placating and somehow even more married than Emma keeps reminding him that she also is.
“People say even counts on, you know, 1-1 or 2-2, but that doesn’t make sense. A 2-2 count still has more room for balls than strikes. Ergo—“
“—Oh good word,” Elsa laughs.
Mary Margaret winks. Emma’s never really noticed how high Killian’s elbow gets when he settles into his stance. He doesn’t move the bat that much, but Emma swears she can’t practically taste the energy on her tongue, which is either the most disgusting or most romantic thing she’s ever thought and—
Killian fouls another ball off.
“Battling,” David mumbles. She definitely growls that time. It hurts her throat.
He grins.
And Killian never actually steps out of the box — even when the Houston pitcher moves off the rubber, glancing at the inside of his hat for brand-new signs. David’s mumbling something that sounds like I hate when I have to do that, but Emma’s started to realize what Elsa meant.
She’s right.
Killian Jones does not bat like anyone else on the Yankees roster. Maybe even the entire MLB.
That sounds a little dramatic, though. Emma can’t get that dramatic until they win the pennant.
They’re totally going to win the pennant.
He lines his feet up again, the side of his cleat nearly brushing the back of the box, which only makes it obvious how far apart his legs move, that same distinct bend to his knees and a ridiculously high elbow and he kicks his foot out slightly when he swings.
Emma knows. As soon as the ball cracks off the bat.
She jumps up — somehow, without also managing to dislocate several joints at the same time — the ring around her neck flying up and nearly smacking her in the nose. And Emma isn’t sure what noise she makes per se, but it leaves Elsa giggling and Mary Margaret casting furtive glances at David and neither one of those matter when the ball keeps going.
Going, going, gone.
Directly into right center field.
Emma’s jumping, which probably isn’t great considering she can’t really feel any part of her left leg anymore, but Killian’s jogging around he bases and she can see his mouth move, David’s continued stream of commentary echoing between her ears.
“It’s honestly offensive how easy his swing is,” he grumbles. “Where does he even get that kind of power?”
“The making out,” Elsa responds, like it’s obvious. Emma almost chokes on her tongue.
Killian’s rounding third — a quick glance into the Astros dugout and a smile that might be half the reason Emma keeps toying with the ring on her left hand. Possibly like sixty-seven percent. Batting a thousand, or whatever.
She’s too excited to remember appropriate baseball cliches.
He glances up when he steps on home, and she knows he can’t actually see into the team suite, but it’s still exceptionally nice to think about and her heart does half a dozen front flips at that.
And there’s more game — pitches that Emma is certain raise her blood pressure and swings and misses and it’s still a save situation, so she starts pacing at some point too, but then they’re playing New York, New York and Killian’s answering questions on a post-game report and Emma’s standing in the tunnel downstairs and she absolute, positively runs.
It’s impossibly dramatic.
Especially in Game Four.
She hears Killian’s laugh before she actually looks at his face, arms around her waist and her face buried in the curve of his shoulder. He tightens his hold, only one of her feet staying on the ground.
Emma kisses wherever she can reach, which isn’t really saying much what with the awkward angle of her neck, but Killian doesn’t seem to mind, dragging his own lips over the side of her jaw.
Someone whistles.
It’s definitely Will.
“Should hit more home runs,” Killian mumbles, and it’s testament to postseason adrenaline that he doesn’t drop her when Emma starts to laugh as well.
Will might be gagging now.
Emma hums. “Something you might want to take into consideration.”
“That so?”
“I mean—I could not jump you post if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“No, no, I never once said that. Did you yell very loudly, Swan?”
“I think you’re fishing for compliments.”
“Absolutely.”
She might giggle. It’s absurd. She can’t get over the angle of his elbow when he bats. “God, that’s so stupid.”
“It’s strange, I’m not getting that compliment vibe anymore, love.”
“I yelled very loudly, scandalized my brother and I’ve got a question for you.”
Killian leans back, head nearly colliding with a wall covered in blue and white paint and the team name in enormous letters. As if they aren’t all constantly aware of where they are. History, or something. “About?”
“Well, Elsa actually brought it up, but—“
“—Jones,” a voice calls from the clubhouse, and Killian groans far louder than he should. Emma isn’t sure if that’s because of the voice or the only slightly accidental way she rolls her hips against him.
“You’re a menace,” he mutters.
“You’ve still got media.”
“I’m going to shower first.”
“They’ve got deadlines, babe.”
“I’m going to shower first,” Killian repeats. “Then I will answer questions, get ice, get a car and—“ He trails a finger up the back of her spine, making Emma twist in his hold while her teeth find her lower lip. Her breath hitches. And that smile is as different from the one he flashed in-game as it is possible for one smile to be, not quite triumphant, but maybe a little determined and she assumes she moves first.
If only because he’s still smiling when her mouth crashes into his.
Killian pulls her tighter against his chest, backing up even more so he’s got something to rest his weight on and neither one of them acknowledges the now very-clearly annoyed clubhouse voice. He tilts his head instead, mouth opening against Emma’s and tongue swiping across the lip she’d been toying with.
His hand works its way under her shirt, the same number he’d been wearing and Emma arches into the touch almost immediately. It leave hers hips canted up again, a move that is not even remotely appropriate for the bowels of Yankee Stadium, and she can only imagine that George Steinbrenner is getting dangerously close to rising from his grave and chastising them for conduct detrimental to the team.
Emma’s arms shift, fingers pushing into Killian’s hair and that only gets him to groan again, but then she’s ghosting over the side of a clean-shaven face and he has to shave every morning.
Her heart is in almost perpetuate state of upheaval.
It’s the best goddamn thing in the world.
“I’ve got to go, love,” Killian murmurs, mostly into her mouth. Also nice. Better than nice. She’s going to look up the projected distance of that home run in the Uber home.
“I really yelled ridiculously loud.”
“I’ve got no doubt. I’ll see you at home, ok?”
Emma nods — a few more quick and slightly stolen kisses, which is an almost appropriate baseball joke. Kind of. No one really steals bases anymore.
And she’s got every intention of waiting up. She does. She’s got plans and questions about batting stances, but the corner of the couch is surprisingly comfortable and the sudden lack of postseason adrenaline rushing through her leaves her questionably exhausted with eyes that refuse to watch another loop of SportsCenter.
Emma jolts up when she hears the front door close, a lock clicking behind him and one side of Killian’s mouth tugs up when he walks into the room.
She’s still wearing her shirt.
And not much else.
“That seems like cheating,” he says softly, crouching in front of the couch. She’s thinking about his knees again.
“All hail the conquering hero or whatever.”
“Is this my welcoming committee, then?”
“Something like that,” Emma laughs, pushing up and Killian moves between her legs as soon as her feet find their way back to the floor. “Did you scandalize any journalists?”
“Nah, that’s not really my game.”
“Just hitting home runs.”
“Made the Top Ten.”
“No shit.”
Killian chuckles, nosing at Emma’s cheek. “You’ve got ESPN on, Swan. Did you not see?”
“I mean I saw the real thing, so—“
“—Ah, yeah, that is true. You can’t be very comfortable.”
“It’s going ok.”
“That so?”
She nods again — suddenly finding it difficult to respond when his eyes do that impossibly blue thing, dark with something close to want, and he can’t seem to decide where to look. His gaze snaps from hers down to the ring that’s fallen back over her shirt and the one on her hand and at some point in the last few months, he’s started brushing his thumb underneath it with an almost alarming regularity. Like, for good luck or something.
Baseball players are the weirdest.
“What did you want to ask me before?”
“Hmm?”
“You said you had a question,” Killian says. “What about?”
“Oh, oh, yeah—your elbow.”
He blinks. It’s an oddly satisfying response, and Killian nearly falls over when Emma stands up, gaze shifting again to the distinct lack of pants she’s got on. She can see the tip of his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.
“Like I said, El brought it up—“
“—I’d really you rather didn’t talk about Elsa when there’s so much of your leg on display.”
“Leg, singular?”
“Swan.”
She sticks her tongue out, but that only leads to an even bluer blue and she’s got to stop thinking about the way his knees bend. Maybe she’s the weird one. “Ok, ok, just—why do you bat like you do?”
“Are we on the record?”
“I mean no— because obviously I know how you bat—do not look at me like that.” He smirks, pulling his lips behind his teeth and sitting down. It’s ridiculous, his legs pulled up against his chest and his chin resting on an upturned palm. “I could probably reenact your stance in my sleep.”
“That so?”
“I will kick you.”
“I’ve got to play tomorrow,” Killian counters. “Something about prime agility at the hot corner.”
“You don’t ever come out of the batters box.”
“And?”
“And what? That’s super weird. I mean—other guys call time like twenty-six times and—“
“—No ump is letting anyone call time twenty-six times.”
She rolls her eyes, but Killian appears to have been counting on that and Emma has started bobbing on the balls of her feet. “Take my exaggerated point for what it is. All I’m saying is, you never leave the box. Other guys do. Every single pitch. They take practice swings or they refit their gloves and—“
“—I don’t always wear gloves.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous.”
“Where did my elbow fit into this, exactly?”
“It’s so high up when you bat,” Emma exclaims. The projected distance of that home run was four-hundred and twenty-six feet. Eventually she will blame this tirade on that.
Killian nods, tapping his fingers on the side of Emma’s ankle until she stills. “Yeah, that’s a whole thing. It’s, uh—well, the elbow is high, so I’ve got more momentum when I swing. Physics and all that. Helps with your hips too. And the wide stance.”
“So you can stay behind the ball.”
“And you acted like you didn’t know why I did it.”
“Nah,” Emma objects, “I get why you’re doing it. I just—well, El was talking about you staying in the box and—“
“—Mind games.”
“Wait, what?”
“Mind games,” Killian repeats with a shrug. “You’re right. Almost every other batter moves around between pitches, but when I first started playing there wasn’t a ton of time to do that. I—well, Liam used to toss me batting practice and it was always kind of in between everything else we were doing and so I never thought about stepping out of the box because I was cutting into my own practice time.”
Emma presses her lips together, something different than the usual gymnastics taking place in her stomach. It’s a little softer, quieter and even more comfortable. Like their couch. But in a way that sounds nicer than that.
“And now,” Killian continues, “it drives opposing pitchers insane. Your brother, especially. He hates when I don’t step out. Because then he’s got to get back into his windup quicker.”
“You’re toying with them.”
“A little. Pace of play, you know.”
Emma laughs, absent-mindedly moving her hands like she’s swinging an invisible bat over her head. It’s admittedly a little weird as far as flirting goes, but she figures the playoffs afford for these kind of moments. And Killian doesn’t move quickly when he stands, Emma’s eyes lingering on his mouth longer than they probably should, just steps into her space and twists her against his chest and—
“Lift your elbow up a bit, love.”
“This is a cliche.”
“We’re not actually on a field, I think that sets us apart.”
She scoffs, twisting her hips. That time is on purpose. Killian groans, head dropping to her shoulder so he can nip at the bit of skin there. “You were the one who said you could reenact my stance in your sleep,” he points out.
“Well, it’s distinct.”
Killian hums, and there’s this absolutely delightful thrum in Emma’s veins — wide awake and ready to flirt. She kicks her feet out, one then the other, like she’s tapping her toes with the bat. She pushes down the visor of an invisible helmet, squaring up to a home plate that isn’t there, rocks her weight from side to side.
“I can’t believe you remembered the visor thing,” Killian mutters. “You know, Swan, I think you might be stalking me.”
“Don’t act like you’re not into it.”
“Your elbow is still too low.”
“Does this not hurt your shoulder?”
“You get used to it.” Emma grumbles, but lifts her elbow up anyway, an angle her normal, human body is not used to bending at. “Now,” Killian mutters, dropping his mouth just behind her ear, “kick your front leg out, snap your hips forward and—“
Emma swings.
Which is only a little absurd, considering they’re standing in their living room and she’s definitely heard this start to SportsCenter three times already, but they won and that’s got to count for something.
Several things.
Everything.
“Straight shot into the bleachers,” Killian says.
“Right or left?”
“Batters choice.”
“I always think it’s more impressive when you can pull one.”
He spins her — that same look from before growing more pronounced and still just as attractive as ever. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”
“Agreed,” Killian nods, and Emma isn’t really sure how they ever get into their bedroom, but there’s probably a postseason excuses and home runs and her shirt spends most of the night in the hallway.
Emma picks it up the next morning, coffee already brewing and the SportsCenter theme obvious and she lets her legs drape over Killian’s when they both watch the number one play.
#cs ff#captain swan#captain swan ff#cs fic#there should probably be a tag for all these fics huh#there probably won't ever be#this is unashamedly and obviously about aaron judge's batting stance#if i ever write a baseball fic that isn't about the yankees i'm probably dead#also writing game action is my favorite
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