#is that part of my brand now too? seeing something vaguely glitter and sending it to me like 'is this enough glitter yes or no'?
Note
Hitti (hit) or huti (miss)?
hmmm... miss. It's definitely miss-ing something. Some colour, some actual sparkles, this is just shiny and reflective. I will accept it though if he either a) dyes his hair pink/purple, b) puts glitter in his hair or c) on his face and hands, or a combination or all of the above (preferred).
Alternatively, might I suggest something like:
#he should do some outfit brainstorming with joonas#for legal reasons this is a joke. sir labrador can wear whatever he wants and have fun jumping around stage in it#is that part of my brand now too? seeing something vaguely glitter and sending it to me like 'is this enough glitter yes or no'?#i'm not entirely happy with my selection but uuuh i really gotta go finish that prepresenation for tomorrow. or today.#i've got let's see - the topic#rip#mondscheinprinzessin#answered#is robin getting a tag? yeah#sir labrador
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lay back in cloying sin
part three of “Pillar of Salt”
Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)
Warnings: NSFW-ish; references to marks and bruises, kissing, probably inaccurate descriptions of ballroom dancing, fluff, mentions of alcohol consumption
Word Count: 3.3k
Gif Credit: (x) by @/ktfhett
A/N: boba & reader: [tyler the creator voice] oh no i hope i don’t fall
༓ series masterlist ༓
Dinner was a tedious affair, filled with hollow pageantry. It was one last hurrah before the send off of the honored guests, one of which you’d never talked to and the other who was nowhere to be found. The former, Lord Vader, sat at the head of the long table and made for very unamusing company. You had the distinct impression that he’d rather be anywhere than here, having to listen to his uniformed subordinates squabble in grating voices and your father simper about mining collectives. That made for two of you.
But the cavernous banquet hall was always beautiful, if a bit ostentatious, and the food never disappointed, so you consoled yourself with a loosened corset and the promise of a second dinner by servants who pitied your forced small portions.
You floated into the large room, shuffled through by the compounding procession before an older man offered to help you into your seat. The ornateness of your evening wear made you grateful for the help, watching in sincere thanks as he pulled out the high-backed chair.
“Thank you, um…” the color of his robes and the softness of his hands signalled high rank and you chanced a guess. “Duke...?”
“Sagcock,” he finished for you. “Jovron Sagcock.”
He has got to be joking.
Evidently, he wasn’t.
If the man saw you choke on a laugh, sputtering it into a hiccup as you sat down, he pretended not to notice. After all, princesses knew better than to be unbecoming or crass or know why any part of that exchange could be fodder for humor.
Fighting down one last cough, you attempted to regain some sense of decorum. What a wonderful start to the evening.
The arrangement of persons on this particular night was strange though, even disregarding the title of the man now seated beside you. There were more people than usual filling out the hall tonight, all fancily clad and buffed to shining. Boba wasn’t anywhere to be found.
The supposed importance of the occasion probably necessitated a shuffling of seats to soothe egos and encourage conversation, but you weren’t used to being so close to the head of the table, near parallel with your mother. Usually your elder sisters sat higher and provided you the benefit of distance. Of course, they were all gone now. Your brother was still too young to be at evening dinners, so there was no buffer between you and your parents’ ire.
Maybe this was the Maker’s way of getting back at you for your tiny tryst. Maybe they all knew about what happened in the garden and were just waiting for the shoe to drop, branding you as a harlot and finally letting you free. Vader’s static words travelled down the table and mingled with your father’s but you were too busy entertaining worse-case scenarios to understand conversation.
People were observing you, you realized partway through the first round of courses. Watching you with strange eyes as if you were the last scrap of halfway-spoiled meat for imperial officials and all the nobility that had come to pay their prostrate respects. No one had really given half a damn about you before, which made it all the more strange.
A heel foot softly kicked at yours underneath the table, breaking you out of your glazed thoughts. The fork you had been mindlessly moving across your plate stopping mid-swirl. Looking up, you met the quiet glare of your mother and cleared your throat.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” you asked. Your question was punctuated with a smile too large to be genuine. The queen’s head jerked towards the grizzled man seated to her right and you turned towards him at her behest, face open in trained invitation. “Oh, hello, General.”
General Enes, current commander of the army of Quas Killam. Not strictly Imperial, but aligned close enough to have him in the king’s good graces and to reside permanently at court. He was also a Duke and probably a cousin thrice removed, but who was counting?
“No need to stand on pleasantries, your Highness,” the gray-haired man assured you, one large hand resting over his stomach as servants replaced the dirtied plates in front of you with new ones. You only sipped delicately at your algarine as he chortled and remembered, “It seems like yesterday that you were running around the palace with your sisters. A little sprite of a thing, weren’t you?”
Was he drunk already? “Yes, I remember,” you tread pleasantly; carefully.
The general settled and let out one last chuckle before his eyes grew hawk-like again, trained in the jewelry and accoutrements that signified your being old enough to marry but young enough to have not yet been taken. Like a prize. Or a charity donation. “You’ve grown into quite the young woman, you know.”
So that’s where this was going. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and tried to look gracious. “Thank you, sir. That’s a high compliment.”
“How old are you again, dear?”
Masking your surprise at the forwardness of the question, you supplied your age to a nod of approval from both him and your mother.
“A good age, I’d say. ‘Round the same as my youngest.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” you shot a look down the table and caught a glimpse of cropped flaxen hair, its owner sitting enough seats down to prevent any shared conversation. You counted your blessings for it and smiled, tight-lipped. “Your son and I shared company when we were children.”
“Well that’s very nice,” the queen interjected quite loudly and looked around the long table with a light laugh but cold eyes. “Isn’t that nice?”
Your father looked at you for the first time all evening as if on cue, boring a hole into your face with the words he seemed to be telepathically trying to put in your mouth.
The taste of bitter wine on your tongue made your thoughts fevered, though not borne out of alcohol so much as the memories of someone else’s touch in the same places. “Yes,” you repeated vaguely. “Very nice.”
Darth Vader apparently didn’t remove his helmet. You wondered why he came to dinner at all.
The remaining evening hours had been whittled away by dessert and drinks. Everyone who cared to stay shuffled into the ballroom, a behemoth of a thing filled with inky windows and sparkling artifice. It was a blur of waltzes and predetermined couplings with boys you’d been ignoring since you were old enough to kick them in their shins, but you didn’t care enough to go to pains to avoid it. They broke up the monotony of introductions, at least, and let your mind and body be somewhere else for a while.
All compounded, the night left you flushed and tired. You needed alcohol. Or air. The latter was probably the more reasonable choice of the two.
Being in the midst of ballroom theatrics allowed for an easy enough escape, and a side entrance to a balcony overlooking the palace grounds became the object of your attention.
The tall double doors lay open in their glass encasings and spilled out lamplight refractions on the guests’ gaudy clothing and gaudier jewelry, everything sparkling and warm. But you were far enough away from it to still be chilled by the night air, a balm for your flushed cheeks and fizzling temper.
Usually guests ignored it in favor of staying indoors, so you were fairly confident in the promise of solitude and an undisturbed breeze.
But someone apparently had the same idea as you.
“Hello,” you ventured out a greeting to the silhouette not yet fully in your vision. You stepped closer and the heels of your shoes echoed on clay tiles. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you?”
Royal Highnesses shouldn’t really care about whether or not they were disturbing strange party guests, you could make them leave if you felt so inclined, but something in you was feeling magnanimous tonight. You tried not to think about why.
The figure didn’t turn back towards you, still facing out towards the blurry glitter of urban lights far off in the distance. It looked pretty this far away, all glowing masses and amorphous buildings that scraped the sky. You’d never been close enough to see all the dinge and smog that made its home in places not populated by princesses. Marble felt more familiar than metal.
The man wore metal too, and his voice scraped at your chest when he answered. “You’re not bothering me, princess.”
Oh.
You ventured cautiously towards the balcony’s edge, next to the man you now could recognize as Boba. The thick stone railing was cool to the touch. “Hello.”
His helmet tipped to the left, which was probably his way of saying it back.
“I didn’t see you at the dinner,” you noticed quietly. Would it be presumptuous to assume he was avoiding you? Intellect said yes, but ego didn’t listen. You leant forward, the speckled marble digging into your elbows as you mirrored Boba’s sightline out into the city. “You know, you wouldn’t have needed to make conversation. Lord Vader was the guest of honor and all he did was sit there.”
“I don’t like crowds.”
“Ah.”
A silence lapsed between you, awkward as if you were strangers. You were though, weren’t you? Strangers. Not friends. Not lovers. Not really.
But if he asked you to crack yourself open for him, you would. You would rip apart every satin petticoat and snap the boning in your corsets until your hands were raw if it meant he would touch you; skin to skin. You’d run away and cite a hidden fountain as the reason why.
You didn’t know what he’d give up for you, if anything. Boba didn’t seem like the type to have much in the first place. Either by choice or by necessity.
The garden afternoon nagged at you after having time to form coherent thoughts, and the fizzy shine of palace lights reflecting off his helmet reminded you of what you’d been meaning to ask.
Night made you softer-spoken. “Why did you let me take off your helmet?”
Night made his edges sharper. “Why did you want to?”
“I asked first,” you volleyed back as reason enough to get an answer first.
Boba wasn’t a Mandalorian in the true sense of the word, at least that’s what gossip told you, so it didn’t really matter if he took the helmet off or not. But he kept it on in front of everyone else.
The hunter gave you visor-silence and your impatience made you concede. “I just wanted to see you,” you breathed out, still not looking at him. The admission sounded much more naive than you intended.
His words held their characteristic aloofness but were edged by gentle teasing. “What if I said the same?”
That he wanted to see you?
You still didn’t understand half of why he did what he did and what he wanted, but you turned to face him head-on anyway. Cold moonlight fell on your neck and the air cracked with fever. You tried to reply in jest. “Then I’d say that you were being stupid.”
“You’d be right.”
A swallow bobbed in your throat. He always seemed to take up your vision; fill it and suffocate you with seemingly no effort. “And then I’d ask you to do it again.”
“Do what, princess?”
He knew. He just liked seeing the words come out of your mouth.
“Let me take your helmet off.”
This time, he guided your hands up himself. They were slow and almost careful running across your palms, placing them on the mechanisms your fingers found in quick memory. Set on the balcony railing, the helmet seemed to be a prop. An upside down bucket filled with all the things you had yet to say to each other, spilling out onto the ground in a fog.
“I like you better without it,” you decided when he turned back towards you, his weight still resting on the railing with one cocked hip. Everything about the way he looked was dark: inky black curls and scarred brown skin and eyes that pushed the air in your lungs with a stall and a catch. They looked even darker next to tan clothes and green armor.
His voice wasn’t entirely lacking in humor. He did that. Humored you. “Do you now?”
“Mhm.” you nodded with fake seriousness, slightly giddy and slightly too brave. You blamed it on an excess of wine and good company. “Better-looking.”
He only scoffed, a flash of pearl-white canines serving as one half of a smile. A smile that had been wider when it was against your collarbones, your neck, your mouth. A smile that you wouldn’t mind being in other places.
You nudged Boba’s shoulder with your own when a waltz kicked up in the background, faint through the open ballroom door. “There’s music,” you implied, half-joking and half-expectant. There had been this whole time, of course, but acknowledging it now seemed better than never. “You should ask me to dance.”
“I’m not one for dancing, your Highness.”
The title made you roll your eyes, a commonplace formality that you usually insisted on but now found overly facetious. Coming from him, that is. “Clearly not,” you almost snorted. Pushing away from the marble ledge with a finality that seemed almost comical, you held your hand out and waited, eyebrows raising and fingers beckoning. Well? your face seemed to say, Are you coming?
His sigh was bone-deep and settled in your chest like chunks of black plaster, but it felt good. “You’re not going to let me leave, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” you replied, as if it’d be ridiculous to expect anything else. Princesses danced with men at parties. You were a princess. Boba was a man at a party. In a roundabout sort of way. “It’s easy, I promise,” you assured, wrapping your hand around his wrist and pulling him away from the balcony. His glove slipped down a bit; just enough that your thumb could press one soft circle against the tan skin over bone.
Uncomfortable wasn’t really the correct word for how you thought he felt. You doubted Boba could ever be uncomfortable. No. No, the right word would probably be… bemused. Like he was in a menagerie watching a creature, something exotic and pretty, with mild interest while it still had his attention. But you did have his attention. That was something.
“You put your right hand on my waist,” you moved to reposition the large fingers more accustomed to blasters than they were to bodices. Boba smirked, almost boyish, when you caught his hand wandering someplace else. “Not that low,” you chided with quiet exasperation, placing your palm atop his and guiding it back up.
The pale leather was warm underneath your skin and you bit down a smile, almost awe-struck at how strange your hand looked next to his. Yours was polished, weighed down by heavy gold bangles and softened by years of idle play. His, you suspected (for you didn't actually know; hadn’t yet actually seen), was anything but.
“That’s good,” you supplied lightly. “And then I do this,”your other hand reached to rest on Boba’s shoulder. “And then- no, no you give me your left hand. Hold it out- good.”
Still looking down, you were careful not to trip over your skirts or his boots. “And now we just-” you breathed out and glanced up, surprised to find his expression strangely careful. Almost tender. You gulped down the quiet notch in your throat. “-now we just um… sway. Like this.”
You eschewed complication in favor of a simple rhythm, just letting your feet fall wherever they liked so long as they didn’t tangle in themselves. Now wasn’t the time for anything laborious; you didn’t have faith enough in Boba’s footwork. But he actually wasn’t too bad all things considered. A bit stiff and a bit gruff, but those were part and parcel. It was a bit like dancing with a tree trunk. A very handsome, very broad, very taciturn tree trunk. It was easy to let yourself sink into it a little with how solid he felt.
The man arched an eyebrow when your fingers stretched to thread together with his. “Just sway?”
“You’re welcome to do a jig instead if you’d like,” you replied wryly as your weight shifted from foot to foot. The hand around your waist stiffened at the prospect and a grin escaped your face.
“Nevermind.”
The amusement that had previously only been in your throat escaped in a quiet laugh. “Thought so,” you whispered, victorious. Tension, bunched up in your shoulders and collected in your bones, melted completely when he pulled you closer and let your head fall against the space of his neck. Sinew fit against silk like puzzle pieces and warmed the quiet moment that followed. Neither of you spoke for fear of disturbing the fresh peace.
You found yourself dwelling more and more on hypotheticals. Unrealistic and stupid, you knew, given who you both were. But still you dwelt, unable to fathom a reality outside of the last nine hours and inside a reality within which Boba was gone.
Would he fit here, with the stucco and plaster and ivy? With all the sheltered society of an insignificant court? With you?
You wondered if he dwelt on hypotheticals, too.
Swallowing cold air as Boba thumbed the collar of your dress, you felt the light scatter of broken blood vessels from hours before smart again. Your cheek pressed against the pauldron of his beskar, but neither of you were really dancing anymore. “I- I wanted to talk,” you began quietly. “About earlier.”
“Did you not like it?” Did you not like me?
“No! No, I…” you shook your head, trying to rid yourself of his assumption. The crystals hanging from your headpiece tinkled with every soft movement. “No, I… I liked it. I like…” The lump in your throat seemed to travel down back into your stomach. “You,” you finished, swallowing the final word and leaving all its implications to settle in the night.
He could feel the rise and fall of your chest; delicate and airy and resigned. You spoke again. “But you’re leaving tomorrow and... and we could’ve been caught. And the more I think about it the more I really am not looking forward to the idea of some court scandal or being cloistered up like a nun because I—”
He called you your name.
He’d never used your name before.
You lifted your head off his shoulder, desperate-eyed and looking for answers you both knew he couldn’t give. “Yes?”
“Kiss me.”
You barely breathed out an okay before the arm around your waist tightened, crushing you against cold metal and a warm body.
He kissed you how a lover would. Like how a first kiss should’ve been.
It was gentle. Warm. Tender-mouthed and aching, placing promises down your throat with a soft hand and closed eyes. It was… It was…
It was broken up far too quickly.
A voice called out your name from somewhere far-off, regally accented and not at all welcome. It called your name again, first middle and last with all the titles in between with much less patience. Your mother, queen consort.
The groan of displeasure that escaped you was muffled in Boba’s mouth and swallowed up before it could give either of you away. He recovered much faster than you did, peeling back from your body with eyes already alert and scanning the shadows for passersby. There were none. For now.
“It’s my mother,” you whispered, letting your eyes roll seemingly out of your skull. “They’re probably doing some send-off for Vader’s entourage.”
Neither of you mentioned the fact that Boba was part of that entourage too.
Your last words were rushed before the footsteps became too close and the mercenary pulled away. You didn’t really want to stay to hear the answer. “Will I see you again?”
Boba Fett, you’d come to learn, wasn’t the kind of man to offer more than what he knew he could give.
The helmet went back on. “I don’t know.”’
#boba fett x reader#boba fett/reader#boba fett fanfiction#boba fett x you#boba fett imagine#boba fett oneshot#star wars fanfiction
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Title: Blue Ink
Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Tags: College AU, Tattoo Artist!Cas, Fluff, Pining, First Kiss
Summary: And then, with the same tender carefulness with which he’d just been tattooing Dean, Cas leans in and kisses him.
If you want to be added to my fic tag list, let me know! <3.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Dean eyes the needle in Cas’s hand apprehensively, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. They’re both sitting facing each other on Dean’s bed, the lights low and Zeppelin playing softly on the record player.
Cas’s blue gaze flickers up to catch his, amused and reassuring all at once. “Dean. You’ve watched me do this plenty of times.” It’s true: Cas trained as a tattoo apprentice for part of his art course last semester, and since then has informally tattooed a bunch of their friends at parties, as well as himself. Dean has been pestering him to give him one for months.
“I know, I know,” Dean hedges, fiddling with the bedspread. “It’s just –”
“It’s normal to be nervous, you know,” Cas tells him, “You don’t need to do this if you don’t want to,” his eyes are suddenly serious, regarding Dean closely, soft blue and familiar in a way that tugs at Dean’s heart. “And if you want to stop at any point, I’ll stop.”
“Christ, I’m not some blushing virgin, Cas,” Dean rolls his eyes, mainly to cover up the way his heart is suddenly fluttering in his chest. “Just get on with it, okay?”
Cas rolls his eyes right back at Dean and rolls up the sleeves of his vintage patterned shirt, exposing the intricate ink on his own arms. “Alright, give me your arm, then.”
Hesitantly, Dean holds it out and Cas’s fingers grasp it reassuringly, warm and dexterous and familiar. His heart rate picks up further, not entirely from the prospect of being tattooed for the first time. Swallowing, he watches Cas swab his bicep with alcohol and pick up the marker that’s sitting on Dean’s bedspread.
Cas leans in, head bowed in concentration, fingers skilled and precise as he inks the outline of the sigil on Dean’s skin. This close, Dean can smell the distinct muskiness of Cas’s skin, the way the patchouli incense he always burns clings to his tousled hair. Dean has to force himself to concentrate on the image taking form under Cas’s touch, resisting the urge to lean in closer than he should and do something monumentally stupid like brush Cas’s hair away from his face or kiss him.
“Alright?” Cas’s low, gravelly voice breaks Dean’s spiralling thoughts. He glances up fleetingly, a flash of dark blue that has Dean’s heart racing. They’ve been friends for years now, but the rush is still the same, the thrill of being this close to Cas. Fleetingly, he wonders if it’ll ever change.
Wordlessly, Dean nods.
They’d met at freshers’, at some house party thrown by someone Dean doesn’t remember. Dean had known he was a goner the moment he glanced up and found Cas’s blue gaze on him, quiet and intent, head tilted slightly, watching Dean like he was fascinated, like he could somehow really see him. They’d flirted that night, but when Dean next ran into him Cas had made a whole speech about not wanting to date anyone, and so Dean had tried to put how Cas made him feel out of his mind. By the time Cas finally dating people last year, they’d already fallen into the pattern of friends and Dean couldn’t stand the risk of losing him to some stupid crush that had no guarantee of working out.
Slowly, though, it’s felt increasingly like they’re edging into this, into something more. Cas spends most of his evenings round at Dean’s, and Dean often looks up to find Cas’s gaze on him, as intent as that first time but laced with something different now; warmer, heavier. It makes Dean’s stomach do cartwheels. It’s got to the point where he doesn’t trust himself not to say something both of them might regret, so he’s started deliberately distancing himself from Cas to protect their friendship. This is the first time they’ve been alone like this for a few weeks, and the quiet tension between them seems to have deepened rather than dissipated. With a not insignificant degree of panic, Dean wonders how he’s going to get through this, Cas’s hands all over him, without doing something stupid.
“Tell me about the design again,” Cas says quietly, interrupting Dean’s internal panic. The cold wet nib of the pen tickles Dean’s skin, slow and careful. Dean watches his hands move expertly, long fingers with chipped black nail polish that Dean finds inexplicably sexy.
“Uh, it’s from the mythology on divine beings I’m looking at for my dissertation,” Dean forces himself to look away from Cas and breathe, trying to calm the thump of his heart and the heat blossoming through him. “An ancient sigil. Enochian, it’s called.”
“Like this?” Cas is frowning, examining his work.
“Yeah,” Dean nods, a little breathlessly. “That’s perfect.”
“Alright,” Cas clicks the cap on the marker and looks up, blue eyes glittering, “Ready?”
Dean swallows, “As I’ll ever be.”
Cas smiles, tightens his grip on Dean’s bicep and leans in again, this time with the needle. “First few moments will sting, but after that it’ll fade, I promise,” he says, eyes searching Dean’s. “Let me know if you want to stop.”
Dean nods, biting his lip. The first pierce of the needle does sting, but it’s not as bad as he imagined, and it soon numbs into vague, prickly discomfort. The downside of this is that Dean isn’t as distracted from Cas’s proximity as he’d like. The sooty sweep of Cas’s lashes, his full lips slightly parted in concentration, his rumpled hair. He’s wearing his shirt unbuttoned and Dean can see a distressing amount of smooth, toned skin, the tangle of pendants round his neck, including the one Dean gave him for his last birthday. Cas had been quiet when he’d opened it, had hugged Dean so hard it hurt a little. It makes Dean’s chest ache just thinking about it now, about this fleeting moment where Cas had just looked at him like he wanted him too, like something was going to happen. But neither of them had made a move, and Dean has always wondered if he’d read too much into it.
“Okay?” Cas asks quietly above the sound of the needle, not looking up.
Dean nods dazedly, before he remembers Cas can’t see him. “Yes – yeah,” he mumbles stupidly, dizzied by the strong grip Cas has around his arm, the tenderness in his touch and the care with which he tattoos Dean. “Yeah.”
“You’re doing so good,” Cas murmurs, and god, he’s so close that Dean can feel the warmth of Cas’s breath against his skin along with the heat that blossoms through him at Cas’s praise. “So good, Dean,” he strokes his thumb along Dean’s skin where he’s holding his arm in place, sending sparks shooting through Dean.
“Uh,” Dean grunts, because Cas’s praise has turned him from low level horny to uncomfortably hard in his jeans. He shifts slightly on the bed, breathing hard. His arm is aching dully, but all he can think about is Cas’s hands on him, Cas warm and familiar and so goddamn close Dean feels dizzy with the proximity. He watches dazedly as black ink slowly appears on his skin under Cas’s careful hands.
“It’s halfway there, almost,” Cas glances up, maybe planning on reassuring Dean – but something unreadable passes over his expression as he takes in Dean’s face, the flush Dean can feel on his cheeks and how he knows his pupils must be blown wide.
For several, long beats they just look at each other, and it suddenly feels impossibly quiet, even with Zeppelin humming in the background. Cas hasn’t let go of where his hand curls around Dean’s bicep, palm a brand of heat against his shoulder. The sexual tension in the air between them is almost unbearable, years of almost crammed into a single, charged moment.
Dean watches the way Cas’s eyes darken slowly, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips unconsciously. He always looks gorgeous, but right now in the soft light of Dean’s bedroom with dishevelled hair and hooded eyes and inked skin, he’s so beautiful Dean aches with it.
“Cas –”
“I’m going to finish this,” Cas says, at last, voice even rougher than usual, sending a thrill of arousal through Dean, “And then I’m going to kiss you.”
Dean lets out a sound that might be a breath of surprise or a groan, staring at Cas wide-eyed, heart pounding. Because this, this is all he’s wanted since he first laid eyes on Cas all those years ago and he can’t quite believe it. “Yes,” he murmurs, dazedly. “God, Cas – yes.”
Warmth mixes with the heady darkness of Cas’s expression, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he strokes his thumb across Dean’s bicep and turns back to his work, the smile even wider than it was a moment ago.
Dean’s smiling too, he realises, so wide it should hurt but it doesn’t. He winces fleetingly at the sharp point of the needle again, but it soon fades into the background. The muscles in Cas’s forearms are taut, tensed under their ink. Dean looks at the constellation points of ursa major, two lines of Latin poetry, the wildflowers. It doesn’t do anything to help his current state, looking at Cas’s soft, warm skin, picturing it against his on these sheets. Knowing that Cas wants that now too, that it’s not just a fantasy. That maybe Cas has fantasised about him like this too. Dean has to bite his lip against a groan as Cas’s grip tightens slightly, blue ink slowly blossoming under his fingertips.
Cas has moved closer, leaning over Dean to work at a slightly harder to reach spot. One of his thighs is pressed against Dean’s in a warm line that sends arousal shooting through Dean. He shifts slightly against Cas, pressing closer, heart thumping. From the sharp intake of breath, he knows Cas can tell how worked up he’s getting, how affected he is by this.
Cas lets out a sudden breath against Dean’s skin, as though he’s been holding it, and his hand tightens on Dean’s arm again. Dean hears himself let out a sound this time, helpless, rough and low in the back of his throat, and watches Cas’s throat work as he swallows, jaw set in determined concentration. “Cas,” Dean breathes out, shifting again, cock uncomfortably hard in his jeans. “Cas –”
Abruptly, Cas, sits back on his haunches, breathing hard. “I can’t concentrate like this,” his eyes are darker than Dean’s ever seen them, a flush just visible creeping up the exposed skin of his chest. He lets go and sets his materials on the bedside table without moving away from Dean, without letting go. Slowly, not breaking eye contact, Cas leans back in until they’re even closer than before, both breathing unsteadily. Then, with the same tender carefulness with which he’d just been tattooing Dean, Cas leans in and kisses him.
Dean’s heart fumbles a beat in his chest, his world implodes quietly, infinitely. Cas’s mouth is hot and wet and perfect. Dean tangles his hands in Cas’s tousled hair like he’s always wanted to, tugs him closer, all warmth and racing hearts. Cas lets out a low groan against Dean’s mouth and then suddenly Dean is on his back on the bedspread, breathing heavily. It’s the same one they’ve sat on together night after night, all those times Dean wondered if this would ever happen. It should feel surreal, but it doesn’t. It just feels startlingly real, like this was always inevitable.
They kiss until Dean’s jaw is aching, until they’re both breathless and grinding against each other like they’re still teenagers. When they pull apart a little to catch their breath, Cas’s eyes are shining with the same quiet happiness threatening to overwhelm Dean, full of the same longing that Dean has spent years trying to hide. Dean’s heart suddenly feels so full it hurts, and the moment turns serious, quiet, as they lose themselves in each other’s gazes just like that first night they met. Gently, Dean traces the line of Cas’s jaw, and when he pulls him in again, the kiss is searing, poignant, so full of promise it should terrify Dean, but it only makes his heart beat harder. Cas’s hands are all over his skin, more memorable than any ink.
#reorganising all my fics onto tumblr!#feedback makes me smile like an idiot at my screen <3#destiel#destiel fic#destiel fanfic#destiel fluff#destiel au#deancas#dean winchester#castiel#destiel fanfiction#spn fanfic#spn#superntural#spn fandom#my stuff#my posts: fanfic
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The Village
well, I’ve been there, sitting in that same chair / whispering that same prayer half a million times / it’s a lie, though, buried in disciples / one page of the bible isn’t worth a life
(or: Patton decides to come out to his parents. It doesn’t go as well as he hoped.)
ships: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil
tw: transph*bia, child ab*se, yelling, dissociation, getting kicked out
---------------
“No, Princey, you’re just wrong. Cool Ranch Doritos are the superior kind; your taste buds are just broken.”
Roman gasped dramatically, and Patton hid a giggle behind his hand. They were currently all sitting at the park on a nice summer's day; Logan right beside him, Roman on his side, Virgil on his other side, and the newest edition, Janus, right across from him.
“You absolute heathen! Spicy Nacho is obviously the best flavor.” Roman glared at Virgil with no real heat, Virgil just smirking back at him until Roman huffed and waved his hand. “It’s no use trying to change your opinion, you’re just always going to be wrong.”
“If I may,” Janus intervened, adjusting his yellow gloves and flicking his eye up to them, “Both of you are wrong. Nacho cheese is arguably the best flavor.”
“Shut up, Janus.” Both Roman and Virgil said at the same time, causing Janus to roll his eye and go back to… whatever he’s reading. Patton didn’t know.
Patton sighed and heard as their continued banter fell into the background. He’s really, really, really stressed today since… well, he’s planning to come out to his parents today.
read on ao3
HIs parents aren’t really kind people, sure, and they say a lot of things that Patton doesn’t agree with. Logan once described them as “emotionally and psychologically abusive” which Patton doesn’t really see. They don’t mean to hurt him, they love him.
Just because they call him stupid, and ugly, and irresponsible, that doesn't mean they're bad. They're right.
And just because Patton is a little scared to say that he’s trans, that’s a normal thing. It’s a scary situation.
It’ll all be okay.
Liar.
He was cut off from his thoughts by Logan gently taking his hand, sending sparks of warmth down his whole arm. Logan leaned over, his blue eyes seeming to sparkle in the sunlight as he let go of Patton’s hand and started signing. ‘Are you alright?’
Patton wondered why he didn’t ask out loud, but then he realized it was probably because he didn’t want to bring attention to Patton in case he didn’t want everyone to know. His heart fluttered -- Logan really is the best.
Patton nodded, about to give Logan a big smile, but then he hesitated. He then shook his head and signed with shaky hands- his ASL isn’t really the best, but he’s learning - ‘I need to tell something to the group.’
Logan nodded and cleared his throat, “Excuse me, if you two would stop.” He said to Roman and Virgil, who had now moved on to which type of Pringle was the best, causing them to stop. “Patton has something to say.”
Patton stiffened as every eye turned to him. Why is he nervous? His friends are some of the most supporting people in the world. They already know he’s trans, so telling them he’s planning to come out tonight shouldn’t make him this jittery.
“What’s up, Popstar? You okay?” Virgil asked, leaning his hands on the table. Janus flicked his eye over to Patton in vague interest, Roman turned his full attention to him, and Logan kept holding his hand under the table.
Patton took a deep breath to shake off all the jittery bugs, and exclaimed, “I’m planning to come out to my parents tonight.”
The reaction was mixed.
Roman and Logan's eyes both widened in a weird mix of concern and pride. Since Roman and Logan are the only ones who've been over to his house, they have actually met his parents.
Janus lifted his eyebrows in surprise and closed the book he was reading. He then tried to act like he wasn't that interested but failed pretty badly (in his own humble opinion.)
And Virgil leaned over more, with his hands spread out on the table and open concern in his eyes. "Really?! Holy shit!"
Patton tried for a smile, but it kind of fell flat. "Yeah, uh.. It's a bit nerve wracking, if I'm being honest."
"I'll say, Pat. That is a very brave thing to do." Roman told him, patting (hah! patt-ing) him on the shoulder.
"I definitely don't support you full-heartedly, of course, but aren't your parents incredibly conservative?" Janus asked, making a motion to check his nails even though they were under his gloves.
Patton was going to answer, but Logan cut him off. "Was that sarcasm?"
Janus nodded, giving him a look that said what do you think?
Logan nodded back and continued on. "Yes, Patton, your parents are very conservative and are close minded about a lot of subjects, especially related to LGBTQ+ issues. Are you sure about this?"
"Logan, I can't keep this a secret anymore. They deserve to know, they're my parents." Pattons heart felt heavy with guilt; they should have known from the moment he figured it out. They've taken so much care of him, and he repays them by lying?
"You don't owe them anything, Patton. If you truly want to come out, we'll support you, but don't feel guilty for not coming out to them sooner. It is entirely up to you." Janus made direct eye contact with him, and Patton felt like that half blind stare could see into his soul and pick him apart.
Roman nodded in agreement, but didn't say anything. Patton knows that he has issues with his own sexuality, and he's trying his best, but it can still be an uncomfortable talk for him. Patton's heart ached for his friend.
Logan squeezed his hand, "I agree. Whatever you do is entirely up to you." Patton felt his face warm up when Logan squeezed his hand, and tried to ignore it.
The conversation was silent for a moment while Patton thought it over, until Virgil asked, "Would they hurt you?"
The tension in the air seemed to skyrocket as Patton whipped his head up to look at Virgil, who was anxiously wringing his hands. Logan gave him a fidget cube to play with while Patton spluttered, trying to figure out how to respond.
"N-No! Of course they wouldn't! They've never laid a hand on me before!"
"Just because it hasn't happened yet, doesn't mean it couldn't happen at any moment." Virgil's eyes went dark with a memory, and Patton once again felt an uncharacteristic anger at Virgil's father.
Patton reached over, slowly enough that Virgil could stop him if he wanted, and took his hand. "I promise, I'll stay safe."
Virgil held out his pinky finger, "Pinky promise?"
Patton felt his smile grow wide, and felt a glittering happiness in his heart at how far Virgil had come. "Pinky promise."
"Okay." Virgil breathed, leaning back as Patton sat back into his seat. Janus watched the exchange quietly, an old sort of nostalgia in his eye.
"Pinky promise? Are you in kindergarten?" Roman teased Virgil, who slapped his arm playfully.
"Shut the fuck up, off-brand Troy Bolton." Janus immediately burst into laughter, hiding his mouth behind his hand as Roman spluttered.
"Troy Bolton?!"
"You play football and you're on the drama team, you're literally Troy Bolton."
"You didn't need to call me out like that, though!"
Janus was still laughing, and even Logan was trying not to smile, and Patton just… took a moment and admired his friends.
He's known Roman since middle school. Patton was immediately drawn to him, his loud personality complimenting Patton perfectly.
When Roman was 13, his siblings died. Only he and his brother survived, and from what Patton knows, it's because they weren't in the car with them. He never got to meet any of his siblings, but he knows there were a lot; he wants to say maybe 10, including Roman.
It astounds him that so many people could just… die so quickly like that.
Roman didn't talk a lot after that happened. And sometimes, these days, he just goes silent. But he's getting better, and Patton couldn't be more proud of him.
His eyes moved to Virgil and he felt his heart ache. Virgil started hanging out with them months ago, around the beginning of sophomore year. His sharp wit, dry humor and sarcastic remarks added something to the group that he didn't know was missing.
Patton can say with confidence that he hates Virgil's father. From what Virgil has told him, after his mom died his dad turned into a completely different person. Constantly beating Virgil around, berating him; he doesn't even keep any food in the house for Virgil to eat.
It makes Patton want to cry, thinking about it.
Janus… confuses him. He doesn't know much about him, but he does know that Patton's breaking down the walls around Janus's heart little by little every day. Patton does know that he's blind in one eye, he's known Virgil since they were really young, and he too used to hang out with Remus before splitting off to this group-- Patton doesn't know why. He would see them in the halls together a long time ago.
Pattons seen Remus in the hallways. He always wanted to go up and talk to him, see how he was doing, but a part of him… a part of him was a little scared of him. Remus had the reputation of being "the druggie" around school, and as much as Patton hated himself for it, it kind of made him wary to talk to him.
The deep eye bags and the bruised knuckles did always make him worry a bit though.
He hopes one day he'll muster up the courage to talk to him.
"So, I know what Patton is doing, but what are all of you doing after this? Burning a bank down, perhaps?" Janus inquired the rest of the group.
Logan huffed. "Burning a bank down is illegal. I'm going home to study."
Roman frowned, "It's summer, calculator watch. You don't need to study."
"It's good to get a head start on the next year's courses."
Roman stared at him like he was speaking another language, then shook his head and sighed. "Whatever. I'm going home. I've got to catch up on my beauty routine." He flashed a dazzling smile, and Patton giggled.
"C-" Virgil stopped and cleared his throat, then spoke again. "Can I come over?" He asked Roman quietly, his voice soft, like he was afraid Roman would say no.
Roman turned to him, clearly surprised, "You want to come over?"
Virgil shook his head and forcefully pushed down on one of the buttons on his fidget cube, "I mean- I don't have to, if you're busy, it's fine-"
"No! I'm not busy! You can come over!" Roman burst out in one breath, and Virgil looked up at him, mouth open slightly in surprise.
"Oh.. Okay. Cool." Virgil smiled at him hesitantly, and Roman beamed back, and Patton swears there's an emotional connection between them. They look at eachother for way too long for nothing to be going on.
Janus fake gagged at Roman and Virgil, then stood up and adjusted his gloves. "My dad is going to be home for the first time in a while, so I'm going home to eat with him. Right now."
They all said their goodbyes to Janus, who did a little bow and patted Patton's shoulder for good luck.
Patton felt his phone buzz and got it out, not sure why his stomach dropped when he checked the message he got.
Momma: Dinners going to be ready soon. Hurry up.
"I gotta go, kiddos," Patton said, standing up and giving Roman a hug from where Roman was sitting. Logan and Virgil don't usually like hugs, so he didn't bother asking for one.
"Good luck, sunshine, may good fortune be in your favor!" Roman declared dramatically, hugging him back despite the awkward angle.
"Stay safe, Pat, okay?" Virgil told him, and Patton nodded and said he would.
Logan only gave him a quick nod, which confused him a bit, but he shrugged it off and walked away to find his bike.
When Patton found it, he was about to head home, when--
"Patton! Wait!"
Logan was running after him, his 6'4 frame towering over him as he came to a stop, looking oddly nervous.
Patton smiled at him, "What's up, Lolo?"
Logan cleared his throat, flapping his hands a bit, "Would you, um. Would you like a hug? I've read that hugs can be optimal for comfort in high stress situations, and today has been a good sensory day, so-"
Logan was cut off by Patton squealing and rushing into him, Patton making sure not to hold him too tightly.
Golly, Patton doesn't think he's ever met someone like Logan. Meeting him in middle school was probably a miracle. Kind and super duper intelligent, telling him all sorts of facts about space and the ocean. Patton loves to watch Logan infodump to him, flapping his hands and smiling so wide. His heart flips in his chest whenever Logan comes into a room, or whenever he speaks; his smooth voice makes Patton feel safe and at home.
So, maybe Patton has a crush on Logan. Gosh, can you blame him?
Logan smells like rain water and old leather paper. Patton's face is buried in his chest, coming up to around 5'8 so he's super short compared to him. Logan's strong arms are wrapped loosely around him, and Patton genuinely just-- doesn't want to leave.
He breaks the hug sooner than later, though, because he doesn't want to overwhelm Logan. Patton's pretty sure his cheeks are glowing, and by the looks of it, Logan's are too.
Logan clears his throat again, "...Was that satisfactory?" He asked quietly, and gosh he's so ding dang cute Patton almost can't handle it.
"It was very satisfactory, Lo."
Logan smiled down at him, "Well, that's nice to hear. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me, at my house that is."
Patton nodded, pushing up his circle glasses that ended up slipping down his nose. "I know, Logan, thank you."
Logan nodded, then stepped back a bit. "Well, I won't keep you. Goodbye Patton. Good luck."
Patton hopped on his bike, "Bye Lolo!" He waved, before pedaling off.
On his way home, he planned out what he would say.
He slowly became more and more anxious, but it will be fine.
Everything is going to be fine.
------------
Everything was not going to be fine.
Patton was pacing around his room, heart racing probably too fast to be considered normal. Dread curled around his stomach like a snake, squeezing and squeezing until it felt like he couldn't breathe.
He can't do this, why did he think he could do this? He can't breathe-
"Okay, deep breaths, Pat. You're okay." He said out loud to himself. Remembering the breathing exercises that Virgil used, he deeply inhales for 4 seconds, holds for 7, and exhales for 8.
It takes a few more attempts until he's able to breathe normally, but eventually his heart rate slows down a bit.
Picking up his phone, he sent a message off to the group chat that he and the others all share.
PappyPatton: Wish me luck. dinners about to be ready :))
Logan: Good luck, Patton.
RomanoLettuce: Good luck padre!!!!!! remember to take your sword (I'll give u mine if u want it)
draculawannabe: good luck pat, pls stay safe
twofacedgay: I hope you have fun, but don't force yourself
Patton smiled as his chest filled with joy. Gosh, he loves his friends so much.
"Anna! Dinners ready!"
Instantly that joy shattered, once again replaced by ice sinking into his stomach. Patton swallowed his nerves and replied, "Coming!"
He took a deep breath, put his phone in his pocket and went downstairs, praying to whoever would listen that everything would be okay.
When he got downstairs, his baby sister, Angela, squealed when she saw him and made grabby hands. Patton cooed and pinched her cheeks,"Well hi! I missed you too!"
Angela gurgled and gave him one of her cheerios from her plate. Patton picked it up with a big smile and popped it in his mouth, then thanked his little sister for the generous offer.
"Anna, sit down. Your mother has had a hard day." His father commanded. Patton swallowed and sat down at the end of the table, looking at his plate. Ugh. Broccoli.
Patton's mother sighed and came out of the kitchen, sitting down and putting her head in her hands. Oh, god, she's in a bad mood.
She sighed again before sitting up, seeming to shake off the tiredness as she offered her hands to both of them. "Let's say grace before dinner."
Please, don't. God already knows I'm sinning.
But they did it anyways, and before Patton knew it everyone was digging in. He's not hungry.
His father took note of his and said, "Anna. You need to eat."
His mother turned and saw his still full plate, and sighed at him with disappointment. "I spent all that time making this, and you're not even going to eat it? Ungrateful."
Patton felt guilt wallow up inside him,wrapping around his throat and choking him, but didn't let it phase him. His mother and father resumed their conversation (something about the stock market, Patton doesn't know) before Patton cleared his throat.
"Um, mom, dad.. I have to tell you something."
His mother and father stopped, turning to him. His mother looked irritated, you can't do anything right, and his father just looked vaguely curious.
"Is this about your grades? If it is, then we already know your grades. They need to be higher." His mother said.
Patton swallowed again, trembling a little bit, "Uh- n-no, it's not that."
You can do it, Patton. It's not that hard.
His father tilted his head, "Then, what? Out with it, girl."
Patton took a deep breath, stop shaking you're fine everything's fine here we go here we go, and said, his voice trembling, "I'm trans."
Silence.
Then, his mother started laughing.
Patton looked up at her, confused. Why is she laughing?
"That's funny, dear." His mom chuckled, mirth dripping from her voice. His father just looked uncomfortable.
"N-no, mom, I'm serious. I'm a-a-a boy." Patton dug his nails into his thigh under the table. "I-I'd actually prefer to go by Patton."
His mother stopped laughing.
"You're serious?" Her voice had gone unrecognizable. Gone was the laughter and the mirth; now all he heard was rage. The tension in the room had risen to almost unbearable levels.
His stomach curled in on himself as he nodded, "Y-Yeah, I-"
Smack.
Patton recoiled, face swinging to the side as he tried to process what just happened. His cheek started stinging.
She smacked him.
She smacked him.
He didn’t even see her move.
"How could you do this to me, Anna?! To us?!" His mom yelled, oh god she's yelling now, everything is going wrong.
She stood up, forcefully pushing herself away from the table. His father grabbed her arm, but she shook him off and stared Patton down.
"Didn't we raise you to know better?! God is going to punish you, Anna!" His mother screamed at him, her face red with rage. "You're going to hell!"
Patton whimpered and flinched hard when a plate was thrown at him, barely managing to dodge. When did she pick up the plate? What is happening?!
Angela was screaming, his mother was screaming, his face hurt from the slap, this wasn't how this was supposed to go-
He doesn't know when he started crying, burying himself in his trembling arms, trying to make the noise go away. He felt like he was watching this happen through a window, or on a TV screen. This couldn’t be real.
"Diana, please," his father tried to interject, but was cut off by his mother.
"No, Michael! She's sinning! She thinks she's a boy!" His mother shrieked and Patton cringed in on himself, trying to remember the breathing exercises that Virgil uses, trying to stop crying.
"M-m-mom, I'm s-sorr-" he tried to say, lifting his shaking head up slightly, before he was backhanded so hard he fell out of his chair to the floor and the room was spinning.He vaguely noticed his glasses falling off; his mother stepped on them with a loud crack.
Patton tried to regain his breath, his ears ringing, before he felt his shirt being pulled and him being forced to stand.
His mother stood before him, her eyes filled with tears and rage and hatred.
"Get out." She said, oh so quietly.
What? Was she kicking him out? Ice cold dread wrapped around his chest, sinking into his stomach like a stone. No no no no please-
"B-but I-"
She smacked him again, hard enough to make his nose bleed, "Get out, get out, get out! Don't come back until you've opened up your heart to the lord!" She screamed, sending him into a full blown terror. His heart raced, as he scrambled up the stairs, hearing the yelling continue from downstairs. He didn't even look at what he was taking, he just threw in random things, trying to get out of there as fast as possible. Patton’s heart raced with adrenaline and panic as he stuffed everything into a Wal-Mart bag. Was he crying? He didn't know. All he knew was that he needed to get out of there.
Patton ran back downstairs, desperately just wanting to leave, before she got even more angry. He made eye contact with his father, who just glared at him and looked away.
His baby sister was still shrieking and crying. His mother was standing over the table, surrounded by broken glass, shoulders tense with anger.
She turned to face Patton, and the rage that seemed to simmer down sprung to life again.
"Get the fuck out! I don't want to see your face again, Anna!" She spat his deadname, like it was poison.
Patton didn't hesitate, scrambling to the door and running out into the freezing night air, holding his bag close to his chest.
"God is going to punish you!" His mother shrieked from the house, and that was the last thing he heard before he started running.
Patton didn't even have his glasses; he could barely see. He was running so hard his chest started to hurt, combined with the cold night air, made him want to cough. Adrenaline coursed through Patton's veins, coursing alongside the crushing fear of what would happen if he didn't get away.
But he didn't even know where he was going. Where does he go now?
One word popped into the back of his mind, and he knew that was where he had to go.
Logan.
---------------
Patton doesn't know how long it took to get to Logan's house. Everything is blurry from his lack of glasses, and his chest hurts and his face hurts and everything hurts-
He knew the outline of Logan's house, though, and suddenly he was on the front porch, knocking urgently.
God is going to punish you.
Patton felt like he was floating. Like he could look down and see his own body standing there; he's pretty sure there's a term for that, but he can't remember it right now.
Everything is going numb; whether that's from the cold or otherwise, he doesn't care.
How could you do this to me? To us?
Patton had stopped crying a few blocks back- now, everything is just cold numbness.
Patton was jerked out of his thoughts when the front door opened, revealing Logan's giant form.
"Did you forget your ke- oh, Patton. What are you doing here? Are- Are you alright?" Logan tilted his head as he stared at Patton in concern.
Patton must look like a mess- dried tears and snot and a little blood, big red slap mark on his cheek, no glasses and a Wal-Mart bag.
Patton shook his head, trying to get rid of the ever present nothing that he felt. "Uh- not really, Lolo." His voice was rough and scratchy from crying.
Logan's eyes darted down to the Wal-Mart bag, then to the slap mark on his face and lack of glasses, and just- stared.
The silence went on for a while, and Patton turned to leave. I shouldn't have bothered him, I bother everyone god is going to punish you
"I'm sorry." Patton said, his voice small, "I didn't mean to bother you. I can go-"
"No!" Logan exclaimed, making Patton flinch and turn back around. Logan looked sheepish from his outburst and wrung his hands a bit, "Apologies for startling you. Please, come in." Logan stepped aside so that Patton could come in, still eyeing the Wal-Mart bag.
Patton walked in and let Logan direct him to the couch. Patton always liked Logan's house. The layout was similar to his, but it had the comfort and warmth that his own home (don't come back until you've opened your heart to the lord) was missing.
"Let me- um- let me get you some water. And a blanket." Logan mumbled before hurrying off, leaving Patton alone with his thoughts.
He could hear the water running. He could hear Logan rummaging around in the closet, probably looking for a blanket. Logically, he knows where he is.
But he feels just- disconnected from his body.
Why in the world did he think that coming out to them would be a good idea? Patton knows their views, he should have been smarter, shouldn't have been so trusting-
Maybe Patton's prayer went unanswered because Patton deserved this. Maybe this is his punishment.
And now he's bothering Logan,the best person in the world, with his burdens. He's probably overwhelming him. God, he can't do anything right.
"Here." Logan draped a large, blue, soft blanket over Patton's shoulders. He gently handed him the glass of water, keeping his hands raised in case Patton's shaky hands dropped it.
"Thank you." Patton's voice felt wrong to his own ears as he took a sip of water. It soothed his raw throat, and after a few sips he was glad he could speak correctly again.
Logan stayed silent, aside from the continuous tapping on his leg. Patton knows he must have questions, so he sets the glass down and curls his knees into his chest, giving him silent permission to ask.
And that's just what Logan did. "Patton… what happened?" Logan's voice was quiet, concerned. Patton shrugged, cracking an empty smile that fell 2 seconds after he put it up.
"I came out. It- uh- didn't go so well." He tried to giggle, but it was watery and he suddenly has the urge to cry cry cry cry.
"What happened to your glasses? Why do you have a Wal- ...Oh." Logan's went silent again, but this time you could basically feel the rage in the air. "How dare they."
Logan sounded angry. Patton instinctively curled up more, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Logan cut him off before he could.
"No, Patton, I'm not mad at you, I just-" Logan took a deep breath and flapped out his hands a bit, "Did they kick you out?" He was straight to the point.
Patton nodded.
Logan swore and bit down on his knuckle, and Patton realized with a start that there were tears in Logan's eyes. Why is he crying?! God I made him sad too what is wrong with me?!
Patton jumped up, "Oh, you're crying! I'm so sorry, Logan!" Patton tried to apologize, but Logan shook his head and wiped his eyes.
"It's- It's fine. Do not worry about it." Logan took a deep breath, in and out, and then looked at Patton again.
"Patton I- I am so sorry that happened to you. That never should have happened, ever. Your parents should have been accepting and kind to who you really are. I'm so sorry they weren't."
Patton shrugged again, not feeling so numb anymore as he looked down and bit back the tears in his throat.
Logan scooted over and took his hand.
And then the dam broke.
Patton started sobbing- gut wrenching tears were dragged out of him, as he put his head in his hands and let the sobs wrack his body. It hurts so much, everything hurts so much-
He was vaguely aware of his body being maneuvered, and suddenly his head was on Logan's chest, and Logan's hand was in his hair, and he was whispering- not reassurances, but just facts.
"Your name is Patton. You have brown eyes and dirty blonde hair, bordering on brown. You have freckles and a gap in your teeth. You adore frogs and butterflies." Logan kept up a steady whisper of facts about Patton, as Patton kept crying into Logan.
He cried for about 10 minutes before the tears finally slowed, and he could sit up from Logan's chest but he doesn't want to. Even though he made a wet spot on Logan's pajamas, and is probably bothering him with this whole thing, he doesn't want to leave.
"Please don't make me leave." Slipped out before he could stop it, and he felt his ears heat with shame.
"Oh, Patton- You're not leaving. You are staying right here." Logan sounded like he was crying, too, and that just made Patton feel awful.
"In fact, you're staying with us from now on. You're going to live here." Patton's mind screeched to a halt as he looked back up at Logan. What?
"What?"
"You're staying here. My mom's can be your legal guardians." Logan looked completely serious.
Patton's mind was spinning. Could they do that? Isn't that against the law?
"If we have your biological parents permission, you can stay here all you want. My mom's can go get your stuff tomorrow. Patton, you are not going back there. You deserve to have a safe home, where you can be yourself without having to be afraid or belittled. You deserve safety."
And- and-
And Patton thought the tears were done, but apparently they weren't, and he started sobbing again into Logan's night shirt.
He felt dizzy with relief, his chest contracting in an almost painful way.
He's going to be okay.
With Logan whispering gentle facts in his ear, and Logan's heartbeat under his other ear, and the voice of his mother in his head getting quieter.
God is probably still going to punish him. But that's later.
Because right now Patton can feel Logan's breathing and feel his voice echo through his chest as he talks quietly with his mom's, who apparently Patton didn't hear coming through the door.
Patton had one last, coherent thought before slipping into unconsciousness.
I'm going to be okay.
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Hello Once More (Killua x Gon)
Summary: Sometime after their separation, Killua and Gon meet once more. But being on the run from Illumi is hard, and Killua’s gone through measures to make sure people wouldn’t recognize him, even Gon.
***
It was a masquerade dance. One with bright colors and lavish decorations and everything expected from one of the richest hunters in the world. People were dressed in sharp, cleanly pressed suits and long, expert-woven gowns. Suits and dresses were fatuous, however, to the ornate masks that sat upon the guests’ heads. Some were embroidered with the thread of their homeland, others with precious jewels. Each hid a joyful face under the decorated material.
A boy of black hair and blue eyes found himself wearing one of these masks, a crystalline blue sort of color with white beads in a seemingly erratic pattern. His brand new suit became rumpled as he was zipped around disgruntled hunters and their companions by the firm hand of his little sister.
“Hey! Hey, Stop!”
The girl did end up stopping and turned around, a bright smile spreading across her youthful face. “Onii-chan, stop complaining. You promised you would enjoy this for me.”
Killua let out a long suffering sigh, the corners of his mouth eventually molding their way into a quirky smile as well. “I was enjoying it. I was enjoying watching you dance from the sidelines. I can continue to enjoy it from there.”
“Not on my watch. I’m not letting you leave this floor until you’ve danced at least once.” Alluka accentuated her point by giving her dress a little twirl, the movement drawing attention from prying eyes around the room. If Killua’s outfit was extravagant, then Alluka’s was downright ostentatious, the pink folds of her dress covered by a sheer golden sash, making it seem as if she had been wrapped in a glittering sunrise. She wore white, pristine gloves on her hands and brown woven flats on her feet. What she lacked in jewelry, her hair made up for. Long, shing black strands were curled into tight curls that rested on the top of her head in a flowery bun, two loose coils intertwined with golden thread and the beads she and Nanika were so fond of sat upon her chest.
Killua let himself be dragged off, only because he didn’t want anyone to try anything on his baby sister, but someone else had other plans in mind.
“Excuse me!”
Killua whirled around at the voice. The warm and pleasant voice. The achingly familiar voice.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but do you mind if I steal this dance?”
He may have been wearing different clothes and had a mask covering half of his face, but that was Gon. He knew it was. Killua had recognized it from the voice, the charming and comforting voice. Staring at him now, even if his hair had been dyed a new color and his voice had gone a tone deeper like Killua’s had, those honey-brown eyes would have been unforgettable. Keeping his hair a black-green color and only reaching a few inches taller? The familiarity was uncanny.
Snapping himself out of his thoughts, Killua stood aside. No matter how much he wanted to throw off his mask and greet his friend in a hug, he couldn’t. There was no telling what connections his brother had. If he revealed himself here, it would only be seconds before he was seized and dragged home. Gon had asked his sister to dance. He could sit back down and watch from afar once more. She’d be safe in his hands. And, if Killua was being honest with himself, it would hurt a little less too.
Gon, precious, radiant Gon, reached his hand to his neck in a nervous gesture. “So, uhm… is that a no?”
Killua felt two hands in the small of his back, and suddenly found himself pressed against a firm body.
“It’s a yes,” Alluka’s voice rang out from behind. “Sorry about that, big brother’s just a little slow with people sometimes.”
“Hey-” Killua began, but cut himself short. Gon was smiling. It was a big, shining smile, and Killua found himself involuntarily relaxing just a little.
“Great! Thank you very much!” The words were directed towards his sister, and before he knew it, he’d been whisked away to the middle of the dance floor.
They adjusted themselves awkwardly, it being clear that neither of them had any experience dancing with another male. Eventually they found themselves in a position with Gon’s arms wrapped around Killua’s waist and the latter’s around Gon’s neck. Meeting each other at eye level, that sleight height difference Killua had once been so proud of now tied by the milimeter, Killua was able to get a good look at the mask. It was an earthy green, very simple compared to the ones he’d seen on everyone else. Killua amused himself with the realization that his best friend never escaped the colors of his youth, even while he stood before him in a black and white suit - though, Killua’s mask was of white and blues, so he couldn’t say much about himself either.
“Your eyes are really pretty.”
The comment startled Killua, sending him reeling backwards with the embarrassed flush he’d thought he’d left behind.
“W-why would you say that?”
“Because they are.” Gon closed the distance between them and raised a hand to rest it on the side of his head, fingers absentmindedly flicking up black-dyed hair. “They’re really pretty. Like the color of the ocean on a clear day. Actually,” he paused here, an embarrassed flush making its way up his face for once, “they remind me of someone I know.”
“They do?” Killua leaned forward in interest. He knew that he was a big part of Gon’s life, even if the other never felt the same way that he felt about him, and he knew that he must have crossed Gon’s mind at least once, but the other boy had thought his eyes pretty. Did he dare hope…
“Yeah. He has eyes just like yours. Actually, I only really came to this party in the first place to find him. I thought I heard him earlier, but I guess I was wrong.” Gon’s voice faded into a disappointed tone at the end. A tone that he recognized in his own voice whenever he talked about his friend. Killua wanted to grab his shoulders. He wanted to grab his shoulders and shake them and scream, ‘I’m right here, you idiot’ till the sentence was ingrained in Gon’s mind. But he knew he couldn’t. Not when people could be watching. Not when they could take Alluka and him away.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, caught in between the line of meaning it and not. “I’m sure he’ll be here eventually.”
Gon looked at him, long and hard but not seeing. “I don’t know. It was a long shot anyways. He’s been off the maps for a while, so I don’t really know what I was expecting.”
Killua swallowed. This wasn’t Gon. Gon wasn’t sad like this. Gon was upbeat and positive and if he couldn’t be that, then he was a burning ball of anger waiting to explode. Gon wasn’t… resigned.
The former assassin changed the subject, hoping to change the mood to something somewhat lighter. “Oh, I see. If you don’t mind me asking, why did you ever ask me…”
“Ask you to dance?”
Killua nodded.
“Hmmmm... I don’t know. It was just a feeling… I think.”
“You think?”
“You remind me of my special person. That’s all.”
Special person. Special person. Did that mean Killua was his special person? Killua turned his head, looking around the room to find Alluka, to confirm if what he was hearing seeing was real.
Gon continued, oblivious to his internal strife. “You really do sound like him at times, you see. It’s like your voices are exactly the same… and then, and then they’re not.”
Killua knew that Gon was thick headed, to not have realized who he really was even with all these things he’d picked up on. To instead find him and think that he was nothing more than a similarity. Gon never mentioned who he was though, so maybe, maybe if he left a vague enough answer, he would be able to piece together everything without Killua having to reveal anything at all.
“That’s why I asked you to dance. Cause I thought I heard him. I thought maybe you were him.” It was an honest answer, one that got straight to the point and didn’t waste time sugarcoating anything with meaningless compliments. But, if what he was saying was true, then that meant that Gon would have asked him to dance anyways. Because of who he was. Something about that realization sent his heart hammering in his ribs, giddy energy rising up inside him. “Even if you aren’t him… you look enough like him that I still want to be with you. For this dance.”
There was silence then, the only noise being the crowd’s amicable chatter and slow music flowing from the performance upstage.
“If I’m being honest,” Killua began, “You remind me of someone special to me too.”
“I do?”
Their roles were reversed. This time it was Gon with the hopeful and curious tone to his voice and Killua with resignation in his, only that Killua was completely aware of who the stranger really was.
“Yeah. He means a lot to me. He was the person who taught me to let other people in and to care about them in return. I think it’s safe to say that he was my first friend.”
Something of an understanding was beginning to flicker in Gon’s eyes, and Killua smiled at the slow process of him putting the dots together. Before Gon could reach complete clarity, before he could open his mouth and shout his name to the crowd, Killua closed the distance between their faces and connected their lips in a passionate kiss.
Not even a year ago, even with Gon by his side professing their friendship everyday, could Killua have ever done this before. Mortification wouldn’t even have the chance to reach him because the kiss would have never happened. He’d never had the self-worth to believe something good could come out of a reckless and selfish decision like that.
Their journey together and the distance between them had changed him, though. And now with his lips caught in a bruising force against Gon’s, the taste of chocolate and citrus blending together on their tongues, Killua couldn’t find it in himself to regret the decision.
Their dancing had slowed to a stop, and instead they stood, molded into each other with their arms intertwined on each other's hips, making up for all the time they’d missed.
I’m sorry.
I missed you.
I love you.
When their breath had run out and their legs turned weak, the kiss broke off. The two boys separated and stared, breathless, into eachothers’ eyes. Gon closed the gap a second time, not to go for another kiss, but to rest their foreheads together. The gesture was so childish and sweet and so like Gon that Killua found himself bearing a true, beaming smile for the first time that evening.
“Killu-” Gon began, but before he could even finish the word, Killua interrupted with words of his own.
“It’s nice to see you again, Gon.”
#killugon#gon x killua#hunter x hunter#hxh#killua zoldyck#gon freccs#romance#first kiss#fanfic#my writing#oneshot#I've never written a romantic pairing before#I hope it wasn't a nightmare#it respects their ages I swear
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@gentlegently cont. from an ask
A bar. It’s a bar. A human bar, for perfectly ordinary humans in need of a bit of uneventful watering or, more likely,beering; a place that could not be any MORE mundane or any LESSadventurous, utterly unbeaten in its normality. Dirk could kiss it. Because here’s the thing: all day, from the first cacophonous bleep of his alarm clock to the last blister-footed step that brought him into this part of town, he’s been completely DYING dying for a drink.
Annoyingly enough, being the universe’s favourite plaything does not always result in instant wish-fulfilment. Quite the opposite: over the years, the detective has often found that the simpler his urges, the more viciously complicated the world’s efforts to keep him on his toes. Honestly, he would be hard-pressed to imagine anything less spectacular than the much-needed discovery of a quiet place to have a bit of a sit-down and a container, any kind of container, from which to sip a drinkable liquid, any kind of drinkable liquid. When he startled awake this morning, a whole eighteen hours younger and more naive, he was still fool enough to hope for a park bench and a hot cup of cocoa. Around midday ( his hair a mess and his shirt stained with ghostly ectoplasm, the sight of which is destined to evoke exceedingly wrong connotations ), he would have gladly contented himself with any old folding chair and a bottle of stale apple juice. But by now? Good grief, he’sdesperate. Not that it’s much of a surprise, after a whole day of having been bulleted across town in the most feverish zigzagging pattern by whatever forces of nature still seem to be suffering from intense onslaughts of galactic boredom. Nothing else could explain their pesky tendency to deem him such an excellent bouncy ball. Before chance, fate, or simply his malnourished instincts made him happen across the bar, he was just about ready to curl up on a mould-covered spot of pavement behind a leaky rubbish skip and slurp mouthfuls of rainbow-oiled puddle water. And now this! He’s positive he has never seen a more inviting establishment in his entire life: the door is just a door, just a normal human-sized door without sanity-threatening riddles or insane mechanisms designed to catapult unsuspecting visitors into a far-away dimension populated by, oh, blood-thirsty paperclips, if he knows his luck. The walls are just walls, the windows are exactly that, warm and glowy with a hospitality that sends several full-body shivers of hope racing all the way from Dirk’s singed hair to his exhausted toes.
When he finally stumbles into the room, it’s with an exhale of relief loud enough to shake the entire building. And — and perhaps it’s mainly the pure delight of being welcome, the unbridled joy of, just for once, NOT finding himself on the short and definitely far-too panicky end of a life-or-death chase — perhaps it’s just all of that, but when he spots the barkeeper behind the meticulously polished counter, it appears to him that he’s never seen a more handsome face, never entrusted himself into the care of two hands more expertly kiss-worthy than those.
Unmistakably re-energised, the detective hurries toward the counter and seats himself, regrettably leaving little smudges of doubtful origin on whatever surface he touches, but glossing it all over with a radiant smile. His belief in the world and humanity at large has been rekindled, all is well again! “ Good evening, my good-looking, drinks-pouring barkeeper man, ” he enthuses vocally, thoroughly basking in the wonderful experience of acquainting his behind with something as outlandishly comfortable as a seat. “ If you’d be kind enough bless me with a cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit or two, I swear I will love and cherish you FOREVER! ” Remarkably, it doesn’t feel like an exaggeration. Nothing but floaty dandelion fluff remains in the tingly hollow that was, up until a second ago, Dirk’s brain. The enamoured grin is quick to drip from his lips, however, when he shoves his hands into all and any pockets he encounters in his clothing and finds not coins, not banknotes, but an empty packet of crisps, a rubber duck, a cracked-open geode, six identical pink glitter gel pens, a miniature flowerpot, a palmful of what he can only assume were once fruit loops, the lower half of a toothbrush and a huge rumpled-up ball of leaflets advertising a never-heard-before brand of turtle food.
“ Oh — Oh, God. Do you — p-please tell me you accept payment in the form of case-solving! I’m a detective, you see, a fairly good one, if fairly is understood to mean almost and good, uhm, adequate-in-all-regards-except-likelihoods-of-success. I … I have connections to the CIA!I could give you a get-out-of-prison-for-free gift voucher, o-or … oh! I could find that one object you’ve lowkey been looking for all those weeks!, the one you don’t really NEED, but would quite like to see back in your possession because its disappearance feels like a vague gnawing at the back of your mind, complete with cerebral little chomp-chomp noises! Those are destined to drive you insane in NO TIME at all. Your mental health should be WORTH a mug of hot plant water or two! ” He’s going off a hunch here, frankly, but — everyone has an object like that, and he really, really, really needs that cuppa!
Well, that certainly was an entrance. Jimmy had only just finished clearing away several glasses and their subsequent condensation marks from the group that had occupied that particular barstool, and the three on either side of it. He was setting out new coasters when the undeniably odd man plopped down before him, cheerful demeanor clashing horribly with the state of his clothes and hair. Whatever this man had been through, his attitude seemed undeterred, and really, something about that eagerness was utterly charming. Jimmy found himself smiling at this new customer even before he’d really heard the request, too caught up in the bright yellow of his.. slightly damaged jacket, and the almost manic gleam in those blue eyes.
The eager request for tea was met with a chuckle, once it actually processed. “I just might hold you to that,” he joked.
“You’ve got good timing, I only just finished boiling some water,” Jimmy continued, turning to the kettle behind him. Indeed, the machine had clicked off at nearly the same moment this new man came in through the door. Jimmy spooned out a portion of tea leaves, a rather lovely fall-themed blend, spicy chai with a hint of ginger, sure to help fight against the chill that clung to the wind today. When he was readying to pour the water, he heard the unmistakable sounds of his new patron frantically pocket-checking. Ah. Seemed his day had left him with more concerns than mussed hair and a dirtied coat.
Jimmy had barely opened his mouth to offer the cup of tea on the house when the man began to offer his services as a detective, of all things, and Jimmy turned to face him curiously, kettle still in hand and all-but-forgotten as he listened to the explanation. It was all a bit strange, really, but something about the fervent energy in the way h spoke left Jimmy smiling all over again. It was adorable, truth be told. He could see how the flurry of words might bother some, but it was, honestly, quite endearing. Still.. the emphasis on something lost nagged at his mind. Well, maybe he was being a bit silly. After all, this was a stranger.
“Not to worry,” he said calmly. “I’ll let you have this one on the house. You seem to have had quite a day, and I imagine a nice cup of tea will do its own small part in making your day a bit better. But in exchange, you’ll have to tell me more about your detective work, okay?” he asked, and turned his attention to filling the teapot so that the leaves could steep. “Not many people ask for tea in a bar, you know,” he commented. “I usually just make it for myself.” With that comment established, he turned and dug around in a cabinet beneath where the kettle sat, pulling a half-emptied package of Tesco’s malted milk biscuits. Tucking that beneath one arm, he also retrieved an unopened pack of Chocolate-coated Digestives, ad he set both before the stranger, soon followed by a cup and saucer, and, of course, the teapot.
“That’ll need a good two minutes to steep,” Jimmy noted, nodding at the teapot. “Goes great with honey, if you like.” A scan around the bar revealed it was nearly empty, aside from a couple of regulars in the booths, nursing their drinks and looking quite content for the moment. So Jimmy pulled his own stool up, sitting across from his colorful customer, and setting his own teacup on the bartop. “So, you’re a detective?” he asked. “Do you work with the police?” A pause, then.. “You mentioned finding objects. ...Do you maybe help find people who’ve gone missing?”
#{{ Muse: Jimmy }}#Jimmy/Dirk verse tbn#// honestly i am unsure where i am taking this#// maybe jimmy hasnt heard from his sister in several days#// who knows we will find out!#// also look at me i managed a long reply today yay!#Long Post
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that’s just who i am this week. | fic.
↳ there are sayings about earthly pleasures, probably.
Shiro doesn’t think much about the Garrison. Which would make more sense if he wasn’t, by now, actually there. He’s spent the three days back on earth not thinking about much of anything beyond the tangible details: the things that have to get done, the introductions, the explanations. The first night, he suspects, is as much a blur for the memory-capable members of his team as it is for him, still trying to understand how this body works. How bodies works. How all of this works.
It didn’t occur to him to ask about the rooms he’d once occupied a few lifetimes ago -- it was Officer Harrison that mentioned, offhand and quiet, that they’d been turned over the next academic year. Reasonable, Shiro thought, and strange that Harrison ( a memory: Harrison slid the keycard over to him, carefully not talking about how the passcode written on it was a burner for the simulation; a glitter in his eyes when Shiro earned his commendation, a hand on his shoulder at Shiro’s thanks ) would couch his words so carefully -- soft and hesitant, the way ( he thinks ) one might approach a wounded animal.
Perhaps it is not so confusing, then.
The first day is crashing, the second day is paperwork ( Shiro only realizes, after he wakes late, that all the work he requests to complete has been filed by Sam Holt and something rustedly aching and affectionate swells in his chest ), and the third is: storm clouds gather at the horizon, the the packed desert sand is cool, and he tries to remember what it had felt like, to sit in this common area of the Garrison with its overly familiar couches and the view from the window he’d committed to memory.
Some of the team is here. Keith is here, and Shiro is -- grateful, most likely, but the fog that had been so pleasant upon waking is starting to feel like a stranglehold, letting only a vague frustration permeate its mass. If he had the energy, he’d hate himself for not understanding why comfort of family is evading him. Hunk and Lance look too energized, Shiro thinks, talking about something he doesn’t have the wherewithal to eavesdrop on.
Beside him, the couch dips with the weight of someone sitting there. Shiro sees Keith react before he can, and when does it’s languid -- slow and then stopping altogether as he looks at the woman who’s taken up residence there.
❛ --- Camila ? ❜
❛ Hey, you didn’t forget me in space ! ❜
It would feel entirely surreal if the surreality wasn’t the thing that manage to fork like lightning through the blanket of fog he’s been shrouded in. Idly, he notes that Hunk and Lance have fallen silent, and he can almost feel Keith’s alertness behind him. Camila’s voice is not muted around the edges; her cadence has always been low and clear, cutting through the background noise, glittering with irrepressible enthusiasm.
It sounds precisely like he remembers it. He realizes that he does, in fact, remember it.
❛ Apparently, ❜ he says, and it’s not a joke in and of itself but he couches it like one. Shiro can’t see any tension in Camila’s posture, but he is aware in that moment that they are not alone. It strikes him that this is something he should solve, if only because he instinctually reacts to the boys’ silence and the presence of Keith behind him that he does not want to ignore.
He shifts, turning around to the team that’s present. ❛ Guys, I’ll be back in a sec. We’re gonna take a walk. ❜
❛ Sure, sure. ❜ It’s Hunk’s reply that comes first, easy and sure and guiding Lance’s attention back to him. Shiro shoots him a look that he hope is translated well in this body -- relief and gratitude, and the kind of fondness that is inseparable when it comes to this team. Maybe Hunk gets it, because he smiles. Which frees Shiro up to look over at Keith -- and he doesn’t know what he wants to convey.
It takes a longer tick, but Keith just shrugs and turns to absently gazing over at Lance and Hunk, who have resumed their previous conversation. Shiro is not sure to make of anything, not sure if all of this ( existing ) is objectively hard or if he’s making it so.
❛ We could -- ❜ Camila starts, eyes wide and earnest. Shiro shakes his head and pushes against the back of the couch to stand.
❛ Nah, I could use a chance to stretch my legs. If you’re up for it ? ❜
She barks a little laugh, a low whuffing sound, and he remembers it too. The only difference is that when she stands, fluidly, she tenses as if to offer him a hand up and he rocks to his feet before she can make up her mind.
There’s no surprise that she looks entirely at ease in these halls. There is some that Shiro does not feel lost as he keeps up with her, even if he does not recall the specific memories that decorate the paths they take ( midnight runs, slipping out the door to see a desert with the endless sky stretching above them, climbing up to the roof, rehearsing recruitment skits together -- )
❛ So I hear you guys have been busy. ❜
❛ Yeah, you’re not wrong about that. ❜
Camila’s voice is unapologetically what it has been, but Shiro can feel the way they pick carefully through what could be said -- they look different than they did when they were younger, but Shiro is aware that he looks unignorably so. And there are the things that lurk on the horizon: there are fighting alien factions, there are threats that loom unavoidable and larger than the Garrison could ever imagine.
The news that had circulated of his prematurely presumed death.
❛ I definitely owe Commander Holt something, ❜ Shiro says instead. ❛ He’s taken care of most of my stuff since we got back. ❜ ( it dawns on him, in that moment, that Sam has probably cushioned all of this -- their return, the shock of it, the questions and experiments they’d have faced without his intervention. )
For her part, Camila seems to have picked up on his tone and follows it like a river pulling with the current. ❛ Oh please, like he’d ever accept anything from you. Or anyone. ❜
❛ He should, ❜ Shiro says -- petulantly. ❛ I can’t write with my left hand. ❜
It had been unintentional, teasing and drenched in his personal brand of less than kind humor, and it could be too much for someone he hasn’t seen in -- however long it’s been.
Camila doesn’t pause; she laughs, full and loud.
Shiro grins.
❛ Yeah, Iverson wouldn’t buy that excuse. If you were really prepared, you’d have learned a long time ago, Junior Officer. ❜
❛ Hey, I was promoted ! ❜
❛ Sorry, sorry. ❜ Camila’s grinning too. They are paused by one of the big windows that they’d shimmied open one night -- three of them, Joaquim had been there, too. Shiro draws a deeper breath than he’d been able to take for days.
At the same time --
❛ Hey, d’you want to do something -- ? ❜ Camila asks.
❛ D’you wanna get really drunk tonight ? ❜ Shiro asks.
In the end, Shiro only tells Keith and Coran that he’s slipping out that evening. Leaving to do -- anything without telling his brother sits uneasily in his stomach. It still does, when he finds the words -- it feels ungrateful and worrying. But Keith gently places his hand on his shoulder and it feels like acceptance and permission in one, and since Shiro doesn’t have the resources to unravel these developments then, he just takes it.
And it doesn’t feel like a big deal ( or, it shouldn’t, because a memory: the world does not seem so large now that they have traversed in the dark so often, slipping away without permission, the desert falling away from them underneath the motor of Shiro’s bike ) and certainly not something to tell the team. So he gives the information to Coran and makes a quiet, surreptitious exit when he won’t be missed.
They don’t take a bike. They take a cab. The bar is lit up with the same golden neon lights as the last time he saw it and his throat closes a little at seeing it -- crossing its threshold with this body that he doesn’t know beyond its power to taint everything around it.
But then he’s four tequila shots in and fuck it.
❛ They took my fuckin’ arm, Cami. ❜ He’s draped over the counter, the follow up beer mostly drained in front of him. At least eight shot glasses glitter on the counter in front of them in the light from the running karaoke screen behind the bar. Cami makes a whining sound, half sympathetic and half completely amused.
❛ The whole thing? ❜
❛ The whole thing! Even the shoulder. Who takes an arm ? ❜
❛ A whole arm, ❜ Camila reminds him.
❛ A wholeass arm ! ❜ Shiro knocks back the rest of the bottle and signals the bartender to send another one down to him. ❛ Y’ want -- ? ❜
❛ ‘M not done with this one. ❜
Shiro waits until the cold glass is under his fingers before groaning, loud and low.
❛ It was fine, Cami. ❜
❛ Your whole arm? It was? ❜
❛ No, it was broken in three places. But like, fuck. ❜
❛ They don’t have space hospitals in -- uh, in space ? ❜
Shiro chokes on his drink and it turns into a laugh, wheezing and wet with beer, undignified, snorting and burning until his eyes tear up and he feels Camila surrender and laugh, collapsing in on herself the way she does when she laughs even though she doesn’t know why it’s funny and he can’t remember why it’s funny.
❛ You’re going to actually kill me, ❜ he gasps, ❛ ‘N I don’t know how many lives I have left in me, asshole. ❜
❛ I didn’t do anything ! ❜ She insists, but they dissolve into another wave of laughter, desperate and aching and alive.
It takes him a while to ease away from the fit, and his ribs ache with the effort, but even when he curses again and slumps back over the bar, he’s smiling.
❛ My best friend’s an alien, I think, ❜ he says, apropos of nothing.
Camila doesn’t miss a beat. ❛ You replaced us? Quim’s gonna fight you. ❜
❛ No like, space friend. ❜
❛ Oh, well then. ❜
They laugh again and Shiro’s eyes are wet with the force. ❛ I hate him. ❜
❛ Joaquim ? ❜
❛ No. ❜
❛ Oh, your best space friend. So why is he, then ? ❜
❛ ‘Cause I can’t catch a fuckin’ break. ❜
❛ Yeah, they didn’t put this in the job description, hunh ? ❜
Shiro doesn’t notice when Camila rests her head on the shoulder that’s still flesh until way after the fact, and when he does it doesn’t startle him. ( a memory: they are a little threesome, sprawled out on the roof, a tangle of limbs and everyone’s a bit of a pillow and they’re eating candy rings as they race to name as many constellations as they can. )
( then he just stops thinking for the night. )
This time, Shiro reacts first -- he recognizes the strains of the song before even Camila, but she’s only half a step behind and they’re scrambling to sit upright and talking over each other --
❛ That’s our song -- ! ❜
❛ Hey, we need the -- can we get the mic ? ❜
❛ Cami I can’t hold it I don’t have arms ! ❜
❛ You have a wholeass arm ! ❜
❛ I have a drink ! ❜
❛ Useless, okay hang on -- ❜
They’re a tangle of limbs, and Cami holds the mic between them as they start the whole bar in on mostly-screaming the lyrics that flash across the screen. But they don’t need them. Shiro doesn’t need them.
He remembers every word.
#( shiro. )#( writing. )#( vld spoilers. )#( shiro hc. )#alcohol cw#anyway -#look i SAID this was gonna win skdbg#ALL I WANNA DO IS WORLDBUILD SO SUE ME#pls give me garrison OC buddies !!!!#ill pay u#something#an amount#ur opinions on what the song is are valid#but ONLY if u also HC that it's either sugar we're goin down OR what's up#oh my GOD do i TRY#i TRY ALL THE TIME#IN THIS INSTITUTION
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