Outside, people talked. Whispered. They all knew someone was there.
There, with Harry Potter.
Draco wished they knew it was him. How he’d made Harry shiver beneath him, how Harry had pressed him against the mattress. He wanted all of them to hear his name coming out in between gasps for air from their saviors’ mouth. And the way Harry’s name became his prayer the night before.
Draco wanted Harry’s kisses tattooed on his skin and the bruises to burn everyone elses. A throbbing reminder of how he’d felt when Harry pushed in.
But at the same time, Draco didn’t want anyone to know. That Harry had a sweet spot in his inner thighs and when Draco kissed him there the boy melted. That Harry didn’t know how to go slow and Draco had to pin his arms down and take control just so Harry could breath in relief. Or that Harry kissed so deeply, gave himself away so fully that Draco feared someone else would take him away from him.
Jealousy coiled in Draco’s stomach just from the thought of someone else seeing Harry right that moment, on top of him, sleeping peacefully and completely vulnerable.
When Harry’s lips touched his chest some time later, a sleepy smile forming on his lips, Draco wasn’t ready to meet those eyes yet.
It was out of his control. He had to reach out and cup Harry’s face like that, bring their lips together slowly, kiss him like nothing else mattered.
‘Morning’ his voice came out weakly once they parted. They stayed there, close enough for Harry to give Draco small kisses one after the other without even having to lean closer. The whispers filling the room were more intense now, right behind Harry’s thick bed curtains.
Guessing the Muffliato they’d cast the night before had probably worned out, Draco eyed Harry hoping the other would understand the question in his eyes. Harry smiled again and whispered in Draco’s right ear, so quietly he knew no one else would be able to hear his words but him.
'We don’t owe them anything’
It hit Draco what it meant for them. What it meant for Harry Potter to love Draco Malfoy and choose not to care if the world approved it or not. Harry gave him that wide, infuriating smile that could brighten the whole room before straddling Draco’s hips. The Gryffindor flame was there before he could process what he was doing.
Imagine The Losers Club as the most dysfunctional superhero team
ok but listen i Love this so much i could even write a fic for this au have some headcanons about their abilities;
Bill:Telekinesis. Bill can move litterally anything he wants with his mind. at first it was little stuff like a pen or a paper sheet, but the more he grown up, the bigger his power became. he’ll soon discover his abilities are, in fact, related to his emotions, and the stronger the emotions he will feel will be, the bigger the objets he will be able to move will get, even people. “no Stan, I won’t l-l-let you move. You’ll come with us and save this f-f-fucking city.”
Richie:Invisibility. Richie can render himself unseen by everyone and do whatever he wants without being seen. he keeps using his power on bad purposes like to annoy the other members of the team and scaring them all the time, or to steals stuff ”oooOOOOooh i’m the ghost of Eddie’s underpant, flying through the house!!!”
Stan:Telepathy. Stan can read people’s mind, but also affect their minds/thoughts. It started with terrible headaches, then he started hearing voices that werent his (the poor boy was terrified). Now he has learn how to control his power and can choose to hear only one person’s thoughts at once ”….I wish I didn’t hear what you were thinking about, Richie. You’re so gross…..”
Eddie:Healing factor. Just by touching someone’s injury, Eddie can heal it and take all of their pain. Unfortunately, it’s only working on other people, but not on himself. He discovered his powers by touching a bird which couldn’t fly, and flew away as soon as his hand touched it. ”Could you stop hurting yourself on purpose all the fucking time to see if my power still works?? Of course it still works!!”
Mike:Fire Manipulation. Mike can create, shape and manipulate fire with his hands. Like the other members of his team, he couldn’t control his power, and everytime he would have a strong (negative) emotion, he would create fire. Unfortunately, his power was also the cause of many incendies, inclunding his own house… ”If you tell me one more time “hot damn” I swear to god…”
Ben: Enhanced Strength. Ben can lift approximately 10 tons with his hands, he can crush, lift, throw, or catch items of great weight without hurting himself. Like most members of the team, Ben’s abilities gets stronger when he gets a negative feeling, especially anger or sadness. Scared to hurt people, Ben can’t touch anyone until he will be able to have a better control of his own strenght ”I’ve already told you; I won’t carry all your bikes in my arms because you guys don’t want to ride them home…”
Beverly:Plants manipulation. Beverly can create, shape and manipulate plants, including trees, vines, flowers, but also part of the plants (leaves/fruits). She can also revive withered or dead plants just by touching them with her hands, make them grown flowers, fruits. yea… kinda like Poison Ivy! The other members of the team love her power, she’s also the one who made them their “secret base” as they’re calling it; a cabin on a tree
Steve/Bucky whoops drunk texted the BFF you’re into him trope
Bucky: Sometimes I look at you and want you so
badly I forget
Bucky: I forget that we’ve been friends for
over a decade
Bucky: I forget why it’s a bad idea
Bucky: All I think about is touching you and
how you’d taste and that we’re probably perfect for each other
Bucky: I forget to forget
Bucky woke up to the
sun shining in through a crack in his closed curtains and hitting his eyes dead
on. He groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes, and rolled over so his
face was smooshed into his pillow. His mouth was dry and tasted like
fermented things, and his head hurt from drinking too much the night before.
He tried to focus on
when he’d finally left the bar and wandered home, but all he could remember was
the string of texts he’d sent Steve and he ended up pushing himself up into a
sitting position so fast he experienced a dizzy moment of vertigo.
He might puke and not
from the hangover.
His phone was plugged
into the charger right where he always left it, looking innocuous and not like
it had betrayed the secret he’d managed to keep for the last five years.
Tentatively he reached out and picked it up, pressing the button to turn
on the lockscreen.
Well, Bucky thought,
maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Maybe he hadn’t sent everything he
thought he sent. Steve was likely to all-caps WHAT to Bucky for half of
his drunk texts, mostly because Bucky got philosophical and started quoting
obscure Aristotelian theories to him. Bucky liked to joke he was smarter
while drunk while Steve rolled his eyes and told him that maybe if he stopped
underrepresenting his own intelligence all the time it wouldn’t seem that way.
Well, Bucky thought a little hysterically
as he stared at the chain of texts he’d sent Steve the night before, where
was all that intelligence now?
Fuck. He was so
He closed his eyes
for a moment and tried not to think about his whole world caving in.
It was somehow worse
that Steve had sent WHAT more than half an hour before and then hadn’t followed
it up with anything. Somehow, Bucky had almost expected to wake up to a
confession in return, or at least something more definitive.
Fuck. He scrubbed his
hand over his face. This was the worst. Now he had to decide whether to
make the brave move again and he wasn’t drunk this time to make it seem
like a good idea.
He was just
considering the merits of haha yeah you’re hot :p but idk what I drank last
night to encourage thisVS.I meant every word when someone
unlocked the door to his apartment.
Bucky was holding his
phone and staring at his bedroom door with a wide-eyed sort of panic when Steve
burst into it.
“WHAT?” he said in
person, staring at Bucky and sweating a little like he’d run up all four
flights of stairs to Bucky’s apartment after speed-walking over.
Bucky stared at him
and then wordlessly held up his phone.
Steve stared back.
“Did you drunk
confess to me?” Steve asked, sounding a bit strangled.
“I’m not going to
sober confess it to you,” Bucky pointed out, wry and vaguely annoyed that Steve
came over for this conversation so he had to actually look at him. Steve
was way too polite and gentlemanly and well raised. He needed to get with the
generation who texted this type of shit like Bucky had, apparently.
not the type of thing you tell your best friend. Oh hey Steve so
sometimes I don’t think of you platonically, so now you’re going to feel weird
around me when we cuddle on the couch during movies and shift away from
“Try this: Oh hey
Bucky, maybe I wouldn’t shift away from them if I knew they existed!”
yelled back, looking way too smug and vindicated for this moment. What an
“I… what?” Bucky
repeated. He stared at Steve silently for a few moments. The moment was
ladened. “Are we going to make out now?”
“It smells like beer
sweats and regret in here,” Steve pointed out, wrinkling his nose. “I’m
going to go home and get ready for work and you’re going back to sleep.
Then you’re going to shower and come over for a movie tonight.”
“Bring your potential
boners,” Steve said as a parting shot as he walked out of the bedroom.
everyone needs more tony and babies in their life, right? have a fic. because tony canonically goes to hospitals and hugs babies who need it. (for mobile users, there’s a read-more after a few paragraphs)
Tony Stark isn’t
new to kids, not exactly.
He’s always tried
to visit paediatric wards when he had a moment, letting the kids play
with the armours and telling them stories. He helped Reed and Sue
with babysitting, and he remembers Val’s first attempts at building
microprocessors. He held a newborn Danielle Cage in his arms and he
marvelled at how tiny she was. He’s always glad to help his baby
Avengers with homework.
He likes kids. He
might never have his own, and he tells himself he’s made his peace
with that, but he likes kids and he likes spending time with them,
from babies and toddlers to I’m-not-a-kid-anymore
the moments he spends with kids never get any less special.
You’re a vampire and I’m a witch, we both go to this private school in New England that has a small population of supernatural students. We meet because I need a vile of vampire venom for a potion and my demon best friend said you’re the person to talk to.
We go to a school for supernatural beings and you’re the cutest witch I’ve ever seen but you’re kind of intimidating.
I’m a fairy and my parents told me to never get myself involved with a witch but you’re so sweet and kind and not anything like I was told about witches.
We’re both from ancient supernatural families and our kinds hate each other but to end the centuries of fighting we are to be wed.
There our seven lines of ancient witches referred to as the Seven Devil, there are certain alliances amongst the families and certain feuds. One night a whole line is whipped out, they were an ally of my line an enemy of yours. You’re suspected of being apart of the killings but I can prove you’re innocence. The only problem is our lines are enemies as well and my family advises me not to because it’ll give our line more power. (Bonus: My line was actually behind whipping out the line because they were power hungry and framed your line)
I’m a witch and one night while I’m walking home I’m murdered by someone or something unknown. But a few day later I wake up in the morgue. I got my friend who says that I was saved due to vampire venom in my system, vampire venom in small amounts can slowly heal someone but they’ll appear dead until they’ve made a full recovery. I try to find the vampire who saved me and find you. You tell me you found me bleeding out, near death on the side of the road while you were walking into town so you bit me to save me. (Bonus: You help me find the person or thing that tried to kill me)
I’m a witch and there’s a witch hunter in town and he’s been following me around for the last few days. One day he corners me in the woods near town while I was collecting ingredients for a potion and tried to kill me but you come out of nowhere and save me by killing him. We make eye contact before you run into the woods. Who are you and why did you save me?
I’m a werewolf and have some serious anger issues and you’re a witch who makes theses amazing calming potions with lavender and every time I come in to buy some you me a free lavender candle and every time I light it I’m instantly calm and can’t stop thinking about you.
I just transferred to this private school and all the students talk about the werewolves who roam the forest that surrounds the school for miles, some are even rumored to attend the school. I don’t believe them because wolves are common in this area and werewolves obviously aren’t real. But then one night decide to go for a walk in the woods because it’s a full moon and there’s a light fog so how can I resist and I’m pretty damn sure the cute person from my history class just turned into a wolf, what the hell?
You and your friends are rumored to be descendants of supernatural beings and you’re pretty well liked by everyone but everyone’s also kind of afraid of you. Of course most people don’t believe in the supernatural, but I’ve seen somethings and I’m pretty sure not only are the rumors true but there’s way more to it.
Your a descendant from a famous alleged supernatural being and I’m doing a report on them and how it’s affected your family. You agreed to let me interview and after doing a lot of research I realize that you’re not a descendant of that person but are in fact that person who’s been alive after all these years.
We’re best friends, I’m a vampire and you’re a witch. Shenanigans ensue.
I’m a powerful ancient witch and you’re a vampire who I’ve loved for several centuries but you’re murdered by one of my enemies. I’m now consumed with finding a way to bring you back to life and back to me. I have never been a cruel witch but in this time I am ready to do anything and everything to get my way.
"Have anyone told you you have the most intimidating nostrils I've ever seen?"
“Yeah, I won an award, junior year,” Derek answers, frowning at his new IKEA (bought and built, all in a soft Henley sweater; Stiles knows, he supervised) book-shelf, like he hasn’t just finished a seven hundred page tome on Egyptian artefacts. A seven hundred page tome onEgyptian artefacts alone.
Derek Hale: epic nerd and assembler of easy-to-build IKEA products. Of course, Stiles thinks, cursing his stupid Professor and DIY kinks.
Why not? The worst part is, he doesn’t even think those kinks are sexual. It’s just….a thing. That he has. A Derek thing. The Butterflies That Live In His Stomach were trying so desperately to move on with their lives, too. They’d shopped around. Hired a real-estate agent. They were ready, goddammit!
Derek settles on a book - Stiles is pretty sure it also has the word ‘artefacts’ in the title - and sighs, all feigned nostalgia, and glances over his shoulder. “It was a golden nose, too. Across the bottom it said,” he pauses, grinning, “Stiles Stilinski needs to get a life.”
Stiles opens his mouth, clutches his chest, because rude much? Is it his fault Derek’s nostrils belong in some kind of anatomy museum? Is it his fault his Saturday nights are spent playing video games in his underwear, when his week days are spent chasing down monsters and researching things like how Scott and Erica managed to contract chicken pox when stabbing them does, like, nothing? (Except get Erica excited because she’s a beautiful, terrifying weirdo.)Themoment he tries to tell Derek this, however, a copy of - is that Pride and Prejudice? - is thrown at his head.
Stiles doesn’t know if he’s more offended when Derek rolls his eyes when it misses him, or the concerned look that crosses his face when the book sails past him and lands in an empty pizza box, like Derek is worried if it’s okay or not.
And to think, Stiles was going to screw up his courage and finally invite Derek to see a movie this weekend. In an actual theatre. Where people go to be normal. Well, the laugh is on Derek because Stiles is going to buy the big popcorn and he’s going to enjoy it all on his own.
Yeah, that’ll show him.
“Has anyone ever told you your eyebrows could star in a disturbing kid’s movie about caterpillars?”
Stiles is drunk. No, he’s wasted. Hammered. Loaded. Completely and utterly shit faced.Which is probably why instead of ending up on his ass on the floor, Derek just pinches the bridge of his nose, tips his head against the back of the couch and says, “what.” Not even a hint of inflection.
This dude, Stiles thinks, and then laughs because, ohmygod, Derek is this dude now. Not that dude or whoa,what are you doing crawling through my window, dude? but this dude. And that’s kind of beautifully heart warming, in its own way.
Really, Stiles should write into Hallmark. It could be a trilogy. A Gay Trilogy
™. Bisexuals on ice. Except, without the ice because Stiles doesn’t know how to skate. Can Derek skate? Stiles totally bets Derek can skate.
Speaking of Derek, he’s got this little crinkle on his forehead now, right between his eyebrows, and man, they really are very nice eyebrows. Animated but nice. A little dramatic but nice. Murderous but nice.
“What,” Derek says again, looking more confused than annoyed by the second. Stiles really wants to kiss him.
Instead, he stares. Stares and stares and stares.
Slapping a hand over his mouth, he begins laughing uncontrollably and before he knows it, he’s clutching his sides and has his face pressed against Derek’s chest, because the hilarity is killing him.
Because this is them now. Drinking peach-snaps at Derek’s loft, on a couch filled with throw pillows. Throw pillows. One is even soft and pink and frilly and another has a picture of the pack on it. Granted, no one is looking at the camera but Derek, Boyd and Kira and Derek is not so much looking at the camera as yelling at Stiles (holding the camera) for eating his secret stash of cookies, but it’s nice. It’s a nice picture. There is a plain black pillow too, of course. Somewhere. Stiles might be sitting on it, actually. He figures one can only expect so much when it comes to sour-wolves but Erica glued little cat ears on it last week and Derek said nothing. Fuck, he’d even smiled.
It says a lot about what a secret softie Derek is when it comes to vulnerable, drunk-ass people, because he doesn’t push Stiles away; just lets him laugh and laugh until he passes out, drooling on his chest.
When Stiles wakes up, Derek’s sweater is pretty soaked through but he hasn’t moved an inch. He does, however, tell Stiles he snores like a deranged goose and that he owes him a pastry later.
He doesn’t even ask for a specific kind, Stiles chastises in his head, falling back to sleep. He’s in love with a pastry idiot.
“Do you know when you smile, you brighten up the whole damn room?”
The question clearly catches Derek off guard because he falls head first…into a duck pond.
Stiles’ first reaction is to jump in after him - he hates to admit it, but he gets a little nervous around water when Derek is with him; there have been several incidents where he’s unconsciously grabbed Derek’s hand in order to drag him away from pools and, one time, a very large puddle - but when Derek emerges, wearing his someone is about to die face, Stiles can’t be held accountable for the way he falls to the ground because, yup, that’s a tiny, outraged duckling perched on top of Derek’s head.
“Oh my god,” he yells, rolling onto his back and kicking his legs in the air. He feels like a kid, grabbing his stomach, water practically pouring from his eyes. This was, quite possibly, the best day of his life.
Normally, Derek would be yelling threats - several, in fact, some in Spanish because he’s a show off - but he just stands there….in the middle of a fucking pond. The duckling is still sitting on his head, like he or she plans to set up home there and it’s so adorable Stiles thinks he actually coos out loud.
Still, Derek still doesn’t say anything. Not even when Stiles coos again, very, very deliberately. (And Scott said his middle name could never be Danger, pffft.) Stiles can’t actually guess what Derek is going to do but he doesn’t care. He looks a strange cross between wanting to murder someone - namely, Stiles - and a little kid who was told they couldn’t get a puppy only to get one on Christmas day anyway.
Mostly, he just looks lost. And wet. Very, very wet. Somewhere out there, someone is playing It’s Raining Men and Stiles wants nothing more than to share this glorious moment with them. He’s just in the process of taking out his phone to at least snap a photo to send to the pack when -
“Did you mean it?” Derek asks, and man, those water droplets just keep on running, don’t they.
Stiles grins. “Did I mean for you to fall into a pond and adopt a new feathered friend? No but I think we can all agree-”
Derek growls and it would be effective - at least in getting Stiles to help him out of the pond - if it wasn’t for the fact his ears were turning a little pink. A lot pink, actually and -
Sitting up, Stiles drags his butt over to the edge of the pond.
“Yeah,” he says. “I meant it. I mean, smiles can’t literally light up rooms, I know that, but when you smile it’s like…” He sighs and flaps his arms, suddenly nervous, hitting Derek in the process. The duckling practically glares at him and Stiles briefly wonders if he has competition here.
Right. Better make this good then. He clears his throat.
“It’s like, everything just makes sense for a little bit, you know? I look at you and it’s not that smiling is rare for you, at least not anymore, but it’s still pretty thrilling to see it and when you do I’m like, that’s some quality shit right there but then I get confused because it’s like, do I wanna punch it? Kiss it? Pet it? Who knows. Usually it depends on what you’re wearing.”
Derek blinks and Stiles groans because, yeah, he just said that out loud. In real time. To Mr McGrumpy himself. Who is currently not reacting.
“Uh, I mean,” he attempts to correct himself but it’s too late. Derek is already slowly pulling him in and pressing his lips to his in what is the single most innocent, chaste kiss of Stiles’ life - because, you know, duckling and head movements - but somehow, it still manages to be perfect.
“Nice,” Stiles whispers, after, waggling his eyebrows.
Derek snorts and kisses him again.
“Turn it off,” Derek whines, nuzzling further into Stiles’ neck. “This is why I leave my phonein the kitchen.Like we discussed.”
Stiles tries to swat him, ends up kissing his temple. Sue him, he’s tired. “Says the person who can afford to leave their phone in the kitchen. We don’t all have supernatural hearing, asshole.”
Derek whines again. “You also have the worst taste in ringtones.”
Stiles gasps, suddenly sitting up. Well, he tries to. When your boyfriend is made of muscle and is half lying on top of you, it makes moving a lot more difficult. Not that Stiles is really complaining. Much. “I’ll have you know Bushes of Love is a Star Wars parody classic.”
Derek rolls his eyes, Stiles can feel it, says, “just answer it, sweetums.”
“Ugh,” Stiles grimaces, “I already told you I’m sorry for the pet-name thing. It was an accident!”
“Calling me your ‘slutty buddy’ in front of your dad was meant as a pet name?”
“It sounded better in my head!”
Derek groans and wraps an “exasperated” arm around Stiles’ waist. Oh. So. Exasperated. Stiles grins. “Answer. Your. Phone.”
Stiles finds his phone on the fifth try.
He has fifteen missed calls, all from Erica. Texts too. Every single one is a link to some article online, followed by a string of heart and eggplant emojis.
“Young Love and the Ugly Duckling’,” Stiles reads, clicking on the link. “Uhhh, Derek?” He prods him.
”There’s a picture of us in the online Beacon Gazette,” looking into each other’s eyes, like a pair of love sick fools, Stiles wants to add because, wow, is he really that obvious when he looks at Derek? To be fair though, Derek isn’t much better and he is the one with an angry bird on his head.
He prods Derek again and again until he finally gives in, makes him look at the phone.
“Huh,” he says, blinking at it. “Fred looks pretty pissed that I’m kissing you.” His face breaks out in a smug grin and Stiles rolls his eyes. Hard.
“You are aware Fred is a duckling, right?”
“Yes.” Derek grins harder, showing all his teeth, although his cheeks do colour slightly when he catches Stiles’ eye.
Stiles sighs, totally not fond. “They couldn’t have come up with a better title, though?” he asks, brandishing his phone. “The Ugly Ducking, really?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, frowning. “I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as to call you ugly.” He laughs and Stiles smacks him across the chest with a loud, “hey!”
They both turn back to look at the picture.
“We look so stupid,” Stiles whispers, shaking his head and biting his thumb. We fit, he thinks. We look like we fit.
Leaning in, Derek smiles at him. “We do,” he agrees, burying his face back into the warmth of Stiles’ neck, muttering something about home and content and stupid Star Wars parodies.
Stiles snaps a selfie, captions it goals, and sends it to Erica.
it’s my birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE 21ST OF SEPTEMBER IS FINALLY HERE, and that means a fic!!! have a destiel coffee shop AU on me. <3
“What are you having?” Castiel asked with a smile, and Dean’s stomach flipped.
“Um. Regular latte,” he managed to say, and smiled.
“Regular latte,” Castiel repeated. “Coming right up.” He turned away, and began to prepare Dean’s drink, tanned hands picking up a plain white cup which he spun into position onto the coffee machine, glancing up to see whether Dean had noticed. Dean smiled, hoping it came across as ‘impressed’ and not ‘totally smitten’.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other behind the cafe counter, Dean waited for his latte to be ready. He preferred espresso, if he was honest - but lattes took longer to drink, and just recently, Dean had found himself becoming a professional in the niche field of ‘reasons to take a long time over drinking a coffee in a small cafe’. He’d never even liked coffee that much - it had always been more of a necessary evil, utilized when he’d pushed his sleeping schedule beyond the reasonable limit - but that was something that he’d conveniently forgotten, just recently.
In fact, he could date this very specific amnesia to the exact moment that he’d walked through the door of this tiny cafe, tired in the middle of a long day at work and gasping for something to drink on his lunch break. That had been the first time he’d come, but there had been a second time, and a third… and now it was almost a whole month later, and Dean was still coming in every day.
He wished he could say that it was the coffee at Better Latte Than Never that kept him coming back. The coffee was good – or at least, Dean thought it was, though he was no expert - he hadn’t exactly sampled a whole lot of different brands. In fact, recently, he hadn’t even bothered buying his usual packet of filter coffee when he went grocery shopping. He spent so much time in Better Latte Than Never that he was starting to genuinely worry about the effects of overcaffeination.
After all, maybe those effects included giddiness, and butterflies in his stomach, and a heart rate through the roof, all of which Dean had been experiencing on a daily basis - but if he was honest, Dean didn’t think he could blame the coffee so much as the maker of the coffee for the symptoms.
I know the whole “Stiles and Derek butting heads in pack meetings because they can’t agree on a plan” thing is really popular but have yall ever thought about Stiles and Derek agreeing and ganging up on Scott (or anyone else)???
Scott getting annoyed and trying to make Derek feel bad about the plan and Stiles snapping at Scott harshly because “Derek is right and you know it! It’s the best and safest plan we got. You can’t always do whatever you want, Scott.”
Derek and Stiles being an impenetrable wall of conviction. These two finishing eachother’s thoughts and ideas and coming up with amazing plans. They get so much closer their minds are always in sync and they end up needing only a few words and looks to explain their ideas to eachother.
Sterek becoming an amazingly efficent team and an extrodinary Alpha/Emissary(Mate) couple :’)
bitty has outgrown this place, and the people in it.
tw: homophobic language/slurs
word count: 1800
for @stitchedopen, 3rd place winner in my fic giveaway! i hope you like it!
The clinking of Jack’s fork against his plate as he sets it down is very unnerving. It’s not the only sound in the room but it’s by far the loudest, to him at least. Even louder than Suzanne’s pleasant babbling (no wonder where Bitty gets it from) and the gentle lull of music being played on a radio somewhere in another room. Probably the kitchen, where Bitty’s finishing up supper.
There’s a shuffling around the corner and Coach becomes visible as he nears the bottom of the staircase. “Jack,” he mumbles gruffly in greeting, giving him a nod and sitting at the head of the table.
“Hello, Mr. Bittle,” Jack replies, smiling a little. “How’s the season going? Still the reigning champs of Morgan County?” If there’s one thing Jack knows he can get Coach to talk about, it’s football. It might be a much different sport than hockey, Jack surmises, but the passion they share for their sports is more than enough for them to hold a conversation.
“Oh, they lost their first game of the season last week. Nevin’s got an injury and we had to switch around the lineups– you remember, Nevin, receiver, curly hair, he’s in the team picture in the living room– anyway, I’m sure it hurt their chemistry.” Coach would talk strategy with Jack for hours, if it was up to him, but Eric is coming into the dining room now. He’s got on yellow oven mitts with tiny white flowers, and he’s holding a tray with a roast and some vegetables.
“The meat’s a little dry, Lord help me, I should stick to baking,” Eric laughs, setting the tray down on the table. “But all the vegetables should be good and I’ve got some pumpkin muffins with a fantastic cream cheese frosting waiting for us in the kitchen.” Everyone starts to serve themselves. The meat’s not dry at all, but Jack keeps that to himself. Sometimes Bitty needs little things to dwell on, to keep himself busy so he’s not worrying so much about the big stuff. Jack knows that.
“So,” Suzanne starts after a minute, and Jack can tell that this is going to be a long one. He glances up at her, a signal that he’s listening. “The Gardeners are having a potluck this Friday, and they sent us an invitation.”
Bitty nearly drops his fork. “The Gardeners?” he hisses. “As in, Melissa and Kyle?”
“Those Gardeners,” Suzanne replies smugly. Jack and Coach exchange a look, humor gleaming in both of their eyes. The drama is about to unfold, they can tell. “What right do they think they’ve got, inviting us to their potluck after what happened at ours?”
Bitty turns to Jack, waving his hands as he speaks. “Two summers ago, we held a potluck here for the neighborhood, and when the Gardeners showed up, Kyle was drunk as a skunk and knocked over our entire dessert table. The whole thing! It was all ruined! And it would have been okay, but they didn’t even bring anything to the potluck in the first place, and they never apologized, and oh, it was such a mess, everyone tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal but darlin’ you should’ve seen the look on Moomaw’s face, I swear she was on the verge of a heart attack.” He shifts abruptly back toward Suzanne. “Mama, we’ve got to go.”
“Oh, I know that, of course we do. Dicky, what you’ve gotta do is bake the best pie those folks have ever tasted, let them know exactly what they were destroying when they had the nerve-”
Jack hums quietly, making a mental note. Potluck on Friday. Prepare for a spectacle.
Bitty’s fingers press against Jack’s neck as he helps him straighten his collar. Jack doesn’t really need the help, he supposes, but the contact is welcome, brief but full of warmth, not the kind of affection Jack usually gets when they’re with Bitty’s parents. They’ve been trying really hard, Jack can tell, and Bitty has too. But he understands why Eric sometimes has trouble being soft with Jack around Suzanne and Coach.
“Don’t you just look dashing,” Bitty says with a smile, placing his hand flat on Jack’s chest.
“Only because you picked my outfit,” Jack laughs. Bitty laughs with him, nodding in agreement. He’s got little crinkles at the edges of his eyes when he laughs, and Jack rubs his thumb over them, absent minded.
“You ready, Dicky?” Suzanne calls from the kitchen. The noises of the coffee pot stop and Jack can hear her pouring herself a cup.
“All ready!” Bits yells back. He reaches up his hand and squeezes Jack’s wrist before whirling around into the kitchen. Jack watches Bitty’s hips swing as he leaves, his jeans a little tighter than usual since he’s outgrown some of the clothes that he left here during the school year, and wonders if wore them on purpose.
The potluck is bustling. There are people of all ages, from the tiny toddlers playing in the Slip ‘N Slide far left in the back yard to the old ladies knitting underneath the sugar maple next to the house in a comically stereotypical manner. Jack opens Eric’s door for him not out of chivalry but out of necessity– when he emerges from the car, his arms are full of tupperware containers.
“Let me take some, bud” Jack offers, but Bitty shakes his head.
“I’ve got to bring them over myself.”
“This one’s cherry with a lattice crust,” Eric is explaining as he removes the lid from the nearest tupperware container. The egregious Melissa Gardener turns out to be a petite brunette with a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. “And this one’s pumpkin, I know it’s not really the season but I had some materials left over from the muffins I made the other night and I’m sure it’ll be just delightful, I made the whipped cream myself– now, they’re all desserts. I was sure you’d need some.”
Jack stifles a laugh. The bite in Bitty’s voice is unmistakable. “Where should I set them?” Eric asks, still sweet as sugar but with a lilt that suggests this isn’t an innocent question. “This table seems a little… unsteady. I wouldn’t want them to fall, heaven forbid.”
“This table’s fine,” Melissa ensures him, smiling. “Thank you so much for the contributions.”
“It’s nothing at all.”
They burst out laughing as soon as she leaves, Bitty collapsing into Jack’s chest. Jack’s arms come around him automatically and squeeze. “Bits, that was cold.”
“Really? Here I was, thinking I was being so courteous.”
They stay in the embrace for a few more seconds before Bitty shifts away from Jack. It’s subtle, but Jack understands. He squeezes Bitty’s shoulder and then takes a step away. Bitty’s out to everyone who matters, but some people don’t know. And some still have their prejudices.
“Bits, where’s the bathroom?” Jack asks. The noise is already getting to him. He knows he’s got a while of this to go, and he’s sure he’ll be fine, but he just needs a minute to adjust. Eric points him in the right direction, then goes back to arranging the pies on the table.
“Eric!” Bitty whips around. It’s a tall guy with acne scars in a red polo shirt. Bitty looks up, his face ghostly stricken for a second, then paints a big smile on.
“Hey, Todd,” he replies as the guy moves closer. “How have you been.”
“I’ve been fine, thanks,” Todd says. Eric tugs on the bottom of his shirt and glances over at Jack, entering the house. “Who’s the guy?” Todd asks, nodding toward him.
“Jack,” Eric says. “My… my boyfriend.”
Todd smiles. He turns his gaze to Bitty. “I’ve gotta say, Eric, I’m impressed! I expected you to come home with some twinky faggot in a pink H&M scarf.”
Eric inhales sharply. “Go away,” he says quietly, looking at his shoes. “My love life is none of your business.”
“We all knew you were a homo, Bittle, I guess it’s just a little surprising that you’re still showing your face around here. Are you queers ever gonna stop shoving your agenda in our faces? Huh? Go back to Samwell, eh?” He’s inching closer now, and Eric’s cheeks are flaming red.
“Go fuck yourself,” Eric mutters, turning his back. He unstacks a tin of macadamia nut cookies from his lemon meringue, and opens it. His hands are shaking as he spreads them out artfully.
Todd ignores his response, instead reaching over Bitty and sweeping up several cookies. “Don’t mind if I do,” he says as he stuffs one in his mouth. “Mmm,” he replies, smirking. “They’re a little bit… fruity, don’t you think?”
“That’s not even funny,” Eric rolls his eyes. “Get the hell away from me.”
“And if I don’t?”
There’s a hand on the back of Bitty’s neck and he’s flinching, he’s freezing, he can’t move he can’t breathe–
“If you don’t,” Jack whispers, his voice robotic and cold. “I’ll beat the shit out of you, and you can crawl home to your mother and tell her you got your ass handed to you by a faggot. Does that sound like a good enough reason to stop?”
Todd takes a step back. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” he hisses at Jack. “You’re not from around here, are you? You don’t know who my dad is, do you?”
“Let me guess. Mayor of some town I’ve never heard of? Principal of the local high school? Do you know who my father is, noune?” Jack puffs up his shoulders. “Because I can guaran-fucking-tee that my dad is a hell of a lot worse to mess with than yours. So you might just wanna step off.”
“Whatever. I shouldn’t be talking to y’all anyway. Just in case it’s contagious, you know?” Todd smirks.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Jack says, still matter of fact, balling his fists and lunging toward Todd. Todd flinches, but the blow doesn’t come. Bitty’s caught the back of Jack’s t-shirt in his hand.
“Jack, honey, it’s okay. I can handle it.”
“But this– this asshole–”
“Trust me, sweetpea, I’ve got this.” Eric smiles.
“Yeah, you’re sure gonna take care of me, Bittle, what can you weigh, a hundred and ten? I bet you couldn’t even–”
“Pity,” Eric says sweetly as the pie tin slides down Todd’s face, then down his shirt, coating him in cherry filling. “That lattice crust was gorgeous.”
“You– you–” Todd splutters, wiping cherry crud out of his eyes, but Bitty and Jack are already walking away.
“Enjoy the snacks, Melissa,” Eric calls over his shoulder as they make their way to the car. “We’re gonna head out.”
Derek doesn’t even know when Stiles went from someone he once considered an ally to someone he goes to lunch with on a regular basis to someone who was able to look at Derek and just know him. Somewhere between all the supernatural threats and complicated relationship drama in the pack, Stiles figured out a way to tear down the brick walls Derek had put up after Kate. And Derek didn’t stop him – hadn’t even wanted to.
Somehow, Stiles had graduated from a casual friend to his best friend to the-boy-Derek-shall-forever-pine-after-because-he’s-a-chicken-shit.
“Once upon a time,” Stiles began, and Thomas sighed happily, resting his cheek in the hollow of Stiles’ shoulder. “There was a gangly, clumsy, freckle-faced young boy, and a beautiful, majestic wolf —”
“You mean, there was a beautiful, brilliant, amber-eyed boy, and a half-starved, mangy-looking wolf,” a voice interrupted. “It looks like I made it just in time, huh?” Derek said with a conspiratorial smirk at Thomas. “Gotta make sure you tell it right.”
“Yeah, Daddy!” Thomas parroted. “Tell it right!”
“Okay, okay,” Stiles sighed, settling his arm across Thomas with his hand resting on his husband’s waist, thumb drawing an absent-minded little circle. “Once upon a time, there was a probably-going-to-grow-into-his-looks-just-fine young boy, and a very lonely wolf…”
“I think I’m dying.” Nothing makes sense – and now Derek has left him.
“No, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says grimly, rooting around in his special cupboard of herbs and remedies. “I’m afraid not. You’re merely suffering from a biological imperative to bear your alpha’s children and strengthen the pack.”
Stiles considers that for a moment, as best he can with his mind a hazy mess, and then he says quietly, “I think that might be worse.”
“So, so much worse,” Scott agrees. * In which Derek’s pack is apparently stable enough to begin planning for the future, and somehow, the universe has decided Stiles is the perfect candidate to bear his alpha’s children.
I just want to say something about fic writers. For every writer out there, there is at least one reader whose day you’ve made better, just by posting that thing you were nervous about putting out into the world. One reader who you’ve made smile or cry or laugh or hold their phone close to their face and think “wow wow wow wow wow wow thank you I am so blessed I really needed this today”. There are a lot of days when I can barely read anything, for one reason or another, but then I get a day like today, where I stumble across some fic, and everything just seems okay for a while as I read it. Thank you, to all fic writers, for that feeling. That feeling of “it’s okay” or “hey, I am feeling like shit but you know what, my favourite character is okay today”. You make that happen. Whatever kind of writer you are, however little or well known you are. You make all those horrible, sometimes damn lonely days a little more bearable and worth while and from the bottom of my heart, I just really wanted to say thank you so much.
Some nights, when they have the luxury of going to bed without an alarm, and all he can hear is the hum of the radiator plus the soft, contented noises Cas makes in his sleep, Dean lies thinking about just how they got here, about all the times that could’ve broken them.
It’s always been about eschewing convention, from the very second they laid eyes on each other. As star-crossed as any two could get: a warrior of God and a faithless man. By all accounts, they shouldn’t have worked, too much fire in both of them to truly last. Yet the fire made them brave (some would say foolish) and Cas left everything to save one man, who then tore through everything to save one angel.
And now they’re here, in a bunker in Kansas, curled up together like an old married couple, climbed into bed at ten so Cas could read while Dean caught up on emails. They still hunt occasionally, interspersed more and more with dinners at Jody’s and Cas taking Dean to the farmer’s market. Claire comes to stay with them when school’s on break, not so outnumbered now thanks to Eileen. Not that she didn’t have them wrapped around her finger before.
It used to scare Dean how easy it was, that first night when he asked Cas to stay and Cas fit in like he’d always belonged. Waking up together and laughing at Cas when he burned a panful of eggs to a crisp. Laughing that soon melted into kissing, which prompted Sam to plead, “Leave room for Jesus.”
They hold hands when they’re at a diner sharing pancakes and waffles at 1am, because Dean’s become the sort of guy who tugs his boyfriend closer just to see him smile. They could go out for burgers but he cooks them instead, ever since Cas told him that his are best, and Dean thinks he’s reached the pinnacle of being ‘whipped’ when he’s happy to let Cas take charge at IKEA.
Some nights, Dean wonders, with all they’ve been through, if he should be more generous with saying ‘I love you.’ He’s never felt about anyone how he feels about Cas, and sometimes those three words aren’t enough to express it. The sentiment is there in all they do, from the coffee he pours for Cas to the kisses he presses to his hair. The photographs that Cas tacks onto their wall, scenery shots and ‘selfies’ they’ve taken on the road. In the way Cas smiles at him with fondness tucked into the curve of his pretty mouth. That sappy exasperation hasn’t changed, like Castiel can’t help but be in love with him.
But when he sees Sam and Eileen signing to each other, ‘I love you’s over breakfast and folding laundry, and he catches how Eileen beams at Sam every time, Dean thinks maybe there’s something to it that can’t be conveyed by action alone. He thinks of all the missed chances, the bitten back words, the time they wasted in the past nine years. They’ve come so far and overcome so much. There’s nothing to keep him from telling Cas the truth.
So, tonight, he turns to Cas, pulse ringing loudly in his ears as he touches his palm to Castiel’s cheek. Cas blinks sleepily but smiles back, filling Dean’s world with a palette of blue. “Dean?” he mumbles softly, leaning gently into Dean’s hand, and the inner fire that Dean remembers ignites in his chest, steady and warm.
He has no need to glance at the clock. It ticked past midnight minutes ago.
“Happy Anniversary, Cas,” he says. A flutter of his heart and then, “I love you.”
Warnings: Smut - NSFW – Sexual themes, inappropriate language, nudity, handjob,
fingering, squirting, unprotected sex - please guys if you’re going to be intimate with someone, please use protection. Also if you’re underage, please don’t read this.
Author’s Note: Hi guys, I don’t even know what to say about this. I think this
is the most smuty thing I’ve ever wrote ahah so all I can say is I hope you
enjoy it. This is also for @marvelous-fvcks writing
challenge. I hope you like it! I did my best. And please guys, tell me what you think of it. I’m so nervous for some reason ahaha.
Prompt Word: Hickey
Andrew looks away from the road to Neil, and then back again.
“They’re not,” Neil attempts.
The only reason Neil finally agreed to go to the dentist was because of the threat of being benched by the coaches. Not because the pain has been affecting his playing - of course it hasn’t - but because everyone on the team is sick of him holding and rotating his jaw all the time, obviously in pain but completely unwilling to admit it.
“You do as the doctors say now,” Andrew says, a reminder of an old agreement made back when Neil first went pro. Neil’s innate distrust in people wasn’t ever going to be a good enough reason for him to be stupid in regards to medical care when he was out of Abby’s hands. Andrew would like to think that now they’re on the same team he would have slightly more sway over Neil, but that’s never really been the case.
“He’s not a doctor.” The level of scorn in Neil’s voice is truly impressive.
“Medical professional, then.” Andrew imagines the look on the dentist’s face as hearing Neil’s real opinion of him.
“Lots of people keep their wisdom teeth,” Neil says. “You still have yours.”
Andrew’s aren’t growing sideways out of his skull and threatening to crowd all his other teeth together. The term the dentist had used for Neil’s was ‘severely impacted’. He’d referred Neil to a maxillofacial surgeon and said that Neil would be lucky if they could be removed under sedation rather than a general anaesthetic.
“I know,” Andrew says, rather than attempting a logical argument. There’s really no point.
“I know, it’s hard to believe that my mouth really is bigger than yours,” Andrew says.
The threat of benching works well enough to get Neil to the surgeon, which is unsurprising to anyone who actually knows Neil. He’s calm and unafraid all day, except for the piercing look he gives Andrew in the moments before he’s ushered away.
“There’s a quiet waiting room just through here,” someone says, indicating a door. “You would be amazed how ill people have to be before they stop considering asking for an autograph.”
It’s been a while since anyone over the age of about sixteen asked Andrew for an autograph - the older ones got the idea eventually - but the offer of a quiet place to not be stared at isn’t anything to be sniffed at. Andrew goes through the door and takes a spot on a chair next to the window with a clear view of the door.
His fingers itch for a cigarette. He reaches for his phone instead.
Social media isn’t of much interest to him, so he spends a good half-hour reading news articles spiralling into scientific studies and then into the rabbit hole of wikipedia. He’s not sure quite how long it’s been when a knock at the door interrupts him from the page he’s reading on Indian mathematics.
Someone in scrubs puts her head through the door. “Mister Minyard? Neil is in recovery now. You can come sit with him.”
Andrew stands and follows her quick bustle of a walk, putting his phone in his pocket as he goes. The nurse is chatting as speedily as she walks. “Once he’s more awake and we know for sure he’s feeling himself he can be discharged. He’s a little quiet right now, but he asked for you before.”
She ushers him into a private room - another perk of being professional athletes - with a smile.
Neil is lying on his back on the bed with his eyes closed, but he opens them when he hears Andrew sitting in the chair at his side. He looks a little like a chipmunk with the gauze stuffed in his cheeks, his jaw swollen enough that it’s grotesquely square rather than its usual fine-angled shape.
“Hey,” Andrew says.
He’s not necessarily expecting chattiness, but he is expecting an answer. Instead Neil just stares at him. His eyes are very large, as are his pupils.
“Hi,” he says eventually. He sounds exactly like he’s talking through a mouthful of cotton. The nurse comes in and fiddles with the blood pressure cuff on his arm, and Neil rolls his head around to watch her doing it.
“I’m just going to squash your arm again, okay?” she says, with the manner of someone talking to a child or an adult who is exceptionally out of their mind on drugs.
Neil doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then comes out with, “This is Andrew.”
The nurse flicks Andrew a look and a small smile. “We met, actually. He was waiting outside for you.”
“He’ll always wait for me,” Neil tells her, matter-of-fact. “He’s my partner.”
The nurse’s expression doesn’t change much, but it’s only through power of will, Andrew suspects. She looks like she would love to laugh. “That’s really nice of him.”
“Yeah,” Neil sighs warmly. He’s pathetic.
“I would have recognised him anyway,” the nurse says, still looking amused. “I’m a Rebels fan.”
Neil, who is the biggest Rebels fan in the city, does something that might have been a half-smile if it weren’t for the current state of his face. Then it falls off. Mournfully, he says, “I can’t play this week.”
“No, but you’ll be back out there before you know it,” the nurse comforts. Her name tag says ‘Helen’ and has a yellow flower on it. “Are you playing, Andrew?”
“He’s the starting goalie,” Neil says before Andrew can say anything, almost making it to sounding affronted. Mostly he just sounds loopy. Andrew has never seen him have so many emotional shifts in thirty seconds before.
“I thought he might be stuck looking after you,” Helen replies. “I know what athletes are like.”
“I can look after myself.” That’s a very Neil answer, and also a complete lie. Andrew is banking on Neil being too miserable to want to come to the game in two days, because otherwise he’ll be on the bench in all his swollen-faced glory.
“I’m sure you can,” Helen says, and pats him on the shoulder condescendingly. Neil doesn’t notice at all. “I’ll come back in fifteen minutes and see how you’re doing.”
She bustles back out again, closing the door behind her gently. Neil sighs and rolls onto his side, muttering something indecipherable when the blood pressure cuff gets pulled tight under his body. It doesn’t sound pleased, and it’s definitely not in any language Andrew recognises.
Neil raises his unrestrained hand towards Andrew. It swerves a little in the air. “Can I?”
“Yes,” Andrew says. He’s expecting Neil to take his hand, but he doesn’t flinch when Neil reaches for his face instead. What he currently lacks in coordination he makes up for in gentleness, but Andrew closes his eyes anyway to lower the risk of losing one to a poorly-aimed finger.
“You look weird,” Neil mutters.
“You look weird,” Andrew tells him, mostly because it’s true, partly to see Neil wrinkle his nose at him.
“Do not,” Neil replies. He pats Andrew’s cheek, and then gets distracted by Andrew’s hair. That’s not unusual, to be fair, though the level of concentration he’s giving it is. “Hey.”
“Hey.” More insistently this time, like he doesn’t already have Andrew’s full attention. He tugs Andrew’s hair.
Never let it be said Andrew can’t take a hint. He lowers himself onto his elbows on the edge of the bed and puts his forehead to Neil’s. Even though they’re at odd angles, Neil sighs in satisfaction. His eyelashes flutter against Andrew’s temple, fingers stroking idly over the arch of Andrew’s ear.
“Good,” he mutters, seemingly to himself.
They stay like that, Andrew’s chin pillowed on the starchy sheets and his forehead likely leaving an imprint on Neil’s fairer skin. Neil dozes, hand going lax, and Andrew closes his eyes and thinks in circles for a little while about the Bakhshali Manuscript.
Another knock at the door makes him raise his head. Neil’s eyes flash open, and then he blinks like he’s reeling a little. His fingers have fallen to Andrew’s wrist, and they tighten for a split-second before dropping away.
“Hi again,” Helen says gently. “Let’s get a look at you, Neil.”
Andrew moves aside and lets her at him, ignoring the disgruntled sound this earns from the bed. Neil is distracted quickly by Helen extracting the arm with the cuff from under his body and taking his blood pressure again, before removing it and making him sit up. Then she leaves, and returns with clothes and a clipboard. The clothes she leaves for Neil to attempt to put on. The clipboard she gives to Andrew.
“Rather than it turning out as a discharge form as signed by Alexander Pushkin,” she explains with a shrug. It’s fine, Andrew is all over Neil’s paperwork these days. He flips through the notes and signs in the right places then hands the board back, and gets a sheet of discharge instructions in its place.
“I’ll leave you guys for a sec and sort things,” she says, and does just that. It leaves Andrew to subtly ensure that Neil puts all his clothes on the right body parts. He’s looking less high but still dazed, his eyes hooded but his face pulling tighter. In the fall down, he’s always uncomfortably aware of the abnormality of being out of control of himself. Years later that hasn’t changed. Andrew isn’t surprised.
“You’re good to go,” Helen tells Neil when she returns, and then says to Andrew, “Good luck!”
He would like to think, as he manoeuvres Neil out, that she means for the game on Friday. It’s not likely, though.
Neil falls asleep against the window on the drive home. Andrew prods him awake so he can walk himself into the elevator, where he sags against the wall, and then into the apartment. He shuffles into the bedroom, still making gentle smooching noises at Sir and King as he winds himself into the duvet. He’s out ten seconds later.
Andrew watches for a moment while King curls up beside him and Sir gently begins to groom his hair, and then retreats to the balcony for a cigarette.
Andrew has relocated inside to the couch by the time he hears stirring from the bedroom a few hours later. The Neil who emerges is rumpled but sleepy in a normal sense rather than because of lingering sedation.
He lowers himself gently onto the cushion beside Andrew, and then even more slowly lowers his head down onto Andrew’s thighs.
“Painkillers?” Andrew offers. The discharge notes included strict instructions on dosage and timing, but Neil’s been asleep long enough to be due another couple of pills.
“In a minute,” Neil mumbles, like he’s trying to move his jaw as little as possible. He pats Andrew on the shin. “Stay.”
In an hour Neil’s going to be pissed off and probably a little anxious, wanting to move but knowing he can’t, irritated by the pain. But for now, it’s pretty easy to read a book and play pillow while Neil rests.