#<-the adult is asking the first question and answering the second

[wosospacegirl]

Legally binding - Part 5

Summary: Alexia Putellas didn’t plan to become anyone’s legal guardian. But a very determined 12-year-old with a forged Barça contract has other ideas—and she's already moved in.

Warnings: Y/n has her first family dinner ever; Eli is in love; Alba has a new best friend; Alexia plucks little girl's eyes.

Word count: 7.3k

A/n: first of all, thanks for the patience, second of all, this is a little different from what I'm used to writing, it's a bit melancholic and angsty, I hope it's not that bad

..

Eli had fallen in love with Y/n the moment she saw the girl.

The kid barely had to do anything to get the older woman's affection, which was weird to Y/n. She thought she always had to give something to get something. She thought she had to be a good, quiet kid to get more dinner at night, that she had to be well-behaved to not get yelled at.

But Eli wrapped her arms around Y/n as if she had known her for ages. She kissed her head as if she had been waiting for this moment, even though Y/n was a hundred per cent sure Alexia had been keeping her a secret.

Eli sneaked a lollipop into Y/n's hand when Alexia went to the kitchen to get Alba (who looked like she was on the edge of passing out) a glass of water. She asked Y/n about her school, and if Alexia had been treating her right, if Alexia had been giving her healthy food.

Eli was just naturally affectionate, instinctively caring and wholeheartedly seemed like a good person. Y/n knew why Alexia was so good to her–she had a good mom!

It had been maybe half an hour since the Putellas met Y/n.

They were in the living room, the adults sitting on the big, white sofa while Barbie was playing on the TV, even though no one was really watching. 

Eli and Alba were too focused on the little girl doing science homework by the coffee table. Y/n was too focused on finishing her assignment fast so she could spend time with her new grandmother and aunt. 

And Alexia... well, she was focused on helping the kid understand the different planets in the solar system while also answering her mom's and sister's questions about Y/n.

The kid had told Alexia she was hungry, so Alexia decided to order food from a Mexican restaurant–she knew deep down that she wasn't going to get much cooking done, not with the way Eli and Alba were interrogating her about Y/n.

Alexia answered all of their questions (with the patience of a saint). Alba asked her who the girl really was; Eli asked about how the girl ended up in her care, and so many other questions that made Alexia's head hurt.

Y/n, ever so helpful, chimed in from time to time to give her version of the story.

"She saw me giving an interview at La Masia about how every kid should follow their dream–"

"No!" Y/n said, lifting her finger, as if to make a point. "You said that every kid should have caring parents who would allow them to follow their dreams!"

"Oh, and let me guess," Alba said. "You chose Alexia to be your parent?"

"Yes!" Y/n said happily, proud of herself.

Alba looked to her side as if ready to tell the girl a secret, she playfully leaned in and said, (absolutely not whispering at all)

"Be careful," she warned, "she used to pluck my dolls' eyes when I was a kid."

Y/n looked absolutely terrified.

Of course, Alba would scare her kid in less than a second of them meeting, Alexia thought as she rolled her eyes, giving Alba a 'really?!' face.

Meanwhile, Y/n watched Alexia in absolute horror, as if she had betrayed her deeply.

"I won't take your eyes out," Alexia had to say at least five times before the girl agreed that Alexia had left the eye-plucking world behind. "I promise."

"That's what she told me after leaving my Barbie eyeless," Alba murmured, ignoring the way Alexia pinched her.

Their conversation was cut short when the food delivery arrived. 

It was tacos.

And Y/n had never had tacos before. And oh, she loved them.

Her mouth was all smeared up with sauce. She was the first one to finish, but when she looked around, there was no more food. Alexia had only ordered one taco per person.

The girl didn't ask, she didn't look at anyone with her big, round eyes, but Alexia knew she wanted more tacos. So Alexia gave her hers.

"Here," Alexia said, handing the girl the half-eaten taco. "I don't want it anymore."

The kid looked at Alexia suspiciously. "No?"

"No," Alexia agreed, "I'm really full."

The kid looked at the taco in her hand, then at Alexia, and back at the taco. "You didn't poison it just so you can kill me and take my eyes, right?"

"Oh my god," Alexia groaned as she held the bridge of her nose.

"I have a very cool film to introduce you to, sobrinita," [niece] Alba said. "It's called Coraline, you're gonna love it!"

"Really?" The kid asked happily.

"No," Alexia rolled her eyes. "You're not watching that."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"That's not a real answer."

"Yes, it is!"

"N,o it's not!" The kid furrowed her eyebrows.

"They kind of look alike, don't you think?" Alba asked quietly to her mom as they watched the two in front of them arguing.

"Sí," Eli agreed, "she reminds me a little bit of Alexia when she was young."

"She's cooler than Alexia, though." Alba teased.

"Don't be mean to your sister," Eli said. "Ok, you two, stop." Eli interrupted Y/n and Alexia.

Alexia shut up right away, and Y/n too.

"Let's all finish eating, sí?" Eli said. "I want to talk more, I have so many questions."

They finished eating.

It was weird, Alexia noticed. Everybody seemed so... at ease, as if their weekly dinner date had always been made out of four people, not only three. As if Y/n had always been there.

It made Alexia feel warm inside, the feeling of family, but it was dangerous. She couldn't allow herself to feel that way, not yet.

She had a big decision to make, one she wasn't sure was the right one.

Alexia cleaned up while the three girls chatted.

"Are you really an orphan, sweetheart?" Eli asked, looking at Y/n while the girl was sitting cross-legged on the floor, drawing with crayons. "Do you have any relatives left?"

"I don't think I have any grandparents… or uncle… aunts," Y/n said, drawing what looked to be a head on the paper. "Or cousins or–"

"Did your parents die?" Alba asked bluntly. "Or were you... abandoned?"

Alexia and Eli both turned their heads to Alba. 

"Alba!" they said in unison.

Alba lifted her hands in surrender. "What! Sorry, I'm just curious."

Alexia bent down and covered Y/n's ears, who continued to draw. "Her mother left her at the orphanage when she was a baby, and her dad was never found, either."

The kid took Alexia's hands off her ears. "This is my story, you know? I was there."

"You were barely a month old," Alexia said.

"Still–" the girl said, giving her attention back to the drawing. "My heart remembers it."

Alexia pretended that those words didn't leave a mark on her. She breathed once, then twice, before putting her hands on the girl's shoulders.

"Hop hop," Alexia said. "You need to go to bed."

"What! No!" The girl said.

"Yes," Alexia said in a calm tone. "You have school tomorrow."

"But..." The girl scurried to where Eli was sitting and put her head on her lap. "I just met my family, can I please stay awake a little more?"

Family.

Alexia didn't know how to tell the girl that that wasn't necessarily her family. Not yet, not when Alexia still had doubts in her mind about whether she could really take the kid or not.

"Cariño," Eli said. "ete a dormir, vale? Mañana, si Alexia me lo permite, te llevo a tomar un helado." [Sweetheart / Go to sleep, okay? Tomorrow, if Alexia lets me, I'll take you out for ice cream]

"Really?" The girl looked from Eli to Alexia. "Can I, Alexia? Please? After school?"

Alexia didn't like it when the kid ate sweets during the weekdays, but she looked very happy right now and... Alexia wasn't sure if she had EVER had ice cream, so she nodded.

"Okay," Alexia agreed. "But only if you go to bed now."

The kid kissed Eli and Alba before going to hug Alexia, then she walked to her room.

Alexia stood frozen on the spot.

Y/n had never hugged her that way. They weren't very physically affectionate. Alexia didn't quite know how to be.

She just bought whatever the girl wanted and hoped the kid understood that that was Alexia showing she cared.

Maybe when Alexia gave her back to the orphanage, she could keep on paying for her necessities. If the State allowed it, Alexia would pay for her clothes, books, and evem open a bank account in the girl's name and put her on her own health insurance.

She was going to make sure that she was taken care of; she wouldn't completely abandon the girl. She wasn't a monster.

"She's really lovely," Eli said with a smile on her face. "I can really see how she was so drawn to you and–"

"Mami, I need to tell you something," Alexia interrupted.

..

Alexia's mom didn't take it well when Alexia told her she wasn't going to keep the kid.

It was late at night now. Alba had long gone to her house when she sensed that Alexia's and Eli's conversation was serious. 

The kid was sleeping in her room–Alexia made sure to check if she was tucked in properly–and Alexia was receiving the biggest earful of her life.

Her mom wasn't this mad when she and Alba took a bus and went to Madrid on their own when they were 15 and 17. 

She didn't fight with her when Alexia lost herself in the middle of her ACL injuries. 

Even when Alexia got a secret back tattoo at sixteen, Eli hadn't been this angry. But this? This Eli was so much different–very angry, very mad.

"What do you mean you were planning on giving that angelic child back, Alexia?" her mother asked, walking in circles in the middle of Alexia's living room while Alexia sat on the sofa, looking up at her mom guiltily.

"Mom, I didn't adopt her!" Alexia said, running her hands through her hair. "I signed papers about a contract. The kid slipped a fucking adoption form in the middle of it and–"

Her mom stopped and looked seriously at Alexia. 

"You do not cuss in front of me, Alexia." Then she continued to walk in circles. "I don't know what's happening to you. First, you become the legal guardian of a kid, then you stay a whole month without showing your face to me and your sister, and now you're cussing–what is happening?"

Alexia felt something tight building in her chest. She watched her mother pace; the judgment was so clear in every step she took. 

Alexia didn't want to disrespect her mom, but her patience was wearing thin. It was like no one around her understood what was really happening.

"You want to know what's happening?" Alexia's voice started low, controlled. "I wake up every morning terrified I'm going to mess up. I don't know if I'm feeding her the right things, if I'm saying the right things, if I'm–" She stopped, her voice cracking slightly.

Her mom paused, but the disapproval was still written across her face. "Alexia, that child needs–"

"I know what she needs!" The words exploded out of her before she could stop them. Alexia shot up from the sofa, her hands shaking. "Don't you think I know what she needs? She needs someone who knows how to braid hair without making her cry." 

Alexia looked at her mom, the vein in her forehead showing. "She needs someone who doesn't panic when she asks difficult questions. She needs someone who doesn't Google how to build a volcano for school's science fair at two in the morning! She doesn't need someone who feels like she's drowning."

Eli's eyes widened, but she crossed her arms. "So you think the solution is to give up? To abandon her?"

"I'm not abandoning her!" Alexia's voice was almost desperate now. "I'm trying to do what's best for her! She deserves someone who actually knows what they're doing–"

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, feeling the sting of tears. "Someone who doesnt forget her dentist appointment, someone who doesn't travel all the time!"

The silence stretched between them. When Alexia finally looked up, her mother's expression had completely changed.

"One day, my main concern was the squad call-up for Spain," Alexia whispered, her voice breaking.

"The next day, I was trying to figure out how to put a kid on my health insurance, how to enrol her in school, how to explain to her why some days I can barely take care of myself, let alone her."

Eli stared at her daughter, watching as Alexia's shoulders shook with the weight of everything that had been happening in the last weeks.

The anger that had been building in her chest moments before was completely gone now; it was replaced by something that felt like her heart breaking.

She saw it now–it wasn't that Alexia was defiant or selfish. No–she was scared. 

Her oldest daughter, who had always been a perfectionist, who had always held herself and everything she did to a high standard, was now terrified that she wasn't enough for the little girl sleeping down the hall. That she wasn't going to give everything the girl needed. That she couldn't be what she needed.

Eli's expression softened completely. She gently knelt down in front of Alexia and took the hands that were covering her face.

"Hija, mírame a mí," Eli said softly. [Honey, look at me]

Alexia did just that, feeling her eyes filling with tears, but she didn't want to cry in front of her mom. She never did.

"You don't mean what you're saying," Eli said, her voice firm.

"It's late, and you're tired. I have felt like this when you and Alba were younger–like you two were responsibilities too heavy to carry, like you were too precious, that I couldn't do anything wrong to you, that you two would break."

Alexia gulped, trying to keep her composure.

"You know what I see when I look at you with that little girl?" Eli's voice was gentle now, all the anger gone.

"I see the way your whole face changes when she smiles, or when she seems happy. I see how you always make sure she's eating before you even think about your own food."

Alexia's breath hitched, but she didn't look away from her mother's eyes.

"I went to her room while you two were talking to Alba," Eli continued, her thumb stroking over Alexia's knuckles.

"Those purple curtains? The matching rug? That wasn't an obligation, mija. That was love."

A fresh tear rolled down Alexia's cheek. "She mentioned once that purple was her favourite colour," she whispered. "I just... I wanted her to feel like it was her space."

"And those shoes she's wearing?"

Alexia's voice was barely audible. 

"Her old ones had holes. She never complained; she wanted to keep them. But I took her to Nike anyway and let her pick whatever she wanted."

"She was excited...She kept saying, 'Are you sure? as if she couldn't believe they were really hers, it was weird, because I feel like she deserves everything."

Eli's own eyes filled with tears. "Yeah? What about her hair? It's so beautiful, Alexia. Were you the one who braided it?"

"Sí, she used to cry every morning trying to brush it, or sometimes not brush it at all" Alexia said.. "So I searched on youtube how to get her hair done, and all that… it doesn't look that good, but it's the best I could do."

Eli reached up and cupped her daughter's face with both hands.

"Hija, listen to me. Love isn't about being perfect. It's about showing up. And you've been showing up for that little girl every single day, even when you're scared, even when you don't know what you're doing." 

She wiped away Alexia's tears with her thumbs.

"You chose that girl the moment you decided her comfort mattered more than your convenience. You chose her when you learned how to do her hair. You chose her when you made her room feel like home. And she chose you right back."

"I don't know, mami, it's too much sometimes, a whole... kid," Alexia said.

"It seems to me, Alexia," Eli said gently, "that you chose that girl just as much as she chose you."

Eli sat beside Alexia, wrapping an arm around her. "If you choose her every day, then you are already a better parent than most people out there."

"I don't know how to be a parent, mami," Alexia said in a small voice that even she wasn't used to hearing from herself.

"You already are one, cariño," Eli said, kissing the top of Alexia's head. "You can't do anything about it now. Trust me, once you get a child, they are yours forever."

Alexia chuckled, but it didn't have much joy in it. "Is that why you're comforting your thirty-year-old daughter?"

"I'm comforting my thirty-year-old daughter because she's hurting and needs her mom," Eli said firmly. "You need your mom just as much as that kid needs her mom, which is now you." 

She moved her arms from around Alexia to hold her hands instead.

"That's why you need to step up. You can't go on with the thought of giving her back when things get hard. She's yours now, Alexia, and things will get hard, especially because she's not like any other kid–she has a past."

"I was scared all the time when you and your sister were little. Terrified, actually. But I couldn't let you two see it because you needed a rock, you needed comfort, someone you could talk to.

That's exactly the person Y/n will need, and you already are that person. You can't just let your fear get in the way."

Alexia looked up at her mother, eyes still wet with tears. "But what if I, I don't know, what if I mess up?"

"Mija," Eli squeezed her hands, "that girl has already been through the worst thing that could happen to a child–being alone. You're not going to mess her up by loving her... you're going to heal her by showing up, by being patient, by letting her know she's safe."

Alexia let her mom's words sink in.

Eli understood that this was something Alexia needed to work through alone, so she gently kissed Alexia's forehead before leaving her apartment quietly.

Alexia breathed in and out, more times than she could count.

Her mom was right.

There was no going back with this kid. Maybe Y/n hadn't come into her life in the most normal way possible, and maybe it was the kid who chose her first instead of the other way around, but it didn't matter now.

The kid had been with Alexia for only a few weeks, but it felt like so much more.

Alexia just... couldn't picture her life without the kid.

If the kid were to be sent back to the orphanage, would she just wake up and make omelettes for only one person? Would she drive around Barcelona without hearing a kid saying random things in her ear? Would she walk right past a kids' clothing store without going inside to buy some winter clothes?

That was her life now. The kid was her life.

That girl had changed Alexia in only a few weeks, but it was enough for Alexia to create a connection with her, for Alexia to feel responsible for her.

Her mother was right. Alexia was scared to be a parent, scared to screw up, but being scared was also part of parenting. 

Parents didn't feel like they were doing the right thing all the time–they feared for their kids, they felt unsure, they felt stressed, but most important of all, they felt love. So much love.

And love was something Alexia felt for that kid, deeply.

Eli was a good mom to Alexia and Alba.

Of course, there were a few episodes during her childhood and teenage years when Alexia thought her mom could have acted differently, sometimes she was too angry, too stern, but Alexia never felt not cherished or not loved.

If Alexia could make sure that kid felt loved, then half of her work was done.

That was what Alexia was going to do. She was going to wake up the next morning and treat Y/n as if she was there to stay, because she was.

Y/n had chosen Alexia to be her family, and Alexia was going to act like it. No more thoughts about keeping the kid a secret, no more asking the kid to lie about who was responsible for her.

Y/n was Alexia's kid, and Alexia was going to step up and act like it.

She was going to be like her mother–caring, always there, present. The kid deserved that; she deserved so much more, too, but Alexia was going to learn.

Alexia didn't need to be the best parent in the world. Alexia only needed to be the best parent for Y/n.

Alexia made her way to her own room. It was too late, way past her own bedtime, she had training the next morning, and she had to drop Y/n off at school before going to Barcelona's training ground.

The kid's room had the door closed. The kid never let the door close, said she was too afraid of the dark. For a second, Alexia thought about opening the door to her room and giving her a goodnight kiss.

But it was 1 am and Alexia didn't want to wake her up, so she walked right past the kid's room and lay down on her bed.

She knew the kid was going to find her way into the bed in the middle of the night anyway; she always did.

Alexia left a pillow on her left side, where the kid usually slept and let her eyes fall shut as well.

The next morning, everything was going to be better. Maybe she could take the kid to Barcelona, introduce her to everybody as her own.

The kid would like that, Alexia was sure.

And with that, Alexia fell asleep.

She just didn't know that the bed in the other room was empty, and that Eli had left the door unlocked.

..

When Alexia woke up the next day, she didn't feel pressure on her back, she didn't feel Y/n's morning kick into her ribs.

She was also completely covered by the duvet, something that Y/n always stole from her in the middle of the night.

Alexia opened her eyes and didn't see anything-or–or well–anyone lying on the spot next to her. Alexia frowned, thinking that was obviously weird.

Then she got up from the bed and knocked on her bathroom door. The kid had her own suite, but she said Alexia's water was warmer (it wasn't). She knocked once, but the kid didn't say anything.

Then Alexia knocked again. Still nothing.

"Y/n?" Alexia said, "I'm going in, is that okay?"

No response.

Alexia opened the door carefully and was met with her empty bathroom. The sink was clean, her skincare products were on the top shelves–she had put them there because the kid always found a way to get to them, and Alexia thought she was way too young to put anti-ageing cream on.

Alexia walked to her walk-in shower and noticed that it was dry, so the kid hadn't taken her morning shower yet.

Alexia didn't understand what was happening. She opened her phone and saw that it was Wednesday. It wasn't Saturday, it wasn't Sunday. It was a weekday, so Alexia couldn't understand why the kid wasn't in her room, ready to start the day.

Alexia put on her robe and walked right to the kitchen, expecting to find the kid there, trying to make breakfast for them. But once again, the kitchen was empty, and the TV wasn't playing the cartoons Y/n liked so much.

Alexia was starting to get nervous, really nervous.

"Y/n?" Alexia said out loud, to nowhere in particular. "Where are you? We need to go. You can't be late for school."

The house was silent, as if its walls were keeping something from Alexia.

"Y/n?" Alexia went to the laundry room. Nothing. Then she went to check the powder room. Nothing.

Then she walked to the kid's room. She didn't know why it was the last place she checked–maybe because, deep down, Alexia knew she was going to be met with an empty room.

The kid's bed was made. Nothing was out of order.

The dolls Alexia had bought her were sitting perfectly on the shelf, the science kit Alexia had gotten her for getting a 10/10 in biology was in the corner of the room, as if it were untouched.

Alexia walked into the kid's bathroom. She knocked on the door only once, but no sound came. For what felt like the tenth time that morning, Alexia was met with another empty room.

The kid's hair products were there, and her towel was neat, hanging from the hanger.

Alexia tried to breathe, but she couldn't. Her hands began shaking as she felt like her stomach was sitting heavy in her body.

"Okay," Alexia said to herself, "the kid is not here. It's okay."

Alexia quickly walked to Y/n's wardrobe, looking for her, then she looked under the bed. As Alexia feared, nothing, absolutely nothing.

Alexia ran to check the front door. 

It was unlocked.

Alexia felt like it was getting harder and harder to breathe each minute; she realised the kid wasn't there.

She opened the door to the hallway and looked from one place to another–no one was there. Then Alexia took the elevator and went down to the first floor, where she met one of the security guys.

He was sleeping at his desk. Alexia woke him up with a scream.

"My kid, have you seen her?" Alexia asked, her voice shaking. "She's like this tall–" Alexia placed her hand right by her chest. "And her hair is kinda wavy but not so much, it's not straight but not curly either and–and–"

The man looked at Alexia as if she were crazy. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Putellas, what kid?"

Alexia started to cry. "M-my kid, she's not at home. I think she ran away or–or someone took her from my apartment! I don't know, have you seen her? Did she walk through here?"

"I didn't know you were a mother, Mrs. Putellas?" the man said, as if this was the most important thing that Alexia had said.

"I am a mother!" Alexia screamed, "And my kid is not here! Can you fucking check the cameras? Maybe–fuck, maybe she walked to the pool? She doesn't know how to swim!"

The man saw how Alexia was becoming frantic and opened the cameras, watching them carefully to see if he could find any kids. Alexia looked at the cameras behind the man, but she couldn't see anything behind her tears.

Her heart was pounding, her head was hurting, and she wasn't breathing. The kid wasn't there, the kid wasn't anywhere. Alexia was going to be sick; she felt the acid taste on her tongue.

She had never been so nervous in her life. No, she wasn't nervous, she was horrified, she was in panic.

"I think I see her," the man said as he watched the camera footage up close. "That's her? Small, very skinny?"

The man pointed at the child in the footage. It had very bad quality, but Alexia could see it was hers.

"Es ella! De verdad se fue? ¿Salió por esa puerta?"" Alexia said desperately. "Cómo que no la viste?!" [It’s her! Did she really leave? Did she go out through that door? / How did you not see her?!]

"Sh-she left at 1:15am, Mrs. Putellas. I-I was sleeping, I didn't see her," the man said, holding his arms up.

"How did you not see a fucking child leaving in the middle of the night?" Alexia asked angrily.

"I-I'm sorry!" the man started. "We aren't used to people in this building having kids; it's not something that security thinks about. Also, on your apartment contract, it says no kids."

Alexia felt like it was getting harder and harder to breathe with every second the Y/n wasn’t found. 

The security guard’s face blurred in front of her, everything in the building felt too bright, too loud, even though it was quiet.

"Fuck the– apartment contract!" she snapped. "Where's Y/n? Where did she fucking go?" She stepped closer to the man, her vision filled with tears, her pulse roaring in her ears.

The man flinched. He held up his hands. “Mrs. Putellas–please–”

Alexia’s breath hitched. Her hands were trembling violently now, clenched into fists at her sides. She wasn’t thinking–just feeling, just reacting. The world seemed narrowed.

And then she blinked.

..

Alexia didn't remember what happened after that.

When she realised where she was, she was in a police station, the light too bright in her face, the seat she was sitting on too uncomfortable. 

There was a little bit of blood underneath her nails. She didn't remember if she had scratched the security guy's face, maybe she did. She felt a heavy arm around her–it was her mom. Then she felt a hand on her thigh, Alba.

She was in front of a woman wearing a police uniform who looked important. Maybe Alexia could talk to her about her kid.

"Y/n," Alexia said out of nowhere, looking at the woman with widened eyes. "She's twelve, she left, and the last time I saw her, she had this pyjama, it had strawberries on it, and she accidentally burned it on the stove, so it had a hole on the left arm hem and–"

"Hija, toma agua, por favor." her mother gave her a glass of water. Alexia didn't want to drink any of it at first, but her mother made her. [Love, please drink some water]

"You have said that already, Alexia," Alba said gently, "at least five times. The deputy here has already written everything down. You are in shock."

Alexia gave the glass of water back to her mom. "I-I'm not in shock! I lost her–"

"Mrs. Putellas," the woman said firmly, but gently. "I've already written everything down. We have police looking for your child everywhere in Barcelona, do you understand me?"

The deputy waited until Alexia nodded for her to begin. "We checked the footage, and it seems like she left on her own. She didn't have anything with her in the footage. Do you remember missing anything from her room?"

"No," Alexia said, "she didn't take anything. Her bag was there. I give her money on Monday for her to buy some snacks at school if she gets hungry, she-she left those too. She-she didn't take anything."

"Alright," the deputy said as she typed on her computer. "My division specialises in troubled kids who run away and–"

"She's not troubled!" Alexia said angrily. "She-she's not troubled. I think she heard me saying about how I wanted to give her back–" Alexia looked at the woman. "But I wasn't going to do it, not really. She had been mine the moment we met, but I think–"

"You think she ran away because she thought she was going to be given away?" the deputy said. "Alright, we already have a motive."

While Alexia was drowning in panic, the worst fear any parent could feel, Y/n had already been gone for hours.

..

Y/n had been dreaming about how she was going to go to La Masia next week when familiar voices woke her up. At first, she thought it was the TV, but Alexia never watched TV, especially not this loud.

But then she heard her name, realising it was coming from Alexia and her new abuelita. [Grandma]

She frowned and looked at the alarm clock on her nightstand–it was late. Alexia was never up this late, at least that's what she always told Y/n.

Y/n sat up in bed, and for a moment, she thought she was back at the orphanage, hearing one of the nuns yelling at kids for trying to sneak inside the kitchen in the middle of the night.

Y/n's heart was beating fast now. She didn't like that, didn't like yelling, she didn't like loud noises–it made her feel scared, especially if someone was yelling her name.

The voices were coming from the living room. Y/n slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. She usually forgot to put socks on; Alexia was the one who had to remind her.

Y/n tiptoed until she was faced with her door. It wasn't completely closed–she didn't like it when it was closed, it made her room seem too dark–but right now, the door being half-opened was the reason Y/n could hear whatever... fight? Eli and Alexia were having.

Y/n was confused. She never had a mom, but she thought moms and daughters didn't fight. They loved each other, right? Eli and Alexia–why would they scream if they loved each other? Was Alba there too? Was she also screaming?

The kid put her face out of the door arch. The hallway was dark, but she could see the light from the living room, and the voices were clearer now.

"What do you mean you were planning on giving that angelic child back, Alexia?"

Y/n's stomach dropped completely. 

Giving her back? 

Alexia wanted to give her back. No, that wasn't happening, the kid thought to herself.

Alexia had promised her she was going to keep her. Y/n had told her she was going to be good and wouldn't cause any trouble.

"Mom, I didn't adopt her!" Alexia's voice was loud and frustrated. Y/n was used to seeing Alexia stressed out, but she never saw Alexia angry, never saw her mad.

That was weird; it made Y/n scared. She didn't like that conversation one bit.

"I signed papers about a contract. The kid slipped a fucking adoption form in the middle of it and–"

The words hit Y/n like a slap to her face, and just like when she was at the orphanage, she felt small, she felt wrong, like she shouldn't be there, not here, not anywhere, as if she was a mistake.

She pressed herself against the wall to her room. Her hands were shaking, and she didn't know how to make them stop. 

She wanted to run back to her bed and pull the covers over her head and pretend she hadn't heard anything, pretend Alexia wasn't saying anything, but she couldn't move.

Her legs were glued; she couldn't control her hands, and she couldn't control her breathing.

"She needs someone who doesn't panic when she asks difficult questions. She needs someone who doesn't Google how to build a volcano for school's science fair at two in the morning!"

Y/n's eyes filled with tears. She didn't try to hold them. She let the tears fall down her cheek, but she made sure to place a hand over her mouth so she wouldn't be heard, just like she did when she was younger.

The nuns didn't like the sound of children crying–that's what they always said.

"She deserves someone who actually knows what they're doing, not someone who feels like they're drowning."

Drowning.

Alexia felt like she was drowning because of her? Y/n didn't really understand what that meant, but it couldn't possibly be good, right? Y/n didn't know how to swim; if she were thrown in a body of water, she would drown too.

Was that what Alexia was feeling? As if she were thrown in the water without her floaties on? That Y/n had done that to her?

Y/n was trying to be a good kid. She didn't know how to be a good daughter, but she was trying to be at least nice. But maybe throwing people into the water wasn't something good kids did.

Maybe Y/n was bad, just like the nuns had told her she was.

"I don't know, mami, it's too much sometimes, a whole... kid."

Y/n winced when Alexia said that. She was always afraid to hear those words coming out of Alexia's mouth, that she was too much to handle. But what had she expected? She had tricked Alexia into adopting her; Alexia didn't choose her.

Alexia was thrown into this whole situation because of Y/n, and now she wanted out. It was her right, really. 

If Alexia didn't want her, Y/n would do Alexia a favour and disappear. 

That way, maybe Alexia would be happy again, maybe she wouldn't fight with her mom anymore.

The kid tried to take a deep breath; she tried to stop crying. But she couldn't. 

She quickly closed the door and walked back to her bed, sitting on the mattress while letting the tears stream down her face.

She couldn't hear anything now; it was like the voices had stopped. The only thing she could hear was her heart and her cries.

The kid looked around her room, at everything Alexia had bought her in the span of those weeks she was with her.

All the toys, all the clothing, everything. None of this was hers. It had never been. Alexia had bought them out of compromise.

She had to do it because she was her legal guardian, not because she wanted Y/n to have those things.

Alexia had been trying to make the best of a bad situation, but Y/n could see it now.

Every kind gesture, every time she had made Y/n dinner, every 'how was school?' was just Alexia trying to cope with the burden Y/n had dumped on her.

Alexia was a good person. She wasn’t mean. She didn’t yell. But she didn’t love Y/n either. She just... had to take care of her. That was different.

Y/n wiped her face with the back of her hand and stood up. 

She walked to her closet and looked at all the clothes Alexia had bought her: the Nike shoes, the Barcelona jerseys, the winter coats…everything. She couldn't take any of it. It wasn't hers to take. 

But now, wherever she was going, she had nothing again.

Y/n couldn't stay with Alexia anymore; she couldn't keep drowning Alexia. If she left now, Alexia wouldn't have to give her back. She wouldn't have to feel guilty or make excuses to the social workers.

Alexia wasn't going to keep her either way. Now Y/n had a choice: she could leave on her own, or wait for the next morning until Alexia called whoever was responsible for picking up orphans who didn't work out with their new families.

Y/n grabbed her old sneakers from the back of the closet, the ones with holes. These were hers.

Alexia had thrown them away, but Y/n went back to the garbage can and took them back. She was glad she did it.

Then she took some crayons and wrote on a piece of paper: 'I'm sorry for tricking you. You don't have to give me back, I'll go back myself. Thank you for the food and for paying for school.'

She read it carefully, but she didn't know if she should leave it there for Alexia.

She decided it was better if she didn't do anything; it was better if she just disappeared from Alexia's life. She walked through her bathroom and crumpled the piece of paper, and threw it in the trash.

Then she sat on her bed and waited. She didn't have anything to pack; she didn't need anything.

She could get food at a store–she was sure if she asked for candy, someone would give it to her, right?

And if she needed water, she could go to the park and drink it from the water fountain.

She could sleep on that playground next to her school, as well, so she wouldn't get wet when it rained.

And her school... well, she was probably not going to study, since Alexia was the one who paid her tuition, but she could always go to Barcelona's library and read some books there.

Maybe her football dream would need to be paused for a few months, just until she had everything figured out.

She could try and find some work, maybe as a dog walker; that way, she could pay for the tuition at La Masia and play football and become a big star.

The girl was thinking about her plan when she realised that the voices in the living room were getting quieter, then she heard Eli leave, the door closing. 

The next sound came from Alexia's footsteps in the hallway. Y/n watched her shadow through the door's crack; she stopped in front of Y/n's room.

Y/n held her breath, hoping Alexia wouldn't come in, that she wouldn't see her sitting there ready to leave. But then, after a moment, the footsteps continued to Alexia's room.

Y/n waited a few more minutes until she was sure Alexia was asleep. Lately, Alexia had been waking up in the middle of the night. Y/n wasn't sure why; she never asked. Alexia would question why she was up so late, too.

When Y/n thought Alexia was in a deep sleep, she stood up, took one last look at the room, said goodbye to her dolls, and opened the door.

The hallway was still dark and quiet. Y/n walked through the hallways, looking at the pictures hung on the walls.

They were mostly pictures of Alexia, Alba and Eli; some of them were Alexia with the girls from Barcelona.

Y/n wished, deep down, that Alexia would hang a picture of her there one day, but it didn't happen, and it never would happen.

She opened the front door as quietly as she could (it was already unlocked; Y/n was sure it was Eli who forgot to lock it) and stepped into the hallway.

The building was silent, just like Alexia's house. 

The elevator was too bright, and Y/n didn't like that.

When the elevator opened its doors, Y/n took a peek at the security guy. She prayed that he was sleeping, so that he wouldn't see her, and he really was.

Y/n walked past him and stepped into the night. It was too cold, way too cold. She felt her body shiver. She didn't know if she should turn right or left, but maybe it didn't matter, since she didn't know where she was going.

Either way was fine. The kid decided to move forward.

She just knew she couldn't keep being this weight on Alexia's life. She was old enough to be alone, old enough to care for herself.

Maybe she was alone again, but it didn't matter, because this time, she had chosen it. 

She didn't want to be a bother to someone as nice as Alexia. 

She wished she had never shown up at her house, that she had never gotten a taste of what love felt like. 

Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.

..

a/n: yeah...sorry <3 Did I create another situation I have no idea how to fix? Yes, yes I did

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13 , @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics

[alexrosa13]

Highschool Sweethearts

highschool!au Caleb x female!reader

Genre: fluff/angsty (but read the warnings!)

Warnings: 2,7k words, Caleb and reader are still in school (so late teens/early adults [since for me school ends when I'll be 20]), petnames (him→you: pips/pipsqueak; princess, you→him: baby), Caleb & reader being the popular couple, creepy men with unsaid intentions (tw: can be seen as an attempted sexual assault, but Caleb's saves the day and nothing happens), implicated fight, mention of beat up bodies and blood, nonsexual nudity (he washes your hair when you bath)

Note: I'm back 💜 first step into an adulthood kept me a lil busy (together with heart (man) problems that are now figured out), sorry to keep you waiting darlings :c

for masterlist and request info head to the navigation →

No one ever saw such a strong bond at such an early age, but here you were, always together, always inseparable, obsessive? Maybe a little bit.

“Did you see him?” A girl whispered to her friend while taking a seat next to them in the cafeteria.

“Who? The golden boy of the school on the field?” Her friend answered while sipping on her chocolate milk.

“Obviously, who else?” She snarled, her head turning to watch the topic of their gossip enter with his friend group. “Oh god what I would give to be with him.” She rested her chin on her palm, taking a sour expression.

“As if he'd ever look in our direction.” A sound of a tray being dropped onto the table woke her up from her daydream, she looked at her other friend with an imaginary question mark flying above her head. “He's too busy flying after his sweetheart to notice anyone else drooling over him every time he enters a room.” She angrily stabbed her food with a fork, letting out an annoyed breath.

As if summoned, the object of her jealousy walked over to the boy.

They couldn't hear anything, the table of the jocks being too far away from them to hear their conversations, the only thing they could catch was loud laughter.

But they saw everything.

A girl walked over to Caleb, hugged his sitting form from the back and kissed his check, the boy doing nothing to push her off.

A few moments later she was already sitting at his table, by his side, his friends doing nothing to protest, just continuing to mind their businesses.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders, bringing her even closer to himself, his jaw-dropping smile rarely seen without her in his line of vision instantly showing when he looked at her.

Two girls sitting at the table exhaled sadly while looking over at the couple, the third one rolling her eyes at their behavior.

Oh to be you.

“We gotta go to the cinema soon, that movie I've been waiting so long to come out finally has a premiere.” You said while walking down the school corridor with Caleb tailing right behind you, the place he owned by now after being each other shadows for years.

“I'm one step ahead of you, pipsqueak, already bought us tickets.” He smiled proudly when you giggled.

“Thank you, baby.” You stopped in front of your locker, smiling at him over your shoulder while typing the code to open it.

He leaned onto the locker beside yours, his eyes not leaving your figure for a second.

Until...

Something flew to the floor the moment you opened the little door, a envelope of some sort.

You crouched down to pick it up, looking at the heart shaped sticker holding the paper closed.

Caleb stared at the item in your hands, annoyed but not letting it show.

It better not be what he thinks it is.

“Did you put it in my locker?” You asked, glancing at him with question.

He simply shook his head no.

“Pff, weird.” You whispered, taking the books you needed for your next class out, paying half a mind to the white paper in your hand. “Will you walk me to my next class?” You looked over at your boyfriend while closing the locker.

“Of course.” He said, holding onto your bag with his backpack hanging on his shoulder.

“Perfect.” You smiled, one of your hands going up to graze his cheek lovingly before turning around and walking away, knowing fully well he was right behind you.

You made sure to pass by a trashcan on your way, throwing the still closed love letter into it, not really caring about its content.

Your boyfriend couldn't have been happier with your reaction.

It was the longest break between the classes, many students walked out of the school building to spend it outside, sitting close to the football and basketball fields. Many of them took notice of the school's „golden boy” repetitively throwing the ball into the basket, paying half a mind to it while still somehow scoring 90% of his throws, more focused on the conservation he carried with a girl sitting on the ground close to him.

His dearest girlfriend.

Despite the couple being in different classes there wasn't a single school day when they spent their breaks separately, too busy acting all lovey-dovey with each other to notice the jealous stares looking at them from left to right as usual.

“Purple or orange?” You held your notebook up, showing your boyfriend a cute drawing of flowers in those colors.

“Ymmm why don't you mix them together?” He looked over at your work of art, not really understanding what the choice would change.

“That's also an idea, but I need to choose one.” You said, unbothered by the lack of his help, putting your notebook on the field ground while staring at the page in focus.

“And what exactly do you need to choose?” He asked briefly, his head turning back to look at the basket before throwing the ball into it once again, the round object hitting the backboard before falling into the hoop.

“I want to make us matching flower crowns and put an outfit together that's in one specific color, for the photos.” You explained, coloring the petals of the flowers you drew, half laying on the ground.

Caleb stayed quiet for a moment, thinking, “And why is the choice between those two specific colors?” He asked with curiosity.

“Well one is your favorite color.” You started, not really paying attention to your surroundings. “And the other matches your eyes that I love.” The sound of the ball hitting the ground every couple of seconds that accompanied you for the last 10 minutes stopped, you raised your eyes slowly, almost instantly meeting the nebula like irises you adored so much. “What's wrong?” You asked, as if not getting it.

“You...” He started but dropped the sentence before it could leave his mouth. Looking around he noticed a couple members of the school basketball team, his teammates, close to the two of you, raising his hand he caught the attention of one of them before throwing the ball to him and turning back to you, taking a couple steps before crouching down to your level.

A kiss landed on your forehead, sweet and gentle, just like how Caleb was to you ever since you could remember.

“I love you.” He whispered while gazing into your eyes, his ears turning slightly pink.

You smiled lightly. “I love you.” Left you in response to his confession.

He stood up holding out a hand for you to grab and pull yourself up. You walked back into the school building holding hands, your eyes shying to the floor like it was your first week together, still unbothered by the stares you received.

Some people couldn't help but think: am I jealous because I want to be one of them, or do I want to have what they do?

You had a very good idea on just how much your boyfriend was popular in your school.

Girls trying to give him their lunches, love letters, trying to catch his eyes whenever he as much as walked by beside them.

You were the jealous type. But it was quiet jealousy, the one that everyone thinks isn't there when you ignore girls (and boys) all around you giving your man dreamy eyes.

Everyone was shocked with the way you never reacted whenever a girl tried her shot with Caleb.

You were always just there, not even paying attention to their attempts, not even caring.

Why?

Because you knew you were the only one to ever catch his eye the way they all dreamed of.

It would be a lie to say that your ego wasn't being fed every time you heard people gossiping about the two of you behind your back.

At this point? You saw it all as pathetic.

They knew you were together from the moment you joined Caleb's school, two years after him.

They saw the way he held you close and looked at you like you were the very creator of the world.

They heard the way he talked about you, to you, with that deep longing in his voice each time you weren't around.

They could try, but they'll never take your place.

Not when your man is too busy admiring you to notice anyone else batting their eyelashes at him.

“Hey Caleb, we're going to get pizza after school with the whole team, you coming?” He heard the voice of his friend behind him.

“Nah, I'm good, I'm going with my girlfriend on a date.” He said with a light smile at the thought of you spending more time together than you already did.

“Oh c'mon lover-boy, your life can't resolve only around your girlfriend,” Why not? “You need to make some time for yourself and your friends, y'know?” His friend said teasingly, before waving his hand at him and catching up after the team that already began their walk towards the pizzeria.

A moment later a pair of hands covered up his eyes from behind.

“Guess who?” A voice he'll never get tired of hearing spoke in a whisper.

“Hm I don't know...” He pretended to think very hard about the answer. “Maybe... My dearest girlfriend, who I've been waiting for the past 20 minutes.” He turned around in your hold, a wide smile on his face making him look more pretty than usual, while he hugged you tightly, stealing a short-lived kiss.

“Not here!” You giggled, but didn't attempt to free yourself from the embrace anyway.

“Oh please pips, I don't care who sees, let them look.” He says so casually it almost made you blush.

“Damn boy, aren't you confident.” You smiled sweetly, moving away from the hug but reaching out to hold his hand instead. “So, to the amusement park?”

He used his free hand to ruffle your hair with a short laughter at your reaction, before nodding his head and walking forward with your hand tightly wrapped in his.

None of you noticed someone taking a photo from behind you that would later on become a Valentine Day poster on your school official media.

“Baby?” Your panicked, quiet voice reached his ear as soon as he picked up your call.

“What's wrong?” He was left alone in the basketball team changing room, being the one who had the duty to close it and return the key to the school janitor today.

“I-” He heard you breathing out sharply, clearly stressed. “I don't know. I'm in the bathroom on the second floor, I've run in here after I've heard some guys talking disgusting stuff about me when I passed by them.” You spoke fast and quiet, but he managed to pick up every word. “They started following me all the way from the third floor, I ran in here, but I'm scared to come out now, there's no one here anymore, the classes finished already.”

“I'm going there right now, don't worry.” He didn't even pick up his bag and jacket, only closed the door as quick as he could and began his walk to the side of the school where you were, paying half a mind to remember about taking his things later. “How many are there and are you sure they followed you?” Maybe it was just a coincidence?

“Three. I thought so too, at first, but when I picked up the pace they did too, I only managed to get away cause I started running to the bathroom, thinking that they'll go on their way, but I heard them laughing after me and now-” He heard the sound of the door opening and hitting the wall on the other side of the call.

He started half-running.

“We know you're in here!” Caleb didn't recognize the voice, surely it was none of his friends, or yours.

“Running to the bathroom from us, really? Pathetic.” A disgusting sound of laughter sounded from his phone.

“Come on, we won't hurt you, we just... Want to take some nice pics of you, aye?” He heard sounds of the doors opening, probably the doors to the cabins.

“Yeah, we'll make you a little model, don't you want to show the world how pretty you are?”

The handle of the door to the cabin you were hiding in while sitting on the floor moved, not opening.

You grasped your phone tighter, letting out a shaky breath and shutting your eyes.

Caleb will be here soon... It will be alright.

“Oh there you are...” A voice sounded from right outside the door. “Come on out, don't make us use for-”

A pained sound followed.

Your previously tightly shut eyes opened, what was going on?

More groans followed, together with something or someone hitting the floor, or the wall?

Maybe a ceiling...

You heard begging, and curses, accompanied by painful cries.

Just what exactly was going on?

And then silence.

You held your breath, scared.

But then...

“Pips?” A soft voice from behind the door made your heart clench and previously held tears spill out from relief.

“Caleb?” You whispered, moving up to unlock the door, not paying attention to the sound of a call ending.

The door opened quickly and soon you were embraced by the man you felt the safest with.

Your eyes shut again, tears falling onto the material of his shirt while you sobbed quietly, hands holding onto him tightly, not wanting to let go.

“Shh, it's okay, I got you.” He said gently into your hair, his arms holding you closely, gently massaging your back. “No one will ever hurt you.”

You tried to peek at the scene behind him, but his hand on your head stopped you, making sure you'll stay hidden in the crack of his neck.

“Don't look, it's okay.” So you didn't, you knew better, the state of those men didn't matter, not to you and not to him.

“I was so scared...” You let out into his neck, hands not letting go of him for even a second.

“I know, princess, I know. Let's go home.” He said gently, picking your bag and phone from the floor behind you, using his evol.

His hands moved to your thighs, making you wrap them around his waist with ease before standing up with you in his arms, clinging to him like a koala.

You didn't bother looking up now.

He moved you to rest on one of his arms, the other busy holding your things while he carried you out of there.

The blood on the floor and walls will be a problem for someone else tomorrow, but at least he left them breathing.

“I'm fine Caleb, you don't need to pamper me.” You said with a giggle.

The following evening after what took place earlier was peaceful and full of care.

When you came back to an empty home Caleb prepared a bath for you, in the meantime going to make you something light for dinner and then coming back to wash your hair.

The pure innocence of that moment would shock many, after all, what straight man was able to watch woman's naked body without lust?

But Caleb could, he adored you in every form and every shape, the only time he would ever look at you with lust would be the time when you wanted it.

But today? Today you didn't need it, craving love, warmth and comfort that you always found in his arms.

Well also craving his cooking, but that's another point of no importance here.

“I always need to pamper you, after all I've spoiled you so much you don't know how to live without me anymore, now I need to bear the consequences of it.” He laughed, clearly enjoying that fact.

“You're a dummy.” You rolled your eyes dramatically.

You were sat on the carpet in the living room, in his t-shirt and random comfy underwear, with him behind you drying your hair.

“Oh yeah, that's right hah? Caleb is a big dummy who spoiled you too much. Ain't I, pipsqueak?” He teased, to which you let out a scoff paired with laughter.

Your silhouettes visible from outside had to be the purest display of love someone could ever see in their life.

©alexrosa13 on tumblr

taglist @pozuki @animegamerfox

[tears-of-boredom]

being non-verbal -whether its for the forseeable future or for just a moment- is not rude, is not unkind, and neither is it unpolite.

[zu-is-here]

Wait, Aim wears those glasses for a specific reason? (an eye problem maybe?).

Pd: I just noticed the detail that his gap teeth are still the same TuT.

[beeseverywhen]

You know in my time in the world I've received a lot of info about checking boobs and balls for lumps. I don't even have balls but if I did I'd know how to look for them

2 things i wasn't ever told (but which in retrospect maybe should have been obvious)

1. You can get lumps in other places. Really inane places. Turns out cancer can present as a lump like anywhere on ur body

2. Sometimes you go to the Drs with what you think is a pretty easy question. 'Found a weird lump. You don't think it's cancer right? My friends and family made me come here.' and they go. I don't know, maybe. You're right that IS a weird lump. Yeah I don't know what that is

[hobgirl]

getting funnier with age is great but sometimes it sucks also. had the thought today that every time in uni somebody asked me "but what can you even do with a film & lit degree?" i could have responded "evil" and now i'll never get the chance

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

I promised you some lions! Let's talk about manes, males, and management.

This is Tandie, the current male lion at the Woodland Park Zoo.

Notice anything odd about him? He's got one of those hilarious awkward teenager manes. Except... this cat is nine years old.

I was, of course, immediately curious.

Manes serve a lot of purposes for male lions, including being an indicator of health and fitness - it's actually a sexually selected trait and a social signal. Mane texture / hair quality / length is dependent on nutrition and the body having energy to grow (and carry around!) that much hair! The color is also a signal: males with darker manes have been found to have higher testosterone levels.

In one research report, wild males were much more likely to avoid a lion decoy when it had a longer or darker mane - but the girls really loved a dark mane. It's thought this is because a long, dark mane is an indicator of mate quality. Males with longer, darker manes have higher testosterone and were pretty healthy: meaning they had more energy for fighting, had a better chance of recovering if they got injured, and generally had a higher rate of offspring survival. Manes matter!

So, back to Tandie. He was actually born at the Woodland Park Zoo in 2014 alongside two brothers, to dad Xerxes and mother Adia.

This was Xerxes (rip).

Obviously, a very large, dark, lush mane on Xerxes here. So where did these blond muttonchops come from on his son?

I asked the zoo docents and got an answer that didn't make a lot of sense. They told me that after the three cubs grew into adolescents, they were moved to the Oakland Zoo together. But living together suppressed his testosterone, and he never grew a mane.

Hmmmm.

Here's a photo from 2016, when the brothers debuted at Oakland. They're a year and a half old in this photo.

(Photo Credit: Oakland Zoo)

And here's from an announcement for their third birthday.

(Photo credit: Oakland Zoo)

Okay, so these dudes obviously all were growing manes as of 2017. I think Tandie is the one on the left in the first photo, and laying down in the middle on the second. What happened?

I was just in the Bay Area for a zoo road trip, of course I went to Oakland and tracked down a docent to ask some questions.

It turns out that shortly after the brothers turned three, they started acting like adult male lions: they started scuffling regularly. It's a normal social thing for male lions to live in groups, called coalitions, but according to my lion experts there's generally a baseline level of some social jostling within them. It wasn't quite clear from what the docent said if they couldn't manage the boys together, or if they just wanted to avoid the scratches and small wounds that result from normal lion behavior. Regardless, they put all three of the boys on testosterone blockers in order to be able to keep them together as a social group.

Now, I don't know a lot about the use of hormone alteration as a form of captive animal management, except in the case of birth control. I don't think it's something that's unethical - there was just a webinar on it that I saw go by - but I don't think it's commonly done with big cats. Lions have kind of complicated reproductive cycles, and for instance, we've been learning that female lions can take much longer to come into estrus again than expected after coming off hormonal birth control.

In males, testosterone blockers (or being neutered) means they lose their manes. This is why a lot of rescues will do a vasectomy on their males instead of a neuter - it allows them to keep their mane and the social signals that accompany it.

Tandie returned home to Woodland Park Zoo after Xerxes passed in early 2022, and the docent told me all of the lions had been off their blockers "for while." I'd guess those things happened around the same time, since bringing the trio down to a duo at Oakland would reduce some of the social tensions.

Hormones are such interesting things, though. One of Tandie's brothers has a full mane again, and the other is still totally mane-less.

As for Tandie, his mane is growing back in, and it looks like he might rival his dad for length and coloration.

He started here, in February:

Yesterday:

What a difference four months (and maybe proximity to a girl) makes!

[ceilidho]

fig. 2. teeth in crooked neck | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Reader

MASTERLIST · AO3

Ten years is a long time to wait for the love of his life. So when you come to him to ask for his help with your heat, what can Gaz do but accept?

or: the forced mating omegaverse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding/Mating, Heats & Ruts

His fortune turns when your name flashes across the screen of his phone for the first time in weeks. 

“Hey love,” Gaz says, answering on the first ring. “Haven’t heard your voice in awhile.”

“Hi Kyle,” you sigh, and it’s like life rushes back into him all in one word. 

It’s been a few weeks since you last spoke, the last time being a few days after Gaz returned from a work trip overseas. Since then though, he’s been in the city consistently, making your absence come as a gaping hole in the middle of his life. 

The first thing you do is apologize for the weeks of silence. “Sorry I haven’t reached out. Work was crazy for a bit, and then—…ah, it doesn’t matter. Sorry though.”

“That’s fine, love. Bit calmer now?”

“Uh…yes and no,” you answer cryptically. “That’s, um…that’s why I wanted to call you actually.”

“Yeah?” he prods, curiosity piqued. It’s second nature to always wonder what you’re up to. If it was possible to live in someone’s head, he’d make yours a second home.

“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

He puts you on speaker phone so he can check his calendar at the same time. “I can move some things around. Can’t tell me whatever it is you wanna talk about right now?”

You’re quiet for a moment before you speak again, voice a little tinny through the speaker “I just…it’d be better if we could talk face to face.”

Words like those never bode well, but Gaz shakes it off, giving you the benefit of the doubt. It might just be embarrassing or sensitive news that isn’t easily disclosed over the phone. He’s never begrudged you your privacy before; it certainly isn’t going to start now. 

Besides, whatever it is won’t be private for long. 

“Sure, love. We can have lunch. What time?”

There are things he associates with time—seasons, death, taxes. Faces too, when they change with each time he sees them, months separating his visits and meaning that each time he comes home, there are new lines and new wrinkles in familiar faces. Piercings that weren’t there before. Tattoos and pregnancies and blemishes and drooping cheeks. 

Your face, however, is a constant. Not just in that it never seems to change, but that it never leaves his mind long enough to be forgotten. 

After all, how could it leave for even a second with what you are to him? 

He’s gotten that question before. What do you think you’ll do when you find your mate? When you come across an omega that smells just right, so delicious and ripe that you have no choice but to sink your teeth in and hold? 

Gaz doesn’t have to imagine. He’s known longer than most. It’s been more than ten years since he first met you—ten years since his keen teenage nose caught the tail end of your scent and followed it down the hallway and around the corner until he could put a face to the smell. 

His memories after that moment come in snapshots. A passing teacher dragging him into an empty classroom after recognizing the look in his eye, pupils dilated and mouth agape, his whole body thrumming with desire. Sitting in the principal’s office with his hands in his lap, fists clenching and unclenching while waiting for his mother to join them, the other adults in the room watching him with blatant distrust, as if he weren’t a child too; as if this wasn’t new and overwhelming and terrifying. His mother doing her best to console him in the car on the drive home, Gaz both too old and too young for the torrent of emotion washing over him. 

He blocks that week from his memory lest those same emotions surge up and paralyze him in his tracks. It gives him nothing but grief to remember that day. If the agony of an unconsummated mate bond weren’t enough, the sheer indignity of being treated like something to worry about even to this day comes as a crushing blow. 

It’s taken a lot to move beyond those years. 

It isn’t something Gaz would wish on anyone else. His life has been shaped by a very specific kind of longing. Agony in the shape of a neck. His burden since youth has been to stave off the hunger pangs, but that hasn’t always come easy, and it’s come at a cost. 

In the months following that day, he formed a kind of tentative friendship with you, trying not to let the devastation overwhelm him when you never seemed to recognize his scent as your mate’s. To just be in your orbit was better than nothing at all. 

He lasted all of a year at the same university as you before dropping out and enlisting, his instincts steadily becoming too powerful to ignore. The military was where he learned to manage the hunger—long, sleepless nights and rigid protocol hardening him, reinforcing his weak points. Learning to live with a certain kind of absurdity, and sucking up the urge to argue when given asinine tasks like mopping up rain water in a thunderstorm or being put on pencil sharpening duty. 

Since then, time and distance have helped him soothe the ache and leash his instincts. If he couldn’t be your mate, he could be your friend at least, and he’s taken to that role with zeal. 

Hunger still clings to the inside of his rib cage though. Cramped hunger crouched beneath his lungs. All breath, all pneuma. Tight clustered and tumorous. 

These days he’s just better at managing it. 

A day after your call, you meet on neutral territory, a coffee shop around the back of a busy street in Shoreditch, a neighbourhood he’s only visited a few times in years past when you felt inclined to drag him to the Sunday market. It’s not terribly busy for mid-morning on a Saturday, but the steam wand keeps hissing in the background and the music is cranked up a few decibels higher than Gaz would usually like. The whole place smells of hazelnut and toffee. 

You though—you smell like something indescribably delicious. Floral and fragrant, so succulent that his mouth waters when he inhales a lungful of your scent. Sweet like dandelion wine. 

Time has made it easier for his heart to cope with not having you, but not his hunger. 

You make pleasant conversation for a few minutes before addressing the elephant in the room, avoiding it at first in favour of talking about old friends and family—you ask him how his sister’s PhD defence went and light up like a thousand watt bulb when he tells you that it was successful—anything to avoid the real reason for inviting him to lunch. But there comes a point when you have no choice but to suck in a deep breath and finally get to it.

“I need to ask you for a favour.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a big one,” you warn him.

“Okay,” Gaz repeats, smiling. His acceptance comes easy because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

“I wouldn’t—God, this is so awkward,” you start, a heavy sigh steaming up from the back of your throat, head collapsing into your waiting hands to hide your face. Anything to avoid looking at him. 

Gaz sits and waits patiently for your courage to return. Unlike you, he doesn’t fidget or cross and uncross his legs. His urges are strictly regimented, impulses beaten out of him after years of exposure therapy, so to speak. 

You pick your head back up and his heart thumps in his chest. Mostly beaten out of him. 

“Please don’t feel like I’m pressuring you into this.” His lips twitch with a suppressed grin. “I’m only asking because you were the first person I thought of, but I can always figure something else out, or go to, um…—go to a heat centre.” 

He straightens at those words. “Heat centre?” 

“Yes. My, um—” You go quiet again, the words not coming easily to you, but his mind is already racing, mouth dry when he considers the implications of what little information you’ve already offered up. “I’ve been on suppressants for a really long time. Ever since high school. I was supposed to get my prescription renewed with my doctor this week, but I’ve only been seeing her for a few months, so when she realized how long I’ve been on suppressants for, she…—it’s apparently not healthy to be on them for that long.”

“Not healthy,” Gaz repeats, his rational mind somewhere else. 

You shake your head in confirmation. “No. She said long term suppressant use can lead to different cancers and other health complications, and that I should’ve been spacing it out rather than just…suppressing my heats altogether.”

The shrill whistle of blood through his ears muffles all but your words. 

It barrels into him at full tilt. Drives the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his head. 

“Your heat is coming up,” he finishes for you, lasering in on the microexpressions flitting across your face. Blinders on. Nothing else in the world matters as much as your next words. 

You swallow. Look away. “Yep,” you chirp, voice catching in your throat and breaking. 

A chair scrapes loudly against the floor when someone nearby scoots back. 

“You aren’t going to a heat centre?” 

“…No.”

His heart beats so hard against his ribs that his chest nearly hurts. 

“You want me to help you through your heat.” He doesn’t have to ask; your trepidation says as much, and he’s always had an eye for details. 

“I know this is awkward, and I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t an emergency.”

Gaz reaches across the table instinctively to take your hand. “No, love, it’s fine. You know you can tell me anything. I’m glad you came to me first.”

Glad hardly touches the depth of the emotion coursing through him. Honoured comes closer. It’s not like he’s never thought about you in heat before, but he’d been away so often and for such long stretches of time, that he assumed you’d gone the heat centre route. He would’ve known if you’d gotten an alpha to help you through it—would’ve smelt their stench on you whenever he was back in the city. 

But as grateful as he is that you entrusted him with this knowledge, it also nearly takes his breath away. 

“You’ve never had a heat before?”

It almost seems unfathomable. He’s had plenty of ruts before—a couple of times with a partner, usually another alpha or a beta—and never once assumed that you’d gone your whole life without experiencing a heat. 

You shake your head. “No. I got on suppressants as soon as I presented and it was just easier to live life without having to, you know…deal with heats and all of that. Just seemed like a hassle.”

His head is spinning. He grips the edge of the table to keep himself upright, but it’s almost not enough. At any moment, he might tip right over.

He won’t ask if you’ve ever slept with someone before. It’s none of his business. Even if it were, he wouldn’t want to know. 

Besides, even if you have, they haven’t had you in a way that mattered. There’s no mark on your neck or ring on your finger, and you’ve never spent a heat with someone else. 

Never until now, that is.

The answer is right on his lips when you cut him off at the pass. “Don’t answer now. I wanted to ask you in person, but I don’t want you to feel on the spot.”

“Love, you aren’t putting me on the spot.” Not when the choice is so obvious. 

But you don’t let him finish, holding up a hand to get him to stop talking. There’s a tremor in your hand, your fingers quivering slightly, and noticing that makes him pause. 

“Please just—just think about it,” you insist. 

“…Fine, I’ll give it a think,” Gaz rasps, acting like his whole entire world hasn’t changed in a blink. 

“Thanks, Kyle.” 

Your relief is palpable, so undisguised that he’d be insulted if he wasn’t viscerally aware of how much the conversation has taken out of you.  

You hug him on the way out—a gesture so natural to your friendship that you don’t notice the way he pulls you closer than normal, every inch of your body plastered to his—and he stays for a bit longer, finishing his lunch alone. He needs the time to think after what you just told him, time to digest that news without the blood ringing in his ears.

When he leaves, the sky is different. Silver sheafs of light paint the streets on the walk home, the noise of the traffic and clatter of conversation louder than ever before, the cacophony of a whole world happening around him. But it’s distant somehow, like the trickle of a brook off somewhere deep in a forest. 

He’s on the threshold of a new world, one foot dangling over the edge. For now, he keeps his balance. It remains to be seen in the days to come. 

A late, gold sun bathes the street with ribbons of light and warmth in the early hours of the evening. There’s a bistro across from the building where Simon works the evening shift in the underground parking lot, and they meet there once a week for food and a cig before Simon has to clock in. 

Gaz savours this hour and a half more than most. There’s never a guarantee that Simon will show up; his friendship is a deliberate and intentional act, not easily given but easily taken away. It’s not something that Gaz takes for granted. There may come a day when the other man never shows up again and Gaz eats at a table across from an empty chair. 

He has faith though. Their relationship isn’t so tenuous that every day he expects the worst. More than once, they’ve travelled together—one of Gaz’s fondest memories is sitting with Simon in a piazza in Florence and conversing over espressos and lemon tarallucci. For a time after leaving the military—close to around six weeks, give or take a few days—Simon even slept on Gaz’s couch until finding his own place. 

Suffice it to say, they’re closer than most people would guess. Close enough that Simon doesn’t need to be told that something’s up when Gaz is more brusque with the waiter than usual.  

“Are you ever gonna spit it out or what?” Simon finally asks, a touch annoyed with having to be the one to broach the subject of Gaz’s mood. 

The bigger man sits across the table from him with a mullish look on his face. Cantankerous as always, likely in a mood from a combination of bad sleep and old aches flaring up. He’s always touchier between the seasons, the sudden shifts making his skin go painfully dry and old injuries act up. 

Gaz’s smile is slightly sheepish when it creeps onto his face. “You could tell?”

“‘Course I can. You’ve got stupid look on your face,” Simon grunts, taking a messy bite of his sandwich. Pepperoncini slices and mayonnaise drip from the other end onto the plate. 

The one downside to eating with Simon is having to mask his reaction to Simon’s complete lack of table manners. It's a skill that's come with plenty of practice.

“My—” he pauses, choosing his next word carefully. “A friend of mine asked me to help her through her heat.”

It’s not a topic they’ve ever broached before. His raunchier conversations are usually relegated to Johnny, Soap usually the initiator. Simon keeps his exploits private, cards close to his chest; it doesn’t seem impossible that he has a girl squirreled away somewhere, but Gaz would never know if he did. 

“Ever fucked ‘er before?” Simon asks, blunt as usual. 

Gaz laughs, shaking his head. “No. It’s not like that.”

“But you’re gonna fuck ‘er now?”

“Yes. Maybe. It’s complicated.”

“What’s complicated about fucking an omega through a heat?” He talks with his mouth full for a second before pausing to finish chewing and swallowing. Then he takes another bite, talking through that one too. “Knot ‘er a couple times, wear a mouthguard if you ‘aven’t got enough control, then go home. Simple.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why the fuck not?” 

He mulls over the best way to say it before deciding to just mirror Simon’s usual blunt approach. “She’s my mate.”

Simon’s indifference sloughs off all in one go. “When the hell did you bag someone, Garrick?”

His laughter this time borders on derisive. “Haven’t yet, actually.”

Simon stills, staring at him from over his sandwich. More ingredients spill from the bottom and onto the plate but he pays them no mind. The silence stretches on for a while, long enough for Gaz to catch on to the fact that Simon has no intention of responding, either too baffled or appalled to muster up a response or simply waiting for Gaz to justify himself. Likely the latter. 

“We were both too young when we met,” he explains. “Must’ve just presented when I first scented her and everyone told me to wait until she made the first move. Then time passed and…obviously she didn’t, and I didn’t want to pressure her.”

“How young?” 

“Uh…” He doesn’t have to think, but he knows how Simon will respond and that makes him hesitate. “Eighteen?”

“Jesus fuck, Gaz,” Simon groans, letting go of his sandwich in disgust.

“Look—”

“You’ve waited ten bloody years to bite her?”

Simon looks at Gaz like what he’s saying is anathema, like even the thought of not mating his omega doesn’t compute. For him, it probably doesn’t. It’s not the way things usually go. Gaz knows he’s been more patient than most. 

“I didn’t want to force her into a mate bond.” He shrugs. His own sandwich grows cold on the plate, barely a third of it gone compared to the scraps Simon still has left to eat. 

Gaz knows the excuse doesn’t hold water, but for as close as he is with Simon, he doesn’t have it in him to get to the real heart of the matter, the truth that his heart is still bruised. That there’s still a part of him that doesn’t believe this won’t all get ripped away from him in the end. That his own doubts might be the reason it all falls apart. 

“Fuck that,” he scoffs, pointing at Gaz with a mayo and buffalo sauce covered finger. “Have you told ‘er yes then yet? Never mind, ‘course you ‘aven’t, bloody fuckin’ moron. You’re gonna call ‘er after this and tell ‘er yes. Then, on the day of, you fuck her and bite her.”

Gaz rolls his eyes. “I can’t make that decision for her.”

“Someone’s gonna eventually. Has to happen. If it ain’t you, it’ll be some other bloke who gets to fuck and pup ‘er while you sit around with your dick in your hand. That how you want this to play out? Cucked by some bellend who won’t treat ‘er right?”

He nearly gnashes his teeth at Simon’s words, but he’s more civilized than that. He goes stone-faced instead, nostrils flaring.

“What was I supposed to do? Bite her the next time I saw her in the hallway?” Gaz rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that would’ve played out really well for me. Not like I wasn’t on thin fuckin’ ice the whole time with everyone.”

“Been a few years since then.” Simon picks his sandwich back up and takes such a big bite that he squeezes most of the ingredients out, tearing off a chunk of bread and meat.

“Yeah, I’m aware.” His tone is abrasive, but Simon shrugs it off, unbothered by a little vitriol. “Seeing as how I’m the one who’s been suffering through those years. Nobly, might I add.”

“There’s nothing fuckin’ noble about suffering,” he scoffs, upper lip curled. “You do the hard shit and then you get out. No sense in letting it drag on.”

He very nearly argues that point. Has to bite his tongue at the last second to keep from being crueler than warranted. As if suffering weren’t Simon’s main export; his main claim to fame.

He’s better than that though. And, if he were being honest with himself, there might be some truth there. 

When Simon leaves for his shift, Gaz sits there until his coffee goes cold and the manager comes by to gently inform him that they’ll be closing shortly, offering to pack up the rest of his food for home. Gaz nods absently, still miles away in his head.

He drives home in that headspace, mulling Simon’s words over. 

Justice is a core tenet of his. Fairness another. He’s lived his life up to this point guided by a strict set of principles, hardly breaking his rules of conduct unless forced to do so, unless given no other recourse. 

But he’s given so much of himself to the world and asked for so little in return. Is it not fair that he receive this? 

And besides, the beast in his chest rumbles, licking its chops, did you not ask for his help? 

He clicks the button on his sun visor to let himself into his condo’s garage. In the elevator on the way up, he stares at his reflection in the door and chews the inside of his cheek. 

Ten years now he’s sat on his hands and waited for a sign, rejecting the urge to simply take what his beast sees as his. The patience of a monk. Now there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. A white flag waved to signal the end. And rather than take that white flag for what it is and head into the sunlight, he insists on staying put and ignoring the way fate beckons him forward. 

There’s no glory in torturing oneself, no prize to be won for self-abnegation. 

And though his answer was always yes, Gaz allows himself a moment to consider what it would take for him to say no and send you off into the arms of another man. 

He hasn’t got that kind of strength in him. He’s dangled out of helicopters with his head mere inches from the ground, jumped out of a chopper hit by an RPG, fallen through the floor of a building on fire, and been under heavy fire more times than he can count, but that would be the thing that killed him. Seeing you with someone else. Knowing that the opportunity to make you his was truly lost, beyond recovery. 

And he’s tired of the way things are, his sacrificial nature bleeding into every facet of his life. 

There has to be a time for change. 

The next morning, as soon as it’s socially acceptable, he calls you, holding the phone so tight that he accidentally lowers the volume all the way down before fixing it. 

“Thought about it enough. I’ll do it.”

Two weeks until the day.

He circles it in red on the calendar in his office and it colours his peripheral vision every time he turns his head. 

And every night leading up to that day, Gaz puts his head down on his pillow to rest and he dreams. 

Fragmented dream; images of soft thighs and sweat matted hair, lips and tongues pressed together, glutes and buttock squeezing with each thrust, panted breaths getting louder and louder, the air humid and electrified. 

Always, waking at some undetermined hour, jaw clenched, the flameform of a woman left burning in his throat. 

Anticipation whets his appetite. His stomach growls like the beast in his chest and it paces restlessly as the days stretch out endlessly, only stopping when the sun finally dips below the horizon, that time coming each day later and later like some sadistic torture levied on his soul. 

In the weeks leading up to the event, Gaz comes with you to pick up supplies even though you swear that you’ve got it all under control. A lot goes into preparing for a heat. You have to stock your fridge, make your nest, lock away your valuables in case you break anything in the throes of your heat. At the end of your Costco run, the trunk of his car is stuffed to the brim with water bottles, groceries, blankets, wet wipes, chafing cream, sports drinks, and moisturizer. 

At the door to your apartment, he moves to come inside with the bags and only stops when you protest, insisting that your nest isn’t ready yet. His lips twitch into a grin. 

“You don’t want me to help carry everything in?” Gaz asks.

“No, it’s fine. I’d rather—well, just bring everything to the door and I can do the rest.”

He humours you this time because things will be different soon. When your heat is over and he’s no longer just a friend that you can keep at a distance but a red blooded man who tended to your weeping cunt and kissed every inch of your body, things will be different.

Until then though, he can give you this. 

Sometimes he finds himself hypnotized by the tantalizing glimpse of skin that he gets when your neckline pulls and the mating gland sitting in the divot between your neck and shoulder is exposed. 

Every moment in your presence is excruciating now that he knows that the waiting has come to an end. The two week interim period feels almost flimsy, false; the veil has dropped though, and he knows what’s on the other side of it now.

Though his rut is months off, the resonance of your scent must rouse his dormant instincts and throw his hormones into whack because he puts on a couple kilograms with ease, his body preparing for your heat. He overstays his allotted time at the gym by half an hour every session, so lost in his own head that he runs ten kilometres without even realizing it. Sweat runs off him in rivulets, the front of his shirt stained a darker shade of its original colour. 

In the locker room, Gaz sets his towel down on the countertop and stares at his reflection in the mirror. The sudden uptick in mass that he’s put on in the last week is noticeable even to him, his thighs and arms bulkier, and his abs a little less defined with the added weight around his midsection. His skin is smooth and buttery from moisturizing religiously before bed every night, a nice sheen to it. 

He rolls his shoulders back and flexes, preening for the imaginary viewer in his head that looks remarkably like you. 

Johnny would taunt him mercilessly if he could see him now. As if Johnny weren’t twice as vain and pompous as Gaz on a good day. 

He looks good though. Strong. Virile. Capable of seeing his mate through her first heat. If that self-assurance makes him seem cocksure or arrogant, so be it. 

There are plenty of worse things to be. 

“Did you put in for time off?” you ask, still sweaty from a brisk walk through the park to meet him. 

“Yeah. Did it the same day I called you. Took the whole week off.”

Even for as early as it is, the park is busy. Mothers pushing prams jog by in front of the bench the two of you are sitting on, all dressed in the same leggings and puffy vests, headbands holding their hair back. The city has barely woken up from winter’s tight hold, the air brisk and the ponds gelid; small mounds of ice-encrusted snow spread throughout the park like an inverse archipelago. 

In a few more weeks, there might be buds on the trees.

The pretext for spending so much time together in the lead up to your heat is so you can integrate his scent into your system. Gaz barely suppresses a laugh when you give him that excuse. As if you haven’t had a lifetime of acclimation. As if his scent hasn’t immixed with yours by now, and yours with his. 

“I took an extra couple days off after. You know, just in case.” You shrug like it’s no big deal. 

Gaz knows better though. Your ambivalence doesn’t read as wholly true. He can see the way your throat bobs when you swallow and your fingers tighten around your coffee cup. You haven’t made eye contact with him yet despite ten minutes having passed since you sat down beside him. Despite the mild weather, your coat is zipped up to the top, the metal nearly biting into your throat.

You’re doing a bang up job of acting like this isn’t some long preamble before jumping into bed together. He can’t fault you for the fact that it’s all he can think about. It runs through his mind twenty-four-seven, running an endless track that only seems to get easier the more laps he does. 

It’s strange being with you now. Humbling. There’s almost something fascinating in knowing that though you now insist on keeping a polite distance, in a week’s time, he’ll have you flat on your back and whimpering. There’s no harm in allowing you this final bit of grace, so Gaz doesn’t protest, even though—

In a week, you’ll be his.

“Are you nervous?” Gaz asks.

You stiffen, either offended or shy. He settles on the latter when you hesitantly reply, “No. I think we got everything I needed. Um. Not much more to do now other than wait.”

“That’s good.”

“Plus…I trust you.”

His heart clenches at that, stunned into silence for once. 

“You’ve always smelled good too,” you admit. “From what I can tell. I’ve always had a pretty poor sense of smell—really, it’s shit—but you smell better than most people. And I know you’d never hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he stresses. 

You smile and finally meet his eyes. If only he could tell you it with his eyes alone. Nothing could be further from his intentions. If he has his way, you’ll be better off by the end of your heat.

“It’s going to be rough though,” Gaz says apropos of nothing when you go to take a sip, nearly making you spit out your coffee. 

“Huh?” you ask, looking over at him. You wipe your mouth off on your sleeve. 

“First heats always are.” A gust of wind makes you shiver. “You'll probably be worse too, since you put it off for so long—” He chuckles under his breath when your eyes widen. “Sorry, love, I’m not having a go—I’m just being honest is all. Have to know what you’re getting into before it happens; that way you don’t freak out when it’s too late.”

“Too late?” you repeat.

He nods. “Yeah, love. Once your heat hits and my…my alpha takes over, I’m not going to be able to, uh…control myself. I’m going to want to knot you as many times as I can. It’ll be the only thing I’ll want to do.”

All you can do is stare at him, beyond words. Mouth open, teeth separated. One day he’ll have you on your knees like that, tongue out as well to run up the underside of his cock. 

“But I’ll be good to you. I promise.”

He pats your knee before standing up, and you stare up at him with your mouth slightly agape, eyes round. 

“You’re leaving?” you croak, dry throat making your voice crack. 

Gaz smiles. “Gotta head out, love. Got some errands to run. Remember to do your stretches and call me if you need anything before Saturday, alright? And thanks for the coffee.”

He tosses his cup into the bin on his way out of the park, every instinct in him screaming to turn around and go back. It isn’t time though. 

It’s coming, he reassures himself on the walk home. It won’t be long now. 

How does it happen that an alpha can have his omega within biting distance for years and still keep their hands to themselves? He asks himself this question every day, but the answer remains out of reach.  

It takes a strength of will not easily called up. A sense of honour and duty that few can touch, never mind possess. He has it in spades though, chock full of the stuff, and it’s moulded him into the kind of man capable of taking care of you. 

The only thing left unanswered is whether that strength has served its purpose. Whether now is the time to let it go.

He runs his tongue over the point of his canines. 

It’s too soon to tell.

He wakes more alert than any time in nearly thirty years of life, daylight engraved into the side of his face.

Close enough to touch. Gaz’s skin itches when he brushes his teeth and packs his weekend bag with his last few things. An hour—two tops—and you’ll be under him, soft thighs parted and slick hole stuffed full of his cock. Then days more ahead of him to do the same thing over and over and over. 

He drives to your place with a sense of caution that borders on neurotic, coming to a full stop at every stop sign and yield, on the lookout for any reckless drivers lest today be the day that he gets into an accident. There’s no margin for error today. 

The roads are clear this early in the morning though, so he breathes out when he pulls into the parking lot of your building. It’s overcast now, the sun receding behind the clouds. Everywhere around him, life keeps on happening like the world isn’t about to irrevocably change. 

Gaz lets himself in using the spare key fob you gave him a week prior. Even the halls are quiet, the day not yet started enough for people to be on their way out. It’s a Saturday after all. 

His legs seem to move without conscious thought, like he’s being pulled towards your flat, a magnet of opposite polarity. There’s a prickling awareness of another consciousness at the back of his mind. He’s been aware of it all his life, but it’s as real now as it’s ever gotten, the prospect of its omega in heat at the end of a hallway and beyond something as trivial as a door giving it more cognisance, more influence. 

Even from the other side of the door, your scent sets his teeth on edge. 

You answer the door bleary-eyed and sweaty, housecoat cinched tight around your waist and fuzzy slippers making it look like you just woke up. Visibly teetering on the edge of your heat. It’s so obvious and the smell of it so fragrant that Gaz’s instincts kick in and he pushes you back into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. His bag drops to the floor beside him. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, already palming your cheeks and tilting your head this way and that. He tugs down your lower eyelid gently, checking your sclera for anything abnormal.

“A bit hot,” you admit. 

“What’s your temperature?”

“Just a little over ninety-nine degrees. What’s the matter with you? Did you go to med school without telling me or something?” 

A slight temperature is entirely normal for a heat, the body working overtime to support the increased production of estrogen.

“It’s your first heat. I’m taking it seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a baby. I don’t think you need to ask me every five minutes if I’m dilated enough.”

He ignores the baby joke because there’ll be danger if he doesn’t. The situation is already tense enough without thinking about you swollen with his pup. That’s a dream for a different day. Instead, he helps you take off the housecoat (which must have been adding five degrees to your internal temperature) and herds you into the kitchen for a cold glass of water.

It helps but barely.

Your first wave of your heat doesn’t crest until mid-morning, and by then Gaz is practically breathing smoke, the scope of his attention shrinking until you’re the only thing he can focus on. When you twitch, his head snaps in your direction, eyes vacant apart from a slight glimmer of awareness. 

It’s getting harder to think through the fog. It’d be worse if his rut overlapped with your heat, but even just being in proximity to an omega in heat—his mate, no less—forces him into an equivalent headspace. Ears peeled for any noises in the hallway outside your apartment. Wary of another alpha intruding on you in this state.

“C’mon, baby, we’re gonna get one last snack in you before it hits,” Gaz murmurs soothingly, urging you up off the couch and into the kitchen. You stumble slightly on your way there and his heart skips a beat.

You squirm in your chair while trembling fingers bring slices of manchego and chorizo up to your lips. His gaze is intense and unwavering. Any desire to glance down at the spot between your legs evaporates when your eyelashes flutter shut and your cheeks bulge as you chew. 

You’re so sweet like this. A tender thing for him to open up and ply with victuals.

“Just a couple more, okay?” he urges, pushing the plate closer to you and shushing you when you whine. 

You turn your head away when he brings a slice of cheese to your lips. “M’full,” you complain. 

“I know, baby, but it’s gonna be a long time before you’ll wanna eat again.”

“You smell weird,” you grumble instead, turning your head into his armpit and taking a deep inhale. 

“What do you mean ‘weird’?” he asks, slightly perplexed.

“Dunno. Different.” You drag another deep breath in. “Did you put cologne on or something? Smells…uh…really good.”

His dick throbs. “No, baby. Didn’t even shower before I came over.”

“Mmm. Good.”

His arm drops to the table, the force of it making the plate rattle. Fuck but how that nearly gets him. He’s not infallible. Eventually something is going to tip him over the edge from sanity into delirium. 

If this is any indication of the days to come, there’s a chance neither of you will come out entirely unscathed. 

It happens gradually, your sentences slowly degenerating and fragmenting, and your eyes glazing over. Even the smell of your skin gets richer. 

The effect that your heat is having on him is staggering. No one told him it’d be like this. No one told him it’d be like unzipping himself and letting you inside. Like sitting still as a fire blazes around him, the flames licking closer and closer to his skin.

Then your fever spikes and all bets are off. 

“Up,” Gaz growls. He doesn’t wait for you to listen, lifting you up from the chair from under your arm and hunching slightly to scoop you up into his arms. 

You moan, clinging to him. “It’s, uh—Kyle, I…I’m really hot.”

His legs are heavy beneath him, lead weights that he has to drag across the apartment, each step tougher than the last. 

Your nest is a soft, sumptuous garden of blankets and pillows and assorted clothes dragged out of the closet and spread across the floor and bed. You must have pulled the mattress off the bed frame at some point in the last two weeks because it’s pressed into the corner of the room, draped in every single sheet and blanket you own. The bed frame sits quite awkwardly on the other side of the room, pushed out of the way so as to not get in the way, and there are foam panels plastered all over to soundproof the walls. 

Clever girl, thinking of that. 

Everything’s been rearranged. He’d caught that you’d dragged a bookshelf into the living room when he came into your apartment, but even your dresser and nightstand are tucked away in the corner of your room. It’s like you took inventory of everything you own and moved everything apart from the barest essentials needed for your heat. 

He comes down onto one knee on the edge of the mattress before setting you down. You come up onto your elbows almost immediately. There’s a look in your eyes that he’s never seen before except in his dreams. Besotted, devotional. In his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined that you’d ever look at him like this. 

You sit up when he comes down onto the mattress, constantly orbiting and orienting towards him. 

“Gonna take this a little at a time, okay, love?” Gaz rumbles. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you rasp, climbing into his lap when he softly urges you up. An arm braced behind him keeps him from collapsing when you sag into him. 

Pseudo-rut makes him a bit dumb, a bit clumsy. He palms the back of your neck a bit too roughly, murmuring an apology against your lips when you whimper before drawing you into a deep, toe-curling kiss. 

His stomach seizes up when he realizes that he’s kissing you for the first time. Ten years of anguish and heartache and delirious need finally culminating in your lips parting against his, the soft melt of your tongue against his when you let his tongue slide into your mouth, his blunt fingers tilting your head higher up. 

Gorgeous, perfect mouth. Kissing it feels like coming home after years away. 

God, he’s wanted it for so long. And God, your mouth tastes good, and when your tongue touches his, his head goes cloudy and his cheeks go hot. 

Clothes fall to the wayside, slowly added to the nest one by one—his pants are shoved into the crease between the mattress and the wall, your shirt tucked under a pillow. He has to reach down to readjust himself through his boxers and your eyes follow the path his hand takes, going half-lidded and hot.

He smirks, only a little bashful. “See something you like?” 

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, barely taking in his words. 

His chest puffs involuntarily, the beast in him preening. 

Touching your bare skin for the first time, Gaz realizes that he’s never felt so moored and ready. This is where he’s meant to be. Every agonizing moment of the last ten years has prepared him for this moment; not even the bite of his pseudo-rut could make him flounder. 

He traces a nipple with his thumb, following the path with his tongue when he lifts his thumb away, round and round the areola until you’re practically sobbing his name. Not enough. It’s still not enough. 

“Baby, I need to get you ready,” he murmurs when you pull at the waistband of his boxers. 

“M’ready now,” you half-snarl, tugging more forcefully, trying to rip his underwear right off. 

Gaz laughs. “No, you’re not.”

You don’t have a choice but to indulge him though. It’s his way or the highway. He’d told you that back at the beginning, after ringing you to tell you that he’d help you through your heat—it had to be under his terms or not at all. 

Your knickers get shoved under the pillow as well. Something for him to toy with later, when you’re tuckered out and not raring to go just yet. It’ll tide him over when you’re too sensitive for him to play with your pussy. 

He barely grazes a knuckle over your clit and you come, hiccupping through your first orgasm. You’re quick to come, like everything up to this point has just been foreplay. 

“Oh lovie,” he coos, pressing his lips to your temple. “It’s alright—I’ve got you.”

You jolt when he thumbs your clit again. Too sensitive. He pulls it away just long enough for you to catch your breath and for the twitches to subside, but when you start to pant again, your smelling ripening in that telltale way, he strums his thumb across it again, tucking a finger into your hole and groaning when he finds it scorching hot.

He dreamt of fingering you all the time back in high school. Thought of sitting beside you in the auditorium during assemblies and sliding his hand up your skirt until you spread your thighs and let him push your panties out of the way; cornering you in the bathroom between classes and pressing his fingers into you from behind, muffling your cries with his mouth; jiggling your pretty clit in the backseat of the bus, draping his jacket across your lap so no one else would see your wet pussy. 

The reality is so much better than he ever could’ve imagined. 

Three fingers and still you beg for more. You’re clamped so tight around his fingers that he can barely move them, not without exerting a bit more force than he’d like. You must like it though because you squeeze around his neck almost intolerably tight when he forces his fingers in.

“Good girl,” he grunts, shoving them back in. “You can take it.” 

“A-alpha?” you stutter. 

Gaz pulls you close, tucking your face into his neck. “Come here, I’ve got you. Just hold onto me, love, okay? Can you do that?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathe. 

His whole body jerks when you bite his neck. Your teeth don’t break the skin, but still he shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. Just barely keeps from telling you to bite down harder.

You have to take another break after you come, limp and satiated. Gaz uses that time to fluff the nest a bit, getting it nice and comfortable. He even leaves to fetch you a glass of water, bringing you into his chest for a nice cuddle while you recharge.

When you start staring too much again, he knows it’s almost time. 

Nervousness has no hold on him though. You came to him because you trusted him to take care of you through your first heat. 

That assurance settles him. Grounds him. There’s no one more equipped to do what he’s about to do because he’s waited his whole life for this. Whether consciously or not, his whole life has been in preparation for this moment, every choice, every heartache, every sleepless night. It’s all been in anticipation of this. 

It nearly undoes him though, despite everything. Despite the weeks spent mentally preparing, despite the strength in his body and the muscle he’s tacked on, despite his own fervor even. 

Because when he climbs on top of you and your thighs part, your hole is wet and waiting, ready for him to use it and leave a little mess behind. Just looking at it makes his balls throb. It almost doesn’t seem right that he’s about to spoil something as pretty as your pussy with his dick. Leave it stretched out and full of come. A little puffy from being knotted so many times. He should’ve gotten you a plug for after, something to keep his come inside of you. 

If his cock wasn’t so heavy, Gaz would be tempted to lean down and kiss it a bit too. It feels wrong to push inside without at least a little send-off kiss, something soft to set your mind at ease before he fucks you six ways from Sunday. 

He doesn’t have the luxury of taking his time though; your temperature is rising again, skin hot to the touch. 

Your patience is thinning too. “Kyle, I can’t wait—I can’t. I need you—” 

“I know, baby, I know.”

He strips off the last of his clothes quickly, boxers getting tossed behind him somewhere, before crawling over you again. The head of his cock looks brutish against your slick opening when he lines it up, but it stretches so prettily when he starts to sink in, gravity doing the work for him. 

Your legs girdle his waist, pillowy thighs catching him when he sinks to the hilt, breasts moulding to his chest. You’re scorching hot inside, a sweltering, blistering wetness that squeezes his cock like a vice. 

“Baby…” 

He sounds broken, eviscerated. Gutted like a gralloched animal. 

Gaz is barely able to move, barely able to pull his hips back and hump forward, the mattress shifting under him. He could probably knot you just like that. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. 

“Ohohohohoh—” you squeak when he grunts low and deep, bearing down on top of you.

Two strokes into the softest, wettest cunt of his life and his resolve fractures into a thousand parts. Shards too splintered to ever piece back together again. 

At the back of his mind, he thought he might be strong enough to resist temptation. Thought he wouldn’t need anything as barbaric as a mouthguard or a collar around your throat to keep him from giving in to his baser urges. 

Strength isn’t what kept his urges fenced in though. Fear is what’s haunted him for the last ten years—the fear that he wouldn’t be enough for you, that he wasn’t allowed to have you for some reason, doubt crawling into his ear like an insect and whispering to him that he had so much more to do in order to prove himself worthy of you, that you needed to be the one to invite him in. 

But you have, haven’t you? 

Two strokes into the love of his life’s pussy and Gaz relinquishes himself to instinct, dropping his head, teeth sinking into the mating gland sitting pretty at the crook of your neck. It gives almost too easily under his teeth. Soft and tender skin, and then the secretions fill his mouth, blood and ambrosia all at once. Sweet dandelion wine and honeyed nectar. 

You tense up around him instantly, a garbled, watery gasp jumping from your lips, and sharp fingernails bite into his shoulders.

“Oh fuck,” Gaz gasps into the side of your neck when he relaxes his bite, head spinning as it all snaps into place, every strand finally tightening into place, draped in fate like samite, ermine, and brocade. “Oh God, baby, I’m so sorry. Oh God, baby, fuuuuuuck…”

“Alpha?” you wheeze. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” he sighs, laving his tongue over the hurt. Your pulse thrums under his tongue, nervous and fast. “You just felt—hng, fuck—felt so good. Couldn’t help m’self.”

“A-alpha, you—you bit me—”

“Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to. Just couldn’t help it.”

“It hurts,” you whimper. You sound like you’re on the verge of tears.

“I know, baby, I know—I’m sorry. M’gonna make it all better, okay?”

“You’re gonna make it better?” you ask, almost pathetically, the tears beading in the corners of your eyes. 

His goddamn heart nearly breaks at the sight of your tears. “Of course I will, baby. Not gonna let anything bad happen to you—not my omega. My mate.”

There’s blood on his lip but not an ounce of regret in his being. Gaz sits up on his haunches, hands digging into your waist when he repositions you. He rolls you over onto your side and lifts a leg over his shoulder, swollen lips splitting open with the stretch, and fuck if you aren’t dripping wet. His head lolls forward as he stares, tempted to put you right back down and drink straight from the source, hook both legs over his shoulders and just go to town. 

But he has a job to do and his knot is already fattening up at the base of his cock, desperate to be wedged in a soft, warm hole. 

One hand palms your belly while the other holds your leg in place as he shuffles forward, turgid cock still slick with your juices. He pulls his hand away from your stomach briefly to readjust his cock, lining it up with your hole against before sinking in, letting the weight of his body carry him forward. 

Your eyes roll back in your head, the whites so white that his teeth ache. Not a hint of iris or pupil. 

He bottoms out this time on the first stroke, the curly hairs at the base of his cock damp with your slick. Warm, wet walls squeeze around his cock, sucking him in deeper, and Gaz curses softly under his breath. 

“With me, love?” Gaz asks.

When you don’t respond right away, he gives your cheek a light tap. “M’okay…”

The first few thrusts are mindful, slow enough to gauge your reaction and ensure you aren’t overwhelmed. His instincts dig like a spike into the back of his head, but Gaz grits his teeth, forcing back the impulse to rut between your thighs like a mindless beast. There’ll be a time for that in the coming days. 

Then he bucks forward a bit rougher, his shoulders tightening, tendons in his neck straining when his jaw clenches. 

Your breath comes short and sharp. “Oh god, oh my god…”

“There we go,” Gaz purrs. “That better, baby?”

“H-huh…?” Disoriented, your eyes roll around in their sockets until they land on him. Recognition comes slow, if at all. Poor thing, so horny that you can’t even think straight. 

“That feel good? That feel better, baby? I’ll take care of everything in the morning—get all the paperwork sorted, tell your parents and friends, everything. Not gonna let you stress about anything. Just have to lie there and take it nice and deep.”

The thought alone nearly makes him come. He’ll do everything by the book in the morning. It appeals to him on a base level, the idea of taking care of everything for you, so entrenched in your life that you don’t even have to think with him around. 

No more holding back, his beast rumbles in his chest.

We’ve always been worthy of this.

The thing under his skin has gone hungry for far too many years. It has known where to go to satisfy itself, but waited instead for the meal to come to it. 

And it has. You have. Wobbly-lipped and desperate for him to bite and hold. 

His pace is frantic now, mind turned off and glutes flexing with every thrust, thighs burning with the effort to keep the rhythm. All that matters is burying himself in you as deep as physically possible. 

Sweat drips into his eyes. Blinking doesn’t help. The air compresses around him, squeezing him to the point of bursting. 

Your pretty tits bounce with every thrust and he has to touch them. Grab them. Mould his hand over them until his palm always remembers what your nipple feels like. He loves the sounds you make when he pinches them and slides them between his fingers. 

“Wanted to touch these for years,” Gaz growls. He cups his hand under your breast, plumping it up all nicely. “Every summer you’d wear these, uh, these low cut tops…and I’d be so fucking hard, thinking about how much I wanted to pull your shirt down and suck on them.” 

“You never—oh, oh, oh—” you start, interrupted when you come again, walls contracting around his length. Gaz has to grit his teeth to keep from coming as well, not ready to come just yet. 

This one leaves you near breathless, too spent to finish your sentence. Your channel milks his cock. 

He wants to hear it though. “What’s that, baby?” 

“You…you never…said anything.”

“Wasn’t sure you wanted me back.” His vulnerability is ripped from him without warning, so used to giving you everything that he doesn’t even stop to think about what it’ll do to him.

You scrunch up your face, pouting up at him and it’s bad for his heart, it’s so bad for his heart how smitten he is with you. “‘Course I did. I just thought—I thought you didn’t—I’m, ah…”

So close to coming again, you lose track of your words, but Gaz understands, and the implication leaves him short of breath. 

So much lost time. So much to make up for. 

He leans down, bracing himself over you again. Your skin tastes salty when he runs his tongue over the shell of your ear. “You gonna take my knot, baby?” 

“Yesyesyesyes—”

“Gonna let me come inside too?”

“Yesssss—” you hiss through your teeth, tears spilling over your waterlines.

“‘Course you are, perfect girl. Gonna let me come inside and knot you because you’re mine. You’re my girl—my omega—my mate—”

It’s right there, barely a klick away. His balls are drawn up tight, thighs tensed and burning, every inch of him poised on the edge, desperate to come. 

When you reach down to grab a handful of his arse, trying to pull him in closer, Gaz chokes on his breath, tipped right over the edge. His groin pulses when he comes, that first spurt so good that his vision goes spotty. 

It’s so good—

God.

It’s hard to think. Hard to breathe. 

The breath is punched out of him, the sudden swell of his knot winding him. It locks his hips in place, the swollen flesh snug in the wet embrace of your cunt. Under him, you gasp for breath, wide eyes staring up at him.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Gaz coos, cupping your cheek in his hand. “I’ve got you, love.”

His hips grind forward in absence of any movement. Your walls flutter around his knot, too stretched out to squeeze any tighter. The energy is sucked from his body with his come, each pulse making him shudder and gasp. You must be full to the brim with how much he comes.

When there’s nothing left in him to give, Gaz slumps forward, only his elbows catching his weight, hips pinning yours down to the bed until he rolls over tentatively, making sure to keep you pressed tight to his chest. 

There’s nothing he could say that would be better than just this—draped over you, forehead to forehead, soothing his omega. Rubbing the bridge of his nose against yours. Massaging your thigh when you shift, a little cramp in your hip. 

It comes like second nature to him. It’s always been his favourite part after all—the afterglow. Pillow talk and cuddling; sweet, slow kisses with swollen lips. The fact that it’s with you only makes him enjoy it more.

When his knot softens enough to dislodge, he pulls out of you and strokes your cheek when you whine in discomfort. The sight of your poor, battered cunt makes him wince. 

He wets a hand towel in the bathroom and comes back to find you in the same place as when he left you, dazed eyes watching him curiously. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, he parts your legs to either side and crawls in closer, starting with the mess along your inner thighs and the fold of your butt. 

“Stay still,” he growls when you squirm. You go still at the subtle command in his voice, alert even under the fog of heat.

Your legs still twitch when he swipes the cloth between your legs, wiping off his leaking spend and the slick still wet on your inner thighs, but you hold yourself as still as possible, nearly biting your lip off in the process. 

“T-thank you, alpha,” you whisper, chewing on your fingertip. 

He feels his cock twitch at that, still wet with your juices. Doesn’t take much for you to work him up. 

It isn’t long before your heat crests again and you’re crawling over Gaz, hands pinning his shoulders down to the mattress. He laughs. The sound dies in his throat when you line his shaft up with your hole and sink down in one smooth motion, shutting him up oh so effectively.

Cheeky little thing. 

A few days go missing, only recalled in chunks when he’s a bit more clear-headed. Feeding you fresh fruit and slices of cheese from his fingers as you whined on his knot. Licking his own spend out of you while holding your trembling thighs open, digging his fingers into your plush inner thighs. Sucking your beaded nipples into his mouth while gliding his fingers over your clit, your cunt a bit too sore to take his knot again; not so soon anyway. Carrying you into the bathroom for a quick soak before emptying the tub and bringing you back to the bed. 

All the while, feeling your presence like a phantom limb. Like an extension of himself. Every inch of your pleasure rippling across his skin, amplifying his own. 

If Gaz had known it would be like this—

he’d have moved heaven and hell to have it. 

It’s his now though. You’re his. Mated and bound to him. So intrinsically and indelibly tied to him that no earthly force could pull you apart. 

It’s why now he can feel your mounting anxiety like a prickle at the back of his head. It’s what wakes him up so suddenly, creamy golden light spilling across the sheets and furniture when he opens his eyes to the door to your bedroom ajar. 

You’re in the bathroom when Gaz walks in, touching the mostly healed mating mark on your neck. It’s barely a puckered scar, so subtle that he might have missed it.

“Did you mean to do it?” you ask. It’s not the question he expected, but then again, Gaz isn’t sure what he expected from you. 

He nods though. No sense in lying to you. “Yeah.”

It’s clear now that this was always going to be the natural end, that any tryst between the two of you would always end here, with his mark on your neck. 

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into him, moulding you to his chest. In the mirror, you look exceptionally fragile, still shaky and brittle from your heat, and it makes his heart ache. 

“I didn’t think I would, but I wanted to. I never would’ve if I had any doubt.”

One day he’ll tell you everything. He’ll tell you why he waited so long, what held him back all these years when he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing else would come close to this. 

“You didn’t used to smell like this,” you murmur, cold nose pressed into his collar bone. You seal your words with a deep inhale, drawing all of your breath into your lungs and holding it there for a moment before expelling it. 

“What do you mean?” Gaz asks. His lips twitch when you press your nose harder against his skin. 

“It’s different. It changed.”

“I swear it hasn’t,” he laughs. “I’ve always smelled like this.” 

He can feel the way you wrinkle your nose against his skin. “Liar. You used to smell… I don’t know. Maybe like this, but subtler. Fainter.” You exhale again, more contemplative this time. “It must’ve been my heat. Everything smells so much stronger now. It’s like breathing after being sick or something. Like my nose is clear or something.”

Gaz stares at your reflection from over your head while it washes over him. Of course his life would be ruled by a comedy of errors. What might’ve happened had you not gotten on suppressants all those years ago? Maybe nothing. Maybe the past is what it’s always been and there’s no sense in looking back and asking what if things had been better. Maybe regrets are like false idols in that way—there’s nothing holy in worshipping at the altar of them. 

He makes a mental note to keep this from Johnny. Gaz will never hear the end of it if he finds out. 

“What are we gonna do now?” you whisper. 

He lowers his head, pressing his lips to your crown for a moment before resting his chin on top of your head. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of everything.”

[bakuhve]

in which pro hero reader puts an interviewer in their place after asking a disrespectful question about her boyfriend, pro hero dynamight.

you hated interviews.

the blinding lights, the stiff chairs, the overwhelming stench of hairspray clinging to the air- every second under the cameras made your skin itch. the suffocating outfit you were sitting in wasn’t helping either, digging into your ribs with every breath.

you weren’t even halfway through the interview yet, but the migraine pressing behind your temples told you you’d had enough.

technically, this was supposed to be a lighthearted talk show. what a joke. you knew better- just an interview wrapped in a prettier bow. the host sitting across from you in her pristine blue chair hadn’t shut up in over an hour, bouncing between surface-level questions about your daily routine and your hero work.

you’d been playing along, forcing that polite little smile on your face. but this second his name left her mouth, your stomach twisted.

“pro hero galaxia, we all know as his girlfriend, you’re the closest person to the one and only explosion hero, dynamight. i’d like to ask some questions about that.”

her voice was sugary sweet- too sweet. the kind of tone that made your teeth grind.

you returned her plastic smile, masking the irritation crawling up your spine. they always did this. always trying to pry into things that weren’t their business. heroes had a right to privacy too, didn’t they?

but for the sake of appearances, you nodded.

“alright.”

her eyes glinted like a shark sensing blood. “it’s no secret that dynamight is a… harsh person.” she paused, letting the word hang in the air. “many young children and even adults could be frightened by this nature, and i wonder-” she tilted her head, fake curiosity dripping from every syllable- “how do you think this affects him as a hero? could it be that he’s not cut out to be one?”

…what?

at first, you didn’t even register the question.

the air seemed to still, the bright studio lights dimming into a blurry haze around you. the murmuring crowd, the cameras clicking- everything faded into static. all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

she did not just say that.

“excuse me?” your voice came out low, sharper than you’d intended. maybe you’d heard her wrong.

but the smug little tilt of her smile told you you hadn’t.

“yes,” she repeated, slow and deliberate. “what are your thoughts?”

you leaned forward, locking eyes with her. the smile fell from your face like a guillotine blade.

“let me tell you something.”

the words came out steady, and there was no mistaking the edge behind them.

“dynamight wakes up every single day, straps on his gear, and walks out that door with no guarantee of returning home.” your voice rose slightly, echoing through the silent studio. “he risks his life- his entire goddamn life- to protect people who wouldn’t think twice about spitting on his name.”

you wouldn’t use dynamight’s real name now. you weren’t answering this question as his girlfriend, you were answering it as a fellow pro hero who knew the constant battles of every day hero life. and for him to be disrespected like this was beyond sickening to you.

“he worked his ass of to get to where he is today- harder than anyone i’ve ever seen. and you’re sitting here questioning if he’s cut out to be a hero? what the hell are you doing every day? sitting on your ass in front of a camera, profiting off other people’s lives?”

the host’s eyes widened, her sickly sweet smile finally cracking.

good.

you stood abruptly, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor. the woman flinched back, the entire room holding its breath.

“i better not ever see you in front of my face again.”

the moment you stormed off the set, the tension in your muscles refused to ease. your hands were still curled into fists at your sides, nails pressing half-moons into your palms. the air backstage was cooler, quieter, but the frustration still burned beneath your skin.

that woman had no idea what the hell she was talking about. no clue what it meant to be a hero.

you made your way to the dressing room, barely acknowledging the wide-eyed crew members who scurried out of your way. you didn’t care. let them whisper about the way you stood up for dynamight on live television.

you swung open the door to your dressing room, already reaching for the zipper of your suffocating outfit-

and then you froze.

because sitting on the couch in the corner, arms crossed and one leg kicked over the other, was a very familiar blonde.

katsuki.

his crimson eyes locked onto you the second you stepped in, sharp and unreadable.

for a second, neither of you spoke. the adrenaline from the interview was still thrumming in your veins, but under his gaze, something in you settled. he was here. he had seen everything.

you swallowed, shifting your weight slightly. “katsuki-”

before you could finish, he was already pushing himself off the couch, walking toward you with slow and deliberate steps. his hands, rough from years of battle, came up to your shoulders, thumbs brushing against your collarbones.

“turn around,” he murmured, voice softer than you’d expected.

you blinked at him, and his gaze flickered to the zipper at the back of your outfit. “i know this shit’s been botherin’ you all night.”

there was no teasing in his voice, no smirk. just quiet understanding.

your chest tightened, warmth flooding beneath your ribs. without a word, you turned, letting out a breath as his fingers gently tugged at the zipper.

the fabric loosened around you, and you hadn’t realized how tense you were until the cool air kissed your skin.

“you didn’t have to do that,” katsuki muttered as he worked the zipper down, his knuckles grazing your spine. “didn’t need to lose your shit on live tv for me.”

you scoffed lightly, but there was no real bite to it. “of course i did.”

the zipper reached the small of your back, and his hands smoothed over your shoulders, pushing the fabric down with a tenderness that sent shivers through you.

“you’re a hero, katsuki,” you continued, voice quieter now. “you save lives every single day. no one gets to question that.”

his hands stilled. you felt his breath against the nape of your neck, warm and steady.

then, he pressed a soft kiss to your bare shoulder.

“you’re too good to me, y’know that?” he muttered against your skin.

you turned to face him, arms slipping around his waist as he finished peeling the tight fabric from your arms. his hands didn’t leave you, tracing slow, comforting circles against your back.

“i just love you,” you admitted, his forehead resting against yours.

he huffed, but the way his arms tightened around you betrayed him.

“yeah, yeah. love you too, dumbass.”

and as he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss far gentler than anyone would expect from dynamight, you let yourself melt into him- into his safety and love reserved just for you.

the fire from the interview still burned in your veins, but now, it was for an entirely different reason.

[http-shield]

Bucky is high-key appalled by the lack of chivalry and politeness exhibited by the men of the twenty first century. Can't fathom that men ignore women on the train or bus who need seats, that doors aren't being opened for women, seats aren't being pulled out, space isn't made for women as they pass packs of men on the sidewalk. There are many things in this new age world that Bucky can't wrap his head around, but the disregard for women is something he'll never understand, so he opens doors for ladies if they are both going in the same building, vacates seats when there is a woman around in need of space. He can't help it, having grown up in a world entirely different to the one he is now. It is second nature and comes as quickly as breathing, but it stuns you a little the first time you get treated like that. You swoon at the fact Bucky holds the door for you, lets you pass before him, makes sure you walk on the safer side of the pavement, holds your hand when you cross the road, makes sure you get the food and drinks first, offers to drive and pay for date nights, the list is endless. Still, for once in your adult dating life, you don't question the sincerity of his words as they are backed up by actions.

"Did something happen to men while I was gone?" Bucky's confused voice floats down the hall of your apartment as he strides in, kicking his shoes off and placing them neatly on the rack by the bathroom door.

"What do you mean?" You look up from your spot on the couch, laptop sitting on your raised legs. "Like, did they go extinct and come back?"

Bucky reaches the living room and shucks off his jacket and gloves to hang over the chair before coming to the couch and plopping beside you. A soft kiss is pressed to your cheek, stubble grazing your skin as he mumbles a greeting before settling into the plush sofa.

"I mean, did they lose all manners?" he shakes his head in disbelief, hands splaying out in frustrated emphasis. "Do men not open doors for women? Or move out of the way for them on the side walk?"

You close the laptop and stow it away on the small shelf of the coffee table, no longer focusing on the information packets Tony had sent you early this morning.

"What happened?" You ask, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, enjoying how he melts into your touch.

"I just watched a bucnh'a men in suits practically push a woman out of the way to get through the door." he sighs, clearly exasperated at the lack of respect for other humans. "And then they didn't even hold the door for her! They just let it swing closed. How do they act on dates? I doubt they pay."

You hum, letting his rant continue.

"And I was on the line."

"Online." you correct gently, spiking his hair up with your fingers, the shorter strands finally obeying you.

"I was online," he rectifies. "and I saw this video of a woman talking about a man getting angry that she wasn't gonna go home with him after the first date."

"Please tell me that never happened to you." His attention shifts to you now, genuine distress simmering in his blue eyes, and when you don't answer, he becomes distraught.

"Doll, no," Bucky shakes his head as if you confessed to the murder of his beloved stuffed animal. "Come on, you gotta be joking."

"It was years ago! I was young and stupid and didn't know my worth." You shrug, obviously not as upset as your counterpart. “I've learnt my lesson. I know I am worth at least two dinners now." The joke falls flat as Bucky stares, not amused.

"It's a joke, Buck."

"I know, but I don't like it." He grumbles, folding his arms across his chest like a child. "Don't like that you were treated like that."

"Well, good thing I've got you now, huh?" you abandon his hair, stroking the back of your fingers over his stubbly cheek.

Bucky pouts. "Still don't like it. You deserved better."

You kiss his cheek, feeling his cheeks round as he smiles. "You're too good to me, Mr. Barnes." another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Even if we did sleep together on the first date."

"Hey! That wasn't the same. We knew each other before that." Bucky protests as you stand from the couch, walking to the kitchen to start on dinner. "At least I paid!"

[reiderwriter]

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Teacher f!Reader

Summary: You're a little bit worried about one of your brightest students recently, so you call her Dad to come in for a meeting. Her absolutely adorable - and single - Dad.

Warnings: the birds and the bees as explained by a kindergardener. Some angst about being a single parent.

A/N: Here's another entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Kid Fic Challenge! Dad Spencer has my heart, and I've been in a really fluff forward mood this weekend, evidently! I think I have one more Kid Fic left to go before the end of the challenge, but we'll see what the will of the fanfiction gods is...

Masterlist

If you were to be asked what the hardest part of being a teacher was, you would, without question or even a second to think, have an answer. Parents. The worst part of teaching is talking to parents. 

Little kids were easy to talk to. They asked questions if they didn't understand things clearly, and they didn't typically say things they didn't mean. Adults were the opposite, and it just so happened that all of your kids' parents were adults. 

Including your most recent problem  child. 

You were used to the kids in your class having some behavior issues - for one, they were kids, it was to be expected that their little bodies couldn't quite handle all of the emotions they were feeling at once. But you were doubly struck by your school area being close to Quantico, meaning half the kids in your care had families with law enforcement backgrounds. 

Absent parents plus growing bodies plus normal kid stress equalled attachment issues, and your problem child Harper Reid was one of your more worrying cases. 

You really hoped everything was okay in the Reid household, so you'd called the little girls parents. She was lovely - honest to god - one of the sweetest little kids you'd ever met. 

Every day she came to school with some older kids and their mom, carpooling on the way in, so you had yet to meet her parents, but you thought that anyone who could produce something that sweet and cute and brilliant couldn't possibly be a bad person. 

You didn't know what to expect, so when her little pigtails peaked around the corner and she came running in, you were momentarily filled with anxiety. 

“MOMMY!” The little girl yelled, launching herself into your arms as soon as she spotted you behind your desk. 

“Hi, Harper! Hi, you must be, Mr. Reid-”

“Doctor, actually, um, but that doesn't really matter. I'm so sorry about this, Harper doesn't usually tackle people.” 

The 3ft tall ball of energy had managed to crawl into your lap and wrap her arms around your neck, so you had to pick her up when you stood to greet her dad. 

“Will your wife be joining us for the meeting today?” You asked, already used to Harper's hugs and general closeness. 

“Oh, no. No, she's not coming. She, uh, doesn't exist. Single father.” 

“Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume, it's just not on my files-” 

“It's okay, it's a …bit complicated.” 

You took your seat at the desk and gestured to the man to do the same. Finally, looking at him for the first time now that some of your anxiety had died down, you couldn't help but think that Doctor Reid was incredibly attractive. It wasn't one part of his face that stuck out to you as being particularly pretty, just the entire ensemble of it together that took your breath away. Either that of Harper was gripping you so tight she was restricting your ability to breathe, and considering a five year old is not a boa constrictor, this was all dad's fault. 

“So, you said on the phone Harper's been having some problems at school?” 

You snapped your attention back to the issue at hand, searching for the relevant files and pictures you wanted to show the man. Harper turned herself around in your lap and looped her arms around your arm, pulling it in close to use as a pillow. 

“Isn't Miss Y/N so pretty, Daddy?” You froze and flushed in an instant, suddenly so aware of the man's eyes on you. You weren't sure if you were thankful or even more embarrassed that Harper's dad seemed to be even more flushed than you. 

“Daddy? Isn't she pretty?” Harper insisted, and you realized that you both weren't going to get out of this without him answering. 

“Yes, angel. Miss Y/N is very pretty.” The little girl smiled in triumph and nuzzled into your arm even more, happily curled up into your lap like a cat. 

“Hey, Harper. We got a new puzzle delivered yesterday. It's got My Melody and Cinnamaroll on it. They're your favorites, right?” 

The little girl nodded in glee, eyes shining as she hung on your every word. 

“How about you go over to the play area and get it started, and then me and your daddy will come over and help you finish it?” 

In a flash, she'd hopped up out of your lap and wriggled away, shouting a quick “You promised, right?” behind her as she went. 

“I'm so sorry about that, I don't know what's gotten into her, she's usually very shy and-”

“Doctor Reid, it's fine. That's just why I called you in today. Teachers and parents are a team, right, we work together to make sure the kids grow up well, you don't need to apologize to me for that.” 

The man seemed to take a deep breath and nod, to regain his wits about him for a second. 

“Is she… this attached in her regular classes?” 

“Well honestly, she was a bit like that at the beginning of the semester, but she grew out of it after a while. In the last week or so, she fell back into it, and now she's calling me ‘Mommy,’ too. I was wondering if anything happened recently at home that could've led her in this direction, or…”

The man looked a little bashful, but there was a twinge of sadness in his expression that you recognised all too well. 

“Harper, uh, doesn't have a Mom. I adopted her, and it's a long story, but... She's been asking me to get her one recently, because she doesn't really understand all that well? I'm sorry, I didn't know she'd do something like this. I should've done a better job at home-” 

“Doctor Reid, raising a child is hard. It's so hard that humans usually do it in communities, or at least in couples. You're doing it alone, and Harper is already one of the smartest and most empathetic little girls I know. You're doing your job as Dad just fine.” 

The man smiled at you and looked down, quickly wiping away a tear as you gave him a moment of privacy. 

“So. If nothing at home set Harper off, we should probably go and ask her why she's calling me mommy, right?” 

You stood, and he stood with you, leaving his satchel next to his chair and unbuttoning his jacket. 

“Great. Sure, let's go see.”

Walking to the back of the room, you both smiled quietly, looking at the small girl. The 100 piece puzzle you'd guided her to was neatly arranged on the desk, pieces split into edges and centre pieces as she slowly looked at each one with a quietly focused face. Each time she found the piece she was looking for, her smile was bright as she connected it to the small part she was working on. 

“Mommy! Daddy! I can't find the melody's face, can you help me?” 

“Sure, Harper, we'll help you.” You moved to sit beside her at the tiny desks, giggling when the older Reid on Harper's other side struggled to fit himself in the toddler sized chairs. 

Harper assigned you roles, and you all started quietly doing your jobs, waiting for Harper to focus again so you could ask her questions without agitating her. 

“Harper, can you tell your Daddy why you call me Mommy?” 

“Sure! You're Mommy because I want you to marry with Daddy.” 

If you weren't already still flushed from her earlier comments, you certainly were lightheaded with embarrassment now. 

“Harper, that's not how it works-” 

“Yes, it is, Daddy! Henry said so. He said his mommy and daddy were sad one day, but then they were together again and they had a big party called a wedding and now they're happy, and that's why we have Michael.” You didn't quite follow from all the names and the story events, but it was evident that Reid did, so you waited quietly for his explanation. 

“My friend. Her son was at her wedding a few years back. They have another son who is a couple years older than Harper, they come to school together?” 

Your mouth made a small ‘o’ as you slowly filled in the blanks. 

“Harper, you want daddy to have a wedding so he isn't sad anymore?” 

The little girl gave a big nod and a smile, like she was so happy that she was finally being understood. 

“Miss Y/N should marry daddy because he thinks she's pretty. Henry said that was important for a wedding, your mommy has to look beautiful.” You made eye contact with Doctor Reid awkwardly as she spoke, both of you looking away for fear of seeing the embarrassment on each others faces. 

“And Miss Y/N wants a baby. So I will be Miss Y/N's baby, so everyone can be happy!” Harper's kid logic was a little hard to find fault with, but you still had to push back a little. 

“Harper, why do you think I want a baby?” 

“Angie asked you, and you said," the girl pouted, almost frustrated woth habing to answer all these silly questions.

"She asked you why you don't have a baby, and you said that you can only have a baby if you're married and that you wanted to have a baby when you were married. So marry my dad, and I'll be your baby!” 

Harper's smile was so happy and content that you really didn't want to spoil her dream just yet. You continued putting the puzzle together for a few minutes in silence, the full picture nearly being complete now. Harper seemed to fidget a little in her seat next to you, pushing closer and closer to you before tugging on your sleeve. 

You leaned down and she whispered in your ear - though you didn't doubt that her dad heard every word. 

“If you really want, I'm sure we can get another baby like Henry got Michael. I'll ask my dad, but I think it's allowed.” 

The poor man on the other side of the desk had to cover his face with his hands to stop the blush from showing, devolving to just straight up resting his head on the desk when his daughter kept going. 

“A boy is okay, but my dad doesn't really know about boy stuff. Uncle Derek says that my daddy is just a pretty boy with a book brain. We should get another girl, so daddy can be not worry.” 

The more you listened to Harper's adorable family plan, the more you just wanted to squeeze her tight and say yes and give her everything she wanted. 

“Miss Y/N, once again, I'm so sorry for everything, I'll talk with Harper at home about this.” 

“It's okay, I actually find it all very sweet,” you laughed a little and smiled back at him. 

“No, I'm sure your boyfriend would be so uncomfortable if he knew that she was trying to marry you off-” 

“Doctor Reid, are you trying to ask me if I'm single?” 

The small grin that quirked his lips up was nothing if not unfair. He really was a very pretty boy. 

“It was that obvious?” 

“Yep.” You made sure the ‘p’ popped a lot as you both shared a small laugh. Harper looked up between you and smiled, too. 

“So, can you get married now? Henry said you can do it really quickly, like in Grandpa Rossi's garden, and then you can go and do the secret part at home while Auntie Penny looks after me.” 

“Secret part?” 

“To make the other baby, silly!” 

[serinic]

GRADES DO MATTER | JJK

ONESHOT

Summary: You were always the grade-conscious type—where others would brush off a single mistake, you couldn't. One wrong answer was enough to haunt you, let alone a low mark on something you poured your heart into, like your essay. You mustered the courage to raise your concern, but your approach to Professor Jeon wasn’t exactly the best. And unfortunately for you, he wasn’t the kind of teacher to let things slide either.

pairing: professor jungkook x college student reader

warnings: unprotected sex, professor jk slapping y/n with reality, y/n thinks highly of herself, cold and strict jk

word count: 3.8k+

When you were a child, people would often tell your parents that you were destined to become a bright young woman—all because of your endless curiosity.

You asked questions so relentlessly, it could wear out even the most patient adult. And they were right. By the time you were barely in your teens, you had already collected a string of academic awards.

The most unforgettable one? The math quiz bee you joined when you were just ten. Two boys had bumped your shoulder before the contest, sneering and telling you to get lost.

You remembered clenching your fists, resisting the urge to retaliate—because you knew your mind was sharper than your fists would ever need to be.

The memory of their faces twisting into disbelief still lingered, especially when your name was announced as the winner. Just two mistakes—while the rest of them struggled.

You made sure to lock eyes with them as you walked up to the stage, proudly receiving your certificate and holding your trophy high. And, of course, you flipped your hair with just enough flair to make sure they never forgot who beat them.

Back in high school, you were practically at war with everyone—for the top spot. If it meant studying eight hours a day just to ace every exam, quiz, assignment, and seatwork, you didn’t hesitate.

You graduated as valedictorian, but even that didn’t satisfy you. It wasn’t enough—you craved more. You wanted recognition, not just from your classmates or teachers, but from the whole world.

You see, you didn’t study just because your parents expected it. You studied because you were obsessed. It consumed you. Your life revolved around grades, rankings, perfection. You didn’t care if people called you a nerd—honestly, you wore the label like a badge of honor.

There are two types of people in college: the brainy and the beauty. But thanks to your parents' blessed genes—and your relentless discipline—you had both. That’s what made you stand out.

They called you the Campus Queen and the Book Queen all at once. Boys (and even a few girls) tried to ask you out, but you always declined with a polite smile. You didn’t want distractions. Your mind was reserved solely for studying.

College was hell, and you couldn’t even argue with that. It was hell—especially when professors seemed to have a pact to assign every paper, project, and quiz all at once, sending every student into panic mode. But while others struggled to breathe, you thrived in the pressure.

No boyfriend? No problem. Your trusty dildo kept you company during those rare moments of need. That’s how far you were willing to go—grades came first, always. You would sacrifice anything, everything, just to chase those golden numbers.

You walked into the room with unwavering confidence, wearing a proud smile meant for no one in particular. As usual, you were the first to arrive. Punctuality was one of your many strengths—just like in academics, you were disciplined with time.

Every second, every minute, every hour mattered to you. You slid into your usual seat and pulled out a book from your bag. Without wasting a moment, you flipped to the page of today’s lesson and began reading ahead.

Advanced reading was one of your favorite habits. There was something deeply satisfying about answering every question before anyone else had the chance.

And on days when a classmate stumbled—palms sweaty, eyes darting in panic—you were more than happy to take the spotlight and answer in their place. It wasn’t arrogance; it was what you called ‘helping’.

Some admired you, but others despised you—and you were well aware of both. You assumed it was envy. After all, why wouldn’t they be?

You were intelligent and beautiful, the rare combination most could only dream of. But the truth was, your attitude was far from admirable.

You were the type of student who only cared about herself and her grades. If a classmate struggled to answer, you didn’t hesitate to snatch the opportunity—and the attention—for yourself.

When you did, disapproving stares followed you, and your instructors could only offer awkward scoffs, unsure whether to be impressed or uncomfortable. It wasn’t just your classmates who noticed your self-centered drive—your professors did too. Especially Mr. Jeon.

Your mind drifted into dreamland, lost in the fantasy of what was about to happen. You pictured Professor Jeon standing at the front of the class, calling your name to praise your outstanding essay.

Your classmates would erupt into applause as you stood and walked confidently toward him. You’d take your paper from his hand and beam with pride, eyes sparkling at the sight of a perfect mark scrawled in red ink.

But reality snapped back the moment students started to file into the room. Within minutes, the classroom was full—tense and silent, all awaiting the arrival of the cold, strict instructor.

The atmosphere shifted the second he stepped in. Even from across the room, you could feel the weight of his presence—sharp, disciplined, and commanding.

Every pair of eyes locked onto him, tracking his movements with caution. He strode to the desk, placed his leather bag down, and began pulling out his laptop and a thick stack of papers. Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted the red ink marking the pages.

This was it.

Professor Jeon grabbed the stack of papers and began flipping through them, eyes scanning each one with purpose—until he found that paper. With the rest in hand, he returned to the table and placed them down neatly.

He stepped into the center of the room, his gaze sweeping across every corner, surveying the students one by one. Then, his eyes locked with yours.

Your breath hitched. Was he looking at you? You glanced behind you to check if his focus might be on someone else—but your seat was the last in that row. No one was behind you.

You turned your attention back to the front—only to find that his eyes were no longer on you.

"Out of all the works submitted," he began, voice calm but firm, "one stood out the most. The choice of words was exceptional. The way the writer conveyed their imagination—they captured not just the mind, but the heart of the reader. This essay was astonishing.”

Each word sank deeper into your thoughts. Your heart pounded in anticipation, every beat louder than the last.

He was talking about yours. He had to be.

“Ms. Jang Arin, please come up to the front.”

Everyone, including you, turned toward the young woman whose mouth hung open in shock—and so did yours. You couldn’t believe what you just heard. That was supposed to be you.

Arin hesitantly made her way to the front, and to your surprise, Mr. Jeon offered her a slight smile—one of the rare times anyone had seen the strict professor display anything close to warmth.

You furrowed your brows. ‘No… that should’ve been me.’ That was one of the best essays you’d ever written. There was no way some random girl could’ve stolen the recognition that belonged to you.

You could feel the weight of the stares directed at you—your classmates waiting for your usual outburst, expecting the predictable moment when you would storm up and demand an explanation. But you didn’t give them that satisfaction.

Instead, you forced a smile and glanced back down at the book in front of you. Still, you could feel Mr. Jeon’s eyes lingering on you. You gulped and tightened your grip on the pages.

You weren’t going to make a scene—not yet. You’ll speak to him in his office later.

He began the lesson, but you couldn’t focus—not after what just happened. A mixture of humiliation and anger simmered inside you.

Your grip on the pen tightened, and your thoughts spiraled even further when you caught sight of Arin grinning to herself.

What the hell? Something’s not right.

Before you knew it, class was over in a snap. The room emptied out, but you remained in your seat, stunned. You slapped your forehead in frustration.

You hadn’t absorbed a single word of today’s lecture—your thoughts were too clouded by what had just been taken from you. Your recognition. Your moment.

No, you weren’t going to let this slide—especially if you were rigged.

You hastily grabbed your things and rushed out into the hallway. It had been buzzing with students earlier, but now it was nearly deserted—eerily quiet. That was until you heard soft giggles echoing from near the stairwell.

You stopped. Slowly and silently, you crept forward and peeked around the corner.

Your breath hitched.

There, just a few steps down, was Arin—giggling at something Professor Jeon had said. And him? He was smiling. Softly. Genuinely.

Your stomach twisted.

Your palm instantly flew to your mouth. ‘Aha! My gut was right—something is definitely off… or rather, something’s definitely going on between those two!’

Anger surged through your veins, quickly followed by the sting of betrayal.

Your moment—your dream—was stolen, all because someone decided to be a slut.

A sharp clatter made your heart stop. You looked down—your pen had slipped from your hand and hit the floor.

Your eyes widened. Shit. They must not see you!

“Who’s there?”

Mr. Jeon’s deep, commanding voice echoed through the corridor, sending chills down your spine. You heard footsteps approaching. Panic surged. Without thinking, you squeezed your eyes shut… and meowed.

Yes, meowed—like one of the college cats that roamed the campus.

A pause. Then—

“Oh, Professor. It’s just a cat!” Arin's voice chimed in, light and airy, before fading along with the footsteps. They were probably heading downstairs together.

Once you were sure the coast was clear, you stepped out of hiding and walked toward the spot where they had just been. You peered down the stairwell, jaw tight and fists clenched.

‘So the game’s on.’

They could play their little flirtations all they wanted—but you weren’t about to let either of them mess with your grades. Not now. Not ever.

After discovering what could be something more than just a student-teacher relationship between your shy classmate and the ever-strict Professor Jeon, you couldn't let it go.

Instead, you turned your attention toward them—observing from afar, collecting what evidence you could.

A week went by, and now, your study table was covered with printed photos you’d taken in secret. You sat in silence, eyes scanning each one, piecing together the story like a puzzle.

Photo 1: The two sat at a quiet café—Arin appeared to be reading something, while Professor Jeon casually sipped his coffee across from her.

Photo 2: In an empty corridor, just the two of them—laughing. Laughing. A rare expression from a man known for being cold and unreadable.

Photo 3: Arin, entering his office alone.

You only added the third photo because your so-called evidence was lacking—you needed something to fill the gaps, even if it wasn’t damning enough on its own. Still, you couldn’t help but smile proudly at the photos spread before you.

You weren’t planning to use them—at least, not unless things took a turn. You were only going to Professor Jeon’s office to raise your concern about the mark he gave you on the essay you poured your soul into.

But if he dared to brush you off or humiliate you again… well, you’d have no choice.

Now, you sat in your seat, silently counting the seconds for this period to end. These past few days, your mind was never where it should be.

It wandered aimlessly during lessons, tuning out every voice that tried to teach you. Even your classmates noticed—how your usual spark had dulled, how you weren't as relentless, as sharp, as insufferably perfect as before.

And you hated it. You hated how this situation affected you. You hated Arin’s quiet smile. You hated Professor Jeon’s unreadable face. Most of all, you hated that they were the reason you felt so... off.

If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be distracted. You’d still be at the top—undeniable, untouchable.

Class was over, and before you knew it, you were already walking toward his office. Each step felt heavier than the last, the confidence you had earlier slowly unraveling with every inch closer to the door.

After all, you were about to face the Mr. Jeon Jungkook—the cold, strict, respected, and damn near perfect professor.

You raised your fist and knocked.

"Come in."

His voice, low and commanding, sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his laptop, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys.

You hesitated for a moment, the door clicking shut behind you a little louder than you'd intended. Still, he didn’t look up.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and the steady ticking of the clock above his shelf.

It felt like the silence was a test.

And you weren’t sure if you were passing or failing.

“I assume this isn’t about attendance,” he finally said, voice flat and devoid of emotion.

You cleared your throat. “It’s… about my essay grade.”

He stopped typing. His eyes slowly lifted to meet yours—sharp, unreadable. “Your essay,” he repeated, leaning back against his chair. “Right. The one that barely tapped into the prompt and read like a recycled daydream with no real depth.”

You flinched. “I worked hard on it. I just thought—”

“Thinking and writing are two different things,” he cut you off. “Effort doesn’t equal quality, Miss Y/N. You’re in college. Not kindergarten.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, the heat in your face rising. You tried to keep calm. “I know the grade is final, but I just wanted to understand why—”

“I’ve already told you why,” Jungkook said. “If you're looking for sympathy, try your classmates. I deal in facts. And the fact is, your work was mediocre.”

You paused, debating whether to say the next line.

“I just find it odd,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “how my classmate—who barely participates—somehow got a higher mark. A classmate I happened to see laughing with you in the hallway... quite comfortably.”

That finally got a reaction.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened as he stood up, walking around his desk. “Are you implying something, Miss Y/N?”

You held his gaze, fingers brushing the edge of your bag—where your phone, and the photos, waited.

“No, Professor. I’m just… asking questions.” He stopped in front of you, the space between you chilling. “Be very careful with the kind of questions you ask. Because once they’re out, there’s no taking them back.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t back down. The weight of the photos in your bag gave you a false sense of power—but even then, standing this close to Jungkook felt like walking a thin line over fire.

“I just think it’s… unfair,” you said, voice trembling slightly, “how someone who barely talks in class ends up with a near-perfect score. You may not realize how that looks to others.”

Jungkook's eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking. “Arin,” he said coldly. “You’re talking about Arin.”

You didn’t answer.

He exhaled through his nose. “Her essay stood out the most, which is why I chose it and she’s on academic probation. That ‘laughing in the hallway’ was me explaining her midterm options before she fails the course entirely. But I suppose when you’re obsessed with perfection, everything looks like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?”

His words hit harder than you expected. Still, you didn’t look away.

“I just want fairness,” you whispered.

“No,” Jungkook replied, stepping even closer, voice low and sharp. “You want control. That’s why you’re standing here instead of revising your work like a real student. Because deep down, you don’t care about learning. You care about appearances. Grades. Pride.” He walked back to his desk.

You felt your pride twist into something sharper—resentment.

“And what if I showed you something?” you said, slowly reaching into your bag. “Something that might make you reconsider.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change. “Are you really about to blackmail a professor?”

The air in the room dropped. You paused—his tone wasn’t angry, or surprised. It was calm. Calculated. Dangerous.

“I wouldn’t call it that…” you said carefully. “Just… offering context. For your judgment.”

Jungkook crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk. “Then show me. Let’s see what you think is enough to challenge my integrity.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t tolerate threats,” he added coldly.

Your hand hovered inside your bag. This was it.

Jungkook didn’t say a word right away. He simply stood there, eyes unreadable as they bore into yours. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he slowly walked toward you, each step unhurried, measured—predatory.

You didn’t know what shifted. Maybe it was the heavy silence in the room. Maybe it was the way his gaze dragged across your face, lingering a little too long on your parted lips.

Or maybe it was the unresolved tension crackling in the air—anger, defiance, and something else neither of you wanted to name.

“You came here thinking you could play with fire,” Jungkook finally said, voice low. “Now you're in it.”

He stopped just in front of you. Too close. His eyes dropped to the envelope in your hand—the one holding the pictures—and then back to yours.

“You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. Your breath hitched as his hand slowly reached out—not to grab the envelope, but to brush a strand of hair away from your face. A touch too soft. Too deliberate.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmured, tone now quieter… darker. “Now you have it.”

He took one step closer. The envelope slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.

Jungkook crashed his lips onto yours as he pushed you against the nearest wall. You groaned when your back collided with the hard surface.

He slid your bag off your shoulder and immediately lifted your shirt, tugging down your bra before cupping your breast.

“Mhm,” you moaned as he gently massaged it, his tongue exploring your mouth. You started kissing him back—the kiss wasn’t slow; it was rough and desperate.

Jungkook broke the kiss and moved his lips to your neck, gently biting and leaving hickeys. His hand found the hem of your shirt, and he pulled it off, along with your bra.

He sucked your two nipples, switching back and forth. Your moans started to get loud, “Be quiet,” he said before placing his mouth back onto your breasts. You immediately clamped your lips shut.

You gasped when he cupped your clothed cunt, his eyes staring directly into yours. He slipped your pants and underwear down and carelessly tossed them onto the floor.

His gaze now fixed on your bare cunt, and every hair on your body stood on end at the realization—your professor was seeing you completely naked. The cold blast from the AC wasn’t helping either.

Mr. Jeon stared at your pussy for a full minute before kneeling down to its level, his fingers parting your folds. His tongue extended from his mouth to taste your cunt.

You moaned not only from the sensation of his warm tongue but also from the view. He began to pleasure you orally, his tongue moving in and out of your tight pussy.

Your sounds became more loud as he began to slide his fingers in, curling and twisting them within you.

You climaxed twice, and you were eager for more. You want Professor Jeon inside you at this moment. "Please, I want you inside me."

You pleaded with him, and he removed his pants and boxers, tossing them to the ground.

Jungkook wanted you to suck him, but he was equally eager to be inside your wet cunt. You nearly lost the ability to breathe when you noticed just how thick, how long and how furious his cock was. Pre-cum seeping from his tip.

He grasped your waist and urged you to jump. You quickly encircled his neck with your arms as your legs rested on his hips. You expected him to take you against the wall, but that wasn’t the case.

He moved to his desk while you clung to him like a koala. Jungkook pushed his chair aside, “Sit on my cock.” You freed your one arm and held his dick—applying his pre-cum along his shaft for lubrication.

You positioned his hard dick at your entrance and gradually lower yourself—taking him in inch by inch. You breathed sharply at the penetration; he was so deep inside you.

He held the edge of the table as you encircled his neck with your one arm again. Once confirming that both of you were well-positioned and supported by his hold on the table, he gradually pulled his hip back—half of his cock slipping out your eager cunt, before thrusting his hip back in forcefully.

Both of you moaned at his movements. Mr. Jeon started to thrust in and out while you gripped his body tighter. Lewd sounds filled his whole office.

“You always thought you were the smartest in the room. A little top-grade prodigy who couldn’t take a hit to her ego.” Jungkook glanced at you, expecting rage in your eyes, but all he saw was desire as you moaned in response.

“You couldn’t just accept a mark and move on like everyone else, could you?” He continued.

“No. You had to come in here with your little evidence, your little plan. Thought you were clever.”

“Let’s see how far your intelligence takes you now.” Professor Jeon was right here, slapping your face with reality while slamming his cock inside your cunt.

If you weren't in this position—him fucking you so good—you would probably slap him in the face, even if he was your professor.

Jungkook enjoys feeling your wet and tight pussy envelop his hard cock, and you can't help but moan—his dick feels way better than your dildo.

He plunged into you with a primal rhythm, you glanced at his expression—he was biting his bottom lip, his face was intensely concentrated on making you climax.

Your stomach tightens; you are close. Your hold on him tightens as his thrusts quicken when he realizes you’re about to orgasm.

You glimpsed stars upon cumming, only for your breath to be taken away when his thrusts intensified, aiming for his climax.

Professor Jeon collided his lips with yours as he cummed, both of you moaning intensely. A warm fluid filled your whole cunt as he thrust deeper inside you.

‘Was he trying to impregnate you?’

Your thought disappeared when you heard a knock on the door. Jungkook glanced at you and asked, “Did you lock the door?”

You swallowed hard and stared at him in fear—afraid of being caught fucking your cold and strict professor.

“No.”

[thejukeboxzero]

Alright, alright, I hear y'all, here's pt.3 to this whole situation-

_____

“Daddy!” Jack's voice rings out again and the blue-eyed man suddenly disappears from Dean’s view, too busy being tackled by a kindergartner.

Dean struggles to his elbows, head still spinning, and see’s Jack’s father is crying. It’s so silent and subtle that Dean doesn't know if the guy’s even aware he’s doing it, hell, Dean only knows because he can see the slight shine on his cheeks.

Jack reaches up and pats his fathers face, “Are you okay?”

The man responds by nodding and cupping the back of Jack's head, hugging him to his chest and burying his nose in Jack's hair, “I am now, yes.”

“Dude,” Dean's view of the heartfelt moment is obstructed by his little brother's massive form kneeling in front of him, too many emotions on his face to properly name, “Why do you have Professor Novaks kid?”

Oh shit.

Dean’s heard of this guy before, Sam’s mentioned him offhandedly as a hard-ass grader with zero emotions at all. What was it he taught? Criminal something-or-other? Dean can’t remember off the top of his head, but he knows it involves Sam reading through books thicker than his head.

“Why were you and your professor running around together? You were supposed to meet me 2 hours ago!” Dean hisses back at Sam, trying to deflect the question.

“We were looking for Jack!” Sam’s eyes are wide as he gestures to the kid, “He wasn’t on campus- Dean, did you take him off campus!?”

“Not on purpose!” Dean scrubs his hands over his face, cheeks burning with shame, “I- I…”

“You what, Dean?” 

Jack’s father is on his feet now, storming towards the Winchesters with Jack held on his hip.

“I thought he was you, Sam,” He hangs his head miserably, “He got in and I didn’t check the rear view and I thought it was you…”

“How?” Sam sounds as confused as he does disappointed, “Dean, for the love of God, how?”

Dean throws his hands up in the air, “It’s been a long day, Sammy!”

“That’s not gonna’ hold up in court!”

Damn, Sam’s in his first year of law school and he’s already turning into a fucking stiff.

He lets out a miserable groan and gets to his feet, knees popping with the movement, “I swear, I turned around the second I saw the kid back there.”

“There shouldn’t have been a kid back there.” Sam stresses.

“Yeah, well, someone-” Dean wheels around, facing the furious looking Professor Novak, “Should teach his kid not to get in strangers cars.”

Sam makes a strangled noise as Novak steps closer to Dean, almost nose-to-bloody-nose with him, “I could have you charged in countless ways for your carelessness.”

“Dude, you decked me.” He gestures to his bloody face.

“You had your hands on my son-”

“Don’t phrase it like that!” Dean’s skin crawls at the implication, “We were just looking for you, ask the kid, he can be my alibi!”

Behind him he’s pretty sure he hears Sam mumble something about children not being reliable alibis, but Dean pointedly ignores him.

“Jack,” Novak is careful not to let Dean out of his sight, even as he glances down at his son, “Can you tell me what happened?”

Jack nods, very seriously for such a little kid, “You said to get in the car so I did but it wasn’t your car and Dean said I shouldn’t get into strangers cars so we came back but you weren’t here-” Jesus Christ, Dean’s not even sure he’s taking breaths as he talks, he’s just letting his words collide with each other like a ten car pile up, “We’ve been looking forever but you found us first and then you hit Dean.”

Jack pauses and frowns, none of the adults daring to fill the silence, before leaning up to stage-whisper in Novaks ear.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to hit people?”

The professor blinks down at his son, looking like he’s at a loss for words.

“Your dad was just protecting you, Jack,” Dean answers, feeling a bit of pity for the dude, “He thought I was a bad guy and wanted to keep you safe.”

“But you’re not a bad guy!” Jack gasps, looking between Dean and his father, “He’s not bad, he has a pet road.”

Novak squints and cocks his head to the side- oh god, it’s genetic- as he processes the words, “A- A what?”

“I work at The Roadhouse, you know, the bar in town? Told him it was called that because it’s a house that has a pet road…” The older Winchester rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle, “It was funnier in the moment.”

“I’m certain it wasn’t.”

Prick.

“Listen,” Dean offers out a hand, a peace offering of sorts, “I really am sorry about all this, why don’t you stop by The Roadhouse and I’ll hook you up with some free drinks, we can try and put this behind us.”

Professor Novak stares at his hand for a moment, then back up at Dean, face a scary type of expressionless, “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not keen to see you again anytime soon.” He casts a wayward glance towards Sam, “I will see you in class, rest assured today's events will not affect your standing in this school.” His voice drops to a mumble, just loud enough for Dean to catch, “Lord knows we can’t pick our family.”

Dean whips around to his brother, wanting to exclaim in outrage ‘are you hearing this shit!?’, but Sam’s too busy looking like he might vomit from relief for Dean to get his quip out. He turns on his heel again, wanting to argue with the jackass professor, but he’s already walking away, stupid beige trench coat billowing in the wind, Jack clutched to his chest.

“Bye-Bye, Dean!” The kid shouts with a wide grin and a wave, gestures so bright that they almost balance out the way Novak glances back to give Dean the death glare of the century.

Dean gives Jack a half-hearted wave of his own, waiting till the pair are firmly out of earshot to clap Sam on the shoulder, “He’s got a stick up his ass, don't he?”

“You-” The younger Winchester is pale and Dean’s certain that, if he had a string of pearls, he’d be firmly clutching them, “You kidnapped my professor's kid.”

“Barely.” Dean knows how bad this looks, he really does, but he has his priorities, and a top one will always be tormenting his little brother (it comes right after keeping Sammy safe with every fiber of his being), “Now let’s rock n’ roll, bitch, there’s leftover pie in the fridge with my name on it.”

Sam still seems dazed, shuffling after Dean back towards the parking lot, holding onto his backpack straps with white knuckles.

“T-that- You committed a felony.”

“I didn’t mean to and I brought him right back, use that lawyer brain of yours, Sammy.”

Sammy just looks at Dean like he’s going to be sick.

“Or don’t, you look like you’re gonna’ hurt yourself.”

He herds his brother towards Baby, trying not to think of the way he sort of respects Jack's father for hitting first and asking questions never, he would have done the same for Sam, parental instincts can be a hell of a thing. He can’t be mad at Novak (except for the fact that he never taught Jack stranger danger) he just can’t find it in him and it’s infuriating.

What’s worse is that he’s holding out hope that Novak will take him up on the offer of a free drink despite his obvious distaste for Dean, it’s just…

Dean can’t get those electrifyingly-blue eyes out of his head.

_____

<<First│<-Prev│Next ->

I'm callin' this little venture 'Communication Breakdown' (at least for now) because A) did you see a lick of good communication from anyone here so far, except for Jack? And 2) Because it's a Zep reference and no one can stop me

Also, gonna' throw a quick apology out to @colorlessjay lol, I dunno' if this is the direction you anticipated from this prompt but.... suppose we're all just dust in the wind

[alive-gh0st]

❝Always You❞

Mark Grayson x Childhood Friend!Reader ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❀ summary: you showed up uninvited, made his dad question all his life (and facial hair) choices, and never left. now you’re older, hotter, still annoying—and mark? very much in love. congrats.

❀ contains: sfw. childhood friends to lovers. slow-burn vibes. emotionally repressed!reader. soft!mark. reader has a difficult home life. light trauma but make it casual. fluff, banter and comedic tension. mark grayson being stupid-in-love.

❀ wc: 1899

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: first time posting just to feed y’all some mark grayson fluff.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t remember exactly how you ended up in the Graysons’ house that first day.

You’d only just moved in next door, and your mom was already yelling about boxes. The man she was with—this week’s guy—smelled like beer, sweat, and no patience.

So you left.

Well… not really, but something along those lines.

You wandered down the sidewalk barefoot, dragging your backpack behind you, until you spotted a house that looked safe. Lived-in. Rich. You rang the doorbell like it owed you something.

Debbie Grayson opened the door, took one look at your face, and smiled. “Hi there, sweetheart. You okay?”

You didn’t answer. Just walked right past her like you belonged there.

Mark was on the floor with a comic book. He looked up, mouth half-open.

You pointed at his dad. “Is that mustache glued on, or is it a punishment?”

Nolan nearly dropped his coffee. Debbie choked on a laugh. Mark blinked, unsure whether to be offended or amazed.

You were five.

By the end of the day, you were sitting cross-legged on their carpet, eating cookies like you’d always been there. You told Nolan he “sounded like a guy on TV,” which earned another chuckle from Debbie and a long sigh from the man.

By the end of the week, you were staying over so often Debbie started keeping a toothbrush for you.

By the end of the month, you were helping Mark build Lego towers in his room—then immediately yelling at Nolan for knocking them over “on purpose.”

(He did. He 100% did. Nolan Grayson, Earth’s strongest man, had personal beef with a five-year-old and no shame about it.)

And before long, Mark couldn’t remember a life where you weren’t in it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Being around you was chaos wrapped in kindness.

You’d stick your tongue out at Mark and Nolan the second Debbie turned her back, then curl into her side during movie nights like you were her own kid.

You terrified Nolan with the things you said—adult questions in a child’s voice, bold and unfiltered. Like asking, “If you flew into space too fast, would your brain explode?” Or, more memorably: “Do aliens poop?”

“Enough,” Nolan muttered one night after your fifth question. “You’re worse than a Pentagon interrogation.”

“But I’m cuter,” you argued, and Debbie nodded like that settled the matter.

You were nine when you figured out Omni-Man’s identity.

You’d been watching the news over cereal, Mark beside you, both in matching Grayson hand-me-downs.

With squinted eyes at the screen, you groaned in disbelief. “Seriously? That’s your dad’s disguise? I can recognize that ugly mustache from space.”

Mark froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Wait, what?”

“Dude, it’s so obvious.”

You didn’t even flinch when Nolan walked in seconds later, fully suited up but holding his slippers like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Morning,” you said sweetly. “Nice cape.”

Nolan grunted and turned on the coffee maker without a comment.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Debbie adored you. Nolan, surprisingly, respected you—maybe because you always challenged him without fear. And Mark? Mark had someone who understood him without even trying.

Your home life, though, was never something you talked about.

It wasn’t bad, not technically, but it didn’t feel like a home. The yelling never stopped. The guys came and went. You learned early not to ask questions, and that silence was safer.

So you stopped asking.

But one night—when you were eleven—you showed up at Mark’s window with bruises on your arms and dirt on your knees. You didn’t say anything. Just climbed inside and curled up next to him on the bed.

He didn’t say anything either.

He just pulled the blanket over you and let you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

After that, the Graysons stopped asking if you were coming over. It was just assumed.

That’s how it always was.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

By middle school, the two of you were inseparable. You walked to class together, bickered over who got to name the group projects, and ganged up on anyone who tried to mess with either of you.

One day, in the cafeteria, some eighth grader bumped into you hard enough to knock your tray.

“Watch it,” he sneered, clearly expecting you to back off.

You looked him dead in the eyes while tilting your head innocently. “Try that again and I’ll make sure you’re crapping Jell-O for a week.”

The kid blinked.

Mark stepped in beside you. “She means that in a… non-lethal way.”

“Do I?” you asked.

Mark turned to you, deadpan. “Can you not threaten to rearrange someone’s insides with pudding in front of the lunch monitors?”

You gave him a shrug. “No promises.”

People thought you’d grow apart in high school. That Mark would change. That you would change.

But you never gave him the chance to drift. You clung—stubbornly, fiercely—like you knew if you let go, something in you would unravel. And Mark never wanted to be anywhere else anyway.

High school didn’t change you much. If anything, you just got bolder.

Mark got taller. You got sharper. People asked if you were dating. You both said no.

But neither of you looked too convinced when you did.

You still wore his hoodies. He still shared his fries with you without asking. You stole his blankets. He carried an extra charger in his bag just in case you forgot yours.

He never forgot your birthday. You never missed a single one of his baseball games.

It wasn’t just friendship. Not really.

Not with the way you rolled your eyes at affection from anyone else but melted instantly when Mark laid his head on your shoulder.

Not when you’d fight with him one minute and be curled up against him the next, hoodie sleeves too long, fingers grazing his under the blanket.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Mark watched you far more than he should’ve.

He noticed the way your laugh cracked just a little when you were too tired.

The way you hugged too hard, like you were making sure someone stayed.

The way you’d stand between him and anyone who dared to mouth off—like you were the one with superpowers.

He didn’t need to know the exact moment he fell in love with you. For him—it was always there, he just hadn’t been smart enough to understand.

Maybe it was that one day when you were watching cartoons on the floor, and Mark was pretending not to stare at you. You turned to him, grinning, and said something dumb like, “You’d probably get beat up in a real fight.”

But your eyes were soft.

He smiled back, and thought, God, it’s always been you.

But he never told you. Not really.

Because every time he almost did, you’d turn away. Or laugh. Or call him something close enough to a slur and throw popcorn at his face.

Maybe that was your armor. Or maybe it was his fear.

Either way, the words never made it out.

So he held onto them in silence. Carried them like bruises from a fight—but these ones never quite healed. Let them bleed out slowly over the years through lingering glances, soft touches, and unspoken understanding.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You were sixteen when he nearly told you.

It was late. You’d been watching horror movies with you curled up against him, almost half-asleep.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“You know I—I really—uh, care about you, right?”

You cracked one eye open. “Mark, if this is your weird way of trying to tell me you love me, just do it.”

His breath hitched.

You snorted. “Relax. You’re too chicken to actually say it.”

“Am not.”

”Then say it.”

He paused.

You reached over, poked his cheek, and mumbled, “Didn’t think so.”

And then you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, blissfully unaware of how badly his heart was racing.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Even now, sitting in his room, you’re stretched across his bed with a random comic forgotten beside you, legs tangled in his blanket like you own the place.

(Because you kind of do—not that he’d give you the satisfaction of knowing that.)

Mark watches you from his desk chair, ’Seance Dog’ comic in hand, but he’s not reading a word.

“You’re staring again,” you mutter from his bed, cheek half-squished against his pillow, voice muffled and judgmental.

“I am not,” Mark lies—incredibly unconvincingly.

You glance over with one brow raised. “You always stare when you’re thinking something gross.”

“It’s not gross!”

“So it is something.”

“…Maybe.”

You sit up, stretching your arms overhead with a dramatic yawn. “If you’re about to tell me you’ve been in love with me since we were, like, eight, just say it. Don’t do the weird broody stare like you’re in some CW drama.”

Mark blinks. “I mean… okay, not since eight. But maybe since… twelve?”

You blink at him.

Then before he can overthink like always—you let out a long, theatrical sigh and flop back dramatically again. “Ugh. Finally.”

Mark startles. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.” You shoot him a lopsided grin. “Do you know how annoying it is being the only one aware of the mutual pining in this room? I’ve been carrying this ship on my BACK.”

Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. “Wait—you like me?”

“I’m literally lying in your bed, wearing your hoodie, and insulting you in front of your anime figurines. What do you think?”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

You pause. Then smirk. “So… now what?”

Mark thinks for a second, then shrugs. “I mean, I could kiss you, but I’m 99% sure you’d just roast me for it.”

You hum. “Depends. Are you going to do that thing where you hesitate awkwardly and make a weird-ass face?”

Mark throws a pillow at you.

You cackle, catching it midair. “I’m kidding, dumbass. Come here.”

And when he does—grinning like a total idiot, heart thudding like he’s about to leap off a building for the first time—you tug him forward by the collar of his hoodie and kiss him first.

It’s warm, a little clumsy, way too long overdue.

And when you pull back, breathless and smug, grinning against his mouth—whispering, “Took you long enough, Grayson.”

Mark laughs, his cheeks tinted pink.

His fingers are still in your hair.

And for the first time in years, his heart feels lighter than air.

Because he’s always been watching you.

But now, finally—you’re looking back at him the same way.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Later, as you both lay tangled in blankets and shared warmth, Mark breaks the silence.

“…Do you think my dad knew?”

The question lingers in the air, and your mind drifts back to the old days—the easier ones—before your eyes open.

You blink up at the ceiling. “That you’re in love with me? Yeah. He always knew.”

Mark groans. “Debbie probably has a betting pool going.”

“She does,” you say without hesitation. “Amber’s in on it too. I think William’s the bookie.”

Mark gapes at you. “Are you serious?”

You grin, smug. “Dead serious. I’m pretty sure I just made someone twenty bucks.”

Mark buries his face in the pillow. “God.”

Patting his back, mock-comfortingly, you snort under your breath. “Don’t worry. You’re still the last one to find out.”

“…That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

And somewhere in the house, Debbie smiles to herself in the kitchen, sipping her wine like she didn’t just win her own bet.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Skittle game- L.FX

Requested by anon. This is from my prompt list. It's my first time writing for Lix so please be gentle 🥺 will try to post one more prompt tonight

14. Skittle game (adult version)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: smut, fwb to lovers, contains a funny epilogue 

Alexa, play Señorita by Shawn Mendes & Camila Cabello

The party was over. There were left only empty bottles on the table and music humming low from a now forgotten playlist, and the room smelled like beer and detergent. You were the only one left with feet bare, sleeves pushed up, scraping crumbs off the counter while Felix watched you from the couch.

He was slouched deep into the couch, his shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin above his waistband. His eyes were heavy, but still watching you, “You don’t have to clean”,  he murmured, voice deep as usual, “You’re not my girlfriend”.

You glanced back, smirking, “Good thing. I’d be a terrible one”. 

Felix just grinned, “You’d ruin me if you were”. 

Your skin tingled with it but you’ve danced around this too many times to let it get to your head. You rolled your eyes and tossed the last napkin into the trash.

“Want me to do what instead of cleaning?”

 “Want you to sit your pretty ass down and play a game with me”, he said, holding up a nearly empty bag of Skittles.

You raised a brow, “Skittle game. Seriously?”

He shrugged, “C’mon. Adult version. One round.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to. Damn, you always want to when it comes to Felix. But because these nights had a habit of turning into something more— almost everytime.

Still, you walked over and sat beside him, thigh pressed to his,  “Fine. Let's do it”

He shook the bag, grinning like a devil, “Pick one, make a question”

You drew first.

Orange.

You popped it into your mouth, let it melt a little on your tongue, then glanced at him,“Smash or pass?”

Felix huffed, “That’s not funny. We’ve already smashed”

“Doesn’t mean you won't pass next time”

His eyes darkened, “I won't”

“Someone is confident tonight”

“I’m always confident”

He leaned in then, mouth inches from yours, like he was daring you to kiss him first. You didn’t, you just drew another Skittle.

Red.

You smiled, “Kiss me anywhere but the lips”

His grin faltered for a second, replaced by something slower, still teasingly enough.

“Anywhere, huh?”

You nodded once.

Felix shifted closer, fingers brushing your knee before sliding up, like he was testing your patience. Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to your neck, just below the ear, where you could feel your pulse racing.

“You smell so sweet”, he murmured, breath hot against your jaw, “Always do after we fuck”

Your stomach flipped. You looked at him, but he was already pushing the Skittle bag toward you.

Yellow.

“Confess something that would ruin our friendship”, you said,  “I mean…. the benefits of our friendship”

He didn’t even blink as he answered.

“I want you to be mine only”

The air between you gets heavy.

You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together instinctively, “Felix… ”

“You said ‘confess’, I’m just being honest”

You grabbed the bag again, drawing another candy.

Green.

You lick your lips, “Touch me for five seconds. Anywhere”

He didn’t think twice. His hand slid between your legs,beneath your dress, fingers reaching the lace fabric of your panties, pressing just hard enough to make your breath shorten. He counted out loud, low, with a smirk on his face

“One… two… three…”

You were already squirming

“Four…”

His thumb circled your clit once.

“Five”

Then he pulled away like nothing happened, licking sugar off his knuckle.

You glared at him, “Asshole”

He laughed, eyes shining, “Don’t lie to yourself, you love it”

Then it was his turn.

Purple.

“Ask me something you wouldn’t if we were sober”, he said

You hesitated

“Did you ever come thinking about me before we started hooking up?”

His smirk faded. Felix shifted in his seat, “You mean when I tried to pretend I didn’t want you every time you walked in wearing those tiny little skirts of yours? Yeah, I did”

Your soul almost left your body.

He watched you for a beat longer, then picked the last Skittle from the bag.

Red. Again.

“No repeats”, you murmured

“Who said I’m repeating?”

He leaned forward. Fingers curling around the back of your neck and pulled you into his lap like it was instinct. Like it had always been this easy to ruin you.

His lips brushed your ear.

“This time, I’m kissing you here”, he whispered, mouth ghosting over your chest, just above your heart before taking your lips on his

You were already grinding against him, desperate and warm, too aware of how good he felt under you. Too used to this yet never tired.

Then you slid off his lap, sank to your knees between his legs like muscle memory.

“You won again”, you said, smugly.

Felix groaned when your fingers hooked on his waistband, his head dropping back.

“Fuck. You’re really gonna…?”

But the sentence died the moment your tongue touched him.

You’d done this before— too many times— but never like this. Never this intentional.

His hands gripped your hair, breath catching every time you swallowed around him, every time you hummed and let your tongue trace patterns he never knew he needed.

And when you glanced up at him with big eyes, mouth full, he choked on your name.

“This… fuck… this isn’t just a game anymore”

You pulled back just enough to murmur, “Did it ever feel like one?”

He stared at you. And you saw it, right there in his eyes— something wild. Something like a mix of desire with euphoria.

You took him deeper, and Felix could swear he wasn’t seeing just stars but a whole galaxy. You were there on your knees warm and wet and so into it, and all he could do was sit there with his head thrown back, fists clenched in your hair, making the kind of noises he swore he didn’t make.

“Fuck… angel, wait…”

You hummed around him,the  vibration making  him twitch in your mouth.

“Holy shit… don’t do that….”

You pulled off with a loud pop, blinking up at him, faking innocence, “Don’t do what?”

“That”, he panted, pointing at you like you’d committed a crime, “That… thing. With your tongue. Shit… I literally almost fell in love with you just now”

You paralysed

He paralysed too.

“You what?!”

Felix’s eyes went comically wide, “I… I didn’t mean… I meant like… figuratively, like…”

You raised a brow, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, still on your knees, “Felix”

“Okay, technically I am already in love with you”, he blurted, entire face turning red, “But I was gonna wait until like… after. Or during cuddling. Or maybe never? But then you started humming and I just… I panicked. My brain was like, ‘tell her right now or you’ll die’ ”

You stared at him, still holding his dick.

He stared back, mortified.

“…Can I finish first?”, you asked, poker faced

Felix wheezed, covering his face with both hands, “Please, God, yes. But like, just pretend I didn’t say anything yet”

You grinned, leaning back in, “Oh, I’m definitely gonna pretend”

Just like that, your mouth was back on him, and all Felix could do was grab a pillow, muffle a very real sob, and think ‘I love her so much it’s disgusting’.

The pressure built in him, every movement of your lips pushing him closer to the edge. His fingers tightened around the pillow, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps, but nothing prepared him for the moment when he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

He pulled you closer by the hair, urging you on as his body stiffened with the release, a broken gasp escaping him. A shudder ran through him as he came undone, the pleasure almost overwhelming in its intensity.

He fought to keep his eyes on you, watching the way you took him in, and the sight alone was enough to make his heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the physical sensation.

Felix’s body trembled beneath you, a mix of pleasure and raw emotion flooding through him. "I can't stop…", he gasped, voice cracked and shaky, but the overwhelming sense of vulnerability felt too real to ignore.

When he was done cleaning himself, Felix pulled you to his lap. His hands were holding on your waist like he was afraid you’d run away. 

The air was thick with something neither of you felt before.

You rested your forehead against his, your breath still uneven from what everything just had happened, “You really said it mid blowjob, huh”

Felix groanned, “I panicked”

You laughed, but it faded fast. Because you felt what he meant. Not just the words but also the weight of them. Like he’d been carrying this for a while. And suddenly, you didn’t know what to think anymore.

It wasn’t just fuck buddies anymore. Not just games and teasing.

Your fingers trailed up the side of his neck, settling in his long blonde hair, “How long?”

He swallowed without looking at you, “Few weeks. Maybe longer. I kept trying to stop. Kept saying it was just sex”

“But it’s not”

He finally met your eyes,  “It hasn’t been for me in a while”

The silence that followed felt fragile.

“I don’t know what to do with that”, you whispered.

“I don’t either”, he admitted, “But I’d rather be honest and ruin it than lie and lose you anyway”

You blinked, chest aching, “Lix…”

He shook his head quickly, “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t say it so you’d fix it. I just fell in love with you while watching you eat cereal in my shirt and talk shit about my taste in movies. I knew I was doomed”

You pressed your lips to his tenderly, a little sad.

It tasted like goodbye or maybe a beginning.

He kissed you back like he was memorizing the taste of your lips. Like if it was the last time.

When you pulled back, your nose brushed his. Then, you asked, “What do we do now?”

Felix exhaled, still holding you like he was scared you’d vanish. But then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your jaw, then to your cheek, then the tip of your nose.

And he said, “We stop pretending. And we figure it out”

“And if we mess it up?”

He smiled, genuine, “Then we try again. And again. As many times as it takes. I won’t let you go, Yn”

Your throat tightened. Your hands slid to his cheeks, and you kissed, deeply and passionate.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “Okay. Let’s do it. Together”

“Okay”, he nodded, smiling, “Us. For real this time”

You both enjoyed the comfortable silence for a moment. Still tangled up in each other but no longer hiding behind rules or teasing or the label of ‘just friends’.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

And real was enough for you. The both of you.

…

Epilogue:

You were brushing your teeth when Felix walked into the bathroom, hair a mess, sleepy eyes.

He blinked at you through the mirror, “…Are you using my toothbrush again?”

You glance over,mouth full of minty foam, “You already kissed me after I had your dick in my mouth. I think we’re past toothbrush boundaries”

He groaned, rubbing his face with both hands, “I hate how valid that is”

You spat, then wiped your mouth, and leaned against the counter, watching him lazily grab his own brush looking at it with disgust but strangely not actually feeling it

“I’m making cereal for breakfast”, you said, “The good kind. With cinnamon crunch rolls”

He grinned around the toothbrush, “You’re literally the love of my life”

You smiled at him and said, not being flirty this time, “Yeah, I know. You’re mine too”

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep , @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa , @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

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[witherby]

hey 😏

just wondering if you have anymore mer reader in the works 😏

also! i hope that your doing well!!

and can i be 🌕 anon? :)

You can absolutely be 🌕 anon! And, I do! Here's the final installment of:

Human!Damian x Mer!Reader

Part 9

Masterlist is Here!

"I'll need everyone's attention before we continue into the next exhibit, please."

Damian's voice is clear but firm, no room for argument in his tone, and his tour group all quickly quiet down to watch him. He rewards them with his well-practiced Customer Service Smile, nodding once.

"Thank you," he says. "This final exhibit is the pride and joy of Gotham Aquarium: the Mer tank. I can already see hands raised, and I'll open the floor up to questions in a minute. We're going to cover the rules first."

He holds up one hand, raising a finger as he goes.

"Rule number one: absolutely no flash photography. Take as many pictures and videos you want, but you have to leave the flash off. Our mer's eyes are sensitive to highly-focused levels of light, and you could temporarily blind them. Rule number two: do not knock or beat on the glass. It is several inches thick and reinforced, but you can still startle and disturb the mer. Rule number three: please...please stop flipping off our mer. They've learned to mimic their handlers and some of the guests, and it took weeks to make them quit it. If I see a bird, notice a flash, or catch you banging on the glass, everyone will be asked to leave."

He drops his hand, looking at every guest expectantly.

"Got it? Everyone say yes, Damian."

"Yes, Damian," the crowd echoes back, a mixture of amusement from the adults and excitement from the children reaching his ears. He gives them another practiced smile and reaches for the door.

"Great. Then step right in. Fan out and look around as much as you want. You can ask any questions now."

"How long has Gotham Aquarium had the mer?" One adult immediately asks, examining the seaweed on the bottom of your tank.

"Almost two years," Damian replies. "The anniversary of their arrival is in a month. We've got a small party planned to celebrate."

"What's the mer's favorite color?" A child asks him, gently tugging on Damian's pant leg to get his attention. His smile becomes more genuine.

"Green," he replies. "They love green things. I see your hair clip is green. They'll probably stare at you when they come out."

The little girl gasps, eyes wide. "Really!?" She turns and runs to her dad. "Hey daddy! The mer likes green, and my hair clip is green! The mer will like me!"

More questions come that Damian answers with ease. He paces along the floor and casts his gaze upward, examining all the little ways your tank has been changing overtime.

Your rock collection has grown substantially since Damian started painting more for you. He gives you a new one every day, and you have them proudly scattered all along the floor to decorate your enclosure. You've also taken to moving your seaweed around; instead of one, big stretch of it to hide and sleep in, you've uprooted it and made it into a series of little hiding places. He can also see some weighted toys lying around that one visitor asks about, happy to explain how you use them for enrichment.

"When's the mer come out?" Another one asks, leaning against the glass. His eyes are practically glazed over from disinterest. "Is it sleeping or something? These tickets were like forty bucks and I'm just staring at rocks and water."

There's a loud thud against the glass behind him. The man yelps and whips around to find you with your hands pressed against the wall, eyes wide and teeth bared as you stare right at him.

"Oh, shit!"

Damian sighs, but he's smirking. You love startling unsuspecting guests; it's your second favorite activity. He watches the others flock to you once they realize what happened, and you perk up and examine them all with a much more pleasant smile.

"Daddy, I can't see," the girl from before complains. Her father gently hoists her up onto his shoulders, and you immediately take notice.

You push off from the glass and swim around the edge of the tunnel to examine her as closely as possible. You tap one claw on the glass, then gesture to your head, and the little girl gasps and beams.

"They see it!!! They see my hair clip daddy!!" She chirps. She tugs it off of her head and holds it up for you to see better. Your pupils widen and your tail swishes gently back and forth, deeply intrigued.

"Obviously, this is our mer," Damian speaks up, and he tells them your name. "Their breed is found in shallow, fresh water. They thrive in warmer temperatures, and they're very rarely alone. You can typically expect them to travel in pods of at least three, though more commonly up to six or seven."

"But Gotham Aquarium only has one mer?" A guest asks, while you make playful grabs for the clip to no avail. "Aren't they lonely, then?"

"There was a big adjustment period for them when we first acquired our mer," Damian nods, "but they have a dedicated team of caregivers that ensure they aren't lonely or bored. They've bonded with several of us very well. Even though they recognize that we don't live underwater, they still see us as pod-mates."

"How long did it take to bond with them?"

"Great question," Damian says. He watches you give up on snatching the clip and start swimming around the tunnel to examine the other visitors. "It took them about ten months after arriving to learn to trust me. We started off slow: I would use a remote-controlled robot to deliver their buckets of food and then dump it into the water. Then I would enter the room where the top of the tank is, and hand it to them with a long pole. Then I got rid of the pole and set the bucket on the lip of the tank, and stood back while they retrieved it. When they got used to me being around, we started working on small tricks."

Damian lifts his hands, wiggling his fingers to catch your attention. You lock eyes with him and give a knowing nod, swimming up until you're positioned directly above him. He waves his left hand clockwise, and you swim in slow, clockwise circles. He waves his right arm next, and you switch and start spinning counter-clockwise.

"This is all done humanely and voluntarily, of course," Damian explains while the guests watch on with rapt attention. "If there's a trick they don't want to perform, they simply won't do it. We don't force them into doing anything, including coming out during tours if that's not what they want. Some days they just aren't up to saying hello, and that's fine."

He drops one arm and uses the other to make a broad waving motion. You mimic the action. He points at one of your toys, gesturing for you to grab it and bring it over. You glance at the one he wants, then ignore him and decide to go back over to the little girl and admire her hair clip some more.

"As you can see, they like shiny objects, especially if they're green. They've got a small collection of aquatic-safe objects in their hideaway. All breeds of mer tend to have hoarding tendencies, and ours is no different."

Damian gives the group a few more facts about you and your general behaviors, answers some more questions, and then inevitably has to call it when the same guy complaining about ticket prices decides to photograph you with the flash on. You flinch and rub your eyes, then dart away out of sight.

"All right, everyone, please come this way," he calls, in that cordial but no-nonsense tone again, and holds open the door. "This concludes your tour of Gotham Aquarium. Please exit this way in an orderly fashion."

"Aww.."

"Nice job, jackass. We were supposed to be in here for at least twenty more minutes."

"I didn't think he was serious! I forgot to turn the flash off, so what!"

"That was kinda cool. Sucks we couldn't stay, though."

There's a tug on his pants again. Damian looks down at the little girl, who fidgets nervously.

"Um...is the mer gonna be okay? Are their eyes hurting a lot?" She asks. Damian knees down to her height and offers her another smile.

"They'll be fine," he promises. "I personally check on them every day. What's your name? I'll tell them you said hi."

"Um!" The girl blushes, eyes wide. "It's Rosie! Thank you mister!"

"You're welcome, Rosie. I hope you had fun today."

"So much fun!" She agrees, then turns to her dad and reaches up to take his hand, walking out of the tunnel. "Daddy, daddy! When I grow up I wanna take care of mers, too!"

"Okay, honey," her dad chuckles, "but you're gonna have to do your homework if that dream is gonna come true."

"Aw, man!....okay. I'll do my math sheets for the mers..."

Once the room is cleared, Damian closes and locks the doors. He hangs around just long enough to ensure no stragglers try to swing back around, then drops the Polite Tour Guide persona and heads for the staff elevators with a scowl. It's a matter of minutes before he's in the locker room, swapping out the Aquarium polo and khakis for his wetsuit and then trudging into your tank entrance.

"Rule one!" He complains to Jon, who is already sitting on the lip of the tank and filling a puzzle cube with treats for you. "No flash! It's the first rule, and someone breaks it almost every single day we're open! One day I'm going to hit my limit for these witless miscreants and start punching people."

"So, tours didn't go super well I take it," Jon says, not even sparing him a glance. He's heard different versions of this rant at least five times and doesn't react to it anymore, having quickly come to understand that Damian is just Like That. "You gonna go do the eye exam already or should I call my dad? Y'know, the actual vet?"

"He's never as thorough as I prefer. You know that. Also: shut up, who asked you?"

"You're a joy and a delight to work with, Wayne."

Damian ignores him and grabs a rebreather and situates it over his mouth, ties the bag of eye equipment around his waist, steps up onto the edge of the tank, then dives. The water swirls around him, an all-encompassing and welcoming pressure. He starts pedaling his arms and legs, headed for the direction you sped off at the end of the tour.

He finds you in the middle level of your tank, about a floor down, curled around an underwater tree limb and rubbing your eyes. You squint at him when you notice his presence and trill, the water vibrating slightly around you.

Damian quickly goes to work, pulling out one tool at a time to check on your eyes and how well you can see. You're perfectly fine, just annoyed, but he considers having his father enact a total ban on any cameras in the tunnel when tours come by. Just because you're fine now doesn't mean it'll stay that way every time.

He points upwards, to the surface, and you nod. You take his hand and pull him along, your powerful tail carrying him faster than he ever could on his own, and soon you're both above the water and treading it calmly.

"Welcome back!" Jon grins, waving your puzzle toy at you. "Refilled this for ya. Your record for getting all the treats out is six minutes. Think you can break that today?"

Your eyes narrow and you reach for it eagerly. You can smell the squid and shrimp tucked into each compartment, which are your favorites; absolutely you will be getting those out in six minutes or less.

Damian pulls himself up to the lip of the tank and both boys watch you poke, pull, and prod at the components of the puzzle box. It's not long before you're collecting your spoils and eating them triumphantly. Jon checks his timer and notes that you beat your previous record by over a minute and a half.

"Are you surprised?" Damian huffs. "They're brilliant. They could learn to do just about anything with enough time and practice."

You preen, chittering your agreement. That's why Damian is your favorite caretaker; he's never doubted you since getting to know you, not ever.

He did forget something, though. You toss the puzzle box back at Jon and make grabby hands, face expectant.

Damian immediately clears his throat and looks at Jon, cheeks turning the barest shade of pink. "I need you to go and fetch the shears. The vine growth on the middle level of the tank is beginning to obscure vision and easy travel."

"You didn't bring them with you?" Jon frowns. "Dude. They're all the way on the bottom floor in the maintenance closet. It's gonna take me like twenty minutes to get back here."

"Then you'd better make haste."

"Why can't you do it?"

Damian scowls at him. Jon throws his hands up and climbs to his feet.

"Fine! Haven't gotten my ten thousand steps yet anyway," he grumbles, heading for the door. "Don't play hide and seek without me! I've just gotten good at finding spots I can fit in!"

You chitter and chirp, amused, then focus on Damian again once the doors go your enclosure snap shut.

Damian faces you, the pink in his cheeks worsening. He fiddles with the bag tied to his waist and avoids your gaze.

"I, ah..." He starts, working his jaw in thought. "The girl whose clip you liked. She says hello. Her name is Rosie."

You blink, waiting patiently for him to get to the point.

"I was asked about how you've adjusted to life here without pod-mates. I told them you have a pod in us. That you're not alone here despite being the only one of your kind in Gotham Aquarium." Damian swishes his feet slowly in the water, following the same rhythm as your tail. You drift a little closer.

"And you've adjusted very well, Princess," he continues, voice turning soft. "I can't thank you enough for giving me a second chance to care for you. I want you to know that it means everything to me."

Damian meets your gaze again, and there it is. There's that pair of gorgeous, emerald eyes you adore. You drift even closer, resting your palms on the backs of his calves, and smile up at him. He smiles right back.

"You noticed I don't have another rock for you," he says. You nod. "It's because I didn't bring you a rock this time."

You frown, huffing. Damian chuckles.

"You know I kept the scales you gave me," he admits, recapturing your attention. Your eyes widen, heart starting to pound in your chest. Was he about to give them back? You didn't want them back. "They're beautiful, Princess. I keep them in a jar in my bedroom, and I look at them all the time. They make me happy every time I see them. I wanted to give you something like that in return."

Your heart pounds faster. It sounds like he's about to do what you've wanted from him for what feels like forever. Your grip on his calves tightens, wide eyes searching his own.

"I don't ever want you to doubt how much I care about you again," Damian says, pulling your gift out of the pouch on his waist.

It's a beautiful, emerald pendant on a gold chain, the jewel the same shade as his eyes. You're immediately captivated, reaching up with a trembling hand to cradle the necklace to your chest and admire it more closely. The gentle, rippling water of your tank reflects against the surface and makes the shine of it seem to undulate all around you. It's the most wonderful gift you've ever gotten.

"I hope... I hope that you'll accept this token of courtship," Damian finishes quietly.

You look up at him with tears in your eyes and trill loudly enough to make his ears ring. You tug frantically at his legs and he obediently slips back into the water, letting you wrap your arms around him and squeeze tight, tight, tight. He squeezes you right back, resting his chin on top of your head.

"I love you," he mumbles into your hair. You warble it back as best as you can, nuzzling into him, then lean up and gently press your lips against his. He presses right back, shivering but not from the chill of the water.

Jon finds the two of you like that when he returns with the shears twenty minutes later. He just sighs and rolls his eyes.

"First of all, finally. The will-they-won't-they drama was killing me. Second of all, you could have just said you wanted a moment alone, dude. It took me forever to find these! Do the vines even need trimmed down?"

Damian just smiles and hides his face in your shoulder. They don't.