#Like she's just so exasperated and honestly that's ENTIRELY fair

[lee-rambles-about-rwby]

Okay yeah Weiss yeeting that rock into that weird looped space to prove it wasn’t a weird looped space only to BEAM herself in the back of the head and eat shit because it is, in fact, a looped space was actually really really funny

[thriftedtchotchkes]

switching the positions

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: a collection of micro-fics chronicling the days of a very eventful week in the lives of you and joel miller (inspired by ariana grande's positions)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-outbreak, established relationship, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, unprotected piv, rough sex, oral (f&m receiving), 69ing, mutual/guided masturbation, edging, mild exhibitionism, consensual somnophilia, squirting, rimming, unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy kink, pregnant sex, panic attacks, mentions of parents, mentions of food

word count: 16.2k

moodboard by my sweet girl @cavillscurls ♡

a/n: whew, my pride and joy, a whole two months in the making. tysm to everyone who voted on the poll, and especially to @dinsdjrn for helping me tie this whole thing together and mya for listening to me yell about this for weeks. as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated!

SUNDAY

"Boy, I'm tryna meet your mama on a Sunday."

“She’s gonna hate me.”

“She’s not gonna hate you.”

Oh, you know this woman is going to hate you. It’s not that parents don’t like you. On the contrary, you actually get along great with people’s parents. Your friends’, your old roommate’s, your coworkers'—hell, even your own. It’s just that moms, specifically, can smell fear, and Joel’s mom is going to smell the terror wafting off of you from a mile away. 

Not that it’s personal or anything. You’re pretty sure she’d hate anyone dating her baby boy. It’s like, a boy-mom thing. Still doesn’t make you feel any better about your boyfriend’s mom potentially hating you.

“Whose idea was this dinner again?” Because if it was Joel’s, then he can still reschedule or fake an illness or, better yet, call the whole thing off.

“Baby, you know it was hers,” he replies from his spot at the edge of the bed, where he’s been watching you pace the room and throw half the closet on the floor for the past hour. You shoot him an exasperated look.

“But did you have to say yes? Isn’t it kind of early for me to be meeting your mom anyway?” 

He looks at you like you have ten heads, but you ignore him, debating two shirts in the mirror, then deciding they’re both terrible and adding them to the pile on the floor.

“It’s been a year and a half. If we wait any longer, she’ll be meetin’ you at the weddin’,” he sighs, running his hands frustratedly down his face. You pause your closet tornado to stare at him, wide-eyed, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m just sayin’, I think it’d be good for y’all to meet, is all.”

Good for who? Certainly not you. Honestly, this dinner could have serious repercussions for your relationship. It’s entirely possible she could convince him to break up with you after the night’s over. Or that you’re a bad role model and shouldn’t be allowed around Sarah anymore. Your stomach lurches violently at the thought. Then, it hits you—

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair enough—but have we thought about who’s gonna watch Sarah tonight? We can’t just leave her by herself, and I’m sure your mom would totally understand that,” you try to reason but, again, Joel’s not going for it. 

“She’s 14 years old, I think she can handle a couple hours alone,” he deadpans. “Baby, c’mon, it’s not gonna be that bad. Please? Is it really too much to ask for the woman I love to meet my momma?” 

You soften at that. Logically, you know he’s right and it’s not fair for you to keep giving him such a hard time. You’re also pre-judging someone really special to him, and now you feel like the shittiest girlfriend in the world.

“You’re right. I know you’re right—I’m sorry,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself. You’re not sure why you’re feeling so insecure about all this. “I just want her to like me, you know?”

He nods, lips quirking into a small smile, and pats his lap. You fall into his arms and he rocks you for a moment, kissing your hair, then your cheek. The anxiety’s starting to subside and you’re grateful for him, your sweet boyfriend who never asks you for anything. Your eyes meet his, and he leans in to kiss you softly, deeply, then pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I know ya do,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “And she will, alright? Just give her a chance like she’s givin’ you one.” 

So, for Joel, you do. Turns out his mom is lovely and wonderful, just like her son, and now you have a lot to make up for.

MONDAY

"Then make a lotta love on a Monday."

It’s early and yet, somehow, you’re already awake and feeling like it’s going to be a good day. There’s no alarm clocks blaring, no feet stomping up and down the stairs. Just sweet, blissful sunlight, and it feels so good this morning. Warm and wet and, god, right there—please, keep going right there.

You reach out to feel its light against your hands and between your fingers, and it hums, sending sweet vibrations up your arms, all the way down to your thighs. Heat starts to bloom in your belly as the sun rises higher, burning hotter and hotter, and your fingers tense, tugging at its soft rays. 

Everything feels so much wetter now, and there’s no way you’re not sweating right through your shirt and into the sheets. Even your underwear is soaked, your cunt pleasurably slick and dripping as you pant softly into your pillow.

Then, all of it suddenly intensifies and you’re enveloped by a wet, dextrous warmth that circles and circles, dipping into you, fucking into you, and suddenly, you’re so, so close—

And then you’re cumming with a loud sob, hips bucking with every spasm until something broad and strong splays across your stomach and pushes you back down into the sheets. 

It's…you realize it’s Joel. Balmy and beautiful like the morning sun. He groans as you gush into his mouth, lapping up everything you give him, and you’re vaguely aware of the bed shifting under you as he grinds his hips into the mattress for relief. 

“…B-baby? What—what’s going on…,” you slur sleepily, hands tugging harder at his hair as he continues to suckle your clit through the aftershocks. You whine at the oversensitivity, and he pulls off to press one last kiss to your heat before throwing the sheets off behind his head.

His eyes meet yours and, fuck, he looks wrecked. His hair is in complete disarray and his eyes are a little wild…and then there’s the giant tent in his boxers and that delicious wet spot that makes your mouth water. He doesn’t respond—just crawls up your body to crash his lips against yours, licking into your mouth, and all you can taste is yourself when his tongue brushes against yours.

You moan into his mouth as he grinds into your sensitive core, then parts from your lips just long enough to pull your sweat-soaked shirt up and over your head. The cool morning air feels like heaven against your feverish skin and, with the sheets gone, you can feel a cool breeze coming through the open window, amplified by the oscillating fan next to the bed.

Christ, he must be so pent up by now. Your brain is finally starting to clear from its post-sleep fog, and now you’re wondering how long he’s been between your legs, eating you out like you’re the heartiest breakfast he’s ever had in his life. 

But that train of thought is quickly derailed when his lips find a new home around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth and circling his tongue around the nub until it hardens. The delicate skin feels especially tender, and you whimper quietly as the roughness of his beard scrapes against you. Your fingers thread back into his hair and you tug, urging him back up so you can feel his mouth on yours again. 

“Joel, fuck me,” you murmur against his lips, and his breath hitches. “Wanna feel you—please.” 

The sensitivity must’ve already subsided because your hips are steadily meeting his and you’re feeling so desperate to have him inside you. His cock feels heavy as he rubs himself against your slick cunt and, while the fabric provides the most incredible friction when it grazes your clit, you want him bare immediately. 

“Now…ngh—now,” you whine, and you’re stunned he still has the patience to tease when he pulls away slightly to smirk down at you.

“Needy girl this morning, ain’t ya?” His voice is thick with sleep and so much desire, and it makes your still locked-down pussy clench painfully. “S’alright, baby, ‘m gonna give it to ya.”

Wrenching his boxers down, he grips under your legs to push both of your knees to your chest before nudging the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. He inches in just the tip and immediately lets out a whoosh of air.

“So fuckin’ tight, Jesus Christ,” he grits through his teeth, working himself in and out of you until he’s buried to the hilt, the coarse hair at the base of his cock brushing against you just right. He lingers for a brief moment, grinding into you deeply, languidly while you adjust to his girth.

"S'good. Feels good," you murmur, sighing contently. He's brushing that spot he can only reach when he fucks you like this, so you lock your ankles behind his back, silently telling him to stay. But it feels a little selfish, and you can feel how much he's holding back.

"Baby...I gotta move," he pants, trembling with the effort it's taking not to lengthen his thrusts. Pulling out slowly, he presses back into you deep enough to nudge that spot again, and your vision goes hazy. "Promise, I'll take care of ya—"

You moan in unison as you flutter around him, and he takes that as the go-ahead to continue, his cock reappearing wetter and shinier after every stroke. His skin is glistening, too, slick with sweat that runs down his temples and pools where your bodies connect. 

The heat of him is addictive and it's everywhere—blooming in your chest, blazing between your legs, and igniting something fathomless inside you. But somehow, it's still not hot enough. You know he can give you more, your blindingly beautiful sun.

Wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders, you squeeze your thighs into his sides to pull him flush against your body, and you can feel his heartbeat pounding through his chest. The steady rhythm matches his thrusts perfectly, but he's groaning so sweetly in your ear that you have a feeling it won't for long.

You belatedly realize how hard you're clenching around him, suddenly so close to tumbling over the edge for the second time this morning, and he redoubles his efforts to follow you.

"L-like that, keep going just like that," you encourage between sharp exhales. "That—that's it."

He braces a hand next to your head on the pillow to stabilize himself, and you wrap your fingers around his wrist, grounding yourself to him. His eyes meet yours fondly before he buries his face into the crook of your neck to do the same, panting heavily against your skin.

Soft, brown curls tickle your cheek, and you turn your head to nose into his hair, breathing him in. He smells earthy like freshly-mown grass and sawdust, and it fills your lungs, surrounding you just when you need it the most. 

You gasp in his air, hips swiveling into his desperately as you chase your release. He's slamming directly into that spot now, pushing your knees back into your chest to reach even deeper, but his thighs are starting to tense.

"'m not gonna last long," he admits breathily, all but folding you in half so he can brush his lips against yours. "S'too good...gonna make me cum so hard."

"Please...please, please." Fuck, you want to feel it. To feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up so good, so much. "Joel, cum—please cum."

So close, you're so close. Your soft sighs have evolved into something louder and higher-pitched. Too loud for this early in the morning, and enough to wake up the entire house if you're not careful.

Joel seals his mouth over yours, swallowing every noise that escapes your lips as he pounds into you with purpose, dragging against your walls, and it's...fuck, you're—

Gushing, sobbing as you cum, and he groans, long and drawn out, immediately following you over the edge. Releasing your legs, he digs his fingers into your hips to hold you in place, keeping his cock buried deep inside you as you milk him dry.

"Fuck me," he exhales shakily, pumping into you twice before pulling out and collapsing on top of you. "Good fuckin' morning."

A breathy laugh bubbles out of your chest, but you immediately cringe at the feeling of his cum leaking out of you and onto the sheets. You wedge a hand between your bodies, reaching down to swipe your thumb between your folds and procure a glob that you suck wetly into your mouth. 

"Very good fuckin' morning," you smile cheekily at the look of awe on his face. He shakes his head, chuckling as he wraps you up in his arms and rolls you over onto your sides. His chest expands into you with a massive yawn, and you're helpless but to mirror him.

"How much time we got until the alarm?" he mutters sleepily, sounding like he could pass out at any moment. You're craning your head back to check when—

The damn thing starts blaring before you can even catch a glimpse of the time. Not that you need to now—it's 6 a.m., your mortal enemy. You glare at the clock like it personally offended you, and Joel only chuckles, pulling you back down with him.

"Snooze it," he murmurs, mouthing damply at your neck, his hands exploring your soft, bare skin. "We still got time."

You barely hear him, already lost in the feeling of his fingers skimming up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He leans over you to hit the button himself before returning to you, kissing you like you've both got all the time in the world.

Neither of you makes it to work on time.

TUESDAY

"Cookin' in the kitchen, and I'm in the bedroom."

The oven is broken. Probably. The stove, too. It’s really not your fault—all you did was turn some knobs and stand there, but for some reason, none of the burners are catching and the oven sure isn’t cooking this chicken like it’s supposed to.

You don't even like chicken but, for some ungodly reason, you've had a wicked craving for it lately. And Joel loves it, so. That explains why you’re in the kitchen, getting side-eyed by a very skeptical 14 year old, trying to cook a nice dinner for her very overworked father. It’s not going well.

“Did you hear it click when you tried turning it on?” Sarah asks patiently, and now it’s your turn to look skeptical.

“Uhh, the knob or the stove?” You eye the appliance dubiously like it’s doing whatever it’s doing on purpose. She laughs pointing to one of the burners.

“So, when you twist the knob, gas comes out of here,” she taps the grating around the burner, “and the clicking creates a spark that ignites the gas so it lights. Then, voila, you’ve got a working stove.”

“Oh,” you reply dumbly, looking back and forth between her and the stove until she finally gets the hint.

“Fine, fine. I can do it,” she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. And of course, the stupid thing works with zero issues when she does it. You give her a grateful smile before throwing the dirtiest glare you can muster at the oven.

“What do we do about that one? I guess I could try cooking the whole chicken in a big pan, but I can’t guarantee we won’t all die from food poisoning…,” you trail off, starting to feel a little useless. 

It’s not like you’re completely inept in the kitchen. You can use a toaster or a microwave like a damn pro, and even the blender if you’re feeling especially adventurous, but you’ve never made a big meal like this before. Sarah likes to cook when you’re not ordering out, which admittedly is most of the time, so this was supposed to be something special for her, too. 

“It’s the same general concept,” she says, still kind and patient as ever, squatting down to show you a different set of knobs. You observe her for a moment, missing the start of her explanation, because it’s times like these where you can see so much of Joel in her. 

It’s that spark in her eyes when she gets to share bits of her well-earned knowledge. To use her expertise to teach someone something brand new. Joel gets the same look when he’s trying to teach you guitar. His eyes shine when you finally get a chord down, and he downright beams when you can finish an entire bar by yourself. 

You must’ve zoned out for too long because she’s suddenly waving a hand in front of your face, smiling her dad’s sweet smile as she waits for your focus to return to the task at hand. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. What did I miss?” you ask sheepishly. She nods to the oven, already lit and heating up to the required 400 degrees Fahrenheit for cooking baked chicken.

“All good! It’s set for whenever you’ve got the food prepped. You just have to wait for it to hit temperature—it’ll beep when it’s ready,” she says, walking around the kitchen island to grab her backpack. 

…Wait. She’s leaving?

“Woah, wait, where are you going? You can’t leave yet,” you plead, still desperate for her help. “What if I burn the house down?”

“You’re not gonna burn down the house,” she snorts, already at the door tugging on her sneakers. “Just remember to turn off the burners and you’ll be fine. And save me some food!… Unless everyone gets sick, then maybe don’t.”

You shoot her a look of absolute betrayal, and she laughs, opening the front door and waving over her shoulder. 

“See ya later! Good luck, I believe in you!” 

And then she’s gone, and you’re left alone with your misery and a bunch of random ingredients you still have to magically make into a meal.

You slump against the counter, lamenting the loss of your sous chef until the oven beeps, scaring the shit out of you. Oh, great. You’ve barely even started seasoning the chicken. It can’t be that hard, right?

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing in front of a very peppery-looking raw chicken—which is officially disgusting again, you changed your mind—wishing you had just ordered Boston Market and lied about making it yourself. Lesson learned for next time. Like there’ll be a next time.

Well, at least no one can say you didn’t try. You throw a bunch of mixed vegetables into the bottom of the pan like the recipe says and pop it in the oven, setting the timer for 40 minutes and hoping for the best. 

Glancing at the clock above the sink, you realize you’re cutting it close on time. You told Joel to be home by eight, which means he’ll probably actually get here at nine, and it’s already 7:30. Yikes. Time flies when you’re trying not to fuck up a dinner that was doomed from the start.

The last piece of the puzzle is thankfully the easiest. Now, mashed potatoes are definitely something you can make. Boiling water? Piece of cake. Pouring in the instant flakes from the box and adding butter? Done and done.

There’s no way anyone’ll be able to tell you didn’t make them from scratch unless they check the trash and, anyways, the instant stuff is better. You’ll go down with that ship. 

Now for the pièce de résistance: the perfect evening attire. A cute, 50s-era apron you thrifted two weeks ago that’ll go over the teeny, tiny Victoria’s Secret lingerie set you’ve been hiding in the back of the closet.

Joel will probably think it’s hilarious, once he stops drooling. Hopefully you’ll even make it to dinner, otherwise, the stress of this entire afternoon was a totally moot point. But he’ll have to be a good boy and finish his food before he can have dessert—apple pie you definitely didn’t make, and you laid out on his bed like the best fucking treat he’ll ever taste.

You end up with enough time to take the chicken and veggies out of the oven—the meat thermometer tells you it’s cooked through and that’s good enough for you—and stir up the mashed potatoes before you have to head upstairs to get everything else ready. So far, surprisingly, so good. 

You’re in the middle of patting yourself on the back for a job well-done, with time to spare, when you hear the front door open. At eight fucking thirty. This would be the one day Joel gets home early and, by the sounds of dishware and cutlery clinking around downstairs, he’s already discovered your big surprise. 

“Baby, you up there?” he calls up the stairs. “What’s all this?”

Well. Guess it’s showtime. You finish tying the apron around your waist before giving yourself one last once over in the mirror. Everything fits perfectly, just like you knew it would, and the food’s done, for better or worse. So there’s no need to be nervous, right? It’s just Joel. Your Joel. He’d love it no matter what, even if it all ends up being total shit. 

Taking a steadying breath, you head down the stairs, letting your appearance serve as his answer. The apron rubs scratchily against your skin, a reminder of how naked you actually are underneath, and you let your confidence in Joel’s inevitably wanton reaction make you brave.

And he doesn’t disappoint. His eyes rove over you greedily, from the pout of your lips to the tiniest slip of your nipple peeking over your bra, all the way down to the soft, bare skin of your legs. Yeah, no need to be nervous at all.

“Just a little surprise I cooked up,” you smirk a little deviously as you reach the bottom of the stairs. He’s on you in a second, hands exploring your body eagerly, impatiently, as he leans in to kiss you, but he’s halted by a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh. Can’t have dessert yet. There’s a whole meal waiting for you—I made your favorite.”

He chuckles, gingerly pressing a kiss to your finger instead before leading you backward into the kitchen. 

“Well, let’s get started then. I’m starvin’,” he says, looking hungrier than you’ve ever seen him. You return his gaze, suddenly feeling ravenous yourself.

“Good. It’s dinner time.”

WEDNESDAY

"Wrist icicle, ride dick bicycle."

Spin class sucks.

There’s really no need for the music to be this loud. And it’s bad. They say it’s supposed to amp you up for rigorous exercise, but it’s just giving you a headache.

It’s also about a thousand degrees in here, and you’d be leaving a massive pool of sweat on this seat if you were even allowed to sit on it. The whole concept of spinning makes no sense, and you’re starting to think it’s actually just a dance class on stationary bikes because no one in their right mind would ever ride a bicycle like this. 

It’s embarrassing, for starters, and you’re surrounded by hot people that are way better at it than you are. You didn’t even know you could gyrate on a fucking bike until today, and they all somehow make it look sexy. Like they’re legitimately having a great time. Having fun. 

But not you. The music might honestly be doing you a favor by drowning out your pathetic attempts to breathe. You’re starting to get a little lightheaded and feel like you’re about to be sick.

No workout is worth this. You can’t even pretend to follow the instructor’s directions, because you can barely hear her over the speakers. She probably can't even hear herself, yelling into the void of shitty EDM remixes, and expecting everyone to pick it up. If you’d known this was just some fucked up version of leg day, you would’ve skipped it. 

There's no sneaking out early, either. You took the bus and Joel won’t be here to pick you up for at least another half hour. Honestly, you'd rather walk home and let that be your exercise for the day, but unless you plan on jogging along the highway, you're shit out of luck.

The beat abruptly picks back up, startling you out of your personal pity party, and then everyone's asses are in the air again, hips swiveling so perfectly in sync that it has to be choreographed. You're getting the hang of it now that you're realizing the routine just repeats itself, but it still feels mildly exploitative. 

It doesn't help that your class is starting to draw in a crowd, likely attracted by all of the revealing athletic wear on display. At least you got that memo. Whoever had the bright idea to put a huge glass wall at the back of the room was either a genius or a pervert. Probably both, depending on who you ask.

Once the hardest section of the choreography passes, you look behind you to check the time, praying more than you think has passed, but you're sorely disappointed. And the crowd outside's only gotten bigger.

Don't these assholes have anything better to do than stand there drooling over a spin class? You continue to glare at them over your shoulder through the next part of the song, looking a little ridiculous grinding into your seat as you silently tell them all off.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch one of them off to the side laughing, but when you turn to send an even harsher look in their direction, you realize you recognize him. 

What a dick. If you'd known he was going to be this early, you definitely would've snuck out and waited outside instead of becoming another piece of eye candy for a bunch of gym rats. 

Joel looks a little too pleased with himself, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like he’s enjoying the view as much as the rest of those creeps. Well, if he wants a show, then you’ll give him one. Now that you’ve gotten the movements down, you can put all of your energy into making him wish there wasn’t an entire glass wall separating him from you. 

That one, grueling section of the song loops back around, and this time you put your all into it, arching like you’re supposed to, swiveling your hips into the seat with all of the muscle control you’ve got. Your shorts ride up your ass at the change in movement, probably giving you a wicked camel toe, but you let them. You can only imagine the look on Joel’s face now.

The song starts to wind down, finally coming to a stop, and you lower yourself back onto the seat, panting with the exertion of the past 45 minutes. Turning back around, you notice the crowd has mostly dispersed, save for a few stragglers and Joel, who’s panting almost as hard as you are. 

Your eyes drop to his pants, and you quirk an eyebrow. His breathing’s not the only thing that’s hard. He looks a little wrecked and, suddenly, this whole workout thing feels like it might’ve been worth it after all. 

You hop off the bike and retrieve your duffel from the back of the room, teasingly flicking the glass in front of his face before exiting with the rest of the class.

"Ready to go?" you ask brightly, still feeling high off the endorphin rush. He doesn't respond, looking a little dazed as he watches a droplet of sweat run down your neck, past your collarbone, and right between your breasts. "You doing alright there, bud?"

You laugh, enjoying your revenge a little too much, reveling in the way his jaw tenses and the muscles in his neck twitch angrily. It’s about to be a very interesting ride home—or it would’ve been if you’d made it that far. 

On the way out, you pass an out-of-order men’s room, and he yanks you inside, locking the door behind you.

It's a little surprising he's this pent up after the night you had, especially with the sheer amount of sex you’ve been having lately—not that you're complaining. But what's even more surprising is that he's choosing right now to rectify it, basically in public where anyone could overhear or walk in on you. It's...really out of character for him. You thought he'd at least make it to the car.

“Joel, what the—,” you yelp as he lifts you up by the waist to settle you on the edge of a sink. It's clear his patience has completely run out because, within seconds, he's dropping to his knees, burying his face in your heat. "—fuck."

Your legs immediately try to close around his head, but he forces them back open with enough strength to overextend your already abused hamstrings. It shouldn't feel as good as it does, but the pain, combined with his blunt nails biting into your thighs, sends delicious jolts right to your core. 

You exhale shakily, burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks a damp patch into your shorts, just slightly lower than where you need him. Your hips buck, urging him higher, but he doesn't allow that either, shoving them back down onto the hard porcelain beneath you.

Should've known it wouldn't be that easy. He's handling you aggressively, rougher than you would've expected, and that's when you realize he's mad.

"Bet ya thought that was real funny, teasin' me like that," he growls into your clothed pussy, licking up the seam to swirl wet circles where your clit throbs under too many layers. "Don't feel very nice, does it?"

His eyes meet yours as he sucks a little harder, and you whimper, tugging at his hair in a silent plea for him to take your shorts off and eat you out the way you both want him to. But he's going to drag this out and you know it. 

Joel loves a little payback and has the patience of a saint unless he's pushed past his limit. To your detriment, you shoved him over that line with the stunt you pulled earlier, so now you'll have to convince him it's in his best interest to let it go.

Switching tactics, you tempt him with what he could have if he just gave in. Your fingers dip beneath your waistband, and you sigh as you slick them up against your folds before dipping them inside. You're already soaked, and so tight, even around two of your own fingers, and you tell him as much.

"No, it doesn't feel nice...but I know something that will," you pump your fingers in and out of yourself, the muted sound of wet squelching reaching your ears. "Hear that?—," you gasp, hips lifting off the sink as you accidentally graze something spongey and sensitive, "—t-that's all for you."

And it works like a charm. Your shorts and underwear are pulled off in a single, hard tug, his tongue fucking into you before you can even fully inhale, and you choke out a strangled moan instead. He eats you out like a man starved, his nose nudging your clit with every dip of his tongue, and it feels so potent, you practically see stars. 

Your combined slick and his saliva are starting to leak over the edge of the sink but he catches every drop, and the way he slurps you up makes your cheeks burn. Joel's a lot of things when he's between your legs—enthusiastic, generous, and a little sloppy, but he's never wasteful. 

Two thick fingers prod at your entrance, and then he's pressing them into you, the slide snug, but easy with how wet you are for him. Finally, finally, you can feel your orgasm building, and you're sent reeling when his tongue fucks into you between his fingers, filling you up—it's...yes, right there—

But he abruptly pulls his mouth away, still not done making you pay.

"Damn right, it's all for me. Ya think those jackasses watching you weren't thinkin' about this?" he growls, his fingers slowing to leisurely stroke your walls as if they weren't about to throw you over the edge a moment ago. "Think they could make you feel this good? Make you cum like I do?"

Your pussy flutters pathetically around him, and the false look of sympathy he gives you makes you want to cry out of sheer frustration.

"Gonna need an answer if you want me to keep goin'," he drawls, still close enough that you can feel his breath, hot against your cunt.

You bite down on your bottom lip, just hard enough to momentarily distract yourself from the aching between your legs so you can respond, but you're taking too long. His fingers have all but stopped, so you panic.

"Fuck those assholes. Fuck all of them," you grit through your teeth. He quirks an eyebrow, marginally picking up the pace of his fingers.

"Fuck 'em, huh? That what you wanna do?" He's teasing you, and even though it's obvious, you fall right into his trap, anyway. Blanching, you shake your head furiously.

"N-no—no, no, no. Just you, only wanna fuck you," you gasp, frantically trying to convince him of something you both already know to be true without a shadow of a doubt. It's honestly impressive that he can work you like this and, even more so, that he's the only one that can.

"S'okay, I know...I know. This right here—," he gives your clit a few kitten licks, the pads of his fingertips rubbing that perfect spot inside you, "—s'mine." 

Then, he's burying his face back between your legs, redoubling his efforts, and it's so fucking sloppy. Wet and hot, and hungry, as if edging you has the same effect on him. 

You feel him groan into you as you start to tighten around his fingers, loud enough that his chest rumbles with it, sending sweet vibrations up your thighs. The sound of his belt jingling, then hitting the floor vaguely makes it past the blood rushing in your ears, but his broad shoulders and head bobbing between your legs are blocking your view.

All you can see or hear is the frantic movement of his arm, his hand working up and down his cock, and the sound of skin slapping on skin. Fuck, that's—so hot, you're so close. So fucking close—

But he's got one last edge left in him. 

You're throbbing so violently that for a second you're terrified he ruined your orgasm, but no, you're still teetering on the cusp, thighs quaking so hard, you can’t believe you haven’t crushed his head between them already. At this point, the smallest touch, even the tiniest puff of air would send you hurtling over.

He's still jerking himself off, sounding delirious as he separates his mouth from you to speak.

"Need to hear ya s-say it...," he pants, and you cry out, angrily reaching down to roughly shove his face back into you, but he resists. Spurred on by your reaction, he only fucks into his fist faster. “Nobody else gets to taste ya like I do…do they? Say it. Say it and I'll…ngh—let you cum,” he moans lowly, possessively. 

Joel sounds completely gone. You never could've imagined dry humping a fucking stationary bike would set him off like this, or that a bunch of dumb muscleheads would make him this jealous. He's so lost in it, in you. 

But the way he's looking up at you right now—it's like he really does need you to do this for him. To tell him that it’s just him, and it’ll only ever be him. It’s the truth. No one else has ever made you feel the way he does, with his mouth and hands, or his heart, and they never will again.

You whine, shaking your head pleadingly, ready to tell him whatever he wants to hear. Anything for him to put his mouth back on you again.

"T-they don't—no one else gets to, but you...only you," you keen as he seals his lips around your clit, all of his fears and insecurities finally soothed. Your head tips back, the feeling of his hot tongue laving over the sensitive bundle of nerves and his thick fingers—three of them, now—dragging against your walls exactly what you need. 

You cum frighteningly quickly, your orgasm so powerful and overwhelming that you start to black out. Your eyes squeeze shut, and then it’s all just pleasure—the tension in all of your limbs slowly bleeds out with every spasm of your cunt, and something wet…so wet, splashes against your inner thighs. 

Joel groans louder than you think you’ve ever heard him, the sound practically punched out of his chest as he licks broader lines up your pussy, sucking and slurping, and what…what is that? Why the fuck are you so wet? He—did Joel cum on you, and you didn’t even notice?

But that’s impossible because now his body’s completely seizing up, the hand around his cock stilling as he spurts thick ropes of cum across the bathroom floor. Or at least that’s the image your brain conjures up, unable to see it for yourself. 

Your vision’s only just beginning to return to you, and you immediately look down to see what actually happened...and fuck. It was you. Joel’s head is resting on your thigh, nuzzling into your soft, very damp skin, and he's looking up at you in awe.

“Shit, baby…,” he pants, chest heaving, cock still twitching in his hand. "Ain't ever seen you do that before."

You blink blearily, lips parting as you take him in. He's a goddamn mess. His face and beard are soaked, and his shirt is splattered with what you can only assume is your release. You fucking squirted? In a dirty gym bathroom?

"What the fuck?" you mumble, still dazed and a little in disbelief at how your first, and probably last, trip to the gym went. You shake your head, clearing up the brain fog enough to quickly process the past two hours, and now you're in shock. "Joel, what the fuck?" you ask again incredulously.

He has the nerve to look sheepish where he's still happily nestled between your legs post-orgasm, and you bop the top of his head with your palm, eyeing him expectantly.

"Wanna explain what all of that was?"

"Look—," he starts, lips quirking down into that little frown you know so well. "If you'd've heard the shit those fuckers were sayin' about ya. Probably would've said worse if I hadn't told 'em to fuck off before they got into some real trouble."

"Wait, you were the reason they all took off? Joel," you laugh because suddenly it all makes sense. 

You just learned the hard way that a grumpy, jealous Joel means getting edged until you black out. Pretty good knowledge to have for future reference, to be honest. Now that you're not sobbing with his head between your legs, it all seems so silly.

"What, did ya expect me to just stand there and let 'em talk about fuckin' my girl right in front of me?"

"I mean, no, but...I dunno, maybe just take the compliment next time and don't threaten a group of scary, muscular men," you chuckle fondly, cupping his wet cheeks in your hands. "Okay? It basically just means you have a hot girlfriend. Congratulations!" 

But he only grumbles in response, still pouting like a child. You bend down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, and he sighs, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

"What if, when we get home, I show you some of the techniques I learned in my class?" you murmur into his hair. He tilts his head back, eyeing you skeptically.

"Baby, we don't have a stationary bike," he says, brows furrowed in confusion. You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes dropping to his lap.

"That's okay. We won't need one."

THURSDAY

"You can't imagine what I'm 'bout to say. You really wanna know? You'll have to wait. (It's a surprise, surprise.)"

Blue, blue, blue. Just do it, just be blue! It's a great color—the best color, maybe even your favorite color.

You keep chanting at it, loudly and in your head, but the plastic stick doesn't seem to appreciate your encouragement. It just stares back at you, blank and unhelpful.

How much longer do the instructions say you have to wait? One to three minutes, that's it? It feels like it's already been two hours, but it's actually only been...30 seconds. What the fuck.

Maybe if you shake it, it'll develop faster. It's basically like a polaroid, right? And Outkast has never steered you wrong, so. You lean over from where you're still sitting on the toilet, pants around your ankles, to test your theory but it's too late.

It already has an answer for you. ...Wait, what? Both of the lines are blue. So...does that mean you're extra not pregnant? You snatch up the pamphlet again, actually reading through the directions this time, and your stomach drops. Pink was never even an option. 

Two blue lines. Pregnant.

You knew this week was going a little too well. 

Those random bouts of nausea, the weird cravings, the fucking breast tenderness. They didn't need to mean anything. They shouldn't have meant anything.

Fuck. Fuck. What are you supposed to do now? You're way too young to have a baby. Well. Okay, that's a massive lie, but still, you're definitely not ready to have one. Or to be…pregnant. You shudder at the thought. 

Swollen ankles, morning sickness, mood swings. You’re already a walking rollercoaster of emotions, and your back hurts from just existing. No, you can’t do this. 

It's not about the finances, either. You and Joel both have steady jobs and could make it work if you wanted to, but do you want to? Will he? He’s not your husband, not even your fiancée, so there’s no reason for him to stick around. It’s not his burden.

There's just too many unanswered questions. And Joel's already someone's dad. He did the whole baby thing by himself and got it right the first around.

Sarah's perfect—fuck, what is Sarah going to think? Stupid, this was so stupid. You thought you were being so careful. Sure, Joel cums inside you basically every time you have sex, but that's totally beside the point. 

You take those dumb little pills at the same time every day, just like you're supposed to. Except…when’s the last time you had a period? Did you even get it last month? The month before? 

Shit, that wedding—when was that wedding? Your coworker’s, the rich one who decided to have a fucking destination wedding in Hawaii a couple months ago. It was decadent. You and Joel were super drunk the entire time and fucked like rabbits for three days straight. 

Fuck.

Don't cry. Do not cry. Joel will probably be back from picking Sarah up from soccer practice any minute, so you need to hold it together. Maybe you just won’t tell them, at least not until you’ve had more time to process everything and decide what you’re going to do.

But, god, you wear your emotions on your sleeve, and even more so on your face. They’ll know something’s off the second they look at you, and you won’t be able to talk yourself out of it. You’ve always been a shit liar. 

Tears start to fall without your permission. You slump slowly to the floor, pants still around your ankles, and curl up into a ball, willing it all to go away—the tiny clump of cells growing inside your belly and the regret of being so careless, of letting yourself get caught up in a serious relationship in the first place. This isn’t something you can just wish away. It’s life-changing and nothing will ever be the same again. Was it really worth it?

No, no. Of course, it was. Snap out of it.

If only it were that easy. Sobs wrack your entire body, and you can barely hear yourself choking on them, unable to hold them in anymore. Your eyes squeeze shut as you desperately try to block out your reality, but it seeps up your nose and into your mouth, salty and unignorable. 

Blood rushes in your ears and you realize belatedly that you’re starting to hyperventilate, but you can’t stop. You’re drawing in too much air all at once and it’s making your vision go fuzzy. It’s all just too much. Anger, sadness, and fear consume you until you’re screaming with it, desperate to expel it from your body any way you can.

So, you don’t hear the front door opening or Joel and Sarah running up the stairs, completely panic-stricken. 

Joel reaches the ensuite bathroom first and all but breaks down the door, but he’s met with the sight of your half-naked body in a heap on the floor. Immediately, he turns to block Sarah from getting in.

“Hey, hey—no,” he says firmly, wrapping her up in his arms to keep her from seeing past him. “You’re not goin’ in there. Ya gotta give us some time, alright?”

She looks up at him, scared and visibly shaken. 

“What if—do you think she’s okay in there? Was she hurt…d-did you see her?” she asks softly, eyes wet. “Can I see her?”

“Not right now, kiddo,” he mumbles, kicking the bathroom door shut behind him before leading her out of his room and into the hallway. “‘m sorry.”

The crestfallen look on Sarah’s face is the last thing he sees before he closes the door on her. But he has to ignore how badly it feels to keep her away from you, at least until he can figure out what the hell is wrong and how he’s going to fix it.

Your cries have quieted since earlier, but not nearly enough to ease Joel's fears. He can still hear you through the door, hiccuping softly, and opens it gently this time, entering slowly as if he's trying not to spook a scared animal.

It doesn't work as well as he'd hoped. Your head shoots up, a small gasp escaping your lips as you dizzily pull your pants back up.  

"Easy there, s'okay. Baby, s'just me, don't worry," he murmurs, dropping to his knees on the floor next to you, but you flinch away. You can only imagine the hurt in his eyes, and the mental image tugs at your heart. "I need ya to tell me what happened. Did ya hurt yourself?"

Yeah, you could say that.

You shake your head, the only thing you're capable of doing in the state you're in. Trying to speak would be useless after all the screaming you just did and you can't bear to look him in the eye.

"Hey, talk to me. If somethin's the matter, I need to know, 'specially if we gotta get you to the hospital," he says, reaching out to touch you. 

His hand grazes your shoulder, and your body jerks so viscerally that you slam your knees into the bottom of the sink. You let out a tiny whimper of pain right as you hear something small and plastic hit the ground next to you. 

Oh, no. Shit. You desperately try to kick the test out of reach, to cover it with your body—anything to keep him from seeing it—but his fingers wrap around it before you get the chance. He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth and you feel your whole world shattering. 

That's it, then. Even just a glance at those two blue lines will have immediately told Joel all he needs to know. Now he'll leave and he'd have every right. This is all your fault.

Your cheeks are wet again, but this time you can't bring yourself to care. Turning away from him, you curl back into a ball, ignoring the angry throbbing in your knees as you wait for him to yell or throw the test, or finally get up and walk out.

But he doesn't. Instead, you hear him delicately set the test back on the sink and then he lays down behind you on the floor, wrapping his arms around you and pulling your back into his chest.

His heartbeat is fast. It's racing against you and, yet, somehow his breathing is still so calm. The calm before the storm, you're sure of it. You tense, anticipation sitting heavily on your chest and lungs, and he can feel it.

His lips press into the back of your neck and even though the action is so tender and so Joel, you still can’t convince yourself that maybe you’ve misjudged this entire situation. Or that you’ve misjudged him.

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades. It hasn’t escaped your notice that he isn’t calling you baby anymore. You can’t tell if that’s for your benefit or his. "Tell me what you're thinkin'."

Time feels like it's moving in slow motion. You really don't mean to ignore him…it’s just that you’re not thinking anything. Lying there in his arms, your mind goes blank, giving in to the white noise of his heartbeat syncopating your own fragile rhythm. 

But somehow he seems to understand you completely, filling the silence himself. His voice lulls you into a false sense of security, or…no. No, that’s not right. It’s real. His security, his safety, is real and reliable, proven and palpable.

“Listen to me—I need ya to hear this, alright? I want whatever you want and if ya don’t want this, we’re not doin’ it,” he says firmly, like he means it with every fiber of his being. You do hear him. But your heart and mind are still rebelling, begging you to see their own senseless logic. Joel won’t stop until he convinces them, too.

“But if ya do…if—,” his voice trails off, cracking almost imperceptibly. At least, to anyone else but you. “—if ya wanna do this with me, then ‘m with ya. Every step of the way, ‘m with ya.”

Then, for the first time since those blue lines appeared in your life, you feel peace. And it's all him. He’s given you a choice—one you knew you always had, but never thought to factor him into. You didn’t think you deserved to involve him. But he does. He deserves that choice, too.

The floodgates open and soon you’re sobbing uncontrollably again, but this time it feels cathartic. Like he’s freed you from a prison of your own making. You find your voice, wet and shaky.

“Joel, I’m scared,” you weep, turning in his arms to finally meet his eyes. And there they are. Brown and beautiful and clear, unclouded by fear and regret, and you let them make you brave. For him and your tiny clump of cells. 

“What if I can’t do this? What—I…,” you hiccup through the disjointed thought, “—if I give up…if it’s just too hard...”

“S’why there’s two of us,” he bends down to murmur soothingly into your cheek, lips brushing against the corner of your own. “But ya can’t push me away anymore. If we do this, then we do it together,” and that lances straight through your heart, obliterating all doubt and setting your decision in stone. 

Together. You’re in this together.

“Okay,” you croak, sniffling as he wipes away your tears. You repeat it, clearer this time. “Okay.”

FRIDAY

"You might think I'm crazy, the way I've been cravin'. If I put it quite plainly, just gimme them babies."

Doctors' offices have no business being as scary as they are. Bare and sterile, and not an ounce of color to be found anywhere but those creepy posters of in-depth diagrams of the human body. Gross.

You fight the urge to turn around and head straight back to the truck but, as if he can sense your plan to make a run for it, Joel places both hands on your shoulders and leads you toward the reception desk. 

“C’mon, we got this,” he says quietly in your ear, likely reassuring both of you. “We go in, they tell us you ’n the baby are healthy, then we get out.” 

You grimace. The baby. That’s still so weird. There’s literally a tiny being growing inside you, eating your food, and sitting on your fucking bladder. It’s like that thing in Alien that bursts out of people’s chests.

Great. Well, that’s officially off the list for movie night later, which Joel promised you'd have if you got your check-up without trying to escape. Technically, you’re doing great so far. And it’s an extremely tempting offer. 

Movie nights at the Miller house usually include a trip to 7/11 for popcorn, soda, and a box of your favorite candy. Those annoying cravings you’re just now realizing are because you’re pregnant would be extremely satiated by that. 

You’ll also get to curl up on the couch with Joel all night in a childless house because Sarah's staying at a friend’s. Win-win. But first, you have to make it through this check-up. 

Everything up until you’re inside the actual examination room isn’t actually so bad. The receptionist is nice enough, even though you can tell she deals with a lot of first-time moms by the way she treats you with baby gloves, and the wait time is less than 10 minutes. 

Yeah, you’ve totally got this. Or at least you did until the doctor shows up with an ultrasound machine and lifts your shirt to squeeze that freezing cold goop all over your stomach. You look up at Joel, scared and a little bewildered, and he takes your hand in his, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. The screen lights up with what you assume is a real-time view of the inside of your belly and, after that, it’s all sort of a blur. 

Six weeks. They tell you that you’re already six weeks pregnant, so you definitely conceived at that dumb wedding. At least you’ve got a story to tell. You’re also entering that fun stage where your nausea’s mostly cleared up, but now you’ll either be super tired or super horny at any given time. 

You try not to laugh when you feel Joel’s hand subtly twitch in yours. Of course, he perks up at that. Honestly, you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t going to enjoy it, too. Immensely.

Then, comes the big one. The entire point of this doctor’s visit, and the reason you and Joel are gripping each other so tight, you’re cutting off the other’s circulation. But it’s good news. Luckily, it's all good news.

Your tiny clump of cells is healthy, you’re healthy, and you can go home now, equipped with all of that very calming knowledge. One day, you’re going to have to stop calling them a clump, but you’ve decided today is not that day.

“Told ya it wouldn’t be so bad,” he teases as you walk out to the truck, still hand-in-hand. 

But his eyes betray his tone. There’s a seriousness to his joy, and you can see it so clearly in the way he’s looking at you like you’ve given him the greatest gift in the world. It makes you feel warm and…important. Loved. He continues, his voice tinged with something a little softer. 

“Thank you…for goin’, I mean. S’good to know that everythin’s alright. That you’re alright.”

You stop next to the car, meeting his gaze with what you hope is the same amount of love and affection you see, and throw your arms around his neck. 

“Thanks for taking me, and just…being here. Like, really being here, not just showing up so you can say you did,” you say earnestly, and he leans down to kiss you, his arms wrapping around you to pull you close.

“‘Course, baby. Don't have to thank me for that,” he mumbles against your lips. 

Not ready to separate from him, you deepen the kiss, running your tongue along his bottom lip until he opens for you and licking into his mouth freely. He groans as you press him into the side of the truck, his hands trailing down your sides to grip the plush of your ass through your jeans. 

You can feel him starting to stiffen against your belly and that carnal hunger the doctor warned you about takes over, the need to feel more, more of him overwhelming you. He’s just so solid everywhere. 

Your fingers skim underneath his shirt to feel his stomach flexing beneath your palms, and you roll your hips into his, gasping into his mouth at the friction. You’re so caught up in his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, that you don’t hear the group of people passing by on the other side of the truck.

But Joel does. He begrudgingly pulls away from you, hard as a rock and panting heavily. You whine at the loss, and he twitches against you in response.

“C’mon, baby, I’m not fuckin’ you in a goddamn Planned Parenthood parkin’ lot,” he chuckles, leading you to the passenger’s side of the car. He smacks your ass when you resist, and you shoot him a wounded glare. “Uh-uh, none’a that. ‘m takin’ you home. Owe ya a movie, don’t I?”

You perk up at the mention of his promise from earlier.

“You sure do. And candy, and popcorn, and soda,” you list off, easily distracted by the prospect of shitty junk food. You bounce into the car, shifting the seat to recline as far as it’ll go. “What are we watching?”

“Whatever you want, baby."

Well, he did say he’d give you whatever you wanted. And for a while, it was the movie—you’d even picked out your favorite. But you only manage to get about 20 minutes in before Joel's arm around your shoulder and chest under your cheek become an unignorable distraction. 

Now, you want something else. 

You don't bother teasing or playing coy, not when he’s so solidly pressed against you, just begging to be had. Your body rises and falls with every breath he takes, and it’s so visceral, being close enough to touch and taste him, and yet not doing either. 

His neck looks especially delicious under the faint, fluorescent lighting of the TV, and your lips press wetly into the underside of his jaw, sucking delicately as your tongue darts out to taste him. His breath hitches, but he shows no other signs of being affected at all. 

Taking that as your cue to up the ante, you drop your hand onto his lap to tug at his belt, but he catches you before you can make any progress. You tilt your head back to look up at him, brows furrowed in confusion, but he just smirks, eyes still locked on the TV screen.

"You wanted a movie, didn't ya? Thought ya loved this one," he says teasingly. "You can wait a couple hours—I know ya can."

Yeah, you can, but that doesn't mean you want to. He was so into it in the parking lot, so what happened between then and now? You didn't think he liked this movie that much, but apparently you were mistaken. 

Settling back into his side, you try to shift your focus back to the movie, but then the hand on your shoulder starts to play with your hair. His fingers graze your neck, and you're back to squeezing your thighs together in frustration. 

He has to be doing this on purpose. Riling you up so much that once the movie’s finally over, you’ll be putty in his hands. Well, two can play that game. If he won't let you touch him, then you'll just have to touch yourself.

Your eyes flutter closed as you run your fingers down your belly, slipping your hand beneath the waistband of your shorts to drag your fingers up and down your slick folds. God, you didn't realize you were already so wet. You gasp softly as you trail upward toward your clit, but Joel's voice startles you out of your reverie. 

"Should ya be doin' that right now?" 

There's a tinge of warning to his voice, and it burns hot in your veins. You open your eyes slowly and he's finally looking at you, his attention drawn to your fingers still moving under the fabric.

"Well, you weren't gonna. What, are you—," your middle finger brushes against that sensitive bundle of nerves and you bite back a whine, "—you...ngh—gonna stop me?"

The hand that was gently stroking your hair shifts back to firmly grip the back of your neck, squeezing just hard enough to make your fingers stutter. He leans in, his voice dangerously low in your ear.

"No, I'll let ya keep goin'. But you're gonna do exactly what I tell ya to, ya got that?" he murmurs, watching as your hips begin to swivel into your own sweet friction. "'n if you're good for me...," he trails off, eyes dropping down to where he's slowly jerking off his hardening cock through his jeans. "...I'll give ya this. We got a deal?"

You want him inside you so badly, you almost say yes before he's even done talking, but then you have a wicked thought. A counteroffer, of sorts.

"I'll take your deal. But—," you start with a devilish smile, and he raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue. "Only if you touch yourself, too. Want you to fuck your hand like you're fucking me."

"Deal," he says without hesitation.

"Deal," you smirk, removing your hand from your pussy for him to shake, your fingers sticky and glistening. 

He takes your proffered hand but, instead of shaking, he wraps his lips around your slick digits, sucking you off each one and groaning at your taste. What you wouldn't give to have that tongue in your mouth. Or buried in your cunt. Pulling off with a lewd pop, he nods at your lap.

"Take your fuckin' pants off. Now."

Shit, he doesn't have to tell you twice. You quickly shimmy out of your shorts and underwear, and wait for his next instructions. You'll be a good girl for him. The best girl he's ever had and ever will.

"Spread 'em. Show me how wet you are for me," he mumbles, kicking your legs apart. 

You spread them as wide as you can. The cool night breeze filtering in through the open window meets your center, and you're suddenly aware of how much wetter you've gotten since you started. It almost makes your mouth water. You don't think you've ever been this turned on by your own body in your life.

Slick coats your thighs, seeping into the couch, and he looks pleased. You can see he wants to touch you just as badly as you want to touch yourself. Your knee bumps into his thigh and he hooks your leg over his, holding you open. 

"Shit, would'ja look at that," he breathes out in awe. "Prettiest pussy I've ever seen."

Your cunt visibly clenches at the praise and he hisses in a breath through his teeth, resting his hand on your thigh so he can lean over your body. He lingers for a moment like he's admiring you laid out for him like this, but then moves a little closer and spits a thick glob of saliva right onto your clit. 

Your jaw drops, a loud gasp torn from your chest when he grabs your hand, using your fingers to gather it up and swirl it around your swollen nub. Shit, if he keeps going like this, you're going to cum and fast. 

Dropping your head back onto his shoulder, you rock into your fingers, slipping through the mess he's made of your pussy, and your body starts to feel like a rubber band about to snap. 

"Wanna taste you so fuckin' bad. Fuck you on my tongue 'til you're nice 'n ready for me," he growls, pressing your fingers harder onto your clit. "S'that what you want? Wanna cum in my mouth?"

You turn to bury your head into the crook of his neck, nodding frantically as you cry into the soothing warmth of his skin. You're going to cum. Fuck, fuck, you're going to cum. Your eyes start to roll back as you feel it crescendo, and then—

Then, he releases your hand, cruelly and unapologetically. 

"Not yet, baby. We both gotta be patient, don't we?" he teases you again, and your eyes snap open.

What the fuck. No, you're not letting him edge you again. It was fun and all at the gym, but you're way too far gone to be playing games right now. 

And how isn't he a total wreck? Both of his hands are on you, even though that wasn't part of the deal, so he can't be taking care of himself.

Your eyes drop down to his lap, and wow. This man has more willpower than you ever could've imagined. He's so hard, you can see the tip of his cock peeking out above the waistband of his pants. And it's leaking everywhere, twitching and angrily dribbling precum all over the fabric. 

He looks...so fucking good like this. Fuck, you want him so bad. But that means getting back on track, and it's obviously on you to make that happen. Clearly, he's more affected by all of this than he made it seem.

"Joel, please, just tell me what to do," you plead. You'll beg if you have to. Whatever it takes for you to finally get what you want.

"Alright, alright," he concedes, taking sympathy on you, likely reaching his limit himself. "'m gonna let you make yourself feel good, baby. Don't'chu worry."

"Great," you grit through your teeth. "Then start by taking your fucking pants off."

He chuckles at his words thrown back at him, but listens, regardless. His boxers and jeans are pulled off in two hard tugs, and his cock bounces against his stomach, thick and wet, and unfairly far from your aching pussy. The hand on your neck moves to gently caress the side of your cheek.

"Gonna start nice 'n slow, ya got that?" he says, biting back a groan as he wraps his fingers around his neglected cock. He starts to pump himself, and more precum leaks out. "Watch me."

But it didn't need to be said. You're already enraptured by the way he strokes himself, slow and steady, swiping his thumb over the head on every upstroke. He's panting softly, trying to keep his hips from jerking up into his fist, but you can see how much effort it's taking not to.

"C'mon, baby. Gimme one finger—your middle finger, all the way in," he commands, his voice as tight as his grip.

You tear your eyes away from him while you run your fingers through your folds, still slick with his saliva and your own desire, and then sink your finger into yourself knuckle by knuckle. It doesn't feel like much, and you both know it, but at least it's something. 

"Now, follow me," he says, watching your hand as intently as you're watching his. 

You rock your finger in and out slowly, just like he said. Because you're his good girl and good girls do what they're told. It’s already a sticky mess, your finger creamier with every thrust, and he groans out his appreciation. 

"Good girl. Add another one. Not too fast, now." 

Finally, you get some real relief. Slipping your index finger in alongside your middle finger, you feel that little bit of stretch you've been aching for and you can't help but whimper.

His lips part, brows furrowing as his hand speeds up. His eyes are locked on where your sopping cunt is sucking in your fingers greedily and, fuck, he's even more of a mess now. Sweat dripping from his temples, chest heaving with the effort of holding himself back. 

So hot. So fucking hot. It's scorching, the way your cunt feels around your fingers as you fuck into yourself a little faster. They're rubbing your walls just right, your palm grazing your clit after every stroke, and his hyper-focused gaze makes it all feel that much better. You want to hear him say it again. For him to tell you how well you’re doing.

"—ngh...i-is this good?" you whine, knowing how pathetic you sound, but forgetting to care.

"Perfect, baby. You're perfect," he rasps, unable to keep his hips from snapping up into his fist as the sweet sounds of your wet squelching reach his ears. "So fuckin' good for me."

Preening hard at his praise, you push a little too deep into yourself and graze something mind-numbing that almost hurts with how good it feels. You cry out, curling your fingers into it again and again as you bury your face back into his neck. His arm tightens around your shoulder and he leans over to press his lips soothingly against your forehead. 

"That's it, baby, just like that. Doin' so well," he groans, lips brushing against your skin. His strokes are frantic now and you know he can’t last much longer. "Need ya to gimme one more. Just one—last one, promise. Then I'll give ya whatever you want."

Nodding quickly, face still cushioned against his shoulder, you add your ring finger, and fucking hell, you’re so full. You stretch your fingers apart, pumping them in and out the best you can, and they drag against that spot—every spot—with how tight you are. But somehow it’s not enough. It’s not Joel’s cock, so it’ll never be enough. 

Everything’s drowned out except for the wet sounds of skin on skin, and Joel’s voice, still just above your brow, talking you through your almost painful pleasure. He’s panting, whispering tender words that you can’t hear so much as feel with those soft, perfect lips.

“…tell me when you’re close, baby. Can’t feel ya, gonna need you to use your words,” he barely chokes out, staving off his orgasm, waiting for you. 

It’s already close, but you’re only teetering, stuck in a constant loop of almost there, and need more. You can’t reach where you need to, but Joel can. So easily and all you have to do is ask. He said he’d give you whatever you wanted.

But you didn’t realize he was already at his limit, and you don’t get the chance to tell him before he’s babbling, delirious with the need to cum.

"'m sorry—fuck, 'm sorry. Need...to—ngh, fuck, need to cum inside you...fill you up...," he moans, and he sounds upset like he can’t help himself, not anymore.

Abruptly, so much quicker than you can fully process, your fingers are yanked out of your cunt and replaced by his cock, and the thrust is so harsh, he hits exactly where you need him to without even trying. The whine building in your chest erupts as a wail as you immediately lock down around him, sending him over the edge with you.

Full. God, how can you feel this full? You’re so unbelievably aware of him cumming inside you and there’s so much, he’s already leaking out of you. And he almost seems angry about it. Your hips are roughly tilted up so he’s fucking down into you, eyes unfocused, and snarling like a wild animal.

And still so mouthy.

“You got no idea how good ya look right now. Fuckin’ glowin’,” he all but slurs, drunk on the idea of keeping his seed inside you. “S’that my baby in you, makin’ ya glow like that?”

"Oh...oh, god, fuck, Joel,” you whimper, your aftershocks still milking him dry. “Christ, y-you trying to knock me up twice?" 

It’s like that alone makes him redouble his efforts. You’ve never seen him like this before, but you like it. Something primal in you wants this as badly as he does.

"Fuck yeah, baby, gonna pump you full'a twins."

Holy shit. You’re not sure if you’re still cumming or if you just came again, but you feel an entirely new rush of pleasure and he hisses out a breath through his teeth like he can feel it. Not long after, sensitivity starts to set in for both of you and he stills, seated deeply inside you, chest heaving and eyes shut tight. 

His hands squeeze where they’ve been aggressively gripping your thighs before he reluctantly pulls out, but he keeps your hips tilted up as he drops to sit between your legs on the cushion below.

“There a reason I can’t lay down like a normal person?” you laugh, wiggling in his grasp. “Joel, come on, put me down. I’m already pregnant.”

“Just gimme a minute,” he mumbles, suddenly sounding so solemn. He turns his head from where it's resting on the side of your knee to kiss your damp skin. “Didn’t know I was knockin’ you up the first time, just…lemme have this, alright?” 

Your eyes soften. How this man can be such a sap after fucking you like that is beyond comprehension, but if he wants this, then you’ll let him have his moment. It’s kind of sweet, anyway.

“Okay,” you reach up to brush your fingertips along his cheek. It's incredible, really, all of the things you see in Joel's eyes right now. That in this single, fleeting gaze, you can see forever. "Put a baby in me.”

SATURDAY

"Can you stay up all night? Fuck me 'til the daylight. 34, 35."

You’re convinced Joel tastes especially good in the mornings. There’s a hint of sweat to his skin, so naturally bitter and heady, maybe even a little tangy. It’s fucking delicious.

And he’s always hard in the morning. His cock is the perfect alarm clock, always reliable and super effective, whether it’s pulsing against your thigh or rutting into your ass. It’s your favorite way to wake up, but there’s usually not enough time to enjoy it to the fullest.

Not with work and Sarah, even Tommy showing up for breakfast unannounced. But it’s Saturday, which means you can keep your lips wrapped around him for as long as you want, make him cum as many times as you want, and taste him to your heart’s content. 

He probably won’t even wake up, at least not right away. Joel sleeps like the dead, especially on the weekends, and it’s been a long week. Even now, as you suck the tip into your wet, very eager mouth and swallow him down halfway, he barely stirs. 

That’s more than okay with you. You’d be happy to lie in bed, head pillowed on his stomach, keeping his cock warm between your lips while you wait. Relishing how fucking good he tastes and how your jaw pleasantly aches as you adjust to accommodate his girth.

But, soon enough, your jaw isn’t the only thing aching. The slick mess you’re making in your underwear right now is getting hard to ignore, but you don’t want to let him go. He’s velvety smooth against your tongue, dribbling salty precum down your throat, and his unconscious body is starting to respond to you more and more with each passing moment. This is your favorite part.

He lets out a soft grunt, twitching into the inside of your cheek, and your efforts become a little more concentrated and a lot more obvious. You try to forget about your soaked underwear and the pleasurable whoosh in your belly in favor of sucking a little harder, letting saliva pool in your mouth as you slurp loudly around the head.

His hips jerk up, surprising you enough to gag you, and that only makes your mouth and pussy wetter, the heat building in your core almost unbearable now. The moan that escapes you sends a drawn-out series of vibrations straight down to his balls that pulls even more noise from him, and your head steadily shifts with the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

He's starting to rut into your mouth, whimpering, and yet somehow still asleep, and it makes you feel powerful to have full control over him like this. To command his pleasure without any interruption or intervention, making him fall apart entirely at your mercy. You kind of hope you can get him to cum like this, to be his alarm clock for once. 

Turns out only half of your wish is granted, but you don't realize it until Joel's fingers are threading into your hair and abruptly tugging you off. He's definitely awake now, but he also definitely didn't cum. Bummer. You try sucking him back into your mouth, but he tugs you harder even as his hips chase you. 

"Joel, what—?" you glare up at him, but upon seeing him, you feel a little bad for your reaction. He looks so sleepy, still a little dazed from his unconventional wake-up call, blinking blearily like he's doing his best to stay awake. Your expression softens. 

"Sorry, got a little carried away," you murmur sheepishly. "But, um, you taste really good, so if you wanna go back to sleep, I can just keep—"

You're cut off by a hand trailing down your body, following the curve of your ass to dip inside you. He smears the moisture around your entrance, pushing two fingers into you, then pulling out to hold them up to his face. You watch him, enraptured by the way he inspects your wetness, how it strings between his middle and ring fingers. 

Then, he surprises you even further by sucking them into his mouth, his eyes rolling back as he groans around them before slipping them out totally clean. His cock jerks next to your face and you belatedly realize you're drooling.

"Fuck, so do you." He's fully awake now, eyes clear, but dark. Hungry.

"Huh?" you ask dumbly. 

"Ya taste really good," he mumbles, his voice low and so sexy, still thick with sleep. You feel your cheeks heat up. Oh. 

"C'mere, baby," he tells you, patting his chest. You crawl up his body and lean up to kiss him, assuming he wants you to taste yourself in his mouth, but he stops you. "Other way, sweetheart."

Your brows furrow in confusion as you try to work out exactly what he's asking for. Even though you've been awake and riling him up for what feels like hours, your brain clearly hasn't caught up yet. His eyes are unreadable, fingers tense at his sides. Like he's just itching for you to understand.

"Need you to figure this out—know you can do it," he rasps needily. "C'mon, smart girl, what do I want?"

And then it hits you. He's not asking you to sit on his chest, not really. He wants you to sit on his face. Needs you to. Sprawled out on your hands and knees where his spit-slick cock would be just within reach, bobbing temptingly with every breath he takes.

God, you want to. The idea of Joel fucking you with his tongue while he's fucking into your mouth makes you clench so hard it hurts. You bite your lip, meeting his expectant gaze.

Okay. Okay, you can definitely do that. Especially when he looks so...eager. It also has the double advantage of combining mind-blowing sex with a well-rounded breakfast. You have a feeling you'll both be full after this.

"Just so I have this straight—," you splay your fingers across his stomach, trailing down to wrap tightly around his length and tug upward until a single, perfect bead of precum leaks from his slit, "—you still want my mouth here."  

Your eyes stay locked on his as you bend down to lick it off, lingering to suckle the tip and tease your tongue just under the ridge. When he doesn't immediately tug you off, you take him deeper, preening at his harsh intake of breath. 

You don't want to press your luck, but he tastes fucking incredible, somehow even better than he did earlier. Maybe it's the way he's watching you, captivated and attuned to your every movement. 

He’s already starting to buck into you, shallowly, now an active participant in his own pleasure. His knuckles are nearly white with how hard he’s fisting the sheets, teeth gritting as he fights the urge to rush you. 

But his patience is wearing thin. Just a few thrusts later, he tugs you off with what feels like dwindling restraint, and your dazed, glassy eyes don't do much to help.

You look wrecked, and you know it. Lips swollen and slick with saliva, your lashes wet with unshed tears from the effort of taking him. He reaches out to trace your bottom lip with his thumb, hissing when you catch the tip between your teeth.

“Yeah...ngh—yeah, keep doin' that. Suckin' me just like that," he breathes raggedly. "And sit that pretty pussy right here—"

Then, without warning, he's suddenly manhandling you into position, throwing your leg over his head, and maneuvering you until you can feel him panting heavily against your cunt.

“Down, baby, let's go. Wanna taste ya. Now.”

Blunt nails dig into your skin and your hips stutter, dipping low enough for your clit to brush his bottom lip. It’s enough for him to get a taste of you. For him to finally snap and decide he’s done waiting.

Joel yanks you onto his face, licking a wide stripe from your clit to your entrance, his tongue immediately finding a home in your pussy. The motion knocks you off balance and you fall forward, his cock just inches from your mouth.

Bracing a hand on his stomach, you wrap your other around him and he groans throatily in response, the sound deep and muffled as he licks into you with increased fervor. And his noises only grow in volume, vibrating against your folds and sending jolt after jolt into your very sensitive bundle of nerves. 

His mouth feels so fucking hot, and the coarseness of his beard burns, making it hard to concentrate on what you’re desperately trying to accomplish. You’re already panting, hiccuped breaths puffing teasingly and cruelly against him until he’s pulsing in your grip. 

The promise of him throbbing just like that down your throat makes you focus just long enough to take him back into your mouth, intent on sucking him down as far as your body will let you. But, by now, any sense of self-control he might’ve had before is totally gone. His hips buck clean off the mattress at the tightness of your lips around him, and he all but chokes you with the force of it, the size of him. 

And, fuck, you love it. The way his stomach tenses, his thighs trembling beneath you. You can’t tell where your body ends and his begins, not when he’s fucking into you every single way he can. His tongue spears into you and your pussy rhythmically squeezes him every time his cock grazes the back of your throat. 

You’re audibly gagging around him and it’s filthy as hell, but you can tell how much it’s turning him on. Christ, can you tell. Maybe you were genuinely worried you’d suffocate him at first but, now, you probably couldn’t stop yourself from grinding into his face even if you tried. And that's exactly what he wants.

"...Harder—mmph, c'mon, baby," you feel him groan into your cunt, urging your hips even lower. "—ride me harder, harder."

How—he...fuck, he's...? Everywhere. He's everywhere. You struggle to do what he told you, to use him for your mounting pleasure, but it doesn't fucking matter anymore. You're helpless but to let him do whatever he wants to you.

Joel’s devouring you. Roughly grabbing your ass, moaning pathetically into you as he pulls your cheeks apart for better access. It’s almost like you can feel him swelling between your lips, and you try to pull up for just a second of respite. 

But, then, he abruptly shifts. His mouth lowers to suck gently, yet fleetingly on your clit twice, then he licks a wide stripe back up to your entrance. Except, he doesn’t stop there. Instead, he continues his path up, gathering your wetness as he goes, and swirls his tongue around your other hole before sucking hard. And it sends you reeling.

Jesus fucking Christ, that’s new. Fuck, and it’s—so...so good. It’s indescribable, how he feels right now. How he sounds—slurping you up, whimpering desperately like he’ll cum at any moment. 

And he’s loud, drawn-out moans escaping from so deep within his chest, they climb their way from that tight ring of muscle straight up your spine, where you can vaguely feel his arm snaking around you to claw at your back. You can’t think anymore—you’re done thinking. 

Now, it’s just him trapping you in place, the three fingers he’s suddenly pumping into your spasming pussy, and his cock, now abandoned and leaking on his stomach. It’s so much, bordering on too much, and you can’t hold yourself up anymore.

Your head drops unceremoniously onto the puddle of precum and it smears across your cheek as his hips urgently roll into nothing. But you don’t even notice. Not even when your eyes roll back and you start to babble deliriously, your orgasm building quickly in a place between your legs you can’t even begin to explain.

“Joel…JoelJoelJoel—I…you…,” you slam a hand down on the mattress as your thighs start to quake violently. “…cumming—‘m cumming, fuck—fuck.”

It doesn’t just crash over you, it rocks you to your core. Everything below your waist locks down, squeezing his fingers so tight, you swear you can feel each individual knuckle. Your jaw drops, parting around what feels like a silent scream, but you can’t be totally sure because soon, Joel is groaning so gutturally, you can’t focus on anything else.

At least, until he cums completely untouched right into your face. And he cums hard. Thick spurts cover your lips and chin, landing haphazardly on your cheek, and your tongue darts out to taste him, salty and sated and perfect. Exactly what you've been waiting for.

His thighs tense intermittently, a few more drops dribbling out of his slit, and you crane your neck, letting your tongue flutter over his head. As it pulses weakly against your lips, Joel gasps out your name, burying his face in your swollen pussy again. 

Lazily, you swivel your hips into his mouth despite the extreme overstimulation, hiccuping soft moans and nearly succumbing to the easy pleasure. He gently caresses your clit, enveloping you with a dextrous warmth that simultaneously makes you jolt and crave the sensation. 

Neither of you want to stop. Truthfully, you'd let him do this to you all day, drawing orgasm after orgasm from each other the way you have been all week. But exhaustion's starting to set in and you're not sure your body can physically take any more.

Joel slaps your ass and you huff out a soft laugh, deciding it's time to separate so you can get cozy with him again. The perfect end to your surprisingly athletic, lazy Saturday morning in bed.

“You gonna stop anytime soon, or do you just live there now?” you pant teasingly, grimacing as you slowly lift your head off his stomach. 

Shit, you’re a mess. You’re practically stuck to him, his cum drying on his stomach and your face, and you can feel the stickiness of his saliva mixed with your juices dripping between your legs. His hand trails from your ass down to your inner thigh, painting mindless patterns on your sullied skin.

"Sure don't seem like ya want me to stop," he chuckles tiredly, managing to suck your clit chastely one last time before you jerk your hips away. 

His head finally drops onto the pillow below him, and he lets out a disgruntled whine when you toss your leg over his head, plopping down on the bed beside him.

"Yeah, well, one of us has to have a little self-control or we're not leaving this bed today. And you, uh, look like you could use some tidying up,” you snort, scratching your fingertips against his already crusting beard. He mimics the motion on your leg, and you swat his hand away, rolling your eyes fondly.

It would be disgusting if it were literally anyone else but Joel but, here in this bed—your bed—it feels so natural. Like it’s totally normal that you’d be covered in each other’s releases, having a silly conversation on a Saturday morning as if you’ve done this all your lives. 

“Might wanna look in the mirror, baby. I’d be more’n happy to keep lookin’ at ya like this, but—,” he leans up to wipe a streak of cum off your bottom lip. His hand lingers, cupping your damp cheek, and you instinctively lean into his touch. “—you probably need more cleanin’ up than I do.” 

You eye each other for a few seconds, taking in how truly disgusting you both are, before bursting into fits of laughter. You’re smiling so hard, your skin tugs under his drying release and that makes you laugh even harder.

“Alright, alright, filthy girl,” he jokes, wiping a stray tear from his eye. “Lay down, I’ll take care of ya.”

He sits up and slowly slides off the bed, yanking your legs out from under you as he goes. Still giggling, you flop onto the damp, cotton sheets with an oomph and immediately take the opportunity to stretch out your sore limbs. You nuzzle into your pillow with a soft mewl, practically purring as you try to soak up the warm morning rays streaming through the gaps in the curtains.

You glance over at Joel as you continue to nest like a gigantic cat, but he's already watching you, paused in the doorway to the bathroom. His eyes rove appreciatively down your naked body and you observe him quietly, deciding you'll let him stare for as long as he wants to. There's no rush. Sure, you're still a mess and probably have the worst bedhead imaginable, but despite it all, he makes you feel beautiful. 

When he returns with a cool, damp washcloth a few minutes later, he's much cleaner and you're only a little bummed that the evidence of your explosive morning is gone. He's gentle and attentive as he wipes the remaining streaks off your cheeks and chin, and bends down to kiss you once your face is officially cum-free. 

Okay, maybe you lied earlier. This is your favorite part. Joel taking care of you, choosing to express his affection through his actions and touch. You sigh into his mouth, melting into the first real kiss you've shared since waking up, and it takes his tongue tangling with yours for you to realize he tastes minty. He's always so delicious.

Trailing further down, he wipes his release off your stomach, pressing his lips to each freshly-cleaned inch of skin, and then crawls between your legs to wash away the mess he made of your thighs. Your eyes start to flutter closed at the repetitive shift in sensation, his hands lulling you to sleep, until the washcloth hits the floor with a dull splat.

Well, that was over way too soon. But you quickly forgive the horrible transgression once his warm, welcome body sinks into the bed next to you, and his tousled head of hair and beard nuzzle into your stomach.

He mouths at your skin, his lips pressing sweetly around your belly button, and it tickles, making you laugh as you thread your fingers through his curls and scratch his scalp affectionately. 

After a moment of comfortable silence, his hand splays warm and broad next to his head. His expression shifts and he looks unexpectedly pensive. Uncertainty creeps into your chest before you can logic it away, even though you know without a doubt that he wants this. His lips begin to move against your stomach and it takes a second for you to realize he's saying something, almost too quietly for you to hear. But when it finally registers, all of that fear completely fades away.

"Hey there, kiddo. It's me, your daddy," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin as soothing as his words. He has the tiniest smile on his face, and it's growing wider by the second. "We're all so excited to meet ya. Me, your momma, your big sister, your uncle...we already love ya so damn much."

The room starts to blur into a wash of colors and figures, and shit, you're crying. But how could you not be? He's...talking to your tiny clump of cells. To your baby—who can't possibly be bigger than a pumpkin seed—with so much adoration, it makes your chest ache. 

You're trying so hard not to tremble or sniffle or breathe too heavily so you don't startle him, but that doesn't exactly work out. A few stray tears make their way up your nose, and you snort around your next inhale. Classic, clumsy you.

Joel's head shoots up like he's been caught and his cheeks flush that beautiful shade of burgundy you love so much. You don't want him to stop, but he looks so embarrassed like he thinks he's done something wrong. That couldn't be further from the truth. 

"I'm just emotional from the hormones, it's totally fine. I'm totally fine," you give him a reassuring, watery grin. "Keep going. I think they like the sound of daddy's voice."

He chuckles and reaches up to wipe your tears away, gently cradling your face in his hand before he slides it back down to your belly. He continues where he left off, just like you asked, but you have a sneaking suspicion he would've anyway. Joel's just one of those men who was born to be a dad. It comes as naturally to him as breathing.

“Heard that? That's your momma, kiddo. She's....well. She's somethin' else. Strongest, most lovin', person I've ever known and fuckin' sharp as a tack," he smiles up at you, eyes crinkling and bright as the goddamn sun. "And she's beautiful. She even sounds beautiful, don't she? Hopin' you'll come out just like her."

You scoff affectionately, shaking your head as you share a look that tells you he knows exactly what you're thinking. If this baby pops out without his brown eyes and curls, you're going to be so pissed. You teasingly tug his hair, willing him to take it back, but he won't. If your baby's getting anything from the two of you, it's stubbornness.

Then, before you can blink, there's a sudden tone shift. His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together, and he turns his head so he's speaking directly into your belly. An exchange just between a father and his child.

"Wanna know a secret? S'just between you and me, though, alright? Don't go tellin' your momma," he says nosing into your soft skin, his voice barely above a whisper. You watch him curiously, squeezing his hand to get his attention, but his focus remains on your stomach. "'m gonna ask your momma to marry me. Think she'll say yes?"

Your heart stops and it feels like all of the air's been sucked out of the room. That's—fuck...that's one hell of a secret to share with your baby. You can't even imagine the kind of trouble they're going to get up to if they're already keeping secrets like that. 

His eyes flit up to meet yours, but they're not questioning or expectant. He isn't wondering what your answer will be. He just looks peaceful. Blanketed in an easy calm because he already knows what you're going to say. Of course, he does. 

Propping his chin on your hip, Joel quietly observes your reaction while he strokes the back of your hand with the rough pad of his thumb. You wonder what he sees on your face and in your body language right now because you're positive it's not the elation or excessive joy anyone else would expect.

You're not squealing or jumping up and down, or whatever newly engaged people usually do. No, that blanket of easy calm is more than big enough for both of you, and it feels safe and warm, just like you always knew this moment would. 

And you wouldn't want it any other way. Lying here together after possibly the most eventful week of your lives, filled with so much sex and love and family, and deciding that you want to keep doing this together, over and over. Forever.

You guide his hand up to your lips, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to his palm, before placing it over your racing heart. That tiny smile returns to his face and he crawls up your body so he can kiss you properly, conveying his love better than words ever could. 

It's still way too early for your baby to kick or give their daddy any sort of sign that they heard his question, but you're sure they wouldn't mind if you answered for them. It's a no-brainer, anyway.

"Yeah, I do."

thanks for reading! 💕

[yiangchen]

it's so tragic funny that while i was watching t100, jroth was so adamant that there was nothing romantic there with bellarke, that it literally made me doubt what was very clearly being written as romantic (and it actually was. like, we know this now. it has been confirmed).

looking back, bellarke could have kissed at so many different points in the show, without changing anything else but having them kiss, and it would have made perfect sense. it would have flowed. it would have aligned with their relationship development.

just think about it. 1x09. unity day. is this a bit early? yes. but do they have the chemistry? yes. and have they had sufficient build up for two characters to have their first kiss? yes. honestly more than a lot of ships that happen in the first season of their show. especially since day trip just happened! plus, the flirting during unity day was...not subtle.

listen...she wanted to kiss him here so bad. seriously though. clarke could have and that would have been a very natural progression of this scene. it would have especially fit the early drop ship days vibe.

(or you could add in a scene where clarke finds him later, now sufficiently buzzed, they flirt some more, then she kisses him, and bellamy's like, "woah, woah, princess, what are you doing?" but he's smiling and she just shrugs with a smile and goes in to kiss him again, saying "having fun", and bellamy says, "you're drunk" and clarke is exasperated saying, "well you told me to!" and bellamy laughs, very amused, and from the look in his eyes, you can tell that he is also very very VERY smitten.)

if you still think that's too soon, yeah, i tend to agree. i love the idea of s1 bellarke in fanfic, but for the show, i prefer a bit more of slowburn. so let's push it to season 2. no, that's not a true slowburn, but still, you had to wait a little for it, and a lot of shows do this successfully. so anyway. 2x05. post iconic reunion hug, shot in a very romantic way i might add.

bellamy is watching clarke sleep by the fire, she wakes, we have some platonic gazing with firelight flickering across their faces...

we all know how the scene goes. he reassures her. he confides in her. she reassures him back.

i'm sorry, but the way they are looking at each other here? dude, if they had been sitting any closer, they could have kissed. i tend to think it would be more in character for clarke to initiate a first kiss with bellamy in s1-4, but in this scene, i 100% could see bellamy going in to kiss her after this.

(and yes, i'm aware that octavia was pretending to be asleep this whole time, but honestly, her reaction to them would have added some much needed levity to the situation. octavia is a bellarke shipper, after all. also, some people might say that this would make clarke's "i love you" to finn less believable, but i disagree. you can have feelings for two people at the same time. i mean, she literally kisses lxa very quickly after finn's death sooo yeah...plus, it would have made the bellarke angst of s2b/3 even better.)

maybe you still want more of a slowburn though, and that is perfectly fair, which brings me to s3, which in my opinion would have been one of the best seasons for canon bellarke. alright. 3x05. hakeldama yup! it was prime time for a first kiss. i mean, all the build up of s1/2 obviously, but also...this had just happened:

but anyway...back to hakeldama. this is the peak of their angst. nothing tops it.

but then, after the heat of the moment, the softness comes in. as it always does with these two. they wind up sharing the softest, most romantic scene in this entire show (fight me).

that last gif, man...at this point, i think they would both go in for the kiss. mutually initiated. god, it would have fit the scene so well!

(some people might say that this would invalidate clarke's love for lxa, considering everything that happens two eps later, but again, i disagree. like i said before, you can have feelings for two people at the same time. people might also say that this would undermine bellamy's relationship with gina, but you know what? the whole fucking narrative undermined that relationship, so i really don't care. i loved gina, but if clarke can kiss lxa right after finn's death, then bellamy can kiss clarke right after gina's death. this show is messy, okay? and bellarke are messy as fuckkkk.)

still think it would be too early? okay. season 4 then. very recently, i realized how easy making bellarke canon in s4 would have been, holyyyy. starting off in 4x03. bellamy is sleeping on the couch and clarke watches him sleep with the softest smile on her face (i'm still crying about this btw). i can't find the right gif, but you all know the smile! then clarke is struggling so bellamy wakes up and is there to support her, making a declaration that has romantic undertones, it just does!

and then clarke lowkey makes a move on him lmao. for real though?? what was this???

i would only change one thing here. he takes a seat beside her first and then puts his hand on her shoulder. so that way they are eye level (aka kissing level).

when she lifts her head off their hands, their faces would be so close. maybe bellamy would tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, not realizing how intimate that kind of thing is until he does it. i could see them kissing here. clarke would initiate. although, i think it would be so much better if it was just an almost kiss. bellamy tells her she should get some sleep right before it happens.

and then in 4x06...

it's actually so funny how she says that and then she's like 'oh no. that sounded like it implied something. i did not mean to imply.'

and bellamy's over here like 'omg she's implying.'

which leads to him literally about to confess. i'm sorry, but there is no other way to interpret....

and of course clarke interrupts, but this is the moment, you guys! this could have been the moment.

right after this, before roan's interruption, there's a pause, and then clarke kisses him. it's a quick one. the kind of kiss where she has both of her hands on his face and he's so stunned by it that his eyebrows raise in surprise and before he can even process that it's happened, she's pulled back and they're looking at each other, a bit in awe, both surprised that she just did that.

then in 4x09, we actually get to see the reunion!! and it's the running kind. just like 2x05. only this time, after they run to each other and hug, bellamy pulls back and takes her face in his hands to examine her for injuries, and once he realizes she's okay, probably after she reassures him and puts a hand on his face, then he kisses her, but they both go in for it (and i cry).

in 4x13, i would change the location of the head and heart scene. somewhere more private...a bedroom (!). so, after this moment:

and bellamy turns away, upset, clarke pulls him back to face her and takes his face in her hands. his eyes are watery. so are hers. she kisses him. one thing leads to another and we get the sex scene we deserved!! then they're lying in bed, cuddling. bellamy's head is on her chest and clarke's playing with his hair. that's when she decides to ruin the moment lmao and continues the head and heart convo with "we've been through a lot together, you and i." i can just see it so well. they would shift so that they're laying on their sides, facing one another. maybe clarke's fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck now. when she says he has a big heart, her palm rests on his bare chest. when she says he has to use his head too, her fingers of her other hand shift from his neck to his temple. when bellamy says, "i've got you for that," clarke kisses him. their foreheads stay touching for a few breathes, then she pulls back to look at him and says that raven's premonition came true. like...am i crazy or would this have worked so well?? literally the same dialogue but...they're together.

(plus, this could have led to clarke raising bellamy's kid--august--along with madi over those six years they are separated, i'm just saying!)

maybe you still think that season 5 was the ultimate time for bellarke to go canon, and you know what? i honestly might just agree. the set up was there with clarke calling bellamy every day for 2,199 days. the potential was there. madi was the biggest bellarke shipper i swear. she wanted them to be together even more than all of us combined i think. for a bellarke kiss though, you would almost have to drastically change the course of events...unless you go with 5x13 and blecho have broken up earlier in the season. after clarke wakes bellamy from cryo (still crying about this moment, yeah!), i could see them having a moment.

before jordan walks in, maybe clarke helps bellamy out of the pod, and once they're both standing, bellamy would finally make his move. instead of bellamy asking why they're the only ones there, clarke does. bellamy tells her, "we'll figure it out, clarke, but first, i have something i wanna say." maybe he does something soft, like take her hand or brush her hair behind her ear. clarke is staring at him, not quite believing what is happening right now, but deep down, she knows. he tells her, "those six years without you were the worst of my life and i don't wanna waste any more time." clarke is wearing a watery smile, still not quite sure she believes what she's hearing. she tells him, "i radioed you every day you were gone." bellamy's whole face lights up and he tells her, "i know." their foreheads touch. both of his hands are cradling her cheeks, her hands are cradling his wrists. she whispers his name. it's the kind of kiss where the time before the kiss is excruciatingly long, but once they kiss, it becomes much more urgent as they finally give in to all of the feelings. god. would have been ICONIC.

plus, they both looked absolutely gorgeous in this scene. hello???

would have been one hell of an aesthetically pleasing first kiss holyyyy. then jordan interrupts and makes some comment about how his mom and dad were right all along :)

if not season 5 though...moving onto season 6. 6x10 to be exact. i know i've said that other times were the ultimate time for canon bellarke, but this episode is too! or right after it in 6x11. there are two scenarios that i see playing out here. (in both, blecho have broken up previously.)

in the first scenario, it's 6x10. as soon as bellamy saves clarke and she wakes up, instead of going in to hug him, i swear when i was watching it that i really thought she was going in for the kiss. that was the one and only time where i legitimately thought they were about to kiss while watching. it had never made more sense than in that moment. even with all of jroth's attempted brainwashing, my mind was stronger in that moment. it saw it coming. or at least i thought i did lmao. i know they didn't actually kiss.

but listen.

they really should have.

clarke is literally looking at him like this:

come on, man.

i usually say that bellamy should be the one initiating post s4, but in this moment, it would have been clarke.

and if not then, the other scenario is that they hug as usual. clarke gets some rest as usual. but when she wakes up in 6x11 and bellamy is at her side, they are in a separate private tent. they have that same conversation that they do. they argue about clarke risking her life again. but then...

he tells her, "hey, i just got you back." he says it firm but soft. i see bellamy initiating the kiss here, especially since he's almost lost her twice now, but once clarke realizes that this is really happening, that after all this time he wants her just as much as she wants him, she would for sure be the one initiating everything else. she would be sitting in his lap making out with him so fast jfsldkjfaslk and you know what? good for her!! they either just kiss a lot here, laying down on the bed, all tangled up together, and then they're interrupted, or maybe, just for once, they're allowed to be happy, uninterrupted, and they sleep together. either way. natural progression.

that's really the point of this longwinded post. so many times it could have happened. all of them a nature progression of the story that was being told.

then comes season 7...

there are no words.

6x13 left them off in a perfect place...

the set up was literally right there! they should have kissed in 7x01!! they should have lived happily ever after with madi in a seaside cabin situated in a field of gold!!

[aria-greenhoodie]

Yknow I was mentioning “A World Without Wordgirl” earlier to my boyfriend and it’s honestly such a fucked up episode if you think about its implications for more than like, 2 seconds.

Like, Becky Botsford aka Wordgirl is 10 YEARS OLD and she has to CONSTANTLY leave behind her friends and family and miss out on fun, normal kid activities to take care of some mess a (usually grown-ass) villain made. We see this happen in plenty of other episodes, but “A World Without Wordgirl” makes it even more obvious.

It’s this kid’s BIRTHDAY, and her parents decided to go all out for her. They brought her best friends, got her a bouncy castle, got her ponies to ride, did all these really sweet and amazing things for their daughter, but she didn’t get to enjoy ANY of it because she kept having to zoom off and fight crime as Wordgirl. She’s just a KID! She is a 5th grader for goodness sake, she shouldn’t be sacrificing her BIRTHDAY, the single most exciting and highly-anticipated day of the year for a kid, to clean up after criminals that the local law enforcement couldn’t handle. And she isn’t forced to interrupt her party once, no, she’s forced to interrupt her own fun SEVERAL TIMES to the point that every single nice thing her parents did for her she misses, doesn’t get to enjoy any of it. So of course, she’s so fed-up by the end of the day, so tired of having to pick up after everyone, she makes the wish that she wasn’t Wordgirl, and that Wordgirl never existed… just like ANY EXASPERATED 10 YEAR OLD MAY DO IF THEY WERE IN HER SITUATION!

And what is she given in response to her extremely understandable angst? SHE IS IMMEDIATELY SCARED STRAIGHT BY EVERYTHING AROUND HER FUNDAMENTALLY CHANGING DUE TO WORDGIRL BEING ERASED FROM EXISTENCE (courtesy of electrified magic birthday cake).

In the universe without her, CHUCK of all villains is running the city, allowing the other villains to run amok as well, under his rule (sans Twobrains). Becky is shown that if she DOESN’T continue to sacrifice every single nice thing that happens to her in order to clean up messes that ADULT LAW ENFORCEMENT SHOULD BE HANDLING, the city will fall to villainous hands. She’s shown that she HAS to be a savior, a protector, a hero above anything else. She’s not allowed to be a kid, she’s not allowed to have a carefree childhood and leave larger issues to the adults, she’s not allowed to enjoy herself without the anxiety of another crime taking place that she has to stop.

And you know, this would be bad enough if this was the only episode that touched on this, but it ISN’T. This type of shit has happened to her SO MANY TIMES. The people of Fair City are absolutely HELPLESS without her, a 10 YEAR OLD GIRL. she’s not allowed to be a kid for more than 5 seconds without hearing some alarm in the distance! Sure, she chose to be a super hero, but she made that choice when she was still VERY YOUNG, and even if it was her choice, it’s still completely unfair that her entire childhood is marred by constant interruptions from villains and constant anxiety in anticipation of the next crime, not to mention the physical danger she’s put in nearly every day by (again, usually GROWN-ASS) villains who hold no care for her well-being!

She doesn’t even have a trusted adult figure to really confide in, either. The only adult who knows her secret identity (as far as I’ve gotten in the show) is her grandfather, but he doesn’t live with the Botsfords and seems to be perfectly ok with his granddaughter throwing herself into dangerous situations for the sake of others. Sure, later in the show Scoops figures out her identity, and I’m pretty sure Violet does too (Haven’t gotten that far yet though), and while it’s great that she has peers to confide in after all this time, she still really needs an adult in her life who can shield her from some of the sacrifices she feels forced to make.

I know this is a kids show and her being frustrated with villain interruptions is usually played up for laughs, but as an adult watching the show I can’t help but feel kinda angry on her behalf at the adults around her if I think about it too hard. Yes, she’s capable and strong, but that doesn’t mean that the adults in her life shouldn’t be protecting her anyway. Has no adult in Fair City worried about Wordgirl, the 10-year-old heroine? Has none of the local law enforcement questioned why they keep letting a 5th grader do their jobs for them?? I guess it’s in-character of cops to be incompetent and selfish, that’s definitely realistic, but what about the other adults who know Wordgirl? Hell, Sally Botsford, Becky’s own MOM, has said she sees Wordgirl almost like a daughter, but she still has little to no problem with her constantly being the city’s only defense against crime both big and small. Sure, Kid Math is now able to help out, BUT HE’S JUST A KID TOO! And Becky/Wordgirl is still doing a LOT of the work! She’s never even had a proper mentor who knew of her superheroism. Her LAST hero-mentor was fucking MISS POWER, and we all know how that turned out.

This is why I’ve been writing a fic about Becky (and Tobey because I’m a sucker for Tobecky) 15 years after canon dealing with her mixed-up feelings about her childhood and her superheroism. It must be such an angering, terrifying feeling to grow up thinking that you can’t be allowed to be a KID, to have FUN for too long, because a villain might rob a bank, or steal an artifact, or turn the city into cheese, or WHATEVER. Imagine Becky as an adult, imagine the anger she must feel, and the guilt because of that anger. Someone give this kid a hug and a proper mentor figure. And some THERAPY.

[quinloki]

Wbp with reader who slips away drabble... Izou was frustrated with their newest member. They weren't strong like the rest of them, a sickly thing they'd plucked half-dead from the waters of a shipwreck. They were plenty enthusiastic despite it all, quickly charming everyone, but... they had special rules to follow as a result of their condition, and, well... the fact that they're a complete ditz. He'd asked Marco whether they were a natural airhead or if they'd had their head scrambled in the wreck, and the man had rolled his eyes with an amused huff. They were lenient with them. But now Izou is reconsidering that. Because, see, one of the rules they've set for them is a sort of buddy system. If they leave the ship, they've got to have at least one person with them at all times. They'd visited a bustling port town to restock, and Ace had gleefully offered to take them- only for them to completely disappear. In a crowded, summery island town with a bustling market place. And now, they had to discretely search through the crowds of strangers when they should've been done here. To be fair, it was entirely possible Ace had been the one to lose them- but he'd sworn up and down he'd barely glanced away and they'd just disappeared. So from the sound of it, they may have intentionally ditched him. Regardless of how they felt regarding the rules, they set them for a reason. He's been making his way through the throng of market goers for a good twenty minutes when he finally spots them- and immediately releases an exasperated sigh. One hand nervously fumbles with a flimsy map they've found, as if it's possible to make out normal landmarks in a crowd like this. The other hand clutches something against their chest. He swiftly makes his way towards them, frustration not quite abated but at least tempered with amusement. The displeasure begrudgingly takes a backseat when they finally see him,and immediately grin, waving him over while still holding the largely useless map. "Izou! Izou! Oh, finally! I swear to God, I take a few steps and Ace is gone!" He pinches the bridge of his nose, but before he can say anything they're showing him what they'd been cradling so tightly. They present him with the rattiest, dirtiest, most unkempt kitten he has ever seen. "There's so many people, she would've been trampled! Nobody else even saw her, I got kicked trying to pick her up!"

Honestly I think the only reason they don't end up getting punished is because Izou is suddenly furious that there's no way you'll be able to point our who kicked you, and how dare someone do that.

He's hauling you and the mangy beast back to the ship and the next time you leave you'll be on someone's shoulders. No more walking around in crowds - if you don't wander off on your own you're getting kicked by strangers and Izou refuses to hear you say that again.

[lavellenchanted]

hi!!! Would you consider posting more of ur gmw maya/lucaya fic??? I loved reading the lil snippet u posted about the purple cat painting!!

Hiya! Thank you for sending this, I'm so glad you enjoyed those snippets. Honestly most of the doc is just bits like that that I haven't woven together properly which is why I've not posted any more, but here's one of the scenes I've started with both Maya and Lucas.

“Well, that’s how we work, right?” Maya shrugged. “Riley’s the good one, I’m the bad one. She fixes things, I break them. Light and dark, night and day, and whatever. It’s how it’s always been.”

For a moment there was only the sound of the swing chains creaking as she slowly drifted back and forth, and then Lucas said in a blunt, matter-of-fact tone, “That’s such bullshit, Maya.”

Her eyebrows shot up. While Lucas was by no means puritanical, and she had heard him do his fair share of swearing over the years, he didn’t swear often - so she always knew when he did it was because he felt particularly strongly about something. 

(With effort, she managed to ignore the way her heart beat just a little harder at the thought that he might feel strongly about something, anything, to do with her.)

“Excuse me, Sundance?” 

“It is. You’re not ‘the bad one’. And you don’t break things. That’s bullshit.”

Maya couldn’t help giving a snort of laughter. “Okay, now I know you can’t be serious. I absolutely break things.”

But apparently she was the only one to find it funny, as Lucas just gave her a flat, unamused look. 

“No, you don’t.”

“Come on -”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” He cut across her, surprising her enough with the question that she didn’t answer right away but just frowned at him in confusion. “What is it that makes you the bad one?”

She gave an exasperated sigh, waving her hand out as though gesturing at a hundred thousand examples laid out for him to see.

“I vandalised a park.”

“With a beautiful mural that the entire neighbourhood loves, and that’s been featured on multiple Instagram accounts for sight-seeing in New York. Sure, you should have gotten permission but don’t pretend like it’s not something to be proud of.” 

Maya could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, because yes, okay, she was very proud of that piece of art. It had been one of the few good things at a difficult time in her life, a beacon to remind herself not to give up and she still felt a quiet burst of hope every time she saw it. She had also seen it on Instagram, on several accounts dedicated to pictures of New York, and each time she did she felt such a triumphant, excited surge of having accomplished something and created art that spoke to other people. She hadn’t realised Lucas had seen them, though. 

“Okay . . . well. I’ve lost count of how many detentions I’ve had.”

“For things like being tardy or talking back to the teachers.”

“Exactly! I’m a smart-mouth and disrespectful.” 

Now it was Lucas’s turn to snort. “Those aren’t exactly heinous crimes.”

Maya wasn’t sure why, exactly, she was trying to argue someone into calling her a delinquent, but even so she wasn’t about to back down. Stubbornly sticking her chin out, she continued, “I broke out of detention.” 

“And I was right there alongside you. As I recall, all we did was put some paint on our faces and run down a couple of hallways.”

“We kidnapped Riley.”

“And took her into the hallway to talk. We weren’t exactly punk rock.”

Now that was an accusation that couldn’t stand. Maya levelled a finger at him, narrowing her eyes, “Speak for yourself, Ranger Rick. Some of us are punk rock to our bones.”

Lucas grinned, a brilliant flash that lit up his face and for a moment made it difficult for Maya to breathe. Lifting a hand, he tipped an imaginary hat to her. “My apologies, ma’am, for slandering your good name.”

It still made her insides flutter when he played the game with her.

“Apology accepted. This time.”

“Thank you. So what else have you got?”

Maya thought for a moment. “I set my homework on fire and led a homework rebellion.”

Lucas chuckled. “Oh, man, I’d forgotten about that. That was my first day at Adams. It seemed bad to me then, but now? I don’t know. You didn’t do any permanent damage. You did the homework later. And you only started your rebellion because it was Mr Matthews and you knew you could get away with it.”

That was, frustratingly, true. And as much as Maya might have liked to romanticise her rebellion, it hadn’t really been about rebelling for the sake of it. She had just been trying to cover up her embarrassment and shame at having to hand in what she knew was a bad assignment, because she hadn’t understood it and her mom had been working night shifts and hadn’t been there to help her.

It wasn’t a good thing to do - it wasn’t the sort of thing Riley or Farkle would do - but did that necessarily mean it was a bad thing?

“All those things you did? That was you acting out, but it wasn’t being bad. Or breaking anything beyond repair. You’ve got a tough front, but do you really think everything you just listed are the worst things you could have done?” 

“Okay, well, if you’re going to put it like that . . .” Maya grumbled, though she couldn’t help feeling flattered that he was so insistent about it.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile. “I hate to break it to you, Shortstack, but comparatively speaking, you’ve not really done that much.”

“Compared to who?” Maya challenged.

His smile immediately faded, and there was a sudden seriousness in his gaze that Maya had never seen there before. “Compared to me.”

“To you?”

“Maya, the worst thing I ever did was to put someone in the hospital.”

His voice nearly broke on the last few words, and there was a shame and a self-loathing in his eyes that Maya had only seen there once before. It made her heart ache to see it again, and she found herself shifting round on the swing and leaning forward like she might reach out and take his hand - but at last moment leaned back again.

“Is this the . . .”

“Why I got me expelled from my old school? Yeah.” Lucas let out a breath and stared up at the night sky. “So trust me, Maya, you’ve never been a bad person. I’d know.”

[pjsk-writin]

Helleow once againyan Ameowmeow

It is I your favorite anonyan who's only purrsonyality trait is cat.   Then againyan I'm also the only one who fits that specific critereow here...

Huh.

In any case, I have phased into existenyace once againyan. This time with less understanyandable wordinyag then before (will provide translations if necessary) but anyaway I would like to request minyanori, emeow anyd meowfuyu with a horrifically clumsy reader who also happenyans to have a huge interest in chemistry. they oftenyan deal with the meowst dangerous chemicals they can get their hands on, they know what they're doing but one extremely commeown slip up and it's done.

Alseow! I hope you areny't overworkinyag yourself Ameowmeow, you post 50 times a day I can't evenyan catch up with your posts fully. So feel free to take a break or slow downyan your your posting spree, I thinyank you already fed us eneowugh to last for a week or meowre. Carrying an entire comeowmunity on your back has got to be tough. I don't minyand waiting for this requeowst. [Inyansert kanyande stamp]

-from you already know who

HI HELLO!!! your asks never fail to make me giggle omgs- but clumsy reader is so me fr....and BFNSJFJ I'm trying not to!! I genuinely have no idea how the pjsk x reader community is doing rn so im just trying to feed you all <3 i hope you like this tho!! <3

♡ CLUMSY CHEMISTRY - Minori Hanasato, Emu Otori and Mafuyu Asahina x Reader

Minori:

Congrats, you and Minori are horrifyingly clumsy messes together!

Seriously, she never knew how worried people got over her clumsiness until she met you-

You both constantly have catastrophic accidents together, leading MMJ! and your friends to simply sigh in exasperation

She becomes even more worried when she learns about your interest in chemistry

She's very impressed by your knowledge in chemistry, she honestly has no idea how you manage to remember so much

Any time you get close to having a chemistry mistake, she will just scream and duck into another room, hoping with all of her heart that you wouldn't explode anything-

Emu:

While Emu isn't nearly as clumsy as you, she can certainly have her moments-

She spends a lot of time trying to prevent your accidents, but she will probably make things worse this way

She would try to prevent you from tripping over a box only to fall on the box and break it. Rui and Nene do not allow either of you by the robots-

She's definitely amazed by your interest in chemistry though!

She'll gasp and be in awe of everything you do in lab, watching every reaction with wide-eyed attention

Since she's usually by you when you're doing chemistry, anytime you get close to making a mistake, she'll scream and run away- She is not going to face an explosion again!!

Mafuyu:

If she were anyone else, Mafuyu would probably be very amused by your clumsiness

But, since she is who she is, the most she feels about it is confusion. How is it humanly possible to be that clumsy??

Sometimes, in the aftermath of one of your accidents, you'll see her smile a bit. She makes sure to help you after each one

She's certainly...Intrigued by your interest in chemistry

Consider her own pursuits in medical jobs, she's seen her fair share of chemical reactions. She'll watch you work in the lab with interest

Any time you almost have a chemical mistake, she swoops in immediately. She doesn't care if the reaction could be explosive, she will always default to helping you

[cha-melodius]

Hi! Could I request #10 and Napollya for the ask game if it hasn't been taken yet? I'm just picturing Illya as a mall elf and it's absolutely cracking me up. Genuinely though, I will read anything you come up with, you're a gift to the fandom. Happy holidays :)

(You are so right for this, anon. I was really, really hoping someone would choose this one, and I'm so pleased with how this fic turned out. Pure, unadulterated holiday fluff. Thanks so much and happy holidays!)

Consider the Price to an Elf

Read it on AO3 (G, 3.6k)

Napoleon has no idea how he ended up getting roped into taking his boss’s kid to SantaLand. Well, that’s not true; really, he should have foreseen it, given how things have gone this year. It’s not that he doesn’t like the little squirt; honestly, at six, Catherine is at least twice as sharp as her idiot father—fucking Sanders—extremely charming, and a ridiculously well-behaved child. If you’re going to be constantly coerced into providing free childcare, things could be a lot worse.

“Solo, are we really gonna see Santa?” Cat asks as she skips along next to him, one of her tiny hands enfolded in his much larger one.

“That’s the plan,” Napoleon confirms. “What do you think? Is he gonna be here?”

“He hasta be,” she says definitively, her dark curls bobbing as she nods.

“Oh yeah? Why do you say that?”

She points with her free hand, a look of wonder on her face. “Look! Elves.”

They’ve just turned the corner, and sure enough, SantaLand lays before them in all its lurid, excessively cheery glory. Santa himself isn’t visible beyond all the festive barriers they’ve put up to control the line, but a number other people dressed in elf costumes are positioned around, greeting people at the entrance and direct them to where they’ll be standing for the next—Christ—hour, apparently, if the sign at the entrance is to be believed.

“You sure this is what you want to do today?” Napoleon tries, even though he already knows the answer. “You know, Santa already got your letter.” “I don’t know,” Cat retorts stubbornly. “What if it got lost? You told me. Trust your own eyes an’ nuthin’ else.”

Napoleon has never known someone who could more effectively use his own words against him. He’s so ridiculously proud, and also a little annoyed. “Fine. But I don’t want to hear any complaining about the wait, little missy.”

“I won’t,” she insists. Then her expression turns a little too calculating for her six-year-old face. “We should talk to the elves. Get the intel.”

“Where did you even learn the word ‘intel’?”

Cat gives him an exasperated look, which is fair. “Let’s go, Solo.”

Unsurprisingly, the elf at the front entrance, a petite redhead with freckles dusting her button nose, tells them precisely what the sign indicates: wait times to see Santa are running approximately an hour today, but the magical voyage through Candy Cane Lane—how can she say that with a straight face?—has plenty to see and do. Napoleon seriously doubts that, but he also knows he won’t be the one dealing with a twitchy child on the verge of a meltdown, because Cat will be fine. He might be standing next to one, though, and that’s bad enough.

There are dioramas showing elves hard at work making toys at the North Pole, Mrs. Claus in the kitchen baking cooking, and even animatronic reindeer. Napoleon is impressed despite himself; this place goes all out. No wonder Sanders insisted Macy’s had the only Santa in the city worth visiting. As the line crawls past the displays, Cat exhibits all the curiosity of her age, which is to say, endless. Napoleon fields perhaps a thousand questions before his attention is abruptly drawn by something entirely more interesting than all the rest of their surroundings. Or rather, someone.

They’ve traversed almost the whole of SantaLand at this point, and the elf just visible at the front of the line, directing children to Santa, is a sight to behold. Good lord, he’s beautiful. Even at a distance Napoleon can tell he’s absurdly tall, with legs for days that are quite helpfully wrapped in skin-tight green velvet, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist emphasized by a red-and-white striped belt that Napoleon itches to curl his fingers around. His blond hair peeks out from under his jaunty elf-cap and falls softly over his forehead, framing his exquisite features, but perhaps the most intriguing thing about him is the fact that, unlike every other elf they’ve seen, he’s not smiling. He’s not even trying. His mouth is fixed into a hard line, and he greets every guest who gets to the front of the line like they’ve personally wronged him. Napoleon’s not sure what it says about him that he’s halfway in love with the guy before he can ever seen the color of his eyes, which, as it turns out, are ridiculously blue.

“So-LO,” Cat says, clearly annoyed as she tugs on his hand. It’s possible it’s not the first time she’s said it. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Hm?” he hums before finally tearing his eyes away from the elf. “Oh, nothing. Just… distracted.”

And he remains distracted as they slowly inch closer, unable to keep from watching the elf while he tries to keep up his half of the conversation. Fortunately for him, there’s a display that includes penguins, which sets Cat off on a long tirade about how penguins are found at the South Pole and why does everyone get it wrong, and he only has to interject a few words here and there to keep her going.

Of course, with all the staring he’s doing, it’s inevitable that he’d get caught. He doesn’t look away fast enough when the elf turns in his direction and they lock eyes for an electric instant. He could swear that the elf’s—ok, he’s not actually an elf, clearly—the guy’s eyes widen and he looks briefly stunned, and Napoleon has to wonder if they’ve met before, or if he accidentally did something wronged him. He’s pretty sure he’d remember running into this guy before, though. The expression is gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by an even surlier scowl, which doesn’t budge even when the finally get to the front of the line and Napoleon tries his most winning smile.

“Has anyone ever told you that your expression suggests that you might prefer being tortured with a hot poker?” Napoleon asks casually.

The guy cocks an eyebrow at him. “Not in so many words,” he says in an unexpected Russian accent.

“I just figured they’d be bigger on enforced merriment here.”

“Not my usual station,” the elf grunts. “I am only here because Nutmeg is sick today. Usually I work photo elf.”

“So you’re a photographer?” Napoleon surmises, and receives a somewhat indistinct noise that he takes as confirmation. “Are you any good?”

“Better than guy working there today,” he mutters under his breath.

“That’s a shame,” Napoleon says honestly. “So Nutmeg, huh? That a friend of yours?” Another grunt. “What’s your name?” “Santa will see you now,” the elf says abruptly instead of answering the question, gesturing down the path through the fake snow, and Napoleon has no choice but to follow along as Cat tugs him excitedly away toward the small, gingerbread-esque cottage that apparently contains Santa Claus.

That’s pretty much that, or so he thinks, until about a week later when Cat comes bursting into his office in a whirlwind of gold paint and glitter. Today she’s wearing fairy wings, a cowboy hat, an empty gun holster slung around her tiny hips, and an expression that says she’s already had too much sugar.

“Solosolosolo,” she gasps as she launches herself into his lap, looping her arms around his neck and no doubt smearing him with red and green glitter. “Can we go visit Santa again??”

“Uh,” Napoleon starts, before Sanders appears in the doorway a moment later.

“Catherine, I already told you Solo is too busy,” he growls.

“But I forgot to tell him! He won’t know!” Cat exclaims with a pout that could melt the most cold-hearted man. Too bad Napoleon is pretty sure Sanders lacks a heart entirely.

“I don’t mind,” Napoleon offers, probably a little too quickly.

Sanders looks at him like he’s suddenly doubting Napoleon’s sanity, which is possibly fair. Another hour in that line surrounded by screaming children and their even more odious parents would be enough to drive anyone mad. Except, he supposes, the elves that work there, or maybe they’re all a little crazy too. All Napoleon knows is that this might be his only chance to see the hot elf again, if he’s even working today. It probably says something unflattering about him that he’s willing to wait an hour in that line to find out.

This time when they get to the front, just before Santa’s house, there’s a different elf directing guests. She’s petite, like most of the other elves save the absurdly tall hot one, with long brown hair that falls into loose curls where it’s tucked into a low pony tail and draped over one shoulder. She’s smiling, but she doesn’t have the same forced rictus grin that many of the other elves have. A normal level of holiday cheer, which looks downright sedate at SantaLand.

“Are you Nutmeg?” Napoleon asks.

The elf tips her head in confusion, but nods. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“We were here last week,” Napoleon explains. “You were out sick and there was a very large man— er, elf in your place here.

“Oh!” she says, her eyes widening in sudden comprehension as she looks between the two of them. “It’s you.”

“Sorry, what about us?”

“Nothing,” Nutmeg says quickly, but then a sly smile curls onto her lips. “Snowball is photo elf today. He’ll be inside with Santa.”

“Snowball?” Napoleon echoes, unable to contain his disbelief. Honestly any elf name would be absurd for this guy, but somehow that one is even more surprising.

“He didn’t tell you?”

Napoleon huffs a laugh. “No, he neglected to mention it.”

“Mm, well you can go on in. Enjoy your visit with Santa,” Nutmeg tells Cat.

Snowball (Christ, what Napoleon wouldn’t give to know his real name) is indeed inside the house with Santa, and he greets them with startled recognition when they enter. As it had been last time, Santa’s house is cozy, featuring a decorated Christmas tree, wrapped gifts, and a fake fireplace in addition to Santa himself perched on his throne-like chair.

“Hello again,” Snowball says to Cat, ignoring Napoleon as he crouches down a bit. Not that it helps much. “Back so soon?”

“I forgot to tell Santa something and Dad said we could come,” Cat tells him.

Snowball’s eyes flicker up to Napoleon for a brief instant. “That’s nice of him.”

“I guess,” she allows, a little unwillingly, and Napoleon has to bite back a laugh. Snowball doesn’t appear what to make of it.

“I like your outfit today. A cowgirl?”

“Thanks!” Cat says, preening. “It’s supposed to have fairy wings but they don’t fit under my coat.”

Cat just about sprints over to Santa, then, who helps her up onto his lap, and they start discussing all the presents that she forgot to list off last time. Napoleon thinks maybe this will be a chance to talk with Snowball for a minute before the photo is ready, but the elf busies himself fussing with the camera and generally trying to be as unavailable as possible. Not that that’s very effective at putting Napoleon off.

“How’s your day been, Snowball?” Napoleon asks as he leans one elbow against the fireplace mantle near the elf, grinning at the way his eyes narrow at the name. “Nutmeg told me.”

“Of course she did,” Snowball mutters under his breath and does not turn away from his camera. In the quiet of Santa’s cottage, Napoleon can hear the bells attached to his costume jingle slightly as he shifts. “My day is fine. Better when I am not interrupted by handsome cowboys,” he says a little louder, then suddenly looks like he wishes he hadn’t.

Napoleon elects to leave the ‘handsome’ part alone, though he doesn’t really want to. “Cowboy?” Snowball shrugs. “She is cowgirl. Makes you cowboy, no?”

“I suppose so,” Napoleon allows. Then he smirks. “Forgot my fairy wings at home, though.”

“Now let’s get a photo, shall we?” Santa announces, and then the pictures are being taken and Napoleon and Cat are ushered quickly toward the exit before the next guest arrives, and once again, Napoleon is left sorely wanting.

It’s only a few days later, though, when Napoleon and Cat are at Macy’s again, this time to buy something for a toy donation drive at her school. Napoleon had volunteered, but not because it would take them by SantaLand again; Sanders had given him his platinum card and the go ahead to buy something “suitable” for the donation, so Napoleon was going to make sure some poor kid’s Christmas was a good one.

But then, when they’re done shopping, they walk by the SantaLand entrance where the sign proclaims only a 15 minute wait to see Santa, and Cat gives him a look that is far too sly on her six-year-old face.

“Look, Solo! Santa’s not busy. Maybe we can see him again?”

“What other wishes could you have to tell him about, hm?”

“Not for me,” she insists. “But maybe he hasn’t heard about the wishes from the other kids? The ones that don’t have a lot of toys?”

Napoleon is momentarily overcome with a wave of emotion, and he has to clear the knot that seems to have become lodged in his throat. “How’d you get to be such a good kid?” he asks, but Cat just looks up at him with her brow furrowed in confusion. “Ok, yeah. Let’s go.”

“And also maybe Snowball will be there, and you can say hi,” she adds, grinning up at him. That one, he chooses not to acknowledge.

Nutmeg apparently isn’t working the entrance to Santa’s house today, but Snowball is inside with the camera, and Napoleon can’t really suppress his delight at seeing him again. He sidles over once Cat is settled on Santa’s lap and talking about the wishes that the less fortunate kids had sent in to the program at her school, and although Snowball rolls his eyes there is a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You were right about that other guy, the first time we came,” Napoleon tells him. “The photos from our second visit were much better.”

Snowball clearly tries not to look pleased by the compliment, but he fails. “And yet you are back again.”

“We were in the area, and she wanted to come,” Napoleon says with a shrug.

“And her father has nothing better to do than stand in line at SantaLand?” Snowball asks pointedly.

“Oh no, he definitely does,” Napoleon chuckles. “Well, he thinks he does. That’s why he sends me.” Snowball looks powerfully confused now, frowning deeply, and Napoleon suddenly realizes that he must have assumed Cat was his child. “Her father is my boss,” he explains, and does not miss the way that Snowball appears to look relieved before he schools his face back to something more neutral. “And no, I’m not paid to be a nanny. Not officially, anyway.”

“That sounds… questionable.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Napoleon agrees. “I don’t really mind, though. She’s a good kid.”

Snowball stares at Cat for a minute, who is chattering away about something else entirely now—she’s six, give her a break—then looks back at Napoleon with a hard-to-read expression on his face. “She is. You are good with her,” he says softly.

“I try,” Napoleon allows, though he can’t deny the warmth he feels inside at that. “Someone should in her life.”

“Solo! You should be in the photo this time!” Cat calls out to him, and of course he can’t say no to that. He kneels next to Santa on the other side of her for the pictures, and puts his own address in for the delivery when he purchases the prints at the exit.

The next time they end up at SantaLand is entirely his fault. Of course he is only too happy to use Cat as an excuse, but he’s the one who makes the suggestion, because the end of the holiday season is fast approaching had he’s not sure what’s going to happen when SantaLand disappears and takes Snowball with it. Obviously he needs to grow a pair and ask the man out already, but it’s hard to do when all their interactions are limited to less than two minutes long. SantaLand is quiet again, almost peaceful, which is not something he’d ever thought he’d be able to say about that place, and they’re meandering through the maze of winter delights when they unexpectedly run into both Nutmeg and Snowball, walking together.

They’re clearly friends, good friends, by the way that Snowball is smiling at her, and Napoleon abruptly feels his heart sink. Look, he’s not going to deny that he assumed that there wouldn’t be many straight men willing to don an elf costume for the holidays, but he hadn’t really let himself consider that Snowball might be taken regardless. It’s always a possibility, of course, but he kinda thought they had something that last time. A spark, maybe.

Snowball and Nutmeg come to a halt when they see Napoleon and Cat walking toward them, and Nutmeg elbows Snowball in the side, grinning up at him before she turns back toward them. “I hear you just can’t stay away,” she says to Cat as she crouches down in front of her. “Here to see Santa again?”

“Not really,” Cat answers brightly, and Napoleon is startled enough that he’s not fast enough to stop what comes next. “Solo wanted to see Snowball.” Then she leans closer to Nutmeg’s ear and stage whispers with a hand next to her mouth, not at all quietly, “I think he likes him.”

Nutmeg looks unexpectedly delighted by this, so maybe they’re not together after all. “Is that so?” she asks Cat, who nods vigorously. Napoleon would very much like to disappear into the fake snowbank behind him; his only consolation his how very pink Snowball’s face has gone. Nutmeg grins up at him for a second before returning her attention to Cat. “Hey, what do you say we let these two talk a bit? Would you like to see how the mechanical reindeer work?”

“Yeah!” Cat cheers, then looks hopefully up at Solo. “Can I? Can I, please?”

One part of him is saying that he really shouldn’t let his boss’s kid run off with a stranger, but then again, a SantaLand elf is probably a reasonably safe bet. Something of his reluctance must show on his face, because Nutmeg stands to address him. “I’ll look after her, and we won’t be far.”

“Ok,” he agrees, then crouches down to get eye-level with Cat. “You be good, and hold Nutmeg’s hand the whole for me, ok? No running off because you see something cool, young lady.”

“I promise,” Cat says solemnly.

Nutmeg holds out her hand for Cat to take, and together they walk off toward the reindeer diorama, leaving Napoleon and Snowball wholly unsupervised by children or Santas or anyone else for the first time ever. Napoleon would like to say he had something smooth and charming prepared for this moment, but he really figured he’d just wing it, and now he’s at a bit of a loss given that Snowball’s pretty much seen all his cards at this point.

“Was it true?” Snowball asks, a little tentatively. “What she said. About you wanting to come see me.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon admits, huffing a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Thought it’d be pretty obvious by now.” Then he takes a deep breath and decides to just go for it. “Look, you’re smokin’ hot even in an elf costume that should be ridiculous, and you seem like the kind of person I’d like to get to know better. Starting with your real name.”

Snowball smiles at that, blushing again. “It’s Illya.”

“Nice to meet you, Illya,” Napoleon says, grinning back. “I’m Napoleon, but no one calls me that.

“I can see why,” Illya teases.

“Hey, you should talk, Snowball,” Napoleon retorts, and they both laugh. Feeling buoyed, Napoleon fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and opens a blank contact. After a moment’s hesitation, he types ‘❄️⚾️ (Illya)’ at the top, then holds it out toward the other man. “So do you think I could get your number? I’d love to take you to dinner, if you’re interested?”

“I would like that very much, Cowboy,” Illya says with a smile full of promise.

Later, when Cat proclaims that she simply must see Santa a mere two days before Christmas, Napoleon doesn’t hesitate to call in his new connections. Instead of standing in what is a truly staggering line on Christmas Eve eve, Illya meets them at the side entrance to SantaLand and ushers them into a much shorter VIP line that Napoleon had no idea even existed. If he had, he might have made his move a lot earlier. Cat agrees to stand with Nutmeg—Gaby, he’s since learned—for a minute while Napoleon drags his boyfriend off behind a styrofoam candy cane and kisses the living daylights out of him, leaving him with spots of red high on the apples of his cheeks that really look quite festive.

“Spend Christmas day with me?” Napoleon asks; he’s wanted to for the last week, but had never really been able to bring himself to do it. It still seems so early for things like that. Illya nods and gives him a brilliant grin before kissing him again, though, and Napoleon knows, without a doubt, that this will be his best Christmas ever.

[unladielike]

“you’re shiverin’. here, take my jacket.”

                  SIMPING SOFTNESS. » still accepting!

     Under ordinary circumstances, she would be fine with the cold, but now that it was actually raining, well... that was another story entirely, because Vivian soon found herself trembling from the sheer, gradual onslaught of cold raindrops plummeting down against her bare arms. Honestly, it was sensory hell, to the point where she regrets leaving her apartment complex behind without taking her jacket along with her, because that proved to be a mistake she sorely regretted.

    For what it’s worth, though, the weather broadcast had said it was going to be sunny all day, so to be fair, it wasn’t like she anticipated this happening; still, Vivian had to repress the urge to scream out in utter frustration, for the fact she couldn’t even predict when it would rain proved immensely overwhelming. Fortunately, though, it didn’t seem as if Fumi minded lending her a jacket, which distracted her from having a subsequent meltdown; nevertheless, she’s quick to shoot her an apologetic glance as she accepts it with shivering arms.

     “S-Sorry, Fufu... I didn’t expect the weather lady to suddenly... betray my expectations outta nowhere,” she finally states before releasing a long, exasperated sigh while hastily shrugging on her jacket. “In the likely event you were to catch a cold, though, I’ll be sure to take care of you! Heck, I could even wait on you hand and foot.”

     Perhaps that was a bit excessive, but at the same time, Vivian couldn’t help feeling guilty over how Fumi must have been feeling a lot more colder now that she had surrendered her jacket over to her. As she draws the hood over black tresses, though, the warmth from her jacket would gradually envelop her from head to toe, causing natural contentment to slowly seep through her features.

     Of course, while it was certainly a bit big on her, it was also surprisingly comfy too, to the point where she’ll soon let out a relaxed hum. “Not gonna lie... wearing this jacket makes it feel as if you’re almost hugging me somehow. Maybe I should ask to borrow it more often...” she idly remarks. Honestly, she wasn’t being entirely serious when she said that, but considering she avoided touching Fumi as much as possible and was too shy to even mention she wanted to be embraced by her, it wasn’t like Vivian ever initiated physical contact anyways.

     “Just kidding!” she then quickly clarifies while shaking her head. ”I won’t ‘cause you might actually need it. Still... are you sure you’re okay, Fufu? I mean... you must be freezing, right?“ Sure enough, Vivian then turns to eye her with concern, for Fumi mattered to her as well. Why, the last thing she wanted was her dearest friend to suffer!

@afacere

[inkykeiji]

you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.  

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.

[mochegato]

Even the Losers

Chapter 12

Chapter 1     Chapter 11

The dining room was only slightly less formal than the entry way.  It was decorated in deep tones and dark wood meant to evoke grandeur and pageantry. It still spoke of old money and cold families.  There was no evidence of laughter over inside jokes, gasping at stories about someone’s day, discussions of dreams, or fatherly advice doled out over a lovingly cooked dinner that everyone worked on together.

Marinette held back as everyone made their way into the dining room, letting them claim their usual seats, prepared to take whatever seat was left.  She was hoping to cause as little upset and disturbance as possible.  Her plan was foiled when Duke jumped up from his seat and moved down one spot.  “Hey, Marinette.  Take this seat.”  

Marinette opened her mouth to object but stopped when Jason put his hand on her back to guide her to the seat.  “Lost cause.  Don’t even bother,” he muttered low enough for her to hear.  Marinette looked back at him uncertainly but nodded in understanding. She breathed a small sigh of relief when Jason took the other seat next to her.

Dick pouted at the seating, but took the seat across from her instead, grabbing the seat quickly from the right as Tim was just about to drop into it from the left.  Tim grumbled something about annoying puppies and took the next seat over, causing Damian to scowl and redirect himself to a different seat. “Damian!” Dick called out to him. He patted the seat next to him.  

Damian huffed and sent Marinette a glare as he took his not normal seat beside Dick.  He squirmed in the seat.  It wasn’t his usual seat and he could feel the difference.  It felt off.  It felt wrong.  He didn’t like it at all.  This was not his routine.  This was not what he was comfortable with and it was all her fault.  They were playing a charade for her.  They were making themselves uncomfortable for her.

Marinette watched politely as M. Pennyworth set the plates down in front of everyone.  When he was done, he exited quietly.  Marinette watched him leave the room as the rest of the family took bites of their food.  M. Wayne had called M. Pennyworth a father and Jason had called him a grandfather, but he didn’t eat with them?  And addressed them all as Master or Miss?  Did none of them know what family was supposed to be?  What it was supposed to mean?  Because that, wasn’t it.  And honestly, if that’s what they thought it was, she had serious concerns about joining their ‘family’.

She looked back to Jason and tried to send him a message with her eyes to ask him about it without having to say it out loud and draw attention to herself.  She cleared her throat quietly, hoping it was quiet enough that just Jason would hear but everyone looked at her.  She looked at their eyes before returning hers to her plate.  “Sorry,” she said quietly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bruce said kindly.  His eyes were filled with concern and a touch of worry.  He wanted her to eventually feel like this was her home too and if he wanted that to happen, she needed to feel comfortable here.  “Did you need anything?”

“No, no, no,” Marinette insisted, shaking her head and sending him a weak smile.  “It’s nothing.  The dinner looks amazing.”

“If there’s anything you don’t like…” Bruce started.

“No!  Of course not,” Marinette exclaimed.  “This looks really delicious.”  She was waving her hands frantically.  It was all going wrong already.  She was causing a commotion.  From the moment she’d walked into his life, she’d caused nothing but commotion.  She was really hoping to break the cycle tonight and get closer to the kids in the family.

Bruce watched her uncertainly, but nodded.  “Because if you want anything else, we have a huge kitchen and pantry,” Bruce tried to assure her.

Marinette’s eyes grew even bigger and her movements more frantic.  “Jesus, B. Lay off her.  She already said she was fine,” Jason grumbled.  “You’re going to give her a complex.”

Somehow, Marinette’s eyes got wider and her face went slack.  “No, no. It’s fine.”  She turned to Bruce with a desperate look.  “I’m fine.  Thank you for your concern.”

“Marinette,” Bruce stated with a touch of exasperation. He didn’t know what he had to do to get her relax, to get her to believe she wasn’t going to make him not want her. “Just let me know.”

Marinette nodded rapidly.  “Of course.”  She looked around the room taking note of the pasted on, polite smiles while they took silent bites.  She could feel her shoulders curling in on her as the quiet continued.

“How was your day today?” Bruce prompted Marinette after the first few bites in uncomfortable silence.

She nearly dropped her fork in surprise.  “Oh, it was pretty good,” she answered with a polite smile.  And oh God, this was the most awkward thing she had ever done.  She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a breath.  It wasn’t going to change unless she did something to change it.  “I’m glad you had a meeting this morning so we missed out on the Penguin.  I mean sorry about the meeting, but I think it worked out for the best.”

She fought the urge to openly examine the people around the table.  They had all frozen at her mention of the Penguin, but all seemed to be trying to pretend like they hadn’t.  Their smiles became forced.  She wasn’t sure if it brought back bad memories or scared them how close M. Wayne had been to getting taken by the Penguin.  If they had stuck to their original plan, he could have been able to take him.

Bruce chuckled politely, tightly.  “Definitely a better result.  I would still like to go to the art museum with you though.”

“Do you have room for someone else?” Dick asked perking up.  “I’d like to get in on that.  Cass?” He looked over to Cass to see how she felt.  When she nodded excitedly he looked over to Damian.  “Damian would love to go to, right Damian?”  Damian leaned back in his chair and focused on the food, refusing to look at Dick.  “Damian’s in,” Dick enthused.

Tim snorted but realized his mistake as soon as the sound came out.  He looked warily over at Dick who was giving him an overly wide smile.  Tim turned to Marinette with an artificial smile.  “I’d love to.”  Duke shaking his head caught his eyes and he grinned maliciously. “Duke loves the art museum.  We can’t go without him too.”

Duke froze and narrowed his eyes at Tim for a fraction of a second before smiling at Marinette.  “If you don’t mind the company.”

Marinette looked between them.  The only one who seemed to actually be happy about it was Dick. Everyone else seemed like this was the last possible thing they’d ever want to do.  She plastered on a smile, unwilling to be the cause of discord in the family.  “No. Yeah.  That sounds… fun.”

Damian narrowed his eyes at her.  “You’re being insincere,” he accused harshly.

“Damian!” Bruce scolded loudly.  “That was uncalled for.”

Dick looked at him with disappointment. “Damian.  It is not okay to treat a guest… your sister like that,” he added after Bruce finished.

Jason was tense, preparing to step in if Damian said even one more word to Marinette.  He knew she already didn’t feel welcome in Bruce’s life, let alone his home.  He sure as Hell wasn’t going to let Damian solidify that belief.

Marinette stared at Damian wide eyed.  He wasn’t wrong, but she thought everyone kind of understood the reasoning behind it.  It wasn’t ideal, but it was expected.  Not to mention she wasn’t the only one.  She looked around the room and finding varying levels of disappointment, concern for her, and annoyance with Damian.  She looked over at Damian trying to gauge his goal.  

Roy and Jason had warned her that he would try to intimidate her, likely attack her.  And she guessed she should have expected to defend herself.  But again, he wasn’t wrong.  What he was accusing her of; not being entirely honest, she wasn’t.  None of them were.  But when she looked in his eyes, it wasn’t hostility she saw, not completely.  It was confusion, uncertainty, unease, and yes, a fair amount of hostility.  And wasn’t that the issue she was having with them too?  That they didn’t seem to be sincere with her?  But while she curled in, he lashed out.

“You’re not wrong,” she admitted quietly.  The room fell silent again and Damian looked up at her with a confused scowl.  She met Damian’s gaze and gave him a small smile.  “We’re all being varying levels of insincere.  This is an awkward, uncomfortable, scary situation.  For all of us, I imagine.  Again varying levels of that.  Maybe for you and me more than the rest.  You’re the baby and I’m…”  She let it trail off leaving ‘unwanted’ unsaid, hoping they would fill in the sentence with a more palatable adjective.  One she wouldn’t have to discuss with concerned looks and sympathetic smiles.

“You guys don’t want to offend me and I’m trying desperately not to offend you, but we don’t know each other well enough to know how to do that or what we need to do to ease the tension.  We’re trying to figure each other out, so nobody gets hurt. You or me.”  She knew she was rambling but it was honest, coherent rambling at least.  Maybe not completely, but it was the truth.  And Damian was right.  They weren’t being themselves and they weren’t going to get to know each other until they were.  

“I don’t want to expose too much and scare you away or give you the ammunition to really hurt me, if that’s what you’re going to do.  And I imagine you guys are afraid of driving me away by saying the wrong thing.  And how do you know what the wrong thing is until you know someone?  So we’re all on edge.  Not ourselves.  We don’t feel safe to be ourselves yet.  And how can you be sincere when you’re not yourself?”

Cass smiled warmly at her and nodded in agreement. Jason wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.  “Except me. She’s herself around me, so suck it.” He stuck his tongue out at the rest of the family, like the mature, tough, dangerous, vigilante he was.

“Oh my God, Jason.”  Marinette shook her head and dropped it in her hands.  “That’s because I was drunk off my ass and didn’t have the ability to pretend when we met.”

“That’s French for ‘because you’re the best’,” Jason assured them with a completely straight face.

“It definitely isn’t,” Dick rolled his eyes, but his lips were turned up in a smile.  “If you want to talk about him behind his back in front of his face in French, let me know,” Dick winked at her.  “I haven’t gotten to practice my French in a while.”

“It sounds like Jason took advantage of you in a weakened state.  Terrible brother behavior,” Tim insisted.  He shook his head in mock disappointment.  “You deserve better.”

“Who?  You?” Jason squawked, affronted at the suggestion.

“I was going to say Duke, but if I’m the first one that comes to mind when you think of best brother, I mean, I’m not going to argue,” Tim shrugged with a smirk.

“You say Jason is always wrong and you’re always right, so…” Duke added with a grin.  He turned to Marinette.  “Sounds like you and me are going to form an alliance.  New Kids Club.”  He turned his head slightly when Cass made a noise.  “And Cass.”  He smiled when Marinette giggled.

“Let’s not form alliances and cliques or hog Marinette, please?” Bruce asked, the resignation clear in his voice but affection clear in his eyes.

Marinette nodded and turned serious. “Absolutely.  I will not form any kind of pact with Duke and Cass over lunch next week?”  She looked between the two of them for confirmation. Duke and Cass nodded back at her and Marinette grinned.  “Monday?”

“Hey!” Dick objected.

Jason gasped at her and dropped his arm from around her shoulder.  “This feels like a betrayal.  I’m betrayed.”  He shook his head and took a bite of food.  “You’ll fit right in.”

Duke shook his head.  “Can’t Monday.  I have a poetry thing.”

Marinette’s eyes brightened.  “Are you presenting or watching?”

Duke looked down shyly and rubbed the back of his neck.  He hadn’t even told the rest of the family about it.  It didn’t occur to him that they would be interested.  “Presenting actually.”

“Would you mind if I came too?  Or do you not like people you know being there?”

Duke shrugged.  “No, I don’t mind, but…” he cringed slightly, “it isn’t in the best part of town.  It’s kind of dangerous.”

“Don’t worry, I can protect you,” Marinette winked at him.  She ignored Damian’s scoff and Bruce’s choke.

Jason rolled his eyes.  “Don’t worry, I’ll go too.  I’ve never heard the kid read.”

“I’d like to come too,” Dick looked at them hopefully, “if you don’t mind.”

Duke made a noise that sounded like some combination of happy and resigned and nodded.  “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

“You okay with Adrien and Max coming too?” Marinette asked.

“Yeah, bring them.  It’ll be nice to meet them.”  He waved off her concern.  “Okay, that’s fun and all but we still need to decide when to not meet for the New Kids Club.  And I’m not putting that in my nonexistent calendar for,” Duke looked up questioningly, “Thursday lunch?”

Marinette looked over to Cass who nodded excitedly at her.  Marinette smiled back at her and Duke.  “Sounds good.”  She pulled out her phone and handed it to him.  “Want to put your number in so we can coordinate?”

“Absolutely!”  He took her unlocked phone and put his number in.

“Can I put my number in too?” Tim asked

“And me!” Dick exclaimed.  

“Yeah, of course,” Marinette smiled at both of them. A real smile.  Thank God Adrien was right.  She kind of liked the kids… even though most weren’t kids and most of them were actually older than her.  

“Why don’t you put all our numbers in there, Tim,” Dick suggested.

“Tt,” Damian scoffed.  “There’s no reason she would need my number.”

Bruce gave him a disappointed look, but Marinette shrugged.  “Please, don’t put it in if he isn’t comfortable with it.”

Tim pursed his lips.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  What if she finds a cute animal?  How’s she supposed to send you the picture?”  Damian scowled but didn’t say more.  Tim finished and handed the phone back to Marinette.

Marinette took it back with a thank you and scrolled through her contacts.  “Huh… he didn’t put you in,” she assured Damian.

“What?”  Tim looked at her confused then looked at her phone again.  “Oh, it’s under Demon Spawn.”

Marinette gaped at him.  “It’s under what?”

“Dem…”

“Yeah, no,” she cut him off.  She pushed a few buttons and looked back at Damian.  “Not anymore.  It’s gone.  You can give me your number when and if you’re ready.”  Damian didn’t acknowledge her, but he did nod curtly at his plate and Marinette was taking that as a win.  

She tucked her phone away and looked around the room.  “Okay, so, Duke does poetry, I heard Damian does art, and I heard Dick likes to swing, what does everyone else like to do?” Marinette asked with a bright smile.

Jason and Tim burst out laughing.  “Your reputation proceeds you, Lover Boy,” Jason managed to get out between gasps.

Marinette frowned and looked between them in confusion. “Did I say something wrong?”

Dick smiled warmly at her.  He kept his eye contact with her as he threw a roll at Jason’s head.  “Ignore them. Their minds are in the gutter.  For clarification, I like gymnastics.  I was a trapeze artist in a Haley’s Circus when I was a kid.”

“Oh that sounds fun!” Marinette almost squealed in excitement.  “You must have loved flying through the air.  That was always the best feeling.”

“It was.  I loved it.  The freedom of soaring before gravity took over was amazing,” Dick nodded in agreement. His eyes took on a distant look as he talked about it and a smile curled on his lips.  “Did you do trapeze work in Paris?”  Marinette froze momentarily.  “You mentioned you liked the feeling.  Is that how you know it?” he prompted gently.

“Oh… um… no.”  She looked down at the napkin on her lap for a second, pretending to readjust it.  “I was friends with a few of our local heroes.  One of them, Ladybug swung around the city on a yoyo that worked kind of like a magic rope.  That feeling of swinging up and breaking gravity was always heart racing.  And the feeling of falling until the string caught.” She looked away with a smile. “Yeah, I understand what you’re talking about.”

“We have a trapeze in the manor.  Did you want to try it out sometime?” Dick asked excitedly.  

Marinette grinned.  “That sounds like fun.  I’d love to.”

“How about tomorrow?”

Marinette blinked.  The Waynes definitely moved fast.  There was no time to breathe.  Just moving from one thing directly into the next.  She needed time to think, time to process that they apparently didn’t require.  “I can’t. Sorry.”  Dick’s face fell immediately.  If she didn’t have a legitimate excuse, she’d feel guilty.  “I’ll be in New York tomorrow for business and I’m meeting with Lucius Friday.”

“Saturday then,” Dick offered.  Marinette smiled and nodded causing Dick to almost vibrate in his seat.  None of the other siblings ever wanted to go on the trapeze with him and he was beyond excited to connect with Marinette.

“Did they take you around often?” Bruce asked with forced calmness.  “The heroes,” he explained when she scrunched her face in confusion.  “You said they took you around often enough for you to know what it felt like… where Hawkmoth could see.”  Spending time with civilians in suit was dangerous, incredibly so, even more so doing it in full view of the public.  Something like that could have resulted in Marinette getting targeted.  It was irresponsible and negligent.  He should have never trusted the Parisian heroes or Diana that the heroes could handle Paris without him.

“No,” Marinette said as nonchalantly as she could manage, trying to pretend like she didn’t notice the tightness in his voice. “They rescued me a few times and once things were resolved they would sometimes take people who had gotten caught up in the attacks for short rides like that to bring up morality.  To make them feel better.  It wasn’t unusual or noteworthy, just a public service.”

Bruce relaxed minutely, but the tension in his frame was still clear.  Marinette watched him carefully, trying to gauge if she’d used the right words to calm him.  She could feel her body tensing at exponential rates the longer he was silent, the longer it took him to relax or smile.  Marinette looked down at her plate and pushed her food around with tight lips.

“I like unsolved mysteries,” Tim threw in.  Eyes around the table turned to him, most of them incredulous and tense that he would take the conversation there.  She heard a whispered “Dude,” from somewhere around the table.

Marinette let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding and started laughing.  The eyes that had been on Tim turned to her, making her laugh even harder at the awkwardness of it until another voice joined hers in laughter, followed by another, until most of the table was at least chuckling.  

“My best friend gets into that too,” Marinette nodded with a grateful smile.  She narrowed her eyes playfully at him.  “Do you end up in all night benders following the trail of a mystery down incalculable rabbit holes until you get crazed and someone has to come and force you to sleep too?”

Tim looked shocked and slowly looked around the room before returning his gaze to Marinette.  “No,” he said tentatively.

“Yes,” Cass, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Bruce all chorused at the same time.

“Oooohhh, remind me some time to talk about the Impossible Murder,” Marinette offered.  Her eyes lit up with excitement.  Unsolved mysteries and conspiracy theories she could do.  This was her comfort zone.  Not that she got into it, but years with Alya had taught her the rhythm of inquiry and questions.  She took comfort in that rhythm.  It was something familiar she could lean into.

“Yes!” Tim exclaimed, an inquisitive glint in his eyes.

“No,” Cass, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Bruce all chorused at the same time.

Marinette giggled and winked at Tim.  “We’ll talk later,” she stage whispered to him.  She grinned at the groans she heard around the table.  

Tim turned to Duke and stuck his tongue out at him. “Sounds like we get our own club, just for Marinette and me.  The Investigator’s Club.”

Jason scoffed and took a bite.  “Like I’d want to be part of a club with that name.”

Cass cleared her throat lightly, drawing some attention to her.  “And Cass,” Tim amended.  Cass nodded happily.

“How about you, Cass?”

“Ballet,” Cass answered with a smile.

“Oh, I wish I could do ballet.  Are you in a class or do you do it on your own?  Or are you a professional?”  Marinette asked trying to keep her voice from getting too excited or invested.  Bruce had mentioned she didn’t talk a lot and Marinette didn’t want to pressure her to talk if she didn’t want to, but she also didn’t want to make her feel like she was ignoring her.

“Fun.”

Marinette nodded.  “I bet it’s a nice way to relax.”

“Not as good as shooting guns though,” Jason grinned. “Or blowing things up.”

Bruce sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. “Jason…” he started, not even bothering to try to finish the sentence.

Marinette blinked a few times then nodded.  “Uh huh.  I like sewing,” she responded dryly.  Jason laughed and shook his head at her.  He took a bite of his food and looked back at her appraisingly, a happy glint in his eye.

“Right, B mentioned you’re a designer.  Just graduated right?” Dick prompted.

“Yes.  My final project was a few weeks ago.  Now I’m figuring out my next steps.”

“Is that related to your trip to New York?” Duke asked.

Marinette nodded and swallowed the bite she’d just taken. “I’m meeting a few friends and someone at Style Queen to talk about styling a shoot.  And Adrien has a job interview.”  She took a quick bite of her dinner before continuing.  “We’re also trying to get a feel for New York, see if that’s somewhere we would want to move.”

“Wow, Style Queen is really big!” Duke nodded. “That’s awesome!”

Marinette smiled at him.  “Getting on her good side is definitely good for your career. Luckily, I’ve been able to impress her over the years.”

“Along those lines,” Bruce cut in, “I’ve commissioned her to create clothes for us.  We were planning on her coming over to start on Tuesday, so I expect everyone to be here for it.”

Dick beamed at her but Damian grunted loud enough for everyone to hear.  He had absolutely no interest in wearing something purely because ‘his sister’ designed it.  He had a style and level of craft he required in the clothes he wore and he was not about to sit or stand around uncomfortably all day long purely out of some misplaced obligation.

He narrowed his eyes at Marinette.  It still didn’t make sense.  Why would she have come to Gotham if she was looking to break into fashion?  She had to have had an ulterior motive.  “So you just happened to consider Gotham as a place to reconsider?”

Marinette cocked her head to the side.  “No…” she scrunched her face in a bit of confusion. “I never even considered it. Gotham was a side trip.  I had no intention of staying past earlier this week. But things… changed,” she looked around sheepishly before looking back at him.  “I was considering New York or Metropolis in America.  Also Shanghai, I have family there; London, Adrien has family there; Milan, my… grandmother grew up there.”

“Is Adrien your boyfriend?” Tim asked.

“No.  My... brother,” her voice petered out as she called the word and she looked down guiltily.

“Will he be part of your business?” Bruce asked, pretending like he hadn’t registered her discomfort, hoping that if they moved past it, she would too.

“Yes. No. Maybe.” Marinette grimaced as she went through all the options.    She shrugged.  “Whatever he wants.  He wasn’t allowed to make choices growing up so now that his father,” she spit the word out with disgust, “is gone, I’m going to let him decide his next move. He wants to help, but he’s looking for a teaching job.  He’s thinking of doing both for a while.  I’m hoping I can convince him it’ll be okay for him to focus on him.  It isn’t ‘abandoning’ me if he does.

“But, that's what's taking so long.  I can work from almost anywhere.  I’d prefer to be near a big city, but really, it isn’t necessary. It’s harder to find a place he'd like to teach and we want to live.”

“If he isn't part of your business...” Dick started, trying to figure out her motivation.

“We come as a set,” she said definitively and took a bite, staring him down as if daring him to challenge her.  “He’s my emotional support grimalkin.”

“Will your future romantic partner, if you want one, be okay with that?” Damian demanded.

Marinette shrugged.  She could feel Jason tensing next to her at Damian’s tone, but she wasn’t too bothered by it.  “They will be or they won't be.”

“Those are the options, yes,” Damian deadpanned.

“Demon Spawn…” Jason hissed.

“I meant,” Marinette cut in before Jason could continue the fight he wanted to start, “they will be okay with it or they won't be my romantic partner.  Adrien and I have been through a lot.  We feel safest when the other is near, at least close enough to come running if there’s a problem.  If someone can’t understand that about me, then I don’t need them in my life.”

Bruce nodded and gave her an understanding smile. “We should invite him next time.”

Marinette nodded in agreement.  “He’d love that.  He’s dying to meet you all.”

Bruce took another bite before coming up with an idea.  “If he’s thinking of being part of your business anyway, why don’t you bring him with you when you do the commission?  We can have a family dinner afterword.”

“That’s a great idea.  I’ll check with him,” Marinette nodded.  “And apparently, as long as he doesn’t talk about pineapples with you guys,” she gave Jason a pointed look, “it should be fine.”

Tim groaned.  “No.  No! I’m not having this conversation again.” He glared at Dick.  “Pineapple is the most disgusting topping to put on a pizza.”

Dick gasped dramatically.  “You take that back!”

“It’s worse than sardines,” Tim hissed.  “It’s an abomination.  It’s an insult to pizzas.”

“How dare you!  Pineapple is amazing.  It adds a sweetness that perfectly contrasts the saltiness you get from other ingredients!” Dick defended.

Marinette blinked a few times as Dick continued to sing the praises of pineapple on pizza before she leaned over and whispered to Jason.  “You weren’t joking.”

“Nope,” he said popping the p.  “Told you it always finds a way to come up.”

“It came up because you mentioned it,” Marinette deadpanned.  “Literally you’re the reason it came up.”

He shook his head as if he didn’t hear her.  “It always finds a way.  It’s like sorcery.”

Chapter 13

Tags:

@maribat-bdbwm @jayjayspixiepop @redscarlet95 @alice-hazelwood @deathssilentapproach-blog @unoriginalmess @alyssadeliv @emotionalsupportginger @frieddonutsweets @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @toodaloo-kangaroo @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @iloontjeboontje @wolf-for-life @maribatserver @aespades @prettylittlebutterflie @imarivers8  @ certainmuffinbagelcalzone @ritacrow-blog @unoriginalmess @demonicbusiness @kking13 @lady-bee-fechin @blur-of-colours @kittenmywaythrulife @kashlyn @loysydark

[drabbles-of-writing]

Coming Home

AO3

third owl fight attack! This one’s prompt was “Hunter and Luz being siblings”, and I kinda ran with it

Summary: Saying that Hunter was worried for Luz would be an overstatement. He wasn't worried, he was just...vaguely curious. He knew that she'd take some time in the human realm, to be with her mother, but...well, it'd been almost two weeks, and nobody had heard a single thing from her. So, really, breaking and entering was an entirely reasonable reaction.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now, Hunter knew, on some level, that Luz would be in the human realm for a while.

To be fair, he hadn’t had much time to think about it, what with  everything  going on. There was the Grimwalker revelation, which was also a kind-of clone revelation, and Luz offering an outstretched hand, and sitting on the ground in the human realm with the portal flickering and pulsing angrily, the dust settling as he held his uncles broken mask in his hands--

He’d been more than a little preoccupied, to say the least.

And Luz had gone through the portal the second it had all finally calmed, when there was nothing left to fight, with goodbyes he couldn’t remember. He wasn’t sure exactly when, everything had gone pretty numb by that point.

He just knew that after the first two days, when he was finally dragged out of his miserable wallowing in ditches by a very exasperated palisman and Owl Lady, Luz wasn’t there.

The others noticed her absence and the slight hole she left, he knew they did, but they never really commented on it. What with Bonesborough falling apart in a literal and metaphorical sense, everyone was kinda busy trying to patch all of it up. Like dealing with that one demon who kept talking about ancient magic, who was apparently the small rat demon's dad. And making sure Kikimora stopped escaping prison for five minutes. And dealing with the other Coven Heads. And apparently there was some people  mad  that the old wild witch ways were coming back--

Nobody really had the  time  to wonder about Luz off in the human realm, seeing her mother again.

And for the first week, he  didn’t  worry. He had an existential crisis and bothersome witches to avoid like the plague. His days were spent distracting himself by making everyone's lives miserable, since they kept insisting on holding him captive in the Owl House instead of letting him decompose in the woods for some reason. And honestly, Luz knew  way  too many people, because he’d stopped bothering to keep track of everyone by the fourth hour of being in that house. 

After he realized trying to run for it or annoying everyone into kicking him out wouldn’t work, he mostly hid in the dark corners where nobody would see him for hours at a time. Used to be for days, but apparently the Owl Lady was just as nocturnal as him, and they’d run into each other early in the morning when trying to grab a snack.

He had Rascal for company, at least. Say what you will about the little guy, but he was as loyal as he was stubborn.

But, after the first week, Hunter was starting to  really  notice a severe lack of annoying humans running around.

Apparently, so was the others, because he was noticing a few of them beginning to get a little antsy. He would’ve brushed it off, but he could hear a distinct influx of mutterings that sounded like ‘Luz’ and ‘portal’ and ‘human realm’ from his hiding places, when they thought no one else was around.

It was almost halfway through the second week before he knew it, and that was  far  too long for Luz to be away without so much as a note. 

And she was  probably  fine, he reasoned. But Luz being away without even a call was suspicious enough,  two  was downright concerning.

By then, Hunter was somewhat starting to recognize the faces that filtered in and out of the Owl House, and he began to plan. 

Somehow, he managed to wait until he saw a girl with familiar purple hair step in through the doorway, speaking words he didn’t bother to listen to as she sat on the couch he was hiding under. 

Rascal had, of course, chosen to perch himself on the head of a chair across the room, where barely anyone would care to notice him.

She was talking to some small illusionist he saw earlier (he may recognize faces, but names were a whole other matter. He’d never had to memorize names unless they were important to Belos, and if they weren’t, they were irrelevant. He should probably work on remembering their names), something about buildings and repairs or something, it wasn’t his problem. When the illusionist stepped away, off towards the kitchen to grab something, Hunter decided to poke his head out from underneath the couch.

“So what's the word on-- ow!”  He yelped, jerking back under the couch when he got a foot kicked into his nose.

“Titan,  don’t  do  that, you prick!” Amity snapped, inching a little further to the left as Hunter peeked out only one eye from under the couch this time, giving his best spiteful glare. “Why are you even  down  there?”

“Because nobody bothers me,” Hunter growled, holding his nose as he began to wiggle out. “Everyone’s so  clingy  in this house, it’s maddening.”

“Do you actually mean clingy, or are you referring to basic kindness?” Amity raised a brow, narrowing her eyes as he stood and brushed himself off from the dust bunnies that gathered under the couch.

“Irrelevant. Why hasn’t the human returned yet?” He demanded, leaning against the arm of the couch as Amity sat at the other end, giving a reasonable distance between them.

“Luz?” Amity blinked, clearly taken aback by the question.

“Yes, is there another, different human that you have to bring up every five minutes I should know about?” Hunter snapped, and got a curled lip and bared teeth from Amity in response.

“What, getting bored of the rest of us?” Amity snarked, crossing her arms. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, barely any of you were entertaining to begin with.” Hunter huffed. “Now do you know why the human is avoiding us or not?”

“Avoiding?” Amity frowned. “Luz’s not  avoiding  us, she’s just visiting her mom.”

“With radio silence for almost two weeks,” Hunter said, doing his best to stamp down his impatience. 

He  really  would have rathered asking the Owl Lady about this, but he’d learned from the last time he tried that she’d twist any conversation regarding Luz to be about him, so the next logical best bet would have to be her incessant, chattery, girlfriend. Titan, Luz had the weirdest tastes.

“She’s been away from her mom for four months.” Amity said, rolling her eyes like this was some concept he wasn't understanding. “She’s not gonna see her for a day and then come right back.”

“But still!” Hunter threw his hands in the air, ignoring Rascal’s minorly concerned chirp from across the room. “You think someone like  Luz  would go without contact for almost  two weeks?  She would’ve at least popped in to say hello, or go on some ramble about what’s going on in the human realm. She’d feel guilty about leaving you guys to repair everything on your own by the second hour.”

“It’s just...taking her a minute,” Amity said, and that was the first small crack in her resolve he saw. Had she not seen him at his lowest the first time they spoke, he would’ve been proud of the fact he could chip away at her far easier than she could at him. “Luz wouldn’t avoid anyone out of the  blue,  that’s not like her.”

And he  knew  she was right on that, as infuriating it was to admit it. Luz wouldn’t  abandon  people, she’d be more likely to keel over on the spot from spontaneously growing a bile sac. And perhaps a part of him  was  being a little over dramatic, but there was just this little twist in his chest that curled tighter when he considered going back to hiding in empty rooms and letting everything continue on,  waiting  to see if anything would change rather than  making  it change.

“Besides,” Amity continued. “As Luz’s girlfriend, I think that I would  know  if--”

“Oh  Titan,  just  forget it.”  Hunter groaned, tugging on his ears as he stepped away from the couch. “Whatever, you’re useless about this, anyway. If  you  don’t know when she’s coming back, and the  Owl Lady  doesn’t know, then nobody will.”

Amity stayed silent for a moment as Hunter stormed off towards the doorway that led to the staircase, Rascal flying off his perch to land on his shoulder with soft, almost melodic chirrups.

He contemplated if he could steal something from one of the spare rooms up there. Everyone was fluctuating between them the last few days, but they often left their stuff in there for him to take. It was fun watching them get so riled up about their missing junk.

“We,” Amity started, and Hunter paused in the doorway, one ear pricked. “We were planning on going into the human realm,” She admitted, voice quiet. “If we didn’t hear anything from Luz by the end of this week.”

Hunter turned around then, noting Amity had one hand bunched up on her leg, fisting the hem of her shirt and rubbing her fingers between it in a nervous tick. She avoided his gaze, and he saw, for just the briefest of moments, the uncertainty spilling off of her, possibly having been doing so for far longer than when he’d noticed the same signs from everyone else.

“Well,” He said, and she looked up at him then, and the vulnerability was gone in a snap, replaced by a curious, slightly accusatory, expression. It unnerved him how familiar it looked. “By all means, don’t go telling  me  about your super secret rescue missions, not like  I’d  want to join.” He muttered.

“Count it a blessing that I told you at all,” Amity hissed, ears flicking back. “Maybe if you promise to be nice, we’ll let you come along.” She taunted.

“Maybe if you people hadn’t  kidnapped  me, I wouldn’t be causing so many  problems.”  Hunter growled back through gritted teeth, breaking eye contact for only a moment when Rascal lightly bit and tugged on his ear, trying to urge him away.

“Like you need an excuse--”

“Uh, am-am I interrupting?”

The two turned their heads, realizing that the small illusionist, he’d figure out the kids name later, was standing in the living room again, a box of juice in his hands as his eyes flicked between them.

“No, Golden Boy was just leaving.” Amity waved him off, leaning back against the couch.

“You weren’t even clever with that one, Blight.” Hunter sneered, rolling his eyes as he turned to leave.

“Wittebane.”

“Call me that again and I’m ripping your teeth out.” Hunter threatened, pointing a finger at her as he backed out of the room.

“No name,” Amity amended, sticking her tongue out at him.

“You are on  thin ice.”

 ,

That night, Hunter was opening the window in Luz’s old room.

His escape attempts had never really worked before, the weird tube demon in the front door took his job of keeping him contained  very  seriously. Everyone else just liked watching the show and tapping in when needed.

However, he  also  knew, from the mutterings that Luz had told him in those few snatches of time in the days that they had talked before everything went wrong (or right, depending on who you asked), that she’d snuck out through her window  multiple  times without the demon realizing. Apparently she had bribed him once or twice, and now he barely reacted to the sound of her window opening, sort of like a reflex.

He’d meant to use it for his next escape attempt, just to see if it’d work for him, to run for the hills if it worked, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He’d be  damned  if they left him out of nabbing Luz from the human realm.

So Hunter tugged his cloak tighter across his shoulders, despite it being torn in many places, he had yet to rid it completely, and slowly opened Luz’s window.

He waited, tense, Rascal just as silent from within his hood. When there wasn’t the sound of a piercing voice after a few seconds, he cautiously poked his head out.

Nothing.

Either the bird really  had  grown to have no reaction to Luz’s window opening, or he was just as tired as everyone else. Or off eating bugs, that was plausible.

He slowly edged out, only having a moment to peer down at the ground below until he swung out of the window, hands gripping the windowsill as he edged himself down.

He hung in the air for a moment before releasing the windowsill, dropping to the ground below in a crouch. The perks of the Emperor’s Coven were few and far between, but hey, living there had made him an  expert  at being quiet.

He darted around the Owl House, crouching so as to avoid being seen through the first-floor windows, because there was always  someone  awake, no matter the hour. The portal to the human realm had been moved not too far away, but far enough that it couldn’t be, you know, automatically seen by anyone approaching the building.

He spared one last glance towards the house before he booked it off towards the woods, already mentally cursing himself for wearing a  white cloak  in the middle of the night. Why did he think that was a good idea,  why  did he think that was a good idea--

He made it to the cover of trees, somehow, without anyone sounding the alarm. He ducked behind a tree, catching his breath for a moment as he waited for shouting to arise.

Upon realizing he was in the clear, he pumped a fist in the air with a soft  “yes!”  and got an encouraging whistle from Rascal, who he gave a quick scratch on the head to.

He then hurried a bit further into the trees, soon faced with branches, vines, and bushes all stretched out across the beginning of a slope before him.

He reached out, grabbing one of the vines and yanking it aside, revealing the structure of the portal to the human realm, its soft humming mostly muffled by everything covering it. He ran his hand down the exterior of it for a second before pushing more vines aside, allowing a small enough space for him to crawl through.

He’d been to the human realm before, technically. Belos’s wrath had only just begun to reach into the human realm before he had managed to be stopped, and Hunter had a few moments out there, feeling the grass and seeing the trees. They really  were  green, and he couldn’t help but see it all and know with certainty that there was no magic within any of it. Hollow. It was a feeling he was familiar with.

But this time was different, and he inhaled for a moment before giving Rascal what he hoped was his best determined look.

“Alright,” He said. “Let’s see what’s been keeping her.”

 ,

He spent about half an hour in the woods of the human realm until he managed to find Luz’s house.

She’d never really said  where  she lived, just that it was the closest house to the forest. Nothing about directions, so he spent his time wandering about trying to find a house that wasn’t falling apart.

Rascal gave up and eventually flew off at some point, returning about five minutes later, chittering loudly and pulling on his hood. Hunter knew better to argue, and had followed until he came across a house that actually looked  lived  in, as opposed to the one he’d appeared in.

“If you led me to a random person's house, I  will  throw you into the sea.” Hunter warned, only getting a cheery whistle in return as he walked around the house.

He eventually found a window on the first floor, and pushing on it, was delighted to find that it was unlocked. He opened it, hoisting himself inside as Rascal darted in.

He realized the window was right over a kitchen sink, and lightly stepped a foot onto the counter beside it. He slowly swung himself inside, not even bothering to shut the window behind him as he dropped to the floor. He might need that escape route later.

Rascal was off exploring without a second thought, so he allowed himself to stalk throughout the kitchen, eyes flickering over photos and magnets stuck to the fridge. He saw ones that looked like letters, colors, and even saw a photo of a woman and a young, crazy-looking child.

He peeked around corners as he darted through the house, cracking open doors before continuing through hallways. One of the doors he opened  looked  like a bedroom, but he saw something with a scaly tail poking out, so he let that room be. The human realm was bound to have its own oddities.

The other bedroom he saw did have a person sleeping in it, but she didn’t look like Luz, much too old, so he quietly shut that door again and tried a different one.

He opened the last one, at the end of the hallway, already preparing to snap back that Rascal had brought him to the  wrong house,  when he took in the bedroom.

He only needed to see it for half a second to see the immediate resemblance to the mess that was Luz’s room in the Owl House. He slipped inside, leaving the door open just a crack in case Rascal showed up.

He crouched, eyeing the posters along the walls, shelves full of random junk, books strewn across the room. The figure sleeping in the bed was practically twisted backwards, blankets already halfway on the floor. He approached it, slowly standing up as he loomed over them, searching their face.

“Oh thank the Titan,” Hunter breathed, stepping back as he pressed a hand to his chest. That was Luz, for sure.

She stirred, slightly, hand twitching as she mumbled incoherently in her sleep. At least she wasn’t actually kidnapped or something, he reasoned.

“Hey, human,” He said, a little louder, but enough that he hoped the others down the hallway wouldn’t hear, shoving at her shoulder. “Wakey wakey.”

Luz mumbled in her sleep again, one eye barely cracking open before she turned over and tried to bury further under her covers.

Hunter grabbed her leg poking out from the blankets and yanked her off.

Luz’s yelp was cut off as he smothered the blankets over her, pausing as she fumbled around trying to get it off, ears pricked as he waited to see if anyone had heard.

“I’m  awake,  Vee, I’m  awake--”  Luz pulled the blanket off her head, her glare almost immediately replaced with shock.

“Hey,” Hunter grinned, flashing fangs. “Miss me?”

“Hunter?”  Luz exclaimed, before immediately covering her mouth with her hands, eyes darting towards her door like she expected someone to be there.

“Oh don’t sound  so  surprised.” Hunter scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You oughta step up your game if you think you can escape me in another dimension.”

“What are you  doing  here?” Luz whisper-yelled, scrambling to her feet as she looked wildly around her room. “Did-did the  others  come?” She asked, giving him such a scared look he was a little put off by it.

“No? I mean, they  will  be, I just got ahead of the curve.” Hunter shrugged off her odd reactions. “Made sure I got to you before they did, didn’t feel like being left behind on the ‘let’s drag Luz back kicking and screaming’ plan.”

“Oh no, oh no,” Luz shook her head, one hand on her head as she began to pace. “Are-are the others  looking  for me?”

“Will be by the end of this week,” Hunter said, watching her curiously. “Why? This a bad time or something?”

“Yes! Yes, this is a  terrible  time!” Luz exclaimed, barely managing to keep her voice down as she whirled towards him.

“Did you get grounded?” Hunter narrowed his eyes. “Because if so, let me just say, I know about fifteen different ways to lessen the extent of the grounding, and twice as many ways to sneak out, this place isn’t even all that fortified--”

“No! Well, I mean, I kind of am,” Luz winced. “But that’s not--you can’t--you need to  go.”  Luz said, gesturing back towards the door. “You can’t be here.”

“Do you need a body disposed of? Because I also know a lot of ways to--”

“I’m touched, but no.” Luz gave him a withering look. “Don’t even wanna know why you know that. You have to  leave.”  She insisted, beginning to shove him towards the door.

“Aw, but I came all this way to see you,” Hunter whined in a dramatic tease, slowly leaning back, therefore putting more strain on Luz as she tried to push him out. “You don’t want to see me?”

“Believe me, I’m  very  happy to see you’re okay,” Luz assured through gritted teeth, offering the smallest of smiles. “And I’ll bother you later. But now is  not the time.”

Rascal took that moment to poke in through the crack in the doorway, landing on a shelf and eyeing the two with what felt like judgement. Hunter promptly dropped all his weight on Luz, nearly crushing her. 

“Damn,” He whistled when Luz’s knees refused to buckle. “You got some muscle hiding under those skinny bones?”

“That, and you weigh as much as a half-filled sack of lumpy potatoes.” Luz muttered, already pushing back up to her full height as she took Hunter with her.

“You’re  impossible.”  Hunter huffed, standing back up onto his feet and snickering as Luz stumbled with the lack of weight. “Seriously, what’s the hold up? Are you getting bored with us already?”

“No,  first of all, I’d never do that.” Luz pointed a finger at him. “And I’m offended you thought I ever would be.”

“It’s a reasonable assumption.”

“It’s not. And second of all,  I’m  serious, you  cannot be here.”  Luz stressed, grabbing his shoulders, a movement that instinctively caused him to flinch, just the tiniest bit. “If my  mom  sees you here, she’s going to  freak--”

“Luz?” A groggy voice called, and Luz stiffened so quickly with such  terror  crossing her face that Hunter tensed as well. “Creí haber escuchado algo, are you--?”

Hunter saw the door to Luz’s room open, and immediately threw an arm out in front of Luz, giving a quick whistle that Rascal had learned to recognize by now. In a flash, he was holding his staff in his other hand, Luz pushed behind him as he pointed his staff towards the figure in the doorway, ears pressed back and fangs bared in a low, warning growl.

The person froze, eyes going wide, one hand still clutching the door handle.

He recognized it as the older woman he saw in one of the bedrooms, hair still mussied from sleep, the glasses on her face smudged from someone having grabbed them clumsily. The sleep had vanished from her eyes the moment she saw him, a faintly glowing staff pointed only a foot away from her.

“Hunter, Hunter, no, stop!” Luz was quick to grab Hunter’s arm after barely a second of tense silence, shoving the staff down. “She’s my mom, she’s safe!”

Hunter paused at that. Granted, his experience with biological family (as biological as Belos could be) wasn’t the best, but he had heard a few stories, here and there, about Luz’s mom. And Luz would go into a Slitherbeast den for anyone who asked nicely, but hey, he still thought that if someone was willing to fight  Emperor Belos  for them, they had to be something special.

“Oh, sorry.” He said, all hostility evaporating as he drew his staff back, holding it at his side. “Reflexes.”

“Luz,” The woman said, slowly, and Hunter was so instantly reminded of when the adults dealing with him were trying so hard to not lose their shit that he halfway raised his arm to shield Luz again. “Por qué hay un chico extraño en tu habitación?”

“Puedo explicarlo!” Luz was quick to exclaim, clutching Hunter’s arm, and he looked blankly between them. He’d heard of other languages in the Isles before, often ones spoken by demons, but this was a new one on him.

“Oh estoy segura de que lo harás!” The woman snapped back, hands on her hips now, not bothering to keep her voice low. 

“What’s she saying?” Hunter whispered to Luz, eyes still darting between the two. “Is this a ‘we’re about to start fighting’ situation or a ‘you’re grounded for life’ situation?”

“No te puedo creer.” Luz's mom grumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Okay, so, uh,” Luz clasped her hands together. “I promise, mami, this is  not  what it looks like.”

“What does it look like?” Hunter blinked, giving Luz a concerned expression now. “It doesn't look like I’m a robber, right? Because this place has nothing  near  worth stealing.”

“Please stop talking,” Luz hissed out of the corner of her mouth, never taking her eyes off her mother. “Mami, this is, uh,” She faltered for a moment. “This is Hunter.”

Her mother cracked open an eye from where she was rubbing the bridge of her nose, sending such a seething glare that both kids shuttered. 

“You know what,” Hunter said, letting Rascal transform out of a staff and back into his usual self, letting the bird land on his shoulder as he clapped his hands together. “I can see that you're busy, so I think I’ll just be--why is she staring at me like that?”

The woman was staring at him now, well, Rascal, eyes locked on the cardinal on his shoulder like it had suddenly grown five heads. He flicked an ear in confusion, turning to Luz to ask what her mom’s problem was, only to see Luz immediately face-palm.

“Estoy atascado con un idiota,” Luz mumbled under her breath, and Hunter could pretty easily guess what the last word had meant, and bristled at it.

“Hey--”

“Okay,  so, Hunter,” Luz kept her hands pressed together, using them both to point towards him. “Thank you for the visit, really, but I think we’re done here.”

“We,”  Luz’s mom finally managed to speak, and Luz cringed with a sheepish smile. “Are going to have a  talk.”  She growled, though it lacked any of the reverberating sounds an actual growl would have. He always wondered how humans ever got the last  hit  of their point across without growls or clicks or hisses. He realized now that tone had a  lot  to do with it.

“And that includes  you,  young man.” The woman added, turning her glare towards Hunter, and he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit he wilted a bit under it. She could’ve disintegrated Kikimora on the spot with a look like that.

“Yes, ma’am.” Hunter ducked his head, and ignored the quiet snickers from Luz that she quickly tried to smother.

The woman stepped to the side, allowing the two of them to shuffle out of the room. Luz went out first, giving Hunter an expression that was somehow both  ‘sorry’  and  ‘I told you so’  and  boy  did he want to punch it.

Hunter hurried out after her, one hand cupped over Rascal protectively, unable to fight back the urge to hide him from everyone and everything new, that he’d be broken in half the second anyone got close.

As he passed her, he knew she was staring at him with a far sharper gaze than she had Luz. He glanced out the corner of his eye, and she was staring at his ears, at Rascal, and just as he stepped into the hallway, her eyes narrowed in on the scar along the side of his face.

He’d had people stare at his scars before, it wasn’t new. Scars weren’t uncommon in the Boiling Isles, but ones as big and prominent as his were generally expected of witches far older than him, far more known for their battles and their victories.

He growled in the back of his throat, briefly twitching his lip to flash a fang. It was near-instinctive at this point, a quiet reminder of who he was, of who shadowed over him, and that it was impolite to stare, to mind your own business.

Luz’s mom jerked back at it, a far stronger reaction than the ones he was used to getting. He was used to a quick aversion of the eyes, hurrying to turn their heads the other way, a simple glance to elsewhere in the room. She stared at him with even more apprehension and worry than before, like she was confronted with a wild animal in her home.

His ears pressed down and he hurried off down the hallway, almost stepping on Luz’s heels from how close he walked behind her.

He noticed an eye peeking out of a room up ahead, and Luz gave a weak, almost teasing, salute to whoever was inside. He saw a flash of scales and what might've been a pitying look until they slipped out of view.

Luz stood off to the side as she exited the hallway, and Hunter stood next to her. He gave her a questioning look, one she nearly missed from how much she was staring at her feet. He nudged her shoulder, gaining her attention, and Luz gave a weak, nervous smile.

Alright, so he was  definitely  missing something here with his woman.

“Kitchen table,” Luz’s mom said, pointing, and the two obeyed. Hunter had no real reason to, he knew this. She was human, he could just leave, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. But she was important to Luz, clearly, and he knew, tragically, that he’d feel guilty if he left Luz alone.

Luz sat in one of the chairs at the round table, and Hunter took the one next to her. Her mother eyed them for a moment before taking the one across from them.

“Can I just say, that I did  not  invite Hunter here--”

“Oh, so  that’s  how it's gonna be?” Hunter whirled his head to her. “Throwing  me  under the bus? Sorry I wanted to  check in.”

“I am telling it  as the truth.”  Luz insisted, glaring at him. “Would you rather I tell her that I purposefully invited you here at,” She turned towards the wall, squinting at a clock hanging there. “Two twenty-three? Why did you come here so  late?”  She demanded.

“Technically, it’s early.” Hunter corrected. 

“I’m actually going to punch your teeth out.”

Rascal cheeped from his shoulder, and Hunter nodded sagely like he had said something. Rascal  could  talk to him, of course, in words that only he could hear, but he often didn’t. And the best part was that he could never prove to anyone that Rascal wasn’t shit-talking them.

“Enough,  both of you  . ” Luz’s mother said firmly, hands placed on the table that had them both straightening to attention. “Luz,” She turned to her daughter, rubbing her temple with one hand as she gestured with the other towards Hunter. “Explain him, please.”

“Like, life story, or why he’s here, or what he is, or--”

“Just  please  tell me he’s not from where I think he’s from.”

“Oh,” Luz glanced between Hunter and her mother, gears turning in her head. “He’s...not?”

“Dios ayúdame,” Her mother groaned.

“You told me to say he wasn’t! Actually,” Luz frowned as she turned to Hunter.  “Do  you count as someone from the demon realm, biologically? I don’t know how that whole, er, Grimwalker thing worked, like are you a direct clone, or--”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, because I’ve been avoiding dealing with that whole situation for the past two weeks, and I’m not about to start now.” Hunter raised a hand to cut her off.

“You…” Luz narrowed her eyes at him. “You need a therapist, dude.”

“You’re the fifth person to say that in the last week.”

“Why,”  Luz’s mother cut in again, silencing their conversation. “Is there a  demon boy  in my house?”

“I’m a witch,” Hunter corrected.

“Don’t you count as, like,  half  a--”

“What did I  just  say, Luz?”

“Right,” Luz snapped her mouth shut. “Uh, so, I’m assuming he broke in--”

Hunter groaned, gripping his head in his hands as he slouched over the table. Rascal chittered gently as he hopped off his shoulder and onto the table, nudging his arm.

“--but he wasn’t going to cause any trouble!” Luz added quickly, seeing her mothers expression continue to sour. “He just-he wanted to make sure I was alright.”

The woman eyed the two of them for a moment, and Hunter refused to look up and meet her gaze.

“Hunter, is it?” The woman said slowly, cautious, suspicious, but not accusatory. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Hunter sighed, relenting to lift his head, messy hair hanging in his face.

“How old are you, exactly?”

“Mami…”

“Sixteen, ma’am.” He mumbled, resting his cheek in his hand.

“And…” She hesitated for a moment.  “How  old is that in witch years…?”

“...sixteen?” Hunter gave her a perplexed look.

“They age the same as us.” Luz assured, and her mother seemed to relax just a bit.

“Gracias a Dios por eso,” Her mother mumbled. “Alright, and how did you get in?”

“Window,” He tilted his head off towards the one in question, still open over the sink.

“Of course,” The woman muttered under her breath. “The  one  time I didn’t lock it. Okay, now what is  that?”  She gestured towards Rascal on his shoulder, and he raised his hand to let the palisman hop onto his hand.

“My palisman,” He said, settling the bird down on the table, but keeping him a far enough distance from Luz’s mom that she wouldn’t be able to grab him. “I call him Rascal. Which reminds me,” He nudged Luz’s shoulder. “Where do you keep those seeds you have for your palisman? She keeps screaming at everyone and the Owl Lady doesn’t know how to make her shut up.”

“Is she okay?” Luz straightened.

“Yeah, little jays fine, she’s just being a pain in the ass.” Hunter grimaced.

“Watch your language, young man.” Luz’s mom leveled a finger at him, and he eyed it for a moment. “Now what do you mean ‘Luz’s pailsman?’ What in the  world  is a palisman?”

“Oh, uh, nothing! Nothing important, really. Just, like, staff things.” Luz said quickly, and Hunter and Rascal shared a look. Luz loved her palisman, as bratty as she was. And he knew from experience that Luz didn’t think of palismans as ‘nothing important.’

He drew a hand around Rascal and scooted him a little closer towards himself.

“Okay, okay,” Luz’s mother inhaled a steadying breath, as though to keep her cool. “And you are breaking into my house, early in the morning, to see my daughter.”

“Really just to make sure she didn’t, like, get kidnapped on the way up here.” Hunter shrugged. “Everyone's worried about her, so I took one for the team, and all that.”

“Everyone?” Her mother frowned.

“Her...friends?” Hunter gave Luz a sideways look, and she avoided his gaze.

“Mija, you have friends in the  demon realm?”  Luz’s mom balked, with the tone of someone who didn’t quite believe it, who almost felt as though they were being tricked.

“I told you a bit about them…” Luz mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

“You,” Her mother chuckled, shaking her head, the first sign of anything lighter than what they’d had so far. “You really can’t help but be friendly to everyone, huh?” 

“It’s how she got stuck with me, it’s a real problem.” Hunter said, and got an elbow jabbed into him for his troubles, wheezing as he clutched his side. 

“Well, you certainly are an...interesting acquaintance,” Her mother said slowly, eyeing him, and he barely resisted the urge to briefly flash sharpened teeth when her gaze lingered on the scar across his face again. “And you showed up, by breaking in...just to check in on Luz?”

“Yeah?” Hunter managed to cough out, cracking open an eye to give the woman a confused look compared to her suspicious, searching one. “Why else?”

“...alright.” She said, and her gaze went back to her daughter. “I wasn’t aware that there would be... situations  where the demon realm followed you  back.”

“Neither did I, really.” Luz was quick to assure, hands raised.  “Hunter  of all people being worried about me is the most confusing and touching thing that’s happened so far.”

“I was not  worried.”  Hunter whirled to her. “I only came here because everyone  else  was, and they were going to leave me out of the rescue party.”

“Rescue party?” Luz’s mother startled, and he should really learn her name.

“Aha, he doesn't mean that.” Luz waved her hands quickly. 

“I do?” Hunter narrowed his eyes. “The others were planning on busting out of the portal to come find you by the end of this week. I didn’t want to be left out, so I broke in ahead of time.”

“There are demons coming  here?”  The woman exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

“Pretty sure the little rat dog is the only demon coming along.” Hunter corrected. “The others are witches.”

“You  know  his name is King.” Luz grumbled.

“Yeah, but it's way more fun to call him a rat.”

“Luz, cariño, are we going to have  more  witches breaking in?” Her mother stressed, stepping away from the table and already beginning to pace.

“Not-not when Hunter gets back to them!” Luz said, also standing. “He can tell them to hold off, that I’m fine, and all that.”

“And deal with them getting all pissy I broke out?” Hunter demanded, scooping Rascal up in his hands as he, too, stood.  “Hell  no, either they hear from me with you there, or I don’t tell them shit.”

“Watch it,” Luz’s mother warned him again, this time only giving a quick glare. “And Luz is  not  going back there.”

“Then you have two to twenty witches, plus one demon, knocking on your door.” Hunter shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”

“Luz, what did you get  into  while you were in the demon realm?” Her mother groaned, rubbing her temples.

“I mean, you didn’t ask a  lot... ” Luz tried, hovering about two feet from her mom.

“You have two to  twenty  magical demon people ready to break into our home to make sure you’re okay,” Her mother said, turning towards her daughter. “You didn’t...you didn’t tell me you had  friends  there.”

“I feel like I just said this,” Hunter squinted. “I told you Luz has friends in the Boiling Isles, isn’t that expected? She makes friends with  everyone.”

Luz rubbed her arm and looked down at the ground, and her mother’s mouth twitched downwards for a brief moment. He felt like he was missing something.

“Are all of your friends like him?” Her mother said after a moment, gesturing with a hand off towards Hunter.

“I resent what that implies,” Hunter huffed, ears pressed down as he tucked Rascal between his neck and cloak.

“I mean, personality wise? No, he’s the biggest brat of them all.” Luz assured, and Hunter visibly took offence. “Well, Matt was  also  a brat, but he’s a friend of a friend, and I think he’s calmer now.”

“They  are  annoying, though.” Hunter piped up, and prided on barely reacting under Luz’s seething glare.

“Well they can’t come  here,  your first friend has already caused enough trouble.” Her mother said firmly, and Hunter rolled his eyes at that.

“Please, breaking and entering is tame for me.” Hunter scoffed, and got an even more worried, and possibly judging, look from the woman.

“You're not helping.” Luz whispered, immediately turning back to her mother. “I’m sure we can figure this whole thing out. I can probably get Hunter to tell them to calm them down without me having to go back, Rascal can bully him into it, he likes me.”

“That’s a  low blow,  human!” Hunter hissed, a low, drawn-out sound that had the woman tensing and Luz only rolling her eyes. “I do so much for you, and  this  is the thanks I get?” He ignored Rascal’s gleeful chitters that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“We’re  even  on that front and you  know it.” 

“Debatable,”

“This is  serious,  Luz.” Her mother said, and Luz’s mouth clicked shut. “Christ,” She sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d made  friends  in the demon realm?”

“You didn’t ask…?” Luz said slowly.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Hunter said, leaning against the island counter. “I drag Luz back, she hangs for a day or two to calm everyone down, and she comes right back to have quality family time, or whatever you guys call it, until you’re all finished.”

“Absolutely not,” Her mother said instantly. “Luz will not go anywhere  near  that portal.”

“It’s not gonna blow up, it’s stable.” Hunter raised a brow, not noticing Luz freezing up. 

“Luz is  not  going back to that demon realm,” She insisted, and he was sure she would be growling if she could. “Listen, could you please just tell the other witches to stay back? I don’t want any trouble from that realm coming through here.”

“Ouch,” Hunter said dryly, twitching an ear as he crossed his arms. “Why’s this got you in a tizzy? I came here to bring back Luz anyway, why is this an issue?”

Luz and her mother met eyes for a brief second, and Hunter knew then he was missing something, because it felt like a conversation passed between their eyes and Luz ducked her head again, ashamed.

“Luz,” Her mother spoke in soft tones, though she was rubbing at her face. “You didn’t tell your  friends--”

“I was going to--”

“Luz, honey, you can’t  omit details  from people--”

“I know, I swear I was just busy trying to see you--”

Hunter set Rascal down on the island counter and gestured towards him. The palisman fluffed his wings before proceeding to peck incessantly on the counter, making a loud clinking noise. It got both humans mingling words to come to a stop as they both turned towards him.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt, but I’m still here.” Hunter said, scratching his bird's head to get him to cease once he had their full attention. “What am I missing?” He asked, pointing between the two.

“I apologize Luz hadn’t informed you earlier,” Her mother started, and Luz gripped her arms and looked away from them both, shoulders hunched. “But she won’t be going back to the demon realm.”

He stared. He blinked once, twice. He could see Rascal staring too, just barely in his line of sight.

“Come again?”

“Luz had been trapped there for so long,” Her mother went on. “And-and she was surrounded by  demons  and rain that scalded skin and-and Vee told me of Emperor’s and experiments,” 

Hunter flinched at that, ears pressing flat as he turned his head to the side.

“It’s clearly not a safe place,” She continued, and her eyes dropped to his notched ear. “And...there’s much to catch up on, to talk about.” She said, in a polite tone that told him not to press that particular matter. “Surely, you can explain this to them?”

Hunter stayed silent for a moment, aware of Luz peeking at him with guilt across her features. He didn’t meet it, he knew he’d get more riled up if he did.

“Yeah, so,” Hunter said calmly, clasping his hands together. “That’s  not  happening.” 

“Excuse me?” Her mother reeled back a bit.

“Listen, Miss...what are your last names again?” He asked Luz, though he still didn’t let himself fully look at her.

“Noceda,” She said, sounding confused now.

“Ms. Noceda,” He continued. “I can speak from personal experience when I tell you that the Emperor and any experiments he had are  far  beyond gone,” He said, bitterness dripping from his words. “And I--  we  have your daughter to thank for that.”

Her mother startled for a moment, opening her mouth to speak, but he plowed on.

“Half the things that made the Isles dangerous, including the very reason your daughter was late coming home, are either burnt to a crisp or in the ground.” He said, holding her gaze. “And I can tell you this, with one hundred percent sincerity, that if I go back and tell Luz’s friends that she won’t ever be coming back, you’ll have witches and demons in numbers nearing the thirties knocking on your front door.” 

“Is that a threat?” The woman managed to get out first. 

“With all due respect, Ms. Noceda, it’s a promise.” 

“Thank you,  Hunter.” Luz was suddenly at his side, seizing his arm in a grip that felt like he was losing circulation. “That’s  enough,”  She said, giving him a warning look. “I think she gets the message.”

“Luz, what in the world is he talking about?” Her mother asked, eyes back to her child.

“It-it’s a long story, but he’s right about the Emperor!” Luz added quickly. “He’s...he’s gone, and-and I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“He won’t.” Hunter said, and left it at that.

“Luz, cariño, I’m sure we could work something out with your friends.” Her mother assured. “I’m glad a man like Vee had described is gone, but I’m sure they would understand.”

“That her mom won’t let her come back?” Hunter scoffed, and Luz tugged forcefully on his arm.

“Hunter,”  She hissed, and he looked at her then, and saw the fear practically  radiating  off her. He wondered if it was something she’d picked up from Amity or vice versa, to be brimming with emotions, but leaving them largely unnoticed until someone actually  focused.

“Look, I…” Luz hesitated for a moment. “I  promised  that I’d stay with her…” She mumbled, and the last piece clicked in his mind.

Luz had promised she’d stay, to a likely terrified mother, and Luz was never one to skimp out on promises. She either kept them or agonized over trying. And it’d make sense why she wouldn’t want to tell anyone, she promised she’d  leave forever,  and no plans or compromises from the residents of the Owl House could sate a mother worried for her daughter. 

Also made sense why she wanted him to leave. Her mom did  not  seem to like the place, and him being there had to be somewhat breaking the little ‘promise’ of interacting with someone from the demon realm at all.

“Oh,” He said, instead of all that, ears pricking slightly. 

“I’m sorry to have it all sprung on you without warning,” He heard her mother saying, though he wasn’t looking at her much in that moment, but she sounded genuine. “But the demon realm doesn’t necessarily seem to be...the  safest  of places.”

“It’s not,” Hunter confirmed, slowly straightening to face the woman again. “But hey,” He shrugged, feeling Luz letting up her grip on his arm. “It’s home.”

Her eyes dropped to his scar again, just for a moment, and he didn’t bother to hide his eye roll this time.

“Trust me, I’m an outlier in how deadly the place  actually  is.” He muttered. “These,” He gestured broadly to his face, not quite feeling the satisfaction he assumed he’d feel when he saw her wince. “Were caused by something  outside  the Boiling Isles, something that never should have been there in the first place. He’s gone now.” He rumbled a growl. “We made sure of it.”

She looked apologetic, and he’d give her that. But she shook her head with a sigh all the same.

“I’m sorry, truly, but Luz and I agreed, it’s not safe. I’m glad she could make friends there, I really am,” She said, and he wondered what kind of friends Luz had had in the past, because she said the word ‘friends’ like it could have five different meanings. “But it’s not safe for her.”

“And?” Hunter threw a hand out in a broad gesture. “It was never completely safe, no place is. You gonna look me in the eyes and tell me Luz would never sneak back out? I’m giving her another week at best.”

“Hunter!”

“Look, I’m  really  just trying to wrap this whole complication up,” Hunter sighed unsympathetically, aware of Rascal chirping and head-butting his arm. “Unfortunately, I  know  you, and I know you’d rather wallow in a chasm for eternity than never go back to the Isles. And as entertaining as watching a whole drama unfold would be when your mom would eventually find out, I  really  don't want to deal with that headache.” He grumbled.

Luz looked to her mother then, and her mother looked back. Luz’s hand was still clutched in his sleeve, watching her mother worriedly as she met her confused gaze.

“Luz?” Her mother said slowly, and Luz fiddled with Hunter’s sleeve.

“Mami, I...look, I didn’t...my friends, they...I don’t…”

“Hi, sorry, can-can I butt-in?”

The three whirled around, Hunter automatically putting an arm in front of Luz and taking a step back at the sight.

A basilisk lay in the doorway to the kitchen, tail curled somewhere out of sight. It was a young one, about the size of Luz. That’d work, he’d taken on bigger before, not like he had any magic for a basilisk to steal--

“Vee,” Luz’s mother breathed. “What are you doing up?”

And of  course  she was someone they knew. Amazing, wonderful, he loved being out of the loop that there was a  basilisk  casually within the house, that wasn’t unnerving at all.

“You guys aren’t very quiet,” The basilisk--Vee--shrugged as she slithered in, and Hunter took another step back, his arm in front of Luz causing her to be pushed back as well. “Hey there, uh, new guy.” She offered a small, shy wave to Hunter, and he eyed her before hesitantly returning it.

“Vee, I think you should go back to bed, we were discussing--”

“I know, I heard.” Vee brushed off Luz’s mom. “I actually have an idea for, y’know, this predicament. No offence, but I can't really sleep with you guys arguing.” She said, the wringing of her clawed hands the only sign she was nervous, stopping only when she was between them, with Luz and Hunter on one side, Ms. Noceda on the other.

“Should I be worried about this?” Hunter whispered to Luz.

“Nah, she’s cool.” Luz whispered back.

“What if, and hear me out...we all sleep on this,” Vee said, palms pressed together. “We think it over during the night, and when it's actually  light  out, we talk about Luz wanting to go back to the Isles and the rules that would have to be put in place. And also nobody breaks in.” She tacked on quickly.

“So you  do  want to go back?” Luz’s mother turned to her, and he saw the hurt and shock in her eyes.

“I…” Luz looked like she had a ‘no,’ at the back of her throat, and he truly did believe she would’ve said all her mom wanted to say. But he nudged her side, and she looked up at him, and clearly he was doing  something  with his face, because the empty assurances died out.

“Y-yeah, I do.” She mumbled, looking back to her mom. “I...really,  really  want to see them again, back in their realm.”

And he avoided looking at Ms. Noceda’s face, because the shock and pain increased significantly.

“Well, I, for one,” He said, ducking around Luz. “Agree with the lizard's plan. Sleep on it, talk in the morning with Ms. Noceda, yadda yadda, all that fun stuff.”

“Camila is fine,” The woman murmured, sounding a little dazed.

“Lizard?”  Vee hissed, tongue flickering out as she narrowed her eyes on him.

“Right, sorry, snake fits better.” Hunter said before he could stop himself.

“You have permission to beat him up.” Luz said casually, ignoring Hunter’s indignant shout of “traitor!”

“I, yes, yes,” Luz’s mother--Camila--sighed, stepping back and bracing herself against the kitchen counter. “Tonight has been...a hectic one. It’s far too late to be talking about things like this.”

“Does this mean I can go?” Hunter asked, pointing with his thumb behind him. “Preferably without alerting everyone that I snuck out?”

“I don’t know  how  you got past Hooty,” Luz sighed, tilting her head and beginning to walk towards the front door with a quick, affirming glance with her mother that both had barely managed to make, Hunter immediately following.

“I escaped through your window.” Hunter said simply, and he noted Camila looking up slightly at that, until Vee approached her, murmuring in soft words he knew better than to try and eavesdrop on.

“Of course you did,” Luz grumbled, opening the front door and practically shoving Hunter outside. 

“Alright, alright, I get it, I’m leaving--”

Luz stepped out onto the front porch with him, leaving the front door open just a crack, enough so that she could be seen through it, and in turn could see Camila and Vee talking back by the kitchen.

“Am I going to get a personal lecture?” Hunter asked cautiously, crossing his arms as his ears flicked down. “Look, in my defense, you didn’t exactly explain a lot of things to  me--”

Luz lunged, and he stepped back and raised his hands defensively. Instead of a mean left hook he was expecting, he got arms wrapped around his sides, squeezing the air out of him.

Hunter wheezed, and would’ve doubled over if Luz wasn’t in the way. She didn’t let up on her hug, and after a moment of trying to get his thoughts in order, he slowly drew his arms around Luz, chin tucked against her head pressed into his chest.

“I’m glad you're okay,” Luz muffled into his shirt, and Hunter may have clung on a little tighter, aware of Rascal watching this all from his shoulder.

“Feel like you said this already.” He managed to get out.

“I know, I just wanted you to know I meant it.”

And if Hunter tilted his head down to press his face into Luz’s hair then, she didn’t say anything.

“Good to see you still kickin’, too.” He mumbled. 

“Miss me?” Luz teased, throwing his words back at him as she pulled her head back slightly, and Hunter quickly did the same to look down at her.

“Hardly,” He huffed, clearing his throat to hide how it cracked halfway through. “I just didn’t want everyone leaving me out of all the fun.”

“Uh huh,” Luz raised a brow. “So you just  happened  to drop by to make sure I was alright on the one night you  actually  managed to escape the Owl House without being caught?”

“...listen--”

Luz laughed, and Hunter sputtered over his words. He growled and pushed her back and off him, knowing his face was flushing as he turned away and crossed his arms. Luz’s laughter didn’t stop at that, and Rascal sounded like he was laughing, too.

His ears drooped down and he half-heartedly bared teeth, in what may have been an attempt to hide a smile.

“You’re such a massive pain, you know that?” He growled. 

“I do,” Luz grinned, laughter calming down to giggles. “I learned from the best.”

“That, you did. That Owl Lady couldn’t be more overbearing if she tried.” Hunter muttered.

“She’s got a bit of an empty nest syndrome, you get used to it.” Luz lightly nudged his shoulder. “It’s her way of welcoming you to the family.”

And he didn’t even have the time to process  that  whole sentence, because Rascal was fluttering onto Luz’s shoulder, cheeping as Luz raised a hand to scratch at his head.

“Make sure they know not to worry too much, okay?” She continued, looking up at him. “I’ll try and sort this out.”

“Does that mean you’re coming back soon?” Hunter paused, tilting his head. And maybe there was a tone of hopefulness in his tone, maybe.

Luz hesitated for a moment, frowning slightly in thought. She looked back towards the front door, though he couldn’t see if Camila or Vee were anywhere near it, what with the angle being off and Luz blocking most of it. He wondered if they could hear their conversation.

“I think so,” She said, quieter this time as she turned back to him with a small smile. “I... hope  so.”

“So do I, they’ll be insufferable without you.” Hunter teased. “Have fun thinking up how to explain to them your apparent promise.”

“Don’t remind me,” Luz groaned, throwing her head back. “Look, it was a panicked situation, and I didn’t want her any more scared than she--”

“Save it,” Hunter said, not unkindly, raising a hand to silence her. “I’ve made worse spur-of-the-moment decisions. Contrary to popular belief, I know you well enough that you’d never stay away for long. You have a habit of being a people-pleaser.”

Luz relaxed, and raised her hand to let Rascal hop onto it. She offered him back to Hunter, and he took the bird into his hands.

“Still, I’m sorry.” She said, wringing her hands together. “For all of this.”

“If all goes well, you’ll get to tell them that yourself.” He said, and attempted a smile.

“Hopefully,” Luz said, glancing back towards the door. “So, that means you’re willing to tell them what happened?” She asked, a pleading note to her voice.

“As in, I tell them that I broke out of the Owl House in the middle of the night, escaped to the human realm, found you when I  knew  they were going to do the same thing, and then came back to the demon realm  without  you, just to tell them you’ll  probably  be back soon, but I don’t know when?” Hunter said, ears lowering more and more as he spoke, raising a brow.

“...yes?” Luz tried, hands clasped behind her back as she looked up at him with wide, puppy-dog eyes.

“...I don’t know  why  I put up with you.” Hunter groaned, relenting as his shoulders slumped, letting Rascal fly up onto his shoulder.

“Because you care about me,” Luz teased in a singsong tone, her relief immediate.

“Unfortunately,” He muttered unthinkingly, before the words processed in his head. He tensed right after, eyes locked on the wall behind Luz.

She looked surprised for about half a second before she practically  lit up,  beaming excitedly at him.

“Anyway,”  He said quickly, voice higher than normal,  knowing  he was flushed up to his ears. “I should be off before your mom gets even more pissed at me.” He said, sharply turning on his heel.

Rascal was most definitely laughing at him now, and he pulled up his hood before shoving the bird into it, silencing him. He leapt down the stairs leading up to the porch, instead of walking down them like a normal person.

“Well, in her defense, you  did  break in.” Luz reminded, though there was a certain giddiness to her tone as she watched him leave.

“Like you  haven’t  done it!” Hunter scoffed behind him, beginning to hurry back towards the forest, head ducked low.

“Yes, but we don’t need to  tell  her that!” Luz hissed, voice notably quieter as she fearfully glanced back. 

“No promises!” He called back, a grin forming as he picked up the pace. “Call it compensation for throwing me to the wolves!”

“Wh--Hunter!” Luz squawked indignantly.

He turned on his heel for just a moment, giving Luz a mocking salute before ducking between the trees of the forest, cackling as Luz’s calls of “don’t you  dare!”  faded behind him.

“Alright, Rascal, prepare yourself.” He said, hearing his palisman chitter from within his hood, with a hint of annoyance to it. “We’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

[when-they-write-stuff]

IF ANYONE ASKED STILES HOW he met Derek Hale, he’d tell them it was an incredibly romantic tale— one filled with love, loss, and an eventual happy ending. He’d do it just to get Derek’s exasperated look as the real story probably flashed through both of their memories.

Because if anyone asked Stiles how he met Derek Hale, he wouldn’t tell them it started with a twenty-dollar bet. Not at first, at least. 

He’d draw it all out. Probably make himself look like an idiot.

Kind of like he did the first time he laid eyes on Derek Hale in Beacon Hills’s crappiest bar.

First things first, Stiles had thought right away he didn’t have a chance. There were a lot of people he’d seen come and go from the bar and thought, not in my lifetime. 

Because honestly, Stiles was a realist. He was! And he knew when he was going to get shot down if he even dared try.

Derek was one of those people. All wrapped up in a leather jacket, eyebrows more expressive than Stiles had ever seen, with a look on his face that promised possible death if anyone dared piss him off.

And that probably shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.

Although, a realist he was, Stiles was also a bit of a bastard. And he’d been coerced into coming to the bar with Jackson Whittemore himself, which was not proving well for his mental state. 

At all.

And okay, to be fair, Lydia had been the one to ‘coerce’ him into leaving the safety of his apartment. On his day off, of all times. But then Jackson had tagged along as well and Stiles tended to despise the man, for a lack of better words. 

He was pretty sure Jackson knew that. Because the entire night, the man hadn’t hesitated to be as obnoxious as possible. 

It was driving Stiles mad.

So, later on, when Stiles caught sight of Derek sitting across the bar, he figured he might as well have a little bit of fun. If not for himself then for the sake of the takeout he’d left at home, which was probably going to be all cold and gross by the time he got back.

He hated everything sometimes.

“Hey, Jackson,” he said, elbowing the man in the side. Jackson grunted and shot him a dark look, which Stiles ignored. “See that guy over there? I bet you twenty bucks I can get his number in the span of one conversation.”

Jackson followed his gaze, then scoffed. “Sure.”

“I’m not joking.”

Jackson gave him an unimpressed look. “Right. That guy would flatten you before he gave up his number and what kind of friend would I be to let that happen?”

“A terrible one, which wouldn’t be new. So have you got to lose?”

Jackson scowled at him, but then looked back at the man. Stiles could practically see the gears turning in his head as he considered and then shrugged, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and slapping it onto the table. “You’re right, Stilinski— seeing you get flattened would be amusing. Good luck, hope you crash and burn.”

But Stiles just grinned, slipping a twenty out of his wallet too. Lydia wasn’t paying their conversation any attention, thankfully, because she would probably try to stop him. The woman had always stood to be their little group’s voice of reason.

But she was fast in a conversation with some other guy at the table a few feet away. And Stiles managed to start across the room without her even noticing.

He could feel Jackson’s eyes drilling into his back as he crossed the bar. Because, yes, this could either go really well or really terribly. The dude in the leather jacket had his back facing him and he wasn’t talking to anyone, hunched over his drink.

A whiskey. Stiles supposed that was cliche enough.

He dropped down onto the stool beside the man and shot Jackson a wink over his shoulder. The douche just rolled his eyes.

Then Stiles took a deep breath and turned toward the man with the cheeriest expression he could muster.

“Good day to you, sir,” he said. “I just bet the asshole across the room twenty bucks that I could get your number and I’ll split it with you if you pretend to laugh and write a fake number on my hand. Does that sound… not murder worthy?”

The guy turned to stare at him. And the moment he did, Stiles’s stomach flipped.

Because, fuck, he’d always known when he didn’t have a shot. His entire life, Stiles had been pretty good at not going after guys he stood no chance with. But this dude was drop-dead gorgeous and Stiles could have swooned, except he was trying to be charming, dammit.

For a moment, grey-green eyes stared at him. Then the guy glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. 

“That one?”

Stiles really didn’t want to glance back. The last thing he wanted to do was make Jackson think he was cheating. “Does he look like a douche?”

“Sure.”

“Then yeah,” Stiles said, grinning. “That’s him.”

The guy looked back at him and seemed to consider for a moment. Then he smiled— actually smiled— and Stiles thought he had died on the spot. “I’m Derek. And you are?”

“Derek.”

The man blinked and in an instant, it was like Stiles’s spirit had rushed back to his body. Internally, he cursed himself.

“Uh, I mean, I’m Stiles. You’re Derek, I’m Stiles. Oh my god, please ignore that. It’s so nice to meet you?”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Stiles.”

Stiles grinned giddily. For some reason, just hearing Derek say his name made his stomach swoop. “Hell yeah, it is.”

Once more, Derek looked confused. Stiles continued to hate himself a little bit.

“Jesus Christ, I’m messing this entire thing up, aren’t I? The point is, uh, could I maybe have your fake number to screw over my asshole of a friend?”

Derek glanced over Stiles’s shoulder again. Then, the man shrugged. “It’d be more realistic if you got my real number, right?”

And Stiles’s mouth dropped open. The man looked amused.

“You know, in case he doesn’t believe you.”

“That— uh— well, he’s really not that smart and I could probably fake it until I make it, but—” Stiles suddenly clapped his hands over his mouth, trying to take a second before answering again. “Oh my god, holy shit, I’m screwing this up so hard. I meant yes, thanks, that’d be great.”

Derek looked like he was biting back another smile. Stiles couldn’t believe the man was still putting up with him as he nodded and asked the bartender for a pen. His heart did all kinds of weird things as Derek took his hand, scribbling a number onto his open palm.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, pulling back when Derek finished. He stared at the ink for a second and then looked back at the man, trying not to gape. “This is real, right?’

Derek raised an eyebrow. Stiles managed a laugh.

“Er, of course, it is. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m just gonna go get that twenty dollars now…” Stiles gestured aimlessly over his shoulder, then froze. “Do you want…?”

“Maybe you can call sometime,” Derek said. “And use the extra ten to buy me a drink.”

And Stiles was ninety percent sure he was going to have a heart attack. So he just nodded and rose unsteadily to his feet, giving Derek one more shocked look before turning on his heel and all but stumbling back to his table.

Jackson was staring at him in shock. “No way.”

Stiles stared at him. Then down at his hand. “Yes, way.”

“What the hell did you say to him?”

“Too many random things, I think,” Stiles said breathlessly. “Which somehow still worked out in my favor. Holy crap.”

Jackson gave him an incredulous look. Dropping into his seat, Stiles resisted every temptation to glance over his shoulder. Whether it was to just stare at Derek some more, or make sure he was actually still there and a real person, he wasn’t sure.

“Twenty bucks,” Stiles said, glancing back up. “You owe me.”

Jackson scowled. But he didn’t protest.

And then Lydia finally turned back around, her green eyes flitting from the cash on the table to the two of them. The woman pursed her lips, frowned, and then fixed Stiles with an accusing look. 

“Alright, what did I miss?”

Stiles didn’t even know where to start.

- -

A/N: This is short, but the prompt was so cute I couldn’t help myself! Thanks so much anon, I hope you enjoyed it <3 Hoping I figured the prompt out right? I got lost in all the ‘Persons’ XD

[cinnaminsvga]

🌷 social media au where y/n posts an advertisement looking for a new place to stay that is closer to campus, causing seven upperclassmen to make it their mission to recruit her into their dormitories 🌷

A/N: THIS TOOK FOREVER AND I KINDA RUSHED IT AT THE END BUT HOPEFULLY IT MAKES SENSE?? anyway, yoongi didn’t do anything stupid (depending on your definition of stupid) so no need to worry about him being cringey,,, i spared you all from the secondhand embarrassment but i won’t be so kind next time!! anyway... enjoy || W.C. 3.8K

prev // part 11 // next masterlist here.

By the time Seokjin’s phone begins to ring, Yoongi can already feel the dread settle deep inside his bones. The familiar coil of anxiety tightens around his throat like a vice, and Yoongi has to remember how to breathe to keep himself from fainting like a corseted Victorian lady. 

“Well, that must be her!” Seokjin chimes, promptly declining your call without a glance. Yoongi catches a glimpse of your contact photo anyway: it’s an unflattering angle of you from below your neck, giving the illusion of a multitude of chins. If it were any other time, Yoongi might have smiled like a lovesick fool. 

“Don’t you dare let her in here,” Yoongi seethes. He tries to sound menacing, but the effect is severely diminished by how badly his voice cracks. He tugs at Seokjin by the sleeve, but the older man refuses to budge. “Hyung, I’m serious. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Are you done live-tweeting your confusion now? Finally got the memo? I always knew you were a smart boy,” Seokjin laughs, patting Yoongi on the shoulder with his tomato sauce-covered tongs. “Since we’re on the same page now, why don’t you change clothes while I finish cooking? I know your entire wardrobe is composed of the free t-shirts you got from job fairs, but it would do well to wear a clean, unstained shirt.”

Yoongi swipes at him, hissing like the catboy that he is. “You’re the one who wiped shit on me, asshole. And yes, I figured out what you are trying to do. You think you’re so slick, but I know that you’re just trying to embarrass me in front of Y/N!”

Seokjin shrugs. “It isn’t like I’m trying to be slick. I embarrass you all the time. Besides, I’m setting you up on a date with the love of your life! You should be thanking me, if I’m being honest.”

Yoongi stammers, his jaw dropping in shock. “Love of my–?”

Seokjin waves his tongs in his face, silencing him. “Oh, hush. Don’t even try to hide it, Yoongi. I figured out that you like Y/N. Your weird behavior finally makes sense! After years of you avoiding her, I always thought you were just bad at forming human connections, but turns out you’ve got a gigantic heart boner for my best friend!”

“Please don’t phrase it like that,” Yoongi groans, smashing his head against his kitchen counter. He hopes a few brain cells might have died, just so he can stop processing the words coming out of Seokjin’s mouth. “Actually, just please stop talking.”

Seokjin snorts in exasperation as if Yoongi was the dramatic one between them. “Point is, this is a favor that I’ve chosen to grant you from the goodness of my heart! As I said, I’m giving you the love life you deserve! So stop whining and get moving before Y/N gets up here.”

“There isn’t any goodness nor a heart inside of you. And more importantly, when was the last time you did anything for free, you capitalist bastard!”

Seokjin clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Yoongi-chi. You’ve already paid me for my services by offering me front row seats to watch you lose your fucking mind. And that, my friend, is priceless.”

“Aha! So you do admit that this is all just a ploy to humiliate me!” Yoongi shouts. He grabs a knife from his scabbard, pointing it threateningly at Seokjin. He doesn’t even flinch, instead gently guiding Yoongi by the wrist over to the chopping board where he had placed some garlic cloves beforehand. Without prompting, Yoongi’s hand begins to move, his culinary instincts taking over.

“Yes and no,” Seokjin admits as he grabs Yoongi’s cast iron pan from the top shelf (which he has never gotten to use since he bought it, ever since Seokjin had borrowed it once and placed it too high for him to retrieve.) “I’m honestly trying to help you out here, my dude. Besides, even if shit hits the fan, Y/N isn’t gonna think any less of you. She’s too much of an idiot to resent anyone.”

“Speaking from experience?” Yoongi huffs, eyeing him with intense vitriol. “Can’t say I understand how she’s gone this long without killing you.” The next time the two of them are alone together in the wilderness, he can’t promise that his hands won’t find their way around Seokjin’s throat, and it won’t be sexy.

“Hmm. Yeah, definitely,” he says, nodding absentmindedly. As he begins to season the steak, he hands the cast iron pan to Yoongi. “Start preheating this. We need it to be smoking hot before we can place the steak on there.”

“I know how to cook a steak, fucker. And who said you’re allowed to serve my Wagyu steak? I was saving that for a special occasion!”

Seokjin looks up from his ministrations long enough to raise a brow at him. “So going on your first ever date with Y/N isn’t considered a special occasion?”

Yoongi falters, eyes widening. “N-no, that’s not what I mean!” he defends hotly, but he quickly snaps out of it. “Wait, no! This is not a date! Not when both parties did not agree to any of this!”

Seokjin pauses from his cooking to place a perfectly manicured hand on his hip. “I mean, Y/N agreed to it, so are you going to reject her? Huh? Too good for her and my spaghetti?”

Yoongi scoffs, rolling his eyes. “No, she did not agree to this. She doesn’t even know you’re forcing her to eat lunch with me.”

“How can you say that with such certainty?” Seokjin challenges, puffing his cheeks. “You don’t even know what I told her!”

Except I do know what you said, Yoongi thinks darkly to himself. And more importantly, I know what she thinks you were implying. He is pretty sure that the words “crush on him during high school” have seared themselves underneath his eyelids forevermore.

But instead, he says, “Yeah, well. If what you told her is as vague as what you told me, I have a pretty good hunch that this is going to blow up into a huge misunderstanding.”

Like the absolute menace that he is, all Seokjin does is shrug nonchalantly. “Suppose you are right… Who cares? It’s not like the two of you are strangers, so I’m sure this is going to go great!”

“What the fuck? She is a stranger! I’ve literally only spoken two words to her in the past four years!” Yoongi seethes, his temple throbbing from an oncoming migraine. 

Seokjin ignores him, as per his want. “Grab that plate, will you? I gotta plate the pasta before Y/N starts calling again to let her into the building,” he says, nudging the tongs into Yoongi’s hands. Yoongi squawks, quickly turning the stove off to keep the food from burning. 

Seokjin tears off his (read: Yoongi’s) apron off, wiping his hands on his jeans with a quick smile. “Great! While you finish up here, I’ll distract Y/N for a bit in my room before I lead her in here, alright? You better hurry unless you want to keep her waiting!”

“Oh, like how you kept her waiting downstairs for the past–” Yoongi checks his wall clock, “–seven minutes?”

Seokjin cackles madly, rushing out the door. “Well, that’s where you and I differ, Yoongi-chi! I give no shits about how Y/N thinks about me, so good luck!” After sending Yoongi three flying kisses for good measure, Seokjin slams the door shut, leaving Yoongi to simmer in his bad life choices.

The worst choice that he’s ever made? Being friends with one (1) Kim Seokjin.

“God, just end me,” Yoongi mutters, placing his $80 steak on his pan. It sizzles deliciously, much like how his (nonexistent) love life is about to get burnt to a crisp.

x x x x x

“Took you long enough.” You watch as Seokjin taunts you with a funny little dance by the lobby of his dormitory, the building receptionist not even batting an eye at his eccentricity. That’s the sad side effect of living in close proximity with Seokjin: you start getting desensitized to most things, not even flinching at the sight of a man without a functioning central nervous system.

Seokjin slides his card to open the door, finally allowing you entry. “Sorry. Got busy preparing your lunch! Which by the way, you should be thanking me for.”

“The moment I thank you for anything is the day that you slip on your own cum and die,” you grouse, nudging past him to get on the elevator first. You punch the button for the 5th floor before rapidly trying to close the elevator door on him. Unfortunately, Seokjin makes it in time before his ass gets clamped by the two steel doors.

“Thinking about my cum? Oh my, Y/N… I know you’ve had a dry spell for too long, but I didn’t think you’d be that desperate for some of my butter,” Seokjin says, leaning closely to wink at you.

Against your will, your cheeks brighten furiously, weakly pushing Seokjin away from you. “You wish. At least I don’t spend my spare time loitering outside the campus gym to ogle all the sweaty hot people.”

“And the invitation to join me still stands by the way!” Seokjin singsongs, leaping out of the elevator once you reach his floor. You walk side by side until you reach his room, but you catch him shooting a furtive glance at his next-door neighbor.

“Is Yoongi joining us for lunch?” you ask, failing to keep your curiosity from showing in your voice. If Yoongi does end up joining you for lunch (which has never happened in the past four years, convincing you that he must have a personal grudge against you), then at least it can confirm to you straight away that whatever this “date” is just another prank by Seokjin. You don’t know if you should be disappointed or grateful if it is just a joke.

Seokjin beams in response, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You know what? He is going to join us, actually!” 

He had been in the midst of unlocking his dorm when he changes direction, leading you to Yoongi’s door instead. He rifles through his other keys, and you notice one of them looks similar to his own house key, except with a Hello Kitty sticker on it. He pulls that key out and promptly unlocks Yoongi’s door without missing a beat.

What kind of weirdo must Yoongi be to give Seokjin a spare key to his dorm? You’d rather shit out a cactus than let Seokjin have free entry to your home whenever he pleases.

You hesitate by Yoongi’s door, feeling nervous all of a sudden. “Um, Seokjin? Are you sure it’s okay for me to–?”

“HONEY I’M HOOOOME!” Seokjin’s loud guffaw cuts you off before you can finish your question. He bursts through the door and leaves you by the hallway, and you watch as he nearly tackles Yoongi to the ground.

Yoongi, despite looking like he’s half the size of Seokjin on a good day, manages to keep upright despite how his back is now bent parallel to the floor. “Get off me!” he yells, roughly pushing Seokjin off of him. 

Seokjin tumbles to the floor, but the shit-eating grin on his face hardly wavers. He points at you by the doorway, a cheeky grin on his lips. “Look, Yoongi-chi! I brought a guest!”

Yoongi spares you half a glance before returning his attention to whatever he was cooking. “I suppose you did.”

Okay, this date is definitely a joke. Why the hell did you even think for a second that Seokjin might have been into you?

“Um,” you stutter nervously. You grind your heel into the carpet self-consciously, your gaze downcast. “Hello, Yoongi. Sorry for the intrusion, by the way…”

“It’s fine,” Yoongi replies, albeit a little curtly. He clears his throat, his face still tilted away from you so you can’t tell if he’s genuinely annoyed or not. 

You point a glare at Seokjin, who looks shamelessly pleased with himself. After taking a deep breath, you take your first steps into Yoongi’s home before gently closing the door.

As you look around at your new surroundings, you notice that his home is a lot cleaner than you would have expected, though you’re not exactly sure what you should have expected in the first place. It’s minimalist, but not in a barren type of way; it’s seems like Yoongi is fond of simple designs more than anything. It’s certainly a nice change of pace compared to Seokjin’s abomination of a room, with his vaguely yellow-stained bedsheets. 

The smell of freshly cooked pasta and meat being grilled catches your senses immediately. You watch as Yoongi flips over a hefty piece of steak, the aroma causing your mouth to salivate instantly. 

“I… What is… Huh?” you start, not knowing what to ask. You catch Seokjin snickering quietly to himself, but promptly shuts up when you mime punching him in the dick.

“It’ll be finished in a second. Why don’t you sit down?” Yoongi announces quietly, his gaze still fixed away from you. Confused but left with no other choice, you tentatively make your way to his couch, unable to relax as your spine remains ramrod straight and your jaw stays clenched. 

You hear Seokjin shuffling behind you until he eventually makes his way to sit with you, plopping onto the couch as if it were his home. “Ah… I’m soooo hungry. Smells good, doesn’t it?” he asks you, his brow wiggling too much to be considered normal. Either that, or he was having a stroke.

“Yeah, it does,” you say, greatly uncomfortable. You peek at Yoongi once more, who is still dutifully attending to the steak. Making sure he isn’t looking, you twist Seokjin by the nipple, causing the elder to let out a high-pitched squeal. To an outsider, it might have almost sounded like he was being pleasured. 

“Ouch! What the fuck was that for?” Seokjin whines, rubbing his tenderized nipples. 

“You know what that was for,” you hiss, keeping your volume low. “What the hell are we doing here? Why are you making Yoongi cook for us?!”

“For us? It’s for you!” Seokjin snaps back. “Didn’t you say you would only come over if you got fed? Well, this is how you get fed!”

“I was under the assumption that you would be feeding me, not him!” you seethe. You check back on Yoongi, who still hasn’t looked your way once. “The poor boy… No wonder he doesn’t like me! He must think I’m as bad as you!”

Seokjin snorts. “Of course he likes you! This whole lunch date wouldn’t have even fucking happened if he wasn’t assdeep in lo–”

“Lunch is finished,” Yoongi interrupts loudly, his spatula rattling loudly against his pan. The sudden noise makes you jump away from Seokjin, who appears vaguely triumphant. 

“T-thanks,” you stutter, standing up and resisting the random urge to shake his hand. Everything about this situation is so tense and awkward that it feels like you’re being filmed for a prank Youtube video or something. Knowing Seokjin, the odds of that happening are great. 

“That’s my cue to leave then! Bye! You guys have fun!” Seokjin says, jumping to his feet. 

You vaguely hear Yoongi gasp quietly when you launch yourself at Seokjin, just narrowly keeping from escaping. “Oh no, you don’t! Who said you could leave? You’re not going anywhere!”

But like the slippery snake that he is, Seokjin manages to wriggle out of your arms and hop over Yoongi’s coffee table to get to the door. “Too bad! I have classes to get to, so I gotta blast! Use this time to get to know each other or whatever it is that kids do these days,” he says, winking salaciously. With one final sputter of (evil) laughter, Seokjin makes his exit, leaving you and Yoongi to fester in some good ol’ fashioned discomforting silence.

“Um,” you say, just as Yoongi opens his mouth to say something too.

“No, you go first–”

“You go ahead–”

The two of you pause mid-sentence, staring at each other. You grin sheepishly at him, motioning for him to speak first. 

He returns your smile half-heartedly. “So, um… I just wanted to say I’m sorry for letting Seokjin rope you into this. I tried stopping him, but… You know how he is.”

You laugh, sounding a little crazed even to your own ears. That’s the longest sentence you’ve ever heard him speak! 

“Yeah, believe me… I am intimately aware of how he is. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t,” you joke. 

Amazingly, your little quip makes his smile widen, his cheeks puffing up imperceptibly. “Glad we can agree that Seokjin has the amazing ability to ruin people’s lives. It’s almost welcoming to find solidarity in a shared experience.”

“Shared experience? Try shared trauma. That dude is a walking serotonin sucker,” you say dryly. 

You don’t think what you said was remotely funny enough to warrant a laugh, but it causes Yoongi to let out a loud snort regardless. But the amusement on his face is short-lived, his cheeks going red in embarrassment. He slaps a hand to his mouth, breaking eye contact once more. “Oh fuck, that was so unflattering,” he groans, clearly mortified.

His blush, multiplied by his shy demeanor, makes you want to coo at him, but you doubt he’d take that too kindly. So instead, you change the subject to save him. “So, uhh… The food? You don’t have to give me any, by the way. I wouldn’t want you to waste your lunch on me or anything.”

Yoongi snaps out of his previous embarrassment, returning to the more familiar stoic expression you’ve come to associate with Yoongi. “No, that’s fine. Seokjin–er, rather… I made enough for two people, so it would be a waste if you didn’t eat at least some of it. But I don’t care either way if you want it or not.”

For two people? you wonder. So Yoongi had known Seokjin wasn’t going to join for lunch?

“Oh, if it’s fine with you…” you trail off, meekly making your way towards him. The spaghetti and steak look absolutely delicious, though you don’t need to tell him that when your stomach speaks for you. “Oh shit, that’s so embarrassing,” you say, your cheeks heating up this time.

Yoongi chuckles, shaking his head. “Haven’t eaten breakfast yet, I assume? That’s pretty stupid if you ask me. Don’t you have class until 5? How the hell would you have survived until then?”

You choke in surprise. Where did all that sass suddenly come from? “Excuse me? I’m not stupid! I would’ve been fine with a sandwich from the cafeteria if you must know!” you say indignantly. You’re too busy being offended that you don’t fully comprehend his words, failing to notice how he had known you had class until 5 in the first place.

“Sure, whatever you say.” Rolling his eyes, Yoongi starts shifting through his cupboards and pulling out a pink tupperware. He begins to load them with food, nearly overflowing the containers with how much he tries to stuff in them.

“H-hey! What are you doing?”

“Packing your lunch. You have class in a bit, yeah? It’s almost 11:50 and it takes around 15 minutes to get to the main campus. You won’t have time to eat here and make it in time,” he says, pointing you with a look. “Wait. Did you have coffee this morning?”

“Yeah? So?” you ask, defensive. “Are you gonna call me stupid again for not having caffeine or something?”

“No,” he grunts. “If you’re caffeinated, then that means it should only take you 7 minutes to get to class.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” you exclaim, but you can’t help letting out an incredulous laugh. “Wow. You’re kinda weird, did you know that?”

“You barely even know me, so how would you know?” he retorts. He finishes placing food into the tupperware and promptly clicks the lid in place. He offers it to you, smirking slightly.

You huff, but your ire is all for show. You aren’t actually annoyed by him–he’s just… different from what you expected. A little shy, a little rough around the edges… but you can tell he isn’t a bad guy. You understand why Seokjin loves to torment him; he seems like a fun person to tease. 

“That can be amended,” you respond, taking the tupperware from him. Your fingers graze the backs of his hand by accident, causing him to quickly retract his hand as though he’d been burned. You nearly drop the container in surprise, but luckily your reflexes save your precious food just in time. 

“Sorry. About… you know.” Yoongi gesticulates wildly, his gaze darting anywhere but at you. 

You smile secretly to yourself, amused. Ah. He’s like a human seesaw. Blushy one second and grumpy the next. “No worries, Yoongi. I’ll be sure to return this container soon, so don’t you worry.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Keep it if you want. I don’t care either way.”

Says the guy who has an entire cupboard full of color coordinating food containers. “Roger that, Yoongi.”

Yoongi walks you out the door, pausing outside the hallway with you. “Do you…” he hesitates, swallowing loudly enough for you to hear. “Do you… want me to walk you out?”

His sudden offer almost makes you want to laugh, but you have a feeling he wouldn’t find it amusing at all. Instead, you just shake your head with a smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t get lost. I think I remember where the door is.”

He pouts, his lips jutting out cutely. “Yeah, well. I was just trying to be nice, but you do you.”

You giggle lightly, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You were more than nice,” you say, winking for added effect. It does more than you thought it would, causing Yoongi’s cheeks to bloom once more.

With one last wave, you make your way out of the dormitory, your heart a little lighter than before. 

“Huh. That was weird.” You glance at the pink little tupperware in your hands, its warmth keeping your hands safe from the winter chill. As you walk to class, your thoughts are filled with nothing but a shy boy with soft hands and even softer cheeks. Maybe Tuesday isn’t going to be so bad after all.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 66: Bond

There was a certain bond that formed between two people when all of your friends were paired off and dating someone. When the two of you were the only single people so you got paired off to share food, and be partners in games, and all other manner of things.

Harry supposed that tonight would be just one more of those nights as he arrived at Ginny and Luna's. And he wasn't complaining (not anymore, at least) it had taken a couple of years but he and Draco had warmed up to each other. They had compatible styles for partner games, Draco always gave Harry any treats with nuts and Harry gave him any treats with mint, and Harry genuinely enjoyed his dry sense of humor.

If he was being honest, he'd started looking forward to all of the time that he got to spend with Draco on Friday nights.

But things felt different the moment he entered the house, even though he couldn't quite put his finger on why. He spotted Ginny first, standing against the counter, pouring a couple glasses of wine, "Hey," he called.

She looked up and bit her lip.

"What?" he asked with no small amount of dread. He knew that look; it was the look she'd given him right before she'd told him she might be gay and in love with Luna, a look that said she was afraid of breaking his heart.

Ginny opened her mouth but no words came out.

"Ginny, what?" he said, taking several steps toward her.

"I don't know how to say thi-"

"Oh, good," he heard Draco say from behind him, "You're here."

His mouth stretched into a grin even before he turned around "He-" he broke off when he saw that Draco was standing with his arm around some bloke who Harry had never met before. "Hey," he finished.

"This is Matt," Draco offered.

And frankly, Harry would rather die (again) than shake his hand but before he could have any say in the matter Matt had stepped forward into his space and was gripping his hand. Hard. "The Harry Potter," he drawled. "My, my."

(Read more below the cut)

Harry glanced over at Draco who looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"Draco has told me so much about you. I could hardly believe that he was telling the truth." He leaned toward Harry conspiratorially, "He's known for embellishing the truth, you know?"

Harry wrenched his hand from Matt's grip, "Actually, I've found Draco to be honest to a fault. Hardly anyone else will tell me when my outfit doesn't match or I've got something stuck in my teeth."

Matt's eyes flashed and Harry's proverbial hackles stood on end he didn't like that look, "I-" Matt started

"Hey," Draco said, taking Matt's hand and drawing his attention, "Let me introduce you to everyone else."

"Nice meeting you, Mark," Harry called.

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, "Matt," he corrected, before mouthing, 'behave' at Harry.

"My mistake," Harry said, maintaining eye contact with the other man until he turned away and followed Draco into the other room.

"Okay," Ginny said, drawing his attention away from them, "First. Men are disgusting; I can't believe I thought I was attracted to them for so long."

"What?" he asked, slumping over to the counter and sliding onto a stool across from where Ginny was still mixing up drinks. He was feeling a little nauseous, fire rushing under his skin.

"That," she said, gesturing to where Harry had been standing talking to Matt and Draco, "The little pissing match to decide who's dominant."

"What?" Harry asked, "that guy is just an asshole."

She rolled her eyes, "Second, you're still an idiot."

"Wow. I'm just going to go home," he said. "Between you and the dude who was trying to break my fingers, I don't think it's going to be a great night."

Ginny leaned across the counter and instinctively Harry leaned toward her, "How long are you going to continue denying you have feelings for Draco?"

His brow furrowed, "I don't. We're just mates," he added.

"I rest my case. You're still an idiot," she said as she leaned back and started mixing drinks again.

Harry slouched on his stool turning that thought over in his mind, "That actually would make sense," he admitted.

"Harry, I love you, you know I do," she said. "But honestly, I can't believe you're just figuring this out. The rest of us have known for ages. We were all shocked when he walked through the door with Matt; he told us he was bringing someone but we thought the two of you were just making a joke."

"Well now what am I supposed to do?" he asked. "Why couldn't anyone have said something sooner?"

"Because we thought it was obvious," she hissed.

"Let's just get through the night," he sighed. "Then we'll deal with the rest. We'll need to come up with a plan."

-----------

He spent the rest of the night calling Matt the wrong name (Miles, Maurice, Mike, Max, Moses, Mitch, Mason) to the point that Ron either caught on and decided to help or got confused enough that he started calling him the wrong name, too. Harry also couldn't help but rub it in Matt's face how much better he knew Draco; telling inside jokes, asking Draco specific questions about his work and his parents, and reminiscing about fond memories.

Draco seemed a bit exasperated by it but Harry couldn't help himself. Once he started, he just couldn't seem to stop.

Eventually as everyone was getting ready to leave and Luna was saying good bye to Matt, Draco cornered him, "Do not move a fucking muscle," he hissed, "I am not done with you."

"Dra-"

"I mean it, Potter. Stay right here," he said, jabbing him in the chest with his finger before he turned and made his way over to his date.

"Hey," Matt said, smiling at him much the way Harry imagined an alligator might smile at his prey.

"Hi," Draco replied softly. "I'll floo you tomorrow, yeah? There are a few things I need to take care of."

Matt frowned, "I thought we were going back to my place."

"No," Draco replied steadily. "I have a five date rule." He stepped back, "I'll floo you," he repeated.

And Matt looked pretty pissed about it, but he seemed to take the hint and disapparated on the spot without so much as a goodbye to anyone.

"You're all the literal worst," Draco fumed. "Except you, Luna," he added. "You're a goddess."

Luna gave a little curtsy.

"Seriously," Draco said, glaring at the room even though none of them looked especially repentant. "And you," he spat, spinning to glare at Harry, "You're the worst of all."

"Does that make me special?" Harry quipped, arms folded across his chest.

Draco groaned, "Bloody fucking Griffyndors. I hope you're all happy," he grabbed Harry's arm. "Come on we are going back to mine to have a chat."

"I thought you had a five date rule," Ginny called.

Draco flipped her the two finger salute before apparating them to his house.

Harry always liked being in Draco's house; it was small and cozy, and it always smelled vaguely like chamomile. Just being here made his soul feel lighter, calmer.

"Alright," Draco growled, "Spill. What the hell was that?"

"What?" Harry asked innocently.

"Potter," he warned.

Harry sighed, "He's an asshole."

"And you know that how? You didn't even give him a chance".

"Draco his handshake was like a vice!"

Draco stared at him, "You've got to be kidding me. Are you that much of a child? He hurt your hand so you thought you should bully him?"

"I didn't bully him!" Harry exclaimed.

"No?" Draco asked. "You didn't use his given name even once." Harry winced, maybe that was overkill. "You spent the entire night trying to make him feel stupid and inferior to you. Which, let's face it, everyone does anyway because you're Harry fucking Potter!" Draco exploded.

"That's not fair," Harry said, betrayal slicing hot through his gut. Draco knew that he hated being famous, hated the preconceived notions attached to his name.

"Yeah well, neither was what you did."

"Draco, I-"

"No," he said, holding out a hand, "That was such bullshit, Harry."

"But he's awful."

"You didn't even give him a cha-"

"I didn't have to!" he exploded. "The first words he said to me were to disrespect you. He's an asshole and I will chase a million of them away from you."

"That's not your job."

Harry threw his hands up in the air, "I'm your best friend! Whose job is it, if it's not mine?"

"You don't just get to decide things for me!" Draco cried.

"Fine," Harry spat. "You want to date that wanker, go ahead. But I have seen his type before. Don't come crying to me when he's beaten you to a bloody pulp for looking at someone the wrong way." He pushed past Draco and made his way to the door, walking out and slamming it behind him.

He started down the sidewalk, debating trying to figure out where Matt lived and have a chat or maybe go over to Ron and Hermione's to get some advice and regroup.

But the further he walked, the more the anger faded from his veins, and the guilt settled in.

There was no choice really, he turned around and headed back to Draco's house once more. When he arrived he knocked on the door even though he normally would have just let himself in.

"Go away!" Draco shouted.

He knocked again, "Draco, please."

"No! Go away. You're the worst."

"I know," he called back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Please."

After a few seconds, during which fear settled heaving in Harry's gut, the door opened and Harry slipped inside, Draco was curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow to his chest.

Seeing him looking so small and sad made Harry ache. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Which part?" Draco asked bitterly.

He sighed and came over to sit on the couch beside Draco, "I'm not sorry for chasing him away. But I will always be here for you, no matter what. You can always come to me."

Draco leaned over and put his head on Harry's shoulder, "I know," he whispered.

"Forgive me?"

He nodded and they sat together in silence for a few minutes, both trying to collect their thoughts. Eventually Harry said, "I really wish you wouldn't date him."

Draco sat up, "Harry look at me."

Harry turned on the couch to look at him and raised his eyebrows.

"I won't ever floo call him, we'll never go on another date, and I'll never see him again." Something eased in Harry's chest. "But it's not because of what you said or did. It's because I, too, have had shitty relationships. I have also lived through trauma and I have had to learn from it just like you."

Harry looked down at his hands.

"And if you have concerns about someone, there is a better way to tell me than what you did tonight."

He nodded, suitably chastised, "You're right."

"I appreciate your concern, though," he added and Harry looked up to see that Draco's mouth was quirked up, he really must be forgiven, apparently. "And I genuinely forgot how petty you can be."

He shook his head and reached out for Draco's hand, "Draco, I want you to be so, so happy," he said. Then he added, "I'm an idiot."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"And everyone knows it, you included, so you can't really hold it against me," he said.

"I'm pretty sure I can."

He huffed, "Just hear me out. I'm an idiot and I didn't realize until tonight that I'm a little bit in love with you. And it's fine if you don't feel the same but you are my best friend and I had high standards for you even before I knew I had feelings for you. It hurt me to see you with someone who treated you so poorly."

"Sorry," Draco said, "I need you to repeat that."

"I said, I'm an idiot," Harry started.

"Not that part."

"It hurt me to see you with someone who treated y-"

"Not that part either," Draco said.

Harry swallowed, "It's fine if you don't fee-"

"Harry," he grumbled. "Say the other part."

He rubbed the back of his neck, "I'm in love with you," he whispered.

Draco blinked at him, a smile blooming at the corner of his mouth, "Say it again."

A grin tipped up the corners of his mouth as well, "I'm in love with you."

Draco launched himself into Harry's arms and covered Harry's lips with his own, "say it again," he mumbled into the kiss.

"I love you," Harry repeated, murmuring the words into Draco's mouth.

Draco pulled back slightly, "I love you, too."

"I hoped that was the case," Harry replied.

After he kissed him again, Draco said, "Alright, fine. Now you get a say in who I date."

Harry grinned, "Is that so?"

He nodded.

"Will you date me, Draco Malfoy?" he asked, brushing his nose along Draco's.

"Yes," he whispered. Then with a smirk he added, "But we'll have to get my best friend's approval and rumor has it that he has very high standards."

---------------

Day 65: Question | Day 67: Soulmate (Take 1)- Your traditional soulmate trope or Day 67: Soulmate (Take 2)- just using the word 'soulmate' as a prompt, not the trope.

[newtonsheffield]

Can we pleeease see the awkward hilarious breakfast the day after Simon’s party?

The mirror. The sneaking. The teasing. It will be hilarious.

I love Benophie and Kanthony dynamics in Good Girls! They’re hilarious together 🧡

Together, this Benophie and Kathony, could rule the world tbh, if they weren't so busy getting caught up in the chaos

Sophie was never quite sure what she'd find when she entered the Bridgerton house. It could be Hyacinth being chased after by Anthony, Gregory sliding down the bannister with a lightsaber held aloft, or, once, Anthony dry humping Kate on the staircase. The latter never as embarrassed as she should be. She had thought she'd just about seen it all, until she walked in after another of Simon Basset's parties, Benedict having left her in bed in the early hours of this morning to sneak back in at home, and found and entirely different kind of chaos.

She popped her head into the kitchen first, Ben's Mum standing at the stove already flipping pancakes just like every Saturday morning, Gregory and Hyacinth already waiting eagerly.

"Hi, Violet, Is Ben up yet?"

Violet smiled turning towards her, "I'm not sure, Sweetheart, he had a bit of a late night. Go on and see him."

That was odd, it almost sounded pointed, but she brushed it off, heading upstairs high fiving Gregory who hooted happily his yoda slippers swinging under the table, only to find Ben on the landing signing furiously at Anthony, Kate tucked into his arm still wearing the clothes from last night. She kissed his cheek.

What's going on?

Benedict turned towards her with an exasperated sigh, Kate got me caught by Mum last night.

Sophie's eyebrows raised as Kate Scoffed signing with her words, "You got me caught. I didn't realise Nike made cement shoes. Violet saw my tits!"

For the last time, Why were you not already wearing your sweater?!Ben signed furiously.

"To be fair, Kate, We've all seen your tits." Sophie smirked as Anthony grinned in response.

"Yeah we have!" He held his hand up.

"Anthony I'm not high fiving you because I went bra shopping with your girlfriend once." Kate looked a little appalled and Sophie Continued. "You'e very confident, it's nice!"

Ben interrupted clearing his throat. The fact remains I'm a fucking Ninja, and lead foot Sharma made sure Mum found me sneaking back in.

Kate's eyes widened, "Ben, I heard you coming a fucking Mile away! We all know you sneak back in all the time!

I didn't hear anything Ben said a little primly and Sophie couldn't help but laugh at the expression on Kate's face.

Are you serious? Are you really gonna make me say it?

Ben smirked, Say it!

"I actually don't care that you got caught. Meant that I got good Morning sex as well." Anthony was looking a little too smug, his arm around Kate's waist.

"Again, No, I will not high five you for fucking my best friend." Sophie said dryly. "Ben, Babe, you do sound like a heard of elephants sometimes, now let's go eat."

By the time they finally got downstairs Greg and Hyacinth had run off into the living room, Violet still bustling around the Kitchen dropping plates of food in front of all of them. Ben caught her attention.

Mum, What happened to the mirror in my room? Did it break.

Anthony and Kate let out matching choked noises, Anthony's ears turning just a little red, Kate's eyes flickering down embarrassedly almost imperceptibly, but Sophie saw it. She nudged Kate.

"You watched yourself fuck in Ben's Mirror last night didn't you?" She hissed

Kate did look a little abashed to be fair, murmuring, "In my defence, I didn't know it was Ben's! Anthony just appeared with it, and I like to watch his muscles flex. Sue me."

Sophie let out a disgusted noise, "You two have no boundaries!"

Kate's eyebrows raised, "Honestly, you should try it, it's nice."

"I might not use the same mirror, thanks."

She caught Ben's attention just as Violet finished saying I don't think so, Why?

Ben, Anthony and Kate are going to get you a new one.

His Face fell. They watched themselves fuck in it didn't they?

Kate hissed, gesturing at his mother Ben!

Violet shrugged, signing with her words, "You're an adult, Kate, I don't care what you do. What I do care about is sleep, so the both of you," She gestured between Kate and Sophie with her spatula, "Either stay here, or stay at your own houses, just stop waking me up! And make sure these boys wrap it up! I want grandbabies but not quite yet, and I know how accidents happen around the Bridgerton boys. Why do you think there are eight of them?"

Sophie doesn't return to the Bridgerton house for three days. She's too mortified.