#get that sweet sweet 2021 content back in the loop

[sylvies-kablooie]

very sad when you go to look at a tag for a topic you enjoy and most of the posts are things you posted yourself... we need more biodiversity in this ecosystem!!!

[restapesta]

They were sitting in their car in the middle of an empty McDonald's parking lot. It was three in the morning, star-lit darkness, the world around them only lit up by the white light of the always-opened drive-through.

It had been a craving that brought them here. Ian waking up for a midnight snack, realizing that Mickey was quite awake too, unable to truly rest until he knew his husband was near, with him. He had been standing in front of the fridge inside their scarcely illuminated kitchen, with Mickey sitting on the kitchen counter, legs criss-crossed watching him. Ian had been contemplating what would be best suited to satiate his hunger, besides the man licking strawberry yogurt clean off the spoon.

A light bulb had lit up above his head.

"Get ready."

"What?"

He threw his hoodie Mickey's way. It was big on Ian most of the time, but it was good enough to keep a person warm. "Trust me, Mick."

Mickey placed the gray sweatshirt over his head, pulling it over his torso until he was engulfed in it. Ian rummaged slowly around for their phones, wallets, and keys, searching for them in the dark. His eyes had accommodated to it, and the moonlight filtering in through the windows helped.

"Where are we going?"

"You look great in my clothes, you know. And, you'll see."

He grasped Mickey by the hand, their fingers locked together in a soft embrace, feeling the warmth of each other's skin. Mickey didn't resist for a moment, trusting Ian with his entire life, following after him like a moth to a flame. The only sound echoing throughout the silent apartment had been the turning of the key inside their lock, and later on the slight thudding of quiet steps outside in the hall before their door.

First they got inside their car, both Mickey and Ian staying silent as the redhead drove through the Westside streets—empty and calm. They were enjoying the peace, the clock on their dashboard showing 02:47, and their bodies were still touching, Ian's palm resting flat against Mickey's pajama-bottom-covered thigh, the ones he felt no need to change out of. Ian was in his too, checkered and amusing, reminding Mickey of a grandpa. It was ten minutes before the logo came into view, large and inviting.

Mickey's stomach rumbled unwittingly as he glanced at his husband, noting the twinkle in his eye. He himself was draped in a thick black sweatshirt, the hood obnoxiously pulled over his head, wisps of hair poking out, flaming red.

"Really?" Mickey asked, a slight flutter in his stomach at the image of it all.

"Open 24/7."

"That's your response?"

"Come on, baby, you're just hangry. Let's get some food in ya'."

Mickey couldn't argue.

Now they were in the car, stuffing their faces with hamburgers and fries, downing them with Coke like madmen—something about late nights made them starved—talking amongst one another with mouths filled with food. With anybody else, it probably would've been disgusting and unattractive.

But not with them. Never with them.

They were playing a game.

Twenty questions that were turning into thirty, all asked with no clear goal in mind, simply the first thing to pop into either one of their heads, out of their mouths only for them to hear.

"Have you ever thought about playing the ?"

"You know I play guitar."

"Do you want a guitar for your birthday?"

"It's my turn to ask the question."

"'kay. Ask."

"How old are those tiny as fuck briefs you have hidden in our dresser and why the fuck do you never wear them?"

"Those are two questions."

"You're blushing."

"'m not."

"Answer it, bitch."

"Just so you know, those briefs are brand new and they fucking fit amazing."

"Why was I then denied the pleasure?"

"Mick—"

"As soon as we get home, you're putting them on."

"Fine."

"You're gonna try them then too."

"Why?"

"Your ass. Have you seen your fucking ass?"

Mickey grinned.

They lapsed into silence as they slurped on the last few sips of their Cokes, plastic squeaking in their hands.

Ian finished his drink with a loud sigh, discarding the cup with the rest of the trash that was sitting between them. Mickey followed suit. They were stuffed now and slightly sleepy, drowsiness appearing in their eyes.

Mickey watched as Ian leaned back in his seat. They had reclined them all the way, so Ian was practically laying in it, long legs sprawled out underneath the console. He placed his hands across his stomach, palms across one another.

"What was the best day of your life?" He asked like the sap he was.

Mickey smiled at the question, teasing, "It's my turn."

"Mickey."

"Okay, fine," He chuckled, not wanting to play that specific game of pull and tug, content with the peacefulness of it all. "Let me think about it."

First kiss. Engagement. Wedding. Anniversary. Too many moments to pick from, each stained with a problem they had faced and overcame, beautiful in their own fucked up ways.

He nibbled on his lower lip as he recalled a memory of compete and utter happiness. No problems, no worries, no sadness. It dawned on him, the sensation like drinking water after days of dehydration.

"Remember that trip to Oklahoma?"

A smile graced Ian's features, his eyes briefly closing as he seemed to recall the day. "Don't think I could forget."

"We spent a whole day at that fair. Rented out a room at some shitty motel. From morning till night we went on every single ride possible. Literally saw every attraction there." He was getting lost in the memory, chest swelling with happiness. "Kissed on top of the Ferris wheel at midnight when it was just about to close, like fucking dorks."

He turned around to glance at Ian. He was looking straight at him, the small upturn of his lips reading clear in his eyes, gazing at Mickey like he was everything to him in this entire world.

Whispering, Mickey said, "That was the best day of my life."

Ian grabbed a hold of his hand slowly, delicately, placing it in his lap, the action making warmth heat Mickey's cheeks. Mickey leaned against his own seat, mirroring his husband, eyes on him all the way.

"The best day of my life was the 21st of June, 2021," Ian said longingly as if he was reading the beginning of some old fairytale-type story.

Mickey couldn't help the laugh that escaped him at Ian's sweet earnestness. "You know the date?"

Ian shot him a look, no bite in it whatsoever. "Allow me to tell the story, please?"

Mickey bit his lip to stop smiling. "Okay, okay, you're allowed."

Ian smacked lightly at Mickey's chest, not moving an inch, still slumped in his seat lazily.

"That night I had a dream," He began. "It wasn't even like a dream. More like a fucking vision—and I know how weird that sounds, trust me. But it was literally like a vision, clear and vivid and everything.

"Anyways, the dream—or vision, whatever—was of you and me, sitting in two lawn chairs, staring out into the world. But the thing is, we were older. Like, ninety-year-old old. We were just staring ahead. Then at each other. The way we looked at each other is how we look at each other now—filled with a bunch of love and fondness. It was just the two of us, together, old and gray."

Ian stopped and took a deep breath, leaning forward in his seat, locking eyes with Mickey who was listening carefully. Mickey straightened himself as well, and they were just sitting in their car, gazing softly at one another as Ian told the story, the remnants of their endeavor resting between them.

"So," He continued. "On the 21st of June, 2021, I woke up and all I could think about was that dream. It was like—like on a fucking loop inside my head, and each time I even glanced at you, I just saw the two of us, old and together.

"And I realized, as fucking weird as it sounds, that it was us. I swear Mick, it was you and me, years from now, just sitting in fucking lawn chairs, staring out into the world. Into each other's eyes." His eyes shone. "And all throughout that day, I knew that one day, we'd get there. That you and I would spend the rest of our lives together until we were wrinkly and gray and doing nothing but being together. Each time I even saw you from the cone of my eye, grumpy and frowning at whatever, I was so happy because I would get to spend the rest of my life with you.

"That, until the day I died, I would have you as my partner. My husband. My best friend. The love of my fucking life; by my side until there is nothing left in the world to do but sit by each other and just watch as time goes by.

"Just you and me, Mick. Until the end."

Mickey watched him inhale deeply.

"Best day of my fucking life, and I get to live it forever."

A tear slipped out of Mickey's eye. He felt it on his cheek, rolling down, hot against the already warm skin, yet all he could see was Ian. Ian with the shimmering orbs and that look in his eye like he was staring at everything he needed in life.

Mickey pulled his hand out of Ian's from where it was resting in his lap, then raised them to palm Ian's cheeks, pulling him in for a deep kiss. Lips moving together in the dark, serendipitous in all ways, the vulnerability for once a blessing instead of a curse.

"You never told me that story," He whispered against Ian's lips.

"It just felt right for me to know. Maybe we were just both waiting for this moment, unknowingly."

Another tear, filled with so much.

"We both live the best day of our life like that, Ian. Every single day."

Ian nodded, smiling against Mickey's lips. "I know, my love. I know."

They were sitting in their car in the middle of an empty McDonald's parking lot. It was four in the morning, star-lit darkness, the world around lit up by only them, the love palpable like a glow, allowing them to see clearly; see all the things that were important to them.

A person needed the match to their gasoline so they could light the fire that would burn and simmer. A person, too, needed the cord to their plug that would alight the darkness of the inside of their chest.

Because one would be lost without the glow in the dark. Or at least not be able to truly see.

[nbrook29]

Lmao I don’t know how this happened 😆

***

June 26th 2021, Saturday

When Sander wakes up, it’s to the early morning June sunlight hitting him straight in the face. There’s a vague smell of alcohol lingering in the air, and he groans pitifully when he remembers the amount of beer he drank last night; well, it wasn’t that much per se, but for his not-usually-drinking self it was a bit much, which would explain the sour taste in his mouth. He could be beating himself up for letting a little too much loose and messing up his rather strict rules, but it’s finally summertime and he was feeling so happy and free. Exams are done and over with, bigger gatherings are allowed again, and most importantly, the love of his life has just graduated high school and-

Wait. 

He blinks his eyes open, arm reaching to the other side of the bed expecting a warm body, but it’s met with cold sheets instead. 

Where did that love of his life go? 

Bones cracking when he sits up on the bed, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes like a little boy, looking around the room, a twinge of worry in his mind. Robbe was way more drunk than him yesterday, being a giggly, inebriated, lovely, messy mess that was barely standing when the party came to an end. Sander had to practically carry him to their cabin, with Robbe wrapped like a koala around his back, holding tight as he mumbled love declarations into Sander’s hair until he fell asleep, arm looped around his head and cheek resting on top of it. It was unbearably cute, but it was also a miracle Sander’s legs didn’t give out because as small as Robbe is, carrying his dead weight on his back is a challenge.

For a second, a dark scenario enters his mind, and he’s working himself up over Robbe maybe getting up at some point to throw up and being so drunk he choked in the bathroom (yes, he’s a tad dramatic), but then a scrap of paper lying on the makeshift bedside table that is his backpack catches his sight and relief washes over him. 

It’s clearly torned out from his sketchbook and he smiles before he even reaches for it.

Come and find me when you wake up x

Little hearts were added all around for good measure and then there’s another message below.

P.S. You’re so fucking hot xxxxx

Snorting, Sander thinks back to yesterday’s afternoon when he showed up to pick Robbe up with his dad’s car so they could meet everyone in Ostend. The way his jaw dropped wide open seeing his brand new look makes him feel very smug at the mere memory.

Right next to the note there’s that piece of confetti he put in Robbe’s long hair at the party, his boyfriend blushing so prettily when Sander told him he couldn’t find a flower as beautiful as him around so the confetti had to do for the time being. 

That’s Sander’s favorite activity: pulling a blush out of him with his sappy lines. Well, maybe after getting lost in their out of this world kisses. Or making love to him, slow and sweet or fast and dirty, Sander’s not picky.

5 minutes and he’s out the door after the quickest shower of his life, minty fresh and ready for a quest to find his other half. It’s still very early, the clock showing a few minutes past eight, and to be honest, Sander wonders how on earth is Robbe up and about already. He was fully preparing for a morning full of Robbe’s moans (not the good kind), cursing him for letting him drink so much and swearing on his life that he’ll never touch alcohol again.

The beach is almost empty, barely a few people lounging on the sand, and it takes him no time to spot longish brown curls flying with the force of the wind. Robbe looks lost to the world around him, sitting cross-legged and leaning back onto his arms, face turned to the sun to catch the early morning rays. A soft smile is dancing on his lips as he takes in the sight of the calm sea stretching till the horizon to the sound of whatever is playing in his headphones (probably Bowie because Robbe has a Master’s degree in his music now, courtesy of Sander Driesen) and he looks the most relaxed Sander has seen him in weeks. He looks beautiful.

And Sander is so so in love with him it hurts.

The boy must’ve sensed his presence because he turns around just when he’s a few meters away, his smile growing wide at the sight of him, squinting a little and wow, how does he look so good after a night like that? Sander wonders whether it’s his lovesick devotion that makes him see Robbe through a filter or if sleep did its job marvellously this time.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Robbe pulls at his jean jacket to sit him right next to himself and wastes no time before looping his arms around his neck, peppering his lips with good morning kisses.

“Hey, drunkie,” Sander teases once Robbe gets his fit, earning a half-hearted glare and a soft scoff.

“I was not that drunk.”

“You fell asleep on my head while I was carrying your butt to bed.”

“Well your head is very comfy,” Robbe states matter-of-factly, leaving no room for further discussion because he shuts up any snarky comment Sander may have had with another kiss. That’s a-okay with him, and he tangles his hand in Robbe’s gorgeous locks that he will worship till the day he dies, never missing an occasion to bury his fingers in the tangled strands. The other hand joins in the fun, tugging playfully at the earring he’s also a tiny bit too obsessed with and delighting in the high-pitched sound it pulls out of Robbe.

“What are you doing here so early? I thought you’d be dead to the world till at least noon.” Sander makes himself comfy in Robbe’s embrace, leaning against him and playing with Robbe’s long fingers that are resting on his stomach.

The boy huffs a quiet laugh, a warm puff of air tickling Sander’s neck. “I think it’s the sea breeze making me sober up quicker than normally,” he pauses, hand nudging lightly at Sander’s chin to make him lift his head back and meet his eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he continues. “That and also I think that I was less drunk on alcohol and more drunk on love.”

Sander may be the king of sappy lines, but Robbe has a few of his own up in his sleeve, and everytime he pulls one out, it makes him melt into a pile of goo. Sander crashes their lips together in a kiss that’s a little too heavy for a morning in a public space, but hey, they’re drunk on love and he doesn’t care, Robbe doesn’t care either, and there aren’t many people around them anyway so fuck it. He hums into the kiss, Robbe’s tongue grazing the roof of his mouth almost as by accident, and it’s so good, it always is.

“Last night, it felt so... life-changing, you know? And I don’t know why cause not that much is changing, really.”

“You’re graduating high school, it feels big.”

“Yeah, but I’m staying here for uni, I’m not moving or anything. I don’t know, I think I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic lately.” Robbe shrugs like he doesn’t really understand it, but doesn’t want to dwell on it either. There’s a small frown between his eyebrows though so Sander reaches to smooth it out with his thumb.

Then, something comes to his mind. “Maybe it’s because of us?”

Robbe’s frown gets deeper. “What do you mean?”

Sander turns around in his arms, nodding at the surroundings, voice laced with excitement. “You know this is the first time we have been at the beach since we met?”

Brown eyes blink at him in confusion, but then they light up and match Sander’s excitement.

“Oh my god, you’re right! Fuck, it feels like a different lifetime.”

A very miserable, shitty lifetime if you ask Sander. For both of them.

“I was so lonely back then,” Robbe sighs.

Sander notices a tiny shadow of sadness fogging Robbe’s eyes, like it always happens when he thinks back to that period of his life. Some wounds were cut too deep to fully heal, but Sander’s always there to bring him back to the present.

Tugging lightly on his hair to make him look back at him, Sander gives him a lopsided grin.

“Not gonna lie, I’m very pleased this time around the only person that’s allowed to kiss you is me.”

Robbe hums, a smirk brewing on his lips. “Hmm, I don’t know, I wouldn’t say no to a kiss from Jens I think.”

And Sander knows he’s doing it on purpose, absolutely loves to rile him up and play the “Jens” card when he wants to be snogged into submission. Robbe learned early on that even though Sander’s aware he’s just joking, his possessive streak always comes out in situations like this, making their kisses extra good and their sex extra hot.

“Careful now,” Sander breathes against his mouth, the pent up tension that accumulated last night and wasn’t relieved because Robbe was too drunk hitting him hard. It seems to be mutual because Robbe bites his lip seductively, impish smile letting Sander know that he’s getting the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“Or what?”

“Or I’m gonna carry you to bed the way I did last night, but the finale will be a little different.”

Suddenly, Robbe’s smile turns softer, the gear change leaving Sander a bit confused, but he welcomes it with a chuckle when Robbe snuggles close to him, nuzzling into his neck and letting out a content sigh.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs sweetly against his skin, breaking and healing Sander’s heart all at once. 

“I love you too, cutie. In elk universum.” 

A giggle erupts from Robbe at the universe line. “It’s been a while since you said that.”

Sander presses a kiss to his temple. “I think I'm feeling a bit nostalgic too.” 

***

The beach is slowly starting to fill out with people and bursting their little bubble so they get up reluctantly to the sounds of their grumbling stomachs that demand late breakfast. They notice their friends in the distance, spreading a huge blanket on the sand and carrying armfulls of food, and they walk over to them slowly, smiling goofily at each other and swaying their joined hands, paying no mind to people around. 

“Hey, Sander?” Robbe says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna be dating a college boy now,” Robbe announces, and he sounds so proud and so adorable that Sander has to tease him a little.

He sighs, putting an extra edge of sorrow into it. “I think you’re getting too old for me, Robin.” A choked-off sound of pain follows, Robbe’s mellowy state not stopping him from jabbing his elbow in Sander’s ribs when he’s being a cheeky little shit. He should’ve known better by now - Robbe’s elbows are merciless. 

They arrive at the spot shoving each other playfully until Zoe yells at them to behave and sit their butts down like good boys to eat their food. They dig in without needing to be asked twice, their previous bickering forgotten as Robbe feeds him sandwiches, pretending they’re airplanes and making Sander and everyone around laugh hard.

This, today, yesterday, is a new memory. One that wipes away the angst he used to associate sea and beach with after enviously watching Robbe in the arms of someone else. 

This time, Robbe’s smiles are directed at him, his eyes are constantly seeking out him, hand slides surreptitiously into his hand, and Sander’s heart is bursting with happiness.

They’re going on a roadtrip this summer, just him and his favorite skater boy, and Sander cannot fucking wait. Just like he can’t wait for their future together.

And if there’s a ring sitting in his bottom drawer nobody needs to know for now. 

Robbe will find out in 55 days.

[kinglivv]

Distractions

Whittaker!Master x Reader

Summary: You're trying to participate in a Zoom class and the Master's trying to get your attention.

Warnings: Implied smut, corona virus mention

A/N: For all the people now doing online classes/meetings because they suck bro. Please let me know if you liked it :)

"And that is why, although fusion reactors are a genius solution to our energy needs, they currently don't work."

Your professor flicks over to the next powerpoint slide and you groan internally, willing for the class to be over soon. You were sat in the TARDIS library, attempting to get to grips with online learning - you might be able to escape a pandemic on Earth via the Master's TARDIS, but it was still very much going on down there without you and as a result, your university tutorials and lectures had been moved online.

You're leaning forward to copy something down into your notepad when suddenly you feel arms slide down around your neck and blonde hair tickling your cheek. You tear your gaze away from your laptop to look at the Master, resting her head on your shoulder.

"Morning." You comment.

"Morning." She grins. "What's this?"

"My tutorial."

She frowns. "Isn't that a thing you're meant to do on Earth at one of those... umniversity thingys?"

"University." You correct. "And there's a pandemic remember? 2021? Everything's online for now."

"Oh yeah," She says nonchalantly. "Although you know it's alright in the end, don't you?"

"Spoilers." You reply dismissively.

"Y/N?" Your professor's voice suddenly pipes up and you return your attention to the screen. "Can you give us the two types of nuclear fission?"

Trying to ignore the Master clinging to you, you turn on your microphone.

"Spontaneous and..."

"Induced." The Master whispers in your ear, lips brushing over it and sending a small shiver down your spin.

"Induced." You finish, and turn your microphone off when your professor seems satisfied with your answer.

"I don't see why you bother with this." The Master waves her hand at the screen.

"I started my physics degree long before I met you, and I fully intend to finish it."

"Why do a degree in limited Earth physics when I can take you all around the universe and teach you it myself?"

"Because me saying 'Oh yes, my psychopath alien girlfriend taught me it all!' on my CV isn't going to get me a job." You retort. You lean over and highlight something in your textbook and she follows, still wrapped around you. If it was anyone else, you would bat them away, but the smell of her cologne is intoxicating.

"Humans know nothing about physics, believe me. It's a waste of time." She tells you. "Besides I'm sure there's much more... interesting things you could be doing."

With that, she presses a kiss to your jaw, elicting a faint 'oh' from your mouth, quite involuntarily. You attempt to shake her off, but she persists.

"Master." You warn as she moves onto your throat, nipping slightly, but she pays you no heed, continuing her onslaught. You bite your lip and mentally thank your past self for not turning on your laptop camera for this class - you'd originally thought that the imposing background of the TARDIS library would raise a few too many eyebrows, but you hadn't even considered that the Master might decide to wander into shot.

A hand begins to slide down your front, and you catch it quickly before it can reach anywhere too receptive.

"Master." You repeat, trying to pay attention to your computer.

You lean foward to write something, deliberately attempting to shrug her off. To your relief, she pulls away, but when you sit back again you don't have a chance to stop her before she plonks herself down in your lap.

"Oi!" You hiss, and she just grins back at you sweetly.

Thankfully she doesn't attempt to do anything else and instead just idily flicks through your textbook, scoffing at the content.

"Please - this is first year academy stuff."

Suddenly, one of your classmates pipes up.

"Professor, could you please go over the Nuclear fusion content again?"

"Again?" The Master sniffs. "Human's are such nano-brains."

You swat her and she just smirks, wiggling in your lap.

"I just don't get the chain reaction part." The student says after the Professor's explained it again.

"Oh, for Rassilon's sake." The Master rolls her eyes and reaches out to ummute you, supposedly to tell the student off for being such an incompetent primitive numbskull, but you catch her hand just in time, yanking it away and earning you a glare.

"How can you put up with this?" She exasperates.

"You," You say pointedly, "have the temperment of a child. Or a cat."

Her face lights up.

"I was actually a cat once! Well, not strictly a cat, more of a cheetah-"

"Now... could you tell us Y/N?"

You freeze at the your teacher's voice. You hadn't heard the question.

It's at this wildly innapropriate moment that the Master decides it would be a good time to lean in and begin pressing her lips to your throat again. You bite back a moan.

"Y/N?" The teacher says again at your silence.

"She asked you how to calculate residual energy from a nuclear reaction." The Master mumbles helpfully against your jaw, no doubt smudging lipstick onto it.

Hastily, you reach forward and turn on your microphone.

"Sorry, E=mc squared - ah." You swallow a gasp as the Master bites down. Reaching up, you thread a hand into her hair and pull her away roughly, which only serves to make the Master whimper and her eyes light up. You frantically reach out and put yourself on mute again, praying they hadn't heard that.

"Aren't you meant to be cleaning the rotors?" You hiss. You had barely seen her all morning.

"I was." She loops her arms around your neck and gives you a grin that reminds you so vividly of Missy.

"Why aren't you now?"

"I got bor-ed." She drags out the word and then leans in, red lips finally landing on yours and you let her kiss you all sweet and deep, tongue swiping over your lips tauntingly.

"I really need to finish this lecture." You say, breath dancing over her lips when the kiss breaks.

"I could always just get on my knees for you right here, love." She teases and you feel your cheeks go red.

"I'm not missing class."

"I learned this stuff before I was even a teenager, babe. I could teach you everything you missed in ten minutes."

"They'll notice I'm gone." You try to protest, but there's really no resistance left in your voice anymore, not when her hand's stroking over your cheek and through your hair like that.

"Tell them your internet broke."

"We're on a very well functioning space ship, I hardly think-"

She silences you with another kiss, a hand reaching out behind her to close your laptop. Without another word, you allow her to pull you up from your desk and lead you out of the library.

How could you prioritise a Zoom class over someone like her?

Taglist: @truthbehindthemysteries @queerconfusionthings @xenteaart @actuallyanita @ateliefloresdaprimavera @persephonehemingway @fabulous-jj-style @anteroom-of-death

[queen-erika-the-songful]

Are there any Barbie DVDs out there you don't have? How big is your collection? (I'm assuming you're still unpacking so you can't take a pic of your DVD collection right now.)

I'm so sorry I took so long to reply to this!! I actually kept my movies unpacked but I then I misplaced the disc folder AGAIN and just found it today (it was under some blankets - of course!)

So here's what my collection so far is like (as of 09/2021). There are 4 sections

1. First, we have the CGI/ "main" movie canon. I have every single one from Nutcracker (2001) up to Dolphin Magic (2017). At the time of writing this, the last 3 movies - Princess Adventure (2020) Lost Birthday (2021), and Big City Big Dreams (2021) have not been released yet and are only available on Netflix.

2. Next, we have the "tangential/other" Barbie movies. I have a VHS-to-DVD rip of Barbie and The Rockers: Out of This World and Barbie & The Sensations: Rockin' Back to Earth, which are the 2 80's specials that were supposed to kick off a TV series that fell through. Then there's Dreamtopia, the special that introduces the Dreamtopia web series and toy line. It aired once on Nickelodeon and then just disappeared until it got a DVD release as a 2-pack with Star Light Adventure. Then I have all 3 My Scene movies since that doll series was an offshoot of Barbie (also I know only 1 of them is full-length but they’re all called “movies” so shhh we’re moving on). I also have a copy of Toy Story 3 in here because I actually just lost the case for it (it's actually our family copy whoops) and Barbie is an important side character in it so I just put it with these.

3. The next section is the "Bonus Discs" for extra DVD content packaged with their respective movies. So far I have 2 things: Barbie and Her Animal Friends, which is a documentary exploring the kinds of animals that co-star in Island Princess, and a dance instructional video that teaches you a basic ballet routine set to "Keep on Dancing" from Pink Shoes. 

4. Finally, here are my tie-in DVDs. These are DVDs that were released to promote the Barbie movies and weren't packaged in with their respective movie(s). Sing Along with Barbie (2009) is a sing-along DVD similar to the Disney & Disney Princess lines. I was honestly pretty disappointed with this DVD; it only has 12 songs with 2 music videos and not that diverse of a line up despite how many movies and songs there were at the time. Anyway, I also have Learn to Dance Like a Princess which teaches dances from 12 Dancing Princesses and came with a dance mat, and Learn to Be a Princess which taught dances and songs from Island Princess, as well as how to do a princess makeover and how to act at a tea party.

And that’s everything so far! This is what else I’m currently looking for:

Section 1 - The 3 remaining Netflix movies. Dolphin Magic was also a Netflix-only release at first but eventually went to DVD, so I’m just assuming the next 3 will too.

Section 2 - VHS tapes (or VHS-to-DVD rip) of the Kelly Dream Club videos. There’s Kelly Dream Club that has 2 episodes (”Sparkle Fairy Surprise” & “The Three Princesses”) and Sweetsville that just contains the 1 episode looped twice. I’m also looking for all of the My Scene “Hanging Out”/”Mixin’ It” discs that serve as a pseudo-prequel to Jammin’ in Jamaica. Each girl has a disc that tells their side of the events, exploring different details like how the girls met Delancey, how Barbie and River got together, what Madison’s weird dream was, etc. I’ve already seen all of these wants on YouTube so I’m not in the biggest rush to get these I just think they’re cool.

Section 3 - There’s another Bonus Disc that came out for Pink Shoes, the short film Land of Sweets. It was only released for a limited time with Target exclusive copies of the movie, and now I can’t seem to find it anywhere. Again, though, it’s on YouTube so I have seen it, but this is probably my biggest want currently.

Section 4 - Not much else so far. Maybe the Mermaidia and Magic of the Rainbow DVD games?

Thanks for dropping the ask!

[winterscaptain]

redamancy.

Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: the moment you’ve all been waiting for...#5 makes an appearance! (thanks to kira @good-heavens-chris-evans for helping me not be a liar and gassing me up so i could post this tonight like i promised xoxo i love you so much) words: 5.56k warnings: descriptions of childbirth (nothing too gross or graphic), swearing, disgustingly sweet family content

summary: “what strange creatures brothers are!” - jane austen. au!august 2022

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist edited: january 9th, 2021

“Hey, Aaron?” You peer around the wall to the bedroom from your place on the master bath toilet. There isn't any urgency to your query, which would later make you both laugh until you can't breathe. 

Aaron has a book in his lap and reading glasses resting on his perfect nose, as is usual for bedtime. He turns a page. “Hm?”

“When you get to a good stopping point, can you grab the go bag?” 

“Yeah.” He gets up on autopilot, setting his book down. When he reaches the bedroom doorway, he freezes and turns over his shoulder “Wait. Why?”

“Oh, nothing extreme,” you say, your voice light. “My water just broke and I figured we might -“

Your name leaves his mouth in a laugh, and he trots back to you, helping you up and kneeling to assist you with your comfiest pair of pajama pants. You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder, stepping into one leg, then the other. Playfully, he snaps the stretchy waistband around you. He's still kneeling before you when he says, “You’re insane, you know that?”

You smile down at him and scrub your fingers through his hair. He leans into your touch like a cat and closes his eyes. “You are too, I’d like to point out.”

He sighs, kissing your belly and resting his cheek on it. “Never said I wasn’t.” He looks up at you. “Is it weird that I’m...a little sad? I’ve loved this part of our lives so much.”

You shake your head. “Me too, my love. And no, It isn’t weird.” 

He holds your hands as he stands and kisses your forehead. 

“We should probably tell Jack it's go time so he can help the little ones when they get up.”

Aaron pauses for a moment, thinking. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Isaac isn’t going to clearly remember last time, so he’ll probably be nervous, and this is totally new to the girls.” You reach up and he plants a kiss on your lips. You smile, pleased. 

A little contraction wave hits, and one side of your face screwed up in discomfort. 

Aaron kisses your cheek and says, “I’ll get the rest of the toiletries together.”

You nod, and padded down the hallway, your socked feet swishing a little against the hardwood floors. You knocked twice on Jack’s door, quietly, and waited for his groggy, “Yeah?”

With access granted, you open the door with a little smile, and Jack sits straight up.  You cross to his bed and sit down on the edge, opening your arm to him. Though he’s almost seventeen, he scrambled out from under the covers and tucked in close to you. 

“Your dad and I are headed to the hospital, and Aunt Jess and Em are on their way okay? If you need anything big, dad has his phone and -“

“Mom, we’ve done this before,” he says with a grin. “I know the drill.”

You push the hair off his forehead and kiss him. “I know it, but it makes me feel better. The little ones haven’t done this before, and they’ll probably be a little nervous. Please help your aunts so they aren’t driven to the drink by your sisters.”

He laughs a little, and surprises you by wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you close to him. “Be safe, mom. I love you.” 

Tears prick at your eyes, and you hold him tight. “I love you so much, Jack.”

“Are you scared?”

You press a hand to the back of his head, and he burrows into your neck. “Only a little. I know I’m older, which can make some things difficult, but I’ll always come home to you.”

He nods. “Promise?”

“I promise as much as I can.”

Jack pulls away and swipes quickly at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Hey,” your brow crinkles in lighthearted concern. “What’s gotcha?”

He shakes his head. “It’s stupid”

“I can guarantee you it’s not.” While still a bit of a boy, Jack looks very much a man in the dark, lit only by the light of the hallway as the wheels turn in his head. You pick up one of his hands, and he places your linked fingers over your belly. 

“I just - I don’t - Ugh. It’s morbid - Nevermind.”

You huff a laugh. “Baby, remember that one-third of this house hunts serial killers for a living. Nothing is morbid.”

A smile quirks at his lips, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes. “Just be okay? Please?”

You sober and nod, pressing a hand to his cheek. “Jack, do you think I would ever put you or your father into a position that can result in leaving either one of you?”

He shakes his head. “But things happen.”

“They sure do. Your dad will be with me the whole time and he can send you hourly updates if you want. I promise promise promise you’ll be in the loop, baby. I know you like to know.”

Your son’s eyes flicker to the doorway, where a shadow appears. It's Aaron, his backpack on and your go bag in his hand. 

“Ready?” 

You nod, stand (not without effort), and press another kiss to Jack’s head. “I love you bud. I’ll see you when our plus one arrives.” 

The plan is easy: Emily and Jessica are on their way over for the kids, and Dave and Spencer will relieve them after 12 hours. Derek, Savannah, JJ, and Will are only called when the baby arrives, to save them the angst of prematurely wrangling four children between them. 

The hospital is only eighteen minutes away, but with the way Aaron drives, it's more like ten. 

Time is fairly important - with your body accustomed to delivering babies, having done it twice before, there’s a very big chance active labor would only take a few hours, if that. 

Emily and Jess pull up to the house at the same time, both in their pajamas, holding their overnight bags.

“Ready?” Jess asks, kissing your cheek. 

You laugh. “Don’t have much of a choice now, do I?” 

Emily sets her things down and wordlessly hugs you. You wrap your arms around her as best you can. 

“Walk me out?” You ask. 

She slings an arm around your shoulders and you walk back out the front door. She situates you in the passenger seat, and you offer her a small smile. 

“You know,” she starts with a bit of a laugh, “every single time I’m just as nervous as I was when Henry was born.” 

You reach for her hand, and kiss the back of it. “Me too.” 

Everything goes according to plan after that. You sit in the car with your stopwatch while Aaron packs the car, checking the car seat base and putting everything that needs to go up with you in the trunk. Jess and Emily get set up on the couches in the living room, ready to settle in for the night. 

You're uncomfortable, sure, but it isn't unbearable yet. This is the tedious part. 

Miraculously, none of the little ones wake up in the commotion. The magic of white noise machines is never to be underestimated. 

“Time?” He calls from where he leans into the back of the car. He's handling the last details, in full field operations mode. 

You turn around. “5 minutes, 15 seconds.”

“Alright,” he looks up at you and grins widely. “Let’s go, baby.”

+++

Brienne breezes in and checks your charts and your dilation. “It’s go, time, here I think, Momma.”

You sigh and readjust. “Do I have to lay down?” Comfortable as you are, epidural all finished, you still feel a little restless. The alternative is worse - you’d delivered Isaac without any pain management, and thought it was the end of days. You didn’t, and won’t, make that mistake again. 

“Not necessarily, but if you’re going to shuffle around I would suggest a squat for the sake of your blood pressure.”

Another contraction hits, and it knocks the wind out of you. You squeeze Aaron’s hand so hard you fear you’ll break it, and inform him for the third time that morning that you hate his guts. 

“I know, honey. I’m sorry. I know. I’m the worst. Just breathe, okay?” He presses his forehead to your temple, giving you something to focus on. 

It sounds like you tell him to fuck off, but you aren’t sure. The wave crests and then falls, and you slump back against the pillows. “Okay, maybe I do want to lie down.” 

Everyone stifles a chuckle, but you didn't have it in you to be prideful. While you still have a few seconds, you double-check the plan. “Hey Brienne, we’re still good to tie today, right?” 

“Yes, ma’am!” she says, way too chipper for the small morning hour. She speaks quickly, knowing she has to finish her thought before your next contraction. “Soon as we’re all done, we’ll do a really quick procedure and everything will be squared away. If, for some reason, we have to do an emergency cesarean, we can do it right then as well.” 

Brienne is a great obstetrician - she never pulls punches when the news is difficult or stressful. Her straightforward nature immediately endeared her to your whole family. 

It's too much to think about, seeing as another contraction sneaks up on you as you ponder. It felt like only seconds since the last one. 

You're so tired. 

Brienne gestures to Aaron. They developed a bit of a language over the last two deliveries, and he presses a kiss to your temple. “You gotta push, babe.” 

“God, Fuck. I hate you, Aaron. Goddamn you. I’m never letting you near me ever again. Fuck.” A stream of expletives continues to leave you as you push and push and push. 

He only holds your hand and reminds you to breathe and push. He also tells you how much he loves you in between agreeing with your damning assessments. 

If he's honest, he always thinks your ire during childbirth is hilarious. It is kind of his fault, and he can't fathom the physical trauma, so he figures this is a fair role to fill while you do the hard work. 

On a small trough in your final set of contractions, you catch your breath enough to ask for his other hand. This is the hardest part, and it always makes you a little nervous. 

“Aaron, come here. Please.” He drapes his arm around your shoulders, and you grab his hand where it hangs by your collarbone. 

“You’re almost there, darlin’! We’re gonna be crowning here in a second.” You can't see Brienne, totally locked into her task, but her update is a relief. 

You lean heavily into Aaron and he rests his cheek against yours. While this is a shorter labor than both Isaac and the girls’, you're exhausted. Bone-deep tired and hot and cold all at once. 

“You’re doing so well. You’re a superhero. I love you so much.” He whispers his words against you, and you wail as another contraction hit.  Your choice of a walking epidural doesn’t knock the pain out entirely, and it still totally sucks. But again, better than the alternative.

“We’ve got a little Hotchner head! Keep going!” Brienne pats your knee and grins at you, and you follow instructions. “Do you want to catch, Dad?”

Before he can answer, you tell him, “If you move, I’ll kill you,” through your teeth. Aaron shrugs and looks over your head at Brienne, who suppresses a smile. 

There can't be any blood left in Aaron’s upper extremities at this point. In the midst of actively disliking him and your presence in your life in that particular moment, you're so grateful for him you could cry. 

Well, you could cry for a great number of reasons, but that’s definitely one of them. 

A few minutes and a pretty bad time later, a strong cry fills the room and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Aaron releases you as you unbutton your gown to expose your chest. 

“Your time to shine, Aaron.” Brienne holds up the umbilical cord clamp and snaps it together twice like a dad at a barbecue. With a smile, he stands and rounds the bed. 

You tried to peer over to see, but you're only able to see Aaron and Brienne.

A smile eats up his whole face. 

“Hi!” His voice pitches up, and you start to cry. 

You just love him so much your chest could just burst. Aaron is always the first person to greet your children as they come into the world, and he never fails to deliver a warm welcome. 

“Right here, right?” He looks to Brienne, and she nods. He cuts the cord, and the nurse crosses the room for measurements. 

Aaron returns to you and removes his own shirt, ready to take the little one while you finish delivery. After his crew neck is thrown to the side, he gathers you up in his arms again. 

There’s nothing you can do but melt into him. His skin is warm and he smells good, whereas your skin felt clammy and you probably smell like a horse’s ass. 

Brienne’s voice comes to you faintly from the other side of the room, iterating the specs of the newest addition. “Baby Boy Hotchner, 5:37am, August 13th, 8 pounds, 14 ounces, 21 inches.”

Okay I'm not crazy. He’s actually huge. 

Aaron scoots even closer as you lean away to get a better look. Brienne sets the still-squalling infant on your chest with gentle, warm hands. Your eyes blur with tears. Aaron isn't any better off, keeping one hand on you and another on your son, his own tears tracking quietly down his cheeks. 

Your son. 

Brienne sighs and says, “Alright, last bit here, and then you’re done.” 

You nod and Aaron takes him off your chest, leaning back with one hand under him and one hand over him. Fluid and other questionable grossness be damned, he ducks his head and presses his cheek to his son’s head, an ineffable joy radiating through his body. 

Aaron’s hands almost completely cover him - with his little knees tucked to his chest, he looks like an angry little loaf of bread. 

The afterbirth is the easy part, but then it was before, too. All the Hotchner kids are massive - even the girls were bigger for twins. 

You always make fun of Aaron for “ripping me to shreds, and not in a fun way.” 

(Okay, fine. Maybe a little in a fun way. Sometimes.)

There’s a little more pressure, and you look down at Brienne’s outline behind that infernal green medical paper shit. “How’s it going down there?”

“I’m getting these suckers tied off so we don’t have any more happy accidents. Don’t mind me.” 

Aaron stifles a laugh and you roll your eyes, still weepy. The nurse passes him a warm, wet washcloth, and he begins to wipe the ick from his son’s skin. 

Brienne finishes up and helps you get adjusted with ice packs and that excellent postpartum underwear. When she's satisfied, she removes her gloves and presses a hand to your bare shoulder. “Beautiful work, momma. He’s perfect.” 

You put a shaky hand over hers. “Thanks.” A little watery laugh leaves you. Ouch. “I’ll miss you.” 

And it's true. Brienne has been a semi-permanent fixture in your life for close to six years and has become a friend. You wouldn’t have any reason to see her again outside of regular check-ups. 

She squeezes your shoulder twice. “You ever need anything, you know who to call. Let someone know when you’re ready to put his name down, and they’ll finish off the birth certificate.” 

With that, she shepherds the nurse out the door, and you're alone with Aaron. 

“So,” you say. 

He smiles, his eyes still trained on the little body who has quickly quieted and is snoozing on his chest. “So?”

“Gimme that.” 

His laugh is warm, and he places little one on your chest again. You prod him awake, feeling only a touch bad about it, and offer him a snack. He latches right away, and you tip your head back in sheer relief. 

“Thank God.” 

Aaron nods in agreement. “That’s one less thing to worry about.” He shakes his head as if shaking something off - no doubt remembering the meltdowns night after night trying to nurse Isaac. 

Little one is still naked to the world, so you point at the little blue blanket folded across the room. “Can you grab that for me?” 

Aaron just looks at you for a second, as if seeing you for the first time.  “Of course.” 

He crosses the room, throws the blanket over his shoulder, and grabs a diaper. While the little one is distracted, he deftly maneuvers the diaper into place and drapes the blanket over him to keep the chill off while maintaining skin-to-skin.

You pull the blanket back a little so you can see his squishy little face. “Can you call Jack?” 

“Do we want to call him now? It’s pretty early.” Aaron leans over to his backpack and pulls his phone out, finding a couple requests for updates from Jess. First things first, he turns the camera on you, and you give him a thumbs up. You detach the little one from your nipple for a second, framing his face with the blanket. Aaron gets a good photo of a yawn and fires both pictures off to the BAU group chat before checking Jess’s messages. 

4:12am How we doin? 4:18am Jack’s up with me. He can’t sleep. Em is dead to the world - she gave up about an hour ago. Give us an update when you can. 

6:02am He’s adorable!!! He’s got your nose though, which is unfortunate. 6:02am Kidding. Maybe. 

Aaron laughs a little, and he looks at you. “He’s up with Jess.”

You nod. “Go ahead and call him. He’ll worry, honey.” 

He nods, and dials the second number on his speed dial. Jack picks up on the first ring. “Dad?”

“Hey, bud.” Aaron can't hide the smile in his voice. “Your brother is here and your mom wants to talk to you.” 

“Can I come see you?” Jack’s voice wavers a little, and Aaron knows it's relief, rather than anxiety. Much like his son, he was more than a little concerned for your safety. Now that it's over, he can finally relax. 

That alone is enough to make anyone emotional. 

Aaron checks his watch. “Are you too tired to drive?” 

“No, no. I’m good. I slept a little after you guys left.” he's quiet for a second. “Can you hand me to mom?”

“Sure, bud.” Aaron nods at you and you smile. He starts to pass the phone over to you then -

“Oh, dad?” Jack’s voice is only a little urgent. 

Aaron pulls the phone back to his ear. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, bud. I want to talk to Aunt Jess when you’re done with mom, so don’t hang up, okay?” 

With that, he hands you the phone and fresh tears roll down your cheeks. You know this part comes in waves - the emotions. Your hormones are in shambles, and you forget how intense it is every time. 

“Hey, Jack.” 

“Are you okay how did it go what happened?” All the questions come out in a rush.

You chuckle. Ouch. “Slow down there, kiddo. We’re just fine. It went really smoothly, but the last part happened kind of all at once and I denied your father personal freedom and geographic agency, so we didn’t get a chance to update you.” 

He laughs, and it warms you. “It’s okay. I’m really excited to meet him.” There’s a shuffle, and you assume it's his keys. 

Baby boy is finished eating, just nosing around your chest at this point. You shift, and Hotch catches the phone and holds it to your ear so you can use two hands, bringing little one’s head right under your collarbone, tucking him up again. “He’s excited to meet you, too.”

After Aaron has a chance to debrief and game-plan with Jess (“If you bring the little ones over here before 10am, nobody will have any fun.”), Jack is on his way. 

In the meantime, Aaron sets his phone on the side table and sits on the edge of your bed. “Are we sticking to the name we picked? Does it feel right?”

You nod. “I think so. What do you think?”

You do your best to inch yourself over - Ouch - so Aaron can have a little more space. He stretches out on the bed next to you, on his side with his arm folded under his head. A very large hand covers yours, pulling the blanket down to little one’s chin. 

“He looks like you,” he says. 

You snort. Ouch. “Don’t lie. All your damn kids look like you.”

“Alright, fine.” He relents with a wide smile. “He looks like me.” 

He's quiet for a moment, tracing the apple of little one’s cheek with his finger.  His smile morphs into something soft, pensive. It's the look he always has when he's in awe of his children. “What do you think, little man? Is your name Elliot David? How’s that sitting with you?”

The Elliot David in question just makes contented little staccato sounds from his chest, his brown eyes looking here and there, surprisingly alert. He lets out a little cough, and both you and Aaron let out an, “Oh!” simultaneously in that drawn-out way parents do when their kids surprise themselves. 

You look at him and stifle a laugh just for the sake of your exhausted muscles. Aaron’s smile soon turns shaky, and tears fall onto his elbow where it rests under his head. He takes a big breath, and it catches on the way out. 

“Oh, honey. Come here.” 

You adjust again, bringing the head of the bed down with the little remote. As you recline, you only need one hand to keep Elliot secure. You raise your other arm, and Aaron scoots under it, resting his head in the crook of your chest and shoulder. He snaps some buttons on your gown in the absent-minded interest of keeping Jack relatively unscarred. 

Aaron’s bare arm is warm under your fingers. You trace little patterns into his skin as he stares at the back of his son’s head. Elliot’s impossibly small hand catches Aaron’s finger in that death grip only babies seem to have. 

Aaron doesn’t care he's nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, missing a shirt, and really hungry. The only things that matter in this moment are right here in front of him. 

There’s no need to speak. 

A nurse stops by and drops off the bedside cradle, speaking quietly. “You can put him in here when you’re ready to get some rest.” 

You look up and thank him. “Oh, and we’d like to finish the birth certificate in a few hours. Will that be alright?”

He nods. “Just fine.” He checks your charts and leaves a few moments later. 

Soon after, the door slips open, and Jack’s head pops in. “Hi!” He stage-whispers. “Lemme see him.” 

Aaron is stuck where he is, still locked in by Elliot’s grip, so Jack crosses to your other side, pulling up a chair as close as he can get it. 

There is a sense of finality to this meeting. Elliot is your last child, and this is the last time the Three Musketeers will sit together, meeting the newest member of their family. 

“Oh man, Mom. He’s so cute.” Jack coos and ducks so he's eye-level with his baby brother. He traces a finger along Elliot’s tiny, straight nose. When he rests his head on your upper arm, you kiss his head. All three of you sit there until the sun rises, watching Elliot fall asleep. Aaron follows suit eventually, his breath fanning slow and even across your chest. 

+++

The three of you are relatively well-rested by the time your family comes to bombard you. 

Elliot woke twice in the early morning - once to be fed and the other to be changed. Jack retreated to the recliner after a certain point, and Aaron threw on a sweatshirt and curled up next to you for the duration. They're still out cold, while you rest somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. 

One of the nurses on rotation pops her head in. You wave at her with the tips of your fingers. 

“Your family is here to see you.” 

That wakes you up. You make an ‘eek’ face. “All of them?”

She nods. “Three at a time?” 

“Please.” You reach over and pick up a neatly-swaddled Elliot and tuck him into your elbow. You check the corner, where Jack still sleeps. You're sure a train could drive through the room and he’d still be out. That kid has sleeping superpowers - being sixteen only helped.  

Jess is first, holding the girls’ hands while Isaac trails a little behind. 

You put a finger to your lips and point to Elliot. “He’s sleeping, so you have to be really quiet, okay?”

Caroline clambers up on the bed with a few reminders to “be gentle with Mom and don’t lean on her too much,” and peers over you. “Is Daddy sleeping?”

You look to your right, and sure enough, Aaron is out like a light again, performance evaluations on his chest, his hand relaxed around his pen. “Yeah, baby. Daddy’s sleeping because he's awake for a really long time helping me with Elliot.” 

Newly reminded of the main event, Caro plants herself by your knee while Sophia sits by your hip, taking the good real estate. You look over at Jess and wink. She slips out, closing the door softly behind her. 

You scoot over so you're flush with Aaron’s side. “Come on up here, bubba.” 

Isaac gives you a little smile and perches at your side. “He’s so small.” 

“Yep. And look at that,” you brush your fingers down Elliot’s nose and tap his cupid bow before doing the same to Isaac. “You have the same nose.” 

Isaac smiles and raises a tentative hand. He hesitates right before he reaches the dark brown peach fuzz that sits in unmanageable cowlicks on Elliot’s head. 

“You can touch him, bub. Just be gentle.” Isaac’s hand smooths over Elliot’s head with next-to-no pressure. “Do you remember when Sophia and Caroline were born?” 

Isaac nods. “It was super cool.”

“It was super cool.” You kiss his forehead and adjust your hold on Elliot. “Sophia, love, can you hand me the pillow that’s by Daddy’s knee.” 

She nods and very carefully presents it to you. You show her how to stuff it under your elbow so you can relax while supporting Elliot’s head. Caro is clearly enamored, her eyes never leaving Elliot’s face. 

“Babies are really delicate,” you remind a wiggling Sophia. “Their heads are too heavy for their little necks, so sometimes they need a little help.” 

At the mention of ‘help,’ Aaron’s eyes snap open. “What’s up?”  

You suppress a laugh as he realizes all of his kids surround him like the children of the corn. He presses a hand to his face, recovering. “Oh. Hi.”

Caro beams at him, and he beams right back. He puts his files down and pats his lap. “Come here, my little love. I’ve got a really good view over here.” 

She very mindfully picks her way over your shins and into her father’s lap. He lifts her so she's flush to his chest. His cheek presses into her hair, and he shows her where to find Elliot’s little baby toes under the blanket. 

“Are his feet very very small?” Caroline’s whispered question almost makes Aaron cry again. 

“Yes. They are very very small. So are his hands. Here, look.” 

He reaches over and peels back a layer of blanket, exposing one of Elliot’s (very very) small hands, pressed flat against the fabric. Aaron wiggles his finger under it and presents it to the kids. “If you look really carefully, you all have the same hands.” 

All at once, three pairs of hands appear, flipping their palms up and down as each one individually assesses the similarities. 

“And if you look even closer,” he says, flipping his palm down, but keeping Elliot’s hand aloft, “I have the same hands as all of you, too.”

Caroline looks up at him, awestruck and he nods. She places her hand on the back of Aaron’s and - lo and behold - they're the same shape, just significantly different sizes. 

Satisfied, Sophia drops her hands, leaning on them to get a closer, yet stable, look at Elliot’s fingers. 

She gasps, but to her credit, keeps her voice soft as she says, “Look at his tiny little nails!” 

“Lemme see!” Aaron supports Caro as she thrusts her body forward to get a better look. 

Jack stirs in the corner, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. In full voice, he says, “Oh, hey guys.” 

Three big shushes come from the kids, and it takes everything in you to keep your laugh locked away. You keep your eyes trained on Sophia (who looks downright offended at Jack’s volume) knowing if you look at Aaron you’d be done for. 

Jack makes the same ‘eek’ face you made earlier. “Sorry, sorry.” He creeps over, standing behind Sophia and putting his hands on her shoulders. She giggles quietly as he drops close to her ear. “Cute, huh?”

She wrinkles her nose. “He looks a little funny.” 

“He’ll start to look more like a person in a few weeks,” Aaron says with a smile. “You looked pretty funny the day you're born, maybe even funnier.”

He winks at her, and she dissolves into a fit of giggles again, leaning back against Jack. As she did so, her brother wrapped her in his arms and rested his chin on her head. 

Isaac runs his hand over Elliot’s hair, gentle and repetitive. He, like Jack did hours earlier, rests his head against your shoulder. You press your cheek to the crown of his head, soaking it in. 

“I like him.” 

A smile breaks your face in half, and you peer around to look at Isaac’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s cool.” 

Your bottom lip disappears into your mouth as you fight back tears, still ready to flow without fair warning. You don’t want to scare them. “I’m so glad you think so, bubba.” 

Elliot has once again taken Aaron’s finger hostage, and it takes more than a little negotiation to get him unwrapped and tucked back into his blanket. You have no idea how Elliot manages to sleep through all the commotion, but then again, he’ll have to get used to it. 

Jess pokes her head back in. “Ready for some lunch?”

Four heads whip around and nod vigorously. Aaron deposits Caro on the floor, while Isaac presses a heart-wrenching kiss to Elliot’s head before gingerly getting his feet back under him. Jack just lifts Sophia and she hangs off his hip, only a little too big. 

He walks to you and kisses your cheek. “I love you, Mom.”

You bring your hand up to his temple, the back of your fingers brushing his hair back. “I love you too, my Jack.” 

One side of his mouth turns up in a smile, and he leaves the room with Sophia, leading the rest of the pack down the hallway. 

+++

It's safe to say Dave immediately covets his namesake. You plop Elliot into his arms right away, and say, “This is Elliot David Hotchner. He’s been very excited to meet you.”

Dave full-on cries, letting the tears just fall onto his shirt as he bounces Elliot all around the room, talking to him about all the ways he’ll spoil him rotten. 

It’s easy to name him after Rossi. When you finally decided on a couple of first names, it was a no-brainer to pair them up with David. He’s your family, like they all are, but you're acutely aware that Elliot will have the smallest amount of time with Dave, no matter how much time that will be. 

When Dave is ready to give him up, he reluctantly passes him back to Aaron. Dave crosses to you while Aaron offers Elliot a knuckle to mouth around on. 

Dave kisses your cheeks and embraces you. He leans back to look at you, keeping his hands on your face. You cover his hands with your own and close your eyes. 

You're taking a lot of mental pictures today. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you're sure you see Aaron’s one-handed camera work out of the corner of your eye. 

“Thank you, bellissima.” 

“You’ve more than earned it,” you remind him.  

“Dealing with you two for fifteen years? You’re damn right I have.”

+++

a joyful future tag list:  @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @fics-ilike @ange-must-die @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @dr-reid-ismyspiritanimal @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @saintd0lce @good-heavens-chris-evans @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @vintagecaptainspidey @micaiahmoonheart @ogmilkis @thatreallyis-americas-ass @marvels-agents100 @newtslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @joemazzello-imagines @pinkdiamond1016 @sebbybaby0 @pan-pride-12 @hotchlinebling @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @emmice9 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @bauslut @yourlovelynewsbian @sparklingkeylimepie @aili28 @kingandrear @reader4027 @spnobsessedmemes @rogers-mouth @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @hotchnersgoddess @buckybau @phoenixfyre374 @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandi-ass-prentiss @thatinspiredgirl @songbird400 @dontkissthewriter @ellyhotchner @a-dorky-book-keeper @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @ahopelessromantic @violentvulgarvolatile @andreasworlsboring101 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @synonymforlame @lcvischmitt

[a-yarn-of-purple-prose]

The Chasm Delving Highlight Reel, part 1

I've been going through the Genshin Impact tag at AO3 chronologically (one week's worth of fics at a time) for the last few months.

My name for it is Chasm Delving, because going through search results feels a lot like diving down into the darkness and finding the odd treasure, by which I mean I love it (this person has willingly and lovingly got 100% in every single region of the game map, thank you very much).

After some hesitation over posting the fics I loved here, I ended up dropping a bunch of links to a kind stranger on reddit, so what the hell, y'all are getting links as well.

This got a bit long, so I'll put a cut here. Keep reading for the links!

First things first, understand my rules:

This is a completely personal project, the search is filtered according to my preferences. I'm ace. While I do not filter out explicit content from my searches, the only kind of smut I recommend is either amazingly written or very romantic, because I'm a romantic bitch.

At this time I'm only going over completed works and even then only what catches my eye. If you think I missed an obvious gem, do drop me a line, askbox is open.

(ongoing fics will get their own separate recs posts)

You won't see crossovers or modern AUs here, unless they are very exceptional. I offer no real explanation, those are just genres that don't vibe with me. Same thing goes for omegaverse, but you could tell that from the "I don't really read smut" on the first bullet point.

I have no issues at all with any ships, but I have no interest in Aether as the Traveler, so don't expect him to show up.

(if you, personally, have issues with ships, don't click on links to those fics. I'll put descriptions with warnings and ships. Don't worry, I'm not trying to fool anyone into reading something they won't like)

I'm doing this chronologically, starting january 2021. I'll eventually go back and take a look at 2020 fics, but for now this is what it is.

Since the characters are released the way they are, fics about them tend to show up all at once, then peter out over time. This is quite normal.

I'll cap each post to 10 fics because this here is very long.

That said, here you go:

The Chasm Delving Highlight Reel, part 1

This dive has fics first posted from January through May 2021. Most fics here are one-shots, but not all. I do not take responsibility for sleepless nights.

Ad Infinitum, by HAL_berd

Rated M

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Characters: Diluc and Kaeya, as well as many Mondstadt characters

Ships: Diluc/Kaeya

General vibe: heavy angst

Trigger warning: suicide mentions, a whole lot of psychological pain

Technically a 2020/12 fic, but I couldn't leave this out. This is a time-loop story (honored tradition) and I'll let you guess which day Diluc's looping.

This fic had me sobbing, I'm warning you.

call me "lover boy", by wishroll

General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Tartaglia, Zhongli, Traveler

Ships: Tartaglia/Zhongli

General vibe: top quality fluff

Trigger warning: none

Incredibly cute romance. Childe realises his feelings and decides he just wants to kiss Zhongli, but the world seems to be against it. Short, sweet and fun.

by a love so much refined, by Star_on_a_Staff

General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Characters: Vlad, Nadia, other Fatui and Special Guest Star our boy Childe

Ships: Vlad/Nadia

General vibe: fluff, sweet and comforting

Trigger warning: none

A sweet romance about Vlad and Nadia, the porters at Northland Bank. I'm a sucker for NPC stories and this one is beautiful. Amazing prose as well, with great use of letters as a framing device.

You, Other You, Me, and a Case of Snezhnayan Fire Water, by Kairi_of_Knives

Rated Teen and Up

Warnings: Graphic Depicticons of Violence

Characters: Lumine, Venti, Kaeya

Ships: gen fic here babies

General vibe: drunken shenanigans and cuddling with a side of found family

Trigger warning: alcohol use

A vibe, more than a story. Just Lumine & Venti & Kaeya being drunken buds. It's funny, sweet and touching.

not the place where you came from, by Laylah

General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Fatui skirmishers. Yes. They have names and all.

Ships: Anemoboxer Vanguard/Geochanter Bracer

General vibe: hurt/comfort with a side of found family

Trigger warning: none

An 100% wholesome tale about your regular mobs being people that love and care for each other. It's perfect.

Call my name in the night, by DefenestrationProtestation

Rated Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Diluc, Lumine

Ships: Diluc/Lumine

General vibe: not quite porn with plot, but not without it as well.

Trigger warning: none

Dilumi smut because of course I read Dilumi smut. This one makes the cut because it's a perfect little noir thing. I'm awed by the level of Marlowe pastiche going on here. Also, it's quite hot.

complications with mortality, by amorilyy

General Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death (but not in a violent way)

Characters: Hu Tao, Zhongli

Ships: none | gen fic

General vibe: time's advance is inexorable, but life is beautiful

Trigger warning: none

Hu Tao & Zhongli through time. It's sad, but good sad, I wouldn't even class it as angst. This fic filled me with this sweet nostalgic feeling and made me cry. Enjoy.

Rules and Loose Suggestions, by Kayoi1234

Rated Teen and Up

Warnings: Major Character Death (an OC), No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Treasure Hoarders, Qiqi, Mountain Shaper, Zhongli

Ships: none | gen fic

General vibe: crack treated seriously, by which I mean treated with love and respect

Trigger warning: none

Remember what I said about fics about mobs? Here you go, this one is with Treasure Hoarders.

This fic has a lovely framing device with the rules and manages to express so much character and situation in a couple sentences. Honestly, rambly-me is very jealous.

melt (speak or forever hold your peace), by anatakana

Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Diluc, Kaeya

Ships: Diluc/Kaeya

General vibe: hot, angsty and VERY smutty

Trigger warning: none

Chances are you've already read this fic, but in case you haven't, it's a character study by means of smut. Listen, I understand how it sounds, but it's a lesson in writing porn in character.

Complex with bitter notes; has a sweet finish, by LittleWhiteTie

Rated Teen and Up

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Diluc & Kaeya

Ships: none | gen fic

General vibe: hurt/comfort but for emotional hurt, angsty but with a soft end (as it says on the title.)

Trigger warning: none

This one is very "Diluc & Kaeya have an important conversation", which is a common theme in this fandom, but the vibe and style here are immaculate. They are both so emotionally constipated, your honor.

💜💜💜

This is it for now. I have a lot more recs, but I'll post them 10 at a time and edit this post with the next link once I do.

Part two!

[vindicatedvirgil]

moceit week 2021: day 6 / in your strong embrace

summary: janus is always cold, but thankfully he has a very strong boyfriend to keep him warm.

ship: (pre-established) romantic moceit

other characters involved: n/a

word count: 459

warnings: brief mention of food

this was written for moceit week 2021, for the day 6 prompt of “warmth”

@moceit-appreciation-week @moceit @doublejoywilson

yes i am very touch starved i would like to be either of these characters in this scenario please and thank you

[first] [last] [next] [moceit week masterpost] [read on AO3]

[all writing masterlist]

---

“Patton,” Janus whined, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. He held his arms tightly around himself, a pout on his lips. “I’m cold.” Patton, who was stirring something in a big bowl, stopped what he was doing and wiped his hands off on a towel. He spun around, then took two large steps towards his small boyfriend.

“Let me warm you up, baby,” he said softly, his arms quickly wrapping around Janus, pulling him into an embrace. Janus let out a contented sigh, his arms wrapping around Patton’s neck, the warmth of his boyfriend enveloping him.

“You’re so warm,” Janus mumbled, a fog of relaxation overcoming him. “Can I use you as a heater?” He asked sleepily, and Patton chuckled, nuzzling his face into Janus’ curly hair. Janus pushed himself as close to Patton as possible, face resting against Patton’s chest.

“I’m gonna set you on the counter for just a moment, alright? I’ve got to let this bread rise and I have a few chores I need to get done, but you can stay wrapped in my arms all day if you’d like,” the taller man said, and Janus nodded into Patton’s chest. Patton responded by lifting Janus up and carrying him further into the kitchen, then set down his small boyfriend onto the counter.

“Don’t let go yet,” Janus gripped the front of Patton’s shirt into his fist, wrapping his legs tightly around Patton’s waist, trying to sap as much heat as possible from Patton’s body. “You’re so soft and warm, I don’t want to let go.”

“Okay, just a bit more before I have to let go, but I promise as soon as I finish what I’m doing I’ll have my arms right back around you, ok?” Patton’s voice was slow and sweet, like honey dripping into hot tea, and it soothed Janus into nodding softly.

Patton kept his promise; he let go of Janus after a few moments, then quickly finished with the bread dough, finally settling it into a bowl and covering it with a towel. Once he had wiped off the sink and cleaned his hands, he slotted himself right back between Janus’ legs, burying his face in his boyfriend’s neck.

“Warm,” Janus murmured. “Love you.”

“Love you too, baby. Hold on tight, I gotta change out the laundry,” Patton instructed, and Janus looped his arms around Patton’s neck and legs around his waist, and Patton easily lifted him up and carried him around the house, to the laundry room.

“Snuggle after?” Janus asked softly as he sat atop the dryer, watching Patton move the laundry from one appliance to the next. Patton smiled softly at Janus, nodding.

“Yeah. Snuggle time sounds good.” He leaned in, allowing their lips to press together.

[just-another-ficwriter]

Holidate - Part Two

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader

Words: 1600ish

Warning: Mentions of sex, alcohol, overbearing parents

Summary: Tired of being alone on holidays, Sweet Pea and Y/N decide to be each other’s plationic plus-ones all year round. What could go wrong?

Notes: Next update will be Valentine’s Day!

New Years Eve 2021

Sweet Pea’s still a little confused by it all when he finds himself waiting for her outside Thistle House five days later.

He’d laughed for a solid five minutes while she’d explained the whole thing, picked at little flaws in her otherwise perfect plan, would anyone really believe they were together just like that, and then found him self instantly saying yes when she asks again despite it all.

Maybe it was the hopeful look in her eyes. Maybe it’s because he knew deep down anything is better than spending New Years Eve alone.

Or maybe it was simply the attractive woman asking him on a fake date with no strings attached, an easy solution to both their problems that might actually work.

He’d nodded in agreement when she’d suggested they put some rules in place, invisible barriers to help this run as smoothly as possible.

“No sex.”

“Not a problem.” He leans over the table, shoving a fistful of fries into his mouth to stifle a groan. It hadn’t meant to come out like that. Y/N huffs, only mildly offended that he’d so easily accepted. She flicks him off in response, a roll of her eyes. “Okay rule number two, this isn’t some New Years romance, no falling in love with me at midnight.”

She snorts, directs the curly fry away from her mouth and at his head instead. “I’ll try my best.”

“Speaking of midnight.” He raises an eyebrow as a flicker of curiosity erupts in his mind while he tries to guess where this is going. “I’m not kissing you, fake date or not.”

He laughs, a wicked grin pulling at his lips, a quick wink that’s almost missed as he reaches for the fry basket once again. “We’ll see.”

“Sorry I’m late.” He turns to see her rushing up behind, hand pulling down at the hem of her dress, not that it was doing much. “My Mom became insufferable when I said I had a date.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but can’t quite pick the right words. Y/N’s fast to notice the way his eyes widen, watches them slowly travel from her face down to her legs and back up again.

She’ll give him this much, she thinks, she is his date after all, and she’ll be the first to admit the dress is out of the ordinary for her - a pale pink glittery number that stops short on her thighs and shows a little more cleavage than she’s used to.

“Anyone told you it’s rude to stare?” She hides the warmth darkening her cheeks with a smirk, laughs when his eyes snap back to hers a little embarrassed and doesn’t let herself think too much about the shadow of a smile on his lips.

“You look hot.” So maybe he’d had a few beers before hand, and maybe he’s a little buzzed, but Y/N looks gorgeous and he didn’t have a problem telling her that. There wasn’t a need for a filter tonight, he didn’t need to impress her like this thing between them was real. She just scoffs, shoves playfully at his shoulders. “What? I can say that because you’re my date.”

An eye roll on her behalf, an arm looping through his, a grin forming on both their faces as they move forward. “I suppose you don’t look too bad yourself.”

They barely make it a few steps insides before Toni spots them, waving with her free hand while a cocktail occupies her other. “Y/N!”

“I’m so glad you made it.” The two jump into a hug, squeezing at each other shoulders while Sweet Pea distracts himself with the giant Christmas tree that stands tall in the centre of the room. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything like it.

Toni almost does a double take when she sees him, pulling back from Y/N so she can look between them both. “Wait a second- did you two come together?”

“Kind of.” Sweet Pea shrugs like it’s not important, exchanges a worried glance down at Y/N. If anyone’s going to see through this whole farcade it’s Toni.

“Huh.” He watches her whole face light up at the idea, her arm now wrapped lazily around Y/N’s waist, it’s easy to see how close they are. “I never saw that coming, I should have introduced you sooner.”

-

“Okay look at those pair.” Sweet Pea tilts his beer bottle, gesturing towards the edge of the makeshift dance floor where a couple moved wildly together, bodies grinding in a way that was almost too inappropriate for public.

She feels like she’s intruding just by looking in their direction. “A little raunchy for a public event don’t you think?”

“Definitely a new couple starting out, all that passion-“ She shuddered while he smirks, knocks back what’s left in her wine glass before tapping at his shoulder and nodded in the opposite direction, continuing their game of people watching. It had been a fun way to pass the time; he’d made her laugh, and it was much better than following her sisters or Toni around, miserably surrounded by other couples.

“What about him?” Sweet Pea follows her gaze, eyes landing on a man that keeps wringing his hands nervously, a shine of sweat on his forehead as he anxiously speaks to the girl next to him.

“Easy.” He raises the beer to his lips, takes a quick sip while she waits for him to elaborate. “He’s proposing at midnight.”

“You think?”

“Look at him, he’s a wreck.” She laughs, about to add that maybe he just doesn’t like to dance when something else catches his eye and he’s pointing off to the side. “Now, how about those two?”

Y/N cranes her neck, tries to find the couple he’s talking about and almost falls off her chair in disbelief. Stood at the back of the room, almost concealed by darkness, making out like two teenagers- “Oh my god that’s my Mom!”

Sweet Pea chokes in shock, narrowing his eyes, straining to get a better look. “Is that FP?”

Y/N groans beside him, the sound audible over the heavy bass of the music pulsing around the room. “I need another drink.”

-

“She just doesn’t get it.” A few hours in and Y/N starts to slur slightly, red wine nearly spilling from its glass as she waves it around frantically, trying to get her point across. “Maybe I don’t want to settle down.”

“You don’t?” He eyes her from behind his glass of whiskey. An uneasy feeling settles over his chest, one that shouldn’t be there. He shouldn’t care if she wants to settle down or not.

“I mean not right now.” She shrugs, and her whole body slumps. There’s more to the story there, something she isn’t sharing but Sweet Pea decides not pry. Not that she gives him a chance to anyway. “I know it’s only because she cares, but sometimes I just wish she wouldn’t. You know?”

He nods, and for the first time that night a silence falls between them and Sweet Pea finds his heart sinking at the look at her face. So he leans over, plucks the glass from hand, and replaces it with his own. “Dance with me?”

“Lead the way.” She laughs, letting him yank her towards the dance floor. Normally she wouldn’t bother, she wasn’t exactly know for dancing at these things, but all the alcohol definitely helped. And as they both giggle, getting used to spinning each other in circles and jumping around, they music starts to slow.

Sweet Pea doesn’t hesitate, wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her towards his chest. She doesn’t register the countdown sounding around them, content with swaying back and fore, her head on his shoulder. But then he spins her out in front, pulls her back into him with a gentle tug just as the crowd yells ‘one’ and kisses her without thinking.

Her lips still tingle with the rule break when they pull away. “What was that?”

He nods subtly over her shoulder, asks her not to turn around to suddenly before explaining. “You’re Mom’s watching, gotta make it believable right?”

She feels a little queasy.

-

The Uber ride back to her apartment is filled with an unbearable silence. The kiss had thrown things off balance between them, and when she’d awkwardly offered to find her own way home he’d refused, insisted on making sure she got home safe.

“So tonight wasn’t awful.” He states, teasing her. If the car wasn’t so dark, he’d have seen the way she blushed.

“Yeah it was fun.” She agrees, and then they’re quiet again, a tension growing thick between them.

It isn’t until the car stops outside her home that he speaks up once more. “So uh- do you think you’d need Holidate for Valentine’s Day?”

“That’s in February.” She gasps, shaking her head at the idea. “Who says we won’t have found someone real by then.”

Her words make his throat burn. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Plus FP throws this whole family day thing for the workers at the garage, would be nice to show up with someone that isn’t my best friend and his boyfriend...”

“Well then, I have your number-“ She reaches for the door handle, pushes it open and steps into the cold night air. “I’ll text you if I’m free.”

And then she’s gone, a door slamming shut in her wake and Sweet Pea’s left wondering if he’ll ever see her again.

Sweet Pea Masterlist

Forever Taglist: @p-marie-sp

Sweet Pea Taglist: @80sand90simagine @wildberryyyy @hopelesslylosttheway @be-gay-do-crime-cutie

Holidate Taglist: @popcrone818 @dcnerd98

[scoundrels-in-love]

Climb on your tears like a ladder to a rose, baby (There's a time to rest, There's a time to move on)

Three times Brienne doesn't have a birthday party and the one she does.

--

Brienne-centric | Angst and Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Grief | No Major Character Death | Birthday blues | And gradual growth | Happy, Hopeful ending

Also on AO3.

--

Disclaimer: This work is in no way or form related to author's personal life or personal wish fulfillment. /s

That said, early Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you for sharing so much love and creativity, whether in procuring new content or amazing comments, or pressing that kudos button!  Best of wishes in the 2021, may we all find healing or at least a glimpse of hope it is possible.

I

Brienne is ten and there is a movie on the large, chunky TV that sometimes needs to be smacked to work right. Specifically, there's a birthday party scene, complete with pretty banners and colorful balloons in shapes she didn't know were sold, and they're singing Happy Birthday and the child is blowing out birthday candles. Making a wish. The girl shares it with her friend later and Brienne scoffs, because everyone knows you're not supposed to say your wishes out loud. (That way, your dad's eyes don't get sad when he knows he can't fulfill it.)

Other than that, she doesn't really think about it much, never has. It's as foreign to her as the palm trees and sipping juice from a coconut. She supposes it's real to someone, somewhere, but not to her. People of Tarth have a different song to sing, but most of them don't sing any at all, nor did they blow out candles before they picked the tradition up from Mainlanders recently.

At least, that's what Brienne thinks. It's not like she's been to any birthday parties. But that's what her dad has told her of how he grew up. And that's how it continues in their household.

She gets a tight hug and a kiss on top of her head and a few presents, and a cake that doesn't have a shiny candle in it, but tastes just as good.

It's good and it's warm, when winter winds run hungry for snow to chase, and she doesn't wonder if she'd be like that kid in the other movie, the one to whose birthday party no one came.

She doesn't.

II

She is twenty three and she is picking out her own birthday cake. Her eyes skip over the number candles, because she's far too old for that kind of thing, and she doesn't even want the cake. She just doesn't want to think how sad he'd be if she didn't buy it. It’s her first after his passing and the thought of his worry is sharp. It’s never been deserved, but inescapable, because that’s what parents do, except she never managed to do what children are supposed to - to provide and take care so the final years are long and kind.

The cake blurs slightly as she exits the store, across the street from her apartment complex that seems to have lost the last of its colors in these winter months and the few strung up Sevenmas lights highlight that.

Brienne thinks her peers would call her insane if she told them she thinks winter in King's Landing is a lot more bleak than the ones she spent on Tarth. There is sharp quality to the contrast between the pale sky and darkening, rich color of water, even the jagged cliff edges stretching toward the horizon. It keeps one vigilant, wakeful. Here, the mild autumn grows more dulled and wraps everyone in an unassuming cocoon that slowly drifts toward spring, which finally hatches not quite rested.

But they have called her uglier things, too.

"Words are wind," her dad would tell her, but the wind isn't the same here, it doesn't take anything with it, only swirls dust around her. Brienne chokes on it, chokes on the echo as well.

Her father had loved the best he could, loved her truly, and if that rent ravines in her ribs, prone to collapsing in on themselves until she stacks them up again like a house of cards, then what hope of being loved gently, wholly, purposefully does she have?

She misses being hugged and told it's okay even when it's clearly a lie. She misses the certainty that her own love wasn't selfish. "He is in a better place now," they had told her, as if it didn't mean she had failed him utterly, repeatedly, until she had carved a crypt in the stone with her pacing?

Brienne falls asleep crying in a bed that doesn't feel hers, but she can't remember last time anything did.

III

Brienne is twenty eight and she pauses at the hallway mirror to fix her ponytail. There is half eaten cake on the kitchen table, bought at half price as leftover from Sevenmas, and a freshly opened wine bottle. It's the same kind her dad had brought her for her eighteenth birthday and she's never bothered to find another one she likes. (It tastes like the kind of summer she's never had.)

In this light, it's hard to tell if the shadows beneath her eyes are from the bit of mascara she had tried to scrub away a minute ago or the exhaustion she unintentionally cultivates like a little succulent garden on the windowsill.

She doesn't focus on the ugly or the beautiful of her face now, it's not what caught her attention. Brienne just stares at her reflection and thinks how she looks neither young nor old, that she just is. And that she has no idea what it means.

Shouldn't she know? Shouldn't she know by now? Shouldn't she be past the age where she is grabbing at dream colored smoke? Shouldn't she...

Brienne looks away before the first tears fall.

She eats her cake and thinks how her dad had told her that hawthorn and cranberries alike turn almost sweet after the first frost. How many frosts have been there now? Brienne's lost the count and the feeling of warmth alike.

She ends up drinking a little too much of the wine and going to bed early, looking at the single candle-look alike flickering on the table and willing herself to sleep after this completely ordinary day that should’ve been something, but it never is. (She isn’t.)

+ IV

Brienne is thirty six and her sides hurt from laughing.

She extracts herself from the couch corner, which Jaime immediately expands into like a lazy cat while flashing her a grin. When she comes back, he might try to coax her into his lap and maybe she will even concede.

She opens another juice carton and refills her glass, leans against the counter and watches her friends arguing over a board game in the living room. It's odd, to know you belong and yet to be so aware of it in this moment, and she cannot quite throw herself back in there, even though it is no mirage she could simply crash through. Instead, Brienne follows the cool and tethering moonlight that has looped itself around her feet.

She steps out into the garden - because that's a thing she has now. There is a thin, crunchy layer of snow that will bite through her fluffy slippers any moment now, chasing her back inside. But for now, she cranes her face toward the sky, sending white little puffs of breath chasing after clouds that slip across the moon.

The door opens behind her and she doesn't look who it is, because there's no one here that she'd want to hide away from. She's lucky, Brienne thinks, that trust was never a truly foreign concept to her, though she's had to learn how to expand it and recognize its many forms like a toddler would with a shape sorter.

Arms wrap around her waist and Brienne allows herself to lean back and rest against Jaime's chest as he props his chin on her shoulder. She considers telling him that she's fine, because she likes to say that, now that she knows how it feels to truly mean it, even if it's not every day. Instead, she allows the bittersweet ache in her chest to mend itself with his quiet warmth.

She hopes that next time she dreams of her dad, she can tell him of this night, to not worry quite so much, and that peace sounds a little like the sound of her friends' laughter drifting through the door left ajar and Jaime humming in her ear.

[eury--dice]

glitter and tree branches

happy (belated) holidehs, @singtomeinstead​! thank you so much for your wonderful prompts and your even more wonderful dedication to this beautiful @sincerely-us gift exchange. hope your 2021 is off to a good start <3

(ao3 link in the notes!)

It all starts in Ellison Park.

Maybe that is the one thing, across any universe, that stays the same - that cannot change. No matter how you slice their story, it all starts in Ellison Park. Whether that beginning is a fall from a tree, a single form illuminated against the endless expanse of pink morning sky, or -

This.

It all starts in Ellison Park, 2006, when four families tangentially decide a trip to the park is the perfect spring activity, bundle up their five-year-olds and head off.

The Murphy’s arrive early. Larry guides the car over gravel until stopping, Connor and Zoe’s cheers from the backseat audible to everyone outside. Larry and Cynthia share a tight grin over their excitement, eyes pulled taut from lack of sleep.

“Ice cream!” Zoe shouts, eyes catching on the closed Dell’s lemonade cart just outside the gate. Connor is already chanting “le-mon-ade,” albeit much quieter than his sister. Cynthia raises a hand to massage over her eyes.

“It’s 11 am,” Larry points out. “No ice cream yet, sweetheart.”

“No!” They wail in perfect synchrony, only to promptly forget about sweets as soon as they’re unbuckled from the car and tearing off to the park. Cynthia sighs, gesturing for Larry to follow them while she gets what they need for the day.

Six-year-old Evan Hansen is decidedly a morning person. He has been a morning person since the day of his birth, and he will be one for the rest of his life. So while kids his age nod off against their parent’s shoulders on park benches and in their booster seats, he presses his nose against the window of the car and lets his breath fog it up even though he knows his father will scold him for the messiness later. As soon as they step into the park Evan’s vision tunnels into everything around him, sheer joy taking over as he pulls his hand from his mother’s and takes off towards the nearest tree.

“Evan!” she yelps, momentarily distracted from her argument with Mark. Since Evan normally never darts away from her, she’s caught off guard by his sudden energy, her heart rate skyrocketing with Mark’s words intangible in her ears. But Evan pays her no heed; he just runs, his parent’s arguing fading into the background for the first time he can remember. He stops at one of the trees, laying a palm against it and closing his eyes. Through his fingertips, it’s like he is rooted to the ground; like he himself is steady, consistent, and ready to provide comfort.

Heidi stops in her tracks once she can see that he’s safe, turning to Mark with an “are you seeing this?” expression, but he staunchly refuses to return her gaze.

Jared Kleinman is distinctly not a morning person, much to his friend’s dismay. Their parents always joked about it when they were little more than babies sharing naps in the Kleinman’s living room; Evan fussing at the first sign of light while Jared took more than a fair bit of commotion to so much as stir. So the Kleinman’s amble into the park a little after the Hansen’s, a still sleepy Jared leaning between his moms like a tiny labored soldier. He perks up on hearing Heidi’s voice, attuned to trouble as always, but his mom tightens her grip on his shoulder before he can run forward.

“Plenty of time for that,” she said in an undertone. “I don’t want you bonking your head because you’re sleepy.”

“I won’t,” Jared insists, offended at the mere notion he could mess something up.

His mother studies his eyes for a moment before relenting. “All right. Go see your friend.”

Jared takes off at once, a direct beeline to Evan - so direct that he doesn’t see the child-shaped obstacle in his path, immediately bonking heads and falling back onto his butt on the pavement, two glasses clattering noises filling his ears. “Oh my god,” he hears his other mom groan.

“You should be more careful,” a voice says, little-kid saccharine but mature beyond its years. “You’re Jared, right?”

“Alana! Are you okay?” a man calls at the same time Jared’s mom calls, “I told you!”

Jared hadn’t expected to see Alana Beck from his kindergarten class there, but he did all the same.

“Are you okay?” She says before he can respond. “My head hurts a bit. Does yours?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jared says. “A bit.” He reaches blindly for the first pair of glasses he can vaguely see, but when he puts them on his vision explodes and contorts.

“Are these yours?” they say at the same time, so Jared guesses she must have picked up his. They swap, and Jared frowns at a long scratch in his right lense before putting them back on.

“That’s why you need to look where you’re going,” Alana says, noting his frown. “My grandma says people get hurt when they’re not aware of their surroundings.”

“I guess.” Jared feels a little stunned into silence, even as their parents come over to check them. But finally, he manages to say “Do you want to come play with me and Evan?”

Alana scrunches up her nose, her glasses following. “Evan Hansen?”

“Yeah.”

She thinks on it for a moment, then throws a look to someone who must be her younger sister. “Okay,” she says, and that’s that.

The three unite by Evan’s tree, though Evan is a squirrel so he climbs nearly all the way up while Jared and Alana watch. Alana talks enough for all three of them, jabbering on about her family and what she misses from school now that they’re older, and that seems to ease Evan’s discomfort around a new person. He’s content to climb while they carry the conversation.

All three of their heads turn at the sound of a sudden splash followed by the shouts of two dismayed children. Jared laughs reflexively at the sight of horror on their nearly-identical faces, freckles elongated with their widening mouths. Evan drops down nimbly from the tree almost at once.

“Dad!” the boy calls, hands flying to his short curls to tug, and after a moment they recognize him as another classmate - Connor Murphy, in a different section, known to dominate the monkey bars at recess. “Why’d you throw it in the lake?”

“Emergency landing,” a man with graying hair replies, a little ways off from where Evan’s parents had settled. “Sorry, Con.”

While a few of their parents chuckle, neither of the kids appears sated; in fact, both look close to tears. The three by the tree exchange a look.

“Should we?” Alana says, and Evan nods, Jared already setting off towards the lake.

“What was it?” he asks loudly, once they near the two who lean over the surface of the lake longingly.

Zoe, who he only knew through Connor’s sharing time about his family, shot him a watery glare. “A airplane,” she bites out.

“An airplane,” Alana corrects, though she quiets when she’s on the receiving end of Zoe’s glare.

“We don’t have an airplane,” Evan says, looking between Alana and Jared for confirmation. “But, um…you can play with us?”

The two stare at each other for a beat, still working back tears, before they sigh.

“Not even one airplane?” Connor asks.

“Not even one.”

“My sister might have one,” Alana puts in. “I can ask?”

Connor eyes them warily for a beat before sighing again. “Fine. Zoe?”

“I guess so,” she says, voice small.

Friends acquired…apparently.

***

Most of the time, Zoe wishes she and Connor are real twins.

They feel enough like it - given that they almost always just played with each other - and even looked enough like it, if random people in the supermarket’s judgment could be trusted. People sometimes said they were Irish twins, which Zoe never quite understood, even after Cynthia sat her on the couch and explained the concept to her. Being Irish twins is fine and all, even though only their dad was even a little Irish (thanks, Murphy surname). But it isn’t as good as being a real twin, sharing the birthday she so desperately wants, sharing the grade above her own.

Instead, she’s stuck, out of the loop and behind. Alana comes over in the lunchroom on the days where she can, seemingly only willing to break the rules that keep her separated from everyone else due to grade. Zoe gets quite used to the sight of Alana beelining across the cafeteria, her star-patterned lunchbox unzipped and held to her chest as she weaves around students and faculty alike with a grace that Zoe assumes comes from dance. And she gets used to Alana parking herself right across from her, unzipping a small ziplock bag of baby carrots around the surprised looks of elementary school underclassmen, and saying something along the lines of “did Mrs. Gould teach you about magnets today?” And Zoe takes the offered baby carrot, puts away the felt-tip pen she’s been doodling with, and smiles.

She drags the other three over one day, though Connor’s lips set in annoyance over having to babysit his little sister and Evan’s set in something that looks closer to anxiety, casting anxious glances over to the faculty presiding over the lunchroom. Jared simply throws her an amused smile, squeezing between her and her friend from class and cutting Zoe off with a loud “Howdy!” before she can apologize for his behavior. Evan takes the unoccupied space on her right, his fingers messing with the clasp of his lunchbox. His eyes jump across the faculty members even as Alana and Connor sit across from her. She’s so used to seeing both of them across from her that it takes a moment for her to remember how different they usually are. Alana only ever looks like this, separated by a grainy plastic table and fluorescent lights, but normally she sees Connor under their warm kitchen lights and the honey-colored wood of their kitchen table.

“You don’t have to come over here,” she says quietly, words muffled into the collar of her sweater.

Alana just smiles and launches their normal lunch routine, this time with the added chatter from Connor and Jared, before Evan’s face shifts and Zoe lifts her eyes to see a faculty member appear just behind Alana.

“Aren’t you all at the wrong table?” They say, and the five scatter as quickly as they can, hoping to avoid docked recess as punishment. On the playground, Evan bites the corner of his nail nervously and Connor refuses to look in Zoe’s direction, staring instead towards the faculty hovering by the fences.

So much for trying to spend time together.

Out of school, though - out of school is equal for everyone, regardless of grade. No time to share, no privacy for their conversations, no good locations for their games.

“We should have a secret hiding spot,” Alana declares later that same day. Even from her position hunched under the bunk bed she shares with her younger sister, her voice carries such a sure tone that no one could even disagree.

“Should we all join you?” Jared quips. Connor responds by smacking him lightly on the shoulder.

“Not in my house,” Alana says, and for some reason, Zoe expects an eye roll or something of the sort, but she’s Alana so of course there’s only confidence and surety. “Do you really want my dads hearing everything?”

“We don’t have secrets,” Evan points out from his spot on the floor between Jared and Zoe. His sleeve brushes against Zoe’s when he fidgets, his hands moving his shoulders.

“We could,” Jared says. “How else are we going to steal all the Jell-O from the cafeteria?”

“I think you’re the only person who actually likes that Jell-o,” Zoe says, before immediately regretting it. The words slip through her teeth, liketh thad dell-o, rounded and off compared to all of her friends. Evan’s arm brushes against hers again.

“Of all the criminal plots, Jared,” Connor agrees.

“It’s gross,” Evan adds in an undertone, and Zoe is pretty sure she’s the only one who can hear it.

“But it would be a secret!”

“We’re not going to do that,” Alana says; words getting caught in a sigh. “But wouldn’t it be nice to talk without-”

As if on queue, her younger sister bursts into the room, catapulting herself onto the top bunk with a frightening speed. Evan falls into Jared as she hurtles over them, and Connor jumps practically a foot in the air.

With a comical precision, almost like something actually out of a comic in the paper that Larry loved to hand them on Sunday’s so they could “learn to read a newspaper,” they turn to look at Alana.

“Like I said,” she says, assuming her teacher voice.

“…Well, where?” Jared finally replies. “Our houses don’t work too well.”

“Outside?” Evan suggests hopefully. “Maybe the park?”

“It’s too cold, and our parents can’t always drive us there,” Alana says. “But maybe…hm…

At once, Connor and Zoe’s heads swivel towards each other.

“We have a place,” Connor says slowly, reading understanding on Zoe’s face. “Or…we will.”

Larry has passions that ebb and flow just like Cynthia, and for once Zoe is certain she and her brother are thinking of the same thing; the influx of wood he’d been purchasing recently, the power tools they heard whenever he was off work, the constant questions over whether they wanted to help.

A week later, the five stand in the Murphy’s backyard. Cynthia and Larry observe at a distance, their faces careful as they watch the kid’s reactions but obvious joy in the lines of Larry’s tiny smile.

“Oh my God,” Jared breathes. “Is it real?”

“No, dummy,” Connor says, voice filled with a pompousness that Zoe hates. “We bought a treehouse decal and spent all night getting it up there just to play tricks on you.”

“Don’t be mean, Connor,” Zoe says with the snobbiness she knows he hates. He sticks his tongue out at her in return.

Evan steps forward first, laying his palm against the tree trunk and staring up with a reverence Zoe never expected. He smiles gently, the light brushing his cheeks like burnished bronze, and Zoe looks away with a smile similar to her father’s.

“Well, let’s go,” Connor says, and Evan must take his words as invitation, because he forgoes the ladder and chooses instead to scale the tree limbs until worming his way in through the “window” of the treehouse. Zoe heard something like a fond laugh behind her, most likely her mother’s doing, before she raced off to the tree herself. She did opt for the ladder, however. Connor follows Evan’s dramatics, and Alana and Jared are close on Zoe’s heels.

“Woah,” she hears Alana breathe, and, well. Woah was right.

The treehouse isn’t very large, but to a bunch of elementary students it certainly feels like it. The smell of fresh pine assaults her nose, dust still floating around and tickling her eyelashes. The late fall light streams in through the slats and windows, leaving a gold-washed tint around the treehouse and all of her friends.

Connor wanders over to a small platform, and she follows, letting her other friends scatter about the room, chattering idly about the treehouse. Zoe leans her head on Connor’s shoulder, but just as she does Connor nudges Zoe with his elbow. Uncaring to her yelp, he asks “Do you have the thread in your room?”

“Thread?” She repeats, as it takes her brain a moment to catch up. “Ohh. Yeah. I think so.”

“Want to go grab it?”

“Why?”

He motions to his wrist and then to the group as a whole.

“Whyyyy me?” She says, the y drawing out into a whine in a true younger sibling move.

All the same, she’s on her way back up the treehouse with a tub of bracelet thread tucked under her arm five minutes later. Maneuvering up the ladder with it tucked under her arm proved to be a bit of a challenge, but nothing Zoe Murphy can’t handle. She does throw it through the window before her, though, which (by Connor’s horrified yelp) isn’t the brightest move. When she reenters, Connor is already gathering up thread and shaking dust out of it.

“Oh, yes,” Jared says, surging forward and grabbing a green and purple thread from Connor’s hands. He sits heavily on the ground, immediately beginning a complicated braid without any prompting. He looks up at their surprised faces a moment later. “What? I learned at camp this summer.”

“Did you learn, Evan?” Alana asks, likely remembering they went to the same camp.

Evan looks away, one hand reaching to pick at an imperfection in the wooden wall. He shrugs. “‘M not very good,” he says, and Zoe can’t help but remember the snatches of conversation she remembers overhearing accidentally from her parents - she had to drive down and couldn’t handle it and maybe talking to the school counselor came to mind.

She crosses to him without thinking, grabbing his hand. “I’ll teach you,” she blurts without thinking. Connor hands her her favorite colors without prompting, and Zoe begins a tri-color braid that’s probably more complicated than Evan needs, but he catches on easily enough after a few minutes, twisting the blue and purple and pink together into something beautiful.

They pass their first hours in the treehouse like that, singularly focused like only little kids can be, and when Zoe’s parents bring up pizza and Sprite they pause only to admire their fine work. Several bracelets adorn each of their wrists, each twisted by someone else and infused with why Jared jokingly called the power of love. And the sun sets on them all together, smearing grease across their faces and throwing loose bits of thread across their haven in the sky, and Zoe smiles.

***

It was nearing dinnertime, far too cold and far too quiet to be in a treehouse.

Connor and Zoe took to hanging around the treehouse even when their friends weren’t there, much preferring it to their former hiding places within the house. As the winter wore on and the days grew shorter, so did Murphy tempers, and cabin fever mixed in only made enclosed spaces more liable to combust. So, with the treehouse available, Zoe tended to grab Connor and the ukelele she’d just begun learning to play and sneaking out the sliding door into their backyard. That particular evening, the layer of fluffy snow that had just fallen masked their escape and allowed them entrance to the treehouse and cushioned any residual noise left from the kitchen. They still were bundled up, however, their parkas and hats pulled tight. Both had forgone gloves, however; Zoe felt her fingers stiffen and slip on her ukelele strings, while Connor seemed unperturbed by the cold while he sketched in his brand-new sketchbook. Save for her muffled ukelele noises and the faint rustling of small creatures in the snow and Connor’s pencil etching against paper, all was still.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to bring string instruments into the cold,” Connor said, breaking the silence. Zoe responded by strumming an e minor chord more aggressively.

They fell back into their rhythm, and Connor started to hum along to her strumming just as the pinks and purples broke through gray winter sky.

“We have a project,” a voice declared. startling both of them out of their individual reveries. Alana’s head popped up in the treehouse window, a giant pom-pom hat perched precariously over the intricate braided bun Zoe could remember seeing at school that day.

“Jesus Christ, Alana,” Connor said, sounding very much like a kid who was trying his hardest to get a handle on cussing and sounding cool. “How did you get here?”

Alana blinked, righting the large box she held in her hands. “Your parents said you were here.”

Connor stilled abruptly, while Zoe’s foot started bouncing. “You talked to them?”

“Yeah,” she said, and as if she knew their next question - likely because she did, from years of experience - “They seemed like they were calming down.”

“Good,” Zoe said quietly.

Impervious to the Murphy siblings’ shifted expressions, Alana dropped the metal box to the floor and followed it, dropping to the frosty pine boards like there was nothing else she’d rather do. “Anyway, we’re making a time capsule!”

“We are?” Zoe said, feeling amusement creeping into the edges of her voice.

“Yes. You’ll thank me in ten years.”

Zoe and Connor shared a look. Connor cut off the awkward silence that suddenly descended. “The ground is frozen. How are we going to bury it?”

Alana grinned over the lid. “My dads were talking about the thaw later this week.”

“No snow?” added a new voice. Evan popped up barely a moment later, likely having taken a wild path up the tree rather than using the ladder like anyone else, even when ice coated to every nook and cranny of the bark. “Already?”

“Apparently,” Zoe replied.

“Won’t it get all covered in mud?” Jared added, and Zoe spun her head around to look at Alana, fixing her with a sharp look.

“Did you invite everyone over to our house?”

Alana shrugged. “This is important. And there isn’t that much mud if you dig deep enough, Jared.”

“Again - why?” Connor interrupted.

“Because she says so, and it’s a kick-ass idea,” Jared said.

“Didn’t expect you to latch onto sentimentality, Kleinman,” Zoe muttered, startling a laugh out of him.

Alana pulled a binder free from the backpack she’d slung to the ground. “C’mon - what do you want to add?”

“Cheerios,” Jared said at once, earning a scowl out of Alana.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, Jared-”

“He’ll shut up,” Evan rushed to cut him off. “So not food items?”

“More sentimental, I think,” Connor said.

“Exactly.”

Under Alana’s direction, they did just that. After a successful thaw later in the week Zoe took a shovel from the garage and helped them dig and re-bury dirt in the Murphy’s backyard, marked by a small stake Connor painted with acrylics from their mom’s craft supply.

“Now we wait,” Alana said.

***

Somewhere along the line, things get… tense.

Zoe reads the self-help books and watches the videos her teachers play on VHS tapes during their “health” classes. They all describe the same thing, a switch flipping with no warning once elementary school draws to a close and sixth grade begins. Admittedly, she watches them a year later than everyone else, forever cursed to be a year behind. But she knows it’s coming all the same - fault lines crackling out through the earth and darting between their feet, setting them all adrift on different paths, thunder drowning out their words where there used to be laughter.

Nothing could have prepared her for the actual occurrence, though.

The treehouse really is their de facto hangout spot, given the Murphy’s lasé-faire attitude towards where their children were and the complete privacy it afforded. With their newly-acquired Jazz Band extracurricular, Zoe and Jared always arrive late, normally to the sight of Evan and Alana reading and Connor drawing or some other combination of their group’s preferred activities. But when they climb the ladder to the treehouse that day, the air is…stilted, like Zoe has grown to expect inside the house. That kind of expectant anger, like you know something is going to go wrong but aren’t sure what it is yet.

Evan sits, his eyes darting between Alana and Connor and over to Jared and Zoe as they walk in like he can sense a disaster brewing. Jared flounces over to Connor, sprawling, earning himself a glare.

“Can I help you, Kleinman?”

He nods to the sketchbook in Connor’s hands. “Might want to clean up those lines.”

It only gets worse from there - cutting barbs thrown this way and that, all ready to strike and hit. Nothing too bad, at least not until Connor says get the fuck out of my house and Jared says at least I have other people who will take me and Alana says honestly can’t you two even try to act mature and Zoe hears herself say at least we’re not miserable all the time before she realizes that’s - patently false. And one by one, they storm away, hopping down with practiced agility they no longer have reason to use.

And there Zoe sits. Shutting down, like she always does.

***

Connor felt like he was suffocating.

Everything was aggressively there-every word spoken grating his ears, every shadow a little too dark and every light a little too bright, every glance so heavy it weighed on his chest. He felt uneven and on edge, like one loud noise would send him spiraling off of a cliff and bursting into tears.

“Zoe,” he’d said, coming up behind her as she stood at the counter. Maybe if he’d looked he would have seen how her shoulders tensed as soon as she heard his voice. Maybe if he’d listened he would’ve heard how Zoe’s breath hitched and how she quickly ran a hand over her face. Maybe if he’d paid attention he would’ve noticed how her hands clenched around her mug and she steeled herself. Maybe the glint of pain and fear and loneliness nestled deep within her eyes before she put her shields up as she turned around would’ve stood out to him. But he couldn’t even handle analyzing himself, and there was no hope for understanding Zoe.

“What?” She said, and even in his funk he noticed how her words appeared differently than normal. Maybe, if he’d taken a moment to think, he would have identified the source-fatigue, cutting through each letter. There was none of the venom they’d grown used to hurling at each other and pretending it didn’t burn once it touched skin. She sounded tired.

He rubbed the edge of his sweatshirt sleeve with us thumb, trying to pull an excuse out of nowhere. In reality, he just needed something to anchor him to Earth, but he couldn’t say that to her. “Could you paint my nails?” He bit out, risking cutting his gaze up to her face. Her eyes had widened slightly since he last looked at her, eyebrows lifted silently with them. She pulled her bottom lip between her front teeth, and she looked down and away, foot tapping some unfamiliar rhythm against the tiled floor. Silence hung between them, dark and heavy, nearly drowning out the tap tap taptap tap of her foot. He looked back up towards her, not quite meeting her eyes, perhaps a bit more expectancy in his gaze than he would have liked.

She shook her head slightly, ring finger tapping against the side of her mug. “Why?” She said, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“Why am I asking…?”

“Yeah,” She said, same fatigue in her voice. “Why are you asking me? When this is the first time you’ve talked to me in…what, four months without being forced to?”

Connor shrugged a little, taken aback by this reaction. A soft, incredulous laugh built in Zoe’s throat.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, voice choked. “I don’t understand. You’ve broken down my door twice. I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Why would you want me to…”

“I don’t know,” Connor said, voice uneven. Zoe shook her head again.

She stared evenly at him, and maybe if he’d been paying better attention he would have noticed the thin sheen of tears in her eyes as he raised his eyes to meet hers. “What color?”

“What?”

“Nail polish. If I painted your nails. What color would it be?”

Connor resumed rubbing his sleeve. “Black.”

She bit her lip again, the edges of her mouth curling into a bitter smile, words sounding just as bitter. “Damn. I’m out of black.”

The edge of Connor’s mouth twitched even as he felt something sink inside of him. “I see,” he said, a touch harder than the previous words had been.

Zoe shrugged, hand still wrapped around her mug, as she pushed her hip against the side of the counter to launch herself away from it. “That’s that, I guess.”

“I guess so,” Connor responded, voice hollow.

Maybe, if he’d looked up instead of locking his gaze on the floor, he’d have seen the tense hold of Zoe’s shoulders, the moment of faltering before she continued walking.

“I guess so,” she repeated faintly, all edges gone form her voice and tiredness abundant.

Connor squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, she was completely gone from the kitchen. He gazed around for a moment, letting the view of the kitchen wash around him.

Oh, how the mighty fall.

***

Zoe is desperately glad she and Connor are only Irish twins.

Distance - distance is what she needs more than ever. She’d hated it, that chasm between her and everyone else, but of course she couldn’t have known just how wide that chasm could get. Would get, with time and urging and their circle falling apart under the right amount of pressure.

The right amount of pressure, she thinks, poised to flee on her kitchen chair, leg bouncing and heart coiled, for Connor to come home. He does, of course, sullen and tired, but in front of her eyes all the same. It’s only been a year since they reached critical mass in the treehouse, but the shift in all of them came quickly and without mercy. Alana buries herself in more work than Zoe had ever thought possible, always hurrying away whenever Zoe tries to get a word in edgewise. Jared just darts his eyes around like a caged animal, calculations churning behind his eyes as though searching for his best way forward. Evan she still sees somewhat regularly, making sure that her parents still drive him home and letting him crash on their couch when Heidi works too late, but she’s seen him retreat into himself too often to think he’s okay. And Connor…

“What are you doing up?” he whispers, the sound traveling across their kitchen table.

“Waiting for you,” she responds in a similar hiss, snapping her laptop shut.

“You should’ve just gone to bed, Mom’s gonna be pissed if she sees the li-”

“When she sees her son walk through the door at-” she lifts her phone dramatically, searching for the little time symbol. “1:12 in the morning?”

“Well she won’t see it if you just go to sleep-”

“What are you even doing?” she says in a normal tone, though she recoils and presses a hand over her mouth when Connor’s eyes widen in warning. She and Connor freeze with their hands stifling their breathing, trying to hear any shifts from their parents upstairs with their identical eyes wide. After a beat of nothing but the house shifting in the wind, she lowers her hands, swiping up her laptop with the one closest to the table. “You don’t need to be out this late, Con.”

His eyes flash over to her, then back up to the ceiling. “You don’t need to stay up for me.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll just stop worrying, I’ll just go to bed and dream sweet dreams when you’re doing hell knows what-”

“I didn’t ask you to fucking worry about me!” He cuts out. “I don’t need your pity, Zoe!”

She balts, shakes her head, feels her braids sliding against the material of her jazz band sweatshirt. “Pity?” she repeats.

Connor holds his jaw, looking away.

“Pity,” she says, then laughs a single time, too loud, but she’s past the point of caring. “I don’t know where you got pity from in the last fourteen years, Connor, but none of it is coming from me, that’s for sure.” She brushed past him. “Fine. You don’t deserve my worry anyway. I’ll tell mom in the morning if you’re so insistent.”

Connor’s footsteps hurry after her, until his fingers wrap around her wrist. She jerks it away as soon as he makes contact, “Don’t. Please.”

“You want me to stop worrying?” she says lowly, dangerously. “Fine. Then I’ll make sure you can’t do anything that worries me. See how you fucking like that.”

It was like a switch flipped in Connor, like as soon as their group fell apart so did he, growing more liable to shut down and ramp up at once. But he just leaves her grasping at straws always, never able to say anything right.

Middle school bleeds into high school, the chasm and pressure growing between them, small disagreements exploding into screams and something valuable shattering. Doors they’d never closed before close with racorous clangs, and Zoe grows tired of sleeping outside of them and waiting for him to open them up.

You don’t need to worry about me, he’d said, and she can’t ever stop, really, but she can ignore him until the worry clawed at her a little less urgently.

Try as she might, she couldn’t just forget all those years, especially when she saw reminders of them all around school - flashes of Jared’s shirts, an edge of Alana’s backpack, a flicker of Evan’s eyes. She still goes to the treehouse, sometimes, but mostly she keeps to her room, her guitar, the things she knows.

Her phone buzzes one night, and when she sees Evan Hansen flash across her screen she picks it up without a moment’s thought.

“Hello?”

“Zoe?” Evan says, voice breathy in her ear.

There’s a beat. “Yeah,” she finally says. “You okay?”

“I’m - yeah, um, I’m fine, it’s all - uh, my mom is pulling a night shift.”

“Oh?” She says, barely a hum.

“Yeah. She - look, this is, um, really dumb, I know, but can I - can I stay at yours? Tonight? I know it’s been, um, less than ideal, I can just-”

“Yeah,” she says, again without thinking. She squeezes her eyes shut, forces enthusiasm into her voice. “Yeah. ‘Course, Ev. I’ll - you need me to pick you up?”

“What? Um - no, I’m - I’m at the park, actually, walking is…fine.”

Her eyebrows pull closer together. “It’s late.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Really.”

Ten minutes later, Evan is on their front porch. Cynthia greets him with a warm smile, and Zoe leans against the doorway of the guest room while he sets himself up.

“Are you okay, Evan?” She hears herself ask.

His head jerks up quickly, locking eyes with her. “I-I’m fine.”

Zoe shakes her head, letting out a but of air through her nose. “What’s up, then?”

His hands still over his backpack, and he looks just past her head to the hallway. “I couldn’t be alone in that house.”

She hesitates for a moment, nods, looks to the corner of the room. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

Her eyes snap back over to him. “What?”

“Do you - have you been alone, Zoe, through all of this?”

She snorts. “Good as.”

“But never actually-”

“Loneliness isn’t always distance,” she spits out. “But if it was you’d be all set, given how much you run away from all of us.”

Time slows to a crawl; Evan lets his hands fall to his sides, eyes wide and searching on hers.

“I’m,” she begins, the word getting stuck in her throat. She looks towards her feet. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, but before he can say anything she says “I’ll drive you in tomorrow” and is gone, set off down the hallway.

The next morning she gets to her car early, knowing, somehow, he’ll climb in with enough time to get there. And he does so wordlessly.

Somewhere, on the way to school, he murmurs, “I’m sorry for pulling away.”

She taps her index finger against the wheel, looking out towards the road rather than him. The scene is desolate, still early-morning and deserted with the yellowing pools of light from streetlights that have yet to switch off. “Yeah, me too.”

Every day, he swings by her house - a long walk, making his day longer, but he’s always been an early bird - to get a ride to school. Connor joins them occasionally, but mostly he arrives by his own means that Zoe isn’t too interested in learning. He talks to Jared, little by little, and she sees Connor and Alana in the library and Jared and Alana with their heads bowed together at lunch. She finds a picture of them in the treehouse and texts it to them as a group, and things feel a little closer to okay.

After high school, things start to calm down, like an inflamed cut that needs to be soothed. She and Connor stand in each other’s doorways until they have the courage to walk inside, and their newly-reinstated group chat keeps a steady flow of bad memes and musical theater jokes. It’s easier to breathe when she’s at school, easier to move and be. She’s used to being alone in a house full of people; being alone in a city of lonely people is close enough that the transition is almost nothing.

She misses everyone, though. Evan texts her pictures of the trees back home and around the community college, and Connor snaps Jared and Alana when they’re around. She’s the only one who left, this time around. Removed by physical distance rather than a measly year.

She gets home for winter break halfway through December, and an unusually warm one at that. Connor follows her up to her room, watching her unpack likely half in an attempt to give her some privacy from their parents.

“You seen Evan yet?” He asks at some point, once he’s grown bored of watching her fold clothes.

“No, not yet,” she replies with saccharine sweetness.

“You should,” he mocks in a similar tone of voice.

“I will.”

Their ridiculous miming comes to a halt when she withdraws a rattling bag from her backpack and throws it onto her bed. Connor dives forward, grabbing at it. “Is this-did you just throw nail polish?” He demands.

She looks him dead in the eye and does the same with her other bag.

“Dishonor on you,” he mutters, already unzipping it and rifliging through the colors with a clink each time. “Want me to do your nails? They’re looking…” he trails off, eyes dipping to her unpainted and bitten nails, worn down by her guitar strings.

“I could say the same to you,” she says. “Stones and glass houses, dear brother.”

“Point taken.”

They take the time to paint each other’s nails after dinner, sitting on their living room couch. Connor opts for a dark blue instead of his gala black, and chooses gold glitter for the upcoming holidays for Zoe.

“Please don’t get nail polish on the couch, Zoe,” her mother says as she passes by to go to the kitchen, and she and Connor lock eyes. He rolls his; she smiles tightly.

“You’d think she say it to me, given that I live here,” Connor whispers.

Her phone bzzs in her pocket, and instinctively she reaches for it, noting the way the golden glitter glints against the denim of her jeans.

Evan Hansen: gonna leave mom’s for a walk, you tied up?

She feels the corners of her lips twitch involuntarily. Yes, please. Ready in 10?

“I’m gonna take a walk,” she announces loudly enough her parents should be able to hear it from the next room. “It’s just Evan,” she adds in an undertone to Connor. “Want to come along?”

“Nope. Have fun, though, I guess.”

“So enthusiastic.”

Evan is waiting outside, bundled up in a scarf and parka. His eyes pinch at the edges like they always do when he’s tired; she surges forward and slides her arms around his neck, colliding with him softly so he lets out an oomph. She feels a kiss pressed to the top of her head a moment later.

“Hey,” she says, muffled into his coat. “You’re overdressed.”

“You’re underdressed.”

“Fleece is never wrong.”

“…I suppose you’re right?” And then, with some trepidation, “oh no. Not again.”

“I’m always right,” she says lightly, throwing him a smile so he knows it’s a joke. She reaches for his hand, tugging him forward lightly. “Heidi‘s doing well?”

“Well as always, yeah. Your family?”

“All…fine,” she says. “Just, y’know…stressed.”

“Mhm,” Evan hums, and she can tell he’s trying to say something, so she just squeezes his hand lightly and falls silent.

“Dad wanted me to go h–to Colorado,” Evan blurts. “For Christmas.”

She pauses a little at that, tugging his hand closer. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He swallows gently, watching the sky with a ferocity she can barely remember him having. She sees the stars shine in his deep brown eyes, though they seem a little too starry to be reflection alone. He blinks rapidly. “Mom encouraged me,” he adds, “but I–Zoe, I couldn’t.”

“I don’t blame you,” she says, letting out a jet of breath. “I wouldn’t be able to either.” She lets her eyes drift upward and pulls him a little bit closer to her, wrapping her free hand around his arm. “Can’t,” she amends, all breath.

“He still doesn’t care,” Evan says, almost to himself. “He knows what I fucking celebrate, and he still doesn’t–care.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a dick,” Zoe says before immediately wishing she could take it back. That kind of bluntness helps her and Connor, but never Evan.

But Evan surprises her all the same. “You’re not wrong.”

A laugh bursts from her chest, and after a moment Evan joins her, albeit hesitantly. “Like I said,” she repeats, “never am.”

Evan’s ghand remains chilly in hers, despite his best attempts to keep warm with his jacket; she brings his hand over to hold it in both of hers, wincing a little as his cold fingers meet hers.

“How are you so cold all the time?” she murmurs, massaging over his knuckles with one hand.

“How is it for you?” He asks suddenly, his brain taking him in a whole new direction. Zoe isn’t phased by the topic change.

“It’s…like it always is,” she admits, her voice low. She pulls Evan’s hands closer to her heart, trying to convince herself it’s just to warm him up. “Better with Con, I guess. But it’s still…” she swallows roughly. “I feel like I can’t…breathe, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Evan says quietly. “It can be hard.” He frees his hand, only to wrap it around her shoulders. She steals his other hand as soon as they get situated in a good walking pace.

Almost nothing about Evan is calm, but he’s calming all the same. He’s all Zoe can think of as they turn in front of Ellison State Park.

Evan stills, and Zoe keeps walking forward for a moment, accidentally tugging at their conjoined hands. She looks back at him immediately, tone filling with concern. “Everything okay?”

“Is that…” he mutters, before surging forward and pulling her rather than the other way around. “Alana! Jared!” He calls, uncharacteristically loud. And sure enough, in the distance, she can see Alana and Jared leaned over something just inside the bronzed gates of Ellison Park.

“Evan!” Jared calls, only to immediately get shushed by an old couple taking a walk around the park.

They hurry across the street, waving wildly to the single car that seems perplexed by their crossing, and Alana passes something to Jared before pulling them both into a too-tight hug that reminds Zoe of her mother.

When they pull away, she ruffles Zoe’s hair like she’s a little kid again. “There’s our city girl.”

“You should’ve joined me!” Zoe protests, already moving over to Jared to hug him.

Jared looks like he might shy away for a second, but he relents only a second later, a hug almost as tight as Alana’s. Zoe’s pulled away by a pressure at her leg, something soft poking through the tears and a panting noise. When she looks down, the downy face of a dog stares back up at her, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. Without thinking, she drops to the ground, offering him a hand as she balances on one knee. He nearly knocks her over a moment later when he bounds forward to lick her cheek and request pets. She looks back up at the obvious joy on Alana’s face.

“You adopted a dog??” She asks, remembering the powerpoint Alana made in middle school trying to convince her parents.

“Yes! We just got him this weekend and he’s already the best boy.”

The golden glint of a collar tag catches her eye. “Archibald? Well, aren’t you just a joy, Archie!”

“He doesn’t like Archie” Alana says a bit curtly, mid-coaxing the dog back towards her. She flips a few braids that had escaped her ponytail over her shoulder just in time for the dog to make a grab for them. She grins down at him before looking back up towards Zoe. “Is Connor around? I haven’t seen him in a bit.”

“Yeah,” Zoe says. “Here, I can…” She pulls out her phone to tell Connor to join them, making a silly face when the dog makes a u-turn to lick her cheek.

Connor Murphy: are you and hansen bein gross

Zoe: alana and jared are here dork

Connor: with archibald?

Zoe: how. how did you know this

Connor: lana and i have a snap streak of 150k. keep up

Zoe: side note do you know why she named her dog after an elderly british man

Zoe: and won’t let me call him archie

Connor: says archie’s a dumb name and she “thinks its refined”

Zoe: lmao k

“Connor should be by soon,” she relays, smiling back down at the dog. He takes a particular liking to her; she can’t quite get used to it. “You’re a good baby, aren’t you?”

Something occurs to her all of the sudden, and she pulls her phone back out.

Zoe: WAIT are you still by the house

Connor: just leaving why

Zoe: …yknow that old time capsule?

Connor: are you going to ask me to dig it up in mid december while you’re hanging out with our old friends so i can bring it to the park

Zoe: yes

Connor: you were put on this earth to test me

Connor: be there in 15

“He’s bringing something,” she adds, and ignores their curious looks in favor of the dog.

When Connor’s shape finally appears, it’s carrying a bag rather than a box. “It was shot,” he explains in an undertone once he gets close enough for Zoe to hear. He reaches out a hand and lands a spare pat to Archibald’s head. “Had to improvise.”

“Hey, Connor!” Alana says, almost too cheery. Connor raises a hand, plopping the bag in the middle of their circle but out of Archibald’s reach.

“We don’t want your weird sex stuff, Connor,” Jared says, and Zoe shoots him a glare.

“It’s the time capsule, actually, but thanks for the input,” Connor says before Zoe can speak.

A beat passes, no noise but Archibald’s panting.

“Oh,” Alana says after a moment. “Your parents let you keep that?”

“They didn’t know,” Zoe and Connor deadpan at the same time. Jared stifles something that sounds like a cough but is probably closer to a laugh.

Zoe looks at Evan and reaches out to lace their fingers together again. He looks around the group, studying each person’s face. “Should we…”

Jared reaches forward and overturns the bag.

Glitter is the first thing Zoe sees; she hears Evan hiss “shit” as it explodes everywhere over the grass. It’s green, which makes that portion of grass look unnaturally healthy and shiny. Jared looks up; some had reached his glasses lenses, as he was the one to set the glitter loose.

“Alright,” he says. “Who put the glitter in?”

Alana grimaces and holds Archibald back from the pile of glitter. “I’m pretty sure that was you, Jared.”

“…Oh.”

Zoe leans forward, picking through the cacophony of items and silently handing them out. A few purple, pink, and blue friendship bracelets find their way throughout the group, and Connor even puts one on to a joke from Zoe about stealing the bi colors. Jared reclaims a few of the Connor has to make a quick grab for a few sheets of paper in the wind that turn out to be filled with his sketches. Zoe picks up a purple ukulele pick, feeling it slide between her calloused fingertips. She hands Evan an outdated pamphlet from Ellison State Park about their rangers program to Jared’s exclamation of “That’s what you put in??” and throws a few ballet ribbons and a small journal in Alana’s direction.

Jared’s makes her pause, and he takes advantage of the lull to surge forward and snatch the object from her hands. The silicone abides easily. “So that’s where I put my iPod!”

“Why did we let you do this?” Zoe says. “Why did your parents?”

“I’m gonna be honest,” Jared admits, examining it for quality. He looks up and around their assembled group. “I forgot about it immediately after burying it.”

Alana laughs first, and then she sets everyone else off, a group of college-age kids giggling over a pile of glitter and their childhood treasures in the park where everything began. Evan falls into Zoe’s side, unable to curb his laughter; she buries her own in the top of his head, his curls tickling her cheeks and making her laughs worse. And as they get dirty looks from everyone around them, the night only feels like another beginning.

[inkformyblood]

hold my ground

Commander Cody Week 2021 Day 05: Rest & Recovery @commandercodyweek

Pairing: Mace Windu x C2224 | Cody (mutual pining)

Summary: This wasn’t the mission either of them had been expecting, but it was still a welcome moment of relieft.

The soft calls of birds — a never repeating discordant melody — filled Cody’s mind, mingling with the remnants of his barely remembered dreams. He kept his eyes closed as he listened, letting his breaths slow and deepen until he was hovering on the edge of slumber once more. 

A faint movement reached him, the unbelievably soft mattress muting the sensation, and Cody was moving before he could think. His spine cracked as he pushed himself up, levelling the blaster at the perceived threat.

Mace Windu’s face curved into the barest fraction of a smile, before slipping back into calm serenity, seemingly unphased by the blaster levelled over his heart. “Peace, Commander. I apologise for waking you.”

“General. I—“ Cody’s apology died on his lips as his gaze locked onto the ring the General still wore, almost proudly. It was a simple item, barely more than a few spare wires braided together into a haphazard circle. Cody’s thumbs still bore the slowly healing wounds it inflicted upon him when the ship lurched while entering atmo. “You’re still wearing the ring.”

Mace blinked before tipping his head and hand in unison — every movement graceful and felt like it was planned like the slow bending of an ancestral oak — to inspect it. “I am. Given the… unusual circumstances of this particular diplomatic mission, I thought it best to maintain.”

He paused, his gaze seeming to slip beneath Cody’s blacks and run over the jagged edges of his soul. “But if it makes you uncomfortable, I’m more than happy to take it off when we are alone.”

Cody felt his thoughts stop, crashing into each other like a speeder pile-up. “No.”

The word was out before he could stop it, and he felt his cheeks burn but he couldn’t look away. There was a steady beat in the back of his mind that he couldn’t fully ignore, a senseless repetition of ‘mine’.

“It’ll help the mission,” Cody tried, his voice holding steady even as his heart twisted like it was trying to break free in his chest. 

“I appreciate your company on this mission, Commander. Even with it’s,” Mace paused, something akin to a grin tugging at the edge of his lips, “unusual circumstances.”

“Unusual is one way of putting it, sir.”

Cody felt like he had barely managed to keep his footing: stumbling into the barracks on Coruscant for a well-needed break between missions before Ponds had run in, dragging Cody out towards the docking bay, barely pausing to breathe as he rattled off a mission briefing. Then he had been nudged towards a ship — a diplomatic vessel, built for comfort rather than a war, and Cody’s skin had prickled at the thought, immediately ill at ease.

He had barely had time to recover from the gut punch of having his leave cancelled in favour of a specialised protective detail, then Mace Windu settling himself onto one of the ridiculously plush seats next to him, and they were away.

“Yes.” Mace stretched, settling back into the loose limbed meditative pose that all the Jedi seemed to favour. Cody raised himself up onto his knees, the sunlight that flooded in through the large window on the wall behind him warming his skin, and merely watched the steady rise and fall of Mace’s chest, unconsciously matching the rhythm with his own breaths. 

“I fear we may be missing some crucial information from the dossier. I appreciate that this isn’t what you were expecting, Commander, but I am glad for the company.” 

Cody didn’t allow himself to blush, merely nodding with a sharp jerk of his head, as Mace began to meditate. His silent vigil wasn’t discussed, as Cody watched the slow creep of light illuminated the deep bronze of his skin, the clone’s hand remaining next to his blaster as they listened to the sounds of the world waking up around them. 

A wave of deep calm settled in Cody’s chest, and he closed his eyes for a moment, letting his turn towards what it would be like after the war. It would be similar to this, warm and soft around the edges, but that was where his thoughts came to an abrupt end, teetering on the edge of the unknown.

He couldn’t imagine what he had never known.

“I believe our hosts will be collecting us in a moment,” Mace murmured, his eyes still closed, and Cody found himself jolted back into the present. He felt strangely naked without his armour, only wearing his blacks, as he stood, methodically checking his blaster and the blades he kept tucked in easy reach. 

Mace moved to stand, and Cody stepped forward, offering his arm to the other man as support. The other man’s grip was steady, and he squeezed Cody’s arm once in silent thanks as the door chimed, signalling the arrival of one of their hosts. 

They remained close together as they walked to the small hall, their hands brushing together every so often, and each time brought a fresh, furious blush to Cody’s face, causing his heart to skip a beat in his chest. He thought he would be able to handle this, to keep maintaining the same level of denial that he even had a crush that half the vod also possessed, but his carefully constructed control was slipping further every second. 

The air slowly became filled with the scent of fresh bread, a strange almost syrupy sweetness and, lingering beneath them, a spicy scent that set Cody’s blood humming in his veins. He turned his head slightly, searching for the source, and caught the edge of a look of indescribable softness that filtered over Mace’s face before it disappeared once more. 

“I believe,” Mace murmured, looping his arm through Cody’s without breaking stride, and the clone’s heart simply stopped even as his body continued moving out of reflex, “that we should only be here for a day cycle. I would like to apologise for the length of the meetings we will likely be subjected to.”

“It’s no trouble, sir.”

“It was suggested by another Council member that armour could be swapped to allow you to keep your break, while Ponds provided a distraction.” 

Cody couldn’t help the twist of disgust that pulled at his face, a shudder at the idea rattling up his spine. Natborns didn’t understand, couldn’t understand why that was nearly unthinkable to the clones. Pieces of their armour could be gifted as a mark of trust, a clear show of affection with one of the only things they could own, and yet, wearing another clone’s armour in the way natborns borrowed clothing was disrespectful. It would have felt like he was wearing another person’s skin, losing himself in them.

Mace continued, his tone softer. “Yes, Commander Fox made the argument that it would not be a well-liked course of action, and made the suggestion for you to go in Ponds’ place.”

Cody was torn between the urge to thank Fox the next time he saw him or to punch him. Ever since he had settled into a relationship of sorts with Ponds, the other man couldn’t help but meddle in the way that only the Command track vode could. Fox and Ponds both took after Prime, content together even as they looked at their brothers and the romance novels that served as black market currency with a sense of mild confusion.

“I’m happy to serve, sir.”

Mace frowned, but didn’t get the chance to speak before a new problem presented itself. 

“Ah.” 

“Sir?” Cody scanned the room, taking in the low tables, almost groaning beneath the heavy bounty of food set on top of them, noting the strange configuration of their hosts: one sitting curled atop the other. 

“The briefing mentioned that there is a very strict binary of roles, categorised as peacekeeper and protector by our standards, hence the ring.” Mace kept his voice low as he steered Cody towards one of the tables at their host’s gentle urging. “In times of war, the protectors guard the peacekeepers and in times of peace, the peacekeepers care for the protectors.”

“Sir?” Cody couldn’t think, could barely move under his own steam. It felt like he had fallen into one of the over-dramatised holos that always seemed to be streaming whenever he got a moment of downtime. 

“You are a good man, Commander. I don’t want to ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“General, sir. It wouldn’t be a hardship.” He meant every word. Cody knew that looking after the Jedi was just another part of his training, but Mace Windu was different. 

The grin he received in response was blinding.

“Glad to hear it.”

The first thought that made its way through the shocked and silent fog in Cody’s mind as Mace sat on the cushion, pulling Cody down onto his lap, was that the other man was warm. Through the heavy robes he wore, heat pressed against Cody’s back and the curve of his shoulders like sinking into a warm bath back on Coruscant. 

It felt like every ounce of blood in his body was burning through his cheeks, the heat of the blush trailing down his neck and across his chest. 

“What?” Cody managed to spit out from behind gritted teeth, barely able to believe what was happening. 

“Peacekeepers care for the protectors,” Mace said, his voice rumbling through Cody’s chest. While he couldn’t see the Jedi’s face, Cody knew he was grinning once more. It was an expression he wanted to see more of, to watch it unfold again and again and again in all it’s variations like a sunrise.

“I feel like I’m a shiny,” Cody muttered, making a reflexive half-hearted attempt to twist away, embarrassment and longing burning bright in his chest like twin suns.

“You’re certainly squirming enough to be a shiny,” Mace chuckled, settling his chin on top of Cody’s head as he stared out at the room, and Cody settled, remembering the deep calm of the mediation, his heart slowing in his chest as they breathed in unison. The moment wouldn’t last, but they would enjoy it while it did.

[jjba-hell]

Fate and Fortune

Part 11

Here’s Part 10 but hop on the Fate and Fortune tag for the rest

Second week of 2021 and I’m straight up not having a good time ✌︎('ω')✌︎- I hated the original piece so ended up re-writing it so uhhh good luck with this piece (really not a favorite for me)

For my moots: @fyre23 and @risottoneroo

Content warning: none in particular, just a SLEEZY Steely Dan

The tarot cards laid out before her two stacks- the ones whose stands who are known and those are not. Mr Joestar had politely asked for a reading- wondering if Hermit Purple could help him choose the card Dio’s stand held.

Vera didn’t say it quite off the bat from asking but she had her money in The World- simply because that was the end of their journey as a group was heading- to Dio. It had seemed almost poetic when thorny vines wrapped around the World card. Joseph thanks her for the reading and proceeded ahead to grab some food. So with that, she slid the deck back together and as she rose back up on her feet a quiet whisper over her ear brought her plans of walking back to the others to an abrupt end. “So- this is what Enya’s killer looks like? I suppose I have to thank you, Dio’s faith in her servitude was wavering.”

Vera craned her neck to take a look at the owner of the voice behind her- somewhat handsome if not marred by the godawful sneer plastered over his ear.

“Got some guts coming after me directly, don’t you think?”

Fortune materialized behind the man, Vera taking his moment of surprise to step out from his looming stance over her shoulder. “Got a name, jackass?”

“Dan, Steely Dan. My stand represents the lovers.” He said almost as if he expected her to know who he was. “Now that you know my name and I have most certainly heard more than my fair share about you- join me for a coffee? Just across the street.”

Vera’s scowl only seemed to worsen at the offer. “For what?”

“For taking care of Enya for me, of course. It truly does make my life so much easier.”

She didn’t trust this weasel as far as she could see him and she was convinced the others might smell something was up soon enough but until then she’d have to deal with it- maybe she could manage some information out of this bastard.

“Fine then- let’s talk.” She dematerialized Fortune back and with her hands back into her jean pockets, she followed.

Unsurprisingly two cups of coffee were already set on the table outside the shop. “How hospitable of you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you knew I was going to take your offer.”

Steely Dan brought his cup to his lips. “Rest assured, I’d never allow any harm to come over a stunning creature such as yourself.”

Vera sat back, bringing a cigarette to her lips. “I’m a bit young for you, aren’t I?” She sneered- the slight twitch in his right eye enough to get a chuckle out of her. “Besides, no matter how pretty I am, doesn’t change the fact that I am, essentially, your enemy.”

“What can I say? Birds of a feather flock together.”

She laughed, watching the others approach her from across the street. About time.

“My, my- your vanity that important to you? How about we cut to the chase, Dan? What do you want?”

Dan leaned in over his edge of the table, folding his arms in front of him. “Surely that’s an easy answer- I’m here to destroy your little group- one by one.”

Uttered just in time for the others to hear.

“And what exactly makes you so confident you stand a chance against five of us?” Polnareff was one to speak first.

The simpering laugh he have made Vera’s blood boil. This guy really thought he trumped them somehow. “Simply put, none of you can lay a hand on me.”

Vera flipped her cigarette between her fingers and pressed the hot coal into the top of his right hand. He flinched away angrily fanning his hand before balling it into a fist and swinging her way. She held her hand up to grab his wrist as a block but Star got him first- sending him....and Mr Joestar flying back.

She ran to Joseph to help him back up again- her mind running furiously to connect why he flew back? Was it a fluke?

When Mr Joestar’s breathing started laboring, her gaze shot towards Jotaro with his grip on Steely Dan.

“Jotaro, stop.”

He shot her one glance over the shoulder before relaxing his grip- Joseph’s breathing evening out a bit.

She looked up at the sleeze ball Dan and scowled- “Your stand, the lovers. You’re interconnected with it aren’t, you?”

“A good start. Doesn’t explain how Mr Joestar’s getting hurt though, does it?” He taunted.

Vera thought about it for a moment, trying to piece together why only Joseph would be targeted. It had to be a choice- he’d pick the seemingly weakest one who couldn’t take the beating.

“The niche of it I’ll yield on but it seems whatever you experience, your stand deals to your target.”

That same sickly smile spread over his lips. “Good looks and good brains- not that the latter matters very much.”

Jotaro grabbed hold of the bastard’s collar again, threatening to kill him too quick for it to hurt. Fortune’s dials moved back quietly over Joseph’s injuries- unable to revert back to the state it was in before the stand but maybe just before the punch. “So... how are you making this work, Dan?”

Somehow knowing more did nothing for her to come up with a plan but when the bastard started making a scene with Jotaro- rock in hand- she started to worry. Vera moved closer to where Jotaro had to be held back by the other two men- when Dan brought the rock up over his shoulder to swing at Jotaro’s head she simply had Fortune snatch it out of his hand.

“Tch, how primitive.” She grabbed hold of Kakyoin’s wrist, pulling him away from the scuffle. “I think you know what to do- I’ll make sure this cuck doesn’t do anything stupid.”

The corners of Kakyoin’s mouth twitched a bit before he and Joseph took off down the street- shortly followed my Polnareff.

“Oh, I see... you think you could exploit a range weakness.”

She didn’t answer, taking a moment to stand beside Jotaro whose jaw was painfully clenched.

“No matter. Since you two will be following me around for a day.” She figured he’d pull the move, fucking sleezeball. He grabbed hold of one of her belt loops and pulled her flush to his side. He threw an arm over her shoulder and started walking.

Jotaro- simmering behind them, followed. “Admittedly, you’re pretty even when you scowl but I think a smile would suit you better, wouldn’t it?”

Steely Dan’s hand wrapped around her jaw, making her look at him- the disdain on her face still evident. She figured he’d threaten her with his own pain, or rather Mr Joestar’s, so she swallowed her pride for a moment and forced a smile.

He let her go completely as they reached the drainage ditch- turning towards Jotaro to instruct him to act as the bridge. “Didn’t take you as the lazy kind, Dan. Surely a physique like yours is earned”, she tried so hard not to say the last bit but she just couldn’t resist. “Especially at your age, walking must be the best way to get that exercise in.”

Once again- the comment made his eye twitch and as penance his leg swung into the pillar. Fortune moved too quick though and moved him just enough to slip and fall on his ass.

Once again, she swallowed her pride and came to his aid- helping him back up on his feet, that sickly sweet smile plastered to her face.

“Oh come now, I’m just teasing. Nothing wrong with being just a little playful, is there?”

He squinted at her in disbelief, as he should, taking her hand regardless and walking past her to address Jotaro. “Troublesome woman- someone should have beat that out of you. It might just end up being me.”

She wrapped her hand around Jotaro’s clenched fist, just long enough for him to relax a bit until Steely Dan gave his next request.

Vera didn’t dare follow Dan, she simply phased herself to the other side of the ditch Jotaro was stretched over- a trick she knew would tip fortune out of her favor for a while but she didn’t care.

“Oh? You actually followed me?” Dan taunted as she bent down to help Jotaro into the other side and fix any of the damages he caused. She didn’t answer him though.

“Tch. Very well.”

“That fuck is going to wish he were never born.” She growled through gritted teeth. Jotaro gazed up at her, the same anger in his eyes.

His hand moved up, almost looking like it was going to cup her face but instead it moved to grab a strand of her hair.

“That move cost you.” He commented as she peered down at the grey strand. Vera was used to moving Fortune forward and back to her will but because she could only move her own forward she noticed little changes like longer nails or outgrown hair a bit too often for her to rule out that other people’s fate didn’t affect her.

The gray hair however... she suppose that was due to the shock her system had been given the past few days. “Doesn’t matter.” She rose up again, taking his hand in hers. “Come on- he’s gonna get up to something I swear.”

They followed after like obedient dogs- both Jotaro and Vera’s patience growing painfully thin. From back scratching to shoe shining- Vera stood between Jotaro and whatever onslaught of petty jabs at Jotaro he could throw. Jotaro’s torture was physical for sure but the scathing comments thrown at Vera had her fingers itch for his neck under her grip.

She angrily wrenched his hand from the hem of her jeans- gritting her teeth as she hissed. “Reach into my jeans one more fucking time and I’ll-“

“You’ll what, dollface?”

“I’ll make what I did to Enya tané in comparison to what I’ll do to you.”

“Oh is that a threat?”

“A promise, motherfucker.”

He shrugged her off, her blood boiling more with every step she has to watch him walk away. “Let me make it up to you, Vera. I’ll treat you to some jewelry...”

It was trouble from the second she stepped into the shop after him- looking at nothing in particular except the back of his neck right in front of her. When it was Jotaro holding the bracelet, it was the only time she couldn’t stop him from getting hurt.

Outside the shop he slipped a gaudy gold necklace around her neck and soon as he finished clasping the thing she phased straight out of it, letting it fall to the ground.

She only gave one look at the piece of jewelry laying on the ground and then up at him. “Suits you better, looks cheap.” Fortune moved towards Jotaro to start on his injuries- Dan thinking he could take a hit on her but once again missing poorly.

“Y’know- I can’t tell when no one’s ever used their own fists to fight their way out.” She gazed over her shoulder at him. “My dodges are slow and the fact that you can’t hit me says a lot. A bit too comfortable with your stand if you ask me.”

As if on qeue, Dan’s frown soon turned bloody. Kakyoin must’ve gotten a hit on the jackass’s stand.

Relieved, Vera reached into Jotaro’s jacket pocket for a cigarette and the notebook he’d been working on. She scribbled down the shit he’d said to her and then closed the book- handing it back to him.

“You’ll take care of this one for me, yeah?”

“You going to check up on the other three?”

“Yeah, best not avoid any brain damage your grandfather could have suffered from the extraction.”

Jotaro nodded- Dan’s begging getting louder as she walked away. She figured it best to let him handle it-moving her own fortune forward was never good and she had the right idea to do so since no sooner she turned a corner down an alleyway did a door slam open and give her a bloody nose.

BONUS:

“You can take a lot of verbal abuse, huh?”

Jotaro had muttered at her as she laid her head on his chest. The night was too young and too hot for them to be touching too much.

“And you can take a lot of physical abuse, what’s your point?”

He gave a huff, of laughter or frustration she wasn’t sure. “You shouldn’t.”

“I don’t. I just don’t deal with it the same as you.” She lifted her head a bit to get more hair out from under her head. “I’m much rather humiliate them before I just punch them.”

“Where’d you pick up that trick?”

She laughed, “Boarding school, unsurprisingly.” She put on her best British posh voice. “A lady’s hands must never draw the blood of her enemies.”she shrugged, laughing at her own impression. “So when you can’t throw hands- violence comes some other way.”

Jotaro only hummed, bringing the little ice pack they’d bought back to her. She took it and gracelessly held it against her nose which had turned violently blue the first few hours.

“I’m sorry.”

The phrase came out of the blue for her but she looked him head on regardless, “For what?”

“Dragging you along.”

She shook her head- “I’m sorry to tell you JoJo but I’m as much after saving Holy as I am avenging my parents-“

The mere word made he zone out, or just become quiet in the conversation.

So he wrapped is arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer, letting the doe eyed glare in her eyes clear up a bit before starting the conversation a new.

“She’s not dealing with it well.” Kakyoin sighed, leaning against the hotel balcony railing as Jotaro smoked. “I understand why she’s doing it but I don’t think she processed what she felt back there.”

Jotaro only nodded, swallowing a heavy lump in his throat as he straightened. “She’s been acting off, I’d be lying if I said I’m worried.”

Kakyoin sighed, unfolding his arms over his chest before doing the same. “All we can do is hope that Avdol might know what to tell her.”

[hrina]

In The Ring, Pt. II - Cross

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 7k REQUESTED: highly lol!

hi again! here’s PART 2 of boxer!harry :) thank u all for such a wonderful response on the first part, i can’t explain how much it means to me. i worked really hard on this chapter, so i hope u guys love it! if u do, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated, and i’ll probably ask for ur hand in marriage in return.

warning: parts of this fic will contain mentions of blood, violence, mild stalking, and sexual content. if any of that makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and keep scrolling <3

u can find the rest of this series on my masterlist, which is linked in my bio! my inbox is also there if you wanna spare a few thoughts about this part. love u guys sm, stay safe out there 💛💛💛

~*~

    January 19, 2021

It’s ten at night, and you’re curled up in bed, scrolling through social media. You should be doing the assigned readings for your anatomy class, but you’re procrastinating. Besides, watching video after video of cute kittens peeking their furry little heads out of cardboard boxes is a much better way to pass the time.

Your relaxation period is interrupted when a notification banner descends from the top of your screen. It’s an unknown number, but the content of the message makes your eyes widen in surprise.

Hi. It’s Harry. I’m at the gym.

You tap on the text immediately, waiting with bated breath as you’re taken to a different app. You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, thumbs hovering over the screen before they begin to type.

Hey! I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Harry’s reply is short, concise, to-the-point—just like him. Oddly enough, it makes you smile.

Okay. See you soon.

~*~

The first thing that Harry notices when you walk through the door is that you’re slightly out of breath. He’s standing in the middle of the ring, his eyes fixated on the opposite side of the room as you enter. Your hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and you’re wearing a pair of leggings and a tank top under your jacket. Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you stride over to him, fingers wiggling in a friendly wave.

“Hi!” you call out, shooting him a kind smile.

Harry leans against the ropes circling the ring, careful not to put too much of his weight on the barriers lest he flip over and fall to the floor. It’s happened once or twice, and each time, he ended up with a bruised tailbone afterward.

“Hi,” he replies.

You shrug your coat from your shoulders as you draw nearer. “How are you?” you ask, peering up at him curiously.

“Good, thanks,” he says. His fingers toy absentmindedly with the silver cross pendant dangling from his neck. “Er…did you run here?”

“What? Oh, no,” you answer with a breathless laugh. “I drove. But I was hurrying—I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

You’re so fucking sweet. He’s going to throw up.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“Still,” you say, tightening your ponytail with both hands. “You’re going out of your way to do this for me. And while we’re on the subject of that—thank you, again. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Harry says. He slips between the ropes and hops down from the platform. “Shall we start?”

“We shall,” you agree, biting back a teasing smile. “Am I going up against you?”

Despite himself, Harry chuckles. He shakes his head. “Not yet. First, you need to learn the basics.”

“Basics,” you echo, nodding once. “Right.”

He leads you over to the side of the ring, where a pair of punching bags have been strung up near the wall. The arrangement is nothing special—twin leather bags, one brown and one black, filled with sand and stitched together with strong, coarse thread. Reflexively, you reach out, running your fingertips along the black bag and giving it a gentle push. It swings outward before returning back to you. Harry watches you closely, examining the gentle crease between your brows and the slight glaze that smooths over your pupils. He clears his throat quietly, and you seem to snap out of your trance.

“Do you know how to punch?” he asks.

You purse your lips, looking unsure of yourself. “Um…I think so.”

He nods. “Show me, then.”

The blow that you deliver to the bag is weak at best. Harry immediately notices a handful of things that you’re doing wrong. When you pull your arm back and peer up at him, he’s trying his hardest to hold back a smirk.

“What?” You frown.

“Nothing.” He snickers softly, shaking his head again. “It’s just…that was cute.”

“‘Cute’?” you parrot, narrowing your eyes. You scoff good-naturedly, stepping back and holding your arm out in invitation. “You do it, then.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Gladly.”

The chain hanging from the ceiling rattles when his fist makes contact with the leather. The punching bag itself swings forward in an extraordinary arc before hurtling back in your direction. You gasp when Harry stops it with his palms. He grunts quietly, stilling it before turning around to face you. There’s a small smile playing on his lips, and he’s sure that his eyes are gleaming with a smug sparkle. You just cross your arms over your chest, gazing at him evenly with your chin held high.

“Fine,” you say. “Tell me what to do.”

Harry gets you situated back in front of the bag, standing beside you and studying your posture.

“First of all,” he starts, “you need to make sure that the position of your feet matches the position of your arms.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, shooting him a confused pout.

“Like this—,” Harry reaches for your shoulders before pausing, his fingers only inches away from your skin. “Er,” he clears his throat, fixing you with inquisitive eyes, “is it alright if I touch you?”

You nod wordlessly. Harry swallows down the lump in his throat as his hands close the distance between your bodies. He slants your torso to the side before reaching for your arms, bending them at the elbow so that your fingers—now curled into loose fists—are suspended in front of your face.

“If you’re angling yourself this way,” Harry starts, mimicking your stance, “you need to make sure that your right foot is leading you. But if you stand in the opposite direction—,” he changes sides, adopting a mirror image of his previous position, “—then it has to be your left foot. Got it?”

“Got it,” you say confidently. That same crease is digging into the space between your eyebrows; Harry aches to reach out and flatten it with the pad of his thumb.

“Also,” he says, delicately wrapping his fingers around your wrists, “when you punch, you can’t drop your other hand. Keep it up at all times—you need to guard your face.”

“Guard my face,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Okay, cool.”

You throw an experimental punch at the bag, and Harry doesn’t miss the shadow of pain that flashes across your features. His eyes trail down the length of your arm, lingering on your fist. Before you can deliver another blow, he stops you, catching your knuckles in the calloused valley of his palm and halting your movements.

“Keep your thumb on the outside,” he says, peeling your fingers open and freeing your thumb from beneath them. “You’ll break it, otherwise.”

He curls the digits back up, this time so that your hand is settled in the proper arrangement. He then steps back, jerking his head toward the bag and encouraging you to take another swing. “Try it, now.”

The third blow is better than the past two. You beam up at Harry when a promising smack! echoes through the air. He smiles reassuringly at you, nodding his head and tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. “Good. That’s a start.”

“Put me in, Coach,” you tease, bringing your fists up to your face and bouncing playfully on the balls of your feet. Your eyes shimmer as you peek at him from behind your knuckles. Harry presses his lips together to keep himself composed, but he can’t stop the faint snort that slips out of his nose. You laugh cheerfully, dropping your arms back to your sides.

“Okay, so I know how to punch,” you say. “What’s next?”

“There’s four main punches in boxing,” Harry replies. He steadies himself in front of the bag, his left foot extended to provide balance.

“The jab—”

He punches with his left fist, pointed and forceful.

“—the cross—”

He strikes with his right hand, driving the weight of his body into the blow.

“—the hook—”

He curves his arm, angling it accordingly so that he can deliver a hit to the side of the bag.

“—and finally, the uppercut.”

He bends his elbow, scooping upward so that his fist makes contact with the bottom half of the bag. The sand inside shifts audibly as it rattles around, looping in every direction and gathering momentum. Harry turns back to you as it continues to swing in circles, cracking his knuckles loudly and seeking you out.

Your eyes are wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you look a bit…enthralled. His brow furrows in confusion.

“You alright?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, and he’s taken aback by the breathless quality of your voice. You clear your throat quickly, scratching at your hairline and looking away. “You’re just very…dedicated. That’s all.”

“I’ve got to be,” Harry hums. He turns back to the punching bag and ceases its movements. “This is how I make a living.” His lips quirk up with the hint of a smile. “We can’t all go to medical school and become doctors.”

A weak laugh tumbles from your mouth. “I haven’t even gotten in yet,” you say from behind him.

“But you will,” he murmurs, the reply slipping out before he can weigh it on his tongue. “Without a doubt.”

He pauses when the words finally sink in, his shoulders stiffening and his eyes stamping shut. If you weren’t standing so close, he would have leaned forward and crushed his forehead into the rough leather of the punching bag. His lips mould around unspoken curses as a heavy silence descends upon the two of you.

At last, you finally choke out, “I—thank you, Harry. That’s really nice of you to say.”

“No problem,” he grunts. He steps back, spinning on his heel but refusing to meet your gaze. You’re probably looking at him like that—with soft, glimmering irises and earnestness woven through every cell in your body. If your eyes lock, he knows that he’ll be overrun with the urge to kiss you.

And he knows that if that happens, he might not be able to hold himself back.

“What time do you have to be home?” Harry asks, subtly trying to change the topic.

You lift one eyebrow challengingly, like you know exactly what he’s doing. Still, though, you humour him.

“I told my dad I was going to a friend’s house,” you say, shrugging lightly. “We have time, don’t worry.” You smile as a thought crosses your mind. “Just make sure you don’t get me too sweaty by the end of the night, okay? I can’t go home looking like I’ve just run a marathon.”

Harry’s cock twitches in his shorts at the thought of rendering you sticky and speechless. Of watching you walk away from him with wobbly knees and messy hair. Of dropping you off at home and nibbling on your neck one last time for good measure. He quickly shoos the temptations away, clearing his throat and nodding in accord.

“Minimal sweating,” he concedes. “I’ll try my best.”

Deep down, he knows that you’ll most likely be drenched with perspiration once he’s through with you. You’ll figure that out soon enough, though.

Harry makes his way over to the ring, snatching up a pair of gloves lying on the platform. He turns back around, tossing them to you and fighting a smile when you yelp in surprise. With an awkward flail, you manage to catch them in your arms. You shoot him a questioning look, lifting your eyebrows and waiting for an explanation.

“Put those on,” he orders, clapping his hands together once. “We’re gonna try to perfect your stance, tonight.”

“Why do I need to wear them, then?” you ask, gazing down blankly at the gloves nestled against your chest.

“You don’t need to, I suppose,” Harry says, shrugging. “But your knuckles will probably be destroyed by the end of the night.”

“Oh.” You make a face, wrinkling your nose up in distaste. “Okay, yeah—I’ll use them.”

He smirks, folding his arms over his chest. “We want to be careful, don’t we? Those are the steady hands of a future surgeon.”

You scoff, laughing gently at his quip. “Hopefully,” you say, a sweet smile playing on your lips. “Let’s just pray that I get the right grades.”

You will, Harry thinks, but this time, he bites his tongue to keep the sentiment contained. You’re smart, and you’re beautiful, and you’re kind. You’re perfect. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to kiss you. I want to fuck you. I want to sleep next to you at night and prepare you breakfast in the morning. I want to make you laugh. I want to make you smile. I want to—

“Harry?”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You fix him with a benevolent look. “Zoning out on me?”

“No.” He shakes his head, approaching you as you struggle to tug on one of the boxing gloves. His eyes fall to your hands and he reaches out, halting your movements with a gentle, “Let me.”

You peek up at him shyly as he guides your fingers into the glove. He keeps his gaze trained downward, avoiding your eyes. One of his rough palms grasps your elbow as he tugs the Velcro strip tight around your wrist. Once he’s done the same with the other one, he releases you and steps back.

“Thank you,” you say softly. He just nods in response.

“Make sure your feet are shoulder-width apart,” he says, and you spread your legs according to his command.

For a brief moment, the image of you separating your thighs to accommodate his hips flashes through his mind, but he squeezes his eyes shut and wills it away.

The rest of the night is painful—his cock grows stiffer and stiffer by the hour, spurred on by each sweet smile that you send his way. By the time you’re through with the session and bidding him goodnight as he locks up, he’s half-hard beneath his black shorts. He hopes that you don’t notice.

You shoot him a cheerful wave and drive away, and he watches before toddling over to his own vehicle. As soon as he slides into the driver’s seat, he releases a heavy, guttural groan, slouching forward and pressing his forehead to the crest of the steering wheel. Blindly, he sticks his key into the ignition and turns it, and the truck rumbles to life. A quick glance at the dashboard reveals that it’s well past midnight. Only then does he realise the extent of his exhaustion.

He backs out of the parking lot, pulling onto the main street and training his eyes on the road ahead. If he squints, he can still make out the red taillights of your car.

The journey back to his apartment passes in no time. Harry climbs sluggishly up four flights of stairs, tumbling into his home and pressing the door shut with one hand. He drags his feet down the hall and past the threshold of his bedroom, pausing only to rip his t-shirt from his torso before collapsing onto his mattress. Obscure silhouettes dance across his eyelids as they drift shut.

The last thing on his mind before sleep overtakes him is the gentle slope of your smile.

    February 21, 2021

One month and a handful of late-night sessions later, Harry finds himself inundated with guilt. He’s constantly plagued by memories of your virtual conversations—short, brief little interactions consisting primarily of him letting you know that he’s free to train that evening. Your responses, ripe with exclamation marks and prattles of gratitude. You’ve taken up the habit of texting him after each lesson, too, composing a quick thank-you message before shutting your phone for the night.

And Harry regrets everything—agreeing to teach you how to box, letting you know when he’s available to meet, encouraging you as your technique progresses. On several occasions, he’s considered breaking things off, telling you that he’s too busy, that you should be focussing exclusively on school instead of on how to throw a right hook.

But then you look at him like that. With bright, trusting eyes and open features and that easy, dazzling smile. And the wall that he’s been trying so hard to build back up—not that it was particularly robust to begin with—comes crashing down.

His match is set to start in fifteen minutes, and you’re not here. You have a midterm tomorrow—your father had mentioned it in passing. You’ve been holed up in your room all weekend, he said, permanently absorbed in the pages of your textbook.

And Harry’s nervous, because you’re his lucky charm. What the fuck is he supposed to do, now?

The minutes seem to fly by—before he knows it, he’s stepping out into the ring with the crowd’s thundering screams echoing in his ears. His opponent isn’t the biggest man he’s ever gone up against, but he’s definitely not scrawny. Harry’s maybe two inches shorter than him—under normal circumstances, the height difference wouldn’t have fazed him. But he’s already on edge due to your absence, so even the smallest observations are proving to be exceedingly disconcerting.

Looking back, he supposes that he should’ve known.

Doomed from the start, destined to fail—whatever you want to call it.

Point being, he loses. Horrendously.

And he’s not quite sure when they bring the stretcher out and peel him off of the floor of the ring, but he knows that it’s sometime after the second round. He blinks rapidly, fading in and out of consciousness as moisture trickles down the side of his face. Somewhere beneath the wooziness, he’s well aware that the match is over. Your father is standing over him, walking at a brisk pace to keep up with the two men carrying him out of the arena.

“What do you mean, he called in sick?” your father spits, his eyes alight with anger. “You couldn’t find anybody else?”

The man behind Harry’s head says something that he can’t quite discern. His response makes your father grit his teeth and pinch the bridge of his nose. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, punching in a number and bringing the device up to his ear.

A few moments later, his expression lights up, relief flooding his features. “Gioia? Yeah, hi…”

Harry’s vision fades to black.

~*~

“…going to have some strong words with the bastard that did this—”

“Gioia, please. That’s how the sport works.”

An outraged scoff. “Who the hell kicks a man while he’s down?”

No reply.

Harry drifts off once more.

~*~

When his eyelids flutter open, it takes a moment for him to regain his bearings. Through the blurriness of his vision, he sees a dim light hanging from the ceiling, bathing his surroundings in a pale white glow. He blinks rapidly, hoping that his sight will sharpen with each flutter of his lashes. There’s a dull pain throbbing against the right side of his torso, battering against his ribcage and pulling an agonized groan from his lips.

The low sound is met with a high gasp. Seconds later, a face is looming over his own. Harry forces himself to concentrate on the person’s features—kind, worried eyes, raised brows, and pretty, parted lips. His heart begins to gallop in his chest.

“Harry,” you breathe. A few gentle fingers card through his hair. The sensation of your nails against his scalp makes him shiver. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” he croaks, his voice hoarse.

Despite the worry swimming around in your irises, you emit a shy laugh.

“Are you able to sit up?” you ask, pulling your hand out of his hair. He nearly whines at the loss.

“Think so,” he mutters. He places his palms flat against the surface beneath him—a bed, perhaps?—and pushes himself onto his elbows. The muted pain in his side flares fiercely, making him choke on his own breath. You reach out for him, setting one hand down on his shoulder while the other wraps delicately around his bicep.

“Easy, easy,” you soothe, tutting disapprovingly. “Be careful.”

“’M always careful,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” you reply sarcastically, nodding your head. “And that’s how you ended up like this, right?”

A short, wheezing laugh punches its way out of his lungs. “Touché.”

Once he’s sitting up, he takes note of the room—well, it’s not really a room. The only thing separating the two of you from whatever lies outside is a thin curtain drawn over what he presumes to be the exit. To his left, a single cabinet with multiple drawers stands only a few feet away. You’re both tucked into a little alcove in the wall, no bigger than a standard bedroom. Harry glances around, his gaze landing on a single plastic chair facing the bed. Everything is set up like a hospital room (but far less comfortable, and severely lacking in terms of medical equipment).

“Where’s Coach?” he asks, creases forming along his forehead.

“He went to go grab us some coffee,” you explain, your eyes scanning his face. “It’s late.”

“How late?”

“Nearly two.”

“Fuck.” His head snaps toward you. “Don’t you have a midterm tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” You chew nervously on your bottom lip. “But it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, gritting his teeth and glaring at you sharply. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You recoil a bit at his harsh tone. “Your stupid medic took a sick day,” you tell him, your voice hard. “And my dad asked me to come in and have a look at you. Who knows where you’d be if I hadn’t shown up.”

Regret washes over him. He slouches back against the bed—it’s more of a cot, really—and blows out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay.” You wave his apology away with a quick flick of your fingers. “Just…be quiet for a second, alright? I need to examine you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t miss the way your lips twitch as the words sink in.

“Can you move to the edge of the bed?” you ask, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. “I need to see you properly, but I don’t want to make you stand just yet.”

“Sure.”

He shifts his body to the right, slowly dragging his legs off of the cot with a distressed wince. The floor is cold when his feet make contact with the ground, but he pays it no attention. He’s shirtless, clad only in the shorts he’d been wearing when he first stepped into the ring. He purses his lips and feels something stiff realign against his cheek. When he brings his hand up to his face, he finds a cottony piece of fabric taped onto his skin.

“What—?” He looks up at you in confusion.

“It was bleeding pretty badly,” you tell him. “I had to stop it, somehow.”

For the first time that night, he takes you in properly. You’re wearing a baggy t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants—it looks like the type of outfit that one would shrug on if they were in a rush to leave the house. Another pang of guilt jolts through his chest.

“What happened?” Harry croaks, pulling his hand away from his cheek.

“My dad told me that the other guy was wearing a bracelet,” you say; frustration drips from your words. “He didn’t take it off before the match started. It’s not a big cut, but it’s deep. You’ll probably need a few stitches.”

“And you know how to do that?” he asks, watching as you circle around the bed and approach the cabinet on the opposite side. He twists in an attempt to keep his eyes on you, but then grunts lowly at the ache that thrums against his side. When he looks down at his torso, he discovers a large splotch of blue and purple decorating the skin covering his ribs.

“I watched my mom do it back when my dad used to coach Artie,” you say absentmindedly, rifling through a few drawers and collecting the supplies that you need. You pause, your eyes clouding over with something forlorn. “Now that I think about it, that’s probably why I want to go into medicine. I think…it would’ve made her proud.”

“It would’ve,” Harry agrees.

He watches you carefully as you make your way back over to him, afraid of prying or saying the wrong thing. Your mother’s death had hit your family hard; he rarely hears you or your father mention her. But maybe that’s for the best—wounds can’t heal if they’re being ripped open time after time again. He would know.

You dump a handful of materials down onto the bed—disinfectant, cotton swabs, tissues, gauze, a needle, thread, and a pack of medical sutures. Harry swallows heavily.

“Do you mind if I…?” you trail off, pursing your lips timidly. Somehow, he understands exactly what you’re referring to.

“No, not at all,” he says. The words fall from his mouth a bit too quickly.

With no further preamble, he spreads his legs, and you step into the space made available between his knees. You lean to the side, reaching for the disinfectant and cotton swabs on the bed, but then nearly lose your balance in the process. Harry’s hand flies upward reflexively, settling on your hip to keep you steady.

You glance down at him with wide eyes, and he hastily removes his palm from your body. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, and is it just his imagination, or do you sound a bit…breathless?

“You’ve got a couple of scrapes on your face,” you continue. You clear your throat, uncapping the antiseptic and dipping a cotton swab into the bottle. “This’ll hurt a little.”

“It’s alright—fuck!” he swears, scowling deeply at the sting that blooms across his chin. You chew on your bottom lip, dragging the swab over his injuries with practiced, nimble fingers. His toes curl against the cold, concrete floor.

Once you’ve finished sterilising his minor wounds, you turn your attention to the massive bruise on his torso.

“Can I?” you ask softly, extending your arm but pausing only inches away from his skin.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

He fights back against a shudder when your fingertips ghost over his ribs. You hesitate, applying a bit more pressure and cringing when he groans. “Sorry,” you whisper, making a move to pull away.

“No,” Harry breathes quickly. He catches your hand in his, trapping your palm back against his side. Briefly, he notes the unmistakable softness of your knuckles, so different from his own. “’S okay. Do what you need to do.”  

You nod tautly, pressing your fingers against the bruise once more. Harry grinds his teeth together, trying his best to withstand the pain. You prod around for a few seconds, your brow furrowed in concentration. When you don’t appear to find anything worrisome, you sigh in relief and drop your arm so that it rests limply at your side.

“No broken ribs,” you announce quietly. “At least, not as far as I can tell.”

“That’s reassuring,” he jokes.

A weak laugh falls from your mouth. “I haven’t gotten into med school yet, remember?”

He chuckles. Your eyes suddenly darken, and an angry scowl curls along your lips.

“He kicked you while you were knocked out,” you murmur, shaking your head in disbelief. “Fucking asshole.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly upward, his mouth twitching at your vulgar words. You catch sight of his amused expression, but instead of mirroring it, your frown only deepens.

“It’s not funny,” you say. “He fought dirty.”

“This whole setup is illegal, baby,” he says. Neither of you comment on the pet name that slips out of his mouth. He hopes that you view it as part of an expression, and not a proclamation of his affection. “Fighting dirty—they don’t care about that. If anything, it just gives them one hell of a show.”

“Still,” you mutter, gluing your eyes to the discoloured skin covering his ribs. “He shouldn’t have done it.”

Harry smiles softly, reaching out and tucking two fingers beneath your chin. Your lips part in surprise, and he tilts your face up so that he can look at you properly.

“Thank you,” he says, his tone entirely sincere, “for taking care of me.”

Your throat bobs with a hefty swallow—he can feel it against his knuckles. You lift your hand up to his face, and for a moment, he thinks that you mean to stroke his cheek lovingly. But then you scrape your thumb over the bandage covering his cut, and he’s reminded that this doesn’t mean anything.

You’re here to stitch him back up—nothing less, and certainly nothing more.

“I’m not done yet,” you say.

The two of your drop your fingers at the same time. Harry clears his throat, trying to absolve the tension in the air. You seize some of the other supplies still strewn across the bed, laying them out properly before getting to work.

You’re diligent, removing the bandage on his cheek and using a few tissues to mop up the blood that immediately begins to drip downward, rolling over the jut of his jaw. He curses when you pass another cotton swab over his injury, screwing his face up at the smarting prickle of the antiseptic.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur absentmindedly, keeping your eyes trained on the wound. “We definitely don’t want this one to get infected.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, because he can’t exactly nod with your fingers probing around.

“This is going to be the worst part,” you warn, pulling back and opening the pack of stitches.

You unwind a piece of thread from its spool, taking the string between your lips and severing it with your teeth. Harry watches you closely, anxiety frothing in the pit of his stomach. In all of his years spent boxing, he’s only needed stitches once—the procedure hurt like a bitch, especially since there had been no anaesthetic available. He remembers the pain like it was yesterday, and he’s not looking forward to having to endure it again.

When you guide the first stitch through his skin, he balls his hands into tight fists. His lips tuck themselves into a thin line, and an agonized moan bubbles up in his chest. You squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment; upon reopening, they glisten with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice shakes.

“It’s okay,” Harry grits out. His blunt nails dig into his palms. “Keep…keep going.”

“A few more,” you babble; he’s not sure whether you’re trying to comfort him or yourself. “Just a few more.”

It takes you roughly fifteen minutes (you haven’t really had much practice, after all) to sew his wound closed with five stitches. It is by no means the cleanest application, but it’s not bad. You retrieve another cotton swab and dip it into the bottle of disinfectant, running it along the seam of his injury one last time. After that, you finally blow out the stale air that has accumulated in your lungs.

“Thank you,” Harry mutters. “Truly.”

“No problem,” you breathe. You busy yourself with gathering up all of the supplies, cradling them to your chest and making your way around the bed. As you dump everything back into the top drawer of the cabinet, you say, “Harry. Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it,” he hums. He’s nervous about speaking too animatedly, afraid to disrupt the work you’ve just done on his cheek.

“How long have you been boxing?”

He peers at you from over his shoulder, eyes following your movements as you return to his side of the cot and sit down next to him. “Er…,” he pauses, thinking, “…about ten years, now.”

“You started at sixteen?” you say, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

He smiles softly before remembering the sutures sewn into his skin. A beat of silence passes.

“Can I ask you something?” he questions.

You nod. “Of course.”

“Why did you want me to teach you how to box?” he says. You open your mouth—to feed him another lie, surely—but he carries on before you get the chance to speak. “And don’t say it’s because you were just curious, or some bullshit like that. I want the truth.”

“Harry…,” you begin softly, looking at him with pleading eyes. He shakes his head, adamant and unmoved.

“The truth.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat. Instinctively, you reach for your throat, tugging at the rose-gold chain hanging there and fiddling nervously with the pendant nestled between your collarbones. It looks like you’re trying to figure out what to say, how to approach the situation without revealing something that could potentially make it any worse.

“Do you remember that guy I was seeing a few months ago?” you say, your voice small. “James?”

And oh, Harry remembers. He remembers watching the two of you swap spit on top of the bleachers at one of his matches. He remembers imagining James in the place of his opponent, and then making sure to aim all of his punches directly for the face (he won, that night.) He remembers seeing the sparkle in your eyes slowly start to dim the longer you stayed with him. He remembers the aftermath of your breakup, when James had shown up at the gym and screamed at you to come outside, deterred only after Portia threatened to call the police.

He fucking remembers.

“Yeah,” he spits. The affirmation is coated in a thick layer of venom. “What about him?”

His eyes widen a touch when it all clicks, then, like pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly into place.

“What did he do?” he demands immediately, fixing you with a stern glare. “Did he fucking touch you?”

“No!” you exclaim, shaking your head quickly. “No, no, it’s just…I’ve been seeing him around. A lot. And I’m not sure if I’m just being paranoid, maybe, but—,” you inhale deeply, “—it feels like he’s following me.”

Your name slips past Harry’s lips in a hard, firm tenor. When you look up at him warily, he stares straight into your eyes, leaving no room for you to break away.

“You need to tell someone about this,” he says steadfastly. “You need to go to the police.”

“I don’t even know if I’m right,” you tell him. Your mouth curls down into an apprehensive frown. “I don’t want to cause a fuss, especially if it all just turns out to be one big coincidence.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Harry asks. A bitter taste settles on his tongue. “How often has this been happening?”

You tilt your head to the side, lost in thought. “Two days ago,” you finally say, shrugging helplessly. “And…I don’t know. I’ve seen him, like, nine or ten times in total.”

“Ten times,” he hisses, “in a few months? That’s not normal, and you know it.”

“Harry,” you plead, tugging nervously at the hem of your t-shirt. “Please. Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“How can you—?” he starts, but then you lurch forward, putting a dainty hand on his thigh.

“Please,” you repeat, shaking your head softly. “Just…keep this between us, okay? The last thing I want is for my dad to find out.”

And maybe it’s the tenderness brewing in your eyes when you meet his gaze. Maybe it’s the wilt in your voice, the feeblest he’s ever heard. Maybe it’s the feeling of your fingers on his leg, burning a hole through his shorts and searing a mark—a brand—into his skin. Harry sighs, looking away from you and running his fingers anxiously through his curly hair.

“You’re bloody stupid, you know that?” he asks, scoffing quietly.

“Yeah,” you reply, the corners of your mouth kinking up into a half-hearted smile. “I know.”

“Got you a latte, gioia—”

The dinky curtain in front of you is pulled back by none other than your father, who is holding a tray of coffee in his right hand. He blinks at the scene laid out before him—you and Harry on the small cot, sitting a bit too close for comfort. Your hand on his thigh. You both jump, breaking away from each other and inhaling sharply. Harry clears his throat as you cough into your elbow, standing up and reaching for one of the drinks nestled in the tray.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to your father’s cheek.

His eyes bounce between the two of you, forehead wrinkling in curiosity as he asks, “What’d I miss?”

You peer down at Harry from over the rim of your cup, panicked and beseeching. He just shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly; the tattoos inked into his skin ripple with the act. His tone is steady when he meets your father’s gaze.

“I’ve got some bruised ribs and a wicked headache, but aside from that—,” he lies, “—nothing at all.”

~*~

Your father ends up driving him home.

He parks the car just in front of Harry’s apartment complex, watching with worried eyes as he slips out of the passenger door.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” he asks.

Harry just nods, waving away his concerns. “I’m fine, Coach, really. Thanks for the ride.”

Your father nods—still looking a little unsure—before speeding off.

Climbing up four flights of stairs with bruised ribs is hell, Harry soon learns. By the time he reaches his floor, he’s panting and wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. He pulls his keys out of his coat pocket, unlocking the front door and staggering into his apartment. A pained whimper slips out of his mouth as he shrugs the jacket from his shoulders.

He slowly makes his way into the bathroom, cupping his battered side over the material of his t-shirt. The water is cold when he first turns the shower on. He grits his teeth, fiddling with the temperature and meticulously removing his clothes as it warms.

The moment the first droplet hits his skin, he lets out a deep, guttural groan. He hadn’t realised just how tense he was until now. He stands under the spray of the water, tipping his head back and letting it wash away every trace of dirt and grime on his body. His hair grows heavy with moisture, sticking to his scalp and his forehead. He leans against the wall of the shower, inhaling deeply. His eyelids flutter shut, and your smiling face appears amidst the darkness.

Almost subconsciously, his hand finds its way to his cock.

Part of him is disgusted with himself. He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be—

He moans.

In the realm of his perverse imagination, you’re straddling him, your arms looped leisurely around his neck and your whimpers echoing into the cavern of his mouth. Your hips roll against his, unhurried and languid and deep. So fucking deep. Harry reaches down with one hand, squeezing greedily at the curve of your ass, and you whine in response, encouraging him to do it again.

He pumps his length in the shower, panting quietly.

Your fronts are pressed together as you rut into his lap, your nipples brushing against the ebony birds on his chest and your silky walls wrapped around him like a vice. He grunts; you swallow the sound down, your hot, heavy breaths wafting out onto his chin. His fingers dig into your thighs when you steady yourself on your knees, doing your best to bounce up and down on him properly. It’s frantic, it’s uncoordinated, it’s sloppy, but…it’s perfect.

Your nails scrape down his back as the two of you move together, a steady series of push and pull, like water under a bridge. If you’re the moon, then he’s the tides, bending and swirling under your gentle light. Every time you rock forward, he meets you there, your bodies connecting with faint slaps of skin on skin. You gaze at him with hooded eyes, lust simmering beneath your lashes. Electricity tingles across his shoulders.

The noises that you emit are music to his ears. Delicate sighs when he nips at your breasts, earthy groans when he hits that special spot inside of you. And woven between them, imploring pleas, murmurs of right there and oh, yes and so good.

It’s embarrassing, how quickly he finishes.

He stands there, leaning against the tiles with his cock in his hand and his release dripping from his fingertips. He has the decency to feel appalled by his actions, at the very least. If you were aware of what he had just done, he knows for a fact that you would never speak to him again.

He cleans himself up, shampooing his hair and scrubbing down every inch of his body. When he steps out of the shower and shuts the water, a wave of exhaustion washes over him, making him sway on his feet. His lips vibrate with a soft sigh.

His phone chimes from where it’s perched on the bathroom counter. When he taps on it, he finds a message from you.

Feel better soon, it reads. The guilt festering in his chest increases tenfold.

Thank you, he says back, shoving the remorse down. Good luck on your midterm tomorrow.

A moment later, your reply comes through.

Thanks! Goodnight, Harry.

Goodnight, he types. He pauses for a moment, debating over whether he should include a little red heart after the word. But then he shakes his head, rolling his eyes at his own insolence and sending the text without a second thought.

He doesn’t even bother drying himself off before padding across the hall and into his bedroom. He collapses onto his mattress, still covered in tiny droplets that bead along his shoulders and trail downward, wetting the duvet. He doesn’t care. It’ll dry, and so will he.

He falls asleep moments later, the repaired skin of his cheek tingling in the dark.

~*~

PART III: Hook

PART IV: Uppercut

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[randomoranges]

just another little soft blurby thing 

Sweet Dreams

January 2021

Edward wakes up at some ungodly hour of the night and rolls over in bed. He tries to ignore the thirst in his throat, but it’s a hard battle. He focuses on the rhythmic breathing of Calvin and for a moment, it works, until he remembers that he’s thirsty. He comes to regret the popcorn they’d shared while watching a movie earlier and he debates getting out of bed to get some water. The problem is that he’s quite comfortable, but despite his valiant efforts to go back to sleep, he finds that he can’t.

It’s then that he realises the absence of a second presence in bed and that Étienne doesn’t seem to be there. In fact, even Mercury doesn’t seem to be curled up by her master’s feet. He reaches over for the space beside him to confirm, but the spot there is very much empty and equally cold, which means Étienne has been out of bed for quite some time.

It’s finally what pushes him to get out and investigate. He throws Calvin an envious look and wishes he too could sleep blissfully unaware, before he pads out of the room and towards the kitchen first, to get some water, before he goes off searching for Étienne.

He luckily doesn’t have very far to look, once he eliminates the living room as an option. Instead, he heads towards the guestroom and sure enough, the bedside lamp is on and the light spills out into the hallway. He knocks on the open door to announce his presence and both Mercury and Étienne look up in the direction of the intrusion. Neither of them moves, but Mercury bothers herself to wag her tail in greeting.

“There you are,” He says and steps inside the room after Étienne nods his head, “Everything okay?” This, by far, is one of the warmest rooms of the house when Étienne is in it, if only for the fact that Étienne always has the heating on just a couple of degrees warmer than he would normally have it. But, he lets Étienne fix the thermostat as he wants to, knowing that Étienne prefers it warmer. The last thing he wants is for his boyfriend to be even more miserable.

From the looks of it, everything does seem fine. Étienne is sitting up in bed, book in hand, ensconced in his usual pile of blankets. However, the fact remains that Étienne hadn’t been in bed with him, occupying his usual spot, and that could mean a myriad of different things.

Étienne nods and pulls the covers beside him as an invitation for Edward to step into the room and join him. “Couldn’t sleep,” He says and then shrugs, “Didn’t want to wake you or Calvin with all my tossing and turning so I exiled myself here.”

Edward does wonder if there isn’t something bothering him – if his insomnia isn’t related to something troubling him, but he decides to give Étienne the benefit of the doubt and to believe that he really couldn’t sleep for no other reason. After all, it’s not as if it never happens, unfortunately. They’re at a point now where they – talk about these things and he feels that Étienne would tell him if there really was something bothering him – that, or there would be bigger signs that he’d be able to notice even if his boyfriend wouldn’t share. Still, he walks over to the bed, settles in, and can’t help but chuckle when Étienne pulls some of the blankets away, knowing that he doesn’t like or need as many.

It’s nearly automatic, but Étienne snuggles up to him and leans his head on his chest. Edward holds him close and wraps an arm around his shoulders. He starts playing with his curls out of habit and he feels Étienne sag against him and let out a content little sigh.

Mercury loses interest in him fast enough and puts her head back down; settling in against Étienne’s legs and the pile of blankets. He thinks she might already be asleep again and Edward wishes his boyfriend could have that luck. Still, if he knows Étienne, he knows that eventually, if nothing really is bothering him and if he keeps playing with his hair or rubbing his back, he too shall fall asleep within a bit.

‘You know you don’t have to say,” Étienne tells him after a lapsed moment of silence, “S’not the first time I can’t sleep.”

Edward ignores him and presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, “Misery loves company, as they say.”

He’s not sure who’s supposed to be misery and company in his example, but it makes Étienne snort and shake his head, which feels more as though he’s rubbed his head against his chest, so he doesn’t think too much about it.

“I won’t complain though,” Étienne settles for. There’s a soft smile tugging at his face as he settles back down and Edward lets him be, content in having him close.

They fall quiet after that and really, there is no need for conversation this late into the night or at this particular moment. Edward gets lost in his thoughts as he keeps combing his fingers through Étienne’s curls, navigating them through each loop and coil. This, he thinks, is nice and he’s thankful that he gets this opportunity to mend things over with Étienne and start afresh once more. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the fact that he and Étienne get to figure out their own romantic relationship, while he gets to pursue his own relationship with Calvin, but he won’t complain. It’s also strange, he thinks, that even though everything else around him seems to be a dumpster fire – even though everything else in the world seems to be going wrong, this, at least, is going oh so right.

Again, he won’t question it, but it does make for some interesting late night retrospective thinking as he twirls strands of Étienne’s hair around his fingers, until sure enough, he feels his boyfriend grow heavy against him as his breathing evens out.

Edward marvels at the fact that despite his sleeping problems, Étienne somehow manages to fall asleep in the most unlikely of places and positions, but he supposes he can at least have that. He does his best not to rouse him as he delicately reaches over to shut the bedside lamp and then settles in for sleep as well.

 FIN

[misstanalopez]

bottom of the bottle → solo.

where → santana and finn’s apartment. when → the morning after ‘when the party’s over’. what → hungover and full of regret, santana mulls over her actions the previous night, reads finn’s letter to her and tries to help him make it right between the two of them. warnings → mild sexual content, swearing. 

Santana awoke with possibly the worst hangover of her entire life. The room was spinning, her head pounded and her stomach ached with nausea. She let out a groan as she rolled over in her bed. Empty, save for her and an empty bottle of wine. The finishing act in the colossal fuck up that was the previous night. Like a bolt of fucking lightning, the memory of her dalliance with Sam shot into her brain. Fuck.

--------------------------------------

He’d cum, she’d cum, so why was he still here? She’d been musing the question in her head for several minutes, as she looked over at Sam, who was seated next to her on the couch, both of them naked and flushed. “Let’s go to bed babe, we can go for round two in the morning” he murmured, nuzzling her face with his own and she flinched away from him. “That’s not how one night stands work, Sam,” she replied with a roll of her dark eyes. She blindly reached around for a glass that still had some kind of liquid in it. “I fuck you, you leave and then I don’t get pissed when you brag to all of your friends, that’s what happens now.” Sam looked at her like a goddamn kicked puppy dog and furrowed his eyebrows, “I don’t understand Tana?” he replied, confusion lacing his voice. “Call an uber or a cab, whatever, I don’t care,” she replied dismissively. Too drunk to care, she shrugged her shoulders at his question. “You don’t sleep in bed with me because you’re not Finn, only he gets to come to bed with me. You just have to leave now, thanks for the sex and all, but bye Sam,” she drawled, eyes glazed over and unfocused from the alcohol and the realisation of what she had done sinking in. “Wait--Finn? You’re with Finn? What the hell Santana? What the fuck are you doing then? We just had sex?” he stammered out in total confusion. “No, you see, we’re through but I love him. So only he gets to sleep in the same bed as me, you just get to get the fuck out of my apartment now,” she offered in response, her words slurred from the alcohol. “Fuck you Santana,” he spat out, as he gathered his clothes from the floor and hastily redressed himself. She sat there, nursing the remains of whatever mixed drink was in the cup she’d procured. He left the apartment with a slam of the front door and she rose on unsteady feet, toddling through to the kitchen, finding a half full bottle of wine on the counter. She swiped it and padded through the hallway to her bedroom. She paused briefly outside of Finn’s room and went to knock on the door but then, she heard the unmistakable, all too familiar sound of him moaning and retracted her hand. They were both moving on then. She staggered into her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind her and flopped into bed, the wine sloshing all over her skin as she greedily gulped down the remaining liquid in the bottle. Eventually, she passed out, the bottle still in her hand and fell into a dreamless sleep. 

--------------------------------------

As the memories of the previous night flooded back, she shot out of bed, her hand clutched in front of her mouth. She ripped open the door with her free hand and ran into the bathroom, crumbling to her knees in front of the toilet as she vomited clear liquid down the bowl. Her stomach ached and her chest felt like she’d been kicked in it, as she continued to puke her guts up until there was physically nothing left in her stomach. After an extra ten minutes of dry heaving, she hauled herself up using the counter as leverage and leaned on it, staring at herself in the mirror. She looked as good as she felt, her eyes bloodshot, her body marked with bruised hips and small red bite marks, a calling card of the two men she’d had inside of her in the past 14 hours. Fuck. She grabbed her robe that was hanging on the inside of the door and pulled it on, tying the cord haphazardly around her waist, before glancing at the counter again. Their last words to each other strong in a sea of hazy memories.

“But this is obviously not meant to be.” 

“Finn? Please, I love you.”

“But that wasn’t enough was it?” 

She exited the bathroom, heading for the kitchen so she could chug a glass of water and figure out what the fuck her next steps were, when she stopped, visibly confused. The apartment was spotless, the only indicator that there had been a party at all the previous night was the blinding hangover that she had. “What the fuck?” she asked aloud, glancing around the living room. She shook the thoughts off for a moment and retreated to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge before she took a seat at the dining table. An envelope with her name on it caught her eye. Her heart skipped a beat, because she recognised the handwriting. Finn.

She opened the note first, her mouth immediately dry as her eyes scanned over the words that he’d written that morning. He loved her. He was sorry. He was moving out. Rachel knew. It was a thousand things to process all at once, her heart racing as she read and re-read the letter, until she was sure that she could recite it perfectly from memory. Hands trembling, she dropped it on to the table and lifted the envelope, cracking the seal and opening it. Two letters came out and she lifted the first, her face breaking out into a wide smile as she read that he wanted her to be his co-director. The second letter was Principal Figgins’ acceptance of his proposal. It was possibly the best gift anyone could have ever gotten her. She loved the club, loved the kids, loved to sing and she loved to spend time with him. Placing the three letters together, she sat them neatly on the kitchen table and rose to her feet, taking in a deep, greedy breath of air. She had to make this right, and she knew exactly what she had to do.  

--------------------------------------

As soon as she knew she was sober enough to drive, she grabbed a gift bag from the back of her closet and loaded it into her car, making the familiar journey over to the Hudson-Hummel house. She held her breath, as she stood on the front porch, pleading with every single deity that she believed in, that Finn wasn’t the one to answer the door. Her wish was granted when the sweet, warm face of Carole Hummel greeted her and Santana gave her a weak smile. “Santana darling, come in please!” she offered, to which Santana shook her head. “I’m going to visit my parents just now, so i’m just here for a flying visit to play belated Santa Claus,” she explained, holding the bag out to her. “Of course, i’ll just go and get Finn for you,” she replied and Santana’s face flashed with fear. “No!” she all but yelled, the older woman visibly startled at the outburst. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to drop this off quickly and get on my way. Please can you make sure he gets it?” she asked, to which Carole smiled and agreed, taking the bag from her. The motherly instinct in the woman was kicking in, but Santana didn’t seem much like speaking. As she made her excuses to leave, Carole wished her a happy holidays and closed the door. She left the gift bag outside of Finn’s bedroom, knocking lightly and informing him that Santana had swung by to drop it off. Inside the bag, there were several items. 

--------------------------------------

The first was a gift voucher to an online sex shop. Scribbled on the envelope, in her girlish and looping handwriting was written: 

Okay, so this is for me more than you but I was considering thinning out the “drawer”, kind of wanting to start fresh. Thought maybe you could pick some stuff out for us. To make it less ‘mine’ and more ‘ours’. As your good girl, I trust your judgement implicitly.

The main gift, the biggest one, was wrapped in red and gold paper, a large red bow around it. Inside the paper, was a large scrapbook. ‘New Directions 2020 - 2021’ was on the front. It was easily the cheesiest thing that she’d ever done. But fuck, if she wasn’t 110% committed to it. She’d gotten the kids help, they sent her photos, selfies and words of encouragement, their favourite performances. Ticket stubs from sectionals, fliers from their invitational, fabric scraps from costumes they had made, the receipt for the champagne that she’d purchased after he brought home the sectionals trophy. Even a throwback photograph that she’d dug out of the archives from their halftime performance from when they were in high school. The last page that was written on, was a photograph that one of the students had taken. Santana and Finn, standing together at the piano, one of her hands clasped around his, the other reaching up to tenderly brush his cheek. From their ‘only us’ duet. Underneath the picture, she had written out her favourite lyrics to the song.

What if it's us and only us. And what came before won't count anymore or matter? Can we try that? What if it's you and what if it's me? And what if that's all that we need it to be and the rest of the world falls away? What do you say?

Written on the page opposite to the picture was her confession. Her first admission of love. Immortalized on paper, in nervous handwriting. 

When I came back to Lima at the start of the year, I was broken. I felt like i’d failed out of everything; college, friendships, relationships, life, all of it. 22 years old and I was back living at home with my parents, about to go back to high school, albeit as staff but you know what I mean. And then, all of a sudden there was one beacon of light. A lanky, former classmate of mine, who stuttered his way through asking me to be his roommate. Accepting your offer of rooming together was the easiest and best thing i’ve ever done, up until the moment above. Agreeing to sing with you seemed like such a small favour in return for take-out and a back rub, but it changed my life. Because when we sang together, Finn, I fell in love with you. Completely, irrevocably and unmistakably head over fucking heels in love with you. I know, when we started this, we promised that it would just be casual. But with you and I, it’s never been just casual. I think there’s always been more under the surface. I’m sorry that it took me so long to get here. I’m a lot of things Finn, i’m stubborn, hot-headed, narcissistic. I can be rude to customer service staff, I leave people on ‘read’ way too often and I leave dental floss on the bathroom counter, even though the bin is directly underneath. But the one thing that i’m certain about, is how I am when i’m with you. I like the person that you encourage me to be. The badass with a big heart. You make me feel like it’s okay to be me, but just a little softer around the edges. It’s been a great start to the year, let’s fill the rest of the pages together. 

Te quiero. Te necesito.  Always, Santana.

Her hands shook the whole time that she was writing the note, she had even shed several tears as she did. The final piece of paper in the bag was a note that she’d stuffed in at the last minute. One she’d written in response to his one about what had gone down between them.

Thanks for the gift. If you’ll still have me, of course I accept the position. And thank you for the space and cleaning the apartment this morning. Sam knows too, I kicked him out last night and confessed that I was in love with you. Apparently yelling about how no one but you gets to come to bed with me. Which, considering we’d just fucked was ironic. But that’s neither here, nor there. I hope you like the gifts I got you too. They’re a bit...soft, but apparently that’s what I am around you. We should talk in person, maybe after new years? Maybe before? Before we go back to school? Whenever.

And when you’re ready, come home to me. To our home. Because honestly? It’s not home without you, Finn. You’re my home and you’re worth working for. 

I love you.