#it's inevitable that every update of a fic pushes it to the top of the update list

[orcelito]

dropping that half-update like Please Please Please dont bring in new readers Please i dont want even more people to disappoint with how long it's gonna take to update after this

this half-update is a gift to my preexisting readers in celebration for the 3rd anniversary. PLEASE dont get into this fic if ur a new reader. PLEASE dont do that to yourself. please, im begging you

[willshipanything-blog]

Breaking the Rules- Chapter 15

Whoo! 3 weeks since my last update. It would have been up earlier, but Barbie... ✨ as an apology, this is around 5.5k of mostly smut, so swings and roundabouts really!

As usual, warning tags apply, so minors DNI!

Full tags, as well as fic is you prefer, is on AO3 here.

Full tumblr chapter index can be found here.

Enjoy lovelies! ✌️✨💜🧊

Chapter 15- A Little (Self) Distraction

Things were good again. You’d hardened your resolve to push back those niggling feelings that Al was hiding something, helped along by Max’s reassurances from your phone call a couple weeks earlier. You were willing to stay with Al no matter what. If that meant trying to shake off any tiny suspicion you had, so be it- nothing you hadn’t done before. You’d pushed back against recurrent visions of the Grabber, abandoned memories of the things he’d done, leaving them for dust in a cobwebbed corner of your mind. 

Even if forgetting gave the illusion that everything was good, there was still a part of your mind that wouldn’t close, no matter how hard you tried. A jarred door that wouldn’t quite slam shut. You knew, deep down, certain as sunset, certain as the light fades to give way to the darkness, that your curiosity wouldn’t be contained. That eventually, whether as a casual mention, or a bitter confrontation, you’d try to ask about the house again. How could you not? It faced you every time you looked out the window, its windows like pleading eyes, the front door like a begging, gaping mouth, those eerie branches of the gnarled tree gesturing you to come take a closer look at the lie. 

But for now, your hedonistic tendencies wanted to forget, wanted to just enjoy the beautiful deception of it all. Push those inevitabilities aside for a little while longer and chase away the uneasy feeling lurking in your gut. You could banish those things lurking in the shadows by seeking out an alternative sort of darkness you knew all too well- intimately, sensually so. So, you determined, what better way to forget than a certain game of Naughty Girl…

It was a Saturday; Max had left a couple of hours ago after having dinner with you and Al. He’d come extra early, an armful of grocery bags in tow, ready to practice some of the recipes you’d been walking him through the last couple weeks. He was more capable than he gave himself credit for, you thought- you’d hardly needed to keep an eye on him at all, managing to whip up a peach cobbler while Max diced vegetables, mixed ingredients and seasoned the meatloaf. Even Al, sitting at the breakfast table as you and Max prepped, kept glancing over with a small grin, clearly proud of his little brother’s newly acquired abilities. 

Once you’d scraped off the only slightly burned top crust, the meatloaf was actually pretty good. Even Al had given his compliments to the chef. The peach cobbler (both the shaw brothers’ favorite) required second helpings for the pair of them. Though as they sat at the table with loosened belt buckles, you’d warned Al not to get too comfy: you’d baked, Max had cooked- that meant Al was on dishes. He gave a low grumble of displeasure, but it went largely ignored as you and Max raced from the table to watch Family Feud, arguing over answers as Al rattled crockery and metal in the background. 

After Max had left with half a dozen Tupperware boxes of leftovers, you and Al were enjoying the calm after the whirlwind that his presence brought. Early autumn had begun to settle in, the cooler Denver evenings allowing you to wrap up in your favorite blue cardigan that still smelled of Al- the aroma of pine and smoke so undeniably him, you couldn’t help but smile with each inhale of breath. Just outside the window, the ever-darkening evenings were drawing in, sunsets a moving collage of cerulean blue melting into tangerine orange at golden hour. Even further afield, the contrast was apparent too: brilliant yellow foliage set atop the backdrop of dark mountains. 

The change of season from summer to fall brought about images of darkness, of death and decay- reminding you of the Grabber. But the optimistic side of you thought about how it signaled change, which in turn brought forth images of how far Al had come from that creature, shaking free and stepping out of the long shadows the Grabber had cast. The darkness still present within him, but the evil inside him purged, a better man metamorphosed from that vile creature. 

But you hardly had time to think about those big ideas now, about good and evil, morality and corruption, the wrong and right choices. You only had one thought in your mind right now, and that was playing the game, allowing it to make a triumphant return. It had been weeks and weeks since you’d played properly, before Max had moved in and upset your usual routine. You’d tried your best in the bedroom, but Al’s room was so synonymous with pleasure, not pain. It was your job to initiate, your choice to receive the pain that both you and Al craved, and had gone without for far too long. Time to give Al the leash, hypothetically speaking. It was an outlet, part of your illicit ritual- but you figured playing would also help you forget those dormant worries that lay deep inside you. If your mind and body were too occupied with other sensations, it would just be an added bonus. Al had used his distractions in the past. Max had helped to divert your worries. You could try the same tactic too. So you made your play:

“How about a drink?”

Al peered over the newspaper he’d been reading, tilting his head at a slight angle (as if he realized this wasn’t a usual part of your weekend routine), before nodding with a small ‘sure, thanks Y/N’ at your request. 

Walking past Al to the kitchen, he gave a small wink, to which you smiled blithely in return. But as you left his eyeline, reaching for the ice tray in the freezer, a knowing feeling began creeping its way through you. The feeling that you shouldn’t be doing this. Not the game, per se, but you had the foresight that drawing out a false sense of tranquility would be worse in the long run. You shook off the sensation, compelling yourself to forget, hold onto the peaceful bliss that had shrouded you like a warm blanket. You needed to pull out the thorn stuck in your side, but you wanted more time. So it could stay lodged there a little while longer. You could handle all sorts of pain. That’s exactly what you were about to ask for, after all.

You shook out a few ice cubes, clinking them into an empty tumbler, then poured out two fingers of whiskey. Walking back towards the armchair Al occupied, you accidentally (on purpose) ‘tripped’ on the shag carpet, the glass tumbling to the floor, spilling whiskey right at his feet. A small, somewhat melodramatic gasp escaped your lips as you bent over to retrieve the glass, knowing full well that your ass was front and center of Al’s line of sight, your pajama shorts leaving little to the imagination. You half-expected a slap on the behind, or at least a punitive tut from Al, though as you rose and apologized, he merely chuckled. 

“Don’t worry, sweet thing,” he looked a little concerned, but that wasn’t the reaction you were fishing for. “Would ya fix me another? Fresh ice, I think!” He resumed his reading, unfolding his paper and humming along to the Eagles’ song playing quietly on the record player as he caught up with the local news. Obviously, whatever current events unfolding in Galesburg were more interesting than your failed allurement strategies. 

Entering the kitchen a second time, you once again gathered the ice and alcohol. Al’s reaction had left you perturbed. He was usually so responsive to, well, anything you did. When you’d picked up the dropped glass, you’d even thrown in a slight wiggle for that extra touch of seduction- surely you weren’t that inept at flirtation, right? Maybe you’d have to try harder- or abandon your plans and play another night altogether. Sighing, you made a second drink before making your way back into the living room.

As you placed the glass tumbler on the side table beside the armchair, a hand shot out and curled around your wrist, its grip so strong and unyielding it might have been iron. Almost on instinct you moved to yank your own hand back, but a low voice, somewhat muffled, spoke out.

“We gonna be more careful with this one, hm?”

Those gravelly tones and the tightening grip around your wrist lit a flame of excitement deep in your stomach. Al had understood your meaning after all, and you only had to flick your eyes towards him to confirm it. Looking down and to your right, Al was still sitting in his armchair as if he’d not moved a muscle, but the white mask (replete with devilled horns and a deep downwards frown) obscured his face. He must have moved at an inhuman speed to race to grab the mask whilst you were in the kitchen. The sinister white face turned, Al looking up at you slowly whilst you stood there, startled and transfixed and wanting, which you thought outweighed those first two emotions by just a fraction. 

“Well?” the dark voice asked expectantly from behind the mask. Al tilted his head in that idiosyncratic gesture, the white face angling, hovering like a specter.

“I-” you stammered, trying to remember the question he’d asked “Y-yes, I’ll be more careful, Al.” You stood up straight from where you’d leaned over to place the drink down, though the hand around your wrist didn’t relent. Instead, Al whipped his arm, dragging you around the table to stand in front of him. Aside from a clipped cry from the sudden forceful pull, you said nothing, merely stood between Al’s spread legs and looked into his eyes, shining just beneath the surface of the alabaster frown. 

The piercing cerulean of his eyes had darkened, same as those Denver sunsets; blues relenting, giving way for blackness to take command. They were shiny with lust now, too, combusting into a fiery gaze- and you were to be the fuel to that fire. To feed his cravings, embolden him, to satiate those dark flames. But you were part of the inferno now, and you’d burn right alongside him. 

“Hmm, I suppose that was just an accident, right dove? No need to punish you for a little spilled drink,” You might have smarted, shown disappointment at that statement, if you weren’t so adept at reading Al- his voice, his mannerisms, his love for the little tête-à-tête between you both. He wouldn’t begin the game so sharply and cease it just as quickly. You could feel the ‘but’ that would follow his statement.

“But,” Al continued, and your lips dared to curl the slightest angle at the corners. Al shifted forward in his chair, his ass resting on the seat edge, legs protruding. He’d not let go of your wrist, hadn’t lessened that tight hold he had on you. “There was something else I’ve been meaning to remind you about...” 

You were still waiting for that revelation when, in the blink of an eye ablaze with hunger, Al had yanked you towards him, spun you to the position he desired and had thrown you over his lap. Your bare toes and fingers dug into the shag carpet on either side of his feet, your body arched like a cat confronting danger. Given both the situation and the position you were in, you were sure to meet that danger soon enough. You trembled in anticipation of it. And you’d welcome it with open arms. 

Al reached an arm around your middle, holding you steady across his thick thighs. His other hand languidly stroked your buttocks over your thin shorts, those able fingers tracing abstract shapes that had you shivering with anticipation. Finally, your shorts and underwear were peeled from your goose pimpled flesh, revealing your bare ass to Al, who continued his explorations with those nimble hands. If your rippling stomach, aching with need, signaled to Al how much you craved what came next, his hardening cock answered right back, straining against his trousers beneath you. His need mirrored your own. 

“Remember the quiet game, my little dove?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered on a shaky breath, barely able to form a coherent word from the tortuous anticipation. Al’s slow strokes and languorous drawl was a taunt more than a tease now, but you held back from wiggling thanks to his strong arm pinning your body to his lap.

“Remind me, Y/N- what did our tally get up to?” 

And there it was, the purpose of the Quiet Game finally came to light. He’d been keeping score- every moan, every plea and whimper you’d uttered whilst playing, had all been carefully calculated, ready to be used against you when the time was right. And that time was now. Admittedly, you hadn't been too good at the Quiet Game (but how could you, when Al delivered such searing touches to your body?) The answer to his question, the cumulative total of all your failures, sent a bolt of electricity down your spine, equal parts excitement and trepidation at such a number. Each infraction, each moan that had escaped your lips when the game was to stay silent, deserved a lash. You dared a white lie:

“I think it was…25?”

THWACK! Al’s palm came down heavy on one of your buttocks, and you let loose a choked yelp, your entire body shuddering at the impact.

“That one was for lying, naughty girl,” You sensed Al leaning down behind you, saw the mask come close to your face through your peripheral vision. A low growl in your ear. “How. Many?”

“It was 32 Al!” Of course he’d kept count too. Maybe a perverted side of you wanted to lie, to hear that snarling, raspy voice call you a naughty girl. Those two little words made you slick without the help of Al’s fingers, and that wetness only intensified when you heard the distinct, metallic clanking of a buckle, the smooth sound of him sliding the leather out of his belt loops. 

“Thirty two. Now that is an awful lot of spanks with my belt, ain’t it dove?”

“Ye-ESS!!” your answer crescendoed as the first flog came down mid-answer. The force of it threatened to rock your whole body forward, but his unrelenting grip around your body ensured you stayed right where he wanted you to be, right where you wanted to be. Another hit, to the other cheek this time, before Al’s hand soothed the lashes with wide, massaging palms. That unmistakable collision of pain and pleasure began to intertwine, Al alternating between sharp whips, followed by his hands smoothing over your hot, red skin. Your fingers grasped, your toes curled, gripping the rough fibers of the shag carpet with the pain, before they splayed out, and you released a long exhale during the tender caresses. The rhythm was mind-bending, stirring up a deep need inside you, but you said nothing, merely let out squeals as Al fed his own cravings, loosing muffled grunts behind the mask. 

Another couple of spanks, before the reprieve of a knuckle brushed softly against your heat, your breath hitching at the touch. His knuckle slid through you easily, skating through your wetness before fingers entered your core, pumping a little, encouraged by your salacious murmurs at the touch. Another finger ghosted over your clit, barely a whisper of a touch, feather light but still with the power to make your whole being quiver. But release never came; Al removed his hand as you were on the cusp of your orgasm, bringing you to the edge of that cliff but leaving you standing at the top, frozen on the precipice. The belt began again, then hands, then fingers, but Al plied them erratically to your body without any discernible pattern, leaving you guessing which was next and for how long. Each time his fingers retreated, you gave a frustrated whimper at the emptiness inside you, desperate to cling to his fingers, cling to the pleasure they promised but didn’t deliver. Enduring the pain laced with only the promise of that profound bliss was just so damn unfair. Even so, the initial stings of the belt began to meld into that dizzying otherness, adrift in the weightless cosmos of the sensations warring it out on your body. 

And then it stopped. As quickly as Al had bent you over his knee for the punishment, he was righting you again, standing you on wobbly legs as he turned your body away from him. Admiring the view, you guessed from the firm caresses being lavished on your ass and the contended hums emanating from his lips. But even in your half-conscious haze of ecstasy, you’d only felt…16 bites from his belt. Hadn’t he promised double that amount?

“The other half later?”

“We’ll see,” that muffled voice purred from behind, his hands squeezing your buttocks as he spoke. “Come here, dove. I think I still want you warming my lap for a while.”

You turned to see Al still sitting, though at some point he’d unfastened and lowered his trousers, his hard cock standing to attention, waiting for you. You visibly swallowed at the sight before flicking your eyes to his. Clearly amused by your reaction, he huffed softly, his soft stomach and broad chest moving with the exhale of breath. No further prompting was needed; you were as insatiable as Al right now, climbing onto him, sitting astride his lap with your knees spread wide and fingers digging into his firm shoulders. You hovered over his hard dick, feeling it press against your warmth. He rocked slightly too, both of you playing tease whilst you stared at the other with an intense, dark gaze. It was hard to say who broke first; whether Al gripped your hips and dragged, or whether you seated yourself onto him, but in one slick second, he was inside you, filling you to the core. Matching breathless moans escaped you both at the contact. 

You shifted a little, but Al’s massive hands palmed your bare thighs, restricting your movements, stopping your writhing. He gave a small tut of reproach. 

“Ah ah ah,” he warned, his voice morphing into that high-pitched lilt, “You sit still now, sweet. This is still punishment, don’t forget. For not keeping that pretty mouth shut in our last game.” You nodded, trying to hide the pained expression behind your obedient smile; if Al knew just how much you needed to move, to feel the touch of him inside you, he’d only draw out the torture longer, though surely he must be aching to thrust himself into you too? If he did, he hid it well, instead leisurely unbuttoning your shirt, shucking it off your body and trailing those slow, tormenting hands over your skin. Tracing a finger along his eponymous scar below your collarbone, a hungry growl at the sight of his ownership of you, of your body, which you would freely give these days. 

“You gonna be my good girl?”

You nodded. Another command from him, low and rumbling:

“Undress me.”

You didn’t need to be told that instruction twice as you began to fumble to undo his shirt buttons, daring a lean forward to do so. He grasped one of your reddened ass cheeks, pinching it at your not-so-obvious attempt to gain any sort of friction between your legs. You hissed on instinct, but enjoyed the jolt of pain, an almost conditioned response when you knew pleasure usually followed. He shrugged off his shirt, your restless fingers continuing their exploration of his bare chest and stomach and arms before he repeated.

“Undress me.”

Only a moment’s hesitation before you understood, branching your arms around to undo the leather strap of the frowning mask Al still wore. You gently unbuckled it, careful to leave the horns in place as you revealed that signature smirk beneath the false frown. The masks affected you, of course, but nothing compared to the roguish grin that Al possessed, the lips and teeth and dimpled skin liquifying your insides like lava, the burning and relentless need growing hotter. 

Al reached for the drink beside him, the trigger that had begun the whole game, taking a slow swallow of the whiskey. Even that simple gesture had you boneless, the way the liquid sloshed in the glass as he swirled it before swigging, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed down a gulp, the way those midnight eyes never left yours during the gesture. Al asked if you wanted a taste, leaning to kiss you before you figured his meaning. His probing tongue in your mouth was sweet and smokey, the burn of alcohol in your throat rivaling the one in your cunt. But a kiss, no matter how passionate or fiery, wouldn’t cut it in your desperately needy state. 

“Al…” you whined, uncaring that you were bordering on precocious now.

Al curled a hand through your hair, still refusing to move his hips despite his cock practically throbbing with need inside of you. “Aww, is she getting all hot and bothered?” he taunted, pulling tighter on your locks now “Lemme help with that, dove.” He downed the last of his drink, ice cubes clinking against the glass before he put down the empty tumbler. Leaning forward, he brought his face close to your chest, holding himself an inch from one of your heaving breasts for just a second before claiming it with his mouth. 

It was hot, the heat of his mouth around your nipple delicious, before a cold shock had you screeching. Al had his hands around you, denying you the chance to recoil from the sudden frosty sensation. You heard a soft laugh, felt him smile around your breast as he continued to swirl the ice cube he’d kept from his drink. The sensations sparred on your skin, the contradiction of hot and cold similar to that contrast of pain and pleasure Al performed so well. He moved to your other breast, your nipples hardening at the icy ministrations, the coolness only highlighting how hot you’d become under his touch. He leaned forward to kiss you again and you reciprocated, the last of the nearly-melted ice cube volleying between your tongues, the smoke and honey still lingering on your tastebuds. 

The heat of your bodies had quickly reduced the ice to nothing, your sweat-slicked skin and the stuffy air between both of your heaving, hot breaths enough to melt even steel. Al placed a flat hand on your chest, dragging it down between the valley of your breasts and splaying it on your stomach. It traveled lower, just above where his cock disappeared inside you. You both saw what his hand was touching- the outline of his dick bulging through your at the base of your abdomen. 

“Oh, fuck me.”

“Such a dirty mouth, dove. But I thought you’d never fuckin’ ask.”

After all of it, through the spanking and the denial of your pleasure, the teasing and the loss of control, the culmination of it all came to a head at those words. Al’s cool composure ignited like kerosene to a flame, and every inhibition combusted. It was fast. Primal. Al’s brute strength lifting you with ease, slamming you onto his cock as he simultaneously pistoned up into you. You, one arm clawing crescents with your nails into Al’s shoulder as you held on, the other finding your clit, chasing the pleasure that had been prohibited for too long. Those white devil horns leaning back as Al’s release drew near, your own eyes rolling back in your head as yours did too. An obscene orchestra of noise: stuttered groans and curses in a low rasp accompanied your screams as your orgasm began to crest, backed by the percussive sounds of wet skin slapping against skin. The music from the record player became lost in the symphony of your shared moans as you both came.  

Al helped you shuffle into a more comfortable position sitting on his lap. You leaned your back into his front, your head on his chest, listening to his thumping heart slow with each minute you both rested there, melting into the armchair in your comedowns. All gentle hums and soft fingers grazing skin, so different from the frenzied behavior just moments ago. You couldn’t say for sure which of the two was better; one was dominant, forceful, thrilling and wickedly bad, the other so loving and gentle and thoughtful after such an exertion. But both were undeniably Al, both sides of that coin precious to you. 

It took a while before you were able to stand, beginning to pick up your discarded clothes from the floor. But Al hadn’t risen to do the same, had merely leaned forward in his chair to scoop up the strip of leather he’d dropped. He hit the belt against his palm, creating a sharp snap in the quiet stillness. 

Sixteen. He’d only given you sixteen lashes. Half were still owed. The game wasn’t over. You were tired, and satiated, or at least should have been. But that crack of leather and that still-onyx gaze that pierced you somehow strengthened you. Al nodded, gesturing to the low coffee table in the center of the room. Following the silent command with a silent obeyance, you knelt in front of the table and bent over, allowing the game to continue. 

Hands brushed against your rear, slow and gentle, but still eliciting a hiss through your gritted teeth at the already tender welts you could feel on your skin. Al murmured to himself, his usual little custom of assessing your skin after he’d inflicted pain on your body. How he revered it, called it beautiful, kissed the red marks, whilst assessing if you were ok, no broken skin or too-painful areas he might have struck too hard at. It was a small change from how he’d first played, but that marked difference just served to show you how far the game had come, how it had evolved into one of mutual pleasure, of give and take. Of trust. Of love. 

“You know, I don’t have to punish you with more of this,” he purred, running a finger along what felt like a particularly raised welt. “We could do- something else if you wanted-” he paused mid-sentence, leaving the still, heavy air between you both silent, the vinyl record on the turntable having long since run its course. Trying to decipher his meaning became more apparent when a casual finger brushed past a welt, dipping into the crease between your reddened cheeks. You let out a small gasp, but tried your best not to squirm beneath his touch.

“I- I haven’t done that before.” You spoke on a whispered, somewhat hesitant breath, and turned your head to look at Al. Seeing you looking at him, he removed the horned mask in one swift motion. 

“Me either,” he looked at you, his eyes softening from those black diamonds. His expression was sincere, almost shy. “We could be each other's firsts, in that way. Only if you want to, Y/N.” The sincerity, the tenderness, the almost unrecognizable timidity from Al in that moment. It at once opened your heart a little wider to him, whilst steeling your nerves at such an idea. It was Al- and with him, you were free to do anything, try anything, be anything you wanted. 

“OK then Al,” you added “But could we maybe do it an-”

“Shh, Y/N. We can worry about details a different night, hm? Not now, not tonight. No- it’s gotta be perfect the first time I take that sweet ass of yours.”

If his words didn’t stun your body with such an electric, pulsing thrill, then his actions did: his mouth slowly trailing kisses down the ridge of your spine, his thumb sweeping between your asscheeks to press itself flat against your tight hole. It felt strange, just the foreignness of anything being there, but the unknown thrill of the act, the comfort and safety you found in Al, told your mind (and your body) that it would be ok, when the time came. Until then, you supposed Al would make another game of it altogether, keeping you in suspense of when exactly that would be. Al’s lips and hands withdrew. 

“You just stay there a sec, dove. I’ll get us something to clean up with, and then something for those beautiful marks I put on you.” He left with a final lingering touch at the small of your back, and you turned to make a request as he neared the kitchen.

“Al?”

“Yeah, sweet?” He’d stopped and turned, bracing himself against the kitchen doorway to hear your question.

“Fresh ice, I think. For my ass.” Your teeth bit your bottom lip in amusement, echoing Al’s words from the start of the night’s game. He laughed right back, his head falling back as a deep, roaring laugh rumbled from his throat.

“Did I ever tell you how perfect you are, my dove?”

“Once or twice,” you retorted. He chuckled again before giving you a wink and leaving to grab the ice. By yourself for a moment, your thoughts drifted, as they so often did in your solitary moments, to Al. He had chuckled, you thought, because of course he’d told you how perfect you were. He told you damn near every day. Even if most days, you’d question that perfection. Perhaps you’d been close to it, at one time or other in your life. But you’d strayed far from that path with the choices you’d made. Not that you regretted it most days, and certainly not now in your blissful post-game haze, with the promises of more salacious acts to come. After all, a fallen angel who had been cast out could seek solace in the arms of the devil himself. 

Maybe that solace, that comfort- maybe it was enough. Enough to stop questioning the what-ifs. Enough to stop overthinking any small suspicion or intrusive thought you had. And with that freeing thought, a weight dropped like a pebble in a lake, sending transformative ripples through your psyche. No more burden of mistrust pinning you down, weaving through your bones like restrictive chains, holding you in the mental limbo you’d been trapped in. It would be ok. Just you and Al. Things were good again. 

As he began collecting ice from the freezer, wrapping it in a dish towel as a makeshift ice pack for his little thing’s recovery, Al’s mind lingered, as it so frequently did, on her. Maybe he’d been wrong about his little dove. 

He’d underestimated her so much before, misjudged how things would develop. He thought, when he’d first taken her, that she’d break beneath him, that he’d relish in watching such a thing. But she’d proven him wrong, and had survived the Grabber. Later down the line, Al had thought it might all be an act, that her ‘love’ for him was concocted, a deceptive guise where she’d play pretend until she found an opportunity for escape. Again, he was mistaken, and was glad of it. 

And for days, hell, weeks now- Al had thought his precious dove was going to continue asking about that damned house across the street, the buried past that she had threatened to exhume with each comment and query surrounding its history. But now, he’d been proven wrong again. She might have realized he was distracting her with pretty words and even prettier games, but she was doing the same. When she’d dropped that glass, begun the game, asked for the things that both of them craved, he’d obliged without question. A hunger to play, of course- but more than that. A hope that her complete submersion in their private world of the devil and his dove, was real enough, strong enough, that she had chosen to believe his evasive excuses.

It really seemed like she wouldn’t ask after all. Al should have been happy that the one barrier he couldn’t break for her, the one truth he couldn’t willingly reveal, was still his secret to bear alone. The fear, the utter, absolute fear, that if she ever found out, what they had wouldn’t be enough to hold together. That the truth would shatter him, shatter her, shatter them, into a million fragmented pieces. Unable to be pieced together again. 

He was usually pleasantly surprised when her behavior had proven him wrong, gone against the grain. Why then, Al wondered, didn’t he feel good about those secrets being kept from her? Was it because of his burgeoning conscience, knowing the right thing to do would be to come clean? If he was still the man he once was, he’d throw those worries aside, caring only about his own self-preservation and awful, selfish desires. But he wasn’t that beast anymore, and he’d have to live with the consequences of his actions and lies. Sometimes he wondered if it would be easier to live as he once did. Without weaknesses like guilt and shame. But he couldn’t regress to that monster, would have to live with the pain of the things he’d done. The price of becoming a better human, he supposed. Better, but not perfect. Not like her, with her good heart, her kindness and bravery. 

If the fallacy of complete honesty made her happy, he’d let himself fall on that blade so she wouldn’t know pain any longer. Well, only the pain she wanted, he thought with a smile, finishing up wrapping an ice pack for his little thing, preparing a water and ointment to help her after the sublime things she’d allowed him to do to her body. Even with the internal anguish of holding onto that last vestige of secrecy, thoughts of her (which were frequent and invading and so fucking welcomed) would make it worth it in the end. Al would be happy to keep things in this beautiful stasis forever.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 IV

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers (this chapter, violence, oral, a bit of degradation)

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Loki closes in on his prey.

Note: Doing my best to update something every few days. I’ll probably switch it up here and there and try to get to other series old and new as well. I won’t be answering any asks about updates but I am working on lots between work so I appreciate the patience.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You cleaned up the balcony for fear that Hal or another servant would happen upon your mess. You were aware that they would have little misconception about your position but you had no desire to flaunt your shame. It might not be your choice but others would not know that nor would they easily assume. 

‘Bed warmer’; that was what he’d said. He’d assured you of it upon his last visit. You were nothing more than a whore to him and undoubtedly, to any other who knew of your existence in the palace. Your only comfort was that you might hide from prying and judging eyes for the duration of your service. 

How long would that be? And after, what would you be left to?

You sat on the ledge of the window and stared out. The sunlight faded slowly, the summer lingered still. Even so, you could feel it was late. The king’s absence fed the dread deep in your chest and assured you that with each minute that passed, his return would come with inevitable zeal.

He promised you pain and had proven himself to be a selfish and sinister man. A man never told no, even to that one thing which had never been promised to him, the crown. How could he expect anything other than to be sated in his every need?

When the door handle turned and drew your attention from the ruffling leaves below, you stood. You watched Loki enter with the young boy, Hal, at his elbow The king’s day deepened the small lines around his eyes and brought out the vein on his forehead. 

Hal removed his cloak and hung it and Loki fell heavy onto the sofa. He was skilled at ignoring all around him until they were required. Including you. He waved away the boy with his fingers and sighed.

“Fetch me wine for the night. I have little appetite…” He let his head loll and his eyes sparked as he saw you standing anxiously by the window, “Do you require anything to nibble on, little mouse?”

You shook your head but quickly corrected yourself. You cleared your throat and spoke carefully. “No, your majesty.”

“Very well,” he flicked away the servant and spread his arms over the back of the couch. The boy left and Loki hummed at the ceiling. You watched his profile as he closed his eyes. “I cannot lie. Our noontime delight did tide me over as the day stretched on. And how it did make it seem longer too.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at you again. He smirked.

“Just a taste and I want more, like a sweet tart secreted from the sill or a sip of ale stolen by a child. A simple craving turns to an irresistible hunger.”

You squirmed and he beckoned you close. You watched him warily as he pulled at his overcoat with one hand and unbuttoned the high collar.

“Sit with me. I should like a drink before we proceed.” He said and his lithe fingers worked down the front of his coat. “I must wash away this tension, little mouse, and you might drown your fear.”

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the couch as he let his overcoat droop and reveal his tunic beneath. His fingers ran along the back of our gown and he sat forward slightly as he snaked his arm around you. He pulled you against him as he reclined again and grabbed your chin as he made you look at him.

“I like that.” His nose was close to yours, “The way you try to hide your emotions. That artificial bravery that cannot still your fidgeting fingers or that tic in your cheek. It assures me that you are truly afraid of me, little mouse…” His hot breath grazed your lips, “As you should be.”

“I am not afraid of you,” you uttered, “I am appalled… your majesty.”

He chuckled and a rap came at the door. He parted from you, his hand slipped down to rest on your hand and he pulled it onto his thigh as he called for his servant to enter. Hal came in and set down the bottle of wine and the pair of cups. He was dismissed with a nod.

Alone again, Loki pulled your hand up his leg and forced it over his growing bulge. He snickered as he hardened against your palm.

“My patience wears thin,” he groaned, “So pour us some wine before my thirst is forgotten.”

You drew away as he released you and stood. You poured the wine to the brim and returned to Loki. He took his glass and pointed you to the cushion again. He drank smoothly as you nearly choked on the acrid alcohol. You pulled the cup from your lips and crinkled your nose. The king chuckled and reached to set aside his empty goblet on the side table. 

He pushed on the bottom of your cup until it was once more at your lips. “I recommend you drink but do not require it. Perhaps, I should enjoy you sober and petulant.”

You gulped again but quickly recoiled. He laughed again and took the glass from you. There was still quite a bit of wine sloshing around in it as he placed it beside his empty one.

“Get undressed for me, little mouse,” he stood and shrugged out of his overcoat.

You hesitated and flinched as his face turned stern. You rose as he slung his jacket over a chair and pulled the tails of his tunic loose from his trousers and unbuckled his belt. You strained as you bent your arms back but only managed to tangle your fingers in the laces.

He neared and turned you. He expertly unknotted the top of the laces and your bodice slackened. You caught the dress as it drooped down your chest and reluctantly let it slip further. You stepped out of the skirts and he gathered the fabric from the floor. He tossed it over his jacket as you avoided looking at him.

You felt his warmth along your back as he came close and his fingertips brushed lightly along the scars that lined your skin. The ones he’d left there. Those which might never go away. He pressed his thumbs more firmly to the lacerations and traced them down to your ass.

He exhaled and his hand stretched around your hips as he gripped them firmly. He edged you toward the couch until your legs met it. He nudged you until you lifted your knees onto the cushion. It was like you were in a trance; the thought to stop him was overpowered by that which wanted it all to just be over.

“You are healing nicely,” he purred, “A reminder of me when I am kept for too long from you, little mouse.”

You lowered your head as your lip curled. You latched onto the back of the couch and clawed the cushion. 

“I feel the anger in you,” he slithered. “I long for it. A sharp tongue calls for a sharper strike. Should I use my hand or another toy?”

You stiffened as his hand crawled back up to your shoulders and he squeezed them as he leaned in. 

“Or should I give into my basest desires and leave all patience behind. I could be inside you in a moment. I could have you screaming with a different pain. One which would soon enough be pleasure. An insatiable need.” He hooked his arms under yours and cupped your chest. “Funny, how peasants differ little from ladies. You have the same curves, the same want of a man.” He nuzzled the back of your head, “Perhaps the cunt is tighter? Wetter? Sweeter?”

You snarled and he pinched you. You swatted him away without thinking and he caught your wrist. He twisted your arm against your back until you whined.

“Come on, mouse, fight me,” he sneered, “Give me a little entertainment.”

You bit down but remained still. You huffed and stared at the carpet on the other side of the couch.

“The ladies never do. They’re too proper. Even as a prince, they were all too eager. Of course, they thought their kisses, their words, would lead to something other than a carnal revelation. They thought of contracts and prestige but I only wanted the flesh. They are too proper, too polite to resist.” He pushed on your arm and a pang went through your shoulder, “And when I fucked them, they only cried. Silently. No matter, I’d rather the back of their heads.”

Your insides roiled and the thought of this man, this monster called king, doing to you what he proudly boasted of doing to countless others had you livid. You could not resign yourself to the shame. If he never had to work for anything, he would have to now.

You swung your leg back and your heel met his thigh bluntly. He let go of you with a surprised grunt and you spun, kicking out again. He barely dodged your foot and you were quick to stand. The back of his hand split your lip and you stumbled but not far as you threw your elbows up into his ribs. His second strike missed as you ducked away and struggled to gain your bearings.

You flung a fist out at him and he batted you away. He swept your feet out from beneath you with one of his and you landed with a gasp as the air rushed from your lungs.

“Do you not recall our first lesson? You do not strike a king.” He taunted and stood above you. “If you do, you should hit a lot harder.”

He jabbed your side with the toe of his boot and chuckled. He lifted his tunic over his head and tossed it away. He paced around you and as you tried to sit up, he kicked you back down.

“Shall I have you on the floor? A beast like you belongs there.” He spat, “Oh, dear, are you angry?”

He bent and grabbed your arms. He pulled you up to your feet, leaving you light-headed as he stared you down.

“Go on and try again. Your venom only feeds my own.” He leaned in and his cheek brushed yours as he lowered his voice, “And this snake is meaner than any.”

You pushed on his chest and he shoved you away. You collided with the side table at the end of the couch and wine splashed across your front. He followed you and kicked your ass so that you fell atop the the table entirely, leaving it overturned as you writhed on the floor.

“I’d use your mouth again but you seem like to bite, little mouse,” he chortled. “Oh, but I have waited for that which makes you a woman.”

“You’re… disgusting,” you choked out as he planted a boot on your chest and pinned you to the floor. 

“Perhaps but those words mean little from a heathen like you. Tell me, how many men have known you, hmm? A peasant like you? Perhaps a butcher? A forger? Several, even?”

“Get--” You grunted as you grasped his boot, “Off.”

“Do be honest. There is no number which could tarnish you further. You cannot possibly sink lower, little mouse.”

“St-stop,” you pleaded as he pushed down and you found it even harder to breathe.

“Tell me,” he said, “Hmm? More than one? Perhaps five?” He peered down at you and smirked, “Is it more? In the tens?”

You wheezed and shook your head. You kicked out as silver dots floated around your vision. “N-n-none!” You gasped, “None.”

He relented but kept his foot where it was. He laughed. Loudly. He shook his head and scoffed.

“No man?” He said wryly, “Oh, the elusive untouched maiden.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” you snarled.

“A mouth like that on a creature so pure,” he bent and grabbed you by the throat.

He lifted you to your feet and spun you. He forced you over to the table and your middle met it with a thud. You bent over as once more the air was driven from you. His hand was on your ass as he pressed his crotch against you and rocked.

“I do like this angle but wonder if it better to look you in the eye as I pluck your flower,” he kept his hips moving and moaned, “See the pain, the fear, the realisation that you are completely and utterly mine.”

He reared back and slapped your ass. You whimpered at his strength as your hips knocked against the wooden table. He raised his hand again but was halted by a sudden knock. He paused and let out a thick breath. He struck you again. The knock came again. Louder.

“I told my guard, I was not to be disturbed,” he growled.

“Oh, your majesty,” the sing song came through the door, “I have a message for you.”

“Fuck,” Loki swore and backed away. You turned your head to watched him as he pushed his shoulders back, “That fool.”

You didn’t move as he snatched up his tunic and replaced it over his torso. He glanced at you and snapped his fingers. He pointed to the bedroom and you stood straight. He lifted a brow in a final warning.

You shakily retreated and ambled through the doors. You stayed close as you listened. You couldn’t stop quaking. The adrenaline was ice in your veins but seeped away and uncovered the flames of agony licking at your body.

“What is it, you dolt?” The door whipped open in tandem with Loki’s words.

“Why, it is I, your brother’s most beloved companion, aside from his wife, of course, and a message for his most esteemed brother, the king,” the man sounded like a jester.

“Lord Fandral, I do command that you are to the point and do not continue on in this mockery.” Loki tutted.

“Oh, you have not changed,” the lord, Fandral, quipped, “As dour and dull as ever.”

“But a king now so do be on with it.”

“I have been sent to present to you a humble invitation to your brother’s own tournament upon the celebration of his new marriage. He does apologize for the short notice but it would not take you much long than a day and a night to arrive which is why I did insist upon my interruption… I do assume I have disturbed some going on.”

“If I accept this ridiculous proposal, will you be gone?”

“Oh, I must, your brother does await the answer and I would be away tonight to insure you do not arrive before me. You see, the tournament does commence in three days thus. You do want to make the lists, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, go. Let him know that I will appear.” Loki huffed. “At once before I change my mind and have your head sent back instead.”

“As amiable as ever, your majesty,” the other man said, “Do continue on in your… well, whatever it is you do for fun.”

The door snapped shut quickly and you staggered away from the door as you heard the king’s footsteps beneath the muttered curses. His shadow appeared in the dim and you pressed yourself to the wall. You eyed the door behind him, the balcony to your left. 

“Get in the bed,” he snipped. “If I must drag you, you will not drag yourself from it.”

You shuddered and forced yourself away from the wall. Loki undressed fully as you neared the bed and climbed over the covers. He was quick as he followed and met you from the other side. He shoved you onto your back and held you there with his hand across your throat. His hot breath glossed over your cheek as his fingers flitted to your chin and he squeezed.

He growled and let go. He flopped onto his back beside you and laid silently. Stewing. You watched his silhouette in the dark.

“My brother does ruin everything,” he whispered. “I am so… riled I can barely focus and…” he bit his lip and stopped himself. “Use your hand.”

“Wha--”

“Or your mouth. I don’t care, I only need to cum,” he closed his eyes. “And not think of what my brother has laid on my plate for the morrow.”

You grimaced and reached over blindly. You kept your eyes on the ceiling as you gripped his hard member and he winced at your touch.

“Tighter,” he murmured.

You did as he bid and slowly moved your hand up his length and back down. You thought of the balcony. At least it was only your hand. You stroked him as he groaned beside you, as his voice floated in the moonlight, and the night air skimmed over your bodies. He wrapped his finger around yours and guided you faster.

You kept the motion as his hand dropped back down and you felt his climax building as he trembled. He grunted as he reached over and kneaded your hip. He bent his legs slightly as he erupted and his warm cum dripped over your knuckles and along your palm. He stopped you and spasmed as he tried to catch his breath.

“You will fetch a rag and clean me before I sleep,” he said, “And we will continue our little game another day.”

🐍

You awoke with a heat wrapped around you. The king’s arm clung to you as there was a prodding further down. You could feel his arousal along the curve of your ass. You tried not to fidget in fears you would rouse him more or wake him. You laid, helpless and watched the early dawn light on the wall.

“It is merely a nocturnal habit,” Loki said as his arm tightened around you. “But, I suppose, your presence does evoke it as well.”

You scowled and said nothing.

“You slept heavily. Rather loudly.” He mused. “I had to roll you over to ease your snorts.”

“You might send me back to the dungeon if I see you sleepless,” you suggested.

“I did not say I was,” he countered, “I slept well enough.”

He drew away from you and the bed shifted as he turned his back to you and hung his legs over the edge. You rolled onto your back as the blanket crumpled around his back and you watched him. He stretched and shook out his black waves. He stood, unabashed by his erection, and went to the window.

“On the road by noon.” He said, “A brief rest on the roadside and the sojourn will not be more than a day.”

You stayed as you were. It might be his bed but it was the most comfortable you’d ever known. Besides, you were unsure of what else to do.

“The party needn’t be very large. Some guards and a few companions.” He spoke to himself as he picked at the window frame and stared out. “Of course, my armor will have to be polished and--” He pulled away and looked back to you on the bed. He smirked. You sat up, alarmed by his sudden interest. “And you will need a chest.”

“Pardon?”

“You must accompany me, of course. As my bed warmer.” He neared the bed and loomed over you. “Did you truly think I’d leave you behind? What in all the gods’ names would you do?”

You frowned and bent your legs to your chest. What would you do indeed.

“In an unfamiliar castle, my bed will certainly need warming and… my brother is the very being that does know how to irk me entirely. I will need the… respite.” Loki lowered himself back to the bed. “And there is so much undone.”

You couldn’t hide your discomfort. You watched him recline across the bed as you stayed huddled at the top of the mattress.

“I don’t understand…” you said quietly.

“Understand what?” He looked over at you with his discerning green eyes.

“Why you didn’t leave me in the dungeon? Or send me to the laundries or the stables?”

He considered you a moment and exhaled. “Well, you are of little use to me in either and I do see use in you. As king, it is prudent only to surround yourself with those who can further your own purpose; be it pleasure or otherwise.”

His answer made you sick. You were an object. A commodity. Well, you were just a peasant, what did you expect?

“And, was your life so glorious before? Were your clay pots and simple companions so amusing? Never touched? Did you ever expect it, at the least?” He challenged.

“Commoners do not marry so early as nobles,” you said quietly.

“Oh, but surely by your age they have considered it? Tell me, do I tread on another man’s grass? Is there some secret betrothal I do not know about? Or perhaps just a tryst unconsummated?”

You pursed your lips and begrudgingly shook your head. You kept your eyes on the blanket as he rolled onto his side and looked at you closer.

“I have done you a favour,” he said, “And I am not in the habit of favours so you might be thankful for it.”

“You would make me a whore. I could’ve done the same in any alleyway.”

“You will find no kings in your alleys,” he girded, “Nor silks, satins, or furs. I offer you all despite your crimes and you think I take from you. I have given you more than you know. You, little mouse, are not the prize in this game, I am.”

You looked at him and blinked. He ran his finger along the blanket that hung over your leg. He tugged until it fell down your knees. You shivered as you thought to grab it and pull it back to your body but he was quick. He pushed your legs apart despite your resistance and you fought with him as he moved between them, his head by your thighs.

His hands hooked over your thighs as he held them apart and he beamed up at you. He licked his lips and pulled himself closer. You felt his breath along your folds as he held your gaze. He lowered his head slowly and you squirmed as he hovered just along your cunt.

“What--”

He poked his tongue between your folds and dragged it up along your bud. You gasped at the peculiar sensation and he did it again, this time circling the sensitive bump. You grasped the pillows as he watched you and continued on, teasing and toying with his tongue. As he pressed his lips around your bud and suckled, you squeaked and you fell flat on the pillows.

“What are you--” You were breathless as he lapped at you and hummed, sending a thrill up your spine.

Your back arched without thought and your hand flew down to grip your own thigh as it pushed against his head. He held onto your legs as he hugged them and closed his eyes as he devoured you. Your eyes rolled back and you dug your heels into the mattress. You lifted your pelvis as you were driven wild by the flurry in your core.

You moaned and whined pathetically as he took control of your body. As he lured you closer and closer to an unknown release. A coil wound tighter and tighter inside of you until finally it snapped. You felt the pleasure flow from you as he drank it up and the tension left your body in an instant as the waves crashed over you.

You bent your arms across your chest and held yourself in your shock; in the sheer ecstasy that had overcome you. You panted and felt suddenly cold as he removed himself from between your legs. You peeked over at him as he sat up and wiped his glistening lips. His mouth curved deviously as he met your gaze.

“I am not the only in need,” he preened, “Though the need is so much more dire when you know what exactly it is you long for, isn’t it?

[awanderingdeal]

Summer camp AU - Chapter 5 - Remus

Finally an update to this! I found this chapter super hard to write for some reason. I hope you enjoy it!

CW: Food, implications of past toxic family relationships

Fic Rating: T

Please message me if you feel that any content warnings need to be added or the rating is not appropriate.

The characters in this fic belong to @lumosinlove and you should definitely go and check out her fics!

For previous and future chapters please see my masterlist

Remus moved tentatively as he climbed over Sirius, doing his best not to wake the other man. He wasn’t quite sure when Sirius had arrived, a vague memory of a muttered apology sometime during the early hours of morning surfacing, but he’d been asleep and barely registered it. He huffed a laugh at how Sirius had burrowed himself under the sheets, his inky black hair the only thing visible. The bed really wasn’t big enough for the two of them, and as much as Remus loved Sirius, his boyfriend leaked heat like a furnace. Still, soon the campers would be here and the two of them would have to set an example by not sneaking into one another’s accommodation so Remus savoured the company whilst he had it.

The air had already started to hold a damp heat when Remus stepped out, despite the amber hues of sunrise barely having lifted. A sweet breeze gave some welcome relief as he picked up a steady job, his muscles slowly waking to the chirping chorus of birds he couldn’t identify even with their daily meetings. Remus almost missed the flash of red hair hidden behind a tall pine tree, except for the hushed laugh that drags his attention away from a feisty squirrel he’d paused to watch. He rolls his eyes at the couple, an act he acknowledges is highly hypocritical considering the origins of his own relationship. The two kissed again, drawing the owner of the rough laughter into view and Remus startled. He peered closer, confirming his first observation - that was Kasey Winter, but the person he was with was most definitely not Natalie Darcy, Kasey’s girlfriend. Ordinarily, Remus would pretend he hadn’t witnessed anything, writing the situation off as none of his business, only both Kasey and Natalie were good friends of his. He pushed the dilemma to the back of his mind for now and pressed on with his run.

The work day had seemed unusually long, Remus learning the cruel lesson that even the most adored job became tiresome when you wanted to be somewhere else. Placing the final package of dressings in their drawer, Remus ticked the item off his checklist with a flourish. He looked around the nurses station, giving a satisfied nod and a self congratulatory smile; the place was really starting to come together. Now that he was finished for the day, Remus rolled his shoulders, letting himself relax.

Without the distraction of inventories and paperwork, Remus’ mind wandered to thoughts of Sirius. A phone call from a panicked parent needing reassurance the camp could, in fact, accommodate her child’s allergies had lasted long enough to result in him taking a late lunch, so Remus hadn't had a chance to talk to his boyfriend all day. He knew he could find Sirius in the drama studio, his phone having buzzed earlier with a message informing him of the fact Sirius would be there for the entire afternoon, only he didn’t want to alienate him from the other counsellors by spending all their time together. Traipsing back to the cabin to change out of his uniform, Remus shook off the doubt. There was a time for balance, but it wasn’t the day after your boyfriend reunited with their sibling after years apart.

Both Sirius and Heather jumped at Remus’s knock on the heavy wooden doorframe, the pair deep in conversation. “Oh, I believe that is my cue to leave,” Heather smiled, the expression settling something in Remus he hadn’t even realised needed settling.

“Thanks for all your help today, Heather.” Sirius accepted the broom she handed to him. “Both with this,” he continued, gesturing to the room around him, “and for the advice. You should consider a career as a therapist. Trust me, I should know.”

“Here I was antagonising over my future and Mr Sirius Black solved it in one afternoon,” Heather laughed, sticking her tongue out playfully. “It was no problem, way better than sorting out the games’ equipment shed, anyway. I can’t wait to see what your tiny theatre kids do in here.”

“They’re not tiny, they’re middle schoolers.”

“Exactly, middle schoolers. Tiny,” Remus agreed, stepping into the studio. It smelt of polish and other than a pile in the centre of the floor, any evidence of the years worth of dust that had been allowed to gather was gone.

“The key is not to let them know you think that,” Heather winked.

“This isn’t my first year, you know,” Sirius grumbled, his accent thickening the way it always did when he was even mildly inconvenienced, “Get out of here,” he shooed Heather off. “And talk to June! I definitely saw heart eyes this morning.”

“Well then, you need your eyes testing,” Heather retorted, leaving with a raised eyebrow and a peppy wave.

"Bonjour, mon loup,” Sirius sang, gathering Remus in his arms. At 5”11, Remus wasn’t even short, but Sirius could still easily prop his chin on the top of his head, albeit only briefly. A short breath of air left Sirius’ mouth, almost but not quite a laugh, and Remus found his chin being lifted for a kiss. "Come on, let's go and sit by the lake. I'll tell you everything."

Remus schooled his expression into the most innocent he could manage. "I was just going to ask how your day was."

"Sure." Sirius laughed properly now, the both of them stumbling slightly as he tried to nudge Remus' shoulder. "You're practically vibrating. Thought I was supposed to be the intense one?

“Sometimes it’s my turn,” Remus smirked, pointing out a large, flat rock in the distance that seemed like an ideal sitting place. Sirius nodded, letting Remus guide their slight change in trajectory to head towards it. “You know, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. I will always be interested in your life, but if you want this to stay between you and Regulus then I completely understand.”

Sirius flicked his gaze over to Remus briefly, the smile soft on his face. It reminded Remus of when they had still been dancing around one another. Long evening walks where their hands would brush, just barely. Looking back, he didn’t know how they had lasted so long before that almost inevitable kiss. One thunderstorm and two leaking roofs, that was all it had taken in the end. “I know,” Sirius shrugged. Those were the last words he said until they reached the low slab, a once rugged thing that had been smoothed out by a lifetime of exposure. Remus thought there must be something poetic in it, but he was too tired to figure it out.

The quiet lasted long enough for Remus to figure Sirius had changed his mind, playing their hands together as they looked out onto the water.

“They live in California now, they’re here to teach archery and they are non - binary,” Sirius breathed out the sentence, the words blending together and his accent thick, but Remus was practised enough to decipher them.

“California? That’s a long way from Montreal -” Remus toyed with the sleeve of Sirius’ t-shirt. “ - How’d they end up there?”

Sirius' face crumpled a little, quickly gathering himself. “They were staying with a friend of our family’s there, Severus. He always seemed nice, nicer than the rest of their crowd anyway, but it turns out he’s no different to the rest of them. Regulus is trying to get out of there.” A sheepish smile spread over Sirius’ face. “I might have invited him to live with us. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have asked first. They were just so worried and -”

“Hey,” Remus squeezed Sirius's hand. “I’m not going to pretend that a consultation wouldn’t have been nice, but it’s your house -”

“It’s our house,” Sirius frowned.

"The house was bought with your money and I can completely understand and appreciate why you offer a roof over your sibling's head without question."

Sirius played with the necklace, a silver lion, hanging around his throat. Remus lifted his hand to touch its twin, draped around his own neck. "Just like that? Even though I've spent every mention of them detailing how much they had hurt me?"

Turning to face Sirius more surely, Remus gave a comforting smile. "Do you trust them?"

There was a brief pause, but the "yes" that followed was sure and confident.

"That's good enough for me," Remus said. "Shall we go and join everybody for dinner? There's apple pie tonight."

Dinner ended up being the usual ruckus that Remus had become re-accustomed to over the past few days. He loved the way the dining room thrummed with the same energy that radiated throughout meals with his own family. Thomas and James' dares grew more and more ridiculous until Sergei barked at them that he wouldn’t allow them any more BBQ if they did not calm down.

“ -Yeah, so ma Maman had to come and collect me. I think I lasted 5 hours,” Jackson finished his grandiose retelling of his first experience at camp.”

“Nado!” Evgeni set his glass down with a heavy thud. Remus had learned the tall Russian man had the gentlest of spirits, but grace was not an attribute he possessed in large amounts. “Why you go to horse camp if scared of horses?”

“I was 8,” Jackson argued. “I had never seen a horse in real life. It just looked fun.”

Once the rippling laughter dissipated, the conversation evolved into useful hints of tips from those of them that weren’t new on how to handle similar situations with their own campers.

“Hey, Katie,” Remus leaned over Sirius to address the youngest of the Dumais’. She had only arrived yesterday along with her siblings and Sergei’s wife and children, but she’d made herself right at home, squeezing herself between Sirius and Logan, who she had declared her favourite, instead of joining the rest of her family at their table. “Can I steal Sirius please? I need to show him something.”

“It’s time for Katie to go with Anya back to our cabins,” Celeste interrupted. “Viens, ma chérie. Tu peux revenir demain matin.” Katie left with a pout to a round of goodbyes.

“What did you want to show me, mon loup?” Sirius cocked his head curiously.

“Nothing,” Remus admitted sheepishly. “I just wanted to get a good spot under the pavilion before everybody else finishes and comes outside.” Sirius rolled his eyes, letting Remus tug him into a standing position. During camp, the small structure would serve as a meeting point and could fit a dozen or so people in when they were standing, but it was pretty full with Sirius’ 6 foot 3 form sprawled across it, there wasn’t much space for anybody else, and this was Remus’ favourite spot. He could lie under the shelter, a little less exposed to the biting insects that seemed to love him so much and still see everybody on the green around them.

Soon, the space would be filled with eager children, and Remus would be constantly poised to treat the next ailment, but at the moment, he was content to watch this year's counsellors get to know one another better. He was an old hand at this now, however, he could remember the bristling excitement as his first training week had drawn to a close, the knowledge that he was soon to be responsible for people who didn't seem all that much younger than he was, both terrifying and exhilarating.

The sky had been threatening rain for hours now, and it finally fulfilled its promise.

“My hair!” Finn’s screech broke through the chorus of rain. The blonde boy, something in the back of Remus’ brain supplied him with the name Leo, immediately tucked Finn against his side, throwing his jacket over his head. Remus wasn’t sure whether their shaking was as a result of the damp seeping through their clothes or the pair’s laughter.

Remus had always enjoyed people watching, noticing the subtle intricacies of human behaviour when they didn’t realise you were looking, so he caught Leo’s small glance up at Logan just before he put some space between himself and Finn.

Finn wasn’t having any of it though, dragging Leo back to him, attempting to get the small jacket over the top of the both of them.

"Do you see that?" Remus lifted his shoulder, jostling Sirius slightly.

Sirius grunted, the annoying chime of the game he was playing sounding loudly as he progressed to another level. Remus had given up on complaining, and the repetitive nature of swiping candies across the screen seemed to relax Sirius more than it bothered Remus. "See what?"

Leo was standing now, his t-shirt soaked through and his hair plastered against his face in damp strands. Remus couldn't quite work out what he spluttered before walking off with long, quick strides, one last quick look at Logan as he went.

"There's something going on there,' Remus hummed.

"Stop meddling," Sirius laughed.

"I'm not meddling!"

Sirius turned a raised eyebrow on Remus and tucked his phone into the pocket of his jacket before pulling them both down so they lay on their backs. "Listen. I love the sound of the rain."

Remus knew he was being distracted, but the thudding rhythm of heavy droplets against the wooden slats of the rood was incredibly relaxing. Or at least it was until the sheeting downpour didn't stop and they had to dart through it, laughter heaving in their chests to meet the others in the large hall. Celeste sighed, bundling towels into their hands to dry off.

"Nice of you to join us, gentlemen," Dumo said, a guitar propped in his lap. "Take a seat. We were just about to teach our newcomers a few campfire songs. Sans the fire, of course. As two of our most experienced, maybe you could lead?”

“Je te hais,” Sirius grumbled.

Dumo ignored the declaration, and once they were seated he smiled. “Perhaps we will start with Everywhere we go?”

Despite an early reluctance from Sirius the sounds of the song were soon echoing off the walls, the group of counsellors enthusiastically answering Sirius’ calls.

Everywhere we go

Everywhere we go

People always ask us

People always ask us

Who we are

Who we are

And where we come from

And where we come from

So we tell them

So we tell them

We’re the Lions

We’re the Lions

The mighty mighty Lions

The mighty mighty Lions

And if they can’t hear us

And if they can’t hear us

We shout a little louder

We shout a little louder!

Dumo was lenient, taking over leading them through a few more songs himself until he faked a large yawn. “Well, it’s bed time for me. I’ll leave the guitar for anybody who wants to play. And remember, no matter how much we try to teach our campers such fun songs, they’d rather learn whatever routine is popular on Tip Top or whatever that thing is called, so be prepared!”

Logan commandeered the guitar quickly, holding it strong against his thigh and strumming it with a relaxed ease Remus wasn't sure he'd seen in the man before. He played through a few songs, others slowly filtering out as time went by until only a handful of people remained.

“Do my song, please?” Finn asked, eyes wide and pleading.

Logan shook his head, “Not here.”

Finn’s lower lip dropped into a pout and Remus saw the exact moment Logan succumbed to the expression. Remus didn’t blame him at all, Finn’s face bore an eerie resemblance to Bambi and only a monster could deny it.

“Fine.”

The slow chords started and the room quieted as Logan began to sing. It was more romantic than Remus had expected from the younger man.

And you can tell everybody

This is your song

It may be quite simple, but now that it's done

I hope you don't mind

I hope you don't mind

That I put down in the words

How wonderful life is while you're in the world.

Logan and Finn were so invested in one another that Remus wasn’t sure they noticed Leo slipping quietly from the room.

[luxekook]

in too deep ☼ knj

☼ dedication: this fic is a bday present for the loml tay aka tay bay bay aka @interludemoonchild​!!!! luv u long time <33 (sorry this isn’t about hobi skksksks)

☼ pairing: marine biologist namjoon x assistant reader

☼ genre: idiots to lovers, fluff, angst, crack

☼ summary: you had always grown up being told tales of terrible jobs with tyrannical bosses. but now, you’re left to wonder why you hadn’t heard more tragic stories of all-too-wonderful jobs with all-too-beautiful bosses... did falling for your boss only lead to heartbreak and a two weeks’ notice? or could it yield the possibility of romance?

☼ word count: 3.1k

☼ warnings: pg15, cursing, chaotic energy, pining, miscommunication, mentions of quitting, lots of sea nerd stuff, namjoon is smart af but an idiot in love, the reader isn’t any better, crabby bois, arguments, completely cheesy fluff, short make out sesh, mention of sex

☼ banner creator: heathy bby @shadowsremedy​

☼ beta reader: the amazing and astoundingly talented phia @meowxyoong​

“Kim Namjoon!” You cry, swatting the blue-clawed crab away from your feet with a broom, “What did I tell you about bringing your goddamn crustaceans into the office?”

The man in question hustles out of his office looking disheveled, “You’ve seen Carl?” He sinks right down to his hands and knees to peer under your desk. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, little buddy!”

You stare disappointedly as your boss picks up ‘Carl’ from his hiding place and cradles him to his chest. “Namjoon,” You sigh exasperatedly, folding your arms.

He looks up at you and blushes, “Sorry, Star. I just feel so bad leaving them downstairs at the lab. It’s so lonely and dark down there.” 

While your stomach flips at the mention of his nickname for you, your eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Well, why don’t you just stay down there with them?”

“Because you’re up here…” He mumbles something incoherent. 

“What?” You lean forwards, your ears straining to catch the garbled syllables.

Namjoon clears his throat, looking everywhere but at you, “Because it’s nicer up here.”

“Don’t tell your investors that,” You laugh, thinking of all the fancy and shiny equipment housed in the aquatics lab a few floors below. Working for a top-tier marine biologist sure had its perks - namely the state of the art kitchen with a full espresso bar. 

“Star, I would never!” He looks affronted by the mere mention of such a thing. “Now, apologize to Carl for scaring him.” 

You scoff, but just one glance into Namjoon’s sparkling brown eyes makes you crumble instantly. “Fine,” You begrudgingly shoot the crab a look, “Sorry, Carl.”

“See, Carl?” Namjoon croons, “She’s sorry!” As he turns back to you, you can immediately tell he is about to launch into Marine Biologist Mode™. 

“Carl is a blue crab - a Callinectes sapidus, to be precise. That scientific name literally means ‘savory beautiful swimmer’.”

“Savory, huh?” You quip, relishing in the scandalized look Namjoon shoots you.

“Don’t listen to her, Carl,” He whispers, stroking a finger gently down the crab’s shell. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes… He’s named for his pretty sapphire-tinted claws, and he’s one of the most harvested species of his kind. So, don’t even think about it.”

You burst out laughing as he eyes you, “Okay, Joon, I’ll leave my pot of boiling water at home.”

Namjoon splutters out a choked laugh, looking at you like you are the most exasperating thing he’s ever come across. And, you probably are.

When you came to work for the distinguished marine biologist four months ago, you found him literally buried beneath piles of research papers, files, and National Geographic magazines. Apparently, he had tripped into his filing cabinet and everything had fallen off of the shelves onto him. The man had been a right mess. It was no wonder he had put an ad out in search of an assistant.

In your new role, you slowly but surely introduced some structure and organization into Namjoon’s life as best you could. The first thing you did was update his office. The man still had an honest to god lava lamp on his desk. You were still baffled at how he had managed not to break the fixture before your arrival.

Swiftly following the disposal of the cursed lava lamp, you ordered new file cabinets - and had them nailed to the wall. Virtually, you did even more. You restructured his online platforms and updated his schedule to include more than just scattered notes like “Meeting at 10AM, i think? Or was it 10PM?”

To his credit, Namjoon adhered to most of your suggestions and changes, but apparently he still refused to grasp the ‘no creatures in the office’ rule.

Overall, Namjoon was a great boss - kind, understanding, sweet, and a tad eccentric. His love for all things sea-related shone through the gentle way he handled his specimens, the passionate tone of voice he used while speaking on any related topic, and the stars in his eyes at the mere mention of discovering a new species.

It had been all too easy to become infatuated with him. Especially when he called you “Star” and left you to interpret the meaning on your own. 

You remember the exact moment that you fell in love with him so vividly. It had been last month, just three months into working for him. Namjoon had been going off about fucking sand of all things.

“…Sand speaks of history, of science, of travels. Each grain of sand holds thousands upon thousands of years of movement, of erosion. For example, the beach outside of this building is tan because of the iron oxide tinting the quartz and the feldspar to a light brown color. But, there are other beaches that are black, white and even pink in color! It’s fascinating! And to quote the goddess of marine biology Rachel Carson: "In every curving beach, in every grain of sand, there is a story of the Earth…”

Yeah, you are head over heels for your boss. And that’s why you needed to quit.

The end of the workday arrives too quickly - a common theme it seems when you love what you do and who you work for. Namjoon walks beside you down to the parking lot. You sneak a glance at his face and note that he seems deep in thought.

Your mind slips to the image of you and Namjoon going home together to a shared house overrun with fish tanks and models of sharks. It’s all too easy to picture, and all too painful to acknowledge the impossibility.

“Star,” Namjoon’s voice jolts you from your fantasy. You blink up at him, realizing you’re both stopped beside your adjacent cars. Namjoon smiles at you, “I’ll see you tomorrow? It’ll be Friday, finally...” 

It seems like he wants to say more but stops himself for some reason. You pause, waiting for him to continue, but he just blushes and brings a hand to the back of his neck bashfully.

“Yeah, Friday,” Your tone is less enthusiastic. You planned to hand in your two weeks’ notice tomorrow. It’s a complete strategy on your part so that you can have the whole weekend to cry and shove at least one gallon of ice cream down your throat.

You wave goodbye to each other and enter your respective cars. You watch Namjoon pull out of the parking lot before you and pause to rest your forehead on your steering wheel. You were so screwed.

Twenty-four exhausting hours later, you find yourself with your fist poised over Namjoon’s wooden office door. Are you actually doing this? Are you really going to quit the only job you’d ever loved? 

Yes, you are. You love Namjoon too much to stay here surrounded by his charisma and his beauty. You love him too much to try to complicate his workspace, his sacred ground. You love him too much to ask him to blur the lines of colleague and lover.

You need to leave - for his sake and for yours. It isn’t like he still needs you. He has been following your routine with vigor and always keeps his office organized now. Your tasks have been dwindling for weeks. 

It’s time to move on. God, even the tension today had been off the charts with you and Namjoon skirting around each other like you were both walking on eggshells. Clearly, he is also feeling like you are in the way.

With that in mind, you straighten your shoulders and finally knock on the door.

Your ears strain for any sign of an answer. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to sustain the meager amount of courage you had mustered up inside you. Twisting open the handle, you push the door open and are immediately met with an empty office. Damn, he must be downstairs.

You chuckle at the sheer idiocy of your panicked state over knocking on an empty office door.

This is perfect anyways. You can hand Namjoon your two weeks’ and then evacuate the building in one sweep. Shutting down your computer and grabbing your things, you trudge out of the room and towards the stairs.

The journey downwards seems akin to walking the plank as you take each step slowly, dreading the inevitable. 

Ciara has it all wrong: you do not love it when you One, Two Step. 

The entrance to the lab looms overhead. The steel double doors look more like the gateway to hell rather than a nice entrance to a marine facility. You don’t break your stride as you march through the doors. If you had, you might not have kept going.

The familiar light humming of the tank filters meets your ears as you peer around the rows of shelves containing colorful fish and scuttling critters.

“Joon?” You call, the nickname slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

“Back here, Star!” His answer sounds from the very back of the lab. Of course, that’s where the crabs are housed.

You make your way past the tanks of clownfish and the pools of stingrays to where Namjoon sits hunched over the shallow tank containing four green-tinted crabs. 

“That’s it, Nala.” Namjoon croons as the smallest of the four crabs swims around the tank, “You show your brothers how fast you are.”

“Talking to your subjects again, boss?” You can’t help but tease the man you've grown to love as he fawns over his work.

Namjoon blushes slightly and nods, pushing his glasses up to rest on the bridge of his nose, “Studies have shown that it helps them develop.”

“I thought that was humans?” You say, shifting your weight back and forth. The letter in your hand seems to burn more each second you hold onto it. You couldn't take it anymore.

As Namjoon opens his mouth to reply, you thrust the letter into his chest and say, “Never mind. This is for you. Please read it later.”

With that, you fast-walk your way back to the entrance of the lab. The sound of the envelope tearing open only forces you faster. Fuck, it had been idiotic of you to assume that he would actually listen to you and open it later. Namjoon is as impatient as they come. Of course he wouldn't wait.

“Star!” His strangled call startles you, “What is this?”

“We can talk about it on Monday!” You reply, somehow already close to tears. Why is this godforsaken lab so big? You pace down the aisles of tanks and breathe a sigh of relief as the exit comes into view. 

Then, Namjoon comes barreling around the corner, cutting off your escape. The man looks baffled as he clutches your written resignation in his hands. His chest heaves as he holds the torn pages out towards you, “What. Is. This. Star?”

You bristle. I guess we’re doing this now, you thought. Stiffening your shoulders, you muster all the false bravado you can manage, “It’s my two weeks’ notice, Namjoon. I’m sure a smart guy like you can read.”

“Okay, allow me to rephrase,” Namjoon stalks towards you, tossing the crumpled letter over his shoulder. “Why did you give me this?”

“The letter explains everything,” Your eyes dart around, both in search of a viable escape and in avoidance of his intensity.

“Sure it does,” He scoffs, his eyes blazing with disbelief. “I want to hear it from you.”

Your back hits the cool glass of the tank behind you. You’re trapped between the contrasting temperatures of the water and Namjoon’s body.

“Joon,” Your voice shakes, “You don’t need me anymore. You’ve done everything I've asked of you and then some. You’re organized. You’re on time. You’re put together. I barely have enough tasks now to fill a day, let alone a week. It’s time to move on.”

“Time to move on?” Namjoon echoes before barking out a humorless laugh, “I don’t need you anymore? That’s really what you think, Star?”

“Don’t call me that.” The nickname snufs out any trace of fight left inside you, and you plead, “Just let me go, Joon.”

“Never,” He growls.

“I don’t understand what you’re not getting,” You sigh, exasperated and drained, “You’ve surpassed my expectations and erased the need for my position. I think the saying ‘the student has become the master’ applies here.”

Namjoon gapes at you before he snaps, “You’re the one who’s not getting it! Have you ever considered that the student might just be in love with the teacher?”

Joon rakes a hand through his hair as you become the one to gape open mouthed at the frustrated man.

He continues, “I wake up earlier every damn day because I can’t wait to see you at work. I organize all of my things because I just want to see you smile at me when you notice. I spend an hour each night picking out what to wear the next day because I want to impress you… Don’t you see? Everything I do is for you, is because of you. I want to be the best version of myself for you.”

Your mind struggles to compute the seemingly impossible notion that the object of your affections returns your love. “Did you,” You gasp out, “Just say that you loved me?”

“Yes, you complete jellyfish! I love you. I am in love with you! And it’s not like it’s not obvious! I call you ‘Star’ because you are my starfish, my sea star. You are the one who keeps the balance to my ecosystem of chaos. You are the key species that keeps everything afloat.”

“And you thought that was obvious?” You yell back at him, “How on earth would I immediately have known the intense analysis behind your nickname for me, Namjoon the science buffoon?” You huff, scrambling to process the amount of information that had just been thrown at you. 

He needed you?

He loved you back? 

He nicknamed you after a fucking marine invertebrate?!

Namjoon blinks in surprise, “Did you just insult me with a Bill Nye pun?” You don’t deign to give him a response. Namjoon chuckles before grinning sheepishly, “Okay, fine. You make a good point.”

“I know I do,” You pout. “You can’t just spring this on me, Joon. Why haven't you told me this before?”

“Because I was nervous that you would leave me, that you wouldn't return my feelings. Obviously, the first point is moot. What about the second?”

“You’re asking if I love you back?” Your body sags against the tank behind you, “How could I not, you crab-loving, walking mess of a—”

Namjoon captures your mouth with his, kissing you with fervor. His hands wind their way up to cradle your face between them like you are the most precious thing to him. 

Pulling back slightly, Namjoon rasps out, “So, you’ll stay?” 

“Hm, I don’t know,” You crack a wry smile, “What’s in it for me?”

“Well, let me show you,” Namjoon replies before whipping his shirt off. You gape open mouthed at the expanse of beautiful tan skin in front of you. 

Was that a hint of a tattoo swirling over his left shoulder?

He reaches down to tug at the hem of your dress, insinuating he wants it off. A nice concept in theory; however, with one look around at your surroundings, you slap his hand away. “Namjoon! Not in front of the fish!”

“But, Star, these aren’t fish! These are squid, and they are classed as cephalopods—”

You put a hand over his mouth, “Allow me to clarify: I will only fuck in a creature-free zone.”

Namjoon murmurs something beneath your palm. You give him a warning look before removing your hand. He immediately repeats himself, “My office?”

Your eyes narrow, “I know for a fact you have at least three crabs in there.”

Namjoon pauses, looking suspiciously shifty, “There are only seven…” 

You wait for it.

“...teen.” He finishes.

“Kim Namjoon!”

Two Years Later

The short walk down the aisle ends too quickly as you find yourself standing in front of a teary-eyed Namjoon. Five of his friends stand behind him in a row, while the sixth stands proudly as the officiant.

They really are out here looking like a whole boy band, you muse. But, you only have eyes for their leader. 

Namjoon stands before you, all tall and handsome in his tux; and as Officiant Jin™ begins the ceremony, you can't help but wonder how you got so lucky.

Finally, the ring exchange is introduced dramatically by Seokjin who spouts something about circles and never ending love. “Let us now have the rings brought forward and presented by the ring-bearer!” He booms, raising his arms up like he is summoning a great force.

Ring-bearer? You rake your mind for a prior mention of a ring-bearer… You thought Yoongi as the best man would have the rings.

Suddenly, Namjoon produces a silver whistle from his pocket and blows it once. You stare at your soon-to-be husband like he has sprouted another head.

And then you hear it: the sound of legs and claws scuttling across the floor towards the altar. 

“Tell me that is not what I think it is,” You whisper-yell over to Namjoon, who looks way too pleased for your liking.

Your fears and exasperations come true as Namjoon swoops down to pick up Carl who has two shiny rings tied to his shell with a ribbon.

“Oh, Kim Namjoon,” You sigh as you watch him remove the rings from Carl and hand the crab off to a disgruntled Taehyung, “What am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to marry me,” Namjoon grins.

And marry him you did.

a/n: jellyfish have no brains, lolz. idk why making joon call the reader a jellyfish made me crack tf up but IT DID.

© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.

[welllpthisishappening]

The Couples That We Know

Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least. 

For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least. 

So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really. 

----

Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt​​ sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam. 

----

“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible. 

“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. 

Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise. 

“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem. 

The crux of their problem, really. 

Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already. 

It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication. 

And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again. 

She’s totally going to say it again. 

“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines. 

And they’re trying to avoid that. 

Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too. 

Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult. 

Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be. 

Showing with other people, though. That made sense. 

It made—sense adjacent. 

“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical. 

He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week. 

“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm. 

“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything. 

“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan. 

Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible. 

And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma. 

Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred. 

“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out. 

“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything. 

And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud. 

But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her. 

He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort. 

“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table. 

To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.  

“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”

Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma. 

Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation. 

Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”

“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either. 

Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his. 

“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”

Aurora does know, it seems. 

Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them. 

Will looks far too entertained. 

Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking. 

He will enjoy it. Thoroughly. 

Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused. 

That’s fair. 

All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it. 

“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”

Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes. 

“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds. 

“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”

Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working. 

Maybe they should apologize to Aurora. 

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers. 

All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength. 

“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous. 

Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate. 

“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time. 

“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”

“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least. 

Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”

Breathing is a challenge. 

Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet. 

“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation. 

Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though. 

“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point. 

Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.

Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.

“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism. 

Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point. 

Emma smiles. 

And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem. 

“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.

“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks. 

“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important. 

“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”

“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”

Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better. 

Probably because she’s wearing it. 

“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused. 

“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed. 

“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles. 

“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least. 

Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.  

“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”

“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her. 

Sooner rather than later. 

“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his. 

Emma rolls her eyes. 

They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now. 

“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”

Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”

“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy. 

“The profession?”

“The staircase.”

“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”

Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks. 

“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be. 

Or quest. Whatever, honestly. 

“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”

Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else. 

Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd. 

“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later. 

She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle. 

Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him. 

That might be his base setting at this point.

“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized. 

Until he had to pretend he didn’t. 

“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though. 

He flips his wrist. 

“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night. 

“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices. 

And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot. 

It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night. 

“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn��t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo. 

“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”

Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”

Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way. 

That sucks, admittedly. 

“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses. 

Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”

“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”

“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her. 

Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this. 

“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”

Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding. 

The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.

And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity. 

“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”

There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—

“How long have you two been engaged?” 

Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly. 

He opts for honesty. 

Sort of.

It worked for Mary Margaret, after all. 

Sort of. 

“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”

Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over. 

“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head. 

“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend. 

Who is standing directly under the mistletoe. 

It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly. 

And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so. 

Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do. 

“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this. 

Maybe if they get to keep their jobs. 

“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”

“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”

There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”

Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done. 

“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable. 

“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over. 

And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas. 

[qvid-pro-qvo]

cold, your toes against my knee (warm, your hand in mine)

mike dodds x gender neutral reader. reader is an svu detective, and mike dodds is a lieutenant at homicide.

word count: 2867

rating: mature, because of a distinct winter chill (this is a fic that attempts to tackle a mere part of the struggle following a traumatic event. mike therefore experiences symptoms of ptsd/post-intensive care syndrome. tw: mentions of gun violence, scars, blood, hospital scenes, flashbacks). 

-

you meet mike dodds on a beautiful fall day, some kind of conference that you get pulled along to with lieutenant benson. when she sees him across the way, her voice calls out to him, and he responds with an eager smile, a fervent shake of her hand in place of a hug. professional settings and all that.

“mike dodds, this is one of our newest transfers,” benson says, and her voice is warm, gesturing to you. he turns to face you, and you have to blink when he smiles full-force at you, taken aback by the earnest way it hits you. but you recover.

“lieutenant dodds,” you say with a grin, offering your hand. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

“only the bad stuff, i’m sure,” he offers, and your chuckle is light, shaking your head.

“well, my partner is sonny carisi,” you return, and he’s able to laugh in return.

-

november starts to fade, and mike feels the aches. they’ll always be there, because physical therapy can’t fix everything, and they’ll linger as long as he wakes up afraid of the snow outside. he trembles as he moves through his apartment, not thinking about the sleep he’ll inevitably sink into. it’s voluntary this one, and the bed isn’t in a damn hospital with ten blankets piled up –

never mind.

the gas bill is outrageous. he turns the heat up another degree. just until he leaves the house.  

“sweetheart,” you call out, and when he turns it’s with a small smile. your arms reach to wrap around him from behind, and while your head can’t rest on his shoulder, you let your face press into it. he can feel your kiss even through the layers.

“just for a few minutes,” he starts, feeling self-conscious, and your smile is evident in the sound of your voice.

“hey, you’re okay,” you tell him, and every time you say it, it seems a little truer. did you put on a thermal this morning?”

at first, he’s certain he did. and then his fingers lift to his neck, where his shirt collar is unbuttoned. no tie yet, and he’s able to feel bare skin. he turns to face you, so you can see where his collarbone is, and with a little chuckle you push to kiss the spot before cupping his cheek with your hand.

“while i do enjoy the little look… you want the white one or the gray one?"

he thinks on it, the whole time focusing in on the way you smile.

“gray. there’s no snow in the forecast.”

with a nod you move to the dryer, and he can hear the machine is running. in that moment, his love for you hits hard, and before he can think he’s following you to the laundry space, insisting on a few more kisses before he puts the warmed shirt on.

-

“good to see you again, detective.” he reaches for your hand to shake it, polite. a slight tremble to his fingers. his bare fingers.

“where are your gloves?” is your response.

at first, he just blinks, then pulls his hand back. shoves it into his coat pocket. he can only offer a shrug before you’re patting down your own coat, searching the pockets for something.

when you uncover them, they’re deep within the confines of your outerwear. three inside pockets have already been searched when you yank them to the surface, waving them a bit to shake the lint off before offering them over. the lieutenant blinks again, something like uncertainty playing on his lips as he glances at the proffered pair.

“well, come on, then,” you say, holding them up again, pushing them towards the hand that had offered to shake in the first place.

“i don’t want to take your spares,” he starts, and you have to scoff.

“you’re not taking them, i’m giving them,” you laugh out, shaking your head. “i always have a pair of extra gloves. i’m always cold and they’re good to have. i’ve got three more pairs just like it at home, sized up for comfort, and you could take every one of them if it means your hands don’t turn blue. take ‘em. trust me, lieu, take ‘em.”

he’s boggled, you can tell. you don’t know why, and it’s for long enough that you roll your eyes, and without a thought push forward, grab his wrist with your hand. it’s how you end up curling his fingers down over the offering.

“here. the day is still young, and we can save your fingers if we work fast.”

and they’re great gloves. he kind of sings their praises the rest of the day, and you just chuckle at his words before helping him adjust them on his hands. you’re glad you size up, because his hands are bigger than yours, and they fit snug, tight. warm.

he keeps them. you insist on it.

-

he heaves out a shudder, and his blankets are pulled down even tighter over his shoulders. he’s in three layers, with a down comforter, and it’s still not enough to push the feeling back.

it settles over him, like fog. one moment, he’s waking up for work, and the next, he’s curling in on himself. one hand pushing against the scar like it’s the off button.

he’s so… he’s so cold. he’s lost so much blood, he can’t move, he can’t think, and he’s so goddamn cold. all he can see is bright white, all he can hear is steady beeping, and all he can think about is the way that he can’t get warm. he can’t get warm. they chill him on purpose and then bring him back up to room temp, and he feels like he’s in a fucking freezer.

another sharp press, one that makes him hiss against the pull of scar tissue. it pushes the bright white away, brings him back to the present. his knees are up to his chest, and the insistent buzz of his phone against the nightstand tries its best to help him emerge.

“mike?” you’re coming back from the bathroom when you see him, curled up, and immediately your hands are on him. you’re grabbing the second blanket from the foot of the bed, the weighted one with the fleece cover, and with a little grunt you’re pulling it over before settling in beside him. “mike, sweetheart, i’m here.”

your hands go to work. rubbing up and down the bare skin you can see, moving through the layers to use friction and build up some heat.

the phone stops buzzing. and you’re curled alongside him, pressing kisses to his hair. your hand reaches for his and pulls his fingers up so you can kiss the knuckles.

“five minutes,” you say gently.

he nods, eyes squeezing shut as you wrap around him.

“i’m here. let’s get you warm.”

-

“i’m always cold, too,” dodds admits one day, while the two of you are hunched over a case file. special victims and homicide usually don’t coordinate this often, but homicides are up this month and liv insisted on taking on of the cases that would’ve fallen across his desk. he’d come over personally to tell her what’d been found, what’d been checked out what hadn’t. had paired the two of you up for the transition while she handled some meeting at one police plaza.  

“hmm?” your finger is moving across one of the documents, your eyes following it before you glance up at him. he’s standing up straight now, and you watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets, elbows flapping a little as he shifts.

“just. you mentioned, last time i saw you. that you’re always cold,” he says, and he doesn’t quite stumble over his words. he’s trained too well for that. but you hear the hitch at the top of the statement, and watch as he doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, glancing down at the case file again. “it gets bad for me in the winter. always have a chill.”

suddenly realization hits you, and you smile at him, standing up straight again, closing the case file and picking it up to hold against your chest. “i just have poor circulation,” you say, shrugging. “i’ve macgyvered a lot of tricks to keep me sane when winter comes around.”

and it makes him chuckle, thankfully. his hand lifts to his head, moves through his hair, and you’re watching the movement without thinking about it. how it makes his short brown locks flop forward a little over his forehead. now you have to duck your head, avoid his gaze, and try not to think about how good he looks with that blue dress shirt.

“willing to share some of your tricks with homicide? in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation.”

and that makes you snort.

“maybe not with homicide,” you laugh. “but with you, lieutenant dodds, no question.”

“mike,” he returns immediately, and it makes your tongue feel a little thick in your mouth.

“r-right. mike.”

-

you’re undercover, and it’s… the worst. third night in a row. not a text to be seen, a call to be heard from. he’s worried, and he’s chilled, and the apartment is surely roasting as he tries to fight the air from outside that insists on leaking in.

it’s been hard to sleep. hard to close his eyes without thinking about what could go wrong. he knows the risks of the job, better than almost anyone, but it feels like he’s walking on eggshells the next few days, trying to direct his squad while your safety sits in the back of his mind.

and liv is with you. that makes him feel better, but makes the tightness in his chest amplify. the thought of losing you both in one fell swoop makes his eyes cross. but he can’t linger on it, he can’t, and by the fifth day he’s taken to stealing your fuzzy socks for a third layer on his feet.

then he gets a text, that fifth night. it’s from sonny, an update, and he’s grateful until he reads the words “concussion” and “bellevue.” 

outside the wind is howling. he can feel the tremors start before he’s even begun to move. but he grits his teeth, not letting the outside air see his trepidation. mike starts moving, starts layering up, and he’s willing to face any winter night if it means that he’ll be there for you.

when he arrives, and you see him, there’s visible relief on your features. you look haunted, exhausted, like you’ve just been undercover for the past week and haven’t eaten since you started. it makes mike’s anger bubble up, but he’s stopped by the way you reach for him.

“i’m here,” he tells you, and you chuckle, burying your face into the front of his coat. his arms wrap around you easily, pulling you tight against him. “i’ve got you.”

“you’re so warm,” you groan out, and his chuckle chokes up, his nose pressing into your hair as you grip him. 

-

you start dating in the late moments of spring, after a couple months of dancing around it. a winter of trading secrets to keep hands and feet from turning blue turns into a wonderful friendship, and with that friendship feelings soon blossom.

and after all, it’s easy to fall in love with him. anyone could, you’re certain, looking at him from a distance. you take a glance at mike dodds and you see what everyone does. the brave cop, injured in the line of duty. the incredible lieutenant, who runs homicide with ease. the good man, who smiles at everyone he can, fighting for what’s right. the son of the chief, making his own path.

and then you see a little bit more, the stuff under the surface.

you see the way that he is never shy of curling up close, his touch almost always a full-body one. the nights get hot and stifling, but he’s always under the blankets. you see the way he picks and chooses socks with intense concentration, never afraid to grab two pairs instead of one. you watch the summer months pass and fall come even closer, and that space between his eyebrows furrows more and more.

and then there’s the conversation. as october hits, and you can see your own breath in the mornings, mike asks to talk to you.

he seems shaky. you can’t tell what it is that has him trembling, but your hand reaches out for his on instinct, pulling both of his hands into yours to warm them up.

and that gesture seems to be what pushes him to speak at all.

“a couple of years ago i got hurt on the job,” he starts, and you watch, intently. your own brow furrows as he describes waking up that first night in the hospital, dad and liv and squad around him, and feeling nothing but the chill.

“i couldn’t escape it. i couldn’t do anything. and when my body got worse before it got better, i was trapped.”

part of it was the fever, he tells you. there were moments he was delirious, an infection after the surgery almost wrecking his body. part of it was the blood loss, his body having to fight to rebuild what had gone missing from the bullet, from the operating room. part of it was the room itself, a faulty thermostat sending the whole hall into the sixties.

“nothing seemed to help. but… i managed to recover,” he admitted lowly. his voice is bitter, and you find yourself pulling his fingers to your lips, kissing his palm. because in that moment you’re hit with how close you came to losing him before you ever found him.

he tells you how he doesn’t feel it all the time. how spring, summer, and even the start of fall is okay. and then the temperatures start dropping, the sun starts to fade, and in winter he locks up. the cold sinks into his skin, and.

“all i can think about is that damn room. i go to therapy, i talk through what i can. my therapist tells me this is a hump, a mental block, but. i don’t know if it’ll ever end. if the cold will ever stop sending me into a... spiral.”

he’s frustrated. his hand is gripping yours back tight, and before you can stop yourself you’re sliding out of your side of the dining room table and slipping into his lap. you pull him against you, running your fingers through soft brown hair. you don’t let go of his hand, you can’t, and you feel his shoulders shake as he fights back the tears, face pressed into your chest.

and you… you hold each other. for a little while.

the minutes pass by. you’re uncertain what to do, besides assure him that you’ll never let him go. those promises are whispered into his hair, his ear, against his lips as you kiss him.

“i’m proud of you” is said a lot. you hope he hears it, believes it. because in that moment, you’ve never been prouder of this man you’re so lucky to call yours, a man fighting a battle he’s so scared of losing, a man who faces months on end with his chin held high. he’s unsure if it’ll ever come to an end, but you know that one day, it could. you’re gonna see that day, you’re certain of it. you tell him that, too.

and when the silence stretches on, the two of you in each other’s arms – when he comes back to himself, you tilt his chin so he can look up at you, holding his jaw with a small smile.

“so. what i’m hearing is that we’re gonna need a fireplace when we move in together.”

it shocks a laugh out of him. “what?”

“well, if we’re gonna stay warm, central heating and a fireplace will help do the trick. i’m not going anywhere, mike dodds, so you better start house hunting now.” you have a grin on your face, big and bright and bold, and when he looks up at you again he’s stunned into chuckles. leaning forward to press a kiss over your heart as he shakes his head.

-

winter comes. steadily. gently. like the hush falling over the crowd. and mike dodds hates every second of it.

he can feel it creeping up his spine – the inevitable chill that lingers, stretches its fingers over his shoulders and grabs him. october is gone, november is here, and he lets out a shaky gasp each time a breeze hits him wrong.

he wants to yell out. holds the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip. but he doesn’t. he just lifts his chin. he pushes on, he handles it.

he is michael dodds, isn’t he? the son of the chief, the brave soldier. and yet, he fears the turn of the season.

the days keep coming. one after the other. nights get longer, get unending, get colder.  

but this winter something is different. this winter he has you. and the icy grip that the season has starts to fade with time. with time, with time, with time. with therapy, with talking, with time, with time.

with you, your hand in his, and time.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Best Friend Pact- Part 4: But Never Forgot They Are Human

Calum attempts to drink the sadness away one night at a party, but his friend, Neveah, doesn’t let him completely. And in their stalled journey off sobriety, they make a secret pact. Black!OC. 

CW: Over the course of this series, there are mentions of pregnancy, birth, death, and death related trauma. Please skip as necessary. 

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_______________________________________

Three days, Neveah's been home three days. But it feels longer. It's just exhaustion and some worrying messing with her sense of time. Joy's a big help, sparing her an extra hour of sleep here and there when she can. However, her nipples are still sore. Her intestines still feel like they could fall out of her at any point, which at this point, they are. Almost. The doctor called it lochia, a fancy way of saying that her body is still getting rid of leftover tissue and blood from the placenta detaching itself from the uterine wall. Not that she didn't drop nearly all of her uterus in the delivery room. What more could be left?

But what really throws her off, including the fact that even at the slight cry of Ettie her body wants to expel milk, is that both her and Ettie came home in diapers. She thought maybe the discharge would only last a few days, but she was very wrong. Months of tissue cannot be expelled in one week. It's starting to taper off from such a heavy flow, but it's still a pain. Every time Neveah moves positions, she's reminded that her body has taken the hardest hit it's designed to take and keep going. Parts of her are sore that she never knew could be so sore before. It'll be a month before her body gets itself together. While that's not comforting, she can be patient with herself.

Ettie settles down on Calum's bare chest, after feeding and Neveah reclines into the couch, exhaling. That's when she remembers she out to change her own diaper of sorts. "This is embarrassing," she huffs, finally pushing herself up. "My body's crumbling from the inside out."

With his foot, Calum taps her leg before she passes by him completely. "It's gonna be okay."

She smiles. He can see how tired she is. He is too. Even with his parents around, he wants to be there for everything. He has to be, to make even a dent in the guilt for missing so much before. She backtracks, brushing her lips over his forehead, then down his to his cheeks. Her breath ghosts over his lips before she kisses them too. "Thanks. Rest. She'll be up before long."

God, his gut still twists at the feeling of her lips on his. She disappears down the hallway. "My son, what are you doing?" she laughs as Duke trots along beside her. "I'm okay, boy. I'm okay."

Calum runs his fingers over Ettie's back. "Daddy loves you. You know that?" He keeps saying it, the phrase falling over his lips like a prayer. But he truly means it. He loves her so much. It's almost how unreal how fast he fell for his little girl. God, he'd do anything for her, go through any lengths for her. His ladybug, his star guiding him now. A small whine falls from her lips and he wraps his hand gently around her. "I'm right here, baby girl."

The noise quiets at the warm touch. The lower half the sofa dips. His mother sitting at his feet now, phone trained on him. "Don't look at me," she reprimands. "I'm not here."

"What are you doing?"

"A grandmother's duty. Getting all the pictures and videos that I can."

Calum chuckles, directing his gaze back to the sleepy baby. "Nanna's going to have album's full of your baby pictures. Get ready."

Joy pats his knee. "Just remember you're human too, son." A reminder that he has to take care of himself too in order to take care of Ettie. A reminder that he does, in fact, have so much time with his daughter, an entire lifetime. But guilt is a heavy mongrel. He is ruthless on Calum's soul some nights.

Calum hears his phone buzzing against the coffee table. He doesn't have to answer. But Ashton has been calling once a day just for a niece update. They'll introduce Ettie to the rest of the boys within the next week or so. Right now, they're just trying to get any sort of a routine. So Calum usually always answers. Just as he starts to stretch himself out, shimming just ever so slightly, another hand grabs his phone first. Neveah answers, smiling at the screen. "We haven't died yet," she answers.

"How you two holdin' up?" Ashton asks.

She looks to Calum, his eyes slowly closing. She knew he'd never make it too long laying on the couch like that. The sight makes her body warm. She flips the camera around. "We're doing alright. I think Ettie has him down for the count though. He can't even tap out."

"God, she's the cutest thing ever. She rivals Calum now."

"He did make her. The Hood genes are strong. All thanks to Momma Joy."

"I try," Joy laughs.

Another voice floats in from the phone. "She's so precious. You sure we can't see her sooner?" It's Michael's voice. Neveah wishes they could meet Ettie sooner. She would them too. But she needs more time to become human again herself. "I found the cutest little socks the other day. I know she'll lose them in like three seconds, but they've got little ducks on them and I just couldn't not get them."

The boys talk about themselves, Luke huffing in the background about not seeing his niece. But she starts to tune that out the longer she stares at the sight in front of her. Calum's chest rises and falls steadily, hand still placed on Ettie's back. She's a goner. This is her family. Unconventional in some ways for sure. But it's hers. Was this all Calum wanted? Was he just as elated as her? Was this what he needed?

The call ends and she settles into the one person seat next to Calum, gently running her fingernails through his hair. His face is utterly relaxed in his sleep, brows never furrowed, lips never pursed. She finds her phone, snapping a picture of her, Calum, and Ettie. Opening Instagram is a mistake. She already knows the comments are flooded with snarky remarks. Some are sweet and encouraging. Neveah knows if she posts this picture, even as a story, the world is going explode. But this is her family, this is her moment. The quiet moments....World Meet Ettie; Ettie Meet World. 

"What if I drop her?" are the first words out of Ashton's mouth two weeks later. He and the rest of the boys finally have the opportunity to come and meet Ettie. They know they won't be staying for long, but it's about time.

Calum shakes his head. "You won't. Promise. I had the same fear."

Ashton holds his arms out, tensing as Calum slides the tiny body fully into his hold. He keeps the head supported, a bright smile taking over his face. He had always seen himself as the first to have kids. But Calum beat him to the punch. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Ashton needed not to worry about anyone but himself for just a little bit longer. Being a second parent to his siblings was enough the first time. He can have a niece, someone to love, but ultimately does not have to raise. "You're gonna be so spoiled, Ettie," he chuckles, rocking her gently.

"She's got so much hair. I'm jealous!" Luke laughs, ever so gently brushing his fingertips over the top of her head. They talk to Ettie's sleeping figure in soft voices, introducing themselves, stating promises to always be there. Calum knows those words aren't empty either. He knows that they will do their damnedest to be there. He knows they're all human too, they're all bound to make mistakes. But there is no mistake in the effort.

__

The day is still young but to them, having seen the rising of the sun, it feels like they should be at the end. Calum, as they're paused in the line at the street vendor's stand, wraps his arm around Neveah's shoulders, playfully pushing at her cheeks. She puffs her cheeks out in retaliation, making him exert more effort. His chest rumbles with the soft laugh and drops the poking. "You're no fun," he teases.

"I'm plenty of fun." Her voice is a little soft. He hates the way she sounds. Her dad called earlier and told them not to come by to visit today. Another bad day. They happen so much more frequently. She still went and has been down ever since. He watches her clutch the amethyst gem around her neck. "Something just feels off," she whispers as they shuffle up in line.

"Off how?"

"Not good. I just have a bad feeling about something. It's been just...too many bad days in a row. You know?"

Calum pulls them out of the line, to some benches nearby. He doesn't like the way she's talking, so definite about things truly unknown. Sure death is inevitable, but it doesn't always come in one final sweep. Things can turn around before it goes bad. Calum turns the stroller towards him, keeping one hand on Ettie's tummy, the other resting on Neveah's knee. "Hey, I know it's hard. But you've gotta stay positive. Besides, things were looking up. She might turn around." Two months actually. Two months of her mother doing better. Though recently it has gone on a downward spiral.

She doesn't blink rapidly; there's a distinct lack of a lower lip wobble. She's sad for sure. She knows when she actually hears that her mother is gone. But something sits in her gut like the period of a sentence. It's final, no questioning, no taking it back. Her mother is going to die. Calum notes her silence, the faraway glaze to her eyes. "No, stay with me," he urges, pulling her face to look at him. "She's going to pull through."

"I just know," she whispers. Before her mother had her to fight for, her brother to see graduate. Her only goal this time around was to meet Ettie and that's done now. The only thing her mother would be clinging onto at this point is the pain.

The thought hurts him much more than her. Maybe it's because he's reminded of his mother's own mortality. No one lives forever. It's just a terrible thing to see them go so soon, in such a horrible and painful too. He opens his mouth to speak, to combat her knowing with his own. But there are no words. There is nothing he can tell her. The truth is the truth. He pulls her into his chest, wrapping his arm tight around her shoulders. "I'm here. I'm always here," he whispers into her hair. That is something he can promise, something that is also the truth.

"I love you, Calum." The confession is soft from her lips, but he hears it. He catches onto every syllable. Her breathe tickles his neck a little as she speaks.

"I love you," he returns. There's no hesitation in the phrase. He always thought he'd be terrified to tell that to anyone, to feel this deeply for anyone. But not to her. The truth is so much easier with her. He remembers the house party when he was feeling like everything was taken from him when he felt like he had nothing left. Now he has everything.

__

The next day, they go back to the hospital. Her mother tries to tell them they should've have wasted the gas. That's she's in the same old shape. But anyone that saw her mother yesterday and then say her today knows the truth is very much different. They don't stay long. Her mother yawns every few seconds, clear that her body is tired. Neveah hugs her mother tight to her body, now the tears are threatening to run down her cheeks. She can see the pain. "Rest, Momma. Let go. Don't hold on for us. Let go for you. I love you. Forever and always."

"Forever and always."

When her phone rings a couple of days later while eating lunch, Neveah doesn't reach for it immediately, busy with a grabby Ettie. Calum reaches across the table, taking the baby. "What do you see, Ladybug? What's got your attention?"

Her phone in one hand, she pauses watching Calum chat away to the baby. She remembers one of their running-on-four-hours-of-sleep-and-Ettie-has-finally-settled-for-a-nap conversations. He mentioned how he finally had something to pour into that poured back into him. That thanks to her and Ettie he didn't always feel like he was running on fumes and just getting by. Even though they were running on fumes. Having a baby is stressful. They carried the huge responsibility of such a tiny life, but there's something rewarding watching her discover the world around her. There is nothing selfish in her awe, just a pure wonder.

Having a baby didn't replace all the negatives in the world. It didn't magically erase all the insecurities and fears that Calum has. What it did was give him something to better himself for, it gave him something else for which to live. "You're going to miss that call," Calum notes, finally getting Ettie to release her grip on his necklaces. The grip of a baby is nothing to play with they found out when Ettie almost ripped out one Neveah's earrings from her earlobe.

She rolls her eyes, but steps away from the table, unlocking the phone and pressing it to her to ear. Calum gently pulls at Ettie's hands again, to let go of the chains again and to keep it out of her mouth. "No, let go, Ettie." He gets her grip free again. "When you're older, I'll get you one, okay? Pinky promise. Just no eating it."

He grabs the small cup of fruit puree, scoping some onto the spoon. She reaches out for the spoon. "Soon I'll give you control of the spoon, baby girl," he laughs, finally getting her to take the spoonful. "How did you, you know what, it doesn't matter," he sighs, wiping some of her food out of her hair. Things get everywhere with her. He's not shocked anymore by the fact. He gets the last of her small cup full onto the spoon.

Ettie turns her head, intrigued by the silver fork on his plate. "One more spoonful, baby," he says, going in for a second attempt. She whines in his hold, reaching out for the fork again. He sets the spoon down into the cup and shifts her closer to the plate. She will never settle until she can get her hands on it. "That's a fork," Calum explains, then proceeds to point to the pasta on his plate. "I made Mum and I chicken alfredo."

Ettie babbles, her small palms hitting the table. "Yeah," he agrees. "It is quite good." He points to the cup of fruit. "More? One last scoop."

Ettie's not paying attention, still eying his plate. Calum figures he'll try one last time with the spoon and if she refuses it this time, he'll call it good enough. He holds the spoon out in front of her, she watches it for a moment. The attention doesn't last long before she shrieks, clapping. "Yeah, it's mama," he laughs without even looking up. When he does, he can already see the news on Neveah's face before she can speak. His throat dries, tongue feeling too thick for his mouth. God, what can he say? His mind is just utterly frozen in shock.

"She stopped doing chemo. I never even knew," she whispers. She's not even staring at him or the phone clutched in her hands. Calum finally gets his bearings, mind finally getting back into gear. He places Ettie into her high chair and crosses into the living room. "I don't whether to be sad or relieved."

Calum kisses her forehead, hands cupping her cheek. "I'm so sorry, babe. So so sorry. She loved you. She positively loved you."

"I-I know."

__

There are very few tears from Neveah at the funeral home as they get arrangements in order. She cries a little bit more during the wake. There are no tears at the funeral, even as she marches down the aisle of the church to pay respects to her mother's body one last time. She clutches to Ettie's blanket, though. Calum can see the way her knuckles have lightened around the material. 

Neveah wore it over her shoulder, burping Ettie outside before the procession. He stood with her before he had to duck inside. They agreed Calum and Ettie would sit just a few rows back and she would sit with her family. He didn't want to intrude and knew Ettie would be full of babbles, taking in all the new colors, smells, and such.

He was out way longer than he should've been, so he rushed inside. And only as Neveah was lined up the coordinator did she realize that the blanket was still around her shoulder. Instead of passing the blanket along, she holds onto it. It feels a little silly to hold onto this blanket, but she doesn't have it in herself to give it up. 

She wishes she could cry, but all it is left is just an ache. One she always knew was there, but just now felt, staring down at her mother's body. She's going to miss her mother. "Forever and always," she whispers, before turning and taking a seat next to her brother. She leans into him. Even though she's older, he provides her with comfort.

In reality, it's just a hole, a holding place for her mother's bones. But it is final. "Why do the living care so much for the dead but not the others that are still living?" Neveah asks from the top of the path. She can see the workers lowering the casket from here.

Calum is unsure how to respond, still trying to keep Ettie at bay in his arms. Neveah notices the whines and takes the child. "Momma's right here, darling. She's right here."

"I can take her. She might be tired of me holding her, but if you need a moment."

She shakes her head at his offer. "My moment's over." 

There is nothing for her to do now. Her mother is dead, three, maybe four feet deep now and counting. Soon they will throw dirt onto the waxed coffin. The type of wood will mean nothing to the dirt and worms that will crawl over it. The earth takes no prisoners, only temporary flesh and permanent bones. Her moment will be sealed up and marked with a tombstone.

"People care so much about the dead because they don't want them to talk bad about us. No one cares about what the living say, their opinions still have time to change. The dead speak in eternity and nothing can change theirs," Calum says.

"Ever thought about writing poetry?"

"I never have too much to say."

"You speak volumes with very few words. Ought to give it a shot," Neveah returns. 

__

The ache of missing someone is a slow disease, but persistent. Some days Neveah does well; she cooks breakfast for all of them. She goes to work with a smile. She walks with tours to make sure everything's going smoothly. She can interact with children with light in her heart. Calum sees the nanny that comes in during the week, and Neveah relieves them. Some days she even brings Ettie in while she works for part of the day.

Then other days, getting out of bed is a drag. Neveah picks at her plate, getting just enough not to be met with Calum's firm glance for her to eat more. She doesn't talk much. On those days, Calum gives her space. Ettie notices something is up. Though she lacks the words, the feeling is still there to her. She climbs into her mother's lap, babbles, attempting to console. It will not ever completely dull the ache, but the effort is appreciated. It is enough to get her to smile again.

Calum peers into the living room. Ettie's laughing, reaching for some of her toys on her stomach. Neveah sits cross-legged onto the floor, smiling at their little girl. "Babe, watch!" she calls out, watching Ettie pushing herself up.

Calum wipes his hands on a dish towel, walking out of the kitchen. Ettie smiles, upon seeing him. "Hey, Ladybug."

"Say hi to Dada," she coos. "She can almost roll over, though."

"She's growing up fast." Every week is an adventure. They watch her for a few more seconds. Ettie pushes up again and then one moment she's on her stomach and the next she's on her back. Calum cheers, dropping the kitchen towel before pressing kisses all over Ettie's face and tummy. Ettie giggles at her father's actions, reaching for his hair. "You're getting so big, Ettie. Look at you, rolling over onto your back." The cheering alerts Duke who lifts his head and stands up. He settles back down, taking watch again.

Neveah watches with tears in her eyes. Joy will get a video later today. They'll set her down for tummy time again later and Calum will coax her to do it again for Nanna. Her father will get a video as well. Neveah knows he will race to the cemetery. He will sit on her mother's plot, screaming to the high heavens about their grandbaby being the smartest around. Neveah claps with clouded eyes at the achievement.

As they settle in for the night, Calum pulls her in a little closer into his chest. "Your mother is still smiling down on you."

The ceiling tiles blur in her vision. She inhales deeply, trying to blink back the tears. "You think so?"

"I know so," he whispers, kissing the skin of her neck. "I know it's not easy. But I'm proud of you."

She never thought about dealing with death as a thing to be rewarded for, to be praised for handling. Death is just a part of life. "Why are you proud of me?" she asks, turning her head to look at him. It's dark, but Neveah can see the outline of him, she knows over time the bumps and lines of his face.

His fingertips dance at the hem of her pajama shirt. "You get up every day and you're still a mom. Even when you're off, you still manage to get through it. On your off days, I don't expect you to jump at every cry. I don't expect you to find the energy to sweep, to cook. And yet you do, sometimes. And yet despite all the pain you carry, you still find the capacity to be on. And you let yourself have your bad days. You know your limits and you communicate that and it's hard having a young baby to step away. But you know ultimately some days you have to. And I am proud that you're not just feeling your pain, but trying to heal from it too. I am proud of your progress."

Her palm rests over his cheek, running her thumb up and down the stubble. Her brain is propelling her before she can fully calculate her actions. Lips pressed to his, she trails her nails up into his hair. "Thank you," Neveah exhales before pulling away.

He squeezes at her waist, lips finding hers again in breathy kisses. "You're very welcome."

__

"I'm taking you out tonight," Calum announces as he walks in through the threshold. He slips out of his boots and takes Ettie, kissing her cheek. "Miss me, baby girl? Love you." Duke trots over, greeting Calum as well and getting some scratches before going back to the edge of the playmat. He takes watch, some of it is uncertainty about the newest addition, but it might be an old instinct to protect still. When Calum looks down to Neveah, he raises an eyebrow. "Put on something nice."

Out? She's forgotten what the phrase means. Neveah hasn't been out in years. Put on something nice? She just barely fits into anything besides her work clothes. All her nice clothes don't fit her anymore. Part of her wishes she was more active about losing the baby weight, but in reality, the stretch marks don't bother her, the extra little gut is just there as far as she's concerned. Her body's just in a new phase. "It's takeout night," is her only rebuttal.

"Exactly, so I'm taking you out."

"Who's going to watch Ettie? Viv went home."

"Michael offered to watch her."

"Michael? I'm shocked it wasn't Ashton."

"Ashton would've put he had other plans tonight. He said he might stop by after them, regardless of whether we're back or not."

"Where are we going? The only things that still kind of fit me are work clothes and some old, old jeans. I can make it work."

He hasn't seen in her jeans very much lately. The moment she gets home she out of her work clothes and into sweatpants. "Whatever you're comfortable wearing."

"Well good thing I was gonna pump anyway. When is Michael coming over?"

"Half an hour, might be a few minutes more." Pushing up from the floor, Neveah walks into Ettie's room, grabbing the double pump and then settles back down in the living room. She can check through the last of her emails and edit that pamphlet for the latest exhibit. She didn't want a double dump at first, but Calum argued that if she was going back to work and still wanted to use her breast milk, having a double pump would be the most effective. She was concerned about price but knew that in the long run, using formula was more costly.

Calum's situated on the floor, reading to Ettie. When Neveah settles down next to them, she pinch the fat of her baby's cheeks. Calum laughs. "Do not distract Ettie. She is learning."

With a chuckle, she reaches up and pinches his cheeks too. It'll annoy him, but that's okay. His smile behind the huff is reason enough to keep it up. Neveah's thankful to have her pumping bra still handy. But it's not like Calum hasn't seen her half asleep with one breast pulled out the side of her shirt trying to feed Ettie. 

She rolls the t-shirt up and folds it over the back of her head, so her arms are still through the loop, but her chest is exposed. Thankfully getting the latch is simple and after a few seconds the machine whirs to life. Even though Calum is still quietly reading to Ettie and she's on her computer, the moment feels right and intimate. This is her life, her family. After a few minutes of listening to Calum more than actually reading the words on her screen in front of her, Neveah shuts her laptop screen and rests her head onto his shoulder.

The action pauses the words in his throat. He sees the soft smile on her lips. He knows it's not always the most comfortable thing in the world to do, to have a machine hooked to her chest, but's effective. He finishes the book a few moments later. She's just quietly resting beside him,  basking in the moment. He picks Ettie up and holds her horizontal, rubbing her nose against her mother's cheek. "Love you, mum. Even though I poop my diapers and on you sometimes, you're still the best," he coos in a high pitched voice.

Neveah laughs, opening her eyes, holding her lips over her teeth as nibbles on the end of Ettie's nose. "Love you too, baby girl. Even when you poop on me. Know why you're named Ettie?" she asks.

Calum bounces her on his thighs. "I'm curious too."

"Because that's your Daddy's North Star. Right when everything was slipping away from him, you pulled him in the right direction." She boops Ettie's nose, looking up to Calum. She's right. Ettie's the thing that keeps him in line. It was hard to quit smoking and especially after all the late nights and early morning sometimes he can feel his lungs aching for that inhale of nicotine but then Ettie smiles, or laughs and it's all over him, the ache disappears. He's a giver and no one really ever knows how to give back to the giver. Hell, he has to give to Ettie, for Ettie. But it doesn't hollow him.

"Star, the force behind his dreams, the force of life. Ettie Aroha, that's what you are," she whispers. "Bound to be the world's best footballer, because you've already got some strong legs on you, girlie. Bound to do great things. You owe the world nothing. There is no bargain for life, nothing in exchange for existence. Just existence and you can do whatever you want with it."

"Clearly, finishing school is a good thing. Don't pull a me, kid," Calum says, with a small laugh.

"Or do. Who knows what the universe holds?"

"Don't. Finish school. There's room for one uneducated person in the family and that's me. Mum's got two degrees, not including primary."

"Okay, definitely high school. But like, anything after that is truly up to her. College kind of sucked. It's learning and lots of money."

He huffs. "We are trying to sell education here, okay. Sell it."

Neveah laughs. "I take that back, Ettie. It was a magical time and I definitely didn't consider dropping out at one point."

"We need to work on your salesperson's skills."

Finally finished with both bottles, she turns off the machines and screws on the tops to the bottles. "I think they're just fine. Thank you."

Calum lugs the machine to Ettie's room again. "Mum's very smart okay. Don't let her fool you. She's one of the most intelligent people I know. She's very intuitive too. Listen to her gut feelings, even though they might seem a little naggy."

Michael shows up about twenty minutes later and they scurry out of the house. The first time in months that they can escape to themselves. Calum opens the door to his truck. Even for a fifteen-minute outfit change, she looks stunning in the green blouse, dark jeans, and black heels. She even managed to throw on some earrings, though she did steal his leather jacket. But it looks good on her. She looks good, she always does.

He originally intended to take her to an upscale place on the other side of town. But the more he thinks about it, the more he's willingly to tame down the gesture. It's their first outing alone in a long time. He thinks to the little breakfast diner, she loves. It's closed right now, but there is another little mom and pop hole in the wall that he really likes. It's not the healthiest spot on earth, but he thinks it'll be perfect for them.

The lights are low as they enter, hand in hand. Sports coverage is on every single screen in the place. But it's not crowded. He didn't expect it to be on a Tuesday evening, especially so early too. The hostess seats them quickly and Calum orders a stack of onion rings. "God, I shouldn't," Neveah huffs, mouth watering a little at the smell of them as they're brought out.

"You've got enough pumped for the next day. I mean," Calum teases, sliding the plate with a couple onion rings out to her. "Go wild, right?"

"You, sir, are a bad influence."

"No, I'm a voice a reason."

"Just a couple." A couple is all she eats too, though Calum tries to get her to go for the last one. To split the stack evenly but she doesn't fall for it. As their entrees come out, she's compelled to ask. Things are going well between them and for them. They both have feelings for each other and admitted it. But the baby is usually their focus.

"So, do I just live with you forever as your lover and the mother of your child?" She's not opposed to it; she's not opposed to never legally taking any steps. But she just needs to know where she stands. They are not just lovers on escapes through the Californian coast. They're parents. They have jobs. They're adults in bigger regard than legality. She just needs to know the truth. She can handle that.

"No," he answers without pausing, setting the glass of water down. "I know things are a little backward. But hopefully, eventually, you live in our house as my wife with our child."

"And that's the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

Calum holds up one hand, holding the other a few inches above the table. "Swear it on the Bible."

She scoffs a little finishing her bite of chicken before speaking. "Too bad I don't have one right now."

Calum nods to his left. "Bookstore right next door. Sure they have one."

She pauses. He is deadly serious, reaching into his wallet. She's practically done, so used to eating as quick as she can to tend to Ettie. She watches the fifty with another twenty on top falls onto the table. The meal was 30 at most, neither one of them ordering an alcoholic drink. "C'mon," he says, sliding out of the booth.

"You've barely eaten. Sit back down. I believe you."

"I'm not Ettie. You cannot scold me."

Neveah takes his outstretched out. "I surely can nag you though. You're going to be hungry later," she reprimands as Calum leads her around the tables to the front door.

"I'll eat leftovers."

"You'll have wasted that money."

"It's a tip for her great service."

The door chimes above their heads as Calum opens it for her, having to break the hand holding. But he reaches for it the moment he steps inside. "When we get back, I've got to finish those edits. You'll be with Ettie for a few hours without me."

"I'm her father. I don't babysit my child. I raise her, I take care of her just like you do when there's those few hours between you getting home and me leaving the studio," he says, reading quickly over the signs. He finds the religious heading and starts for it, trailing her along.

"I didn't mean it like that. I'm just–everything's so different now."

"You're a mum now. You're still the sarcastic asshole I fell in love with. But now you nag me about eating. I get it."

Almost instantly after rounding the corner of the bookshelf, he finds a Bible. He gently pulls at the hardcover spine and pulls it from the shelf. She holds it out, his left palm rests on it and his right hand is raised. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" she giggles.

Calum tries to keep the smile from cracking his facade. But his giggle leaves him and he drops his head as the laughter shakes his shoulder. "You fucking idiot, I'm trying to be serious," he huffs.

Neveah fakes her offense, brows pulled together. "First I'm an asshole, now I'm a fucking idiot, you ought to burn where you stand for such language, asshat."

"I should burn huh? Sounds like you're burning with me."

"If I go, who takes care of Ettie?"

"Should've thought of that before you swore." He clears his throat, licks his lips and finally gets the smile off his face. It takes a moment because she keeps giggling. But finally, the amusement dies down. "Now, when I said I wanted you as my wife with our baby in our house," his breath leaves him for a second, staring into her eyes. They've finally got a small twinkle to them. He's missed that. "I was telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," he concludes in a whisper.

Her gaze flickers around his face, before landing on his lips. "Sworn on the Bible," she grins, half of the smile lifting higher than the other.

"Told you I would." He knows he doesn't have to ask anymore. "Are you going to say anything snarky if I kiss you right now?"

She shakes her head, blindly placing the book on the shelf. "I would say something snarky if you didn't."

Calum cups her face, kissing her hard. Is it unconventional to be nearly 33, kissing like teenagers in the middle of a bookstore? Probably. But at that moment all he can think about is her kiss, her touch. She smells like honey in his nose, probably a new shampoo or lotion. He's not sure. Her hair products are a constant rotation.

 All he is sure is that her lips feel like heaven on his, soft even a little chapped and warm. Her nails dig into his forearm before she wraps them around his midsection, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Their tongues slip over each other before they part, breathing heavy and still clutching each other.

Neither one can fully open their eyes, trying to just keep breath in their lungs. Neveah tilts her head again, capturing his mouth, the tip of her tongue running over his lips. As she parts, Calum pulls her back, mirroring the same action on her. He slides his arms over hers, slipping them between her shirt and his jacket. He's not connected to his body anymore, he thinks, watching the way she grins at up at him. No, it's not him holding her so close. It's not him that gets to wake up next to her each day. It can't be. But when she pecks his lips, the reality comes rushing back. It's him. It's actually him living this life.

"Hate to ruin such a precious moment. But I'm going to ruin it. We close in like ten minutes," an older gentleman warns.

"We just really love Jesus. Sorry. Have a great night," Neveah rushes out, taking Calum's hand and pulling him out of the aisle and out of the store.

He laughs from behind her. "We just really love Jesus."

"Didn't you go to some fancy private Christian school? You saying you don't love Jesus."

"That is utterly beside the point."

"Then tell me what utterly is the point?"

Calum's phone starts to ring. He reaches into the pocket, noticing Michael's number. "The point is that we got caught making out in a bookstore." He hopes everything's okay but stops on the curb before they hit the parking lot. "Is everything okay?" he asks answering.

"She's just a teensy fussy and I think it's teething. It woke her up from her nap," Michael relays.

Calum can hear the cries in the back. It's not skull piercing just yet. But he's gotta act fast. "A lot of drool?"

"Definitely. I'm going to need a new shirt."

"She'll getcha for sure. Rubbing her gums helps. You can use your finger or take a damp gauze pad. But if you're not comfortable with that, there are some teething rings in the fridge."

"I love Ettie, but I don't think I could rub her gums like that."

"If the ring doesn't work, call me back. And you might not want to change out of that shirt just yet either. She'll keep drooling, so try to keep that as clean up as possible."

"Got it. Sorry to interrupt your date."

"It's alright. We were interrupted once."

The cries subdue and Calum relaxes, finally feeling the soothing strokes of her hand on his back. He hates hearing his baby cry. "What happened?" Michael laughs.

"I'll tell you when I get back to the house. Has Ashton been by yet?"

"Nah, he texted me though saying he should be by in the next hour."

Calum wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Okay. Thanks again for watching her."

"It's not a problem, dude. She's pretty chill. Besides teeth are a pain. I have all mine and I still wish I could suck on a teething ring sometimes."

Calum laughs. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." As they hang up, she's already mentioning getting back home. Calum pulls her back. "It's okay. Just teething. Michael's gonna give her a cold teething ring. If that doesn't work then we'll go back. Right now, we should see how many other places we can get caught kissing."

"How many drinks have you had? What have you done with Calum?"

"You telling me you don't want to go into that convenient store, hide in the chips for a second and kiss?"

His smile is contagious. It's like their 23 again, but instead of sitting at house parties and helping him sneak off for a cigarette and to spill his guts, they sneak off from being parents for a couple hours and they are kids for just a moment. Neveahshakes her head, grinning at herself. "And we ought to buy cheap lime-a-ritas and I'll just bottle feed Ettie tonight."

"You can buy one, I'm driving."

"Now you're a rule stickler," she scoffs. 

"Younger me did not have a baby to get home too."

"Fair. I'll go with something smaller. Lime-a-rita's bound to fuck me up completely now."

"Lightweight."

She swats at his chest as they start to the car. "I know what I am and I'm okay with that."

__

 Calum unlocks the door to the house and barely gets his two feet in the door before there's a shriek and a tiny body is waddling up to him. "Dada!" Ettie shouts, all year and a half of her colliding into his chest.

"Hey, Ladybug! Oh!" he laughs, lifting her up. "How are you? I missed you!" Ettie wraps her arms around his neck and he carries her into the kitchen. Neveah sits at the counter, cleaning off papers. He takes hold of the back of her neck, to still her. He hums, kissing her deeply. His gut and chest warm. He's finally home from all the droning of business.

"Hon, tell me that's your beef stew I smell?" Calum asks, pulling away from their kiss.

She shrugs. "I don't know. You tell me."

He presses another kiss to her forehead, shaking his head at the comment. As they eat, Calum keeps glancing to Neveah's left hand. He hopes she catches the hint. But he's praying she hasn't found the box either. He tried to put it high, knowing she's less likely to be snooping up that high in the day to day chores. She mentions how the programs for the kids at the museum are gaining a lot more attractive now thanks to the change of distribution amongst elementary and middle schools. He talks about promotion and tour dates. They have to travel for the latest album.

She nods, breaking off more biscuit for Ettie. "We'll be okay."

"I knew I'd be gone. Just, not so soon," he whispers.

"I'll have Viv to help me out some. I'll call my dad and see if he can help."

Calum reaches across the dining room table and takes her hand. "I know you can make it. I'm just sad to leave you guys. I know I can't convince you to leave the museum and tour the world with me. I wouldn't even try."

She shrugs. She was convinced to have his kid of out a pact. She moved in with him. She's fallen in love with him. There's truly not much more she couldn't be convinced to do. "I love my job. But I love my family more. You nearly died leaving when I was pregnant. I can't have you going through that again."

His jaw drops. Would she really leave her job? "You can't not be doing something. I know you. You're too antsy. Stay home."

"We've only got a couple more years of Ettie not being in school. A few months and she can see the world."

"It's rough. She needs such a strict schedule, time zones are crazy. It's best if you stay home, work, keep this schedule that we have going."

"I've got some vacation time. Maybe not the whole shebang. But for a couple of weeks, we can hang out."

That's reasonable. That'll help him keep sane during tour. Calum nods. "We'll see when you can get time off during the U.S. leg. And maybe later I'll take you guys abroad."

"If it's Europe, I gotta see Switzerland."

"You got it."

"Also, I've never been to Australia."

"One thing at a time, Honey. One thing at a time."

"This was about your parents! They need to see Ettie too."

Calum surely did not miss the mischievous twinkle to her eyes. "Uh, sure." They finish eating and Calum loads the dishwasher, thinking about that top corner of his side of the closet. He can't wait anymore. He finishes with the dishes before heading to the bedroom. He finds the bag it's in easily, double checking that nothing has been disturbed. Positive nothing has been messed with he walks back into the kitchen. How the hell should he ask? On one knee. God his knees just ache thinking about that.

As he walks into the living room and notices Neveah's back turned he figure his this is shot. So he wraps his arms around her waist, burying his face into her shoulder. She laughs. "What are you doing?"

"Givin' you some loving. I see you looking this good in sweatpants." He playfully teases the drawstring. She taps at his knuckles, laughing. They've become much more intimate over the months. He holds the ring out in front of her.

All the air presses out of her lungs. "What is this?"

"I make good on my promises. So," he pulls away and turns her to face him. "Will you be my best friend literally forever, my love, not just lover? Will you be my wife?"

"Yes," the word leaves her so softly he barely catches it. Her nod is the thing that lets Calum know her answers. He slides the ring onto her finger, pulling his bottom lip between his lips. "So we went from best friends to lovers, became parents, and somehow we've made your way back to lovers."

"Some say that's the best love story around."

__

 The clouds pass by yet again. Calum's off of the sidelines with some other dad's. Neveah watches him pace on the field. They came in separate cars. She picked up Ettie from school and got her ready for the game. Calum came directly from the studio. He ought to be saving his voice. His voice coach will be pissed about all the shouting he's done during the game. But of course, he's gonna shout. This is his ladybug's first game of the season. "C'mon!" he shouts.

"Save your voice, Cal," Neveah whispers from the stands before watching the field again. She couldn't watch the game with him yelling in her ear, so she told him that she would sit somewhere else during the game.

Ettie's dribbling the ball downfield when she takes a push from another girl. Her team is up a goal and there are only a couple minutes left in the game. Nothing is called against the offensive move. "C'mon ref! She was pushed. My baby was pushed!" Neveah shouts.

Calum turns from the sidelines to find her, standing up, leaning over the other parents, hand cupped around her mouth. If she thinks he's bad, she ought to see herself. As she settles back down, they lock eyes, smiling at each other. They know the real reason why they don't sit next to each other. It's because the shouting becomes tenfold. Not only are they shouting at the game, but they will also bicker with each other.

"Your daughter is on the field!" Neveah calls out to him. "And she's been pushed. But clearly, none of the refs are wearing glasses."

Calum chokes on his laughter, waving at her to simmer down. They're about to get kicked out for the rest of the season and it just started. The last minute of the game is tense. But thankfully Ettie's team manages to keep their lead. Calum cheers from the sidelines. Neveah races down from the bleachers to his side and collides into with a hug. They know not to intrude on the field, letting Ettie have her moment.

The teams line up and give out high fives before they grab their bags. Ettie walks up to her parents, grinning. "Next time, stay in the car," she teases. 

"But you won!" Calum shouts, lifting his little girl. She refused soccer for a long time. They tried it when she was 6, but she wanted to keep dancing. But now at eight, she decided that maybe dance wasn't everything she wanted and asked Calum to help her so she could try out for the team.

Ettie laughs at the smiles her parents' sport. They were just like this about dance. Much less loud, but still very enthusiastic about her interest. Calum learned how to perfect the ballet bun and how to prevent a run in tights. Now with soccer, Neveah learns not to freak at grass stains and keep a fridge stocked. "You two are embarrassing," Ettie teases but looks down as she kicks the grass. "You sure I can't get a piggyback ride?"

Calum pulls out her sneakers. "Change out of your cleats and that ride is all yours."

Ettie takes the shoes and heads to the closing game huddle. Her coach congratulates them on the win and talks about practice next week, what to expect, the new drills. She walks back to her parents, Calum kneeling for her to jump onto his back. They walk back to their cars, debating where to go in celebration of the victory. "Ice cream! Before dinner?" Ettie questions. 

Calum's not always an easy one to crack. But he gives in quickly. Ettie turns her attention to her mother, jutting out her bottom lip. Neveah doesn't even need to look up. "Put that bottom lip back in. We have to go because you're going to go with Dad. And if you go with him, he's going to sneak off and do it."

"You guys are the best."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Calum and she chorus, laughing. They're not always perfect parents. But they do their best, like agree to ice cream before dinner after soccer games.

[softbiker]

Born to Run - Chapter 14

Warnings: cursing, little editing, brief descriptions of violence

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: AND WE’RE BACK SURPRISE!! Seriously though, I feel horrible that I haven’t been able to update in so long - I was doing so well at first with the weekly updates and then it just kind of...stopped. Things got difficult. Sorry. But here we are, keeping things going with this fic! I’m excited! As always, feedback is appreciated! 

There’s something heavy across her waist when she wakes up.

She shimmies, trying to dislodge it, but the firm pressure only tightens when she does. Something warm snuffled at the back of her neck, the feel of soft whiskers scratching, and it’s - oh.

Bucky.

A little thrill shot down her spine - still does, even after these last few weeks. He’s only spent the night a couple of times - and the two of them remain somewhat clothed - but still. Her heartbeat picked up as he sighed again, breath coming hot along her neck.

She couldn’t shake this feeling, this nagging little notion, that she’d gone zero to 60 the moment she met him; in spite of the fact that they were taking things slow, something her trust issues and his gentleman’s upbringing insisted on, her brain felt like she was on a high-speed roller coaster, white-knuckling as she hurtled along the tracks awaiting the inevitable corkscrews and hairpin turns that would make her stomach drop.

Of course, with roller coasters, it helped if you had someone’s hand to hold.

She wiggled again in Bucky’s grip, trying to turn and face him, but he groaned in protest and tightened his spooning position. She rolled her eyes a little, patting his hand where it rested on her stomach.

“Such a baby,” she sighed, morning voice little more than a croak.

Bucky groaned again.

“‘S too early,” he grumbled, the sound muffled into the space between her hair and her pillow.

“Maybe for you,” Y/N huffed. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”

“I have a job,” he snorted.

“Oh yeah? Besides being a sexy biker?”

She heard his low growl rumbling before he quickly rolled to put his weight on top of her, his fingers wiggling into the soft flesh at her sides. She squealed and bucked under him, trying to escape, but he was too heavy to dislodge and she was way too ticklish to let him keep torturing her.

“Okay! Uncle! Uncle!” she cried, breathless. His fingers stilled, but his hands maintained their grip on her waist, the weight of his chest holding her down as he smiled, his face a few inches above hers.

“Hi,” he stage-whispered. His bed-head was in full disarray after his tickle attack, random strands fluffed out in different directions and hanging in front of his eyes. She blew a puff of breath past her lips, amused at the way he wrinkled his nose as the wayward hairs waved back in his face.

Good morning,” she smiled back, still catching her breath from the assault.

He leaned down for a kiss - a morning kiss, soft and tender, a small taste to break the night-long fast. The tip of his nose traced the length of hers.

“Still too early,” he hummed, lips working their way across her cheeks and nose and eyelids.

“Mm?” she hummed back, eyes closed.

“You know it’s Saturday, right?” he half-chuckled, nuzzling down into her neck. “Don’t have anywhere to be for a while.”

She peeked one eye open, a suspicious smile tilting up one corner of her mouth.

“I know that voice,” she bit her lip. He didn’t answer, leaving his face in its hiding place at her neck. “What are you planning, Barnes?”

“Somethin’ you’ll like,” he grinned, hands sliding down to the hem of her t-shirt.

“More like ‘something that’ll get you past second base’?” she teased. No matter how she played coy, though, her body couldn’t repress a shiver at his touch, fingers slowly climbing the skin under her shirt.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, honey.”

His head popped up and he gave her a sly wink. Surprised laughter sputtered from her lips, soon cut off by a firm kiss, his own laugh pressed into her mouth.

They didn’t get out of bed for a while that morning.

**********

Natasha dug in her pocket for an elusive piece of bubblegum she knew she had stashed there. It was becoming frustrating - the pocket was only so big. Maybe she put it on the other side?

The diner she was waiting in - Lakeview family restaurant - was the only decent place to eat in the next town over. A cup of black coffee, half-finished, sat on the table in front of her; she’s had two refills already and knows she should stop -

There it is.

Fingers grasped the missing bubblegum and wiggled it out from her jacket pocket. She popped it in her mouth with no hesitation, crinkling the wrapper and letting it fall to the table.

Another glance at her watch. She’s never known him to be late.

She had been disappointed, but not surprised, when Y/N didn’t take the deal. In fact, she acted like their conversation never happened - diving headfirst into this fling with Barnes, the two of them apparently believing this could somehow...happen at all. A happy ending, a real life? The secrets were stacked against them, Natasha knew. Barnes knew, too, but she suspected he was thinking somewhere lower than his brain in all this. He had been from the moment the good doctor moved in across the street. And the rest of the gang seemed all too happy to welcome her into the fold, ignoring the very inconvenient facts about their real identities, their jobs, their presence in this town. It could’ve gotten her killed. Almost did.

Which was why Nat only trusted one head in the group - the one on her shoulders.

She was doing this for them. They’d understand, maybe not at first, but eventually. And even if they didn’t, she could live with their anger. Better than their blood.

It’s taken a few weeks to get things in order, but she had finally made the call. Clearly, extraction was the best case scenario for the team now. The longer they lingered on this job, got comfortable with Hydra’s silence after Rumlow’s death? She didn’t want to play those odds.

A bell dinged above the diner door. She didn’t turn, refolding the gum wrapper in her hand as the booted footsteps approached slowly, quiet on the tile floor. She didn’t even look up when he wrapped his knuckles once against the table, before sliding into the booth across from her.

“Romanoff.”

“Fury.”

“Been a while,” Nick Fury raised his good brow as he leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table.

“Well, you know how it is, Nick. Busy with work,” she smirked drily.

The waitress returned, pen at the ready, and Fury requested a coffee and whatever fresh pie they had that day. Whipped cream on the side, please.

“You know, my doctor tried to convince me to try going keto,” he said conversationally as they waited. “Something about keeping my blood sugar steady.” He shrugged. “Decided I didn’t hate myself enough to do that.”

Nat rolled her eyes a little, unable to hide her small smile. She had missed Nick. But this, the chit-chat, the minutiae, was never what they were good at. People like them were rarely good at small talk.

“So.” He turned the skewered bite of apple on his fork, gliding it through the whipped cream before taking a slow bite. “I understand you have a proposition for me.”

“I do.”

He pursed his lips, nodded, never lifting his eyes from his plate.

“Then let’s hear it.”

**********

They were slipping.

Rogers. Barnes. The Avengers.

From what they can tell, the self-righteous pricks are too far up their own asses to see what’s been going on. No one saw his men tailing them on every run. No one noticed their movement in the shadows of the town, the palms they greased, the eyes that looked the other way. Nobody was looking when their numbers doubled in size, weapons making their way through with the new men. It all hummed under the surface, dry winter air nearly crackling with the static.

Any day now, any moment - all it would take was some friction, a spark, to light the whole thing up. Burn the fucking Avengers to the ground.

Which is why he was very careful to avoid such friction. No contact - that was the rule. Keep your head down, mouth shut, do what you’re told, and don’t start shit. All the men knew, and they were scared shitless of the boss, so they obeyed. But they were restless, he knew. Itching, jumpy, knuckles cracking. They wanted a fight, and he wouldn’t hold them back much longer.

No, not much longer now.

He knew an old friend of the boss would be passing through today - on to the next town over. Better head that way if he was gonna get to the rendezvous point on time.

**********

“I put together this team, you know.”

“They were already a unit when they were deployed in Afghanistan-”

“Yeah, yeah but I hand picked them all for this assignment,” Fury waved her off. “And now you’re telling me I made the wrong call?”

Nat sighed through her nose.

“I’m not saying they’re wrong for the job, but they’ve been out here for a long time and…” she glanced out the window at they highway just beyond the gravel parking lot. “To be frank, Barnes is compromised and the rest are content to let it happen. They need to be pulled out of the field to regroup. Period.”

“Mm.” Nick sipped his coffee. “And this has nothing to do with your...history with Barnes?”

“Don’t patronize me, Nick. I’m a damn professional, not a child. You know that better than anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

They stared at each other across the table for a moment - Nat with her arms crossed, a deep line between her brows. Nick seemed content with a hand wrapped around his coffee cup, empty plate scraped clean of crumbs and whipped cream pushed away from him on the table.

“I trust your judgment, Romanoff,” Nick finally sighed, draining his coffee. “So what’s the move here?”

“Simple. Call it in, move on the evidence we have to clear Hydra off the streets, and send the team home for debrief,” she shrugged. “We’ve got more than enough to keep these guys put away for a little while - long enough that we can come up with a long-term plan and pump them for more intel on Hydra’s shadier business deals. Gotta be a weak link in there somewhere.”

“You gonna get ‘em to talk?”

“Somebody always talks.”

“Okay,” Nick nodded. “It’s far from the worst idea you’ve ever had. But I’m gonna have to make some pretty important phone calls. Probably have to go all the way to Pierce on this one.”

“Trust me, it’ll be worth it.” Nat tilted her head to one side. “You can salvage this whole operation before it goes south - now tell me that’s not worth a little bit of groveling to your boss.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one having to do it.”

“I don’t beg, Nick,” she smirked. “You know that.”

He huffed, shaking his head.

“Oh, I know.” He rolled his good eye as he started to shuffle out of the booth. Natasha stood up too, readjusting the jacket around her shoulders. The sun was just starting to slip beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the parking lot outside the window. Her bike sat next to his sleek black SUV, the only visible vehicles parked on this side of the building.

Fury gave her a long look as he patted down his pockets, leaving a sizable tip for the waitress tucked under his coffee cup. Nat refused to meet his gaze, standing with her arms crossed, green eyes scanning the room. The other patrons at the cafe paid them no attention, as they slowly walked to the door side-by-side, Nat’s boots clicking softly on the tile floor.

“You don’t need to worry about this, Romanoff,” Nick sighed, pushing through the door first. The little bell above the door announced their departure. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“I’m not worried.”

He stopped at the door of his car, good eye sliding sideways for a glance at her. She was already straddling her bike.

“You’ll be hearing from me soon,” he waved, almost drowned out by the roar of her bike starting. He laughed under his breath, humorless, nostalgic, as she revved the engine a moment before throwing up gravel under the tires as she peeled away from the diner. He tried not to be irritated about the paint job on his car - already streaked with mud from these unfamiliar roads.

The highway was nearly deserted, nearly dark, as he started the long drive back to the city. Romanoff might not be worried - though he suspected otherwise - but Nick certainly was. It wasn’t like her to pull a stunt like this, and it wasn’t like his hand-picked team of Avengers to get sloppy on the job. And then there was the sudden silence from Hydra in the last weeks since their ringleader’s death; his team, and his higher ups at the agency, had always known there was someone else, a hidden hand pulling strings, but could never quite get the bastard to show their face. And now, when they all could feel something building like a wave, about to crest, Nat wants to pull the team out.

He shook his head. Too much to think about and a long drive ahead. His hand reached for the radio dial, searching past country stations and bluegrass stations and the lonely pop station - he settled on gospel, surprising himself. But it made him think of his mother, so he left it there. Flicked on the headlights, and then the high beams, showing him nothing in the darkening night besides the road stretching ahead and the now-empty fields, nearly flooded from last week’s rain.

After a while - could’ve been an hour, could’ve been 20 minutes - he heard them in the distance, that distinct roar of engines. His ears pricked; they were coming from behind him, the direction of town. Maybe Natasha changed her mind? Maybe the rest of the team was offended he didn’t drop by and they were going to haul him back to the compound for a barbecue.

Maybe he’s become one of those goddamn idiots who’s dumb enough to believe in luck.

When their headlights came around a curve a quarter mile behind him, he was nearly blinded by the sheer number. The noise was nearly deafening, and he flattened his foot against the accelerator, mentally calculating the miles between towns. Too far in either direction.

That was when he saw the group coming towards him, too.

With a steady stream of curses under his breath, he dialed Natasha’s phone number. The phone rang, twice, three times - he glanced over and saw that two of the bikes had pulled alongside him, riders covered head to toe in black leather, white skulls painted on their helmets.

“Motherfuckers,” he hissed. A jerk of his steering wheel, just a threat, and they braked a little, backing off. But there were three more directly behind him, not to mention the ones further back and up ahead.

“Come on, Romanoff-”

“Nick?”

“Natasha - we made a mistake, they’re moving now-”

“Nick, what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

The two bikers had pulled alongside him again, speeding up and slowing down to stay just out of his reach. One of them reached over to his hip, raising an arm right at the car-

The pop of the gun and his front tire were almost simultaneous; the car went squealing and swerving across the road, black marks burned into the pavement, before a wild swing of the wheel sent it flipping into the deep ditch next to the highway, where it landed upside down and creaking.

“Nick what the hell just happened?”

“Nick are you there?”

“Nick?”

[cherryrogers]

Falling For You.

— Chapter 12

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

(Modern High School AU)

Warnings: lowkey angst?? mostly fluff.

Synopsis: Unlike most teenagers, you had your life completely mapped out. You’d graduate high school, go off to the university of your dreams, and live the life that your parents always wanted you to. That was always the plan. Falling for Bucky Barnes, however, was never part of the plan.

A/N: it’s been a month since i’ve updated this omf, i’m sorry i’m the slowest writer ever🤧 we are gradually coming to an end w this fic guys,,, i think there’ll be maybe 3 or 4 more and their story will more or less be complete :) thank you to everyone that has been reading this fic so far!!💓

Series Masterlist

It wasn’t long before the university application deadline came around. When you were younger, you’d pictured yourself applying in junior year and having a complete map out of which college you’d go to, what you’d major in, all the extra-curricular you’d take part in - you were sure that you were ready for college. Completely sure.

But since then, things had changed drastically.

Your ‘no dating until college graduation’ rule had gone straight out of the window, your parents were planning to disown you if you didn’t follow the life plan they made for you, and while you wanted to remain in New York and let your parents cut you off if that’s really what they wanted, you just weren’t sure that you’d be okay if they did.

Because they were your parents. Maybe they had it all wrong, and maybe they were being completely unreasonable. But they weren’t doing it to be mean or spiteful; they wanted you to succeed. They didn’t want to see you fail, failing was never going to be an option for you in their eyes.

You felt terrible, in all honesty. You felt terrible when your mother hung up on you and you let yourself cry it out as soon as you got home. You felt terrible for telling Bucky that everything was fine with your parents, not wanting to tell him the truth because you could barely accept it yourself.

And you felt terrible when you sent your application off on the day of the application deadline to not only Colombia, but Harvard too.

Three days later and it was still consuming your every thought. You had a while before you found out if you were even accepted, but there was still a chance that you could possibly be leaving to be a student at Harvard in the upcoming month of September. A chance that you could be leaving your friends, Brooklyn, Bucky.

He needed to know that you were considering it, he deserved at least that. Perhaps he’d hate you for it, for giving in to your parents’ desires of having you live a life you didn’t necessarily want to live.

Soon, you’d tell him soon. Not when you were in the school cafeteria, watching as the boy paced over to your table where you were sat with Wanda, a slight bounce in his step. Well, at least someone was having a good day.

It wasn’t often you even saw Bucky during lunch; he usually hung around the bleachers outside with Steve and Sam, eating a Snickers bar with a bottle of Pepsi and calling it an adequate meal.

Wanda was too occupied with her phone to notice Bucky striding over the table, but didn’t miss how close the boy sat next to you.

“Hey, Buck. What-”

Before you could even ask why he wasn’t with his usual group of friends, he’d already opened his backpack and pulled out a sheet of paper, placing it in front of you on the table.

You crinkled your brows for a moment, skimming your eyes over the paper, noticing that it was the chemistry test you’d taken before Christmas. Bucky hadn’t passed it originally, so Mr. Pym had offered him to retake it once the new term started.

At the top of the page, C+ was scribbled in red pen.

“I passed a chemistry test!” Bucky stated proudly. “A C fucking plus, sweets. I didn’t think it was even possible.”

His joy was infectious; you couldn’t help your own smile forming on your lips. “Of course it was possible, you don’t give yourself enough credit, Bucky. Plus, you had a pretty awesome tutor.”

“Hm, I guess I did.” He smirked, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Oh... my god.” Wanda almost choked, eyes darting between you and Bucky. “Did I just- did you just- you guys are-”

You ignored the heat rushing to your cheeks as you turned to your friend. “Yes, Wanda, we’re... together.”

Her blue eyes wide, she remained speechless for a second or two, While she was your best friend, you had been hesitant to let her know about your new relationship with Bucky, considering Pietro still hadn’t spoken to you since New Years.

However, a weight suddenly lifted from your shoulders as a warm grin spread across her lips. “I just... I can’t believe it finally happened. Obviously, it was bound to happen eventually, but at the rate you two were going, I thought it would be when you were grey and old...”

You scoffed, though you couldn’t exactly tell her she was being ridiculous, because if you had a dollar for every time you told Wanda that you and Bucky were never going to happen... well, you could probably buy the house back before you parents sold it off in the summer.

And now that issue was back in your head. Not to be dramatic, but it would be really fucking nice if the universe could let you catch a break, just for a moment. First, it was your parents, then it was your feelings for Bucky, then it was school, and your current problem involved all damn three of them.

“This can’t become a regular thing, by the way.” The girl pointed at the two of you sitting opposite her. “Vis is using lunch hours to tutor some kids in his classes, and I can’t look like a third wheel every day.”

“Wanda, I’ve been third-wheeling you and Vis for the past two years.” You chuckled, pushing college out of your mind for the time being.

“Well, where’s Pietro? He usually...” Her words trailed off as she realized a little too late what she was saying.

You shook your head, however, plastering a tight smile on your lips. “He still won’t talk to me.”

“He will, I know he will.” Wanda gave you a sympathetic smile, before flicking her eyes over to Bucky hesitantly. “I don’t know how he’ll feel about you two, though.”

Speaking of...

Your eyes were drawn to a figure standing not so far from your lunch table, signature white hoodie fitting his muscular form snugly, hands clasping the straps of his bag tight enough to make his knuckles go white. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Pietro Maximoff clearly wasn’t listening to a word Clint was uttering to him as his bright eyes trained on you, and Bucky’s arm which had snaked around your waist. He didn’t miss how the boy’s eyes gleamed when he looked at you, how his side was pressed right against yours, how you leaned into him so comfortably. Nobody had to tell him that you and Bucky were no longer just friends; it was pretty obvious to him.

When you caught his gaze for only a short moment, he snatched it away, motioning for Clint to follow him out of the lunch hall.

Both Wanda and Bucky followed your eyes to Pietro, feeling the guilt practically seeping from your skin.

“Well,” You sighed, mouth curling into a small frown. “I guess we do now.”

You hated feeling like this. Like you were causing problems left and right. Pietro was mad at you still, your parents were mad, Bucky would probably be mad once you told him about applying to Harvard; all you wanted to do was the right thing and make everyone else happy, yet every choice you could make regarding your future would end in someone being upset at you.

That was exactly what you were afraid of. That’s why you ignored your feelings for Bucky for so long, because you knew you’d inevitably hurt him. It was the last thing you wanted to do; you don’t think you’d ever forgive yourself for being the cause of a deep frown on his lips. But everything was just so confusing, and it was happening so fast that you didn’t have time to simply breathe.

Wanda must’ve noticed you getting lost in your head, as she gently knocked her foot against yours under the table and called your name to bring you back to reality. “Please don’t worry about my brother. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready, I promise.”

You forced a smile, wishing that you hadn’t had several other things on your plate to deal with as well as amending your friendship with Pietro. Wasn’t senior year supposed to be the year? Maybe watching too many corny high school movies when you were younger shaped your perception of senior year a lot different to how it was in reality, but it was your final year of high school. Wasn’t it supposed to be a year you’d cherish in the future?

In some ways, it was. It was the year you fought the urge to push Bucky away and let yourself give into him. He became more than just your best friend and you couldn’t be happier with that. But now, it seemed like that moment was the peak of the mountain, and everything else was just going down from there.

* * *

Winifred Barnes was practically the mother you never had.

The sweet scent of rich chocolate filled your nose as soon as you stepped through the front door of the Barnes residence. His house was considerably smaller than yours, but the homely, warm feeling of the place alone proved it to be more valuable than the house you lived in alone would ever be. It was a true family home, built for a loving family like the Barnes’ - one you couldn’t help but envy.

The small number of times you’d met her, she’d never failed to make you feel at home. A pastel blue apron always wrapped around her frame, in the midst of baking something that was bound to be delicious. Nothing like your own mother, and it was frankly mad to you that parents could be so... caring. When you first met the woman and she enveloped you into a tight hug, it almost brought tears to your eyes. As sad as it was, you couldn’t remember the last time your parents even touched you.

You didn’t often go to Bucky’s house. The two of you almost always hung out at yours since there almost never anyone home. Well, except for the one unfortunate time he encountered your mother - you tried to keep that memory as far back in your mind as possible.

Stepping into the cozy kitchen, you couldn’t help but smile as you saw Winifred stood at the counter, brows crinkled, tongue caught between her teeth as she carefully applied white icing to the freshly baked chocolate cake in front of her. Bucky could tell at school that you’d been thrown off by your conversation Wanda at lunch. Whether you were only upset about Pietro or if there was something else going on, the boy knew that his mother had a way of drawing a smile out of anyone. So when he invited you to go round to his after school, you couldn’t help but feel a little excited.

As soon as her kind eyes fell on you, the woman abandoned her cake, pacing straight past her own son and coming to throw her arms around you, nearly knocking you off your feet. “(Y/N), darlin’, it’s been too long!”

Her slim hands placed themselves gently on the sides of your face. “Oh my, you just keep gettin’ more beautiful with each time I see you.”

Your face grew hot, and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes, hearing Bucky chuckling as he kicked off his shoes at the front door. “It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Barnes.”

She waved you off, finally letting you go as she turned to tend to her cake again. “Always so formal, one of these days you’ll just call me Winnie.”

Letting out a laugh, you sat down on a wooden stool at the counter opposite her. “So, how are you, honey? How’re your parents?”

Winifred knew your parents were barely ever around, though she wasn’t aware of everything that’d happened recently. You internally thanked Bucky for keeping it to himself, because if his mother found out, she’d probably never let you go back home again. She worried about you as if you were her own, and if your own mother wasn’t going to do that for you, at least Bucky’s could.

“We’re doing okay.” You answered vaguely, considering neither you or your parents were remotely okay. “How about you? How’re you and Mr. Barnes?”

She tutted at the formality, still working on the last bit of icing on the cake. “We’re good; George can’t wait for our boy to finally get outta school. When James can work full-time at the shop, it’ll really help him out.”

You nodded fondly, thinking about Bucky working properly at the auto-shop. Working in an undershirt and his classic black jeans, sweat glistening above his brow, jaw locked as he narrowed his eyes in concentration... his mother was right in front of you, stop.

“And you,” She pointed towards you, icing bag in hand. “I’m assuming you’re off to college after graduation? James says you’re super smart, always have been.”

It’s like the universe was taunting you, having someone bring up the topic of college at every opportunity. However, before you could begin to struggle to come up with an answer, Bucky came striding back into the kitchen, eyes set on the now-competed cake.

His mother was quick to shoot him a warning look. “Don’t even think about it, son. You can have a slice after dinner.”

“But Ma,” He groaned, plopping down on the seat next to you. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “You know, I got a C plus on my chemistry test. Doesn’t that deserve a slice now?”

“He did work really hard for it, Mrs. Barnes.” You nudged the boy’s elbow with yours.

Winifred looked between her son’s pleading expression and your hopeful grin and eventually sighed. “One slice, alright? And cut your girl a slice too, James.”

The dark-haired woman turned around, beginning to put away the ingredients scattering the counters, before excusing herself to get some washing up liquid from the closet in the hall. You looked up at Bucky, who was busy cutting two slices out of the chocolate sponge.

“Did you tell her that I’m your girl?” You asked quietly, pretending that words didn’t erupt butterflies in your stomach.

Bucky smirked as he handed you a dessert fork, along with a small china plate with a piece of cake on it. “Honestly, I think she thinks we’ve been dating this whole time.”

You paused your movements, the cake on the edge of your fork just hitting your lips. “And you didn’t think to tell her that we weren’t?”

“I tried to, I swear. She was convinced I was lying, though.” He spoke amusedly. “The first time you came over, she said ‘James, you’ve got yourself a real lovely girl’, then I told her we were only friends, and she laughed in my face.”

Well, that was understandable, since anyone you’d ever told that you and Bucky were just friends had the exact same reaction.

Slowly, his expression fell, an unsure look in his blue eyes. “Uh, do your... do your parents know about us?”

The mention of your parents made your eyes snap up to his. It was a reasonable question. Though your relationship with your parents was... rocky at the moment, shouldn’t they know that you’d gotten into your first relationship? There was a part of you that wanted them to know, because they were your parents, for crying out loud, you should’ve been able to tell them things like that. However, you were already on thin ice with them over your future, and if they knew you were balancing a relationship along with college? They’d have your head on a stick for certain.

Shaking your head, you poked at your slice of cake with your fork. “I don’t know how they’d react, Buck. In an ideal world, they’d want to get to know you and... and they’d treat you the way that your parents treat me.”

“But they won’t?” Bucky shot you a sad smile.

“They’d sooner come back to Brooklyn and lock my ass in my room until I turn thirty.” You let out a laugh, though there wasn’t much humour in your voice.

Bucky didn’t laugh, however. He’d always known your parents were... the way that they were. Strict, stubborn, even selfish. But he felt terrible, because it hadn’t truly occurred to him until now how distant they actually were. The boy talked to his parents every day. When he got home from school, his mother already had dinner in the oven, and was asking about his day as she laid out the dinner table to eat along with his father, as a family. Bucky was sure there wasn’t a day when you didn’t come up in a conversation with his mom, and she didn’t mind in the slightest when he’d fondly ramble about how smart you were or how you’d ridden on his bike with him again despite claiming to hate it so much.

But here you were, nervous to even consider telling your own parents about him because you’re certain that they won’t support you. It hurt Bucky to even think about his parents being that way, and it possibly hurt him more that it was your reality.

It wasn’t hard to notice the sympathy washing over his features, so you sighed and grabbed one of his hands. “Please don’t feel bad, Buck. It’s just how they are, and I’ve gotten pretty used to it.”

“You deserve more, though.”

The words made your heart stop momentarily. “You think?”

Bucky smiled softly, playing with your hand that was in his grasp. “Sweets, you’re like... the best fuckin’ person I’ve ever known. You deserve, well, the best.”

Though the boy didn’t necessarily have a way with words, you couldn’t help but try to bite back wide grin. You’d never known any other way of how parents should be growing up, only the way that your parents acted. If the universe thought you deserved better, then you thought it’d make your parents nicer, less bitter. But maybe instead of changing your parents, the universe gave you Bucky.

Without a second thought, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, intertwining his and your fingers together. Bucky reacted immediately, kissing you back with slight immediacy, and the same sense of warmth washed over you as it did every time he kissed you. Suddenly, the fact you were sat in his mother’s kitchen was forgotten, as he ran his tongue along your bottom lip-

“Goodness, I’m gone for less than five minutes and you’re already lockin’ lips.” Winifred shook her head in fake disappointment, causing the two of you to pull back, Bucky’s cheeks flushing instantly.

“Sorry, Ma.” He apologized sheepishly, giving your hand a squeeze as you chuckled lightly.

His mother didn’t need an apology, however. Her son being happy was something she’d never want an apology for.

Winifred had seen it initially over two years ago, when Bucky introduced her to his first ever girlfriend, Natasha. She’d liked the redhead, though, was it even possible for anyone to not like her? Natasha was gorgeous, obviously. Clever, outgoing, could make anyone laugh within minutes of her meeting them. Bucky was clearly happy with her after first getting into the relationship, and for a while, Winifred thought that she was it for her son. That was until she’d be downstairs in the living room, and the woman could hear Bucky on the phone, arguing with the girl over who knows what. Natasha began coming over less and less, and when his mother would ask him about it, Bucky would only shrug and head up to his room for the night.

When it came to them breaking up, Winifred worries for Bucky. While she was glad he’d gotten out of what was becoming an unhealthy relationship, she wasn’t blind to the toll it’d taken on him. Natasha was his first girlfriend, perhaps even his first love - the break up was going to hit him hard, which it did, and she was concerned that he’d shut himself off to anything in the future because of what happened with her.

She wasn’t going to compare you to Natasha; you were both wonderful in your own ways, and she still cared for the girl entirely despite her son being heartbroken for a little while. But after meeting you and observing how you interacted with Bucky, she just knew that you’d be sticking with him for the long run. There was no way that you could make him smile so adoringly and genuinely and not want to make him that happy for maybe the rest of your life.

Once you’d finished your cake, you thanked Winifred and offered to do the rest of the washing up in return, but judging by the longing in her son’s eyes for you two to have some alone time, the woman dismissed your offer, shaking her head as Bucky clasped your hand and began tugging you up to his bedroom.

“No funny business, you two! You hear me?” She called from the kitchen, causing Bucky to reply with a ‘course not, Ma’ and an eye roll.

Bucky’s bedroom was rather different to yours. For one, he didn’t have revision covering every inch of his walls. But it was also a lot neater, more organized. Not like a stereotypical teenage boy’ room at all. It brought you a sense of calmness in a way. When there are too many things going on at once, everything just gets foggy. The simplicity of his cream painted walls and dark brown furniture caused your lips to curl up slightly.

What caught your eye though, was the corkboard placed on the wall above his set of drawers. While it wasn’t that big, it managed to fit a pretty large collection of messily pinned photos. Some of them were recent; one of him and Natasha all dressed up before heading of to the Winter Formal, one of Sam and him wearing thick black sunglasses, posing dramatically on his then-new motorcycle, even one of him photobombing what was meant to be a cute couples photo of Steve and Peggy.

And when your eyes raked over the photographs from the summer before the start of senior year, you felt your heart clench, because the majority of them included you.

You and Bucky in the photo booth before going on every single ride at Coney Island. You and Bucky attempting to replicate one Winifred’s specialty muffin recipes in your kitchen, though failing miserably. You and Sam posing outside of the Empire Hotel when you spent the day roaming Manhattan, laughing at Bucky taking the picture as he couldn’t understand why the hotel was so important, which lead to Sam claiming that Bucky was uncultured for never watching an episode of Gossip Girl in his life.

Come to think of it, he shared an eerily strong resemblance with Carter Baizen, who you admittedly did have a bit of a crush on.

Your eyes lingered on one photo in particular, however. This one wasn’t from the summer, but from the night of your junior prom. The set up of the school gym was similar to that of the Winter Formal, but with warmer tones of lighting and decor. Wanda had yet again came through and applied your makeup to perfection, gold glitter shimmering in the light on your eyelids, contrasting to your dark lashes. Highlight glimmering on your cheekbones, your skin looking almost airbrushed. The makeup coordinated with your dress, a long, golden gown that accentuated your figure beautifully.

In the photograph, you’re looking straight ahead at the camera, smiling as if you’d never been happier. And Bucky, as cheesy as it was, only had his eyes on you. You remember the photo being taken, you remembered getting goosebumps as Bucky’s arm wrapped around your waist. But you’d never seen it, not until now.

“That’s my favourite one.” The boy suddenly spoke, eyeing the photo you’d been staring at. “Other than the one of Steve at Coney Island just before he threw up, obviously.”

“Right, obviously,” You responded, a soft smile gracing your lips. “I didn’t realize that you were looking at me, you know, when that photo was taken.”

Bucky laughed lightly, cheeks tinting pink. “I mean, I was lookin’ at you the whole night. How could I not when you looked so... wow.”

It was still a weird thought to you, that after all of this time, Bucky still had feelings for you. You thought they were long gone, fading after you stupidly rejected him last year.

He could tell something was on your mind. “What is it, sweets?”

Your eyes flickered up to his. “Just... thank you.”

“Uh, you’re welcome? For what exactly?” Bucky furrowed his brows, making you chuckle.

“For, I don’t know... staying with me. You still wanted to be my friend last year, and you still want to be with me now. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a bit of a crush on me.”

Scoffing, the boy elbowed your arm gently. “Christ, I thought we were havin’ a moment there.”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” You shrugged, smirking as you slowly wrapped your arms around his middle, your sight falling back to the prom photo that made you heart melt. “Seriously though, I...” Love you. “I’m glad I have you.”

You hoped he couldn’t feel your heart pounding against your ribs as he ran a hand through your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. “Good, cause I think you’re gonna be stuck with me for a while.”

Though his tone was laced with humour, you still exhaled contently, speaking quietly against his chest. “That’s alright, Buck. More than alright.”

You wondered if he’d still be saying that if he knew you’d applied to Harvard, if he knew there was a chance of you willingly leaving him next year. He needed to know, he deserved that honesty from you. But... you loved him. You loved him and that was stopping you from telling the truth, because you didn’t want to be the one to hurt him.

Your mind was taken back to when you met Bucky at Carter’s. When he admitted his feelings for you, when you denied yours for him.

“We’re both just gonna get hurt in the end, and I care about you too much to do that to you.”

That was the reason you gave for not wanting to be with him, yet here you were, arms around his waist and your head against his chest because you could do that now; because you were with him. But maybe you should’ve listened to yourself back then, because looking forward, you couldn’t picture an ending to your final year of high school where everything was going to work out.

Perhaps it was selfish to let him get so close to you. You’d grown up with parents hadn’t ever uttered the word love around you, with ‘friends’ in middle school that didn’t know you well enough to say it in a friendly way. Wanda has said it to you a number of times, but the way she said it to Vis was different, unmatched. How could you claim to love Bucky when you didn’t even know what love was? What if you didn’t know how to love someone?

By loving him, you were only hurting him. He’d had his heart broken before, how could you possibly let him go through that a second time? If you left Brooklyn, you’d be breaking his heart all over again. If you stayed, the burden of your parent's disappointment would be weighing too heavy on your shoulders to even try to love him how he deserved.

You were right, and you wished you known it then how right you were; the two of you were only going to get hurt in the end. Maybe now, your only choice now was to enjoy what you had while it lasted.

* * *

Taglist:

@americas-ass-assins @itz-kira @broco8 @bxrnsfeyson @peterparkerbabyyy @stevieboyharrington @lovvliies @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater

[goldkirk]

Blackbird, a Tim Drake/Batfam fic

Chapter 15: are you dangerous, with your measure of proof?

[ Read on ao3 ]

Tim steps across the cave floor to the desk where Bruce sits, updating files on the Batcomputer.

“Hi Bruce!” Tim says. A little too chipper. Oops.

Bruce’s hands abruptly stop typing, and he slowly spins away from the keyboard.

“Tim,” he says, with a caution born from having Richard Grayson, rambunctious and cheerful to a fault, as his first child.

Tim hides halfway behind the Manila envelope, peeking around one side as he clutches it in front of his face. “Okay, listen, I have some things to tell you, but first you need to promise not to get mad.” He’s trying really hard to keep the tendrils of actual fear from creeping into his voice, because he knows Bruce has never hurt him, never even yelled, never given any real hint he’s even come close, and it would hurt Bruce to know Tim’s still wary, but…

Well. Tim’s only been with Bruce for the better part of two years, more or less. He’s spent a lifetime learning from upset adults. Just because Bruce hasn’t done it before, Tim still can’t quite convince his body and brain that his foster father won’t ever.

Because Bruce is only human, right? He gets mad and frustrated like everyone else. And Tim isn’t perfect, he screws things up. (And let’s be real, here, he’s a hot mess in general right now.) Bruce can’t keep control forever, right? Things add up. There’s got to be something that will push him over the edge. Tim—he knows Bruce doesn’t want to get mad, doesn’t want to hurt him, but neither did his mom and dad. So.

He’s just. He’s got to stamp down the fear as much as he can, while just...staying a little bit more aware. It’s okay.

Bruce looks Tim over for a moment, his expression some odd mix of amused, exasperated, and concerned, and then buries his face in his hands for exactly five seconds. Tim can see his shoulders rise and fall slightly with each measured breath.

“Okay,” Bruce says, finally. “Hit me.”

Tim holds out the Manila envelope without another word.

Bruce takes it, pops the top flap open as he kicks back in the chair a little. He slides the contents out partway, glancing them over, then suddenly yanks them out and into his hands. Two flash drives are dropped onto the desk, and Bruce is flipping through pages with increasing speed, brow furrowing, lips parting. His speed-skimming stops partway through the stack of papers and clippings and jotted napkin notes, and he whips around to stare at Tim.

“Where,” he says flatly, fingertips white where they press against the stack. The Manila envelope lies forgotten on the cave floor.

“So I met with Spoiler today,” Tim says. And Bruce is frozen like the statues they perch on every night, expression so tangled as he looks at Tim that Tim has no clue how to even begin unraveling its meaning. He forges on, speaking quickly, trying to forestall the inevitable explosion he knows is coming. “I was right. About everything. Well. Mostly everything. She is a girl, she’s in my grade. Her name is Stephanie Brown. I found her because—well—there was this submission on BatWatch, and I thought it was just another random opinion piece or crackpot thing but then I was reading it and I was like ‘Whoa, hang on, this is actually serious,’ and then I went in and started digging through metadata and—”

“Tim,” says Bruce.

“Uh—right—I—” Tim stutters, his fingers white where he’s wringing them close against his stomach. “Sorry. Rambling. Um. So, uh, anyway, I found her email, eventually, for school, and then I dug up her records—I know, I’m sorry, I promise I wouldn’t break the law like this again unless it was serious, and it is, B, I mean you know—you saw the info she just passed us—and. Well. I found her. And I went to go see her today.”

“As Tim Drake?”

“No!” Tim exclaims “Of course not, Bruce! You think I’d actually endanger us like that?” He shakes his head. “No way. I went in one of my old disguises, and added a domino. Let her know I was Robin. We verified each others’ identities, and then she let me in and we talked for a while. She’s...pretty cool. I think we can trust her. And anyway, she asked me to get all this stuff back to you, because she doesn’t want it in the house in case anyone comes looking now that her dad’s in jail since someone ratted his group out to the police last night, and she’s not super interested in getting, y’know, like...murdered or whatever. For revenge. That would suck.”

“You went and saw her alone?”

Tim nods, unable to meet Bruce’s intense gaze. His eyes stay glued to the envelope on the floor as he speaks. “Yeah. I know it was a risk, but she’s...like a hurt animal, or something, right now, Bruce. She’s gonna spook. Really easily. When we were on the roof, she—remember how I told you I thought she panicked, when you showed up and started coming towards us, and that was why she hit me?”

Bruce nods.

“I think—well. I guess...it’s not anything I can verify, right now but—when we talked today, she had a black eye and a split lip, and I don’t know if there was anything else under her long sleeves and stuff, but they looked pretty fresh. I don’t think she’s...good with angry people. Or bigger people. Or like...you. Yet. She’s afraid you’re really mad at her for giving me a concussion and stuff. She’s really sorry about that.”

“Well,” Bruce says, with forced calm. “I am upset that she hurt you. But I’m not going to hurt her back for that. She could have done much worse than she did. She gets the benefit of the doubt, for now. But not that much. You should never have gone alone like that, Tim. What if something had happened? Did anyone even know where you were?”

“I told Alfred I was going to the city,” Tim says.

“Did he know where?”

Tim shakes his head. “I just said I was gonna take photos. I did! I took some! I just...also did this, too. I figured out who she was and just...went for it. It was too important to wait. I had to make sure it was really her, and her info was good. I didn’t want to involve anyone else till I knew.”

“Tim. What if something had happened?” Bruce says again.

“I can handle myself.”

“Yes,” Bruce agrees, setting the stack down a little too carefully, and pushing himself up out of the chair to step in front of Tim. “You’re well-trained, and you’re resourceful. But even I get caught off guard. What if something had happened to you while you were there? What if she was hurt, or it was a trap, and you couldn’t manage everything at once? What if you were hurt, or you couldn’t get to your phone?”

Tim is trying so hard to not take a couple of steps backwards, right now, to not give into the fear that’s trying to take over because Bruce is safety but Bruce is also a man, also bigger than him, also upset, and not yelling, yet, but— but.

“I know, it was a calculated risk,” Tim says, “but it did work out, and—”

“Your life,” Bruce says, stern and just this side of frustrated, “is not an acceptable risk, Timothy.” He catches Tim’s face in between his hands, normally gentle grip firm as iron, making sure Tim’s staring him right in the eyes.

Tim shuts up.

“You spent a lot of time with no supervision,” Bruce says. “I am aware you have habits from that period of time that are going to take years to unlearn. I am aware you got used to not having anyone watching your back, or waiting up for you, or looking out for your safety, and also that you are extremely capable of taking care of yourself. I am aware,” he adds, “that you are a strategist and come up with contingency plans for your contingency plans, and I am sure that when you went after Spoiler today, you had escape routes in your head and responses thought out for a lot of potential situations. I know you’re careful, and I know you have the skills to back that up.”

Tim senses a but.

“But,” Bruce says, more quietly. “You have backup now. We worry about you, and we want you safe. You have a family who is watching and waiting up for you. And more importantly, you and I, Tim, we’re partners. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs. You went out to meet spoiler today to verify information, make sure it was worth bringing to my attention. But you put yourself in danger to do that, and you did so without giving anyone else a heads up so they could keep an eye on you.”

“It was less dangerous than most of what I did as BatWatch,” Tim protests. “I wasn’t even dressed as myself. I looked like a Crime Alley kid, no one was going to suspect a thing. And if someone tried to attack Spoiler, I could’ve handled that. Or I’d have called for help at that point.”

“Did you have your tracker?”

Tim winces. “I turned it off while I met with her, so you wouldn’t...see where I was and freak out, if you happened to glance at the app. I could field your phone call and…”

“And what, Tim.”

“And…” Tim swallows. “And make up a. A, uh.”

“A lie,” Bruce finishes for him, but without any heat in his voice.

“An excuse,” Tim corrects, weakly.

Bruce closes his eyes, and his hands slip down to Tim’s shoulders.

“Tim,” he says, again, frustration bleeding through into his tone. He pauses for a moment, then crouches down, slowly, his knees popping with the movement, until he’s on his knees in front of Tim, looking up into his eyes. “Sweetheart. I really need you to understand this, all right? I need you to listen. I really need you to believe me when I say what I am about to say.”

Tim nods, stiff under Bruce’s hands. What is Bruce trying to get at? I get it. I screwed up, and he’s not happy about it. Is this—is he going to bench me from Robin? Does he not trust me anymore? I can’t blame him. I literally ran off. And I admitted I was going to lie to him. I haven’t—

Tim’s heart stutters for a moment.

I haven’t really lied to him since...before I admitted I was BatWatch. I…

“You are one of the four most precious things in my entire life,” Bruce says, quietly, as dead serious as Tim has ever heard him. “You are so important to me. I could lose all the wealth, my reputation, my home, everything, and as long as I don’t lose my family, do you know what? I wouldn’t care. I could lose Batman. The cape—I could lose the thing that has driven and motivated me to keep living in my lowest times, the thing that gave me purpose when I was lost in a very dark world, and it doesn’t matter . I don’t need the cape. I need my children, Tim. You are so much more important than any money, or mission, or anything else at all. Nothing. Nothing is ever going to be worth your life to me, do you understand? Gotham is not worth losing you. I already wish I didn’t put you all in danger like this, but I know you’ll all go out without me if I try to stop you. So I allow this, I help you, so that you have someone to keep you safe. Your suits are lighter, more flexible, because I am your armor out there. Do you understand, Tim?”

And. Tim kind of does, he hears what Bruce is saying, but it’s a little bit hard to take in. He loves Bruce. He loves the Waynes. And he’s comfortable here, now, most of the time—it feels like—like a real home, and he knows they love him too, and sometimes he can even remember to feel confident about that. But hearing Bruce saying things like this—it’s hard . It’s really hard to—to process, he guesses, and he’s kind of reeling, just sort of a little bit kinda a LOT, and Bruce must take his silence as the tangled struggle it is, because he sighs for a second, and goes on.

“I would die for you in less than a second, if it meant you’d live,” Bruce says, “will die for you, if it ever comes to that.”

“Bruce,” Tim says, strained and an octave higher than usual.

“I don’t want any of us to die,” Bruce says, shifting one finger up to Tim’s lips, then back down to grip his shoulder again. “But if it comes down to it, I’ll give myself up for you. Because I’m your father, I have the honor of being the father, for however long I’m given, of you four incredible, beautiful, brilliant children, and my life is not for myself. I gave myself to Gotham, once, and I thought that was what I was here to do. I thought I was going to fight, and fight, and fight my way through the dark parts of this place until one day it put me in a coffin in the ground, and just hoped that I would make enough of a difference before that day that people could live in a little less fear. But then Dick came into my life, and when you have a child—” Bruce pauses for a moment, to regain his composure. He takes a deep breath, and meets Tim’s eyes again.

“When you gain a child,” Bruce goes on, “from that moment, your life isn’t about you anymore. It’s about this human, here, that is yours. This little human being who is depending on you to keep them safe, and loved, and warm, and who you have fallen in love with more than you imagined you could love anything in this world. And you aren’t as important anymore. Your main goal, suddenly, is to see this child through to adulthood successfully and safely. You want to watch them grow, and have a good life. You want them to make it. You don’t understand this yet, Tim, because you’re too young, but my life is about you now. Everything, all of this, all the work I do day and night, it’s for all of you. And priority number one is to keep you all safe.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, because it’s the safe thing to say. He doesn’t know what Bruce wants from him. All he knows is that he messed up, but what he did worked, and Bruce is telling him all this and Tim doesn’t know what Bruce wants—

“No, Tim, you don’t need to apologize,” Bruce says. His thumbs rub Tim’s shoulders slowly. “I’m just trying to get you to understand, here, that I would rather you tell me a thousand things that will worry me, or that I might not like, rather than lie to me about something. If you sneak out to a party and get drunk and want to come home, I don’t want you to be afraid to call me. I will always come get you, and I will never be angry with you for asking for help when you mess up. Everyone messes up. I know you’re not going to be perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes, and bad calls, and flawed decisions. Even I still do, sometimes. You’re only human, Tim. I want you to be safe. So next time,” he says, with a small smile, “because we both know that in this city, there will be some kind of next time, please, Tim,” he begs, face more earnest than Tim has seen in months. “Please tell me. I’ll help you. I’d rather you come to me with a dead-end lead than go off on your own to check it and not come back.”

“Okay,” Tim whispers. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I just—I saw who she was, and the article, and I was putting pieces together, and I’m so used to—I know we’ve been doing this for a while, and I should know to come to you first, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt for me to just go check it out first, like investigative journalism, and I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Bruce. He pulls Tim into a hug. “I know it’s hard. You’re doing a really good job learning to lean on us more, I promise. We’re all proud of you. You just can’t go putting yourself in extra danger like that anymore, now that you’ve got us looking after you.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Tim mumbles into Bruce’s neck. “I swear.” He suddenly stiffens. “Uh,” he says. “Is this...a bad time to mention that when I was leaving, we agreed she would meet us on the rooftop from before, tonight? Is that okay?”

Bruce shoots to his feet, alarm crashing over his face, and he keeps one hand on Tim’s shoulder while the other scrabbles for his phone where he left it sitting on the desk.

“She wants to meet us tonight?” he asks, incredulously. “In the open? In Gotham?”

Tim nods. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Bruce holds up a finger, skimming the article on BatWatch at lightning speed, then glancing over a few of the documents Spoiler had sent in the envelope. He twists his wrist around so Tim can see the screen, and points at one particular paragraph where Spoiler had talked about the fact that several of the major crime families of the city were working in tandem with the plan, helping push shipments through with a little extra bureaucratic grease and a lot of payoffs so questions weren’t being asked.

“This girl,” Bruce says, “just painted a target on herself the size of the moon. She didn’t spill all the information she did, but she’s spilled enough. You’ve never seen the criminal underworld of Gotham work together for something, yet, Tim. As of this morning, there’s going to be a bounty on Spoiler’s head—dead or alive—of at least half a million dollars. Every mob family, Rogue, and corrupt public official is going to have their men after her. It’s going to be a very short and ugly chase if we don’t get to her first.”

“Oh my god,” Tim says, feeling sick. “Bruce, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—how did neither of us think that—she even said she was worried about people who worked with her dad coming to the house, maybe, to check for anyone connected with the people arrested, trying to find a rat, and I didn’t even think that anyone else would look too—”

“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says, “you don’t know to plan for what you don’t know happens. You still have a lot to learn. But we really have to find her. I’m calling Dick and Jason now. Go get Cass from the ballroom, and then both of you suit up. We have to get to Gotham as fast as we can.” He turns to look at Tim, and the confident determination in his eyes is all Batman, ready for a challenge.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures. “Spoiler is not going to be taken by anyone tonight, not while we’re around to stop it. We’ll get her, Tim, I promise.”

“Her mom,” Tim blurts. “She’s a nurse, she’s, um, an addict. She was really drugged up when I was there today. I don’t think she’ll be able to run—but then, no one knows who Spoiler is except me, I guess, and you, so maybe her mom is safe for now?”

“Probably,” Bruce agrees. “We can check that later tonight. For now, our main priority is getting Spoiler back here and out of harm’s way. We’ll make sure her mom is safe after that.”

“Okay,” says Tim. “Right. Okay. Yeah.”

“Go get Cass,” Bruce prompts him, again, and Tim snaps out of it, spinning for the stairs as he feels his body flooding with adrenaline and familliar, focused calm.

“Yes,” Tim calls back over his shoulder. “We’ll be right back. I’ll fill her in on our way down.”

~

Stephanie latches the clasps on her backpack as her head bobs a little to the playlist she’s got on shuffle. It’s a lot of her old favorites, since she wanted stuff that’ll help her relax, after the night and day she’s had. But even so...she had to quickly skip Eyes Ope n by Taylor Swift when it came up a few songs ago, because the lyrics hit a little too close for home, considering her current situation. She’s sticking with the much safer Black Eyed Peas right now. It’s hard to be too stressed when Boom Boom Pow is playing.

She shuts her bedroom door behind her as silently as possible and shoves the last of her hair up into the oversized beanie she’s wearing as she walks down the hallway. She cracks her mom’s bedroom door open just far enough to verify that yes, she’s still spaced out in her bed, yes, the covers are still rising and falling with her breathing, yes, the TV is still on and the phone is by her mom’s hand just in case, and the water bottle is still on the nightstand, and then Stephanie clicks the door back shut and turns away.

Her mom should be okay for now. And it’s not like she’ll notice if Steph is there or not for a good while, anyway. She’d be amazed if her mom even knows what day it is right now. It hadn’t been a good night, after her mom found out her husband had been arrested again, for a worse crime this time, and Steph came home late without a good explanation for where she’d even been.

Steph hopes the foundation and concealer are enough to keep people from noticing the shiner and lip long enough for her to get to the park bathroom and change into her costume. There’s no way she can do it at home anymore. She’s not going to rat her mom and herself out to any of her dad’s friends who might be watching.

So Stephanie clicks her music off, leaves her headphones in, and sticks her nose in a graphic novel as she exits the house, making sure the back door is locked behind her. To anyone watching, she’s a good stupid little teenage girl, heading off to the coffee shop or library or something, just in her own little world.

Ooh, and maybe even trying to cope with the tragic loss of daddy dearest, again, right when he’d been home for the longest period of time in years. Steph can put on an impressive act when she wants to. She could stage a tiny crying jag curled up on a park bench, maybe, to add to the drama. Just in case.

Yeah, she thinks. Why not. It sure can’t hurt, and crying is a good stress reliever anyway. She can kill two birds with one stone. She’s got time before she’s supposed to finally meet with the Bats.

Once she makes it to the park a couple blocks away, Steph finds a good bench, in view of a lot of hiding spots—she should know—and lets loose . Two concerned mothers and a nice elderly couple stop to ask if she’s okay, and as Steph wails her miserable tale to their sympathetic but clearly overwhelmed ears, she smiles a little on the inside, both at her own performance and the fact that people really are a lot kinder than the news tends to give them credit for.

Then it’s time to change, and after shaking off one last concerned jogger who has a very cute terrier and a very good Mom Voice that makes something deep inside Steph ache, just a little, Steph starts to walk, and in less than a minute she’s vanished from the park’s path like she was never there.

She sprints towards the nearest alley once she’s in her all-black base layer and ski mask, using piles of trash and old tossed-out appliances to stay out of view for the most part, and stashes her bag underneath a dumpster in the alley as far back as she can. Then she lashes the belts and purple cloak on as quickly as possible, and scrambles her way up the jagged old bricks on the corner of the nearest building.

It’s time to find the Bats and get down to business.

~

Stephanie makes it to the roof as the last remnants of sunset are finally slipping into the black, and she’s only just come to a halt out of her tuck and roll when she hears the too-familiar sound of a safety being clicked undone. She ducks and dives on sheer Crime-Alley-kid instinct, and the bullet misses her hood by inches .

Steph gets out one half-scream before there’s a fist burying itself into her stomach, another something slamming into her lower back, and god, that was probably a kidney or something, oh god that hurts, she can’t breathe —Steph’s knee slams upward with extreme prejudice as she tries not to fold fully in half, rewarding her with a pained shout from someone, and then she’s stumbling down and back and away from three clown-masked men as fast as she can, and she’s stupid, she’s so, so stupid.

Shit. Shit, shit, and goddamn fuck, I’m literally gonna die. Right now.

There’s a reason she hasn’t gone around stopping crimes the way the Bats do, other than that one time.

It’s a bad, bad idea for Spoiler to go toe to toe with anyone yet—she’s been using YouTube and Rodney Yee videos to train, yeah, but the one and only time she went up against someone bigger than her on the streets, she paid for it for weeks. Just ask Leslie about that one. Steph knows she can’t hold her own in a fair fight against one trained attacker yet. She doesn’t have the experience.

She’s strong , but she’s not used to fighting back .

Steph’s life till this point has mostly involved her being a “grin and take it and come up smiling” kind of girl, and she learned years ago to not lick her wounds till she was in private. People smell weakness. And Steph is not weak.

She is, however, very, very outmatched. She’s already in the corner of the roof, and two of the men have guns, and she is so screwed.

“Parlay?” she tries, a vague, panicked thought of Elizabeth Swann flitting through her mind.

“Shut up,” growls Joker goon #1, standing in the middle of the trio, and he raises his gun.

Her options are: a) let him shoot her, b) dive out of the way but straight into one of the other men, and also get shot, she guesses, or c) just hurl herself off the edge of the roof and become a pancake on the pavement several stories down.

Steph crouches on the corner ledge, in that half-second that stretches out in slow motion somehow, and all she can do is think but I never even got to try that stupid grain bowl stuff, stupidly, before the man’s finger tugs the trigger and the gun fires.

Everything is black.

At first Steph thinks, so this is what death is like, I guess, but then she realizes that she’s still standing, and the black is actually moving now, shifting in the darkness, and wait, hang on—

“Put down your weapons,” a voice growls, and that is Batman in front of her. The cape drops down to settle back on his shoulders, and she can just barely peek around one of his sides to see the men frozen, just as shocked as she is.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Batman says, “but I’m only offering once. Put down the weapons, and get off this roof. Go tell your boss that Spoiler is under Batman’s protection. Or we can do this the hard way.”

Steph holds her breath.

“Get him,” snarls one of the masked men,” and Batman crouches.

“Hard way it is,” he growls, and then dives forward, sweeping all three men back from where Stephanie stands and launching into a brawl.

“Get her out of here,” he commands, and Stephanie is still staring, watching him fight all three until Flamebird whips out from behind the water tank on the other side of the roof and joins in, back to Bat with Batman, somehow not getting tangled in the cape.

They have got to have done some kind of magic to manage that, she’s thinking, and suddenly there are hands slipping around her and she screams, she bucks like a bull, desperate to hurl herself away, anywhere, off the roof if that’s what it takes, until a voice finally registers and she hears “Spoiler! Calm down, hey, it’s Nightwing, I’m trying to help! I’ve got you. I’m here to help. Whoa!”

She processes the words in the exact same moment as she actually manages to duck out of his grip and her foot slips off the ledge, and she overbalances. Her arms windmill as every part of her body except one foot leans out over the sidewalk below, and she only has time to think aw, shit, before Nightwing gets a hand fisted in the back of her cloak and yanks her safely back into his grip, away from the ledge.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, as she pants and tries to wrap her head around this whole crazy night. It’s probably only been a few minutes since she made it to the roof, now, even though it feels like hours.

Then there’s another shout, from the neighboring roof, and a gun fires at thim, missing by only a couple of feet. Nightwing manhandles her behind a concrete block a few feet back from the edge, and shoves a grapple gun into her hands.

“If I’m out of commission, and you’re falling, use it as best you can,” he says, and then spins around. “Get on,” he instructs. “Piggyback. Wrap your arms and legs around me like a monkey and don’t loosen up.”

She has a million questions. She asks none of them. Batman and Flamebird appear to be bantering while in a whirlwind dervish of fighting, still, something about ballpark chili dog price extortion? She has no idea. There are more men than there were a few minutes ago. She doesn’t want to know whose henchmen they are. She just wants to not die.

Steph climbs onto Nightwing, and he kneels into a crouch, aims himself in the direction not currently occupied by people trying to kill or kidnap her.

“Tight,” he says, and then takes three running steps and launches into open space.

Except there are thugs this direction too, and they’re somewhat better shots. While at the peak of the jump, a bullet clips Steph’s shoulder and another one hits near her hip, she feels the impact against bone, holy shit how is that something you can feel, and she muffles a bitten-off scream between Nightwing’s shoulder blades and forces her muscles to stay locked while her eyes start spilling tears without even asking her permission first. She can’t let go now. She can’t she can’t she can’t oh god it hurts so much, she never knew something could hurt like this, how does it burn so much?

“Hold on,” Nightwing says, strained, and they hit the rooftop fast and hard. He pivots as quickly as he can with the extra passenger and shifted center of gravity, and another shot nearly misses his head before he can sprint towards the catty-corner edge of the roof. “Sorry,” he grits out, and Steph just tries to hang on for dear life.

“I’ve got you!” a new voice calls, and Steph twists her neck just far enough to see a blur of red, green, and yellow land a mid-air somersault into the middle of the crowd of men on their roof before Robin throws a smoke pellet and sparks some much-appreciated chaos.

“Thanks, baby bird!” Nightwing shouts, and they’re leaping off the edge of the roof, this time into a swing from the grapple line, and down onto the streets.

“We’re going straight for the Batmobile,” Nightwing says, as he books it across a crosswalk, which is just. He is a vigilante and people are trying to kill them and he still follows the law like a good little citizen and doesn’t even jaywalk?

“Hey,” Nightwing says, then, a little amusement coloring his voice even while he pants. “I may break the law in the name of justice, but cars aren’t good at seeing people even in crosswalks. I don’t feel like getting run over, okay.”

Oops. She must have said that out loud. Damn. What’s wrong with her?

“You’re having kind of a rough night,” Nightwing says. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there at one time or another. I’d rather you be talking than passed out. Just hang on, okay? We’re going to get you somewhere safe.”

There’s another figure running next to them, that Steph didn’t notice till just now. She doesn’t know how many seconds the person has been there. She stiffens, about to shriek, through the haze of pain and panic with whatever small amount of air she has left, but the person twists and holds one finger to their lips under the domino mask and smiles at her.

“Friend,” the girl says, slowly, as they run.

“She’s one of us,” Nightwing pants. “Don’t worry. You’re safer with her than with Batman, probably. And here we are.”

The next several seconds are a whiteout of pain and a lot more crying than Stephanie wants to admit to, as she’s untangled from her death grip on Nightwing and slotted into the Batmobile’s passenger seat with as much gentle care as possible. Which doesn’t mean much with bullet wounds in the spots she’s got them, but like. She appreciates the effort, at least.

Once her vision is back, more or less, if a little hazier than before, she locks eyes—or, masks, she guesses—with Nightwing as the black-caped girl slips silently into the backseat.

Don’t leave me, Steph thinks she begs.

Nightwing sort of rests his hand on her forehead for a moment, through her ski mask, but she still feels the comfort and doesn’t want it to stop. “I have to run,” he says, apologetic. “I’m going to draw some of them off. They didn’t see us duck in here, but they’re close behind. Blackbird is going to stay with you, okay? You’re safe with her. Batman is on his way. He’s going to get you help. I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” Steph gasps, and wow, her ski mask is just. Absolutely soaked with tears, and snot, and ew, sweat. So much sweat. Blackbird is tugging the neck part up and out of where Steph keeps it tucked into her undershirt, and there are suddenly fingers steady against her neck.

“It’s okay,” Nightwing says, hand squeezing her uninjured arm for a moment. “You did something very brave, yesterday, and you’ve been really brave tonight. We’ve got your back. Just hang on for us, okay? You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Still s’ry,” Steph slurs,” and Nightwing just laughs for a second.

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll work on that. Keep breathing. Stay awake. I’ll see you soon.”

Then the door shuts with a click and pneumatic hiss, and he darts around behind the car and is gone.

Steph tips her head back against the seat as Blackbird holds two fingers steady against Steph’s pulse and her other hand lets Stephanie clutch as hard as she needs to.

It’s going to be okay, Steph thinks, over and over again, as she feels wetness spreading through her clothes, as she gasps her way through waves of pain, as she feels over and over like she can’t hold on for another moment through the dim blurriness fighting to take over her brain. It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be fine, It’s going to be okay.

She holds onto the mantra like it’s the only thing keeping her from losing it. Which it is. But no one else has to know that.

Then the driver side door opens, and Robin literally tumbles over the seat into the back of the car, and Steph jerks so hard in surprise that her body screams in one giant lightning bolt of nerve signals firing, and she can’t help the cry that rips out of her. It’s not a cool movie yell. It’s an overwhelmed, terrified, super-duper-in-pain, really wet and stuffy teenage girl shriek, and she doesn’t have enough energy to even be embarrassed about it right now.

“Sorry!” Robin says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Buckle,” Batman growls, and Robin and Blackbird obey without hesitation. Batman shuts and locks his door and immediately leans over, stripping off one gauntlet and glove to press his fingers against the spot Blackbird’s hand just vacated. He’s silent for a few moments, probably counting, Steph imagines, hazily.

“Hn,” Batman says. His fingers leave her neck, and Steph can’t help but feel the loss, for some stupid reason. But then Batman’s jabbing a button on the console and the Batmobile roars to life, and as he floors the gas, peeling out of the corner they’ve been hidden in, his hand is suddenly wrapped around hers. It’s big, no surprise there, and her hand is basically swamped, but he’s the exact mix of strong and gentle that Steph’s only felt once or twice, and if she wasn’t already crying, she sure would be now.

“You’re going to be okay,” he reassures her, sounding much less like he gargled gravel all of a sudden. “We’re going somewhere safe.”

She can’t help but believe him. He’s Batman . He keeps candy in his belt for the little kids in Crime Alley, and a stash of teddy bears and blankets and shit in his car for when bad things happen and people need comfort, and he helps lost kids find their parents and hungry kids get midnight burgers, sometimes, and when Steph was younger he carried her away from a man who’d cornered her in a doorway when she ran away from her dad’s criminal friends one night straight into a pervert. He probably doesn’t even remember that. But Steph does.

She remembers how safe she felt in his strong arms, perched on his hip like she was still three years younger than she actually was at the time, and how he didn’t let her go till she said he could. How she buried her fist in his cape and cowl and he didn’t complain about the tug. How he took her all the way home, to the window she directed him to, and made sure she was tucked into bed before he left. How he gave her one of those teddy bears, how she’s kept it safe and hidden this whole time, how he slipped her a mini Batarang before he left and told her how to use it most efficiently if anyone ever tried to pin her down like that again.

Steph still carries it in her pocket every day, when she’s not in her Spoiler costume. She’s used it exactly twice. It’s probably saved her life.

So she trusts him. She trusts Batman, she believes Batman, she’s been shot twice tonight and apparently a bunch of people are trying to kill her, and Stephanie Brown is scared out of her mind, and in more pain than she’s ever come close to feeling before, but damn if she doesn’t trust Batman.

“Okay,” Steph whispers, and lets her eyes close as the streetlights and neon storefronts whip past in blurs. “Thank you,” she grits out, trying not to cry out again as the Batmobile hits one of the godawful potholes that always seem to open up every week on Market Street, “for all this.”

“Of course,” Batman says. “You’re not alone, Spoiler. We’ve got you.”

She takes several seconds to breathe her way harshly through another assault of pain from her hip, and burning throbs from her shoulder, and then turns her head a little to look over at Batman’s profile, hunched over the steering wheel and carefully guiding the car-tank-thing at insane speeds she doesn’t want to think about.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“The Batcave,” Robin answers, and she can practically hear the grin in his voice.

“Oh snap,” she gasps, in both pain and excitement. “Shit.”

“Language,” Batman says, so instantly that it’s got to be habit. He glances over for a moment, eyes unreadable under the cowl but with a little bit of a wry twist to his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “When you’re in this kind of pain, you get a pass to say whatever you need to. Carry on.”

“Well gosh diddly darn dee,” Steph gasps out, managing a grin under the ski mask. “Didn’t know you had such delicate sensibilities, with all the law-breaking and crime-fighting.”

Batman sighs. Actually sighs. At her.

“You, too, huh,” he says. And she actually gets a smile. She must be dying for real. “Flamebird is going to love you. And you’re not dying. Now shush for a minute, all right? Save your energy. We’re still several minutes out. Can’t give you any painkillers till we’re out of the car.”

“Kay,” Steph wheezes, and closes her eyes. She breathes through the pain, breathes through the questions, and thoughts, and sheer insanity that tonight has turned into, and thinks, simply, It’s going to be okay. Batman says it’s going to be okay.

So it’s going to be okay.

She holds onto that as they pull into a waterfall, into darkness, into a cave suddenly filled with light. She holds onto it as the Batmobile slides to a smooth stop, and holds onto it as Batman leaps out of the car and yanks her door open seconds later, slipping her into his arms as gently as he can.

“Gonna be okay,” she gasps, through the fire radiating through her body, as he carries her, cap flapping behind him as he practically jogs towards what is clearly an honest-to-god med-bay, like Star Trek or something.

“You are,” he agrees, voice confident and steady in a way she clings to as well.

She’s deposited gently onto a gurney, and there’s an elderly man there, slipping off her gloves and cutting gently through her sleeves, and Batman is next to her, still, one hand holding her uninjured one and the other holding out what she recognizes as surgical antiseptic to the other man, and then another figure steps into view while tugging on latex gloves in a very familiar way, and Steph thinks, oh, damnit. It just had to be tonight.

Dr. Thompkins steps up to the gurney, hip-checking Batman a few inches to his right, and gently rolls up the ski mask until it’s popping off of Stephanie’s face, and all her tangled, sweaty curly mess of hair is tumbling out of it and piling into the purple hood where it lies on the gurney’s sheets.

“Steph,” Dr. Thompkins sighs, taking a moment to cup Steph’s cheek in one hand. “I hoped it wasn’t you, like I suspected, but I can’t really say I’m surprised. It’s okay, honey. I’m gonna take care of you. You’ve been so brave. Take a rest, now, we’ll take it from here.”

“Leslie,” Steph says, as her tears roll again. “‘M sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

“Oh, I’m furious,” Dr. Thompkins says cheerfully, as Batman deftly velcros a blood pressure cuff and tapes a pulse oximeter onto her uninjured arm and finger, and twists a syringe into place at the end of the IV line he got into her arm at some point in the past several seconds. “But I’m so relieved that you’re safe and more okay than not that I’m gonna let it slide for now. You’re a good girl, Stephie, and you’ll be just fine. Batman is going to put you to sleep, now, so I can work on fixing you up. You’ll feel a lot better when you wake up in a while. Just try to relax. And breathe.”

“Okay,” Stephanie says, and she watches as Batman slowly depresses the syringe’s plunger, watches the liquid flow through the line into her arm, and it’s only a few more careful, measured breaths before she feels herself slipping fast.

She panics, then, suddenly afraid, terrified she’s not going to wake up.

Batman’s hand is back, brushing through the sweaty hair just above her ear, once, twice, three times, and Steph is still fighting, even as everything is fading out.

“You can let go,” she hears him say, gently as Dr. Thompkin’s commanding voice meanders past somewhere in the background. “We’ve got you. I promise it’s okay to let go.”

And Batman promised . Batman promised it’s okay, so. Steph does. She lets go of the last little struggle, the last bit of terror that she’s clinging to by a thread, and Batman gives her one more little It’s okay in a whisper drifting through the deepening void, and then she’s finally, finally out .

[rachxllovxly]

crush (knj)

Pairing: knj x reader (f)

Genre: Fluff, eventual smut

Word count: 1.7k

Synopsis: You’ve been best friends with Namjoon for a long time now, and hiding your feelings for him keeps getting harder every day.

(author’s note: i am not sure how many parts will be in this, definitely more than two, thats for sure, but i will keep you guys updated!)

It was a very sunny day right after classes ended, almost the end of the semester (thank the lord), and you decided to go spend some time in a coffee shop right off campus with your best friend, Kim Namjoon. You both met in middle school, and through all the middle and high school drama, you all still stuck through it all. It was surprising actually, since you’ve had a crush on him since about the ninth grade. Keeping it hidden was getting harder and harder since you both spent almost every day together. 

“What are you going to order? The usual?” Namjoon asked. 

“Uh... yeah that’s fine. I was gonna change it up today, but nothing seems that appealing anymore.” You went into a haze and didn’t even notice that he was trying to get your attention until the barista called your name.

“Y/N! Hello? Anyone home?” He laughed at your dazed face.

“What? Did you say anything? I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.” You gave a tired smile back to him.

“I asked you if you wanted to start studying for Professor Kim’s final. You know how crazy he is about his tests, kinda don’t wanna fail.” He trailed off.

“Oh heaven forbid the Kim Namjoon fail a test. But yes, I do want to study. I don’t wanna fail either.” You joked. 

You all both grabbed your binders, highlighters, and pens and opened his textbook. The way Professor Kim’s tests were laid out, made no since, and would almost surely drive a crazy person crazy. It is completely unjust, that one person can make a test so possibly hard. At this rate, you’ll need a 115% to at least get a C for the semester (which is passing), and there is a very good chance that you would not get that 115%.

“This is impossible. I’m gonna bomb this test. I’m just gonna drop out already, it’s not like my parents aren’t disappointed in me already.” You laid your head down on your binder and pretended to sob. Your know parents were undoubtedly so proud of you, but just for dramatic affect, okay.

“You’re not gonna fail the test, Y/N, you just need to refocus. What are you confused on?” He was always your go to study-buddy and tutor, ever since middle school.

“All of it! How is this fair, Joon. Can we just wrap this up today, please? I’m so tired.” You pleaded. 

“Of course. Don't prematurely stress yourself out. We’ll work some more on it this tomorrow.” You both started to pack your things up, chatting while doing so. 

“Are you going to Jackson’s party this weekend?” Joon asked.

“I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

“Well... I was hoping that maybe you’d want to go. The boys and I are going. Jimin wanted me to ask you to go. If I’m being honest, I think he has a crush on you.” He laughed.

“He probably does. But i don’t know, Joon. I need to study.” You whined. You all pushed your chairs in and walked out of the cafe and started walking towards your dorms. 

“We can study on Sunday. I need to destress, you need to destress, we all need a break Y/N. Please? We can stay for a few hours then we can leave and get like, Taco Bell, or something.” He had convinced you.

“Okay fine. Four hours tops, then Taco Bell.” You both chatted some more, talking about all the other finals that were coming up, what you both would wear, the latest Jackson drama, the usual topics.

-

You got back to your dorm and decided to take a shower (sitting in two hour lecture really can make you sweaty) and let the hot water run over your tense shoulder muscles. You never really realized how tense you had been until you finally try to relax and can’t. 

Changing into some shorts and an oversized tee, you climbed into your bed and fell asleep almost instantly. 

You woke up around two in the morning, your roommate, Jennie, sleeping across the room.

hey, are you awake? 2:05AM

yeah why? 2:06AM

can i come over? jennie is sleeping. 2:06AM

yep. door is unlocked 2:07AM

You made your way four doors down to Namjoon’s and Hobi’s room, hoping that Hobi wouldn’t be there. You opened the door to a studying Joon and Hobi. “What’s up, losers.” You yawned.

“Why are you awake this late? You’re usually asleep right now.” Hobi commented.

“I fell asleep like, right after I took a shower and just woke up like five minutes ago. What about you guys?” You took a seat on Joon’s bed.

“We’ve been studying. Too much.” Joon yawned. “Yeah, way too much. Please never take music theory, because I promise you, you’ll hate it.” Hobi added.

“Duly noted. Wasn't planning on it.” You laughed. 

“Do you wanna put on a movie? I really want popcorn...” Namjoon pouted. 

“It’s your room, that’s up to you fam. But popcorn sounds really good right now.” You agreed. Hobi got up to grab the Roku remote to start up Netflix and Hulu. Joon got up to put the popcorn in the microwave, and you got up farther in his bed to snuggle the blankets. 

“You like my blankets, do you?” He smiled. You just nodded and snuggled them even further. He got up next to you and got under the blankets. 

“Yo, turn the lights off.” You said towards Hobi, who was about to make his way to his bed. He groaned, but got up to turn them off.

where are you??? are you okay?? 2:25AM

i'm over at joon’s and hobi’s 2:25AM

ahhh okay 2:26AM

yeah im okay b 2:26AM

“Who was that?” Joon asked. “Jennie. She wanted to know where I was and if I was okay.” You smiled. Ever since you and her met at the beginning of the year, you and her had been best friends. You also made good friends with her friends, Rose, Lisa, and Jisoo. Lisa is dating Yoongi, and Rose is dating Jackson, and Jennie is dating Hobi. Your friend group was very close.

“What do you want to watch?” Just as soon as Hobi asked you and Joon, a knock was on the door. “It’s open!” He yelled.

Jennie walked in Hoseok’s sweatshirt and your shorts. “I’ve been looking for those! You took them!” You accused. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I needed shorts on laundry day and forgot to give them back.”

“It’s okay. They look better on you anyways. Keep them.” You smiled. 

“What are we watching?” She asked. You all shrugged. “We just opened Netflix when you knocked.” Hoseok said. She got up on his bed and got close next to him.

“Ah. After is out, you know the movie based on that like, Harry Styles fic a while back!” “Yeah! I’ve been wanting to watch that. Can we watch it? Can we?” You asked excitedly.

“I don't care. I’m probably going to end up falling asleep shortly. I’m so tired.” Joon yawned again.

“Yeah, me too. But that’s fine with me.” Hoseok agreed. “Yay!” You and Jennie said in unison.

Thirty minutes in and Joon was snoring away in his own dreamland. You could feel yourself drifting off as well. “How many times has she fallen asleep in your all’s room this week? She’s like always here, babe.” Jennie laughed. 

“I don’t even know. Maybe like eight times, now nine. I think she’s just less stressed being near him. They’ve been friends for a very long time.” He explained.

-

You woke up around eleven in the morning with Namjoon’s arms around your torso, and Hoseok and Jennie not in the room. 

where are you? 11:05AM

i’m in our room. we didn’t wanna wake you all up :) 11:05AM

oh okay 11:05AM

You put your phone back down and try to attempt to get out of his arms. “Moveeee. I have to pee.” You pry his arm off of you and make your way to their shared bathroom. Hopefully no guy walks in on you peeing.

“Oh shit! You scared me,” Yoongi laughed, “Sorry. I’ll get out.” He left the bathroom and shut the door. You ducked your head down and laughed. You finished your business, washed your hands and grabbed a pen and paper to let Joon know that you went to get breakfast and you’ll get back soon.

Long story short, in the span of an hour of you being gone, he still hadn't gotten up yet. You made many useless attempts to wake him, finally resulting in putting his breakfast right in his face. He mumbled something under his breath and rolled towards you.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” You lightly tapped him on his head, but nothing.

“5 more minutes... I don’t wanna get up just yet.” He rolled back towards his mountain of soft pillows and threw his head under the blankets.

“Joon, it’s like twelve in the afternoon, hun. Get up. We have to study, then go get ready for Jackson’s party.” You grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head.

“Ugh. Fine,” he rolled back over towards you and checked his phone, “Why did you text me so many times?” He asked groggily.

“I went to Taco Bell to get breakfast burritos, you didn't answer so I got you the same as me.” You explained.

He nodded and sat up in his bed and grabbed his food. “So are you sure you want to actually study today? We could always go- wait! Where’s Hobi and Jennie?” He said looking around the room. 

“They went to our room. They didn’t want to wake us up. But what were you saying?” You explained.

“We could always pre-party. Yoongi and Jimin are having a little get together in their room in like, three hours. That’s enough time to shower and change don’t you think?” It sounded fun, knowing Yoongi and Jimin, there would inevitably be alcohol and weed. 

“Yeah! That sounds fun. I’ll finish eating then I’ll go back to my room to shower and change. I’ll meet you over there later.” You finished eating and said your goodbyes, and then made your way back to your room.

[limited-practice]

1. Pins and Needles

Happy October! Here's the first of what will eventually be 31 Goretober fics that will get written throughout the rest of the year, because I’m can’t write 31 fics in 31 consecutive days. If you can do that, you’re amazing!

1920 words of Swerve, Overlord, a massacre aboard the Lost Light and a love of fingers are below the cut. The prompt is Pins and Needles, and is taken from Drawkill’s excellent prompt list.

Warnings for gore, robo gore, amputation, suicidal thoughts, implied cannibalism and torture.

Ao3 link here

Swerve sits on his favourite barstool with a drink in one hand and a congealing mass of energon at his feet and wishes he was dead. 

But he’s learnt the hard way to stop begging Overlord to kill him. 

The first dozen times he’d whimpered and screamed and pleaded with the Lost Light’s new Captain to please just kill him had been met with amusement. Which had inevitably morphed into weariness. Swerve’s mouth had once again taken on a life of its own and he wouldn’t stop talking he couldn’t stop talking, because something might get through to this insane monster if he could only string the right combination of words together and there was still a chance he could live when so many had been butchered and he’d babbled and joked and pleaded and bargained and finally Overlord had lost patience and kissed him.

Swerve had gagged and kicked out sharply, but Overlord had held him effortlessly in place on his favourite barstool. The one that still spins smoothly; the one whose colour hasn’t yet faded despite constant use. It’s a good little stool, and he wishes he’d paid it more attention. He wishes he’d thanked it out loud. He wishes he’d done so many things differently. Overlord had kissed him for longer than he thought he could possibly bear and then slowly, with a long, long, squelching sound, had pulled away. 

Swerve had vomited immediately.

Swerve looks down at the wobbling mess he’s made on his ruined bar’s floor. He starts to cry. 

Overlord chuckles. Unlike Swerve’s voice, he doesn’t find Swerve’s tears annoying. Overlord pries the glass away from Swerve's hand and goes behind the bar to top the drink up.

Tears leak out of Swerve’s visor. “I’ll clean that up later,” he whispers.

“Here you go.” Overlord says gently, as he places a glass full of warm liquid back into Swerve’s hand. He curls Swerve’s trembling fingers around it. “Drink up. It will do you the world of good.” 

Swerve wipes his face with his free hand. He looks down into the glass and the thick dark liquid it contains. His damaged optical and olfactory sensors still have enough function to warn him that there are substances in the glass that he should on no account consume. They activate their branches of his alarm network as best they can. The warnings they send out are weak and muffled and dim, but they're trying so very hard to warn him despite being damaged by Overlord’s backhanded blow earlier. 

The cocktail looks like an overlaid grid of sharp lines and even sharper ends through his broken visor. It looks like it’s made from poisoned energon that would kill him after one sip. Maybe it will do him the world of good to gulp it down in one go after all. 

Swerve lifts the glass to his lips. And pauses. A niggling thread of his old life vibrates and plucks at him. Swerve tilts his head, and watches light from the shattered overhead lights illuminate the drink. He rotates the glass slowly. The liquid inside changes colour. But not permanently - it’s moving in and out of a different molecular state depending on how much direct light touches it. That must mean there’s optical contraction liquid in there. There’s part of someone’s eye in there.

Swerve shudders but doesn’t look away. And he certainly doesn’t throw the drink and smash it against the wall and scream and scream and scream. 

“Not your cup of tea?” Overlord asks him softly, his lips brushing Swerve’s ear.

Swerve startles violently, and spills the drink over himself.

“Oh dear,” Overlord says. “I spent a lot of time making that for you.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I'm sorry.”

Swerve paws at himself with one hand in a pathetic attempt to clean himself and return the drink to its glass. Liquid crawls down his plating and seeps into his transformation seams and sticks to him and it won’t come off, he knows it’s not ever going to come off of him. His fingers are covered in it. 

“Thank you for making it for me and I’m sorry I spilt it but I appreciate it I do I really really do,” Swerve babbles, as he glances down at himself and tries and fails to ignore the horrible tingling in his fingers. The sensors in his hands have erupted at the onslaught of chemicals sticking to them and they’re screaming at him, they’re screaming so loudly at him that it hurts.

“You clearly worked hard on this drink because I’m detecting things in it,” Swerve continues, because he’s never known when to stop talking. “There must be three, no four, no five, no...six? Six? There are different parts of six different people in here? Six. Six people. Six people liquified and mixed up to make this drink.”

Swerve looks at what remains of the drink. He swallows back another glob of vomit fighting to escape.

Overlord crouches down in front of him. There’s an expression in his eyes that Swerve doesn’t care for one single bit. He doesn’t care for any of Overlord’s expressions, but this one is unsettling because he hasn’t seen it before.

Overlord looks impressed.

“How did you know that?”

As always when he receives genuine praise, Swerve chuckles self-consciously and pretends not to fully understand. “Oh it’s nothing special, it’s just something I can do. It’s nothing. I’m nothing.”

Overlord’s expression then melts into one that Swerve is already achingly familiar with - impatience.

“You are refusing to answer my question.”

“No I’m not I swear I’m not.”

“How did you know that drink is made out of six people?”

Swerve unconsciously waggles the fingers of his hand that’s not holding the glass. 

“I, uh, just can,” Swerve says. “And I know I just said that but it’s the truth I’m not lying or refusing to answer you I swear it! I just...can. I was forged with these fingers.” 

He flexes his fingers as if playing an invisible instrument with them. 

“You are a chemist?” Overlord asks. 

“Metallurgist. A good one. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe. Ha. These, uh, my fingers, they- they’re tools of the trade. Essential actually.”

Overlord gently rests Swerve’s hand onto his palm. “Tell me about them.”

Swerve fights down another ball of vomit. “Uh...when we’re out in the field. Or in the lab. Or anywhere. And by we I mean metallurgists as a whole, not bartenders, not me, not-”

“Swerve.”

“Right. Yes. Fingers. Hands. I was forged with them and they’re brilliant. I mean I’m not brilliant, but my hands are. All metallurgists’ hands are. They’re essentially one big databank studded with sensors and coated in scanners that can identify every substance and chemical composition ever discovered. So long as it’s been recorded. Each finger has a neural link communications wire that goes up to my brain after it’s passed through my spark and t-cog, and it can download the latest materials update from the Academy when the Chief's second assistant remembers to send out the update after spending their day on more important things like sleeping at their desk, which means that if a new element or compound is discovered and recorded I’ll know about it.”

Swerve swallows dryly.

Overlord doesn’t say anything. Swerve chooses to see this as an encouraging sign.

“Some people say that my hands are better than medics’ hands. I don’t of course. And neither do the medics. They think theirs are way better. Well some of the forged ones do, even if they don’t say it out loud. You can always tell that’s what they’re secretly thinking though. And, uh, theirs are good of course - they’re better than mine in lots of ways. They’re faster and lighter and more dexterous. But mine are just as sensitive. And mine are studier and stronger. They’re more durable. They have to be, because if you’re out working in the field and a boulder lands on your hand you don’t want your fingers to be crushed because then what would be the point of keeping you around? They’re designed to survive rough treatment.”

Overlord holds Swerve’s hand up in front of his face. “Are they now,” he says softly. 

Swerve’s weak sparks dims further.

“They sound magnificent,” Overlord says.

“Uh, yeah, thank you. Thanks. Um. They’re pretty good. I kinda like them. In fact I like them a lot.”

“So do I.”

Overlord runs a huge fingertip up and down Swerve’s smallest stubby finger.

“So tell me,” Overlord asks pleasantly, “Who is in your drink?”

“...excuse me?”

“By using the power of your fantastic fingers, tell me who is in your drink. Let’s play a little game together.”

Swerve’s visor dims in tandem with his spark. “...I…I don’t...”

“I am not going to ask you again.”

Swerve looks down at his short feet dangling off the barstool and wishes he was dead.

“Uh…” he forces himself to concentrate. He forces himself to stick two fingers into the liquid in the glass. He forces himself not to yank them back out and immerse them in a vat of paint stripper. He pushes them down further until the fingertips touch the bottom of the glass. His exquisite sensors fire up and explode with data. He pushes that data up the wires that run through his fingers to his body’s connection points: spark, t-cog, brain module. He pushes past the roadblocks all three of them have desperately thrown up to try and prevent him from knowing. He collects. He investigates. He analyses. He identifies all six of his former crew members and wishes he was dead.

“Rodimus,” Swerve answers in a small soft whisper that makes him feel like he’s nothing. “I can feel remnants of his spark casing. It was touched by the Matrix and I can feel it. It’s still there. It’s still pulsing. Oh, god, it’s still pulsing.”

“Good!” Overlord beams. “Very good! Our former Captain made the mistake to keep talking to me when I’d asked him to be quiet, so he was the last to undergo this treatment. He got to watch the others go first.”

There are pins and needles in Swerve’s fingers. They crawl up into his spark and scratch at it with poisoned tips and he knows that they’ll never stop.

“Who are the others?”

Swerve recites their names quickly and doesn’t embellish. 

“Excellent,” Overlord purrs. He examines Swerve’s fingers. “I like these Swerve. In fact I think I like them a lot.”

“...thank you?”

“They could be very useful to my endeavour.”

“Yes I can be useful to you,” Swerve bursts out, as his self-preservation kicks itself into high gear and steamrolls his earlier thoughts of self-destruction. If he’s useful then he might be kept around. He might be allowed to live.

“I am going to have your excellent fingers for myself.”

Swerve’s too wide smile freezes. He feels his plating stretch and warp and start to buckle as he realises what Overlord is planning to do.

Overlord holds Swerve’s hand tightly and fans all of his fingers out. 

“No!” Swerve screams. “Don’t cut them off! They won’t work as well if you cut them off! Please don’t cut them off I’ll be good, I’ll be good.”

Overlord blinks. And then smiles slowly, like a smouldering black sun rising over a toxic yellow wasteland. “I don’t remember saying anything about cutting them off.”

Overlord jams two of Swerve’s fingers deep into his mouth and bites down hard.

[fallenfurther]

Life or limb

A continuation of my FabFiveFeb - Virgil fic. Part 1 , 2 and 3 (In chronological order not posting order). Finally managed to fight through and get this part finished. Enjoy

*****

Gordon pressed the button to open the pod. He rested his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath as it opened, though the second the door hit the ground he moved in and started grabbing the equipment he needed. Gordon did not know if he would have preferred to have stayed with Alan, but Scott had not given him much choice. The state of his younger brother had shaken Gordon. Alan had appeared so broken. Gordon had rescued many people in the same or worse state, but they were all strangers. They weren't familiar, with shared features which look back at you every time you looked in the mirror. Gordon had frozen. Scott hadn't. Then Scott had been there before, not with Alan, but with him, with Virgil and even John. Four younger brothers to look out for to his one.

Gordon grabbed the hover-stretcher, placed the spinal board on top before grabbing the rest of the medical equipment. He grabbed a bag threw in support struts, boards and an extra laser cutter. Virgil would know exactly what they would need. They really did need him and his Jaws of Life. Gordon needed him. Gordon could always go to Virgil and be understood. Now, now Gordon had to rescue one brother at the expense of another. Neither of which were in good condition. Gordon couldn't let his mind slip to darker thoughts. They were Tracy's after all, nothing stopped them, at least not for long. Gordon took one last sweeping look around the pod, trying to think like Virgil and guess what they would need, before slinging the bag over his shoulder and pushing the hover-stretcher out the door. He locked up the pod, remembering the complaints he'd had from Virgil over the years, and raced back towards the collapsed building.

Once at the site, he slipped off the spinal board, grabbed the first aid kit and headed back into the rubble. It was a squeeze. He had been in tighter sea caves but without the water taking his weight, the turns were twice as hard. Dust coated his uniform completely by the time he got back to Scott. His brother smiled weakly at his arrival, and Gordon could see where some of the rubble has been cleared away.

"The rubble is being supported by the beams across his body."

Gordon could hear the worry on Scott's voice, but was suddenly glad he had been the one to go to Thunderbird Two. Slipping the bag off he pulled out the support struts and passed one to Scott.

"Good thinking, Gordon. You're going to have to get in there to place the ones at his feet. The space is just too small for me."

Gordon nodded. Times like this he didn’t mind being small. Scott moved out the way as much as he could and Gordon crawled into Alan's hole, carefully avoiding his little brother. Alan's eyes were still closed, and it was a very tight fit as he slipped beneath the beam crushing his brother’s helmet. Lying close to his brother when he was so still, so broken, it was a lot to take in. The emotions that filled him were strong, but Gordon wasn't given time to dawdle. Scott was already passing him the struts. Taking them, Gordon lay them against his body, before shifting further in. Scott then passed a board through. Gordon placed the struts on solid parts of concrete and slowly let them put pressure on the board, so them held it to the ceiling. The two of them were taking a risk. They could easily get trapped too, but Alan needed a hospital, and quickly. Gordon's head was tight next to Alan's legs, and he knew at least one was in a bad way. Slipping another small strut beneath the beam ready, Gordon said the words he dreaded.

"I need the tourniquet.”

There was always a risk with every rescue. Right now, the risks were big. It could be Alan's life or Alan's leg. Gordon knew which he would choose. He took the tourniquet from Scott and slipped it around his younger brother’s leg before tightening in. With every wrench on the band, there was a similar wrench in his heart. If Alan lost his leg, part of it was on him. Satisfied it was tight enough, Gordon prepared for the next bit. There had been no discussion about the risks to them, the risks that they too could become trapped, they were just going to do it. Gordon let Scott take the lead.

"On the count of three. One. Two. Three."

Gordon activated the struts and they slowly moved up together. The rubble above them shifted, most of it slowly moving up, but small chunks and dust rained down on them. Gordon closed his eye against it despite the protection of his helmet. He listened out for the struts, waiting for their noise to stop. When it had he opened his eyes. The dust slowly settled over them. Gordon's eyes were on Alan straight away, reassessing his injuries. The leg was bad and obviously broken. His suit had held but that didn’t mean there wasn't damage beneath it. The tourniquet had been the right call. Noise behind him made him turn. Scott was wriggling in the other cavern, and when he returned, he passed a limb immobiliser to him. He had another in his hand, and Gordon watched as Scott's hands headed for the Alan's left arm. Trying not to think of the damage to his brother, Gordon wrapped up Alan's left leg, stabilising the break. A quick pat down, confirmed Alan's other leg was fine.

"We need to turn him over and get him on the spinal board."

Gordon nodded. Scott grabbed and passed it through the opening. Gordon steadied and guided it into the small space on the other side of Alan. They placed it down so it was as flat as they could get it. Gordon moved, kneeling over his brother, making use of the extra space they had made. Scott had shifted into position at Alan's head, carefully moving Alan's arms to his side, before holding Alan's helmet. It was going to be tricky rolling Alan with two people, let alone in a confined space. Gordon nodded at Scott, the person holding the head always leading any procedures.

"On Three. One. Two. Three."

Gordon rolled Alan onto his side, watching every move Scott made, before gently lowering Alan partially onto the board. Gordon waited for the count.

"One. Two. Three."

On three, Gordon pushed Alan onto the spinal board and started strapping his brother down. Scott slipped away and returned with a neck brace. Gordon tightened the strap that secured Alan's chest before taking the brace. Scott was in a better position to remove Alan's helmet.

"Again, on three." Scott was just going through the motions, as they would with any other casualty. Gordon was already primed, brace held above Alan’s chest. "One. Two. Three."

Scott slipped Alan's helmet off and Gordon had the brace around his brother's neck the moment it was clear. Gordon grabbed the last strap and waited for Scott to place the padded blocks either side of Alan's head, before securing them in place. Alan was safely on the board. Right way up and with his helmet off, they could see the wound below the hairline where Alan's head had hit his helmet. It had been quite some force to have caused the damage and a bad concussion was inevitable. Gordon could see Scott itching to clean the wound, the eldest fingers hovering against some of the blond hairs above Alan’s forehead. There was a soft sadness in Scott's face that only came when he looked at a hurt brother. It was rarely seen by the injured party; Scott may show his worry and smother an injured brother, but only when alone, and said brother is asleep, does the tender look of pain and love come out. Gordon had seen it through many a door accidentally left ajar, as Scott sat vigil over one of them. When Virgil had become bedridden by a bad concussion, when John had suffered after a long skint in space and when Alan had his appendix out. Gordon remembered it better as the look his mother would give when one of them was ill. Her eyes telling the world that she would do anything to make her child better. It was a look his brother probably didn’t know he shared with their mother.  

It was only there a moment before the Commander was back. Gordon watched as Scott wiggled into the other space. His hands were still on the edge of the board, ready to start pulling. Gordon got himself into a better position and together they started to slide the board along. They only spoke to give instruction to each other. It was slow going, carefully guiding Alan through the small spaces. The mood was low, but they both took in a deep sigh of relief when they exited the rubble. The light was blinding, and Gordon had to give his eyes a minute to adjust. Eyes watering, Gordon grasped the handles again, bending down with Scott they lifted the spinal board onto the hover-stretcher. Clasping yet another strap over Alan, he stepped back as Scott turned it on, and it raised from the ground.

"I'll go back in and grab what we've left, take Alan to the evacuation point. Once he's in the ambulance meet me a Thunderbird Two."

Gordon nodded. There were drugs in the First Aid kit they had left behind that were controlled substances. International Rescue could get in trouble if they fell into the wrong hands. Gordon grabbed the stretcher and started towards the road. His muscles were aching, but he forced it to the back of his mind. There was still a brother in danger. Behind him, he heard Scott updating John, telling him to get an ambulance ready to transport Alan. Gordon's eyes rested on his unconscious brother. Now in the light, Alan looked a lot worse, his skin pale in the sunlight. Concern came to the front of his mind. Goodness knows if Alan was bleeding beneath his uniform. Gordon to a deep breath and tried to focus. The best thing he could do for Alan was get him to a hospital. So Gordon pushed through the aches and pains as he jogged with the hover-stretcher, moving further and further away from the building that had trapped them.

[icyharrington]

Is It Wrong?- Part 6 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

i am so sorry that this took so long to update!! i was going thru a period of low motivation, and had absolutely no inspiration to write. this is the second to last part of the series (not including the epilogue)!! thank you to everyone who has supported this fic throughout the past few months!!! i love each and every one of you nasty thots with my whole heart 💕

plot: michael langdon is a picture-perfect fuckboy, and, lucky for you, he’s also your stepbrother. how will you survive?

warnings: inappropriate relationships, fuckboy michael, fem!Reader, high school au, teen angst, cunnilingus, dirty talk, degradation, anal fingering, anal sex, semi-public sex, sexual intercourse, praise kink (kind of?), cum play 

word count: 7.5k 

tags: @alicecooper19 @ritualmichael @blackfyrez @bbyduncan @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @michaelsapostle @trelaney @kissydevil @langdonalien @langdonsdemon @sloppy-wrist @michael-langdon-appreciation @wroteclassicaly @langdonsinferno @ccodyfern @cocosfern @sojournmichael @starwlkers @theinevitableprophecy @americanhorrorstudies @sodanova @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @divinelangdon @maso-xchrist @space-princesssss @lxngdonscoven @ahslangdon101 @isabellaserpentiawesson @stupidocupido @bademliimagnum @nana15774 @hisgirlwonder @urlocalgothb @hexqueensupreme @gold-dragon-slayer @pr1ncessd1e @langdonsboots @langdonstrash @isoldedax @fckinsupreme @lvngdvns @telexnesis @venusxxlangdon @obsessivenostalgicbaby @noelle525 @lambofcairo @kiiteiru @coastalmason @anacerta @punkysouls @nuke-em-from-orbit @codyswhore @thingsthatoncemeantnothing @beriyeri @dcvilrising @grossgayartist @featherpool-852 @imjustasadhoe @cryptid-coalition @nu-tt @diamcndscarred @michaelsfrenchtoast 

(sorry to anyone who asked to be tagged but isn’t in my tag list!! tumblr won’t let me tag certain blogs for some reason!!) 

i.

Michael’s bedroom had become, to you, a world all of its own. Whenever you were there, lying amidst the plaid-printed comforter and inhaling the distinct scent of Michael that clung to his pillowcase, you’d feel as though the outside world had, for the time being, ceased to exist altogether.

You were certain you spent more time in Michael’s room than your own nowadays; there was just something so comforting about his room, even despite the cringe-worthy posters of half-naked girls that never failed to make you roll your eyes. There was something comforting about Michael.

Most nights you’d hang out there, even when Michael scoffed at your presence, insisting that he was busy (but smiling with a knowing look in his eyes all the same). Sometimes you’d watch him play his computer games, other times you’d lie with your head on his chest and watch South Park reruns (god, was Michael immature, you’d come to realize, after witnessing him laugh at one too many dick jokes), and oftentimes you’d do nothing but have constant, urgent sex.

Urgent- recently things had seemed that way, like not a single second in one another’s company could be put to waste. As the weather grew warmer and the months passed by at a startlingly rapid pace, it became increasingly apparent that there wasn’t much time left.

Both of you had finished sending in your college applications, and soon enough, you’d both be graduating high school- a thought that filled you with dread.

You’d grown so fond of having Michael at an arm’s length at all times, being able to creep into his room whenever you felt particularly bored or or lonely or horny. What would you do once you were away at college? Thinking about living Michael-less again filled you with thousands of emotions, all pooled up in the pit of your belly, that you intended to ignore and deal with later.

This couldn’t keep on, you knew. It was inevitable that things would eventually have to end between the two of you. But when?

You found yourself lost in thought as you laid next to Michael one night; he wore only his boxers, one arm lifted so he could scroll through his phone while he idly wrapped the other around you. Lifting your head slightly, you looked at his flawless profile, a sound of vague discontent coming up from the back of your throat as you debated saying something.

He turned to you, quirking an eyebrow and setting his phone down on his chest. “What?”

“I dunno,” you said. You turned onto your side so you were pressed closer up against his warm body, splaying your palm flat on his soft tummy. He smelled good, you noticed, gratefully inhaling the boyish, woodsy scent of his deodorant as you nuzzled your nose against his skin. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” He was tracing a pattern on your back with his fingertips, something you were sure he was doing absentmindedly.

“Graduation,” you said. This, of course, wasn’t the full truth, but you weren’t about to make yourself seem unnecessarily needy by mentioning that you were also thinking about the fact that in a matter of months, you and Michael could no longer continue…whatever the hell this was.

You doubted Michael had even thought about it. In fact, you doubted he even cared. Once he got to college, he’d have a fresh slew of girls eager to jump on his dick, and he would probably forget all about you.

“I can’t fucking wait,” he said, and you frowned, lifting your head so you could meet his gaze. “The graduation parties are gonna be fucking insane. I’ll have to teach you how to play beer pong before so you don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Aren’t you, like, scared to graduate?” Aren’t you scared of losing me? is what you really wanted to ask, but of course you held your tongue.

He squinted his eyes like you’d just said the most incomprehensible thing he’d ever heard. “Fuck no. I’ve been done with high school since freshman year. Plus, college is gonna be fucking lit.”

You rolled your eyes at his usage of the word lit, heart sinking ever-so-slightly at his nonchalance. “Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be really lit, having a new set of groupies lined up at your disposal.”

His expression shifted, a cocky smirk crossing his plump lips at the obvious bitterness behind your words. Fuck. You definitely shouldn’t have said that. “Aw, is someone jealous?”

“No,” you said defensively, cheeks burning up as Michael’s lips continued to curl upwards at the corners, hooded eyes flashing mischievously.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice suddenly dropping several octaves, craning his neck so that he could speak into your ear. “Your pussy will always be my favorite.”

Your eyelids flickered at the unexpected vulgarity of his words, and it took everything inside you not to bite your lip. You couldn’t keep doing this with him- you had to talk about this, like mature soon-to-be adults, instead of having sex in an attempt to avoid the topic.

“But— Michael,” you said, tone pitched almost to the point of whining. “Don’t you ever think about what’s gonna happen between us once we leave for college?”

Aaand— there it was. Fuck it. If you sounded needy, so be it.

His grin faltered for a moment, an emotion that you couldn’t quite decipher crossing his face for a mere fragment of a second. Then he shifted, returning to his previous demeanor and promptly rolling on top of you. “Let’s just have fun, baby. We don’t have to think about that yet.”

His lips grazed your neck, and he began trailing kisses from your jugular over to the front of your throat, and then to your jaw. Your breath hitched, stomach dipping as you were instantly overcome with arousal- it was just that easy, apparently.

“Michael,” you breathed, squirming beneath the weight of his lean frame. “Michael, can we please talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about?” he said coolly. He moved his head down so that he was planting kisses down the valley between your breasts, which was covered by the oversize sleep shirt you wore (which you’d “borrowed” from Michael). “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

He continued moving down until he was resting between your parted thighs, wasting no time before working your lace panties down your legs and discarding them off the side of the bed. He spread your legs, hoisting one up to rest over his toned shoulder as he eyed your bare, wet cunt, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Mine,” he mumbled, placing an open-mouthed kiss to your soft inner thigh. His.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t think about it, didn’t take things so seriously.

Or maybe you’d simply fallen under his spell for the umpteenth time, seduced by his sweet talking and expert touch and sparkling blue eyes. This prospect seemed far more likely.

“You don’t have to worry about anything, baby. Just relax…” His soft blond waves grazed against your inner thighs and you shivered, rolling your hips forward impatiently and eliciting a low chuckle from his full, parted lips. “So needy. Does my baby sis want me to make her cum all over my tongue? Hm?”

Without thinking, you took a handful of his silky hair in one hand, pushing your pelvis up towards him until you could feel his mouth against your core. Much to your disappointment, however, he pulled back, looking up at you from between your legs with glinting eyes.

“Say it,” he said, tone velvety and seductive as his large, veined hands slid underneath your shirt to grope your tits. “Tell your big brother what you want him to do to you.”

On one hand, you wanted to smack him- could he stop with all that step-sibling talk already? God, it just made things so weird.

…But on the other hand…

“Want you to make me cum, Mikey…” You batted your eyes down at him, making sure to speak with as much syrupy sweetness as you could manage; you saw his jaw just barely clench at your words, and inwardly you smiled. “Please. Wanna feel your mouth all over me.”

“My bad girl,” he cooed, dragging his tongue up between your folds and circling the pointed edge around your clit. “So glad I was the first one to claim this perfect little cunt.”

He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking it into his hot mouth and pressing his tongue harshly against it; you sighed, tugging at his hair as your head fell back into the pillows, his hands roughly kneading your tits until they stung.

“That feel good, baby?” he breathed, although the question was entirely unnecessary- if anyone gave good head, it was Michael Langdon, and he knew it.

He pulled one hand from underneath your shirt so he could form circles over your clit with his thumb, his tongue moving to lap at your opening before easing inside.

“Fuck, Michael,” you sighed, twisting your fist perhaps a bit too hard, because he drew his head back from your aching heat to shoot you a glare.

“Can you not rip my hair out of my head, please?” he said irritably, his mouth and chin glistening with your arousal.

“Not like you haven’t done it to me a million times,” you mumbled.

“What was that?” he asked gruffly, yanking you closer to him by your thigh, which was still draped over his shoulder. “You wanna be a bitch? ‘Cause I can treat you like a bitch if that’s what you want.”

You lifted your head to give him a pointed look through narrowed eyes. “Just shut up and eat my pussy, dumbass.”

“Not with that attitude,” he said, crawling up your body and wrapping his fingers loosely around your throat. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, pale eyes boring into yours, but you could tell he was trying his hardest not to laugh. “I thought you wanted to be a good girl?”

You smirked, suddenly having found yourself in a bratty mood. “Nah, not today.”

Apparently you were looking to get destroyed. You saw something shift in Michael’s features, licking his lips hungrily as he slowly looked you up and down.

“Okay, if that’s how you wanna play.” In an instant, he had you flipped over so you were lying flat on your stomach, your insides buzzing with anticipation over what was to come; he slowly trailed his fingertips down from the base of your neck and along the expanse of your spine, stopping when he reached the small of your back. There was a brief stall in his motions, and then a loud crack as he landed a firm slap on your ass.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to try,” he said, taking his other hand to spread your ass cheeks before him. “Since you wanna be a bad girl tonight, I think you’ll like it.”

You wiggled nervously, bringing your arms under your chin as Michael leaned over off the side of his bed to grab something from his bedside table drawer. As much as you were apprehensive to find out what he was planning, you trusted Michael- you usually liked anything he introduced you to.

You heard shuffling behind you as Michael presumably undressed himself, immediately followed by a squirting sound— lube.

Oh fuck.

“Only good girls get it in their pussy,” Michael said, a slick-sounding noise coming from behind you as Michael pumped the lube up and down his cock. “Bad girls? They get it in the ass.”

“M-Michael-“ you started, voice trailing off when he began rubbing a cool substance against the opening of your ass, massaging the puckered skin with steady circles before dipping the tip of his finger inside. “Fuck!”

He sank his finger deeper, the lube assisting in this action; it still hurt, though, your tight, untouched hole being stretched for the first time- and he expected you to take his dick!?

As much as the idea frightened you, you couldn’t deny that there was something exciting about Michael claiming all of you, every last part.

“Just relax, baby,” he murmured, pumping his finger in and out of you until he felt you were sufficiently stretched out. He added a second finger, a low groan passing your lips as he quickened his pace, the intrusion encompassing you with a combination of pleasure and discomfort. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you retorted, trying to catch your breath. “It’s my asshole, idiot.”

“I was trying to talk dirty,” he snapped, thrusting his fingers in you deeper and brushing against something that made you see stars.

“How about just focus on doing what you’re doing instead of talking so much,” you said, arching your back to give him better access to you. Of course he’d been right about you liking this, you thought almost bitterly- he always knew what you were going to like.

“You really wanna be a brat tonight, huh?” he said, scissoring his fingers apart inside you to stretch your narrow walls even further. You gasped, head falling to the mattress as a jolt of pain shot throughout your body. “Must not want me to go easy on you.”

You said nothing (not that you’d be able to speak if you wanted to, seeing that your breath was caught in your throat). He continued fucking you with his fingers until he could slide them in and out with ease, pulling them out and aligning the head of his cock with your entrance instead.

“Such a little slut for me,” he said, shifting his weight so he was kneeling between your legs. He lifted you up at the hips, just barely pressing his cock into your now-stretched hole. “Now all your holes are mine.”

“How do you know I didn’t let my ex fuck me in the ass?” you teased, moving your hips from side to side as he began pushing himself deeper.

A hand landed on the back of your neck, pushing you down so your face was buried in the pillow; seconds later, your ass was met with a sharp smack.

“Yeah, right. Like you’d let anyone besides me be the first,” he said, pausing for a moment before continuing. “…You wouldn’t, right?”

You stifled a laugh- you were sure there was nothing Michael feared more than finding out you’d given away your anal virginity to someone else- and a “circle jerking jock”, no less. You supposed that maybe it wasn’t the wisest choice to intentionally piss Michael off right as he was about to fuck you in the ass, but you were having too much fun to stop.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you asked, the pads of Michael’s fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “I mean, he fucked me better than you anyway.”

The last part was a blatant lie meant to rile Michael up, and you knew Michael knew it; still, he brought one hand from your hips to the back of your head, wrapping a strand of your hair around his palm and forcefully pulling it back.

“Really? He fucked you better I do?” In one sharp forward motion, he entered you almost fully, earning him a weak cry from your parted mouth. “Made you cum better than I do?”-he paused to scoff- “I bet he couldn’t even make you cum.”

Goddamn it. There was another thing Michael was right about, not that you were about to let him know that.

“He didn’t know about that spot inside you that makes you cum so hard you cry, or how to tease you until you’re all needy and desperate, begging to be filled up like the whore you are,” he continued, and you could practically hear the cocky grin on his face as he spoke, his hips still as he waited for you to adjust to the feeling of a dick being in your ass. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You kept silent, knowing better than to challenge him again.

He laughed, your lower body trembling in arousal and agony as he gingerly slid inside the rest of the way. “Of course I’m right. So keep your mouth shut unless it’s to take my cock.”

With that, he began fucking you- hard and steady, his hips rocking back ever-so-slightly before jutting forward again, the sensation so intense that your eyes rolled back into your skull. Taking fistfuls of Michael’s sheets in each hand, you let out a raspy whine, tears darkening the pillowcase under your head with large wet spots.

“Fuck, you really are a bad girl, aren’t you?” he snickered, upon hearing your soft moans that had been muffled by his pillows.

You nodded mindlessly, pushing your hips back weakly with every thrust Michael administered, vision going blurry at the corners each time he seated himself all the way inside you. You’d never felt anything like it before- you were so full that it felt you might fall apart at any moment, completely at Michael’s mercy.

“You like that? Like it when I stretch you out?” he grunted, and you could tell that he was already close, your tight hole clenching with every burst of pain he inflicted with his cock. Leaning forward, he hooked one toned arm around your thigh so he could mercilessly rub your clit, hissing lowly as he pounded inside you fully again.

You groaned, gritting your teeth as he formed fast shapes over your sensitive bud, white spots forming in front of your eyes as he gradually increased his speed.

Fuck, it hurt, but both you and Michael knew by now that you liked pain, liked the way it matched together so perfectly with pleasure.

“You doing okay, baby?” Michael whispered as he pushed a few moist strands of hair away from your face, his sweat-covered chest pressing firmly against your back.

A gravelly “m’fine,” was all you could manage.

“Good girl,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear before he brought himself back to a standing position, fingers still working at your clit. “Taking me so well, like always.”

You found yourself smiling weakly at his praise, cheek flush against Michael’s now-tearstained pillows; your stomach dropped, Michael’s fingers still massaging your clit with precision until you were panting, abdomen tightening as you neared your climax.

It wasn’t long before you were cumming, still listening to him breathing heavily as he chased his own impending orgasm behind you. When you felt both hands return to your hips, his fingers gripping your tender skin until you whimpered, you knew he was close to the edge.

“You want your ass filled with my cum?” he said breathlessly, and you could tell it was taking everything inside him to properly get the words out. He slapped your ass, the sound crisp and loud, and you inhaled sharply. “Answer me.”

“Y-yes, Michael, I want it…” you said, half-dazed, voice so low you weren’t sure he’d even heard you. “Want your cum in my ass. Please…”

“Fuck.” Hurriedly, he impaled you until his balls slapped crudely against your ass; then, with a string of incoherent expletives, he shot his warm load deep inside you.

He stayed seated inside for a moment, placing a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

“Fuck. You’re my good girl, aren’t you, (y/n)?” He pulled out of you slowly, running his fingers through the cum that was now leaking out of your hole and down your thighs. “So fucking good for me.”

He turned your limp body over so you were on your back, falling to lie beside you. Through half-open eyes, you surveyed him, boyishly handsome with damp curls clinging to his glowing forehead, flat torso rising and falling as he laced his fingers over his chest. God fucking damn it, was he beautiful.

“I can’t believe you actually let me fuck you in the ass,” he said, spit-glossed lips curving upwards at the corners as he flashed his perfect top row of teeth.

“I can’t believe it either,” you muttered, feigning slight irritation, although truthfully, you could believe it- you’d do anything for Michael.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, moving to pull you up against his chest. “You’re what my friends would call a keeper.”

Outwardly, you laughed, but his words made your heart sink for a reason you couldn’t explain.

A keeper. If only he really believed that.

ii.

For a while, things kept on like this- neither of you wanted to talk about the future, and so whenever it was mentioned, you’d wind up having sex to avoid the conversation you both were avoiding.

And then, one day, you brought in the mail to find that you’d received a letter from your top college— you’d been accepted.

That night, your parents had something of a makeshift celebration- your father insisted upon going out to dinner despite your protests, which was how you found yourself in a cramped Cheesecake Factory booth, thigh pressed up against Michael’s as your father and Miriam bickered across from you. You couldn’t help but notice that the entire situation felt vaguely familiar.

“Is it just me, or have the prices here gone up?” your father said, squinting his eyes to better read the small menu lettering.

“I told you we didn’t have to come here,” you mumbled, elbows leant on the marble surface of the table.

“Don’t be silly, sweetie,” Miriam said. “We have to celebrate.”

“God, these prices are ridiculous, though. Why don’t we just leave and go to Applebee’s instead?” your father continued, loud enough that you were sure any passing waiter might be able to hear; in unison, you and Michael groaned.

“(Your dad’s name)!” said Miriam, eyes widened in disbelief as she turned back to you with a forced smile. “Don’t mind your cheapskate of a father, (y/n). You totally deserve to celebrate. You must be so excited!”

“Yep,” you said.

And you were excited- for the most part, at least. It just seemed like time had passed by so quickly: you’d been so wrapped up in all the meaningless teenage drama and angst of your senior year that it hadn’t even occurred to you how soon it would all be ending. And now you were faced with a whole new problem altogether; something that, at one point, had seemed like more of a blessing than a curse.

Your impending life without Michael.

You’d been attempting to avoid the thought, but as time went on, you found yourself becoming less and less able to tuck it away to the back of your mind. You’d be committing to college soon, as would Michael (once he heard back from one of the few colleges he’d applied to) and then that was it.

Of course there would be the breaks between semesters and during holidays; there was no question of whether you and Michael would see each other again. You probably wouldn’t have even been worried at all, had the two of you been strictly stepsiblings-with-benefits, but you were fairly certain that both you and Michael knew that wasn’t exactly the case here.

Maybe you were being delusional for thinking so. Anyone with common sense knew that Michael Langdon was a fuckboy, an asshole who knew how to charm girls into sucking his dick and nothing more. To think that there was anything deeper beyond your relationship (if you could even call it that) was probably foolish. And yet…

Sigh.

God, he had you whipped. It was nauseating, really. Only a few months ago, you’d been desperate for the school year to end so you’d never (or, at least, almost never) have to see Michael’s stupidly beautiful face again. Now, the mere thought of no longer being around him, no longer hearing his smart-ass comments and borderline-objectifying remarks made you feel queasy.

Of course the one boy you’d ever been hung up on like this had to be your fuckboy stepbrother, of all people. It was just your luck to wind up in a situation as convoluted and ridiculous as this one.

“What kinds of things are you thinking of doing in college?” asked Miriam, obviously aiming to fulfill her supportive stepparent quota for the evening. “Are you planning to join a sorority?”

Michael snorted. “You really think (y/n) would be able to get into a sorority?”

You scowled, making sure your arm was completely hidden underneath the table before pinching Michael’s thigh. “If I wanted to join a sorority- which I don’t, by the way- I would definitely be able to get in. So shut up.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that,” he said, smirking in that stupid, insufferable way that made you want to punch him right in his perfect face. Asshole.

Miriam shook her head in a way that said oh, these darned kids as your father continued to ignore everyone, still immersed in the contents of his menu. “Be nice, Michael.”

“What are you gonna do once you get to college, huh, (y/n)?” said Michael through a thin-lipped smile. You recognized that look- it was the face he made whenever he was intentionally trying to upset you. Of fucking course he’d choose today, of all days, to be an asshole. “I’m sure all the douchey frat guys will be allll over you. If you actually go to parties, that is.”

“You’re gonna be a douchey frat guy, Michael. So I really wouldn’t be talking if I were you.” You crossed your arms defensively over your chest, leaning back to rest your back against the padded booth.

“You really think I’d join a frat?” Michael asked, wrinkling his nose. “I’m not sticking a pinecone up my ass for anyone, especially not a bunch of circle jerkers.”

“Huh? What about pinecones?” your father said suddenly, putting down his menu to more directly focus on the conversation going on across from him.

You rubbed your temples, letting out a slow, exasperated exhale.

“(Y/n) was just telling me how excited she is to meet all the frat boys at college,” said Michael, flashing you a shit-eating grin.

“I was not!”

Just then, the waitress came over- a woman in her mid-sixties with bleach blond hair (you certainly wouldn’t admit this, but you were almost grateful to find that the waitress wasn’t a cute, younger girl, just so you wouldn’t be forced to watch Michael flirting with someone else in front of you).

As everyone ordered their food, you reached out and wrapped your fingers around Michael’s wrist, pulling his hand over to your bare thigh and squeezing it; he peered over at you, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively- usually he was the one pursuing you in public, so you didn’t doubt that this had caught him off guard.

You gave Michael a pout, widening your eyes faux-innocently as you traced your fingers along the veins in his hands.

To your disappointment, Michael shooed you away, hardly looking at you as he brought his attention back to the waitress. Huh. Definitely not typical Michael behavior. Once the waitress had headed off, you decided to take to a different approach: delicately, you placed your hand on Michael’s crotch, mouth watering as you grasped the large bulge that protruded from the front of his jeans.

At this, his body stiffened, but still he ignored your advances, pushing your hand off his lap and shooting you an indecipherable look from the corner of his eye.

God, what the hell was his problem tonight?

Just one more try, you thought, returning your hand to where it’d been seconds before and palming the outline of his cock. His breath hitched, hands flying to wrap around the edge of the table as you ran your thumb up and down his clothed length.

“I gotta take a piss,” Michael muttered, removing your hand from his lap as he abruptly stood up.

“Michael!” scolded Miriam, but he was already gone.

“I have to go to the bathroom too, actually,” you said suddenly, not bothering to worry about how suspicious it might look that you were following Michael. If your parents had gone this long without noticing anything weird between you and Michael, you doubted they ever would.

You weaved your way through the tables, heading to the dimly lit hallway that led to the bathroom; you could see Michael about to open the door to the men’s bathroom, walking so slowly he was practically sauntering. His shoulders were slumped, hands deep in the pockets of his skinny jeans, and for a second you wondered why the hell he looked so goddamn sad.

“Why were you acting like a little bitch back there?” you called after him, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

He stopped in his tracks, sighing deeply as he turned around to look at you. The playful expression you were so used to seeing on his face was nowhere to be found, and in all honesty, his seriousness unsettled you. “(Y/n)… we are literally out in public.”

“Not like that’s ever made a difference to you before.”

“Well, now that we’re adults, I think we should stop doing stupid shit like that.” He was talking out of his ass, clearly- you could tell there was something else he wanted to say.

“What, are you mad at me or something?” Oh god. Stop acting like a needy girlfriend, (y/n), you thought to yourself. Stop it right the fuck now.

“Why would I be mad at you?” His back was resting against the door to the bathroom now, obviously no longer worried about having to take a piss, as he’d claimed. You admired him for a second- the way his short-sleeved button-up hugged the barely bulging muscles in his arms, the way he had perhaps one too many top buttons undone. Fuck, he looked good. But then again, when didn’t he? “What would even make you think that?”

“‘Cause you were being an asshole at the table, talking about frat guys and shit.” You swallowed, bouncing anxiously on the balls of your feet as you considered what to say next. There was more, the words lingering on the back of your tongue, but you didn’t know how to go about phrasing them. “And honestly, Michael? It seems like you aren’t even happy for me.”

He raised his eyebrows, plump pink lips curving upwards at one corner. “What did you want me to do? Eat your fucking ass?”

Well, yeah, that’d be nice…you thought idly, before mentally kicking yourself for being so goddamn thirsty all the time.

“No, but you know this is a big deal to me, and you haven’t even said congratulations,” you said.

“Okay, then, congrats,” he said, his tone suddenly turning ice cold. “I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun three hours away with all your new frat boy friends.”

And, with that, he turned on his heel and went into the bathroom, letting the door slam shut and rattle noisily in its hinges behind him.

Oh.

So that’s why he’s upset. Your lips twitched, and then you were smiling, big and stupid.

You knew the situation shouldn’t have made you happy- in fact, happiness was the last emotion you’d ever expect to feel after one of Michael’s little bitch fits- but there was something so satisfying about knowing that Michael was worried about you meeting other guys, knowing that he didn’t want you three hours away from him, knowing that maybe he felt the same way about you that you did about him.

Or maybe you were putting too much thought into things, like always. Whatever— you’d take what you could get.

iii.

Michael had made it a point, after your confrontation, to avoid you. By now you were used to him doing things like this; you’d come to realize that these cold-shoulder periods were simply his way of recuperating his emotions.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Michael was accepted into his own top choice (god, was he lucky that he had the entire high schools’ staff wrapped around his finger, because lord knew he hadn’t exerted a single bit of effort to get good grades)- a school that was far closer to home than the one you’d committed to. You’d both ordered your cap and gown, and then, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, graduation day finally rolled around.

You could hardly believe that the day had come. You could still remember your very first day of high school, years before when you were still naive and innocent- things had been so simple back then.

Now, as you stood before the mirror in the girl’s bathroom, dressed in your deep blue graduation gown with the matching cap tucked under your arm, you could hardly wrap your head around how much your life had changed, how much you’d changed.

In about a half an hour, the entire senior class was due to meet outside at the football field, where hundreds of cheap fold-out chairs had been set up in front of the podium your principal would be standing behind. You were dreading the ceremony, groaning internally when you thought of the unforgiving June heat, and the fact that you’d have to walk up there, a sweaty mess, to retrieve your diploma in front of everyone.

Once it was over, though, you’d be free. And god, what a frightening thought that was.

You didn’t have much of an idea of what your future held, but you supposed you’d figure that out later. Popping the top back onto your tube of lipstick and tossing it into your purse, you examined yourself thoughtfully before positioning the cap on your head and fiddling with the tassel so it fell just right.

You imagined Michael doing the same thing in the boy’s bathroom, spending far too much time adjusting his hair in the mirror, making poses at himself and practicing the way he’d smile when it was his turn to get his diploma. The thought was so silly, so endearing, that it made your heart hurt a little.  

Michael won’t ignore you forever, you told yourself. He just needs to sort things out with himself.

You left the bathroom, pulling your bag over your shoulder and walking down the hall towards the front entrance of the school. People had already begun clearing out, and although you could hear laughter echoing throughout the hallways, there weren’t many fellow seniors in sight.

The pale yellow hallways looked dismal (or more dismal than usual, at least), stripped of their colorful posters for the summer. You dragged your fingertips along a freshly-bare wall as you strolled leisurely, hoping to waste as much time as possible before you were obligated to go outside.

As you walked past an empty classroom, you heard shuffling coming from an adjacent hallway; in an instant, you were pressed up against the door, a large hand clamped tightly over your mouth. It took a split second for you to process the all-too-familiar scent of Michael, your heart rate immediately slowing once you figured out what was going on.

“Michael, what the hell are you doing?” you demanded, once you’d utilized an obscene amount of strength to tear his hand away from your mouth.

He was half-smiling, working a wad of pink-tinted cinnamon gum in his mouth, pale eyes shimmering with fondness as he looked down at you. You were lost in his gaze for all of a few seconds, his chest pinning you back against the door, when you remembered that you were both in public, and not just in public- in school.

“Michael, are you fucking cra-“

Your words were promptly cut off as Michael pulled you back, opening the classroom door with one hand while he used the other to hold onto your wrist. Then he tugged you inside, checking halfheartedly over his shoulder to make sure that nobody had seen.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, and I think I finally figured things out,” he said, pushing you back onto the teacher’s desk and wedging himself between your parted thighs, taking a moment to hike up your graduation gown so your legs were exposed. “Any second that I’m not fucking you is a second wasted.”

He didn’t give you the chance to respond (or mock him for his corniness), pressing his lips fervently to yours with such intensity that you fell back onto the desk, your graduation cap falling off and toppling to the ground. Instinctively, you kissed him back, fingernails pressing into his back (which bore the same deep blue fabric as you) as you attempted to match the urgency of his kiss.

This was a bad idea. No, this was an awful idea. So why, oh why, didn’t you want to stop?

“We can’t do this here,” you said breathlessly, during one interval when Michael had broken away to catch his breath, a strand of saliva stretching between your faces.

“Sure we can,” he said, reaching up the short floral dress you wore under your gown and fumbling with your underwear. “We just have to be quick.”

“W-what if someone walks in?” you pressed, allowing Michael to work your panties down your legs and discard them on a desk. He shrugged, bunching up the fabric of his own gown so he could unbutton his jeans and retrieve his cock from its confines.

“Who cares? It’s not like we can get suspended,” he said, stunning you, as usual, with his nonchalance. He took his shaft in one hand, already semi-erect, rubbing his leaking head against your inner thigh. You wanted so desperately to argue, to push him away, but fuck— this hold Michael had on you had to be supernatural, because all you could bring yourself to do was pull him closer.

“Michael, we’re stepsiblings. People are gonna lose their fucking minds if they find out—”

“—So then they won’t find out.” He ran his cock through your slick folds, evoking a soft mewl from the back of your throat. “Like I said, we just have to be quick.”

You pressed your lips shut, squeaking quietly when he penetrated you in one slow thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, clutching your upper thighs with a bruising hold, balls slapping noisily against your skin as he bottomed out inside you. “Such a bad girl for me.”

“M-Michael…” you whined, rolling your hips in melodic time with Michael’s, his pelvis gradually slamming against yours harder and harder until he’d adopted an almost ruthless pace to fuck you with. He peppered your jawline and throat with kisses as he continued to fuck into you, your legs raising to wrap around his torso, broken moans leaving you as the blunt edge of the desk dug into your lower back.

“You’ll do anything for your big brother, won’t you?” he growled against your throat, cock brushing against something spongey and sensitive inside you and sending your lower body into convulsions. “Spreading your legs and letting me split your little cunt whenever I feel like it…”

Your pussy clenched at these words, cheeks burning in shame at the truth behind them—it was almost embarrassing how perpetually willing you were to let him have his way with you. He hissed, inserting one hand between your warm bodies to work at your clit, the other extending up to your face so he could clasp his hand over your mouth.

“Such a fucking slut for me,” he said between sharp inhales, and you could taste the salt of sweat on his palm; his eyes were droopy with lust, pupils dilated so that the baby blue was almost entirely eclipsed— he was so beautiful, and you couldn’t help but admire him as he pumped into you. “You’re fucking dripping. I bet you wanna get caught.”

Realistically, you did not want to get caught, but the idea was still an interesting one, to say the least. You sank your fingernails deeper into Michael’s shoulders, hard enough that you’d probably leave half-moon shaped imprints in his skin, even through the tough material of his graduation gown.

“What would everyone think of you, hm? Knowing that you’re a little slut who loves being split on her stepbrother’s big cock?” he was speaking into your ear so low that he was barely whispering, chills erupting down your spine at the sheer lewdness of his words.

“I’ll bet all the guys would be lining up to get a taste of your slutty cunt if they knew how much of a whore you are,” he continued, impaling you with such aggression that your eyes rolled back into your skull. “Too bad that this pussy belongs to me.”

You couldn’t do much more than whimper, your teeth pressing against the inside of your mouth from the force of Michael’s hand against it.

From out in the hallway came a series of voices, and Michael stopped his thrusting, his cock still deep inside you. Your pussy twitched- your body’s natural attempt to resume the friction that had ceased and left you aching for more; both of you waited with bated breath for the group outside to pass the classroom, chests heaving in soundless unison.

“Fuck,” Michael grunted once the voices faded away, relocating his hand from your mouth to the desk, bracing himself with his palm flat against the faux-wooden surface as he returned to fucking you.

“Michael, please…” you moaned, rocking your hips underneath him impatiently. The prospect of being caught in such a compromising position was beginning to scare you, and as much as you never wanted to stop feeling the immense pleasure that only Michael could provide, you thought it’d be best to wrap things up for now.

“Shhhh.” He thumbed at your swollen bud roughly, your muscles tensing as you felt your orgasm start to build up in the pit of your belly. “Be a good girl for me and keep that pretty mouth shut.”

You did as you were told, closing your mouth and letting your head fall back as he slid in and out of your heat, making harsh contact with your cervix every time.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, cinnamon-scented breath hot on your neck as he nestled his face in your shoulder, biting down on the smooth skin beside your jugular. “Taking my cock so well.”

His thrusts grew sloppier with each passing second, and you tightened your legs around Michael’s waist, not wanting there to be even an inch of space between your bodies.

“Oh god…” you sighed, despite Michael’s demands, but at this point he was too far gone to scold you.

The sensation of Michael stretching you out, paired with his fingers against your most sensitive point, was far too much for you to bear- it didn’t take much more for the coil inside you to snap, sending you into an intense orgasm that had you seeing brilliantly colored fireworks amidst the boring gray-beige walls.

“Shit,” Michael grunted, your cunt squeezing around his length as he fucked you for all he was worth. You ground your hips up against him, crying out as he drove his cock so deep inside you that you swore you could feel it in your stomach.

A low, almost animalistic noise came from the depths of Michael’s throat as he came, his hot load filling you up and warming your insides. You laid there motionless, watching from underneath half-closed lids as he slowly pulled out and tucked himself back into his jeans. Your cheeks were flushed, hair matted to your damp forehead, lips swollen and glossy with spit; the cherry on top to complete your debauched look, though, was the thick cum dribbling down your inner thigh.

Michael’s eyes fell down to where his essence was spilling from you, a self-satisfied smirk crossing his lips as he reached forward and drew his fingertips through it.

“Open up,” he ordered, and you complied, granting him access to your mouth as he pressed his cum-coated fingers against your flattened tongue.

You wrapped your lips around him and sucked, eyes fluttering at his slightly bitter taste. Once he was sufficiently cleaned off, he withdrew his hand from your mouth with a loud, wet pop.

“That’s a good girl.”

You got up off the desk, recovering your purse from the ground where it had been abandoned before slipping your underwear back on underneath your dress. You probably would’ve preferred having some extra time to clean up, especially since Michael had came inside you, but that was out of the question for now.

You could only imagine Michael’s internal smugness at the thought that you’d be graduating high school with his cum leaking out of you.

“Fuck, we gotta go,” Michael said, checking his cell phone. “We have like five minutes.”

“Shit!”

You slung your purse over your shoulder and hurried out into the hallway, ignoring the dull pain between your legs from how hard Michael had fucked you. Michael followed hot on your heels, and together you made your way through the vacant halls of your soon-to-be former high school, not bothering once to look back.

[five-wow]

Hi, I'm a fellow writer in the fandom and I admire your work. I wanted to ask, as a popular writer, do you get fixated sometimes on the number of kudos/comments/hits etc that your new work gets, and does this impact your motivation/inspiration? I think comparison is the thief of joy, and I really want to get over this feeling when I post my own work, so was wondering if even popular and regular writers such as yourself feel like this to, and if , what's your secret? Thanks!

Hi! 1) You are so sweet, ahh, and 2) YES, I DO. Gosh, yes, I absolutely do get insecure about those kinds of things, and I think that anyone who says they don't ever feel that way is either lying (to themselves, possibly) or maybe just pure magic, like some cross between a writer and a unicorn.

I love ao3 and I love all of its metrics and I love numbers and statistics, but there’s definitely that shadow side where having all of that easily available makes it deceptively easy to compare your own work to other people’s. I do it all the time! It honestly makes it a little hard for me at times to read h50 fic and fully enjoy it, because I keep... looking at it and wondering how my own stacks up against it, unwillingly. That's not a relaxing experience, and sometimes not even a very fun one. (Another part of it is that I just write SO MUCH for h50 and there is SO MUCH I still want to write, and I don’t want to risk reading something that’s very close to an idea I had and then never being quite sure if what I write after that was influenced by the other person’s work or if it’s really still my idea, because I have this (pretty irrational) fear of accidentally stealing someone else’s work even though one of the really great things about fandom is that it’s a very collaborative process as a whole and being inspired by other people’s stuff is usually totally okay, buuuut that’s a different rambly story.)

And I definitely do also get... some cringey feelings, hardcore, around fics I posted that don't do very well numbers-wise. Sometimes it's expected - fic that doesn't follow traditional formats or doesn't feature Steve/Danny, for example, is always something where I KNOW it won't get as much attention because I know how fandom works and that lessens the sting because it doesn't HAVE to hold up to those other fics that perform way better, because I already know it's not really comparable. The truth is, of course, that most fic is not really comparable to other fic, but it’s easy to fall into that trap anyway. If I post something that seems like my average kind of work and it gets less kudos or comments than usual, I do start to doubt the fic and second-guess myself - is something about this weird? Is it too [insert quality x]? Is it bad? Did I unknowingly do something terrible and people are now avoiding me? The answer to all of those is probably no, and going through it a bunch of times has definitely helped, because what usually happens is that I end up somewhat avoiding the fic in question because it makes me a little ashamed and awkward to think about it (a relative failure! oh no! I'm human!) and then, eventually, I return and reread the fic. By that point I have enough distance from it in time that I can look at it a lot more objectively, and it's way easier to see what works and what does not than when I posted it and I had just read it a dozen times in twenty-four hours and the words were burned into my brain. And upon that reread, inevitably, I realize that, holy shit, it was NOT AS BAD as I had made it out to be in my mind! It’s actually kind of fun! Imagine the ego boost of realizing your most cringy recent work is actually pretty okay, haha, and it's silly, but it's a revelation every time. The quality of a fic is not dictated by how many people read it or comment on it or like it, and intellectually I absolutely know that, but it’s hard to remember when it’s about yourself and you’re still in that emotionally vulnerable place of having just shared your work with the world and it feels like the world is not as into it as you thought (or hoped) it’d be. It’s honestly very, very reassuring to have those experiences to fall back on, but sadly the only way I know to get there is to just tough it out and feel super awkward for a while.

When I’m writing, on the other hand, I usually don’t really think about what other people might think of it. I have the advantage that (pretty much) all of my work consists of fairly short stand alone stories, which means I don’t have to struggle with keeping my motivation up for a second chapter of something but I get to start fresh every time, and that’s nice, because I can just lose myself in the joy of throwing words around and making characters do things that make me giggle. That’s not to say I never think of the outside world while writing - I realized, pretty recently, that I occasionally end up constructing paragraphs or pieces of dialogue a certain way mostly so it will make for a good excerpt to put in the eventual fic description, which might give me a sense of accomplishment because it’s nice when things work out and look good, but in all fairness it’s probably far more motivated by attempts to package the finished work attractively so other people will want to click on it than by anything else. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. I don’t think so - I don’t feel like it lessens my work and it doesn’t interrupt my enjoyment of it in the moment, which are the key elements for me - but other people might disagree.

But the heart of thing is, just, there are SO MANY factors that influence a fic’s numbers, and not all of them are visible (I’d argue most of them aren’t, in fact), and it always helps me to keep that in mind. It puts things in perspective somewhat and softens the harshness of a black and white kudo count judgment. Numbers can depend on when you post a fic (what day of the week, time of the year, time relative to big fandom moments, whether you’re in the middle of a global pandemic or not), how you pick your title, what you put in the description, how you use the tags, what genres or tropes are popular in your specific fandom, the genre of your fic in general (pwp as a rule tends to get lots of hits and few kudos or comments, for example, making it totally unfair to compare it to G-reated fluff fic with super different ratios), how much you’ve posted before (because if someone likes one of your works, they’re often likely to check if you have more in the same fandom), how many fics other people post around the same time (because yours might be gone from the first page of most recently updated works in a fandom or ship tag very quickly if others push it out), how big your fandom is(!!!) (over two thirds of my works on ao3 are for h50, but h50 only makes it into the top 10 of my most kudo’d works by the skin of its teeth) and definitely also what your fandom’s culture is like (compared to a lot of other fandoms, h50 fans are a-ma-zing when it comes to leaving comments, my gosh, and as a writer I adore all of you), how old your ao3 account is (the longer you’ve been around, the more likely a higher number of people is subscribed to you as an author or has read your previous work or has encountered your name, etc), how long your fic is (under a thousand words in my experience generally does less well than 1-5k, but longer fics might end up with lots of chapters which switches things up because people come back to it when there’s an update, and even if a long work is all in one chapter it will probably stand out for the wordcount and might attract attention that way, etc), whether or not your fic is part of a series (in my experience it will probably get more hits because it’s a chain of fics that leads you to the next one, but the kudos might not go up at the same rate because people might forget a kudo or reread previous works when a new one is added), whether you make a habit of commenting on other people’s fic (I’ve had comments saying MY comment on their work led them to my fic!), if you have social media like Tumblr or Twitter where you can promote your work (it’s advertising, basically), and any of a bunch of random little other factors. Sometimes, I see a sudden little cluster of kudos on an old fic in the daily ao3 kudos email, and I assume someone somewhere maybe recced that fic, but it usually remains a total mystery who or where or even if it happened at all and wasn’t just a weird coincidence to begin with. Sometimes the thing a fic’s popularity depends on is really just whether it clicks with people at that point in time, whatever that means, which is an even more impossible thing to grasp or predict than anything else.

Or you can look at things from a totally different angle and not try to make yourself care less about numbers, but just accept that you do because you’re human and we all crave validation, and instead try to roll with that. A brain hack: when I do start getting down about numbers, it also helps me to focus on one work and just... try to visualise what those kudo (or hit or bookmark or comment) counts mean, if you were to translate them to the real world. While it can be super helpful to remember that there’s a LOT going on that you can’t see and that’s virtually impossible to really explain, it’s also nice to somewhat do the opposite and try to make things as concrete as possible instead. I like measuring in school classes (~25-30 heads, I’d say) and “my fic only has fifty kudos but this other person’s has ten times as many” could easily make anyone sad and demotivated, but “my fic has fifty kudos and that’s TWO WHOLE CLASSROOMS packed full of people that all read my work and liked it so much they wanted to give me a little thumbs up for it” is actually pretty cool and encouraging, I think. Or you could measure in sports teams (I don’t know sports, but soccer has 11 players on the field per team, so as soon as your fic has 33 kudos that’s three teams which means you’ve got yourself a little beginning league! how exciting!) or in DnD campaigns (variable of course, but most of mine have had around four players plus a DM, so if you have twenty kudos? that’s FOUR WHOLE DnD campaigns that enjoyed reading your fic, and it’s fully up to you how many half-orcs that includes). You could apply this method using literally any other measurement that works for you, too. If you have a hard time painting a mental image of numbers, you could even open up a Paint doc or get a piece of paper and start counting out little dots or copy-pasted images of a person, or get a big bag of physically present M&Ms and count them out, or take a good look at your dog and then go around the neighborhood and collect forty-nine more dogs and pile them all into your home and be slightly frightened by the utter delighted fluffy chaos that ensues in your living room. That’s how many people liked your fic! That’s a heck of a lot of wagging tails! Who knew a kudo could bark this loudly!

Disclaimer: maybe keep the dog thing as your very last resort, because your neighbors might not be super into their pet getting dognapped for the purpose of visualizing fanfiction stats. The point is really just to remember that there’s an actual person behind every kudo you get, no matter what the cumulative number is, and even if you have seven or five or three kudos, that’s seven or five or three very real people that hit that button. That’s pretty damn awesome. Also keep in mind how you feel if you read a fic, and take some time to realize that every single person that left you a kudo went through that same process of spending time reading words (the words you wrote!) and experiencing that story and THAT’S why they left that kudo. It’s a real person’s real investment.

This ended up very long and rambly, so tl;dr: You are in no way alone in feeling that way, it's okay and normal and so very very human to feel like that, but you still shouldn't let it get you down, because numbers fake being meaningful very well but are deep down just little squiggles on your screen and they’re more scared of you than you are of them, while at the same time there are real individuals that enjoy your work even if you usually never see them. Your fic is worth posting. That’s the one factor in all of this that’s a constant, not a variable.

(And as a very important sidenote, just be kind to yourself, always. Does it truly stress you out? Are you feeling really bad about it today? Does it make your anxiety spike? Then give yourself room to take a little step back and allow yourself some time away from it. Go watch something you enjoy, or read something nice, or do something else that makes you feel good. Fic is something that should add to your life, not subtract from it. You don’t owe anyone anything, not even yourself in this context, and I used to push myself occasionally to get something finished TODAY, and eventually I started realizing, well, why? Why not instead of reading it over again just get some sleep or watch an episode of something I want to watch, especially if I literally just finished the fic and I feel a little unsure about it and it might actually be beneficial to me and my own feelings about it if I just give it a day or even a week and let it rest and then look at it again and THEN post it, if I want to, whether that’s with some changes beforehand or not? Who set me that deadline that’s apparently looming over me? I did, and it’s fake, and it’s there for absolutely no good reason. Breathe. Put yourself first. Be really really really selfish about your own fic writing experience, even, because it’s supposed to be something you enjoy (that’s what a hobby is!), and the rest is secondary.)