#just looking at it set off my gag reflex somehow! which is new!

[samble-moved]

go to cook since i realize i haven't eaten today...open fridge looking for cheese...find old mozzarella slices so molded i immediately lose any and all appetite...awesome 👍

[suituuup]

that's the kind of love i've been dreaming of

Has Beca mentioned that she hates his guts? Everything is just too… annoyingly nice. His charming smile, his messy but not too messy hair, his sense of humor, and well, his taste in women, as he’s dating the girl Beca happens to be in love with.

Word count: 2005

Rating: T

Entry for Bechloe week, day one: “Because I'm in love with you, dumbass.”

Beta by the lovely @snowonebutyou and thanks to @green-eyed-weirdo for bouncing ideas with me <3

READ ON AO3

*

The muffled giggle greeting Beca when she steps through the door makes her groan. The deep voice that follows confirms that Chloe is indeed not alone, and Beca briefly considers turning around and… going for a walk or something.

But her feet are about to fall off, she feels gross from her overcrowded subway ride home where she’s pretty sure a dude sniffed her hair, and she is really fucking tired.

She’s just flopped down face first on the pull-out couch when the door to Chloe’s bedroom opens, and two sets of feet grow closer.

“You alright, Becs?”

Beca grunts something inaudible in acknowledgment before she rolls on her back. “M’fine.”

“Hey Beca,” Chicago greets her with a soft smile, and Beca somehow manages to leash in her sneer.

“Hey,” she mumbles, the best she can muster when it comes to Chloe’s boyfriend.

Has she mentioned that she hates his guts? Everything is just too… annoyingly nice. His charming smile, his messy but not too messy hair, his sense of humor, and well, his taste in women, as he’s dating the girl Beca happens to be in love with.

Yep. It’s only been four years and a half; not a big deal.

She was this close to admitting her feelings to Chloe, still reeling with adrenaline after her solo performance, when Chloe ran to Army Boy instead. Beca doesn’t think she knew what a broken heart felt like until that very moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Chicago asks, setting his hands on Chloe’s hips.

“Yeah,” Chloe agrees and leans up to kiss his lips. Beca rolls her eyes, grabbing her phone from her back pocket as a distraction from the display of gag-worthy affection.

The door finally clicks shut behind Chicago, and Beca hears Chloe sigh. That kind of content sigh that has jealousy flare up within her because Chloe should be sighing like that because of her.

“I thought he was leaving tomorrow morning?” Beca asks as she scrolls through her Instagram, not really registering the photos zooming past her eyes.

“Not anymore,” Chloe says, biting on her bottom lip like she’s trying to prevent a smile from breaking through. “He’s um, going to be stationed in Brooklyn. His request just got granted.”

A huge lump forms in Beca’s throat as she registers the news and an uneasy feeling seized her stomach. “That’s--” she swallows with difficulty, swiping her tongue over her dry lips. “That’s great, Chlo.”

She soon exits Instagram, opening her safari to look for apartment listings.

*

Finding an apartment in New York City within her price range, as it turns out, is pretty fucking difficult.

You would think Beca was aware of that given the fact that there used to be one more person living in her current studio, with a simple curtain acting as bathroom walls.

(she definitely has PTSD from that night Amy had food poisoning from Taco Bell.)

When Amy moved out, Chloe took her room, because Beca is the night owl of the two, usually coming home late from work or cooking dinner after Chloe has gone to bed.

It’s pushing eleven by the time she makes it back that night, and she prays that Chloe is already in bed. The past couple of weeks following the news have been… weird, to say the least. Beca has been avoiding Chloe, coming up with excuses whenever Chloe asks her if she wants to hang out.

She makes herself a quick dinner (okay, makes might be a bit of an overstatement: she just pours some hot water over instant noodles. Don’t come at her.) and messes around on her laptop for a while, turning the lights off just after one am.

A moan reaching her ears just as she feels herself dozing off has her eyes fly open. A moan that very much belongs to Chloe, and Beca just wants to disappear off the face of the earth. Quiet laughter follows, and when the bed starts squeaking, leaving no doubt regarding what they’re doing in there, Beca ponders smothering herself with her own pillow.

She grabs her headphones instead, hastily placing them over her ears before she hears something that will most likely scar her forever. It somewhat cancels out the sounds, enough for Beca to fall asleep. She flees the apartment before either of them is awake, drowning her sorrows in a double espresso from the corner coffee shop.

Over the next few days, she excels in avoiding Chloe. She knows Chloe’s schedule well enough to come back when she’s either asleep or not there. Or at least she thought so.

“Hey.”

Beca freezes as she closes the door, looking over her shoulder to find Chloe popping her head out of the fridge.

Beca clears her throat, rubbing her nose with her knuckle as she stares down at the scuff of her shoes. “Hey,” she echoes, setting her keys down on the counter.

“Long time no see,” Chloe says as Beca sits on the edge of her bed to take her boots off.

“Yeah um, I’ve been busy,” Beca mumbles as she undoes her laces.

“Busy avoiding me?”

Beca’s spine snaps straighter at that, and she looks up to meet Chloe’s eyes. “No, just--” her shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “I figured you and Chicago might enjoy some private time together.”

Chloe hums like she doesn’t believe her. “You’d tell me if-- if something was bothering you, right? I feel like I’ve done something wrong.”

Beca swallows. “It’s not you, Chlo. I’m just--” she sighs, feeling her frustration rise as she scrapes her brain for a believable lie. “Work sucks and I feel like I’m getting nowhere, so I’ve been crankier than usual.”

Chloe nods, her lips curving in a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard time at work,” she says. “We should go out tonight! It’s been forever.”

Beca’s rebuttal lies on the tip of her tongue, out of reflex. She swallows it back, because Chloe is giving her those puppy eyes she’s mastered so well, and Beca knows damn well she can’t resist. Besides, she could definitely use a drink. Or ten.

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

That’s how they find themselves in an overly too loud, busy club a handful of hours later. Beca is definitely tipsy, and Chloe has just ordered shots, so she knows she’s likely to finish the night with her head in the toilet. But she hasn’t laughed like that in a while, and it feels amazing to be… Beca and Chloe again.

It’s ruined just after Beca downs her first shot, when Army Boy shows up.

“Hi!” Chloe exclaims, springing up from her stool to hug him.

Beca grits her teeth so hard that she’s half-concerned they might break, her eyes throwing daggers at Chicago’s head.

“Hey Beca,” he says, apparently oblivious as he slides on the vacant stool.

Beca simply tilts her chin towards him, along with a tight-lipped smile. As Chicago orders his drink with the waitress, Beca shrugs her jacket on. “I’m gonna go,” she announces over the music, not caring one bit that it’s obvious as to why.

She doesn’t wait for a reply, letting her legs carry her towards the exit as quickly as possible as tears burn her eyes. She bumps into someone in her haste and mumbles a disoriented sorry, sucking in a much needed breath as soon as she steps outside of the club.

The music gradually fades away as she starts down the sidewalk, tugging her jacket tighter around her frame when a chill rolls down her spine. She’s not even sure in which direction she’s going, set on hailing the first cab she finds.

“What the hell is your problem??”

Beca freezes at the familiar voice, swallowing around the forming lump in her throat before she turns around. She barely meets Chloe’s eyes. “I’m just tired, Chlo.”

“Bullshit,” Chloe spits out, a scoff flying past her lips as she shakes her head. Her typically warm eyes are bone-chilling icy. “You left the second he got here.”

Beca sighs heavily, her hands forming fists by her sides in an attempt to tame her growing irritation. “Yeah well, maybe I didn’t feel like being the third wheel. I thought it was just going to be you and I, tonight. But you two have been attached to the hip and all you can talk about is Chicago this, Chicago that.”

“Well I’m sorry if I enjoy his company,” Chloe fires back. “You know, the least you could do is be happy for me.”

“Oh great, the guilty card,” Beca says, eyes rolling skyward. She sucks in a sharp breath. “I can’t be happy for you, Chlo.”

Chloe staggers back as though Beca’s words slapped her in the face. “What?”

“I said, I can’t be happy for you,” Beca repeats, her tone rising along with her frustration.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Chloe asks, a mixture of anger, hurt and confusion surfacing in her features. “Why can’t you be happy for me? That’s what best friends are supposed to do, you know. I mean, are you even still my best friend? Because you haven’t been acting like one those past--”

“Because I’m in love with you, dumbass!” Beca finally blurts, a lot louder than necessary. Her declaration catches the attention of a few bypassers, but Beca is too focused on Chloe to care.

She watches as realization dawns in Chloe’s eyes, and all she can hear is her heart beating madly in her ears. She swallows, glancing down at the crack in the sidewalk. “And I’m the biggest idiot in the world,” she mumbles, roughly wiping at her cheeks when she feels a few tears rolling down her skin. “I’ll be out of the apartment by tomorrow.”

Beca is thankful Chloe doesn’t follow her when she turns around and resumes her journey home. She ends up walking all the way, too embarrassed to break down in a cab like in those stupid rom-coms. She texts Amy when she makes it back to ask if she can crash at her fancy apartment, fishing out her suitcase as soon as her friend agrees. Tears keep leaking out, and Beca wipes them away with her sleeve before she starts shoving her clothes into the suitcase, trying to ignore the way her heart aches.

A key slides into the lock just as she’s done packing. Beca straightens and hastily wipes her cheeks dry, even though she knows her bloodshot eyes will betray her.

“You’re really leaving,” Chloe murmurs, her voice barely audible.

Beca sniffles as she heaves her suitcase off the bed and sets it down. “Yep.”

“Why?”

Beca bites back a humorless laugh. “I don’t know, maybe because I’m not a masochist?” She deadpans. “Seeing you and Chicago together isn’t exactly fun.”

“We broke up.”

Beca’s breathing halts as she registers the words. Her jaw slacks. “What?”

Chloe clears her throat a little, taking a step closer. She’s fiddling with her keys, something she does when she gets shy, nervous or nervous, or excited. “Well, I broke up with him.”

“You did?” Beca croaks out.

Chloe nods, the corners of her lips upturning in a sheepish smile. “Because it’s always been you, dumbass.”

Beca’s lungs flood with oxygen, and her shoulders slump, releasing the tension at once. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Chloe echoes, raising an eyebrow as she takes another step.

Beca closes her eyes briefly, her head tilting as she frowns. “Sorry, I think my brain needs to be re-booted. Could you um, could you say that again?”

Chloe chuckles, finally closing the remaining distance between them. She cups Beca’s cheek and joins their lips in a soft, lingering kiss. Beca’s knees quake as a bunch of butterflies release in her belly, and she can’t quite believe this is really happening.

She licks her tingling lips when Chloe pulls away, feeling a bit dizzy. “Um, I’m not sure I quite got that one, either. Care for an encore?”

The first of many, many ones.

[sneezyminniejo]

Hii! Can I request a sickfic where Stray Kids are on tour in Japan and Hyunjin get a stomach bug? Thank you..

Here it is, hope you enjoy,

TW emeto

Hotel Mess

The Stray Kids members were currently in Japan for the last leg of their world tour. They had already done two concerts here and had one more scheduled for tonight and one for tomorrow night before heading back home. They were all still extremely excited and pumped for their concerts. Well all except for one member.

Hyunjin had woken up feeling like absolute shit. He had a headache, he felt both hot and cold, and his stomach was churning uncomfortably. He wasn't entirely sure how or where since he was really only ever around his fellow members, but it was clear he somehow caught a stomach bug.

Hyunjun knew that he needed to tell someone he was sick, but wasn't sure how to broach the topic. Mainly because Jisung's anxiety was flaring up a bit and he didn't want to make everyone more stressed.

However, Hyunjin didn't have to debate whether or not he should hide his illness, because as soon as he stood up he became extremely dizzy while his stomach lurched violently.

He did his best to stagger his way to the bathroom of his room, but didn't quite make it.

Before he could even reach the halfway mark to the bathroom, Hyunjun bent forward and gagged. A split second later a round of sick was making its appearance on the carpet of the hotel room. He dry heaved a couple of times after he finished puking then sat down next to the puddle, any energy he'd had previously, now depleted entirely.

Jisung, who had been in the bathroom brushing his teeth, had heard some kind of commotion coming from his roommate and fellow 2000 liner, but wasn't entirely sure what it was. He spit the toothpaste into the sink, rinsed his mouth, then left the bathroom to investigate.

What he found was Hyunjin sitting on the floor in between the two beds with a puddle of vomit next to him. He quickly hurried over to him and placed his hand on the older's forehead, not the slightest bit surprised to find him feverish.

"Jinnie, you feeling okay?" He asked his sick hyung. Hyunjin groaned while shaking his head while holding his abdomen. "Do you need help getting to the bathroom?" Jisung asked, not quite sure what all he could do, but gently helped Hyunjun to his feet when he nodded.

Jisung safely got Hyunjin situated in front of the toilet just in time to watch him begin puking again. Jisung watched his hyung empty the contents of his stomach for a good minute before helping him rest against the bathtub when he finished.

“Aish hyung, you aren’t in any condition for the concert tonight. I need to tell Chan hyung and figure out how to get the carpet cleaned.” Jisung was primarily thinking out loud, but Hyunjin heard every word and was in no condition to argue. As much as he’d like to argue about telling Chan he can’t perform, the room was spinning and there were two Jisungs. Hyunjin just wanted to go back to bed.

Jisung momentarily left the bathroom to go digging in his suitcase for the thermometer that he knew was in there. Chan always made sure that at least one member per rooming arrangement had one along with other items just in case. He quickly found it and scanned the other’s forehead. “Shit hyung, we need to get this lowered fast. Your fever is 103.2.” Jisung quickly turned on the faucet of the bathtub, making sure it was lukewarm and waited for it to fill up.

Jisung helped Hyunjin undress down to his boxers, then helped him into the tub. He then quickly left again to grab his phone and returned to the bathroom. When he got to the bathroom however, Hyunjin’s face somehow got paler and greener. Jisung rapidly grabbed the tiny trash can located near the toilet and held it under his hyung’s head.

Hyunjin gagged a couple of times before his head was basically thrust into the can as he dry heaved into it. After several moments of dry heaving, only a small stream of bile came out. Hyunjin leaned back when he was done and whimpered in discomfort. He then heard a phone ringing quickly followed by Jisug answering it.

“Yeah hyung, Jinnie is in zero condition for the concert tonight. He’s thrown up at least twice and he’s got a high fever.” Hyunjin turned to see that Jisung was talking on the phone.” Jisung sighed as he hung up the phone and turned back to Hyunjin.

“Chan hyung is having a manager talk with the front desk about getting us moved to a different room. You stay in the tub for a bit and I’ll make sure our suitcases are set for the move. Holler if you need me.” With that Jisung left the bathroom.

It only took a few minutes for Jisung to get everything put together and he returned grabbing the thermometer off the bathrom counter. He quickly scanned Hyunjin’s forehead again. “It’s a little bit lower hyung. It’s now 102.8. Let’s get you out of the tub and changed, the manager will be here shortly. The manager showed up and helped carry the bags while Jisung braced Hyunjin. He offered to carry the sick member, but Jisung adamantly refused not wanting to increase the chance of it spreading beyond him and Hyunjin. He just needed to convince Chan to let him sit out of the concert as well.

The duo got into the room and their manager told them that he called room service to bring up some soup. He then left to go buy some fever reducers on Jisung's request.

Jisung helped Hyunjun get settled on the bed nearest to the bathroom. "How do you feel hyung?" Jisung asked. "Like shit." Was all Hyunjin said. "I'm going to quick fill up the ice bucket. Do you think you'll be okay for a few minutes?" Hyunjin nodded and Jisung left the room with the bucket.

In the few minutes that Jisung was gone, the soup had arrived and was sitting on a cart outside the room. Jisung placed the ice bucket on the cart and wheeled into the room. He brought the bowl of soup over to the sick member then took the bucket to the bathroom to fill with water.

Hyunjin was a bit hesitant to eat the food. He wasn't sure how his body was going to tolerate anything, but also knew he needed to eat something. He began to eat slow bites of the soup as Jisung returned with a bucket of ice water and a washcloth.

Jisung sat on the bed next to Hyunjin and dipped the cloth in the bucket before wringing it out and placing it on the older's neck. Jisung then turned on the TV and began eating his own bowl of soup. The duo ate in relative silence, and by the time they finished Hyunjin was beginning to nod off.

Jisung quickly and quietly put the bowls back on the cart before getting back on the bed to cuddle with his sick hyung. He knew it wasn’t the smartest idea, but he knew that Hyunjin loved to cuddle when he wasn’t feeling good. Jisung also had a fairly strong immune system. He wasn’t sure when the last time he had last been genuinely sick with anything other than a minor cold, and those usually lasted like three days, so he wasn’t worried. Jisung fell asleep not too long after Hyunjin.

About an hour later, Hyunjin suddenly woke up a bit confused. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had woken up, but before he could ponder it any, he began throwing up all over the bed and his oldest dongsaeng.

Hyunjin felt like he couldn’t control himself at all. He could feel how his stomach contracted painfully as it pushed the bile and the soup from lunch up his throat. Which in turn triggered his gag reflex so he could properly expel whatever was making his stomach so angry.

Once he had finished puking, he was able to take note of what had happened and realized that he had puked all over his dongsaeng, who was sitting frozen on the bed and looked to be on the brink of tears. Hyunjin was about to start apologizing, but Jisung shot up and ran to the bathroom before he could. A few seconds later, Hyunjin could hear what sounded like Jisung puking.

“Sungie, are you okay?” Hyunjin called, guilty that his dongsaeng had evidently caught his stomach bug. He met with further retching around noises that sounded kind of like ‘I’m fine. A minute later, Jisung emerged from the bathroom, stripped down to his boxers.

“That did not feel good.” Jisung muttered as he dug through his suitcase for some clean clothes. He looked up to find Hyunjin looking extremely guilty. “What’s up hyung?” he asked somewhat cautiously. Hyunjin sniffled, “I got you sick.” Jisung chuckled at that.

“While I have to admit that puking so suddenly and hard like that did not feel good, and that technically you did cause the puking, I’m not sick.” Hyunjin’s face morphed from guilt and concern to confusion at that statement.

“I operate pretty well around vomit and people puking, but as soon as someone pukes on me, my body kind of freaks out and decides it needs to expel whatever as well. I promise I’m fine.” Jisung finished his explanation then began to strip the bed of the duvet, which caught the puke that hadn’t landed on his lap.

“I think you should take it easy tonight though Sung, just in case.” Jisung nodded in understanding and took his phone off the nightstand, calling Chan.

After a couple of rings, Chan picked up. “What’s up Sung, How’s Jinnie?” “About that hyung, Hyunjin threw up again, then threw up right after.” Chan sighed upon hearing this. “Alright, I’ll talk with the managers and the other members and see if we can manage the show with just six, or if we have to cancel or postpone tonight’s concert. We’ll discuss tomorrow’s concert tomorrow. Feel better you two.” Chan hung up shortly thereafter, leaving the two oldest 2000 liners to their own devices.

Jisung put the phone down and noticed the box of fever reducers he had completely forgotten about on the cart with the room service. He grabbed the thermometer, the medicine, and some crackers before going back over to Hyunjin. He scanned the older’s forehead with the thermometer. “The good news is your fever is still down a little at 102.8, but the bad news is it hasn’t gone down any more. Do you think you can stomach a few crackers and take some medicine?” Hyunjin nodded and took the crackers. After he ate the crackers he took the offered dose of medicine and slumped back against the pillow.

It was soon decided that it would be too difficult to rearrange the choreography from eight people to six on such short notice, so management issued a statement postponing the remaining two concerts for the following week. Thankfully the location they were performing in was free the following week, so it wasn’t too difficult to rearrange some things. Twitter and Bubble had been blowing up from concerned fans wishing the sick members ‘get well soon’.

During the week they now had off for recovery, Jisung made sure that no one else actually came into the room. He only opened the door to receive the food their manager had arranged, successfully keeping the stomach bug contained to his and Hyunjin’s hotel room.

Just as Jisung had told Hyunjin, he was absolutely fine. He had never developed a fever and only puked the one time, so it was fairly safe to say he hadn’t caught the virus.

Hyunjin on the other hand spent the first couple of days throwing up every few hours. Thankfully he was able to keep food down to some extent, so his fever was able to be kept at a manageable number. He stopped vomiting three days into the week, and his fever broke two days before the first rescheduled concert. Hyunjin went on vlive the day before the first concert to talk with Stay and assure them that he was feeling much better, but wouldn’t be dancing during the concert. Jisung also made an appearance and assured fans that no one else had gotten sick as they had both remained sequestered to their hotel room the entire time.

[bonelymonsterclub]

(1) Branded For Carnage

“No, no, no...” you moaned, desperately twisting the rusty knobs of your cramped shower.  The pipes groaned within the walls, water trickling from the shower head, then with an ominous rattle, the water stopped.  Again.  “Shit.”  You raked your fingers through your hair, grimacing at the built-up grease from a weekend of vegging on the couch and wishing for the sweet embrace of death.  Now the weekend was over, and in little over an hour, you were to begin your new job at a bar-slash-restaurant called “Grillby's”; it was a monster-run establishment, but over the five months since monsters were freed from beneath the mountain, it was quickly becoming one of the most popular eateries in Ebott City.  You wanted to make a good first impression, and you certainly couldn't do that if you showed up looking like Death himself had personally paid you a visit, not to mention your probably smelled like sweat and junk food.  “Shit!”

You paced the limited width of the room, biting at your thumbnail, before you finally slumped against the sink and succumbed to your fate: you'd have to suck up your pride and ask one of the neighbors to take pity on you and let you clean up in their bathroom.  That wouldn't normally have been a problem, except you'd only been existing in your apartment for about two and a half weeks and, being so busy between job-hunting and unpacking your shit, you hadn't bothered to introduce yourself to anyone.

What a great first impression I'll be making, you thought sarcastically as you finally left the bathroom, your clothes for the day tossed over your arm.  You'd never had to do a walk of shame, but you imagined that it was something similar to how you felt as you exited your apartment and dragged your feet until you were in front of your neighbor's door.  You knocked lightly on the worn wood and popped your knuckles as you waited.  Thumping footsteps sounded from within and when the door swung open, you looked up... and up.  Before you stood a monster made of bone and pure spite, if the way he was glaring at you was any indication.  He was dressed in really tight-looking black pants, a long-sleeved maroon shirt, and curiously enough, despite it being the beginning of summer, a tattered red scarf and a pair of red gloves.

“Human,” he growled, crossing his arms.  “What Reason Could You Possibly Have For Interrupting The Illustrious Papyrus' Morning Routine?”

You swallowed thickly.  Now, you had no problem with monsters, considering you'd be working under one for the foreseeable future, but this had to be the most intimidating one you'd ever laid your eyes on – the deep scars across his eye socket enhanced his terrifying appearance.  Your mind couldn't help but compare him to the image humans held of the Grim Reaper.

“I See.  I Should've Known That A Mere Human Would Be Struck Speechless In My Awesome Presence,” he sighed, sounding greatly put upon.

“N- no!” you finally managed to stammer.  “That's not it.  Sorry, um... Papyrus, was it?  I'm one of your neighbors and my shower isn't working, so I was hoping I could possibly use yours?  It'll be quick; ten minutes at the most.”

Papyrus stared at you inscrutably for a moment before scoffing.  “Nice Try, Human.  You've Underestimated My Brilliance.  I Am Not Foolish Enough To Allow You To Infiltrate My Home So You Know The Layout To Raid It Later.”

You gaped at him in disbelief for a moment.  Is he serious?  “But-”

“ENOUGH!”  You jumped.  “Scurry Back To Whatever Hole You Crawled Out Of And See To It That You Don't Pester Me Again.”  He appeared to deem the conversation finished after that because, without giving you a chance to speak further, he stepped back and slammed the door in your face.

You bit your lip when you heard another door somewhere behind you click shut softly.  Papyrus' words were probably heard by all of the occupants of your floor – the whole apartment building, perhaps, considering your apparently lackluster luck.  You weren't sure you wanted to take a chance with anyone else after that – perhaps you could call up your sister, but though she didn't live very far, the travel time in addition to your shower would likely make you late.  Before you could slunk off to hide away in your apartment and try to wash up with the kitchen sink, the door in front of you swung open again, making you flinch.

“I- I was just going!”  you yelped; however, it wasn't Papyrus who was staring you down this time, but another skeleton who appeared quite a bit shorter, rounder, and all-together too tired.

Clad in a red turtleneck, black shorts, and fuzzy pink slippers, this new skeleton didn't seem quite as threatening as Papyrus.  He was a few inches shorter than you and had prominent fangs on display; he also had a scar, though it was on the top of his skull rather than directly on his face.  However, it wasn't his appearance that sent a chill down your spine.  This skeleton had a presence that not even Papyrus had managed, and it made you all the more nervous when he apparently finished his silent assessment of you and made eye contact.  (Well, you thought he was making eye contact; his eye sockets were as empty as Papyrus'.)

“*come on in,” he said, stepping aside slightly.

Whatever you expected him to say, it wasn't that, and you gaped at him for a moment.  His brow furrowed after a moment and your panic began anew, thinking you'd offended him, but he just opened the door wider.

“*well?  you wanted t’ take a shower, didn't ya?”  His mouth was set in a permanent grin, but somehow, you could've sworn it grew a little bigger as he teased, “*we ain't gonna bite, sweetheart.”

You grew flustered and shuffled past him when he waved you through the doorway.  You peered around meekly as he nudged the door shut.  The layout wasn't much different from your apartment, though they had a lot more stuff cluttering the floor.

“SANS!”

You would forever deny the startled squeak that escaped you when Papyrus barged out of the kitchen area.  He glared at you so hard that you thought you might combust on the spot.

“Sans,” he repeated in a quieter, much eerier tone.  “What, Exactly, Is That Human Doing In Our Home?”

“*they're gonna use our shower,” the shorter skeleton – Sans – replied casually.  “*geez, paps.  ya realize that makin' a good first impression ain't just not killin' someone on the spot anymore.  ya gotta show some kindness.  ‘member?”

“But Not Killing Them On The Spot Is A Kindness!”  Papyrus insisted.

“*ya wanna take that up with the kid?”

Somehow that seemed to mellow Papyrus out.  He returned his gaze to you and sighed heavily.  “My... Apologies, Human,” he said lowly through clenched teeth.  “Please, Feel Free To Put Our Shower To Good Use.  Heaven Knows That Sans Doesn't.”

Despite how... forced the apology sounded, it sort of felt like he was attempting to joke around at the end.

“Thank you so much!”  You could've cried with relief.  “I promise I'll be out of your way as soon as possible.”

Was it you or were Papyrus' cheeks turning red?  “See To It That You Do.  Sans, Breakfast Is Waiting.”

Sans pointed out the bathroom to you – though you could've located it yourself, seeing as their apartment layout was similar to yours, you were grateful for his help – and you hurried into it, locking the door behind you for good measure.  You set your work clothes on the counter, turned the shower on as hot as it would go, then stripped and hopped in.  There weren't any cleaning products you could use – just a large bottle of Mettaton's Patented Bone Bleach, which you were sure wasn't made for humans –, but you weren't too concerned.  You had post-shower products you could put in your hair and deodorant, so you scrubbed yourself down thoroughly before getting out.  It was only after you shut off the shower and stepped out that you realized that you hadn't even checked to see if there were any towels, but you saw a fluffy white one folded and set on the other side of the sink from your clothes.  You were pretty sure there hadn't been one when you walked into the bathroom, but considering that you locked the door, it wasn't like your hosts could've snuck in and set it there.  You marked it down as you being oblivious to it on your way in and set to drying yourself off before redressing.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, dirty clothes bundled under one arm, you almost collided with Papyrus’ rib cage.  You shuffled back enough to look up at him, though he stubbornly refused to meet your gaze, glaring a hole through the door behind you.

“Human, Allow Me To Make Up For My Discourteous Manners By Treating You To Breakfast.”

He gestured towards the kitchen, where you could see Sans sitting at a high-set table, groggily shoveling spoonfuls of red mush into his mouth.

“There’s really no need,” you protested.

“I Insist.”

You had a feeling you weren’t going to win this argument, especially with the way he was now scowling at you.  That’s how you found yourself seated at the table, next to Sans and across from Papyrus, with that aforementioned red mush piled onto a plate in front of you.

“Can I ask what this is?”  You prodded at the paste with your fork, thrown off by its jello-like consistency.

Papyrus scoffed as he dug into a bowl of oatmeal with dinosaur eggs.  “Honestly, You’ve No Eye For The Culinary Arts.  It’s Lasagna, My Personal Recipe!”

You stared blankly at the heap of… lasagna on your plate and wondered if it was even safe to consume.  But Sans was eating it with no problem - he’d even gone for seconds -, so it couldn’t be poisoned at the very least.  You briefly met Papyrus’ expectant stare, then scooped up a forkful of the stuff and shoved it into your mouth before you could second guess your decision.  As soon as the slop touched your tongue, you had to clamp your jaws together tightly to fight off your gag reflex.  It took everything you had to not let your face scrunch up in response to the indescribable flavor.  You somehow managed to choke it, and the next several forkfuls, down, sending Sans a grateful look when he slid his half-full glass of milk over to you, and you took a swig before daring to look Papyrus in the eyes again.  Sans had finished his meal at this point and was slumped over the table, his face buried in his arms, but you could somehow feel the threatening expectations he held for your next words.

“It… was great, Papyrus,” you said, offering him a smile.  “Nearly as great as you.”

Sans began to snore as Papyrus sat ramrod straight, looking proud - and was that a hint of relief you saw there?

“W- Well Of Course It Was!” he boasted.  “It Is The Only Meal I Learned To Cook Back In Snowdin.”

The only meal?  No wonder Sans could handle it without a problem; his poor taste buds had probably been rotted away from Papyrus’ concoction.  (Did skeletons even have taste buds?  Did they even have tongues?)

You dared to tread into unstable territory.  “This is the only meal you know?  But surely, with your cooking prowess, you’d have more in your repertoire.”

Papyrus sputtered and though he didn’t look up, Sans’ snoring ceased.  The taller skeleton’s face was turning all kinds of red and you knew you had to conclude this quickly.

“Oh, I have an idea!”  you announced with a gleeful clap of your hands, as if a thought was just coming to mind.  “I happen to have went to culinary school for a time, and I know how to make all sorts of food.  Let’s make a deal, Papyrus.  In exchange for me using your shower until mine gets fixed, how about I teach you some recipes I know?”

Papyrus mulled over this - visibly putting a hand to his chin and humming aloud -, then seemed to come to a decision with a firm nod.  He stood from his chair and leaned over the table to offer a gloved hand to you.

“You Have Yourself A Deal, Human.”

You stood as well, shaking his hand and altogether relieved your risk would be well-rewarded in exchange for something you genuinely enjoyed doing.  Your phone began buzzing insistently in your pocket - your alarm alerting you to head for Grillby’s now or you’d be late - and you gathered your clothes once more from where you’d set them beside your seat.

“I have to go now,” you said.  Papyrus’ eyes darted to your uncleared plate with barely disguised disappointment and though you knew you’d probably regret it later, you stole another large forkful of food.  It was worth it to see the spark of surprise and delight on the intimidating skeleton’s face.  “I’ll come see you later to set up our dates.  Thanks for breakfast!”

“D- DATES!?”  Papyrus’ shriek exploded behind you as you escaped their apartment to beeline to yours to deposit your clothes and slap on some deodorant before you headed out.

[spartanguard]

even death won’t part us now (2/?)

Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires’ strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)

rated M | part 1 | AO3 | 3.9k words

A/N: I was going to post this update yesterday but *life*. We really get into the story, though—I hope you enjoy it! Thanks again to @optomisticgirl​ for being an awesome beta; to @thesschesthair​ for her amazing art; and to @kmomof4​ and @cssns​ for putting this event on and pushing me to continue this story!

say what you will about Glee, but Darren Criss’s version of this song is amazing

part two— the air is humming, and something great is coming...

2020

The sun was setting on another day, just like it had for the last 5000-plus. At least, Emma figured the number was up there; she’d stopped counting around day 4,588. Which was really an absurdly long time to count considering her days were no longer numbered, but old habits died hard, even if she never would.

She’d accepted that fact somewhere around day 4,040, which ironically was her 40th birthday. But instead of dealing with gray hairs and wrinkles and aching joints, she was still in her 28-year-old body, fairly spry and with exactly one white hair blended into her blonde. (Not that she could see it in the mirror anymore—or, you know, anything—but she knew it was there and that was all that mattered.)

She knew she’d finally settled into her new life when she was looking forward to drinking the deer blood she had at home and not longing for chocolate cake like she had the past several birthdays. Well, she still wished she could eat it—real food didn’t digest properly anymore—but the blood sounded just as good.

“It probably took me about that long to come to terms with it, too. Longer for your dad,” her mom had told her about the revelation.

That had been another epiphany: that the kindly undead couple she’d somehow ended up on the doorstep of—David and Snow Nolan—were her parents. Her actual birth parents. You know, the ones she’d been looking for her entire mortal life? (Had once dreamed would save her from one shitty foster home after another until she finally gave up hope, and instead turned to counting the days until she moved again?)

As it turned out, they’d been attacked and turned shortly after she’d been born—which apparently had been in a backwoods cottage in Maine that her grandparents had owned—and were taking her to the hospital for checkup after the fact. They didn’t trust themselves to face their new reality while also in charge of an infant (an infant with delicious-smelling blood, no less—creepy, but true) and so finished the journey to the hospital, but left her there alone.

Coming to terms with that had taken 1,187 days. There would have been lots of tears, were any of them able to cry; but instead, there was just a lot of emotion, which Emma had never dealt well with. But she was getting better. Who knew the kind of personal growth one could achieve after death? And it was a good lesson in how to handle (or not handle) things should the son she herself gave up ever manage to track her down.

(She looked—once, before she was turned. All she’d been able to find out was that he ended up in the foster system, too. She just hoped he was having a better time of it than she did. Well, had—he’d be an adult by now, wouldn’t he? Damn.)

So. Anyways. Sunset. Which Emma was watching from the roof of their building, which had become something of a refuge for her over the past 15 years. She had her own bedroom, but after so long on her own, being an adult suddenly under the same roof as her parents (who, despite being physically younger than her, still acted like her parents) was a bit stifling at times.

It wasn’t much, but it was her own space: she’d cobbled together a tent with some reclaimed tarps, filled with gently-used cushions, and on nice nights, would bring out a sleeping bag and let the lights and sounds of the city wash over her. It had been overwhelming at first—she kind of envied that her parents only had to deal with forest smells when they turned, and not the incredible everything of New York—but it had dulled over time, which she probably should have expected; it had only taken her a week or so to get used to the smell the first time, right?

That’s to say—the overwhelmingness did; she learned to tune things out and let them fall to the background. But her senses themselves were the sharpest they’d ever been, consequently making her even better at her job than she’d been pre-death. Having ethereal beauty compared to a mere mortal easily drew in most of her targets; her preternatural sight, hearing, and strength made it pretty simple to track them down and subdue them (she loved it when they ran); and she’d found out they were extra willing to comply with her demands when they were down a bit of blood. (It probably was connected to the whole your-sire-can-control-you thing but it didn’t last once they’d recovered from the blood loss and it kept her from murdering random ne'er-do-wells on the street; the lower a body count a vampire kept, the better.)

On a normal night, she’d be getting ready to catch another skip: either gussying up for a honeytrap, revving up her old Bug for a stakeout, or trying to track them down on Tinder while binging Netflix in the background (they kept up on technology...for the most part; she still wasn’t sure what a TikTok was). One thing a lot of the stories leave out is that it takes a long time to build up the kind of wealth and decadence you see with old vampires; even Emma’s parents still had to work, 40-odd years into this thing (David was an after-hours vet and Snow taught night school) and their townhouse was not rent-controlled. 

Of all the vampire media out there, their existence was far more What We Do In The Shadows than Twilight.

(Emma had always preferred comedy anyways.)

God, she was really getting sidetracked tonight. Anyways. No one was working because it was the anniversary of her being turned—her rebirthday, so to speak—and her mom was very much Leslie Knope when it came to anniversaries, but especially this one, given that it marked them finally coming together as a family.

That, and they were all going to get drunk.

“My class is a bunch of assholes this semester—I need this,” Snow had gushed earlier that week, grading papers behind their blackout curtains. (Vampires didn’t sparkle, thank god—at least, not without the help of glitter—but they were dangerously susceptible to sunburns, so the whole pale thing was accurate.) “And David—you’ve worked every weekend the last month; they can definitely operate without you for one night.”

“I put in for it a month ago, dear,” he tutted as he gathered the laundry, placing a kiss on her cheek as he went. 

They were definitely one of those nauseatingly cute couples, so it was a good thing Emma’s gag reflex was dormant. And, though she’d never admit it, she was a bit jealous that they’d been able to find—and keep—something that had evaded her her entire mortal life, and likely would for her afterlife, too.

Every now and then, a flash of blue eyes blinked into her vision; the same pair she’d seen on the night she transitioned. She still wasn’t sure they were real, and her parents genuinely knew nothing when she’d asked, so she never did again. The fact that she hadn’t ever seen them again, despite knowing just about all the vampires in this part of town (for better or worse), had her pretty convinced it was a mania-induced hallucination. But damn, was it a good one.

“Emma, are you ready?” Snow’s voice pulled Emma from her daydreams (nightdreams?). “It’s time to go,” she shouted—not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but enough for Emma to hear.

“Coming,” she replied, then took one last glance at the night sky. Maybe there was something different in the stars? She didn’t know; she just had this feeling that something was going to change tonight. 

She brushed her hands down the skirt of her light pink dress; it wasn’t what she’d usually wear, but since this wasn’t her typical honey trap, she’d borrowed a dress from Snow. It was definitely sweeter than her taste, with its pastel color and A-line skirt, but just cut low enough to not be demure. Her high ponytail fell somewhere in between. Her fangs would probably take it in another direction, but it’s not like she was going to pose for photos—she only just showed up in those.

In a moment, she was back in the house, grabbing her purse and joining her parents (who equally straddled the line of sweet and seductive; it was a vampire thing). 

Out of nowhere, a flash of light blinded her. “Seriously?” she cursed, blinking away the temporary blindness, only to see her mother holding a Polaroid camera. That was the one thing that could document them; thank god the hipsters over in Greenwich Village had clung to them.

Snow just grinned and shook the picture while David lectured, “It’s not like we got to see you off to prom or anything.”

“Yeah, but are you going to do this every year?”

“Yes,” Snow stated matter-of-factly, smiling at the photo before setting it aside. “Now come on; there’s a bloody mary calling my name.”

“Where are we going?” 

“That new underground club at 43rd and 10th. Figured we should try it, and it should be trouble-free.”

‘Trouble’ meaning the Aurum coven. Emma still hadn’t figured out the reason for this centuries-long blood feud, but she did know that she’d been dragged in on the side of Coroza, under a woman named Cora; turns out Walsh had been one of her cronies. And it normally wouldn’t affect her, save for the fact that her parents were turned by someone in Aurum (led by the mysteriously mononymed Gold) and that had dangerous implications, not to mention the rising tensions between the two groups as they began to encroach on each other (and each other’s feeding grounds) on the Upper West Side. 

“You sure? That’s awfully close.” 43rd had become an arbitrary border between the two factions, and there had been more than a few skirmishes while people were on the prowl for a midnight snack. She’d had a couple close calls of her own while tracking down skips in the part of town, but had somehow managed to evade notice.

“It’s on our side of the street,” her mom shrugged in response and grabbed her purse.

(Why one side couldn’t just move to another part of town, Emma didn’t know, but she was definitely aware of how stubborn vampires could be. And she wasn’t going to move; there’s no way they’d be able to get a place like this anywhere else for a reasonable price.)

She’d hardly gotten out the door when a familiar scent caught her nose—and not necessarily a welcome one: Graham.

“Uh, hi, Emma,” he stammered, while giving her a shy yet adorable grin.

“Hey,” she answered back, not meeting his eyes—and instead finding Snow’s, who was intently studying the sky. Snow had been trying to get the two of them together for at least 10 years, and while Graham was a great guy, a good friend, and handsome to boot, Emma had never been attracted to him like that. A fact that seemed to keep falling silent on Snow’s ears despite her enhanced hearing. 

(His blue eyes were pretty, but they weren’t the pair that kept haunting her.)

Given the sudden awkwardness that settled over the group—because that was apparently something you had to deal with whether you were dead or alive—it was up to Emma to break it. Not that she had any skill in that department.

“Alright, uh, let’s go,” she said with little confidence, and set off towards the club, with the others falling in behind her; Graham stayed close and if she wasn’t mistaken, attempted to put an arm around her, but she walked a bit faster to avoid his reach. The bar was only a few blocks away, which they could normally cover in less than a minute, but they had decided to blend in with the crowd tonight; it was nice to be normal every now and then.

But still—every now and then, the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck rose, and it had nothing to do with Graham’s proximity. Something was coming; she just didn’t know what. 

That wasn’t for her to worry about tonight, though. Tonight was for fun and drinks and dancing. And once they got to the darkly-lit club, that’s what she focused on for the next hour or so—

—Until her gaze locked with the blue eyes from her dreams.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian took a deep breath as soon as he exited the jetway—and immediately regretted it. He didn’t know why he expected LaGuardia to have changed at all in the past 15 years. Despite all the reconstruction, it still smelled the same: of old coffee, questionable sushi, and stale humans. (The latter was a double-edged sword: despite eating shortly before he got to Heathrow, there had been a few delays before takeoff and he was feeling rather peckish now, although nothing here seemed appetizing. Which was probably something he had in common with mortals at the moment.)

He didn’t know why he’d assumed that he might have been routed through JFK this time—why would he think Gold would care enough to properly welcome home his best operative from abroad after 15 years?—but he tried to push that ire to the back of his mind as he summoned an Uber.

At least the delays meant he landed just as the sun was setting; his previous plan had been to hang around the terminal until dusk, so at least this prevented any awkward encounters with some overtalkative Midwesterner on their way back to Cleveland. Signs pointed him to the ride share lot, and a gentleman named Marco was waiting to take him home.

On the ride into the city, he marveled at how New York always seemed like a living, breathing thing, constantly evolving and changing. He could still sharply remember the dusty bustle of the town more than 200 years ago, the sound of carriages running over dirt and cobbled streets. He’d watched as the city grew, sprawling both across and beyond the Manhattan island and up into the sky, the smell of horses and people and sweat replaced by the acrid stench of exhaust (although, even his extra-sensitive nose had gotten used to it in short order). 

So it was both surprising and not to see how much the city had changed even in the last 15 years, most noticeably in the skyline: the Twin Towers were still fresh in everyone’s memory when he’d left, so to see the new One World Trade Center in their place was a bit jarring. But the sun still glinted golden off the skyscrapers the same way; pedestrians still hardly waited for the crossing signals to give the okay to go; and though he wasn’t in a yellow cab, a language barrier still lay between him and his driver. 

Cash tips were understandable to all, though, which Killian handed over once they’d arrived at his apartment building on 34th—the Chelsea side. He’d owned his flat since the building was constructed, which was fairly impressive, but did require him to occasionally change the name on the paperwork lest anyone notice anything suspicious. 

(Someone had figured out at some point that it was helpful to have an ally in both the Social Security office and the DMV; Archie and Jefferson traded off every 20 years or so in order to help create revolving identities for the members of the vampire community. The name on his ID at the moment was Kyle Johnson, and during the past 100 or so years since he’d been required to have one, he’d also been Killian James, Ian Joseph, and—though he had to admit, he’d picked this one just to see if he could get away with it—James Hook.)

And thankfully, he’d had a reliable roommate for the past 80 years. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out after braving the still-shaky lift to the top floor.

“About bloody time,” Robin called back from the couch. “You know I had dinner ready for you before you left?”

“Ha,” Killian answered. “I’d hate to see what that looks like after all this time.”

“Oh, I let him go. And good thing, too—he ended up writing Hamilton.”

Killian had barely poked his head into his musty bedroom before he returned to the living room. “You didn’t actually have Lin-Manuel Miranda in here, did you?” To most people’s surprise, Killian was a bit of a theater nerd; the West End was great, but he was looking forward to catching up on Broadway again. 

“No. But maybe that’s a good strategy if we want to get tickets.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

His stomach grumbled in agreement.

Robin chuckled. “There’s a bottle in the fridge you can have; figured you’d be hungry when you got back.”

Killian tossed his luggage in his room and emerged again. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Maybe a few times over the past several decades.”

He downed the bottle quickly; the black blood market never gave the best stuff—considering the type of mortals who would be willing to sell their blood for money and didn’t qualify to sell plasma—but it hit the spot in a pinch, and every now and then had something good. This definitely wasn’t, but it sated his thirst long enough to take a shower and wash the airplane off of him.

As he stared at the fogged mirror with nothing looking back at him, rubbing his palm over his permanently well-trimmed scruff, he realized he hadn’t yet checked in with Gold. Even if he’d spent the last decade-plus doing the man’s bidding from abroad, it was still easy to forget about him.

Well, mostly—until he glanced back down at his blunted left wrist. Then it just brought ancient memories to the surface, as fresh as the day they’d happened, no matter how many centuries had intervened.

Which reminded him: he was still missing something. He shot off a quick missive to Gold as he pulled some clothes out of his depressingly dated closet (having left anything more modern in a consignment shop in London), managing to put together something vaguely timeless. But before he dressed, he turned his attention on the nightstand drawer.

He slowly pulled it open, though he knew what would be inside: his hook, as sturdy and sharp as ever, with its well-worn leather brace. Sure, he had a fairly modern prosthetic hand—one that TSA didn’t mind so much—but the hook had come first, and was definitely his preferred artificial appendage. He hadn’t meant to go so long without it, but then again, he hadn’t expected his London assignment to take so long. 

(Although, 15 years to him was roughly the same as 2 or 3 to the average mortal.)

Slipping on the soft leather was like greeting an old friend (well, another one, albeit he’d known this one longer than Robin). And snapping in the hook settled a part of him that he hadn’t realized had been adrift all these years. It didn’t fully still the odd sense of anticipation he’d had ever since he landed, but he definitely felt more at ease.

With that settled, he finished dressing and then headed back to the living room and flopped on the sofa next to Robin. “When did we get a new couch?” he asked indignantly, inspecting the unfamiliar upholstery.

“As soon as you left.”

“And what was so wrong with the previous one?”

“It was from the 70s! It was hideous and uncomfortable and you know it.”

Killian could only sigh; Robin was completely right. 

“Anyways,” Robin continued. “We’ve plenty of time to argue about furniture but very little to decide what we’re doing tonight.”

“Why? What’s tonight?”

“You arrive back in North America for the first time in a decade and a half and you think that’s not a reason to celebrate?”

“Well, I was in Toronto a few years ago.”

“Still the Commonwealth. Doesn’t count. What do you want to do? There are quite a few people anxious to see you.” 

Well that’s good for them, he thought, but he wasn’t so sure of the same. The time away in the UK had definitely made him reconsider some of his connections back here in the States; getting away from the drama with Coroza had made him realize how petty he found it all. Though he’d never be completely extricated given that Gold was his sire, he’d definitely be alright with staying distant from the other frivolous disputes.

(And after spending a bit too much time in Brighton—particularly with some headstones bearing the name Jones and some rather divy taverns that were still somehow open all these centuries later—he wished more than ever to be free of Gold’s influence. Alas.)

He supposed he could placate them for one night, though; it’s not like he was going to sleep anyway. “Are there any new clubs to check out?”

“For you—plenty. For all of us...aye, there’s one that’s just opened up about...10 blocks away? Ish?”

“In which direction?”

“Up, but kind of midtown so it should be in the clear.” Meaning no one from Coroza would be there.

“Sounds fine, then,” he replied; after so many years, every club started to feel the same, but he was willing to give it a shot.  

It wasn’t long before he found himself dressed in a waistcoat and slacks that were trendy a decade ago, hoping his hair was styled appropriately (he stopped caring about 130 years ago), and waiting outside the apartment building of Robin’s girlfriend Regina.

“Jones, it’s the 21st century; why do you still have a fish hook on the end of that arm?” she greeted when she emerged from the tower, with a young vampire behind her. 

“It’s nice to see you too, Regina,” he tossed back. They’d known each other for well over a couple hundred years and this was just how they communicated. Nodding at the young man, he continued, “Who’s this?”

“This is Henry; he’s new.” The statement was matter-of-fact enough that Killian knew she wouldn’t say anything else. But he seemed friendly, albeit nervous, and Gold never complained about new vampires on their side—just Coroza.

It didn't take much for him to immediately think of Emma. His thoughts had drifted to her more than he cared to admit over the past years, wondering if she’d acclimated or if she’d burned out. It was definitely odd that such a brief encounter had left such a lasting impression, but at the same time, it had taken him well over 250 years to get over his first love; he was a romantic at heart, even if that heart no longer beat. 

He of course said nothing about it as they continued on; if no one had discovered what he’d done that night by now, he was content to leave it that way. There were other ways of him finding out if she was still around, such as—

—Such as the green eyes staring at him from the other side of the club, barely a minute after he’d entered it, freezing him in place.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading, friends! let me know if you want/don’t want a tag! @kat2609​ @xpumpkindumplingx​ @shipsxahoy​ @amortentia-on-the-rocks​ @mryddinwilt​ @cocohook38​ @annytecture​ @shireness-says​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @distant-rose​ @wellhellotragic​ @welllpthisishappening​ @let-it-raines​ @pirateherokillian​ @bleebug​ @its-imperator-furiosa​ @fergus80​ @killianmesmalls​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @ineffablecolors​ @laschatzi​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate​ @nfbagelperson​ @stubblesandwich​​ @lenfaz​ @phiralovesloki​ @athenascarlet​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @snowbellewells​ @idristardis​ @scientificapricot​ @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook​ @lfh1226-linda​

[ohhellnowhy]

Happy Birthday, Sammy.

In honour of Sam Winchester’s birthday, I decided to write some smut for him. Thought I’d start off my blog with a lil present. Plz be nice, it’s only my first smut, and constructive criticism and comments are always welcomed! Go for a request if you want one. I’ve got a couple more posts planned but if y’all request something I’m more likely to write!

Please reblog with credit and don’t repost without my permission onto other sites. The AO3 post: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993437

Sam x Reader: smut, swearing, slightly Dom!Sam, restraints.

I woke up slightly groggily next to Sam. It was crazy sometimes, how he was so warm, despite me being on the other side of the bed and barely touching him. But what was a little strange was waking up next to him. Usually, Sam would’ve been up and out for his run by now, maybe even back by the time I’d awoken, but Sam, Dean and I had been out for a relatively taxing hunt and drove back to the bunker more or less immediately after getting the job done. So Sam was particularly sleepy today and wouldn’t go on a run until later. 

Glancing at the time, I saw it was 09:03. A strange time for me to be up and Sam not to be. Then the realisation dawned. Today was May 2nd; Sam’s birthday. I figured my subconscious must have made me wake up earlier so I could put my plans into action. Oh, and boy, did I have plans.

Part 1: Birthday wake-up blowjob.

Smirking almost evilly, I slowly peeled back the covers from the both of us and positioned myself just next to his crotch. I then palmed his cock through his boxers, noticing the morning wood that was slightly growing beforehand, whilst slowly edging the underwear down. Sam groaned above me, but not waking up yet. Once the boxers were down enough, I started softly stroking him enough for him to get harder, but only slowly so he wouldn’t wake up before the best bit. Sam was still making some happy noises, now a little bit louder and complimented by a little bit of squirming. 

It was the perfect time to engulf his cock with my mouth, and Sam shot awake with a deep groan. “Ah, SHIT, (Y/N). That’s a wonderful wake up call.” I looked back up at him and hollowed my cheeks, sucking with earnest. I bobbed my head up and down his length, drawing stifled groans from the glorious, messy man above me. I flicked my tongue over the head of his dick, making him thrust up into my mouth which consequently made me gag. Trying to suppress the reflex, I took him down further into my throat. “Oh, God, (Y/N), I’m gonna-” With the obvious statement he was making, I cupped his balls and circled his cock with my tongue, swallowing around him as he came. Once I swallowed all his cum, I sat back up to give him a quick peck on the lips.

“Happy Birthday, Sammy.” Once he got his breath together, he actually formulated a coherent response. “Oh, yeah. I sorta forgot about that.”

“How do you forget your own birthday?” I questioned, looking at him incredulously. “Well, we never really celebrated birthdays.” He shrugged. “I guess there always seemed to be more important things to focus on.”

“And that attitude is why I’m making your birthdays more important to you. They’re good milestones and an excuse to have fun. Remember Dean’s birthday this year? Wasn’t it fun to just get away from hunting a little bit and enjoy quality time?” He sighed. admitting defeat. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” We then sat and just held each other for a bit, talking about just whatever we wanted for an hour or two. “Thank you for the wake up by the way. We need to have morning sex more often.”

“I totally agree with you. We don’t do it nearly enough - barely ever.” With that, he captured my lips with his, tenderly and sloppily making out. He started to grab my ass, trying to pull my shorts down but I cut him off. “Nuh-uh. We’ve got other plans today. Why don’t you go for your run first?” He whined, trying to give me the puppy dog eyes but I resisted. “Nope. You want me to get you anything from the kitchen before you go out?” Sam sighed, knowing that once I knew for certain I was going to do something, I wasn’t ever giving up. “Can I get an apple and a bottle of water please?”

“Sure thing.” I smirked, getting out of bed and walking to the kitchen to retrieve the requested items. Dean was also in the kitchen, cleaning up the dishes from breakfast. “Hey, Dean, Sam’s off out for his run - we’ve got to start now.” With that, he strode out of the kitchen to get Jack and Cas for the preparation. I grabbed the apple and a bottle of water from the fridge - Sam always had cold bottles of water kept in the fridge for quickness - and met Sam on his way out. “Thanks, Babe.” He said, giving me a quick kiss before heading out.

It was time for Part 2: Just a Small Birthday Party

Once the rest were assembled in the kitchen, I set out tasks. “Dean and Cas - you’re in charge of the decorations. We need some in here and around the map room. Jack - we’re gonna do the cake. Decorations are in my old room. Go.”

Dean and Cas scurried off, realising they were time limited. Jack got the ingredients out and measured them whilst I got the utensils and the like out and started preparing. Jack was watching my baking intently, clearly wanting to learn something as interesting and delicious as this. I narrated what I was doing, with reasons as to why with my limited knowledge. I wasn’t the best baker in the world, but every now and then I did something that surprised the Winchesters. Soon, the cake was in the oven, and Dean and Cas were already pretty much finished in all the rooms. Jack and I cleaned up the baking mess (complete with licking the spare batter off the spoons and whisks) and started preparing the decorations for the cake and making other foods. Dean was cooking gourmet burgers and homemade chips - he actually had quite the affinity for cooking and had more time to perfect it once they’d moved into the bunker.

Just as Jack and I were about to decorate the cake, Cas came rushing in to tell us he heard one of the garage doors closing, meaning Sam must be back. I told Cas to take over what I was doing with Jack whilst I distracted Sam for just a little while longer until we were ready. Coming into our shared bedroom to see Sam stripping out of his workout clothes, I tempted him with the prospect of us showering together and another blowjob. He took the bait and we very much enjoyed the bunker’s long-lasting hot water and stable water pressure. 

Once we were cleaned up, I noticed Dean had shot me a text saying they were ready. “Hey, Sam, I think Dean’s cooking those nice burgers we get from the butcher’s - you up for food?” Hearing his stomach grumble, he shot me a look that said it all.

A little nervous, Sam and I wandered towards the kitchen. Turning on the lights, which he seemed confused at as to why they were off, Jack, Cas and Dean stood up to shout “SURPRISE!” along with me behind him. Jack and Dean joking pulled some party poppers as Sam took in some decorations. A banner that stated “Happy Birthday!” In a surprisingly nice, simple colour was strung above the table, with a few more obnoxiously stereotypical balloons in one corner and some presents wrapped near them. “Aw, thanks guys! You didn’t have to do this for me.” Dean spoke first, joking that his little brother was “-getting older by the minute so they had to stave off the grumpiness as long as possible.” He also revealed the burgers he was cooking with an assortment of sides and fillings available. We all served up our lunches and cracked open a beer each. 

As we ate lunch, we talked about all sorts; Dean’s surprisingly good cooking, Cas eating on a rare occasion, retelling old stories and teasing at embarrassing moments - we were all content and having a good time. Jack and I dumped the dishes in the sink to tend to later as we brought out the cake and Jack lit all the candles for us. He cut the lights as I carried the cake to the table and decided not to sing happy birthday as only Dean and I knew the song and it would only be awkward otherwise. “Make a wish!” I said as Sam blew out his candles, Cas then questioning these strange human customs moments later. Sam cut some cake for us all and the others appreciated my baking skills. 

“Okay, time for presents!” Dean announced, taking the whole pile of gifts and dumping them on the table just as Cas cleaned the rest of the plates away. The first was from Cas - neatly wrapped were some old lore books that, somehow, the Winchesters had never got their hands on before yet Castiel somehow did. Jack had gotten Sam a plaid shirt and a big photo album with a few old photos he got from Dean and some more recent ones that had been taken on various occasions - but there was still lots of room for more. I gave Sam a box of chocolates and a couple of fiction books Sam had been meaning to read for a long time but he had just never got round to. Finally came Dean’s gift; a pair of Lycra shorts and other pretentious but cheap workout clothing that were just utterly ridiculous. But then in all seriousness Dean handed Sam a box that, once unwrapped, revealed a new tablet. Sam was particularly ecstatic with this gift, but then he profusely thanked us all again for the presents. Jack went on with washing the dishes (with angel powers) whilst Dean and Cas cleared up some rubbish from the unwrapping. 

I helped Sam carry the presents to his room. As he bent over to put the new shirt in one of his drawers, I came up behind him and snaked my arms around his waist and propped my head up on his shoulder. “Ya know, those chocolates and the books weren’t the only presents you’re receiving from me today.” He turned around to face me and smirked knowingly. “Oh? And what would be the other present?” 

“Let me show you.” 

I grabbed a bag hidden in the wardrobe, and dashed off to the bathroom to change.

The last part - Part 3: Amazing Birthday Sex.

Sam’s POV

Waiting in anticipation, I thought I knew what to expect but I also didn’t. I presumed it was birthday sex or some variation thereof, but whatever twist (Y/N) was putting on it I couldn’t tell. I was snapped out of my thoughts by a text I’d just received - from Dean. It read:

Me, Cas and Jack are off to a hunt in Washington - leaving you two to have some alone time. It should be a pretty simple hunt, but we’ll be about 3 days. I’ll only call if it’s desperate. Stay safe and have fun, birthday brother ;)

I sent back a quick, thankful reply as I realised (Y/N) had planned all of this. The sly, stunning dog had planned this all out and roped the rest of them in aswell. Not that I was complaining, simply noticing the effort (Y/N) had put into this. God, she was amazing; on every single level. 

Speaking of the devil, she sauntered in at that point, looking absolutely delicious on every level. She wore a red, lacy matching set of lingerie that made me almost drool at the sight of her. Her cleavage displayed perfectly and teasingly as it was framed by her bra, and the completely lace panties accentuating her figure in the best possible way. “Like what you see?” She said tauntingly, one hip cocked out sassily. “Oh, fuck yeah.” I replied, striding purposefully over and crashing my lips into hers, holding her face in my hands. 

She pulled away and said: “Hang on. I’ve got something else for you.” (Y/N) told me to sit on the edge of the bed, hold out my hands and close my eyes. I then felt her sat on the bead, nearer to the headrest but then lent forward to place two objects in my hands. Before I could try to assess what they were by touch alone, she said I could open my eyes. I immediately looked down to see a pair of leather-lined handcuffs and a long, silk rectangle of fabric. It was obvious what they were for. “You want me to use these on you?”

“You can do whatever you want with them. The control’s all on you, birthday boy.”

I groaned at all the filthy thoughts running a millions miles an hour through my head and almost leapt on (Y/N) to kiss her. I positioned her to lay beneath me, her starting to unfasten the buttons on my shirt. Bringing up her wrists to the headboard, I scolded her gently. “Ah, ah ah.” I stopped her, fastening her hands together with the handcuffs, attaching them to the headboard so she was stuck in one position. 

“The control’s all on me, little girl.”

She let out a shaky breath at this.

We both knew it was going to be one hell of a night.

[geminis-twisted-mind]

Esme Blake stared at the screen, unable to process what she was reading. It was an email, with the subject line: Mandatory Self Defence Training: Kidnapping.

She read each line slowly, and then read the whole thing again. Finally, when no clarity seemed to be forthcoming, she drafted a message to Cheryl, the HR leader, who just happened to be an old friend from her graduating class.

Hi Cheryl,

This is a joke, right?! Ha ha, tease the new girl. No one actually does THIS?

E.

Cheryl’s response arrived back with an aggressive ping.

Hi E,

No joke. Everyone on the international team does it. Company wants to be sure you know how to handle yourself if you get nicked while negotiating with one of our foreign buyers.

You wanted the promotion, this is part of it.

C.

‘Get nicked’? Was that anyway for a senior team member to talk, even if they were friends? Esme typed back, still not convinced.

I never wanted to do anything dangerous! I just wanted some nice parties with diplomats, maybe some cute waiters with sexy accents. You don’t really think I'll get kidnapped?!

E.

The response came back in seconds, suggesting Cheryl had been waiting.

Of course not. It’s never happened. But you should be prepared in cased it does. So stop complaining and book the course for this Friday.

That was it. The end of the discussion. Another ping told her that Cheryl wasn’t quite done.

And E, try not to enjoy it too much!

Bitch.

Esme held back her wounded pride and set about reading the 15-page disclaimer on the website. The word consent was used a lot, specifically regarding how the role-play was designed to simulate a real-life experience, and therefore would be run to completion no matter what, except for a medical emergency. By signing up, Esme was declaring that she knew what she was getting into and was OK with it.

Esme entered her details, including the billing which went straight to the company, and moved on to the permissions page. She was immediately alarmed when she saw what she was being asked to give permission for, starting with where she wanted to be abducted from.

Seriously, what the f*** kind of question is that? she thought as she read through the list.

Kidnapped from office would be far too embarrassing, with all her colleagues around to watch. Home-invasion was out, in case her wife tried to play the heroine and got herself hurt. That left the street, which made her very nervous but was the only acceptable answer.

Esme moved on to what they called the ‘core experience’. Her stomach did flips as she read through the list, a perverted menu of head-bagging, body-tying, car-boot-riding, handcuffs, blindfolds, and gags. The word ‘kinky’ wasn't used, but she sensed it was never far from the edges of the conversation.

At the bottom of the page was a section called ‘interrogation’. Esme felt her chest tighten just reading it. A warning in red marked it as recommended only for people with some prior experience. Esme realised with a sickening start that some people must do this more than once.

Half of the choices sounded like things she would expect to find in German dungeon porn, featuring blond, top-heavy maidens strapped helplessly to tables being horribly abused by leather-wearing sadists. Coming in at just under 5ft nothing, with a modest frame, short brown hair, and a cute face all but hidden behind a pair of glasses, Esme had a hard time picturing herself in the role of the helpless maiden.

Esme took a deep breath and carefully made her selections. in particular, she unchecked anything that sounded like it would hurt. She would let them take her and hold her until the ‘ransom’ was paid, a minimum of 2 hours. Otherwise she expected to be treated, if not nicely, then at least gently. Surreptitiously located next to the button for ‘confirm’ was another button that said ‘select all’, which she avoided.

“What’s that, Esme?” The voice came so suddenly that Esme had to grab the edge of her desk to keep from falling straight out of her chair.

It was Thomas. Stupidly-attractive Thomas. Always-flirting-but-only-in-that-nice-way Thomas. But worst of all, gossiped-like-an-American-hen-on-steroids Thomas. If he saw what she was looking at, it would be all over the office in nanoseconds.

She hit ‘confirm' in a blind panic and closed the browser.

.....

Friday came with all the speed and determination of a snail that had decided this was the week it was going to practice the art of moonwalking.

She left the office wearing her least-favourite skirt, her cheapest white Primark brand top, and a pair of comfortable shoes. After all, if she was going to be abducted, she was damned if she was going to do it in heels. She had deliberately not had anything to drink for two hours: the last thing she wanted was to have to ask her kidnappers for permission to use the loo.

She skipped the tube she normally took home and walked on as instructed, to a quieter place where there was less likely to be any witnesses. Then she activated the app that told them where she was, to make sure they got the right person.

The thought of someone watching her movements made her extremely nervous. Every dusk-born shadow seemed larger and scarier. If anyone had asked her for the time she might have punched them in the face on reflex.

She never even heard the silent electric vehicle drive up behind her. It wasn’t until two men leapt out and threw a black (and mercifully clean) bag over her head that she realised she was ‘nicked’.

.....

The memory of the journey was a blur. She had been in the boot, she knew that much. But it had been roomier than she had expected and, given that the max speed for inner-city London was about 5 miles per hour, it hadn’t been a bumpy ride. Her arms had been cuffed behind her back, so she had rested on her side to stop the metal cutting into her wrists.

She found she could breathe surprisingly well through the bag, even as they pulled up, opened the boot, and lifted her out. It was shocking having several pairs of hands grabbing her at the same time, but they were – polite – about where they touched her. She absently wondered if real kidnappers would be so considerate. Somehow she doubted it.

She was lowered into a solid metal chair, the kind of minimalist contraption used by chip shops with airs. The lower back portion was missing by design, which gave her cuffed hands somewhere to rest. She wondered if she was expected to participate, maybe get up and try to run away, but the addition of a cable tie holding her ankles together settled that debate.

There was darkness, and voices, but no one talked to her. The bag was pulled away just as a massive light burst to life and filled her field of vision, blinding her. She gasped and blinked, and then cried out as a cloth gag was forced roughly into her mouth.

“Hey! Be gentle!” she tried to say, but it came out as a frustrated “hmph! hmmph hmfmph”.

“We’ve got a live one,” said a man’s voice. It was perfectly intoned English, but with a light European accent. He could have been anywhere in the room – Esme couldn't see anything.

She was slightly surprised to hear a woman with a similar accent respond. “She should be, given this order. It says she’s down for the full package.”

But then, why couldn’t women be kidnappers? Was she a bad feminist for assuming her abductors would be male? Wait what?!

“No that’s not right! I don't want the full package, I don't even want the box! Just leave me here for two hours until my office ‘rescues’ me.” That's how it sounded in her head. The gagged version was a series of indecipherable grunts and hmphs.

Her mind looked around and did the equivalent of a teenager realising he actually can’t jump clean over that pointy fire hydrant.

Two words: ‘select all’.

Thomas, when I get out of this, I am going to MURDER you.

Esme had never seen the confirmation. All the correspondence had gone to the billing address, the office, to Cheryl. And that two-timing wench never said a damn thing.

Esme’s eyes adjusted to the bright light, enough that she could make out the shadowy forms of her two captors standing behind it.

Please, she thought desperately, don't hurt me...

.....

Esme was lifted out of the chair by two pairs of strong hands, one on each arm. Her ankles were still bound together, giving her all the dignity of a fish flopping on a hook. There was the rattle of keys and the cuffs came loose, but as soon as her hands were free they were pulled abover her head and recuffed, this time in leather. At first she could stand comfortably on her own feet, but a loud noise and a horrible pulling sensation later and she found herself practically hanging from the ceiling!

Oh god, no, this can’t be happening! This isn’t me, I don’t do things like this! Please take off the gag and I can explain this is all a misunderstanding!

“Hmmmph” on repeat is all she managed to say.

The woman walked between Esme and the light. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and obligatory stilletto heels. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She had sharp, beautiful features and piercing eyes. The only thing missing was a riding crop in her hands.

“Now, Ms Blake. We are going to ask you some questions about the people you work for, and I understand you may not want to answer out of loyalty. That won’t last. We have six hours to make you talk, and I promise, you will talk.

Six hours?! I only agreed to two! I’ll talk, I’ll tell you everything, starting with where that bitch Cheryl lives!

The man moved up beside her. Like the woman, he was extremely handsome. In fact, he looked so much like her they could have been siblings. He was wearing a pair of army-issue kakis and a vest. In his hand was a knife as long as Esme’s arm from elbow to wrist. Esme’s eyes widened and she began to struggle against the cuffs, causing her body to shake in the air.

“Hold her still!” said the man, not loudly but with a clear authorative voice. It was so compelling that Esme nearly stopped moving to obey him herself. More hands grabbed her and she was stuck in position, with the strength of their arms taking some of the weight off her wrists. She followed the man with the knife as he walked around her, straining her neck until he was out of sight.

She screamed as he tore through her blouse, exposing her back but leaving her chest covered as the top hung from the sleeves. She hadn’t been ready to be treated this way in front of so many people. The woman came up and held Esme’s chin in her hand.

“There there,” she said, almost whispering. “It won’t be all bad. My brother is very good at what he does.”

A sudden weight landed against her back, with just a hint of sting, announcing the fact that she was being flogged! She gasped and tried to catch her breath even as another hit landed. The weight of the leather assulted her back again and again, never really stinging nor hard enough to be truely punishing, but making her skin raw with every slap. She didn’t know how long he hit her for, the rythmic pulsing of it pushing her against the bondage that held her. After the initial shock of it, she found it was almost relaxing.

Endorphines mixed with the adrenaline of fear in her brain, creating an unexpected cocktail that clouded her mind and muddled her thoughts. It took her by surprise when the woman took her by the chin again.

“Don’t think this is all you’re getting.” The woman was holding a whip now, a cruel looking thing that was twisted and folded from one thick end which served as a handle, to a thin tapered end that finished in a point. Esme looked at her pleadingly and shook her head.

The flogging had stopped. Now the man walked into Esme’s view and the woman disappeared behind her. His vest was gone and there was sweat across the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked for all the world like a professional body builder. He leaned close to her and for a moment Esme felt her heart beat a bit harder for a reason that had nothing to do with her predicament.

Then the whipping started.

The first crack was like pinch on her back being delivered at the speed of sound. Esme’s head arched backwards and she screamed into the gag. Another hit swiftly followed the first, but the shock of it wasn’t there, and she found she could handle the sharp, stinging pain a bit better.

The man was watching her, she realised. Even as the whip landed again and again, his eyes never left hers. She focused on those eyes and the pain of the whip was somehow dulled. He moved closer and held up a hand and she leaned her head towards it, brushing it with her cheek, then jumped back as the whip cracked even more painfully across her sensitive skin.

Her breathing was hard and fast, but under control. Her back was on fire from the whipping, but her heart wasn’t beating out of her chest anymore. And those eyes, watching her like she was the only thing that mattered, made her want to take more just so he could see her do it. Then maybe she would get to feel his hand again...

Oh my god... it’s not possible... I can’t be.... I’m not actually... enjoying this?

The chain was lowered until she was able to sit on the ground. The man disappeared as the woman circled in front of her. She had the same eyes, the ones that saw everything. She leaned in close, as though she meant to whisper to Esme as a lover might, as the man untied the gag from behind Esme’s head.

“Are you ready to talk?” as the woman. The hint of accent make the words sound delicious, like something out of a bad spy movie. “We have five hours left to change your mind if you refuse to cooperate.”

Esme looked up at her captor, at her fierce face, and felt her own determination rising. Maybe she hadn’t meant to get herself into this mess, but now that she was here, she was going to own it.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

[welllpthisishappening]

First-Line Center, Part One

She hadn’t read the invitation. 

It hadn’t changed in years, after all - a set of rules and expectations for a New Year’s party that they were all going to break anyway because the most traditional thing about this team was flouting tradition. So, Emma had mostly ignored it. Until. A shout and Killian refusing to wear a tie and something crashing in her kitchen, one kid worried about another and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something. 

There was a joke about fresh ice to be made, she was sure. 

—–

Word Count: 5.3 K Rating: F for festive family feelz AN: Happy New Year, internet! I wrote this last year, never posted it, remembered it existed today and was, like…let’s throw some words out there centered around the now-annual Mills-Locksley Fancy Dress Competition originally mentioned in We’ll Take a Cup (defense) of Kindness. Timeline wise, this is 2049, which makes everyone in the next-gen adults. Matt: 31, Peggy: 28, Chris: 21, Roland, 39, Henry 45, Lizzie 32, Leo 28. Plus mention of next-gen kids having….their own next-gen kids. This is the AU that will not end. Or I won’t let it end. Semantics. 

Anyway, thanks for another year of letting me throw all those aforementioned words at you. It’s real nice. 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll, with part two coming tomorrow || 

—–

“Mom! Mom! Mom!” Emma’s eyes darted towards the mirror in front of her, only to be met with a grin that was already drifting far too close to a smirk to be entirely fair. “You need to finish getting ready,” she mumbled, but that earned her a chuckle and twist of eyebrows and Killian didn’t get off the bed. 

“What if we didn’t go?” he asked. 

“You say that every year.” “I mean it this year. Honestly, what if we didn’t go? Who’s going to say anything?” “You want me to list it in alphabetical order or just by people I think would actually show up in person and threaten bodily harm with a stick?” Killian groaned, head dropping slightly and there was still a voice calling for her downstairs. “Mom,” Chris yelled again, and the voice was very clearly moving to a different room. “I’m taking food! Just so you know.” Emma’s eyes were going to get stuck mid-roll. She twisted her arm, trying to pull up a zipper that seemed intent on dislocating her shoulder and, all things considered, it shouldn’t have made her stomach swoop when that got Killian to move, but it did and his fingers were warm when they tugged hers away. 

“The lungs on that kid, huh?” he laughed, smile still obvious when he brushed his lips behind her ear. Emma grinned, letting herself lean against his chest and something crashed downstairs. Killian groaned. “If you break anything down there, I’m going to pull whatever you’re eating out of your hands!”

“God bless us, everyone,” Emma muttered at the same time Chris shouted “nothing is broken!” 

Killian’s hand moved, wrapping around the curve of Emma’s hip, but he didn’t actually try and shift her away from him. Also nice. Still. Perpetually. Indefinitely. 

They were going to be late. Maybe that was the real tradition. 

“Also,” Chris added, the seventh step on the staircase creaking traitorously when he, presumably, bounded up it. “It’s pretty lame that you guys were, one, not responding to my very real greeting and, two—” He stopped abruptly, crossing his arms over his dress shirt as soon as he froze in the middle of the open doorway and the curls on his forehead were far too close to his eyebrows to be entirely professional. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Chris groaned, a scrunch of his nose that was oddly familiar. 

Killian chuckled, resting his cheek against the side of Emma’s hair. He still hadn’t moved his hand. Or put his tie on. And neither had their kid. “Where’s your tie?” Killian asked. “Were you guys flirting and ignoring me?” “What’d you break in the kitchen?” “Nothing!” “What’d you eat in the kitchen?” Emma amended, mumbling a not quite quiet if you mess up my hair I’ll kill you under her breath. They were never going to get out of the brownstone. 

Chris shrugged. “Not much. We want to circle back around on the ignoring, or…” “Do you not have food at home?” “Eh. I have—bread? Maybe some bread.” 

The nose scrunch thing had to stop. It was unnerving. 

Emma reached out her hand, brushing away curls and ignoring Chris’ grumbling. “You’ll cope. Do you and your brother do this on purpose?” “Matt has food,” Chris said. “The hair thing.”

She moved her fingers again, trying without much success to get Chris’ hair to lay flat and the kid in front of her wasn’t much of a kid anymore. He was an almost-finished-with-college adult, who absolutely should have cut his hair and found food long before going several blocks further downtown for a New Year’s Eve extravaganza that, somehow, got more extravagant every year. 

There were too many people on this team. 

“Nothing, huh?” Emma pressed, and Chris scowled when he caught her around the wrist. She found it wholly unfair that she had the worst reflexes of anyone. 

“Mom, Mom, stop, listen—” Chris stammered, trying to pull away without losing his balance and must have taken his jacket off when he came in. She hoped he’d taken his jacket off. Regina wouldn’t let him in without a jacket. “Mom,” he repeated, dragging out the letters until he sounded nearly a decade younger and Killian was going to do damage to his throat if he kept laughing like that. 

“You’re no help at all,” Emma sighed. She could feel Killian’s answering shrug. 

“I’m not trying to help,” he said. “I’m trying to make sure a kid who doesn’t live here anymore isn’t going to continue to eat us out of house and home. Because he doesn’t live here. In this house. He lives in his own apartment. With his own groceries.” Chris made a face. Maybe they were time traveling. “Yeah, you’ve made your point, Dad. Badly and kind of…clunkily, but it’s there.” “Is clunkily a word?” “I really don’t think so.” “The education is just absolutely thriving then, isn’t it?” “I took one freshman English class,” Chris said. “I cannot possibly be expected to remember every aspect of a language that doesn’t ever make sense. Maybe we just invented a word. All about context, right?” “Something like that.” “Where’s your tie, Dad?” “I haven’t worn a tie to this ridiculous thing since it started,” Killian answered. “And I’m certainly not going to start now.” “It’s because it makes Gina mad,” Emma muttered conspiratorially. Her arm was starting to ache, still held up awkwardly in the air as Chris rocked back on his heels again. “Why are you here, kid? Honestly.” Chris made a dismissive noise – and eventually, Emma was sure, it wouldn’t be totally alarming to see both her and Killian’s mannerisms reflected back so well by all three of their kids, but one of their kids also scored a goal that was eerily similar to one she remembered seeing several decades before on Garden ice, so, that was probably just the way of the world now. 

“Not an answer,” Killian said, the words taking that very specific tone. Chris stuck his tongue out when he gagged, twisting around Emma and collapsing dramatically onto the bed. 

He knocked, at least, six pillows on the floor. 

“You going to pick those up or you just leaving a trail of complete and utter destruction across the whole house?”

“Oh my God,” Chris grumbled. His head was hanging off the far side of the bed. There were probably curls in his eyes. “You are the single most dramatic parental figure in the history of the world, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” Killian promised, knocking his knees against Chris’ outstretched legs. “So, let’s have it, Christopher. The whole truth now, if you please.”

“Captain voice.” “You know this thing is catered.” Chris sighed, propping himself up on his elbows and something in the back of Emma’s mind startled at that — like it was years ago and they were taking turns interrogating kids about the questionable amount of mischief they were prone to getting into. 

It ran the gamut. 

For years. 

Running through Riverside Park and skating at the Piers, even after Chris decided he didn’t want to play anymore, signs and cheers and track and field events. And Matt cursed under his breath about Serendipity III every year, but Emma knew he took both Peggy and Chris there on his off day a few days before Christmas. 

They were never quite horsemen, but their own brand of something entirely original because the Jones Line knew just about everything about each other, a mess of familial emotions and a bond that got stronger the older they got and—

Killian clicked his tongue. 

“It should not be that easy for you to do that,” Chris grumbled, Killian nodding in agreement. 

“I’ve had some time to practice, you see.” “Something to be said for multiple reps.” “That was funny.” “Yuh huh.”

“If you think this is going to make me forget about getting an answer out of you, you’ve got another thing coming,” Killian warned, and Chris was going to wrinkle his shirt. That was another reason he needed a jacket. 

“I never once thought you were going to forget,” Chris promised. “Did you read this year’s rules? Because they’re—it’s insane. The invitation is insane.”

“It’s a creative outlet for Gina. And that’s still not going to work, Christopher.” “Doubling down on the full name, huh?” “We thought you were going downtown with your sister.”

“The invitation is kind of my segue into this. And it’s not like P doesn’t know how to get downtown. She was going to hang out with Lizzie anyway and—” “—Did we not look at the invitations, ever?” Emma asked. Killian shrugged again, the movement barely registering before he turned towards the closet on the other side of the room, rifling through shirts and jackets and team-appropriate clothes and—

Chris’ left elbow gave out. 

“Aw, c’mon,” he grumbled, gritting his teeth at the tie in Killian’s hand. “You’re not going to wear one! That’s not fair.” Emma shook her head. “You brought a jacket too, right?” “I know the rules.” “And are willing to follow some of them, I see.” “Well, I mean I did grow up with Dad, so…” He yelped when a pillow collided with his side, eyes barely more than slits, particularly with the strands of hair drifting dangerously close. “That is cheating,” Chris announced. “You are retired. You should not have that kind of arm strength. You taking lessons from Nolan?” Killian shot him an even look – far more dad than hockey player – and Chris bit his lip. “You are digging yourself in a very deep hole here, kid. Put the tie on.”

“Aye, aye, Cap.” 

“You missed a very obvious thin ice joke,” Emma added, trying to remember where, exactly, they’d put that year’s invitation. She hoped it wasn’t in the kitchen. 

She hoped the kitchen wasn’t a disaster area. 

Killian sighed, but it wasn’t the put-upon sound it probably should have been. It was almost endeared and slightly charmed because their kid didn’t live in that brownstone anymore, but he was still theirs in a way that was far less possessive than it sounded and—

Chris couldn’t tie his tie. 

“Move your hands,” Killian muttered, swatting at fingers and tugging on fabric and Emma was only slightly surprised and absolutely endeared and it only took a few seconds for the stupid thing to be perfectly knotted. 

“Thanks,” Chris mumbled, a quiet hum from Killian. 

“We’ll work on sentence structure and tie-tying techniques before you graduate, huh?” “Aim high.” “Only if you tell me and Mom why you tried to break the kitchen apart.” “There was no breaking,” Chris groaned. He fell forward – more repeats and something about title defenses probably that might not have made sense, but Emma never really knew what to do with her brain and her entire soul when she watched Killian go full-on dad, so…she figured it was probably some kind of English language wash.

“Then there was…” “I was not kidding about only having bread. Or a tie. Do you want this back?” Killian’s eyebrows moved. Emma assumed. She was still trying to figure out where the invitation was. “Fine, fine, fine,” Chris continued, “we’ve got to talk about the rules for this year’s thing because I think Rol got ahold of them and — ” “—Wait, what?” “I’m going to tell Aunt Gina you didn’t look at the invitation.” Killian clicked his teeth, glancing over his shoulder at Emma. She lifted both her hands, shaking her head and there was no way her hair was going to be able to hold up to an entire night of fancy dress competition. 

“I didn’t read it,” Emma admitted. “It’s been the same since the dawn of time, hasn’t it?” “You’ll make us sound old, love.” “We get the invitation, we acknowledge how much Gina probably spent on the invitation and the overall thickness of the paper, you tell me you don’t want to go and then we show up late.” “We’re going to be so late,” Chris added. “It’s like…almost seven thirty. Leo kept texting me on my way over here.” “Are you ignoring Leo?” Chris waved a dismissive hand, but that only served to affect his slightly precarious balance. More pillows fell on the floor. “It’s not like I’m not going to see him. Also because he’s worried about bringing that girl with him.” “Leo is bringing a girl?” Emma asked sharply, Chris grinning like several metaphorical and literary cats. Killian didn’t move. “Did you know that? “Eh.” “What does eh mean? Exactly?” “Eh means he totally knew,” Chris muttered, and that time he blocked the pillow. His ha sounded far too much like Emma’s. “Who’d you hear it from? And why didn’t you say anything? Oh, oh, do you know the girl’s name? Leo won’t tell me because he thinks I’m going to tell P and P can’t keep a secret to save her life and—” “You’ve got to breathe, kid,” Killian laughed. “And I found out from your sister, so…” Chris’ laugh sounded impossibly loud. “Oh shit, Leo is going to be so mad. How did P know?” “I have no idea, but I think it had something to do with Ruby and—” “—Ru knew?” “Was that rhyme intentional?” “And how does this direct us back to the rules change?” Emma asked, only slightly determined to get the conversation back on track. She really didn’t want to be too late. There was a science to all of this. 

Chris squeezed on eye shut, pressing the tip of his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “You really didn’t look? Seriously it had to be Rol. I don’t think it was Henry.” It took her another moment to find the invitation - stuffed in between files and folders and Toys for Tots campaign pages because Garden of Dreams existed on a completely different level during the entire month of December and— “Oh shit,” Emma breathed, ignoring her kid’s reprimand at her decidedly emotional response. She felt Killian behind her before she turned around, chin hooked over her shoulder and arm around her middle and the scoff in her ear nearly made Emma shiver. 

“That may be the best response, honestly.” The Thirty-Second Annual Mills-Locksley Fancy Dress Competition and New Year’s Eve Party. Or the other way around depending on who you ask. The Rules. And we’re going to follow them this year. Honestly. 

You must arrive downtown no later than 7:30. This rule is for you Cap, don’t be late.

You must be wearing an outfit that would be acceptable at the NHL Awards or Casino Night. No t-shirts. No team-branded.

There will be awards for things, but don’t make this weird Scarlet.

If Scarlet doesn’t make it weird, he will get an award. For not being weird. 

You are encouraged to bring your own alcohol.

You are required to bring your own alcohol.

You are not allowed to talk point totals, standings, Cup defense, or, at any point during the night, start teaching Henry and Rol Lucy, McKenzie or Noah how to check. Seriously, Scarlet, no.

And honestly you too, Cap. It’s not cute anymore. 

We will all pretend like any of us have interests outside the aforementioned non-discussable points.

You will leave by one in the morning because you have to be on the ice in Central Park on New Year’s Day are old. Not us, but the rest of you. You’re old. 

Matt will stop being so weird and will stop suggesting that his obvious frustration it’s just a regular-stretch of thing. You’re a lock for the Rocket. Stop it.  

Emma read the last point. And read it again. And chewed on the side of her lip. 

“Huh,” Killian said. “It’s not very subtle, is it?” Chris made a noise in the affirmative. “That’s what I’m saying! It’s definitely Rol. Or Lizzie, but I don’t think she’d desecrate the invitations.” “She’d just tell Matt that.” “I will bet you five-thousand dollars she’s done that already,” Emma said, head falling against Killian’s collarbone and there were dress buttons digging into her back. 

“I brought it up, Swan. That doesn’t even make any sense.” “Can we focus, please?” Chris snapped, feet slamming back onto the floor when he stood up and Emma hadn’t been entirely prepared for the serious portion of the conversation. 

“Should we be?” she asked. 

Chris grimaced, half a shrug and half a groan and Emma’s eyes flitted towards Killian’s again on several decades worth of parental experience. “Is that what you were actually worried about?” he asked. “You think Matt’s being weird about scoring goals?” “I don’t know.” “Nope, try again.” “Dad!” “We’re already going to get yelled at by Gina for being late and I’ve only got marginal interest in watching David meet Leo’s girlfriend—” “—I don’t know if they’re using official labels yet, that’s kind of why he was freaking out and—” “—Not part of the equation, kid,” Killian finished. He kicked out slightly, a more impressive display of balance than whatever Chris had tried to accomplish and it only ended with more sighing and another ridiculous twist of eyebrows. “C’mon. You think he’s nervous about what? Awards? That’s not Matt’s game.” “I know, that’s the weird part. I called after the game yesterday to tell him to stop stealing all your moves and he barely said two words to me. He didn’t even take the bait.” “You were baiting him?” Emma asked. “To do what?”

The flush that appeared on Chris’ cheeks was almost immediate and only slightly jarring — far too red to be entirely healthy when his teeth dug back into his lower lip. “It’s just..it’s not a big deal. He’s, well…P and I, you know, sometimes make jokes. About him stealing Dad’s moves and similarities and it’s—it’s not important. It’s fine.” “Sure it is.” “The major part is that he didn’t say anything! He barely acknowledged the joke or the win and he always fires back. It’s messing with my head.” “It’s messing with your head that your brother didn’t want to…what?��� Emma shrugged. “Trade barbs with you over the phone?” “That’s the oldest sounding sentence I’ve heard heard, love,” Killian chuckled, a kiss to her temple and Regina was going to murder them. “I think the right phrase is trash talk.” “Yeah, well you don’t have a college degree.” “I have yet to see proof it’s served any of the other individuals in this room any good.” “Wow, that is scathing, Dad,” Chris grinned. He was picking up pillows. “All I’m saying is, something is going on with Matt and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. So, I guess I was double checking.” Killian tilted his head. “With us?” “You guys read minds. It’s not that unreasonable a thought process.” “Was that a compliment or…” “Jeez,” Chris groaned, standing up and pushing his fingers into his hair and Emma wasn’t sure who made what noise louder – her laugh or Killian’s gasp. “Whatever. Wait until we get downtown. I bet Matt wants to be there even less than you guys do.” “I’ll take that bet.” “What are you going to get me when I win?” “Bold of you to assume you’re going to win,” Killian muttered, straightening Chris’ tie while trying to direct him back towards the door. 

The seventh step creaked on the way down too. 

“Please, I’m telling you. Something is up with him and he’s doing a God awful job of keeping it a secret. I know, P knows, Rol obviously knows. I bet Henry’s already interrogating him.” “You’ve given this quite a lot of thought, haven’t you?” Emma asked, handing off several coats before shrugging into her own. She was already regretting her heels. 

“Did you see that goal?” Emma nodded. 

“Did you have thoughts about that goal?” Another nod.

“So did every other person in this family and none of them are going to think twice about telling Matt every single one of them. And then, I promise you, he’s going to do that stupid face thing he does—” “—Stupid face thing,” Killian echoed, closing the front door behind them and there was already a car waiting at the edge of the curb. They’d pointedly ignored the kitchen. 

“Yes. Matt does that face thing all the time in post. Someone asks him a stupid question or points out that it’s been awhile since the Rangers have won a Cup and he goes all stoic, super serious and kind of hunches his shoulders and his lips get real thin. It’s ridiculous. It happens every single time.” “Are you keeping track of that?” Emma asked. There was not enough room in the backseat for all three of them. 

They hadn’t been planning on having three of them in the backseat. 

“See, it sounds weird when you say it like that, but it’s a things,” Chris said. “Go watch some of Matt’s post, especially in the last, like, two and a half weeks, or, you know what, ask Uncle Robin about it. I bet he’ll back me up.” Killian was doing a horrible job of not laughing. “Did he do the face thing while you were trying to trash talk him last night? There’s that phrase you were looking for again, Swan.” “Oh, shut up,” Emma mumbled. 

“See, you think you’re being funny, but they’ve got this newfangled technology with video and I could actually see Matt make the face last night,” Chris muttered. “So, yeah, I did see him do the face thing and—in case you were wondering—” “—I promise I was not because I am not in the habit of gossiping about your brother.” “Just Leo Nolan with Peggy.” “That is not even remotely the same thing.” “Eh,” Chris and Emma said at the same time, a scandalized look on Killian’s face. 

He mumbled a few choice curses under his breath, not all of them in English, but his fingers laced through Emma’s easily and she felt him exhale as soon as his lips ghosted over her temple. “That’s neither here nor there,” he said. “Finish the story, we’re almost here and all hell is going to break loose once Gina finds us.” “If there isn’t someone waiting for us as soon as we get outside,” Emma corrected. “Nah, that hasn’t happened in years.” “We haven’t been this late in years.” “And,” Chris interrupted, loud enough that the driver startled slightly in the front seat. “What I was getting to was that Claire wasn’t around at all when I called last night.” Emma tensed. Killian froze. The driver might have blinked. 

“What?” Emma asked, slightly annoyed at the way her voice seemed to wobble over the word. 

There was not enough room for Chris to shrug. He tried anyway. “I don’t know. P thinks it’s fine and I’m being stupid because, like, let’s all be honest with ourselves Matt is pretty obsessed with Claire and she’s way too good for him and—” “—You are horrible at getting to the point, Christopher,” Killian said. 

“I really don’t think anything is actually wrong. I guess—well, he’s scoring all the time so I don’t think he’s hurt, but Matt’s being stupid about something and keeping secrets and I wanted a second opinion. Or forty-second opinion as the case may be.” “You asked forty people about this before you got to us? The people who actually raised you.” “It’s a rough estimate.” “An offensive estimate. Seriously, stop coming home to just eat our food.” “Don’t forget steal your ties too.” “I expect that back by midnight.” Chris chuckled lightly, swinging open the door when the driver announced they were here and there was definitely some type of body-type shadow lingering in the foyer. Killian cursed again. 

“You’re not ever getting that tie back,” Emma said, taking Killian’s outstretched hand and she didn’t really need help out of a goddamn town car, but he also looked pretty goddamn good and it was very easy to be charmed. 

Even in the thirty-second incarnation of a party most of them only ever begrudgingly agreed to. 

It was because Scarlet made the contest weird. 

Every year. 

“Did I tell you how good you look yet?” Emma shook her head – a mix of emotions that felt slightly strange together because she hadn’t really noticed that anything was wrong with Matt, but maybe something was wrong with Matt and she could never really think straight when she noticed the grey at Killian’s temples. She rested her palms against the front of his jacket, shivering against the ever-present wind on Manhattan cross streets. 

And it didn’t really take long, a duck of his head and a tilt of hers, several different voices barely audible when Emma’s lips caught Killian’s and maybe they should have stayed home. 

Maybe they should ask their kid what was wrong. 

Probably after the kissing. 

Emma didn’t quite sigh – a fact she was immensely proud of – but it was dangerously close, a quiet exhale against Killian’s mouth as soon as his arm tightened around her waist. Her fingers found his hair with practiced ease, shifting to fit against his chest better or closer and the adverbs didn’t matter. 

She’d graduated from college. She understood proper sentence structure. 

Or at least she thought she did until Killian practically growled, hips flush against hers, and then any rational thought seemed to fly out of Emma’s brain entirely. 

“God, that’s not even remotely fair,” Emma mumbled, not the complaint it sounded like. 

Killian chuckled, another quick kiss and a hint of teeth as she tried to get enough oxygen back to her lungs to remain upright. “You look incredible, Swan. And nothing is wrong.” “Felt obligated to add that last one, huh?” “I’ve got a hunch.” “About?” “Stealing my moves.” Emma was half a second from asking what the hell that meant, but the voice was getting louder and more impatient and— “You know, I haven’t had to chase after you in awhile, little brother, I feel like it’s kind of out of our age range at this point.” Killian groaned, head falling onto the curve of Emma’s shoulder. “Go back upstairs.” “Nuh uh,” Liam said, clapping Killian on the back. “Hey, Em. Who tied your kid’s tie?” “Killian.” “Ah, no wonder. We’re going to have to fix that. Totally lopsided, vaguely horrible Windsor knot.” “Why do you know the name of tie knots off the top of your head?” Killian asked, not lifting his head away from Emma. She kissed his hair. “And did Chris go upstairs already?” Liam hummed. “Oh yeah, very determined and incredibly lopsided. Were you guys trying to set a record for lateness?”

“Is that a word?” Emma asked. “He also graduated college,” Killian said, shifting to sling an arm over Emma’s shoulders. Liam flipped him off. “I’d just like the record to show.” “Yeah, yeah, you’re hysterical,” Liam hissed. “Honestly, though, you lucked out because Gina is going full-on grandmother and I don’t think she even noticed you weren’t here yet?” “How did you end up down here then? Shouldn’t you also be fawning?” “No one is fawning over anything,” Liam argued, but that was probably the worst lie anyone had told all night. 

“Try that again.” Liam deflated, swatting at Killian’s arm when he was met with rather uproarious laughter. “Oh shut up. Seriously. You do not get an opinion on this. You do not get to say a word about this because it’s only going to end with pointing out how old Locksley and I are and—” “—Did I say that? Swan, did I say that?” Emma shook her head. “I didn’t hear that at all. You know what it did sound like? It kind of sounded like Liam was a little worried about getting old. Did it sound like that to you?” “Sounded just like that to me. Weird.” “The weirdest.” “I’m going to lock both of you outside,” Liam sneered, but that only led to more laughter and another kiss to the top of Emma’s hair. 

“This is not a threat I’m all that upset about,” Killian admitted. “The kid do anything particularly cute yet?”

Liam rolled his eyes, but the pride was practically palpable at that point and Noah Miller Locksley really was undeniably cute. It was the curls. Genetics or whatever. And regularly-scheduled haircuts. “Started practicing a pretty ridiculous looking wrister.” “Was that not breaking the rules? Who gave him the stick?” “One guess,” Emma mumbled.

“Scarlet?” Liam nodded. “And this didn’t send Gina into some kind of tailspin of—whatever?” “That’s eloquent,” Liam said. “Although I was kind of worried about that at first.”

“And then?” Liam raised his hands – not an obvious sign of defeat, but certainly getting there and it was definitely starting to get colder on that corner. Emma was, at least, four-hundred percent positive she was missing something. “Brace yourselves because it’s going to make you really upset that you weren’t here and were doing whatever it was you were doing instead.” “Kissing my wife?” “I’m not sure I appreciate you suggesting that should be something he regrets, Liam,” Emma smiled, more than ready for the grimace anyone with a Jones last name should have already patented. “Alright, we’ll bite. What happened?” “Matt helped.” Emma blinked. “What? “Matt helped. With the wrister. There was a whole thing. I bet Lizzie’ll show you the pictures and Mary Margaret might have taken video. She was talking to that girl Leo brought, but—” “She have a name?” Killian interrupted, hissing when Liam kicked at his ankles. “God, c’mon, that’s a reasonable question.” “Your kid was doing something painfully adorable with my grandkid and you want to talk about whatsherface?” “I mean…maybe not if her name is actually whatsherface?” “Her name’s Harper,” Emma said. She jerked back when she was met with another round of identical expressions and they really needed to go inside. Her dress, while good at prompting makeouts and compliments from her husband, was not conducive to spending more than a few minutes on Fifth Avenue. “I was curious,” she added, holding her phone in her hand. “And good at texting Reese’s while it was still in my coat.” “That is genuinely impressive, Swan.” “Flattery will get you everywhere, Cap.” “Are you surprised that Chris literally ran away from you guys?” Liam asked. “And you’re really missing the point here.” Killian nodded seriously – moving around Liam and bringing Emma with him and that feeling was back in the pit of her stomach and the corners of her brain, missing something or waiting for something else and she absolutely sighed when the heat from the building seemed to wrap itself around her. “Are we missing the point, you think?” she asked, glancing back up at another smirk and a certainty that was years in the making. 

“Nah.” “Try that again.” “Are you disappointed we missed the cute?” “Reese’s promised she took video. So, I mean—well, kind of.” “I knew it.” “Yeah, yeah,” Emma grumbled. “You’re a great mind reader. I’m just—” “I really don’t think anything is wrong with Matt, love,” Killian said, another answer to a question she hadn’t asked and the mind reader thing was only supposed to be slightly accurate. “He’s breaking rules. That’s got to be a sign of something good.” “That’s the least parental thing you’ve ever said.” “Ah, well…” She didn’t let him finish, ignoring the flush of pain in both her calves and, somehow, only one of her heels when she pushed up, appreciating his soft sound of surprise when she kissed him. 

“You look really good too, Cap,” Emma mumbled, tugging lightly on the edge of his zipper. He never actually put a tie on. 

“Gross,” Liam shouted as he brushed by them, slamming a finger into the elevator button and grumbling about he better not have missed anything else. 

“Obsessed with his grandkid,” Killian said. “C’mon, love, let’s go make fun of El too. I bet she cried or something ridiculous.”

[daringyounggrayson]

they took me where you couldn’t follow (but you still found me)

Whumptober Prompt 4: Human Shield 

(AO3)

A toddler—the toddler, the one that’s being used as a pawn in some gang war—is kneeling next to Dick’s head, crying hysterically and slapping his cheek. He feels like he can barely breathe, and the room is filled with smoke so dark and thick he can barely see the wall across from him. His head feels heavy and fuzzy, but through the haze it shouts run.

He coughs and sits up. “Shh, it’s okay,” he tells the girl. “We’re gonna get out of here.” He stumbles to his feet with watery eyes and unclips his cape, wrapping it around her.

“Out now!” she orders, fighting the cape a little. “Out!”

Dick scoops her up without another word, pulling the cape over her head completely before pulling her against his chest. There are no windows in the room they’re in, but there is a door. It’s locked, but it’s old and easy to break open. He steps out into a hallway where the fire is eating the walls and just starts running. The floor creaks, or maybe it’s the ceiling. Either way, something’s about to give. He tries not to think about it as he runs through the building, hunting for a door or a window—anything that’s out.

Something comes crashing down from above and he does his best to dodge and use himself as a human shield to protect the kid. Flames lick at his back, but not at the kid. He’ll take it.

He stumbles through the house like that—responses all instinct and eyes set on nothing except getting outside. It’s hard to breathe and it’s hard to stay upright, but the toddler is coughing and crying so he keeps going. He sees a door up ahead, and Dick dances around flames and a fallen bookshelf to get to it. It's not until he hears the loud voices that he freezes—another instinctive response. There's even more shouting just before the door breaks open, and Dick has a moment of panic before he recognizes them as firefighters and relaxes.

He goes for the doorway and hands the toddler over, cape and all. He opens his mouth to speak, but all he tastes is smoke and all he says are coughs. The other firefighter lifts him up and carries him out of the house, faster than Dick thinks all of that gear should allow.

“Is there anyone else inside?” He asks.

“Dunno,” Dick says. He reaches for his emergency beacon and presses it. Twice. (Should’ve done that first. Stupid.)

The firefighter sets him down on a gurney and then he’s running off again, back towards the burning building. An EMT looks down his throat, and after he determines that it’s not going to swell shut, he pushes an oxygen mask into Dick’s face. Dick takes it, pressing it closer with his hands as he nods and gulps and coughs.

“You inhaled a lot of smoke,” the EMT tells him, like Dick hadn’t noticed.

He doesn’t respond, though; he can’t focus on anything and he can already feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness now that the fight or flight response is easing down. But he needs to look for Batman, needs to get to him before anything else.

“Robin.” And just like that, Batman’s there.

Dick shoves at the EMT to let him slide off the gurney and pass.

“He’s hurt, Batman. Just let us check him out.” The EMT sounds desperate, reminding Dick why he doesn’t like dealing with them. Dealing with the way they sound and plead and honest to god think Robin will drop dead if Batman takes him home.

Dick leans into Bruce and his knees give out. Bruce picks him up and takes him away from the screeching sirens and flashing lights. All Dick can think is that he can’t breathe and he doesn’t feel right.

“Drugged,” Dick finally pieces together.

There’s a pause. “With what?”

“Kid,” Dick starts, realization and panic forcing him above the exhaustion again. “There was a kid—I had her, she—”

“Easy. She’s safe. You did good work tonight, Robin.”

Dick has a lot of questions about what tonight entailed, but all he can do is choke and gasp and fight against passing out. He just wants it to stop.

“Shh,” Bruce tells him gently. “I’ve got you.”

Dick passes out before they even get to the car.

oOo

Dick wakes to the feeling of something uncomfortably warm and sour crawling up his throat. His mouth opens on reflex before he’s even fully awake, and then he’s gagging and drowning in vomit and someone is shouting.

Something is ripped from his face and there’s a sickening splat against the ground as Dick can finally breathe again. He gasps before his stomach convulses again and Bruce pulls him upright, shoving something into his hands, which he gags into again and again and again. When there’s nothing left and his stomach is done forcing him to dry heave, he’s panting and shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

Bruce presses a kiss into his hair, rubs his arm and says, “You’re alright, chum. You’re alright.”

“What was that?” Dick says between breaths. Alfred offers him a washcloth for his face and a cup of water, both of which he accepts eagerly.

“A street drug with sedative properties. I hadn’t seen it before tonight,” Bruce tells him. Dick swishes the water around in his mouth and then spits it into the basin, which Alfred takes from him before Dick’s shaking hands can spill it.

“Is it supposed to do this?” Dick asks, lying back down and clutching his chest and stomach.

“I don’t have enough information yet.”

Dick groans and Bruce rests his hand on his head. “Kid okay?” he asks before Alfred slips a clean oxygen mask over his face.

“Yes. She’s being kept overnight, but there are no burns and her airways are looking as good as can be expected.” Bruce rubs his thumb into Dick’s temple. “You’re suit prevented any serious burns, but there are some minor burns along the back of your neck and part of your hair was singed.”

“Guessing my airways are alright, though?” Dick asks. His chest hurts, sure, and he’s on oxygen, but it can’t be that bad; it’s not like he’s intubated.

“We’ll keep monitoring.”

“Are you in any pain, Master Dick?” Alfred asks.

“It’s fine.” It’s not. “How long were we in there?”

“We don’t know. At least ten minutes.”

“Did they do it on purpose, or were they just stupid?” And who were they? Dick knows there was a “they”—there’s always a “they”—but then again, he doesn’t even remember being grabbed. His head is still fuzzy; he can see the information, but he can’t grab it and translate it into sense.

Bruce shakes his head. “The kidnappers are claiming that they were hired for the job but the gang leaders double-crossed them, tied them up, and lit the place on fire. The kidnappers escaped and fled the scene, but I found them before they could get far. They’re currently in custody.”

“Did they know that we were in the building too? The gang leaders, I mean.”

“Yes,” Bruce says, and then stops like that’s all he’s going to say. Dick looks at him eagerly, and Bruce releases a long breath before he gives in. “From what I’ve gathered, the leaders were likely planning on killing the girl the whole time; it was never a hostage situation like the hired kidnappers are claiming. You also weren’t part of the plan, and maybe taking you is what made the gang leaders angry. But it’s also possible that the gang leaders were planning on killing the kidnappers the whole time to prevent any loose ends and they saw taking you down as a bonus. It’s still unclear how the drugs fit in, however, but I’ll know more after I read the report in the morning.”

Bruce not knowing so many things is one thing, but not actively seeking answers the first chance he gets is another. It’s weird. Wrong.

“What’s wrong? Did something else happen tonight?” Dick asks, sitting up a little as panic grips him. “Is Babs okay? Where is she?”

“She’s fine. Home,” Bruce assures, easing Dick back down and looking at him like he’s a teetering antique vase.

“Then what?” Dick demands.

Bruce sets his jaw, and Alfred rests his hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I think we are all a little on edge due to this evening’s events. You were missing for over two hours, and we were unable to track you.”

Dick’s eyebrows furrow. He saw the building; it wouldn’t have blocked the signal to the tracker in his suit. “But—”

“They took it out,” Bruce explains. Not broken, not blocked, but intentionally removed and deactivated. “Somehow they knew where we kept it. They also deactivated your emergency beacon, though they left that on your belt for some reason.”

Oh.

Oh.

Dick pales and he feels sick again. “How?” And who else knows?

“We’ll change them, perhaps add more in multiple locations,” Bruce says, always with the plan.

For the first time that night, Dick realizes just how badly things could have gone. There’s a new drug out on the street, one that Dick might have been the guinea pig for. Bruce couldn’t find him, and worse yet, he probably only ended up at that abandoned building by scanning police radios. If that toddler hadn’t been there to wake Dick up, or if she’d passed out from smoke exposure a minute earlier, they’d both be dead. All because someone knew about the trackers. Knows.

Dick nods, clenches his jaw. No one says anything after that. Alfred takes a seat and watches the monitors and Bruce rests his hand back in Dick’s hair, rubbing his temple back and forth in a rhythmic motion. No one talks and Dick wracks his brain for any detail from his abduction that could be useful. But there’s nothing, and no matter what plans Bruce puts in place, everyone is all too aware that this could happen again, and the next time, he might not make it out.

[bing-fucker]

Plot twist, Remus was amping up his annoyingness and grossness just so when Anti is all fed up and says "UGH IS THERE ANYTHING THAT WILL GET YOU TO SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE" Remus can then say "lemme fuck you and I'll shut up for the rest of the day". It was all part of his master plan to get at Anti's twink ass

Remus is an evil master mind and I love him for it. Also, I'm using this ask to write it because y'all have given me far too many ideas for this, and if I have to suffer with my thoughts, so do you. Also, just for Hearts Anon, I did mention Anti bottoming for Dark. So there.

Also, I can't add read more links on my phone, so I'm sorry.

Warnings: Remus being Remus, mentions of wound-fucking and blood play, Anti's throat wound, mentions of suicide, dildos used as gags, use of the term "glitch bitch" in a sexual context, Remus licks Anti's throat slit. Ask me to add as necessary!

Meeting the Sides was supposed to be exciting! It was supposed to be fun and cool, because the Sides were new and it was fun to meet new people. Schneep had immediately latched onto Logan, and the two were talking about math so quickly that Anti wasn't even sure they were speaking English (he did, actually, hear some German words occasionally). Marvin and Jackie had both quickly been dragged off by Roman, Chase was speaking to Patton and Deceit, and JJ awkwardly teaching Virgil some Sign.

Which left Anti, who would have much rather been left alone. Unfortunately, however, Anti was not alone. No, instead, Anti had been annoyed all day by one Duke Remus Sanders. Remus was, to put it simply, fascinated by Anti. And, specifically, Anti's neck wound. Anti had attempted to escape him by going outside, but that just got him followed.

"Hey, if someone fucked your throat wound, would it be, like, deep-deep throating?" Remus asked, looking around the backyard of the Sides' house. "Or! Or! If you sucked someone's dick, could it go through the slit?" Remus looked back at Anti, who was sitting on the porch steps, looking exhausted. Remus leaned closer to Anti and poked his throat wound.

"Don't feckin' do that, you eejit!" Anti exclaimed, slapping Remus' hand away. "It isn't all the way cut through, dumbass, that isn't how biology works!"

"Have you tried it?" Remus asked, cocking his head curiously.

"No!"

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I'm not feckin' decapitated, this isn't just a hole in my throat!" Anti groaned and stood, stomping back into the house. It had been like this for the five hours that him and the others were visiting the Sides, and he was very close to taking Dark's advice and trying to kill himself again. Or maybe killing Remus. Either were ideas that would work.

Anti stomped into the living room, where most of the others were gathered. Remus followed behind him quickly, rambling on about something Anti wasn't paying attention to and never had been.

"Oh, for feck's sake!" Anti exclaimed, stopping and turning to look at Remus, who stilled and cocked his head curiously. "What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone!?"

Remus grinned wide. "Let me fuck you and I'll leave you alone for the rest of the day." Anti heard the very distinct sound of Schneep cursing in surprise, and even a surprised laugh from Chase.

"Are you serious?" Anti asked, glaring at Remus.

"Deadly so," Remus agreed, grinning wider.

Anti glared harder. Was it worth it? The average man lasted three to ten minutes, to be fair. So it was three to ten minutes of Anti's life for hours of piece. "Fine," he said, drawing more surprised curses and laughs from Henrik and Chase. "But you don't touch my neck."

Remus looked shocked for a second, then grinned and grabbed Anti's hand, quickly sinking down and subsequently dragging the glitch out of the living room and into Remus' room. Anti looked around the room, glitching in annoyance.

"Wow. Great decorating skills," he said sarcastically. Remus' room was dark, messy, and probably a health hazard.

"Thank you!" Remus replied, seemingly mistaking Anti's sarcasm for genuine admiration.

"Yeah, whatever." Anti sighed and turned back towards Remus, opening his mouth to say something else. However his words were quickly cut off by the duke crashing his lips against Anti's. Anti yelped into the kiss, fumbling with his hands hand a second before settling them on Remus' hips.

"Jaysus feck!" Anti exclaimed, pulling away from the kiss briefly. "Warn a guy!"

"I thought the whole 'let me fuck you and I'll leave you alone' bit worked as a warning," Remus replied, moving to kiss at Anti's throat and frowning when he remembered. "How am I supposed to do foreplay if I can't mark your throat!?"

"Try taking off my shirt, asshole," Anti replied, pushing Remus away and pulling his shirt off. "There are other places to mark someone!"

"Works for me," Remus replied, quickly taking off his own shirt and shoving Anti onto the bed.

"Ask me to do things, don't just shove me!" Anti hissed, glitching slightly as he arranged himself on the bed.

"That's boring," Remus replied, straddling Anti's thighs and quickly setting to work marking up the glitch's shoulders and collarbones. "Hey, is it going to bleed? Like, while I'm fucking you?"

"You're feckin' disgusting," Anti replied, voice glitching into a soft moan when Remus licked around his nipple.

Remus didn't respond, only ground against Anti's thigh lightly. Anti winced slightly, suddenly very much reminded that the only time he'd bottomed before was when losing a fight to Dark- and Remus was shaping up to be quite a bit rougher than Dark.

"You hump like a wild animal," Anti hissed, holding back a sound as he shifted beneath Remus and was reminded of his own cock, straining in too-tight skinny jeans.

"Yes, well, it's one of my charms," Remus responded, sitting back slightly to admire the mass of dark bruises he'd left littering Anti's shoulders, chest, and collarbones. Anti glared weakly up at him, earning a sigh. "Are you going to glare the entire time?"

"Until you do something that's worth me not, yes," Anti replied.

Remus shrugged and climbed off of Anti, roughling yanking the glitch's jeans and boxers off in one smooth motion. Anti yelped, gripping Remus' hair as the duke lifted his legs in the air and pressed his face right against Anti's entrance.

"What is with you not warning people!?" Anti exclaimed, blushing and staring down at Remus in shock. Remus just shrugged and licked around Anti's hole wetly, drawing a startled moan from the glitch.

"Y-you're doing horribly," Anti commented, words falsified by the high-pitched, glitching moans he gave as Remus ate him out.

"You say that," Remus replied, pulling back slightly. "And yet every other part of you disagrees." As if to prove his point, he dragged his finger up the underside of Anti's achingly hard cock. Anti yelped, hips bucking up in response.

"See, look at that," Remus purred, snapping his fingers and locking Anti's legs into previously unseen stir-ups. He pulled away to undress himself. "You seem so open for me. Pity your mouth can't quite shut up."

"What are you gonna do, gag me?" Anti replied, blushing brightly at the lewd position Remus had put him in.

"You know," Remus commented, standing and walking to a chest of drawers across the room. "That's not a half bad idea. Let's test something out." Anti craned his neck to try and see what Remus was doing, blushing more as he became more excited at the mystery.

"There we go," Remus purred, returning to Anti's side with something hidden behind his back. "Open wide, my dear glitch bitch." Anti rolled his eyes at the name, but opened his mouth obediently, silently justifying his obedience by saying it was for the sake of being left alone. Anti's eyes once again widened as Remus shoved a rather sizable dildo down his throat, reflexive tears almost immediately springing to his eyes as he glared at the duke.

"Well, that was disappointing," Remus observed. "You were right." Anti rolled his eyes as if to say 'Duh, of course I was'.

"Don't get snippy," Remus laughed, climbing back onto the bed and between Anti's lifted legs. "You look rather beautiful, you know. All spread out and silenced. I bet you'd look even prettier with your lips wrapped around a cock."

Anti blushed and moaned around the dildo in his throat at the praise, arching his back as Remus slowly pushed the head of his cock into him.

"Oh," Remus breathed, watching the demon beneath him as he pushed fully inside. "Somehow I didn't peg you as the praise type. Hah! Peg!" Anti rolled his eyes again, letting out a muffled moan as Remus angled his hips and pressed against Anti's prostate.

"You feel so good," Remus purred, waiting less than a minute for Anti to adjust before setting a punishing pace. "Better than I imagined." Anti's eyes fluttered closed as Remus continued, moaning desperately around the dildo down his throat.

"Fuck, you're hot," Remus praised, gently stroking Anti's cock as he fucked him. Anti moaned loudly, not even caring as Remus leaned down and licked along his wound. Anti whimpered and moaned desperately around his gag, bucking back against Remus' thrusts as he came far too quickly for his own liking.

"That's very cute," Remus grunted, thrusts becoming erratic and even rougher as he came close to his own orgasm. "How quickly you came just from getting fucked. We should do this more often~" Anti didn't even have the coherancy to roll his eyes in response, or be disgusted when Remus came inside of him.

Remus pulled away with a soft laugh, licking his lips at the sight Anti made and staring for a few minutes. Eventually, he released Anti's legs from their stir-ups and pulled the dildo from the glitch's throat, impassively watching Anti gasp and choke for breath for a few seconds before offering a bottle of water.

"There we go," Remus laughed, getting dressed and tossing Anti his clothes. "That was fun wasn't it?"

"Ah!" Anti made a gesture for Remus to shut up when he was coherant enough to start getting dressed. "You said you'd leave me alone!"

"Does that have to start now?" Remus whined, watching Anti get dressed with a pout.

"Yes," Anti replied, pulling his shirt on. "Yes it does." With that, the glitch turned and stormed off, followed closely by the laughing duke.

Anti collapsed on the living room couch gratefully, looking forward to spending the rest of the visit in silence. Silence which he only got to enjoy for about ten minutes.

"Guys," Jackie said, voice soft. Anti groaned and looked away from his phone, looking at Jackie, who was now holding a sleeping Jameson, the youngest clinging to the hero like a koala. "Get your stuff, okay? We're gonna head home."

Anti stared in shock. He did all of that for ten minutes!? He could've put up with Remus for all that time! Not that he was too bothered about getting to fuck the other man, but still! It was the principle of it! Ten minutes!

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" Anti exclaimed, his loud voice joined by Schneep and Chase's loud laughter.

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 24

Guys. This is...this. 

Ao3

000000

The ride to the station in the back of Grisly’s unmarked car is a blur that smells like the heavy stink of Hiccup’s anxiety, blood, and the new car scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. Grisly hums continuously, a tune that elevator designers would find too festive, and Hiccup can’t decide whether he’s better off thinking or not thinking, not that he seems to have a choice aside from staring wide eyed at the back of the passenger seat, arm throbbing from being wrenched behind his back.

He stumbles when Grisly half shoves him in front of a wall striped in foot wide increments, nearly smacking his forehead on a crisp number 6 before regaining his balance. Grisly produces a plastic board displaying a six-digit booking number and Hiccup’s name in block letters, the roman numeral ‘III’ included at the end like this is some kind of cosmic déjà vu, before handing it over and stepping behind the ancient mugshot camera.

Hiccup’s dad was arguing about funds to get that camera replaced when he died, and his presence haunts the room like a poltergeist too disappointed to step in as Hiccup’s savior.

“Say Guilty,” Grisly teases, canines sharp and somehow bright even though he’s standing outside the circle of garish light from the halogen lamp dangling above Hiccup’s head. “My boy, at least try not to look so stunned, I will be bringing Astrid a keepsake when I see her next. Not that she’ll be keeping anything for long.”

Astrid.

Her name snaps him out of his daze and his heart thuds back to life, slamming so hard in his chest he’s worried about it making him throw up what he kept in at her apartment. Grisly’s going to go after her, he has to stop him. There has to be a way to stop him, and Hiccup drops his booking number, reflexively struggling against the handcuffs.

“Now, Hiccup, this still has to look good in the system,” Grisly shoves the board back in his hands and he elbows the wall hard enough that it sparks up his arm, like the time he got caught trying to twist out of his dad’s stolen handcuffs and had to talk fast. “Some of that stubbornness you’re so famous for.   Show me how brittle that strong chin is.”

Grisly taps his own chin and Hiccup grinds his teeth, standing up straight and holding the board at a coquettish angle in front of his chest.

“Be sure to get my good side.” Hiccup is in the system. He’s stuck here as long as it takes to process him, and as long as he’s not in a cell, as long as he can see Grisly, Grisly can’t get at Astrid. She is safe as long as Grisly is with him.

Ask a few hundred Trip Advisor reviews averaging a solid four point two, he can fill dead space and captivate an audience.

“Right profile then,” Grisly indicates that he turn and he sighs, anything to keep sound coming out because if it stops, the paralysis might set back in.

“Wait,” he says as the camera flashes, heartbeat too fast and off kilter, like a hummingbird in a slowly tipping cage, “All Right, in the creepy comic sans note that you obviously wrote—”

“I thought it sounded like you,” Grisly steps into the light, only serving to wash the last ghost of color out of his cheeks, “blathering on like you do, saying nothing of substance.”

“Comic sans?” Hiccup snorts, breathing deep and leaning into his longest, best known role.

His dad used to say that he talked like his life depended on it, but Hiccup never anticipated the real test would be other people’s lives. People he loves.

“It’s easier to read.”

“Choosing Comic sans might be the worst thing you’ve done.” He watches Grisly’s narrow nostrils flare, the first crack in his manic veneer, and the little lively Snotlout in the back of Hiccup’s mind brags that antagonizing Grisly was the right thing to do all along.

It got real Snotlout shot, of course, but for Grisly to take the same tactic now he’d have to get Hiccup away from the cameras, which he can’t easily do mid-arrest.

Grisly starts patting Hiccup down by the desk in the intake room, thin, dry lips quirking when he touches the dried blood at the neck of Hiccup’s shirt and Hiccup turns his gag into a laugh.

“Are you dyslexic? I thought that was a myth.”

Grisly pats his front pocket before shoving his hand deep enough inside that parts of Hiccup retreat as far as they’re able.

“Do you want to hear that I was bullied? That I was small and slow in school and that made me cruel? Does it make your situation easier to deal with if you pity me?” His grin spreads slowly across his face, the only part of him that seems alive, and his fingers curl in Hiccup’s pocket.

“What happened at Astrid’s apartment might be your thing,” Hiccup makes eye contact with the outdated, image only security camera in the corner and takes a deep breath before glaring down at Grisly, “but it’s not mine.”

“I’m doing this because I want to. Because it’s fun to make you and your friends and the police run around like scared chickens in their coop while the fox locks himself in with them.” He stands up, pulling a ring of keys out of Hiccup’s pocket with a self-satisfied chuckle. The keyring reads ‘Benson’ and Hiccup’s blood runs cold. “And as much as you frustrated me, all of it makes catching you so much better.”

“Well Mr. Benson definitely has enough money to sue me for identity theft,” Hiccup clears his throat, “so that’s not…great.”

“This is…brilliant,” Grisly’s breath smells like death. Not rot. Not the cloying, tired scent of road kill in the sun. The moment of death itself, when the electric impulses that used to be human evaporate into the air in a cloud of static and pain. Like he breathes that in and lets it seep slowly through him, preserving him in its singular, inevitable eternity. “That idiot woman is still looking for these, I can’t wait to tell her I found them in evidence.”

“Ruffnut got a fax from the condos,” Hiccup whispers to himself, and Grisly’s eyes sharpen, grin deflecting to grimace.

“I thought you were smarter than this.” Grisly steps away, rooting through a locker for a jumpsuit and shoving it at Hiccup, who drops it. “Your clothes are evidence. You can change behind the curtain.” He points at a small corner of the room separated from the rest by a shower curtain and Hiccup holds his hands up to be uncuffed.

Hiccup takes his time changing, pausing with his shirt off to scrub as much of the dried blood from his neck and jaw as he can, trying not to inhale. He waits for Grisly to make a run for it, to go after Astrid and Snotlout and leave him in the hands of another officer, but he just paces the room, his footfalls padded like a predator on the cusp of making prey aware of their presence.

The floors creak though, cheap rubber-backed rug squeaking against peeling linoleum, the decay of the room protecting Hiccup like history always seems to.

The jumpsuit and the underwear issued along with it are too big, threatening to fall down as he adjusts the orange cuff around his metallic left ankle. Grisly must see what he’s doing because he comments, voice smooth enough to highlight how rough it was before the pause.

“Usually I’d take something that could so easily be used as a bludgeon,” he sneers when Hiccup pulls the curtain back, “but in your hands…”

“If I’m so scrawny, why me?” Hiccup doesn’t pick up his own clothes, instead waiting as patiently as he can feign for Grisly to re-cuff him, far too tight this time, and add the pile of fabric to his evidence bag.

“It doesn’t take bodily strength to wield a knife,” Grisly points at his temple, “only strength of mind.”

“So that’s why you chose to frame me?”

“What does it matter? It’s done.” He checks his watch, which is impossibly immaculate given what the shiny band spent the morning reflecting. “Or almost done. It will be soon.”

“Then what’s the harm in telling me why you chose me?”

“I never had children—”

“Thank God,” Hiccup rolls his eyes and Grisly tries to ignore him, jaw twitching. He’s not a man used to being antagonized and the cracks are spreading.

Snotlout is smart, Astrid is brilliant, if Grisly is loud. If he’s off kilter, maybe they’ll react quickly enough. Maybe it’s about knocking him off his game while he’s still flying high from his morning indiscretions.

“Clingy, slimy little vermin—”

“Right, kids are slimy, not blood or—”

“But I was under the assumption that at some point they stop with the incessant questions.” Grisly’s voice trembles as his volume expands and Hiccup shrugs, forcing the motion flippant.

“I didn’t.” He exhales, “what came first, the Admiral Hiccup Haddock collection or you choosing me as your prime suspect?” He can’t help but be curious and given everything else going on, he hates himself for it. Or at least he tries to, maybe some hate manages to wedge itself in his brain next to everything else.

“Like I said Mr. Haddock,” Grisly doesn’t like repeating himself but seems compelled to tie off loose ends, “I’m in the business of making money, you and your tour are not.”

“But Heather…” Hiccup can’t help but laugh, a real shocked laugh that makes him worry that part of his brain is floating away with the controls and his confident ruse, “are you saying you framed me for murder because Heather is more marketable than me?”

Grisly doesn’t like being laughed at and his expression darkens, like he’s burning through his morning’s effervescence faster than he’s used to, and Hiccup wonders how long the camera will really protect him.

Not that it matters. Snotlout matters. Astrid matters. It’d kill him if he didn’t get to tell her how he feels, but in the context of this situation, that’s kind of a moot point, isn’t it?

“When I told you not to pity me, I meant it,” Grisly growls, rough as his grip on Hiccup’s arm. A purposeful, strangling grip that’s too practiced to make an empty threat. A grip that promises. “I crawled from under the weight of everything that made me pitiable. Born in a country that had no use for me? I made myself indispensable. I took the chances others would not, I made the choices that coddled, weak people could not, and I took control. I didn’t beg in the streets like a dog, I caught the dog, ignored its squeal and made the streets better.” He hisses, a fine mist spraying across Hiccup’s face as Grisly leans in, practically primed to bite, “I take control.”

“Dead people don’t really have a say though, so is it really control?” Hiccup’s voice doesn’t shake even as his knees do.

“Yes,” Grisly checks his phone with the hand not cutting off circulation to the part of Hiccup’s arm not already deadened by cuffs, the bright screen illuminating his face at an angle that questions the humanity of his features. The sharp jaw, the thin lips, the hollows of his cheeks still shadowed like every kill he makes drags him halfway down after the victim, “the judge is ready to see me about your bail.”

“So I wait in a holding cell,” Hiccup’s throat tightens at the thought of letting Grisly out of his sight. At different blonde hair in his hand, blood soaking a different floor.

“No,” the superficial cracks on Grisly’s veneer spread outward along his geometric edges and for the first time, Hiccup sees something like hesitance mirrored in his usually blank eyes, “he wants to see you too.”

“What’s to stop me from telling him all of this?” Things aren’t going according to Grisly’s plan, for maybe the first time since Hiccup stumbled across a body he wasn’t supposed to yet, and he dives in this time with his eyes wide open. “Maybe it doesn’t need to get to trial—”

“Go ahead,” Grisly’s smirk is cruel now instead of indifferent, like the lock is broken off of the predator’s cage and he doesn’t care that the zookeeper has a gun, “if you want to assume I’m the only one capable of cleaning up the rest of this mess.”

He’s not working alone. There must be NWF members willing to step in and Hiccup thinks of Snotlout, vulnerable in a hospital bed. Astrid, vulnerable in his apartment, finally soft after fighting it for so long. After twenty-five long years, Hiccup finally has motivation to be quiet.

He must nod and something in his numbed expression must look like understanding because Grisly practically drags him out of the door and down the hall to a small office sometimes used for legal rituals when the county courthouse is full. No one has to tell Hiccup to sit on the small plastic chair inside. He isn’t surprised when the door locks behind them.

He is, however, surprised to see the judge.

“Honorable Judge Treacherous,” Grisly tilts the title into something pedantic as he takes the floor, pacing back and forth with steps as even as the heartbeat Hiccup saw him stop couldn’t have been. “I understand you wanted to see the suspect in person to set bail, an unorthodox decision for a man in your…lofty position—“

“Captain Stoick Haddock was an old friend of mine,” Judge Treacherous leans his elbows on the desk and looks at Hiccup over his glasses, down his repeatedly broken nose. Hiccup knows his dad can take posthumous credit for at least two of those breaks and he swallows hard, fidgeting in the too tight cuffs on his wrists.

The jumpsuit makes him feel guilty, but not as guilty as his bloody clothes would have.

“Friend?” Hiccup asks, over-used voice croaking around the question until he clears his throat. “I didn’t quite get that impression.”

Judge Treacherous laughs, “I didn’t get the impression dear Stoick was raising a serial killer.”

“Me either,” Hiccup blurts, fingers numb with instant regret.

“Is that a confession?” Grisly’s eyes sparkle, somehow reflecting blood no longer in front of him.

“This isn’t a trial, Mister…Gruesome, was it?” Judge Treacherous curls his lip and Grisly stands up straighter, rigid like a scarecrow itching for dawn. “When will the officer…Ah, here, Detective Eretson,” Treacherous skims through a stack of papers in front of him, “when will I be meeting this Detective Eretson?”

“Well, as I’m sure you can see from the entire case history I’ve presented to you, Eretson has proven ineffective—“

“Sorry I’m late,” Eretson’s accent cuts through the creak of the poorly hung door as he walks inside, smoothing his suit jacket and standing shoulder to shoulder with Grisly, “train ran slow.”

Hiccup never though Eretson’s presence could be comforting, but the way he glares at Grisly seeks to change that. Grisly’s suddenly tense shoulders back the notion up as he turns around, blood leaching from his face like it leached into Astrid’s carpet.

Astrid.

Panic grips his heart like a steel vice and he repeats the mantra of his morning to himself. Hiccup is in the system, he’s not going anywhere, and as long as he can see Grisly, Grisly can’t get at Astrid. She’s safe as long as Grisly is with him.

Eretson must see his panic, because he catches Hiccup’s eye and nods, his expression as unreadable as always and maybe Hiccup is lying to himself but there’s something comforting there. Something solid. And while Hiccup knows that the detective’s solidity isn’t necessarily rooted in his favor, it’s clearly planted against Grisly and that has to be good enough for now.

“Good old Berk public transportation,” Judge Treacherous attempts small talk, skimming through the file in front of him, “I thought you’d called me here for an offense you caught Mr. Haddock committing this morning.”

“Yes—”

“Where is that information in the case file?” Treacherous slides the manila folder towards Grisly, who bristles.

“I haven’t had a chance to include it,” his voice is mellow even as the hands folded behind his back twitch. “but the rest of the file is—”

“Very thorough,” Eretson cuts in, “it’s been my case for months—”

“And yet I’m the one lucky enough to stumble on the answer,” Grisly grins too bright, his façade slipping another inch under Eretson’s even stare.

“Stumble, right,” Eretson raises an eyebrow, “lucky.”

“Mr. Ghastly, I have to say I’m a bit confused to be summoned so early in the morning to set bail for a case I’ve been seeing discussed on the news for months.” Treacherous folds his hands, “if you honestly believe Stoick’s boy is the Grimborn Copycat killer, I couldn’t in good conscience let him back on the streets.”

If Grisly was pale before, he’s chalky now, complexion abandoning its noble cause to cling to the last dregs of life as his expression freezes into place like a wax effigy stretched over limestone.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if there’s even a chance that Mr. Haddock is connected to everything in this file, I’ll be making the decision to hold him without bail until a trial can shed proper light on the situation.”

“If there’s a chance—shed light—” Grisly sputters, “more than enough light has been shed, I saw him with my own two eyes, holding a girl up and slitting her throat—”

“I’ll need details for the report,” Eretson cuts in, voice level, and if Hiccup weren’t sworn to silence, he might laugh. Or cry. Or hug Eretson’s leg like the child Grisly accused him of being and hide.

“And I have those details,” Grisly struggles for his composure, a predator walking on wet tile for the first time, a janitorial bureaucracy rendering millions of years of evolution useless, “but to issue a remand without bail—to put this boy’s disrespect of the law on our taxpayers—”

“Taxpayers who pay taxes for the legal system to keep them safe from alleged serial murderers,” Treacherous would bang a gavel if he had one, but he doesn’t so he thumps a meaty hand on the desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“You haven’t even read the file! And you call yourself a judge,” Grisly’s voice cracks like his composure did as he flicks through the file, dropping half the pages on the floor, “the assailant worked backwards through the Grimborn murders, I caught him in the act of the first this morning. It stands to reason that he’s done with his spree—”

“You’re assuming someone reasonable doing the reasoning,” Treacherous looks to Eretson and then to Hiccup, his tone almost apologetic as he digs in his heels. “Letting a proposed serial murderer out on bail would be the end of my career.”

“House arrest then,” Grisly tries, “he lives with a cop, it’s perfect, there’s no sense in using the city’s resources to hold him at an overpriced jail.”

“Overpriced?” Treacherous snorts, “I picked out the bathroom tile myself, it was very reasonable.”

“Also, your Honor, the officer that lives with Mr. Haddock is currently suspended and on medical leave,” Eretson adds and Treacherous laughs before signing a piece of paper, presumably with his official recommendation.

“Held without bail until the trial,” he sets his pen down, “if the boy has already killed four people, I don’t trust an injured, suspended cop to keep him contained if he decides to work backwards through Bundy.”

“Look at the file!” Grisly shouts, the predator’s paw caught in a trap as he fought to remove a thorn, “it’s immaculate, from his research to the timing of the murders. Everything points to him! Every last drop of blood—”

“Mr. Garish, that is enough!” Treacherous stands up, towering even over Eretson, Hiccup’s dad’s ghost finally stepping into a pair of familiar if un-ideal shoes.

“It’s Grisly, your Onerous.”

The silence rings like high pitched static, the fire alarm between beeps.

Eretson clears his throat, “On second thought, maybe this case is better suited to Mr. Grisly’s particular talents.”

Hiccup’s stomach falls out from under him, and he looks around for confirmation that his ears aren’t making up worst case scenarios, like his actual situation isn’t bad enough. Eretson is patient in professional silence but Grisly’s face is contorting in confusion and rage as Judge Treacherous raises a doubtful eyebrow.

Grisly talks first, voice small, “You do?”

“Seeing how this is going, your Honor, I agree with Mr. Grisly, I might have been over my head with the unique complexities of the case.” Eretson gives Hiccup the barest ghost of a nod as he defers to Grisly with a subtle duck of the chin that’s anything but reverent.

“Well, finally someone is seeing sense,” Grisly attempts to regain his quiet, stealthy tone but instead his voice wavers, something uncouth bleeding into the edges.

“You can see my commanding officer about the transfer paperwork,” Eretson points vaguely down the hallway then turns back to Treacherous, “Captain Anderson, I know you two have worked together in the past.”

“I don’t know if I’d say ‘together’ quite so loud, Detective,” Treacherous chuckles, “that was off the books.”

“Apologies.”

“And if that is your decision, Eretson, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the courtroom.” Treacherous looks between him and Grisly, reacquainting himself with the changing situation.

“I think it’s what’s best moving forward.” Eretson nods, looking every shade as competent and a hundred times more mysterious than Hiccup has ever seen him.

“Once the transfer paperwork is complete and the file is updated,” Treacherous slides what’s left in the folder pointedly at Grisly, who trips over his own feet to bend and pick up the mess on the floor, looking more like the Ms. Moore, the condo manager, than Hiccup ever could have imagined, “then we can move forward discussing any warrants your investigation might need. Anything else?”

“No.” Grisly clutches the disorganized file to his chest like someone just used it to bludgeon him and he’s still recovering from the shock.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Eretson clears his throat again, approaching the desk with a natural sort of ease, “I was wondering if Grisly selected a public defender.”

“No, he did not, as he completely violated protocol.” Judge Treacherous laughs again and Eretson’s smile is slow and reserved, but unmistakable.

“I’d like to offer to represent Mr. Haddock moving forward.” Eretson presents the solution like it’s not impossible and Hiccup and Treacherous trade confused glances. “Is that a problem?”

Treacherous starts slowly, “Are you…”

“I’ve passed the bar, yes, I’ll have my paperwork faxed over.”

“Obviously,” Treacherous nods to himself.

“I’ll be taking the back interrogation room to speak to my client then, I’ll address having him moved to the county jail when we’re through.”

Grisly wants to kill Astrid and Snotlout, Grisly is on the case now. Grisly framed Hiccup. Eretson turned over the case to him, even though Eretson has never shown anything like trust in the man. Eretson has gone from savior to traitor to…lawyer in the most confusing five minute span of Hiccup’s life, and that’s saying a lot for someone who is currently being framed for a slew of violent murders.

Eretson sits down across the table in the interrogation room and starts babbling in legal-ese, the words going into Hiccup’s ears like the strumming of an out of tune base guitar until he opens his mouth, unsure what’s going to fall out until it does.

“You’re a lawyer?”

Eretson pauses, eyebrow raised, ghost of a grin haunting the corner of his mouth, “That’s what you’re asking? You should be asking my rate.”

“What’s your rate?” Hiccup parrots back at him and Eretson folds his hands on the table.

“You help me bring Grisly down,” he starts, deadly in a way that makes Hiccup want to hide behind him again. “And whatever you can get Jorgenson to throw in. Now, let’s start with what actually happened this morning.”

“Ok, ok…let me think,” he tries to pull back the veil of blood separating then from now and blushes when he succeeds, “so I was with Astrid—”

“I know,” Eretson surprises him by blushing himself, the pink in his cheeks exactly at odds with the rest of his appearance, “after that. Let’s start when you left the apartment.”

“Oh. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck, “wait, you know? How do you know?”

“I was—in the interest of full disclosure regarding the case,” Eretson clears his throat, tone more formal as his face reddens, “at your residence along with Jorgenson this morning—”

“Snotlout?” Hiccup frowns, “is he ok? Is Astrid ok? I have to—Grisly’s going to go after them—”

“They’re somewhere safe,” Eretson nods, all business again, “now back to the beginning, tell me what happened when you left the apartment.”

00000

The county jail stands on the corner where Big Top 24/7 Video used to, in direct sight of the back of the police station. Hiccup can see his dad’s office’s window from the tiny, barred window of his cell and he remembers being nine years old visiting his dad at work and wondering why his dad couldn’t make time to take him to the circus.

After the rumors that the pollution in Berk’s shipping lanes was deforming whales were scientifically corroborated in the mid-nineteen-seventies, trucking took over. Of course, trucking companies were worried about carjacking in the largely impoverished downtown Berk, so a beltway smeared a swath of unpopulated buildings into a slick semi-circle of asphalt. And with all freeways come truck stops and motels with flickering Vacancy signs, and Big Top 24/7 sprung up between them like a necessarily evil lovechild woefully holding the family together.

Big Top 24/7 Video opened off of the first exit within the city limits, a round brick building with a conical fiberglass roof, painted in garish red and yellow stripes that allowed a circus motif to almost veil a secret. The advertisement of private rooms and VHS sales likely did nothing to fool passing motorists looking for a reason to take their eyes off the road for even a second, but it fooled Hiccup.

When he was a teenager looking for something—anything—worth fighting with his dad over, he used to wonder how his dad was ok with circus animals being caged and made to perform for people’s entertainment right in the station’s backyard, especially given his dad wouldn’t even let him get a dog on the grounds that he was ‘irresponsible’. Hiccup threatened to do something about it once when he was about thirteen, but his dad assured him if he even so much as tried to run in that direction, he could spend the afternoon in the holding cell.

Again, Hiccup thought that was pretty rich coming from a guy who met his wife at an illegal protest to protect Berk’s last resident population of hibernating black bears.

Big Top 24/7 Video was torn down about seven years ago for the new jail to go in, and Hiccup wasn’t talking to his dad enough to gauge any sort of reaction. He imagines now that it was something like relief, if only because it was one less thing to answer his son’s ever instigating questions about, but he never got a chance to ask.

His dad died before Hiccup put together the truth that the untouchable circus of his youth was actually a dingy but surprisingly long-lived scheme to bring truckers together in the homosexually word-playing name of VHS porn and other so-called erotic novelties.

But from where he stands now? Well, he’d prefer cheap, fuzzy handcuffs to the ones that bruised his wrists as Grisly dragged him in front of a judge who invoked his father’s name like a bar he’d never meet. He’d love a ground floor ‘private’ suite with a VHS player as old as he is in the corner that he could rent by the hour over the cell he’s stuck in now, especially because a glory hole might provide a means of escape more viable than the bars on the window.

Plus, he knows for a fact he looks better in largely ill-fitting themed-garb than he does in oversized, itchy orange.

By early afternoon, even he can’t conjure enough detail about the dreary view to distract himself any longer.

What if Eretson is wrong? What if Grisly isn’t spending the day tied up with paperwork and in fact, he’s already caught up to Astrid?

Grisly would gloat, Hiccup knows that. He knows it in more blood-spattered detail than he cares to remember, but the only thing worse than remembering it is foreshadowing a repeat performance, this time with the ghost of the blood of someone he loves thrown in his face.

He’s never planned a murder, obviously, so he doesn’t really have a handle on how long it might take.   He assumes it might take longer given that Grisly is surely going to try and make it look like an accident, since framing Hiccup while he’s literally incarcerated is sure to be a bit harder than framing him while he’s walking around alleys talking about murder.

But no matter how many times he tries to convince himself it could take days or weeks or even months for Grisly to clean up his mess, he flinches every time he hears footsteps in the hallway.

The stairwell door at the end of his floor creaks open and he wonders if Grisly will go for Astrid first, using the address he sent Dave’s foot to and cornering her. Another cell door swings open, scraping across the linoleum floor, and he wonders if maybe Snotlout is an easier or mouthier target to go after first.

A key turns in the exterior door to his solitary cell and he freezes, plastic slipper squeaking against his plastic foot and tearing the silence like wet paper.

No matter who it is, he’ll be stuck, for the first time in his life, with wishing he had said more even sooner and more often.

The door opens and he braces himself for Grisly’s maniacal grin, almost stumbling from the strength of his refusal to show shock when he sees Heather instead, pale and wide eyed, hair disheveled under a crooked police uniform hat.

“Thank fuck I guessed the right room,” she shuts the door quickly behind her and leans back against it, breathing hard. She’s wearing a police uniform jacket too, one that’s simultaneously way too big for her and way too short in a disarmingly familiar combination of borrowed hoodie and crop top.

“Heather.” Hiccup says dumbly, forgetting how to ask questions when he’s so busy trying to force the answers.

“I knew you were on this floor and I had to guess it’d be a smaller cell since Grisly said you were by yourself, but—“

“What are you doing here?” His second attempt at a question goes better, not that Heather gives any impression that she heard him.

“But I guessed right, so now it’s just…keys, I guess, which one of these is for the cell gate thingy.” She starts rifling through a ring of a few dozen keys, trying a couple of them in the barred gate between them but having no luck.

“I didn’t realize you’d officially joined the force.”

“Unless the cell key is on the other ring in the office that I can’t get into—“

“Was the official police tailor unavailable when they assigned you a uniform?” Hiccup laughs at his own half joke, shoulders so stiff they feel brittle, like he’ll shatter if she keeps looking through him like he’s not here.

“It’s Snotlout’s spare,” she pauses, swallowing hard and shoving one stretched cuff back up her arm from where it was covering her hand. He doesn’t need to ask if she heard about Snotlout getting shot, the sympathy almost verging on apology in her expression is enough.

“Ah, could have guessed that,” he nods, “I swim in his crop tops too. Or shirts, I mean shirts.” The joke falls so flat he almost thinks Heather is going to cry, but he’s glad she swallows it back, since it would probably make him cry too and he’s not going to give Grisly that satisfaction.

“I’m not here to chat, I’m here to get you out of this cell.” She goes back to sifting through her key ring and Hiccup frowns, nearly collapsing onto the hard, metal bench against the wall of his cell. “Just give me a second—“

“You can’t break me out of jail.”

“I have Snotlout’s badge too,” she flashes him the shiny shield in her pocket, “that’s how I got in here.”

“Yeah, I’m in jail for murder, remember? You might have heard the judge said ‘no bail due to serial killings’?” He presses the heels of his hands against closed eyelids, “you can’t just let me out.”

“But you didn’t do it,” she says with such conviction that he wants to ask if she knows who did and he resents the distance she put between them more than ever.

No, they’re both to blame for the distance. He had what he thought were better reasons at the time, but they both said things they shouldn’t have and now they’re on either side of a barred cell wall.

“I got arrested for it.”

“Yeah, but that’s—I know you didn’t do it—”

“It doesn’t matter what you know!” He shouts, louder than he knows he should, suddenly full of resentment for even the implication that she could help him. It’s easier to know that no help is coming than it is to shove off insufficient help in the name of the ill-fitting position of ‘voice of reason’. “You can’t exhume Johann for a confession and you can’t just let me out of jail.”

“Johann?” She snorts, but she gives up on the keyring too and Hiccup’s heart falls even though it’s what he was hoping for, “you think this has anything to do with Johann?”

“Doesn’t everything?”

“I…” She deflates the rest of the way, hugging Snotlout’s jacket tighter around herself and leaning back against the wall, yanking at her braid in frustration, “Admiral Hiccup Haddock.”

“You know my military career wasn’t quite that successful,” he rests the back of his head against the cold brick and stares at the ceiling, “and since when do you call me by my full name?”

“Grisly played me for Admiral Hiccup Haddock,” she continues, slumping down to sit cross-legged on the floor, keys forgotten in her lap. Maybe she just needed to talk.  

As much as he’d like to, he can’t find it in himself to blame her.

“I know the feeling.”

“Do you?” Heather snorts, “he had me go on the news and talk about how absurd the whole theory is, I—any credibility I had—“

“Right, Grimborn credibility,” Hiccup cuts her off, gesturing at his jumpsuit, “I guess I’ve got that in spades now, you know, since Grisly framed me for a series of modern copycat murders.”

“I guess you get it then.” She has the sense to look at least a little sheepish and Hiccup sighs, rubbing his face.

“I’m sure that misogyny makes it worse.”

“Absolutely,” she nods, “I’d look way less stupid decrying the now practically proven Admiral Haddock theory on the news if I were a man.”

“Right, men get to make mistakes like that without it ruining their reputation.” He sighs, “I have to ask, ok? Just…when you say you know I didn’t do it, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she winces like she always has when she lies, looking up through her eyelashes, “you put spiders outside—“

“You’ve worked closer with Grisly than anyone.”

“And I’m sorry for that, if I knew—”

“That he’d play you?” Hiccup hangs his head, running a hand through his hair and trying not to think about the crust near his face. “He only chose you because you’re more marketable than me, he practically admitted it. It could be you in here.”

“The name doesn’t help your case,” Heather twirls the keys around her finger, “there has to be some way to fix this, I—you have to have an alibi, or something.”

“An alibi,” he shakes his head, “not this time, I—I can’t bring Astrid into this. Not again, especially not now.”

“She’s been involved the whole time! Hell, she was just a suspect—”

“I just can’t.”

“What’s so different about now?” Heather looks like his friend when she’s worried and there are a million logical ways to answer that question. He could start with Grisly and end there, but instead the day catches up to him and his resolve breaks, his last important secret falling out of his mouth.

“Because I love her.”

“Oh.” Heather bites her lip, uncharacteristically quiet as she fidgets, scraping some gum off of the sole of her boot with a fingernail.

“Oh?” He prods.

“Does she—I mean does she know?” She continues before he can answer, slouching a little further against the wall, “as in does she know there’s a possibility of it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Does she know that she’s your alibi for last night in particular?” Heather gestures at nothing, verging on frustrated and Hiccup frowns at her.

“Considering she was in my apartment with me all night and we slept together, I’m pretty sure she’s aware that we were together. Why do you ask?”

“Ok, ok, no need to be so defensive,” Heather holds her hands up.

“No need? Not like you just inferred I was stalking Astrid—”

“You hang out in a lot of creepy alleys near her apartment,” she laughs, “I had to check.”

“Your confidence in me—or lack-there-of is…” He trails off, “I missed it. I—friends? Please? I don’t need any other enemies.”

“Yeah,” she nods, “no one will believe me if I publish Johann now anyway…” Something in his expression wards her off of the topic like even she’s hesitant to rock a newly patched boat. “If we’re friends again, does that mean I get to give you relationship advice?”

“No—”

“Shouldn’t it be up to Astrid if she wants to be involved or not?”

“I just…Not this time, it’s too much to risk, I can’t…of course she’d want to be involved and—”

“Well then, what the hell else am I supposed to do? You won’t let me break you out, you won’t let me find your alibi, I’ve been working for the guy that got you into this mess and defamed me and there’s nothing I can do to redeem myself?”

He likes that she phrases it in terms of redeeming herself, not helping him. It makes it distant, comfortable, and gives him analytical breathing room he hasn’t had all day.

What could Heather do?

What hole exists in Grisly’s perfect plan that Heather could bore into? Hell, how’d he get so much right about Grimborn going off of Heather’s sensationalized tour information and an Admiral Hiccup Haddock book?

“That’s it!” Hiccup sits up straight, lowering his voice at Heather’s alarmed expression. “He had to fuck up somewhere. Not on the framing for murder, obviously, he’s good at that, but at the Grimborn. If he’s saying I did it to mimic Grimborn and you find somewhere in my Grimborn research that I disagree with what the modern case says—”

“Then it points to someone with a different Grimborn theory than you,” she stands up, tucking the stolen keys carefully in Snotlout’s jacket pocket. “It’s something, I can do that.”

“It might be enough, I think Grisly’s starting to crack under the pressure.” Hiccup lets himself hope for a second, not so long that he can’t shut it down before the long, lonely night ahead, but enough to make the dull light through the window seem livable. “Get in touch with Eretson, he seems to know where Astrid and Snotlout are, they can help.”

“Right, like I’d ask Snotlout for help with research this important.”

“No, I mean Astrid, she’s…she’s brilliant, ok?”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Heather scoffs, voice soft as she reaches for the handle to the room’s outer door, fingers lingering on the knob for a second, “take care of yourself, don’t drop the soap or—”

“Don’t remind me, I already had Grisly in my front pocket today, just…go. Don’t get caught stealing Snotlout’s keys.”

“Right,” Heather nods, somehow leaving the room a little more hopeful, if lonelier, than she found it.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

I think it would be very interesting to explore in a story how Claire would cope if she had to recover from a serious injury/accident/whatever and would be limited in her abilities for some time. She usually is always the one who heals other people and it would be quite the challenge for her to be a patient for a change.

It’s been a long battle but I think I finally conquered the writer’s block I’ve faced with the last stretch of this middle part to The Tagalong. Fingers crossed that the writing of it continues smooth through to the end. ~ Lenny

Fergus disobeys Jamie’s order to return to Lallybroch and instead follows them all the way to Craigh na Dun, inadvertently following Claire through the stones.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven

The Tagalong - Part Twelve

Thank goodness for Fergus, Claire thought as she listened to him reading to Brianna in the other room. It was impossible for her to sit up without her head spinning and her stomach lurching. But if she didn’t at least make the effort it was impossible to breathe.

She had called Mrs. Graham who had immediately offered what help she could but there was only so much the older woman could do. She’d brought soup and other food that only needed a little heating in the oven—which Fergus could handle, though Claire knew he must mutter about it—and Mrs. Graham had also taken a bit of laundry back with her to the manse, promising to return it the next day when she came to check in on them again.

It was also, thankfully, the weekend and Claire was off of work. Fergus had only a little schoolwork to complete. And Brianna had finished cutting a new tooth and was back to being her babbling and cooperative self.

But in truth, Claire was too physically miserable to give any concern more than a cursory consideration. She just wanted—needed—to sleep and get over whatever flu it was that somehow managed to leave her both shivering and sweating at the same time.

She dozed, waking when she heard a faint knock near the door.

She squinted to find Fergus standing with Brianna in his arms, squirming to get down.

“Where are les couches?”

Claire sighed then began to push herself up to a sitting position. She had to pause before she found the strength to move her legs around to the side of the bed and pause again with her head between her knees to make stop the room spinning.

“Mamamama,” Brianna cried, lunging for Claire and causing Fergus to lurch in order to maintain his hold of her.

“I’m coming, Bree,” Claire croaked but once he’d regained a firm footing, Fergus hefted Brianna into a more secure hold and shook his head, stepping back as Claire made it to her feet and began to approach.

“Non, Mother Claire,” he scolded. “You must return to bed and rest. I can take care of Bree and will see her put to bed.”

“It’s fine, Fergus,” Claire insisted, trying to clear her throat but triggering a coughing fit instead. As she turned away to avoid coughing on her children, a whiff of Brianna’s soiled diaper made it through her clogged nasal passages and sent her running for the bathroom.

The cool, smooth floor and the chill of the porcelain basin were reassuringly solid beneath her trembling body. She decided to stay there for a while rather than confirm her fears that the only way she could reach her bed again would be if she crawled. She thought she’d heard Brianna crying but when she focused enough to listen she heard only silence. Lying down and pulling a bath towel over her like a blanket, she told herself she would need to ask Fergus about the contents of Brianna’s diaper, a brief bolt of fear shooting through her that her young and vulnerable daughter might contract the flu that was tormenting her. While her own symptoms had begun as a cold, there were some for whom digestive issues were the first sign of illness.

Sleep claimed her before her fear for Brianna grew to encompass Fergus’ welfare too.

It was impossible for her to tell how long she’d been on the floor of the bathroom when she roused again—not to vomit but because of a cramp in her leg from how she’d been lying. Her stomach felt settled enough for her to attempt returning to bed once the feeling had returned to her leg. She sat up and slowly shifted on the floor, her foot knocking something in the process.

She found a plate with dry toast and a glass of water—her foot having knocked the plate and missed the glass. There was a note as well, though she couldn’t read it in the dark. Of course, it wasn’t as though Brianna could have left it for her.

The water first—just a few sips. It both soothed and tickled her throat so that she nearly had another coughing fit. But the liquid settled comfortably in her stomach so she drank a little more and waited again. A wave of violent hunger washed over her as the intake of water triggered her stomach’s need for more. The toast was cold and plain and delicious. She nibbled it cautiously, struggling to take her own professional advice not to overdo it. When there was nothing left but the crumbs, she reached the plate and cup up to rest them on the edge of the counter and pulled herself to her shaking feet.

She was still chilled—the towel hadn’t been as warm a blanket as she needed—but she could move again without waves of nausea knocking her back to her knees. And though there remained a fog in her head, it no longer pressed in on her nose and eyes with the painful pressure that had been there before.

For the first time in a day and a half Claire could smell enough to smell herself. She smelled of vomit, even though she couldn’t find any traces on her person��to be frank, she didn’t have the energy to look very hard. The thought of a bath was nice. The steam should help with her lingering congestion and the heat would soothe the achy feeling in her limbs.

She should clean up a bit first. The plate and cup needed to be returned to the kitchen and based on the light, it was the middle of the night. She should check on Fergus and Brianna, ensure there was something Fergus could easily make for their breakfast in a few hours. Mrs. Graham wouldn’t be by again until midday but Fergus should be able to keep Brianna fed, cleaned, and occupied until then.

Had the kitchen always been so far from her bedroom?

By the time she reached the kitchen sink, she was afraid she’d drop the glass and plate and shatter them against whatever else might be in there so she simply left them on the counter before sinking to the floor and resting her forehead against the cool surface of the cabinetry that shielded the pipes. If it felt so cool to her touch, she must still be quite feverish. Or perhaps she felt so weak because she needed more to eat. The toast and water were all she’d managed to keep down in what must be close to two days.

A bit more toast and she’d have the energy to move again. The loaf of bread was still right near the toaster from when Fergus had made what he’d left for her in the bathroom. She only needed to stand… and lean against the counter. Better yet, sit on the floor some more while it cooked.

Fergus shook her shoulder and whispered harshly in her face. “What are you doing out here, Mother Claire? You are going to burn the house down if you take not more care.”

Claire blinked and gasped, started from her doze and then she coughed as the lingering wisps of smoke crawled down her throat and into her lungs.

Fergus had removed the singed toast from the toaster and set them on a plate near the window to be tossed out for the birds in the morning. Claire would have scoffed if she weren’t fighting to control her coughing and the gag reflex that it threatened to trigger. The toast wasn’t that badly burned and the smoke that it had created was little more than what might rise from the wick of a blown out candle. Besides, the toaster had done what it was supposed to and had popped the bread up when it was done—it was only the lower edge closest to the still-hot coils that were a bit singed.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Claire asked, her throat scratchy from all the coughing. She pulled herself to standing and attempted to look down at Fergus, reinforcing her authority as the parent. Except she didn’t have to look down far. He’d shot up more in his recent growth spurt than she’d realized. It wouldn’t be long before her surpassed her in height.

“I heard you banging out here as you had your fight with the toaster,” he explained.

She had had difficulty getting the bread into the thing in the near dark but she thought she’d been quieter about it.

“Are you feeling well again, Mother Claire?” Fergus asked, his eyes narrowing at her. “Did you eat what I left for you?”

“Yes,” she responded in a hissed whisper. “And it did me good so I thought I would make a little more for myself to eat. I can’t keep lying in bed when you and Bree—”

“Bree and I will be better with you in bed than with you in l’hopital,” he scolded. “Is it not you who always say not to do so much when you are ill as it will take longer for you to recover?”

Claire desperately wanted to protest but she couldn’t argue with herself and Fergus knew it only too well.

“Back to your bed with you,” he ushered her out of the kitchen. “I will make you edible toast and bring more for you to drink.”

“There should be some oatmeal in the cupboard for you to make parritch for your breakfast,” Claire explained as she accepted defeat. “And Mrs. Graham will stop by in time for luncheon. If you have trouble getting Bree dressed or if she fusses at all—”

“I can take care of my women,” Fergus assured her firmly, ignoring her as she rolled her eyes. “I will do what Milord would if he were here, and he would see you put to bed and made to rest.”

Claire couldn’t have found words to argue with him even if she’d wanted to. He led her to her bed and indeed, tucked her in when she was beneath the covers.

She caught his wrist before he left.

“Milord would be very proud of you right now,” she told him. “Thank you, Fergus. For taking such good care of me and of your sister.”

“Milord would be amazed I convinced you without more of a fight,” Fergus admitted with a laugh. “Go to sleep now, maman. I will leave something for you when you awake.”

[lovedinapastlife]

Riverdale React: s3e8 Outbreak

Those shoes are so festive. But does anyone do after school activities anymore or is everyone hopped up on G&G and fizzle rocks?

Moose has a serious hookup/drug problem. Every time he tries to get frisky something terrible happens, like finding a dead body. Last time he did the Jangle with Midge he got shot. It’s an OMEN. NEW BOYFRIEND AND REHAB.

Betty is so smart and cute I just wanna wrap her up in her sweater and give her some tea and hugs. Should I be proud of her for manipulating her gag reflex? I’m gonna say yes.

Are the boys seriously hitchhiking? Is that how they got to Jones Jankyard? Or are there only pickup truck Ubers in this side of town?

I’m just gonna sit here and eat my fist in an attempt not to comment on JB and how hard it is for me to buy preteen acting. Welcome to the fold of child actors

Also this reaction pan to Archie after Jughead getting attention made my day via nostalgia of all the times he got wistful about Bughead. THIS guy to the right looks SO happy for them. Aw, Lugnut. Love and drugs are out there for you somewhere.

Maybe Toni shouldn’t wear a choker to bed after a seizure? Was I hallucinating or didn’t Toni already stay at Thornhill most of the time? “Coo-coo bananas?” Ooof. Yes you are for using that phrase. Love the smiles though. Happy babies.

Toni got a full outfit change and Veronica’s stuck waking up in her cheer outfit? Also you hear Hermione getting mad at Hiram again? Gotta protect her baby. She’s just TERRIBLE at it.

Is Gladys high as f*ck? She recognizes Archie, her child’s only best friend forever, and just randomly was like, “FREE LOVE AND TAILPIPES? Youuuu feel like car parts. Everything feels like car parts. I feel great. You should have called so I could have turned you away. Unless you have car parts, in which case welcome back. Do you eat food?”

Love Jughead’s subtle reactions to awful parenting. Was kind of hoping for a volcano eruption of emotion but I guess they need a place to stay so gotta keep it on the down low.

Alice you are the worst XD “She is among the fallen” REALLY? We are so dramatic, Riverdale.

Betty’s playin’ the GAME. Not letting it play her, am I right? “He’s actually really funny” I feel like she’s just DARING Ethel to suggest they switch boyfriends so she can cut a bitch.

E: “You’ll make him mad!”

B: “He’s not real. Also, I do what I want. LIKE I GIVE A FIZZLE ROCK”

Aw Ethel looks like she’s WRECKED. Betty is so patient with her once she’s off the rocks. I wonder if that’s why they named the drug Fizzle Rocks. “Gotta get our rocks off somehow,” the Blossoms would glean, twisting imaginary evil mustaches and licking their maple syrup-covered appendages

Also why is Toni still not at school for the contamination hilarity but Veronica is? Like, hasn’t Weatherbee ever heard of a mass-email to limit contamination? Or do they just like dramatically storming the school?

I love how serious Reggie and Veronica are when discussing narcotic addiction to something like Fizzle Rocks but haven’t stopped Moose or Kevin from eating the stuff like it’s literal candy. Wouldn’t the drill sergeant ROTC dude notice everyone was high off their a**es all the time?

Everything that comes out of Hiram’s mouth is bullsh**. These kids are terrible at keeping track of their friends.

I love the obvious head nod to the Lodges before Penelope’s fake seizure. Cheryl just rolls her eyes like, “B***, I set you on fire. I’m not gonna hold you during your Best Supporting Actress bid”

Ewwww Jellybean being into Archie is squicky for me. She has a small army of teen boys to ogle, so why Archie, esp when she seemed happy for Jarchie possibilities in the previous scene? GLADYS. You abandoned your son to adopt ten others. This is gloriously awkward. Also I’m pretty sure Jughead did not randomly rip his shirt and jacket off so I don’t know how Gladys saw his shoulder for the magically appearing scar but whaaaatever :)

HAHAHAHA Archie! ARCHIE! Literally you cannot be left alone. We need to get you a leash.

How am I supposed to take Penny seriously when she CONTINUALLY gets taken out so easily? Are they reducing her initial antagonism for the Jones to having a thing for FP? OR Gladys? The dude’s a smokin’ alcoholic but she can find those anywhere in the Ghoulies or Serpents. Heck, check out the LSD-laced Gargoyle gang for fresh meat, Pennylicious. You can even rob them afterwards for extra cash.

“Toledo Serpents” in red doesn’t have the same ring/asethetic to it. You think Gladys stole the design and the name to start her own outfit? I mean technically they could just be on the Southside of Toledo so she coulda kept the name. These are the things I think about.

Wait…Jughead…are you not gonna tell her that you carved up Penny first? Everyone is just okay with torture and mutilation? Including Archie?!

Hiram has such a god complex “what every king wants…a kingdom. And a legacy.” He wants V to have evil little babies even though she has clearly shown no interest in anything to do with his weirdo educationless empire.

Gladys’s hands are covered in blood and Jughead’s in conspiracy mode. Is Penny DEAD? Is this normal?!

Where is this phone coming from in Sisters of Quiet Mercy? Oh and Jug didn’t bring a cell phone so Betty can’t call him. BOO. Why the hell did anyone believe she’d go to the Farm?

I love Betty threatening people for justice using a sharp pencil (the pen is mightier than the sword!). Don’t tell Archie though. He might get ideas ;)

Okay this nighttime mom and son chat is juggie fan service. How could it not be with that beautiful back? His hair is so pretty. j: “you can’t go out there alone” OBVIOUSLY. Archie can’t go to the BATHROOM alone!

jughead: “I think I need to go home”

me: to betty

 jughead: “to take down hiram lodge from the inside”

me: WITH BETTY! God, this Hiram guy keeps stealing all the studmuffin attention in town

So did Polly…just…not misbehave? And that’s why she didn’t know about the game in Sisters of Quiet Mercy?

Is Cheryl trying to channel Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs? Are we water boarding with maple syrup on this show? Is that…is that happening? Is Penny ENJOYING it? Ugh no screenshot from THAT mess.

THREE GROWN WOMEN have been tied to chairs this episode. That is a record of some kind.

There is so much freaking flannel on this show. Freeeeed! I would hug him so long and hard we would both cry. Wasn’t Jellybean too young to be pissed at FP before they left? How did FP get two bikes up here? Did they trade Serpents? Why is Gladys kissing FP like she likes him as a person?! I have…SO MANY QUESTIONS!

The girls are taking care of business this round! Cheryl and V roundin’ up the troops! Ethel and Betty leading the Sisters to (sorta) safety!

DID I TELL YOU BETTY WAS A GODDESS? AND A QUEEN? She doesn’t even need her headdress for more than like five seconds. I kind of want all of them to just live in the forest as a new girl-gang of Amazons called the Gryphons. Or the Sisters. Because why the hell not?

I do not see a flaw in Archie being babysat by his dad in the middle of the woods until the Lodgpocalypse passes. Vegas will be their guard dog.

Hermione…what is your purpose? I don’t think she knows and that’s why she drinks. Or she probably doesn’t care. She does look legit distraught about being a puppet. She’s like, “Hiram’s other wife is coming back soon and I will have even less to do.”

Quarantined? To keep Jughead and FP outta town? Ohhh Riverdale. You TEASE. How are we supposed to wait to see how Jughead digs a tunnel back to Betty? This time jump nonsense better show some damn adorable reunions or I am gonna...make some fanfiction! humph! What do you think?

[meowloudly15]

Stranded: Day 2 - RUSSIAN SPY

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Gwen pulled off her mask and gloves and climbed down the fire escape. She jumped from the bottom level and landed lightly on the pavement below.

Where could she find food?

Gwen looked around. She appeared to be in a residential area.

PERSONS TAKING NOTICE

A young man on the other side of the road called to her, "Nice jump!"

Gwen picked a random direction and started walking quickly. It was a bad idea to do things that might attract attention.

She walked for a few blocks and saw what looked like a deli shop. A rotund Italian man stood outside of it, placing slices of turkey on a window ledge. A cat trotted over, meowing happily and loudly.

IMPENDING MORAL CRISIS

Not for the first time, Gwen cursed the presence of her moral compass. But she needed to eat something.

Gwen waited for the shop owner to go back inside, took a quick glance around to make sure that nobody was watching her (there were a couple of people on the street, but they were absorbed by their phones), and then sidled over to the windowsill. She swiped the turkey before the cat had finished sniffing at it and popped it into her mouth. The cat meowed unhappily, so she gave it a quick scratch on the head before continuing onward.

Gwen then realised how bad of an idea it probably was to eat something straight off of an unclean window ledge. She suppressed her gag reflex and swallowed.

It would tide her over for a little while, at least.

Gwen noticed the itch again, which was stronger now.

She continued to walk down the road. The itch grew more and more powerful, then started to weaken again.

Was it a homing signal? Would the sense direct her to Visions Academy?

There was only one way to find out.

Gwen turned around and kept walking until the itch regained its strength, then turned left. She crossed the street as a car honked at her. Typical Connec-... no, this was New York City. Typical New York courtesy.

She really wanted a map. But for now, at least, her spider-sense would do.

Gwen walked along the new street – it was called Park Drive – and felt the homing itch strengthen slightly.

She kept walking, following the itch as it played a nonverbal game of Hot and Cold with her. She took wrong turns, backtracked multiple times, had a brief atomic disjunction, and collided with a No Parking sign. It certainly wasn't the most efficient way to travel, and it wasn't the most fun, but at least she had something to do for the time being.

By the time Gwen had gotten about halfway through her music playlist, the homing itch was buzzing like a cell phone set to vibrate and was causing her a modicum of discomfort. She turned a corner and saw a large concrete building emblazoned with the words "VISIONS ACADEMY". On the street nearby stood a stocky police officer, sighing as he peeled a sticker off of a mailbox.

VISION OF BROOKLYN

Was school in session today?

Gwen took out her phone and looked at the date and time. It was now 11:30 on October 1st, a Monday, so…

Wait. October 1st?

That was almost a week before the dimensional travel incident happened!

Right?

Did the calendar work differently in this dimension?

How had her phone reset to this different date and time system?

Gwen had a lot more questions, but her stream of thoughts was interrupted by the policeman walking over to her, saying, "Hey, kid!"

She nearly fled. She thought the cop was about to arrest her. She assumed he recognised her. But she didn't move.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

Gwen sighed in relief, then immediately realised that she needed to come up with an excuse. "Yes! Doctor! The appointment thing! But it's over now, so I'm going back. Sir."

The man nodded, then turned and walked away. "Have a good day, kid."

"Sure thing, sir!" Gwen gave the officer a quick salute before jogging over to the school.

She looked behind her to see if the cop was still watching her. He was.

Well, it looked like she had to go inside.

Should she be here?

YA-YUP

Gwen swung open the door and walked into the school.

The first thing she was struck by was how polished and modern everything looked. She was also struck by the lack of students in the halls. Maybe it was class time.

Where should she go?

RUSSIAN SPY

What?

A large man dressed in a grey three-piece suit walked over to Gwen. "What are you doing outside of class?" he asked.

"I, uh, I…" Gwen stammered, at a loss for words.

Was this guy some type of spy?

The man squinted. "I know the face of every student in this school, but I don't recognise you."

Gwen tensed up. She assumed the man had recognised her from the police blotter.

"Sir, uh…"

"Then you must be Wanda Maximoff."

Gwen breathed a sigh of relief. She really had to put more trust in her spider-sense in social situations.

"The transfer student from Russia?"

Gwen gaped for a second, caught completely off-guard.

"Y-yes, dat es me," she finally said in the best Russian accent that she could muster on such short notice.

That explained a lot. The spider-sense had been referring to her.

The man extended a hand, smiling warmly. He modulated his speech carefully, hoping that it would aid "Wanda's" comprehension. "It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Doctor Bucci. I am the principal. Welcome to America."

"I-it, uh, eet eez mine plezoore also." Relieved to a point, Gwen shook Dr. Bucci's hand.

"I thought you would be arriving much later. We were not prepared for you quite so early."

"Ja, vell, I am here now."

"And indeed, whether late or early, your arrival is a pleasure. Allow me to take you on a tour of the school."

The next thirty minutes were a blur as Gwen was dragged from location to location by the overeager principal. He talked about the courses she would be taking, "reminded" her about housing and dining and extracurriculars, told her about the supplementary English courses, diverted onto tangents, presented her with a riddle or two that she couldn't solve, then resettled onto the subject at hand.

Gwen tried her best to remember all the information that kept getting thrown at her. Classes started promptly at 8:30; physics was first, followed by history, precalculus, et cetera; she was apparently listed as a freshman; she'd be in physics with the other transfer student who had arrived a couple of days ago; dorms were across the bridge (she was in room 118); study rooms were downstairs. There was a lot to remember. She didn't know how she could keep up this schedule, maintain her Russian facade, and somehow return home to her dimension.

But she would figure it out. Gwen just needed to put more faith in herself.

Also, she was starving. At least she wouldn't have to worry about meals any longer.

Dr. Bucci finally returned her to the main office and told her, "I'll send a copy of your schedule to your room, and I'll let your teachers know you're coming. Classes start tomorrow, so for now, feel free to relax, get lunch, explore a little. Also, we'll send up a uniform for you, plus all the assignments that you've missed. See you around!" He waved and walked off.

Gwen sighed in relief. She had plenty of time to figure out what she was doing.

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[feynites]

*flings some more Tonlen x Oisin snuggles at @scurvgirl and @lillotte17 because I WANTED MORE THAT WAS TOO CUTE*

Also this is more NSFW-y. 

Tonlen’s skin is tattooed in flowers.

 He shivers when Oisin tastes them with their tongue. Although the texture of the skin doesn’t feel any different from anywhere else. They still indulge in the impulse, peppering ‘tastes’ with kisses, and letting their hands wander.

 The two of them do not always have sex when they are intimate. They go at their own pace, and Oisin has discovered that this sometimes means indulging in a wide range of activities that are not intercourse. Or that straddle a sort of borderline with it. Today, a shared rest day, they have spent the better part of the morning just… admiring one another. Trading touches and kisses, but also conversation, and grooming. Bathing. Primping. Oisin’s nails are freshly painted, toes and fingers alike. Tonlen’s skin has been treated with a new lotion he has been meaning to try; exfoliated and then lavished. It has left him feeling very soft, now that it has all set in. But he says he still does not think he likes it as much as his usual kind.

 They took a break around lunch, to eat and sort of dress, and work on a few projects. Tonlen had receipts to file and Oisin brought a book to read. The sun had been hidden by clouds for the morning, and by then, the sky broke into a gentle rain. It felt as though the air let out a breath of relief over it. The sound of droplets hitting the ceiling had provided a sweet ambiance, that eventually drew the two of them back into bed together.

 Tonlen recited poetry.

 Oisin hadn’t thought to bring any, but they can imagine a few other ways to express their appreciation.

 Just because they do not always have sex does not mean they do not frequently have sex.

 Their tongue finds a nipple, which draws a pleasant sound. And then they pepper kisses down Tonlen’s ribs, before stopping midway on their journey to lavish attention on his navel. The skin around it is even softer than the rest. They like the way that Tonlen’s hips twist when they press their tongue into it. But they know how to get an even better reaction, and as the desire thickens in the air between them, they find themselves impatient for it.

 “Come back up here,” Tonlen requests. Brushing fingers through their hair, and then pressing behind their ears in a manner meant to coax them upwards. Probably to steal another kiss.

 Tempting.

 But so is the blushing cock waiting below.

 “In a bit,” they say, and make their way south instead. Tonlen’s breath catches a little when they do not even bother to use their hands. Instead they nuzzle at his thigh for a moment, and breathe in the scent of his new lotion - they think they might prefer the regular one too, actually, it smells more Tonlen-y - before applying their tongue to his flushed skin.

 The hitch of his breath and the way his fingers curl in their hair is intoxicating.

 Oisin likes all parts of being loved and loving, they think. They like it when Tonlen pleases them; and they like it just as much when they please Tonlen. They like how pliant he becomes when they hold his hips down. They like the feel of his nails scraping against their scalp. They like the way his breaths speed up, and the air flutters with arousal, as he stares down at them there. Between his legs.

 They lick at him, drawing their tongue up and down his length, until they have coaxed into standing at full attention. Tonlen’s hair is a dark fan against the pillows, and his pulse seems like it is thundering beneath his skin, as they finally start to take him into their mouth. Licking and teasing, taking their time to fit him between their lips. He gets almost flustered when they do this, somehow.

 Oisin likes it. It makes them feel powerful. Makes them feel gentle, too.

 When they finally fit Tonlen’s cock into their mouth, successfully fending off their gag reflex for only the third time, their lover’s hips strain in their grasp and his the arousal in the air briefly becomes more intense than any other feeling. It drowns out the heat of his cock in Oisin’s mouth, and the feel of his skin against his palms, and the scent of him. The taste of him, and even the sight of him. Just for a few seconds, that leave both of them tingling with the rust.

 OIsin rather thinks a spirit was just born.

 They slide Tonlen’s cock from their mouth, and offer him a rare, cocky grin, before taking him down again. Letting their focus turn back to the task at hand; though looking away from that full-body blush is a challenge, too.

 It is well worth it, though, to hear him pant and feel him strain. To draw as much pleasure from him as they can, intent and just shy of possessive.

 Well.

 Maybe not actually shy of it, they concede, as they tighten their grip a little and let some of their greed for him bleed into the atmosphere between them, too. They whirl their tongue over the head of his cock, and swallow him down one last time; letting go of one hip to stroke at the base of his shaft, until he comes with a choked sound and a twist to his hips. His cock pressing against their cheek, his seed spilling into their mouth.

 For all that they love making love, Oisin has found that they are not overfond of the taste of that. They spit it discreetly into a basin beside the bed - something their lover began making handy after their first few times together - before climbing up to claim that kiss of theirs.

 Tonlen pants just a little, his pleasure tingling in the air, buzzing in their fingers when they get their arms around him. It tickles their mouth as they kiss him.

 “You are so wonderful,” they murmur. “Blooming with desire at a touch. My sweet flower.”

 They rather like the way he squirms at the compliment. And then snorts a laugh at them, before brushing their cheek.

 “That is a new one,” he notes.

 Oisin grins.

 They like finding new endearments for him. The more tender and romantic the better, they think, as they rest their throat and nuzzle his cheek for a moment instead. But they only ever bring them out when it is just the two of them.

 It is another kind of intimacy, really.

 Maybe even one of their favourites.

[terriblelifechoices]

32 and 97 please? and could it be Percival credence and set in the possible verse :)

Okay, so you all seem to be in a time travel mood.  Was there a meme I missed? 

From the fanfic trope MASH-UP meme, which remains heaps of fucking fun.  Come say hi.  It’s probably going to end in fic, because having written fic for one person, it doesn’t feel fair not to write fic for everyone else.

32. Pregnancy Fic & 97. Time Travel, set in the Possible ‘verse.  Okay.  Here we go.

Grave Manor, Late January 1932

“Credence,” Dorothy began.

“I’m fine,” Credence said firmly.

Dorothy fixed him with the please stop being a dumbass look she usually reserved for her husband.  “That’s the second time you’ve been sick today,” she pointed out.  “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I never said that you were,” Credence retorted, with more heat than he meant to.  He felt too wretched to be mindful of Dorothy’s feelings, even though she was only trying to help.  “Stop fussing!”

Dorothy pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes at him.  “If you’d like me to leave –”

“Shit,” said Credence.  “No.  Please.  I don’t – I’m sorry, Dorothy, I really am.”  He was going to feel like an absolute heel for snapping at her just as soon as he could keep anything down.

“Well,” said Dorothy, ever the peacemaker, “I suppose you’ve got a pretty good excuse for beastly behavior,” she allowed.  “Magic knows I wasn’t at my best with Peter.”

Credence winced, both at the memory and the less-than-oblique reference to his increasingly obvious secret.  Dorothy had a talent for understatement.

“I want Percival to be the first one to know,” he confessed.  “That’s why I haven’t said anything yet.”  Technically – and Credence had every intention of clinging to that technicality, despite what Percival thought about people who used them – he still hadn’t.  He’d alluded to it, yes, but he hadn’t outright said anything.

Dorothy stared at him, incredulous.  “How?” she demanded.

“Well, when a wizard and another wizard love each other very much –”

“I will pour this ginger tea on your head, just you see if I won’t!” Dorothy threatened.

“You’d need a stool for that,” Credence said, momentarily diverted by the logistics.  He knew full well that Dorothy would.  She’d probably tell him that he had it coming while she did it.  It was the how he was less sure about.

“I have magic, you idiot, I’ll wingardium leviosa it and dump it all over you.  What do you mean, Percival doesn’t know?”

“Er,” said Credence.  “Well, at first I wasn’t sure, and then …” He made a vague hand gesture, trying to convey without words that the fucking Smith-Smythe case had come up and Percival had spent what felt like all of thirty minutes at home in the last week.  He hadn’t been around for long enough to notice that Credence had been throwing up what felt like every meal he’d eaten in the last month and then some.  Credence didn’t blame him for that, exactly, but a bit of husbandly hovering might have been nice.  Percival was the only one who hovered the exact right amount.

“Oh,” said Dorothy.  “Right.”

Alex had spent slightly more time at home in the past week than Percival had, but Alex wasn’t trying to ride herd on Magical Law Enforcement from three different countries.  No one cared if Alex went home for a shave and a change of clothes, but everyone acted like the entire investigation would fall apart if Percival did.

Credence was going to have words with a few people about that, just as soon as he figured out who he needed to have them with.

Dorothy sighed.  “I’ll bring you some Bessie’s Baby Balm,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Credence.  He fidgeted.  “You’re not going to tell Alex, are you?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said.  “Percival should know first.  How can I tell Alex things I don’t know?”

Dorothy was a much better friend than he deserved.  Credence was going to buy her an entire shop’s worth of fancy yarn as soon as he could go out in public without wanting to immediately throw up from all the strange smells.

You’re being ridiculous, he told himself.  He’d been pregnant before.  There was no reason a little vomiting should knock him off his feet quite so badly.

Of course, it hadn’t really been this bad with Galahad or Olwen.  And at least with Galahad, it really had been morning sickness.  He’d barely been sick at all with Olwen, which was probably why he was being such a ninny about it now.  Percival spoiled him so much that he’d forgotten what a bit of hardship felt like.

You can’t rest just yet, he thought.  He and Tina were so close to having Rappaport’s Law repealed.

Credence made a face and forced himself out of the worn green chair in his office.  It was, aside from the bed he shared with Percival, probably Credence’s favorite piece of furniture in Graves Manor, not to mention the most comfortable.  It was one of the few things about the office he hadn’t changed when he’d taken ownership of it.

Credence’s office had been Vivian Graves’ study, once.  A handful of her things remained: the book she’d written on the importance of Merlinian legends in wizarding culture, which was written in what Percival referred to as a dialect of ‘high academia’ and still somehow managed to be witty; the hand scribed and illustrated book of stories she’d made for Percival on his thirteenth birthday, to match the one she’d given Seraphina; the crystal inkwell she’d used to write her letters, which still held faint traces of blue-purple ink.

It was his office now.  Credence had tried not to change things too much when he was still new to the Manor, but the changes crept inevitably in over time.  Vivian’s dry academic research tomes had been the first to go, packed away in the attic in neatly labeled boxes.  Credence still wasn’t sure how anyone made stories as wondrous as the ones Percival told him and the children sound so boring, but that was academia for you.  He suspected that whoever held the office after him would probably find his own much-annotated copies of Copperfield’s Legal References just as boring.

That thought made him smile.  Even now, Credence still delighted in being part of Percival’s family traditions.  Knowing that those traditions would carry on into the next generation satisfied the part of him that had grown up scared and alone, desperate to belong to someone or something and knowing with awful, bone-deep certainty that he never would.

Credence paused in front of the bookshelf where Vivian’s inkwell rested.

I wish I could have met you, he thought, reaching out to toy with the crystal stopper.

Drawing the stopper out was a mistake.  The decades old ink had been lightly perfumed, once, but the scent had soured over time.  Credence gagged, resisting the urge to throw up yet again, and accidentally knocked the inkwell off the shelf.

It shattered on the floor of his office, releasing a plume of blue-violet smoke that made his eyes burn.

Everything went black after that.

Graves Manor, Late March 1884

“Ow,” Credence moaned, curling reflexively into the fetal position.  His head ached, a throbbing counterpoint to the rest of his body.  He felt like he’d been Stunned.

“Easy, now,” an unfamiliar woman’s voice said.  “You’ve a nasty lump on the back of your head.”  Her voice was clear and lilting, rising and falling in a familiar cadence.

She sounded like Percival did, when Percival slipped into his mother’s accent.

Also, how had she gotten into his office?

Credence jerked upright and regretted it a moment later, barely managing to transfigure his handkerchief into a bowl to be sick in before heaving up what little remained in his stomach.

“Oh, I wish you hadn’t done that,” the unfamiliar witch said, looking faintly green.  “I’m going to be fair annoyed with you if you make me sick up my lunch, boyo.”  She rubbed at the faint swell of her stomach with one hand.  Credence recognized the gesture.  He’d made that gesture, soothing his unborn child.

Her other hand, Credence noticed, was wrapped tight around the hilt of her wand, and she was aiming it at him.

Credence set his bowl down and resisted the urge to rub protectively over his own unborn child.  It was best not to let people know where you were vulnerable, or so Percival always said.  He kept his hands where she could see them, pressed flat against the floor of his office.

Credence frowned.  It was his office, but it wasn’t.  It looked a bit like it had when he’d first taken ownership of it, but less neglected.

“How did you get into my office?” he asked.

“Your office!” the witch repeated, indignant.  “I beg your pardon.  This is my office, and that’s a question I should be asking you!  How the hell did you get in here?  The wards are set to lock out anyone who isn’t a Graves, and I’ve certainly not made an exception for you.”

Credence stared at her.  The witch holding him at wandpoint was handsome rather than pretty, with thick dark hair swept into an elaborate bun.  Percival and Dindrane both had her eyes, he realized somewhat hysterically.

“I think I’m dreaming,” he said.

Vivian Graves cocked an eyebrow at him.  The gesture reminded him sharply of Percival.  “Are you now?” she inquired.

“I – yes.  I must be,” Credence said.  “I’d really like to wake up now,” he added.

The dream version of his mother-in-law stared at him, nonplussed.  “I have to say, this is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had with a would-be burglar.  Not that we get many of those, since, as I said, the wards are set to keep out anyone but a Graves.  I, for one, would really like to know how you got around them.  My husband will likely have a few questions on that score as well.”

Oh.  Oh, no.  No, no, no.  The dream version of his mother-in-law was bad enough.  Credence was absolutely not going to put up with the dream version of his father-in-law as well.  He wasn’t sure he could make it through a conversation with Geraint without shouting at him.

“I’m not a burglar,” Credence said.  “And –” His gaze fell on Vivian’s desk calendar.  “What day is it?” he asked.

“March 30th, 1884,” Vivian said.

“Right,” said Credence.  He was glad he was already sitting down, or else his legs would have gone out from under him.  He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his head on them, trying and mostly failing not to hyperventilate.

This was not happening.  This was just a very strange dream.

A very strange, very realistic dream.

“Easy,” Vivian murmured soothingly.  “Easy now, there’s a good lad.”  She knelt down next to him and rubbed between his shoulders, a silent offer of comfort and support.

“I can’t,” he gasped.  “This can’t be happening.”

“How about you concentrate on breathing, and then we’ll figure out what’s going on?” she suggested.  “Breathe with me.  In and out, nice and slow, there you go.”

Vivian was watching him when Credence lifted his head up again.  Her gaze didn’t have Percival’s wealth of investigative experience behind it, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent.  Credence had the sense that Vivian Graves could see right through the heart of him, if she wanted to.

“You’re not a burglar, are you?”

Credence shook his head.

Vivian considered that, tapping a thoughtful finger against her mouth.  “I’ve not met all of Geraint’s cousins yet, but you don’t have their look.”  Her gaze went suddenly distant – checking the wards, Credence realized.  Vivian was the mistress of Graves Manor; Geraint must have keyed the wards to her will the way Percival had keyed them to his.

The way Percival would key the wards to Credence’s will, almost forty years from now.

Credence reached for the wards, wondering if they would still recognize him if he hadn’t been made the master of Graves Manor yet.

The wards felt different.  They didn’t have the steel clawed ferocity of Percival’s magic, that willingness to adapt to anything in order to preserve the lives entrusted to their care.  They felt like solid stone instead, with no hint of awareness that stone could be broken.

They felt wrong.

“Oh,” he said, flinching back.

“Who are you?” Vivian demanded.  “And why do the wards recognize you?”

Credence stared at her.  Surely she would know the answer to that better than he would.  She was raised to magic.  Could the wards recognize him as master of Graves Manor if he hadn’t been keyed to them yet?

No, he realized a second later.  They recognized the Graves bloodline, and he was carrying a child with Graves blood.

Vivian’s grandchild.

“I’m your son-in-law,” he blurted, too off-kilter to come up with a proper lie.  He’d never been very good at lying anyway.  “The wards recognize me because –” Credence couldn’t make himself say it.  He still wanted Percival to be the first to know, and Percival didn’t even exist yet.  “Oh my God,” he said, giving in to another fit of hysterics.

“My what?”  Vivian dropped one hand to her stomach, pressing it against the swell of the child within.  Dindrane, Credence realized. ��She was born in 1884.

That realization did nothing for his sense of hysteria.  Credence took a deep breath, trying to calm down.  All that hysteria couldn’t be good for the baby.

He burst into terrified tears instead, because he was in fucking 1884 and the wards of Graves Manor felt wrong and Percival hadn’t even been born yet.

The sharp crack of Vivian’s palm against his cheek threw him back into startled clarity.  For a second, Credence was reminded of Ma.  Ma hadn’t liked tears, and the pain reminded him to be silent.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking like she really meant it.  “But I couldn’t think of anything else that would calm you down.”

Vivian also looked a little bit like she wanted to murder him.

“What do you mean, you’re my son-in-law?” she demanded.  “You’re a bit old for my girl, seeing as she hasn’t been born yet, and Geraint doesn’t have any other children.”  She paused, then added,  “Geraint had better not have any other children.”

“He doesn’t,” Credence said. “And I’m not –”

“Lad, this will go much better if you’d actually finish a sentence every once in awhile.”

“I’m Percival’s,” Credence said.  “Not Dindrane’s.”

Vivian stared at him.  For the first time, she actually looked a little afraid.

“I haven’t told anyone what names I picked,” she said.  “Not even Geraint.  It’s bad luck.”

“I know those names because I know your children,” Credence said.  “I married your son.”

“I don’t have a son.”

“Not yet,” Credence said, desperately hoping that telling her so hadn’t changed that.

“Look, whoever you are –”

“Credence.”

“Credence.  Assuming I believe this fairy story you’re trying to sell me – and I’m not saying that I do, because it sounds absolutely mad – why on earth would you decide to go back in time?”

“I didn’t,” Credence said.  “I was holding your inkwell and I dropped it and it broke and then I woke up here.”

Vivian’s gaze went to her desk.  “My inkwell?  My inkwell isn’t magic.  It’s just a bloody bottle.”

Credence looked at the inkwell on her desk, which was indeed a little glass bottle of India ink.  The delicate crystal one Credence knew so well was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s not the right inkwell,” he said.

“Are you having me on?” she asked.

“No.”

“Because this sounds completely cracked.  Some stranger turns up in my office claiming to be married to the son I haven’t borne yet –”

“I am!” Credence said.  “I can prove it.”

Vivian frowned at him.  “You can prove it,” she repeated.

Credence held out his hand.  “The test for paternity is a simple one,” he said.  It only took three drops of blood.  “That’s why the wards recognize me.”

“You’re –  Now I know you’re having me on.  Those spells are fiendishly difficult to cast.  You or this imaginary son of mine would have to be powerful to cast the androgenesis spells.”

“The Graves bloodline has always been powerful,” Credence pointed out.

“You’re serious.  You’re actually serious.”

“Would you just cast the damn spell already?” Credence snapped.

“Don’t you take that tone with me.  You’re the one who broke into my office.”

Oh, God, it was like dealing with Dindrane in one of her academic spirals.

“Please?” Credence asked.

“I don’t know why I’m humoring you,” she informed him.  “You’re clearly mad.”  But she transfigured a sharp silver pin out of one of her pen nibs and used it to prick his finger and then her own.  “Conferatur sanguis.  Descenderiam surgos.”

Credence blinked at her in surprise.  He’d only ever used the spell to identify bloodlines.  He’d never tried comparing them.  That was an Auror’s trick.

Of course, Vivian was an Auror’s spouse.  Maybe it was time he started treating her like one.

“This is impossible,” Vivian declared, looking at the geneaology written in gold letters in the air between them.  “Your child is descended from my Geraint – from my son.”

“I told you,” Credence said.  “I’m your son-in-law.”  He licked his lips and decided to go all in.  The Aurors Spouses Network understood duty just as well as their Aurors did, and it was part of their unspoken code to help on another wherever they could.  “I need your help,” he told his mother-in-law.  “I need to go home.”

“Right,” his mother-in-law said briskly, all of her earlier confusion vanishing into Percival’s steely-eyed determination and Dindrane’s academic drive.  “We’re going to figure this out.”