#the only one who really acknowledged it was buttons and he’s a fucking bird

[chaotic-hues]

If I don’t see anyone mourning over Izzy season three I’m going to be very angry and complain about it for years

[queen-anne-music]

ok no. i'm not done.

firstly, from a meta standpoint of izzy's death representing the dying age of piracy, I can kinda get it.

BUT, hear me out

we didn't need that parallel, we got slapped in the face with it in episode 7 when ALMOST ALL OF THE SHIPS BLEW UP, that was representative of the "death of piracy"

additionally, the same meta-commentary could be made by saying that ed's retirement means blackbeard's death and again we get the death of piracy thing from a narrative standpoint

now by this point it is probably VERY obvious that izzy became one of my favorite characters this season, and I have to acknowledge that some of that is definitely clouding my view of this finale

but

i really, really think that this could have been handled better, don't get me wrong Con O'Neill's acting in his final scene was amazing, and I am so, so happy that izzy and ed finally talked about their relationship with each other, but this show has had crazier things happen then a character surviving things that should have killed them, off the top of my head: ed surviving this season, stede surviving being hanged, auntie surviving a whole explosion, buttons TURNING INTO A BIRD, and of course I think there is something to be said for izzy having a leg amputated!! and somehow not getting any kind of infection from that despite the less-than-ideal circumstances

while i don't think that David Jenkins intentions were to say a big fuck you to older disabled members of the lgbtqia community, this still hurts

also seeing time and time again a character go through a redemption arc only to be killed off at the end of it just gets old

but i have to wonder

maybe this isn't meant to be the end of izzy

here's what I think, recall the ending of season 1 where ed throws lucius off the boat and we were all like HE BETTER NOT BE DEAD, I have to wonder if this is meant to parallel that

i'm not trying to pull a tjlc here, but here's a few other things that don't quite add up that support this theory

firstly, the title of the episode. perhaps I'm looking in all the wrong places but I haven't really seen anyone discuss this? the title of each episode usually plays into the events of the episode in some way (sometimes in obvious ways like calypso's birthday and sometimes in less obvious ways like impossible birds) but I can't really see the connection here? its an obvious callback to stede's mermaid scene but it never really came up in the episode which seems a bit odd

next, izzy was buried on land, this feels wrong for so many reasons (yes I know half the time pirates were buried on land shush), there feels like no good reason to bury him on land, something could be said for the fact that he's watching over ed and stede's inn but for someone who represented the pirate ideal I would have thought they would bury him at sea, which leads me to my next point

buttons landed on izzy's grave again i repeat BUTTONS LANDED ON IZZY'S GRAVE the same buttons who turned himself into a BIRD, magic is canonical to the OFMD universe, and it has been established that buttons is an actual sea witch, they didn't do much to establish the limitations of these powers so it would not be out of the question for buttons to potentially bring izzy back, which maybe he can only do if he has access to izzy's body?

i feel the need to also mention that from a narrative standpoint ed and stede's ending feels a little bit rushed (this could be for a lot of other reasons that have nothing to do with this theory I'm not in denial nooooooooo) but it did feel a little bit interesting that we got the whole scene with ed trying (and failing) to be a fisherman contrasted with the ending of him as an innkeeper to say nothing of stede's love of being a pirate captain (and subsequently leaving all of his crew behind) also there was one other scene that make me think that this doesn't feel quite right, the anne and mary dialogue. while I do understand that it was an interesting look into how their relationship turned sour because they both sucked at communication I have to wonder if it is foreshadowing the downfall of ed and stede's relationship now that they've left piracy? again I'm very happy that they seem to be able to communicate a bit better this season, and that they are happy living what ed would call the simple life, but I'm not confident that this ending means smooth sailing for them

(it also seems a bit odd that ed isn't on the ship to take revenge on ricky? but maybe he needed some time to process?)

i think a solid case could be made to bring izzy back in season 3 if we get one (but they also say denial isn't just a river in egypt and I don't wanna give anyone any false hope)

at any rate they certainly have given the fandom quite a bit of stuff to play with for fix-it fics

[animeniac-writings]

Titan!Eren x reader (sort of) Ain’t SFW

This fic is in part dedicated to @ererokii​ who wrote about that titan tongue and sent my mind into making this. You are responsible. 

Anime: Shingeki no Kyojin

“WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO FUCK EREN’S TITAN?” 

It was still barely the crack of dawn, before the sun was visible in the sky, before you had finished fastening the straps on your uniform, before the birds had even fully woken up.

Yet your door was flung open slamming back against the wall with enough force to wake up anyone who was still smart enough to be unconscious. 

“Good morning Commander Hanji, how are you this morning Commander Hanji?” You calmly continued buttoning your shirt while she waved off your snark with a look of undampened enthusiasm across her face.

Something that would surely put fear into some unlucky souls today, and it seems you should be the first one of them.

“Yes, yes, good morning, it’s morning?” She walked in the room past you to pace in the center of the room, mumbling in thought with gears almost visibly turning in her head. 

“Doesn’t matter! This is important, it could be a breakthrough in understanding titan shifters and priceless knowledge to use against them.”

You had slipped on your jacket and tried to brace yourself when she turns back to you, eyes shining with glee. 

“So will you do it? Will you fuck his titan? I would gladly participate in this experiment myself but Moblit says “That would be inappropriate” and “honestly rather disturbing” and “an invasion of privacy on the highest levels.” She rolled her eyes mocking Moblit’s words with air quotes. 

“Well, Commander, no disrespect but as his titan form has no genitals and his tongue’s as thick as a pig, no.” 

She deadpanned, face falling flat and starring at you sharply. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never done anything nasty with those 15 meters.”

“I-” 

“Exactly! So you’ll do it?” There was no arguing with her plans, there never was. 

“You know, some of the stuff you come up with is really intrusive Commander.” 

“I’ve been told that many times!” She grabbed your wrist and was tugged you along with her down the hallway.

_____

You stood beside the Commander in a small clearing, 3DMG prepped and ready, staring up at Eren’s titan form that awaited “A fantastic new experiment!” as far as he knew.

“So you want me to slice open his neck, crawl inside, and start jacking him off?”

Hanji was practically vibrating in excitement, gripping her notes clipboard tight enough you think it would break soon. 

Moblit was called to help transcribe the coming events but was standing off to the side looking like he’d rather Eren step on him.

The titan looked down towards you and huffed through his nose in question.

“Yes! That way we’ll know how disrupting the body inside the titan effects it’s actions!”

You’re rather impressed at how professional she can appear while telling you to give your boyfriend, her no. 1 specimen, a handjob.

Moblit seemed to have steeled his nerves and stomach walking back towards you both, you acknowledge and give him a curt nod. “Since all of history was black lined, I hope everything we do gets put into history books so people will read it and wonder what the fuck was wrong with us.” 

You take a deep breath and angle your gear ready to launch. “And molesting him would give better results than say, one of those tiny knee hammers? Poking him with a fork?”

She shakes her head as if you’re the ridiculous one. 

“Not enough physical stimulation for a definitive reaction.” She mulls over her thoughts for a short moment. “But you could cut off his leg while you’re in there?’

“Honestly, I’d rather not.” Your face scrunches at the sensation whiplash your poor boyfriend would get. “And the reason for not telling him what I’m going to do it because?”

She ignores your question, only briefly having said something before about the "element of surprise."

“You never know! This could be the perfect way to bring a titan shifter to its knees without killing them!” 

You cock your gear’s angle “...if this works I get a front row seat to you telling Connie and Jean this new, required protocol.”

In the blink of an eye your gear first hooks into the flesh of his hip, to his shoulder, then into each cheek with you safely perched on the bridge of his nose.

“It’s just me, okay baby? Hold tight.” His eyes focus on you and gives a an affirmative little growl. You pat the side of his nose and are off. 

You remove one of your blades after landing on his shoulder, taking a deep breath before carefully cutting into the flesh of his neck where Hanji had showed you on a diagram before.

Steam poured from the large slit but when you pushed the side you could see there was indeed as you were told, a small cavern sort of area around Eren, nearly in awe looking at how the tendons attached to his arms, his face, cocooning him only where it needed to attach.

“Just stay still Eren!” Hanji’s far away shout make you shake from the stupor, sheathing your blade and crawling in towards his body. 

The cut steamed and resealed shut after you had crawled inside, it was strange enclosed inside the titan, small but with enough space to move around. The dry heat was stifling but nothing like what poured out out of incisions. 

Eren’s leg moved slightly, you wonder if his titan had readjusted its’ stance? 

The space is cramped and strange in the way it surrounds your suspended boyfriend, but you move to be sat directly in front of his waist, observing how the tendons keep hold on him.

You can see his eyes, standing against the flesh to peek over the tissue, how they flit bored, his body poised that you know he’s waiting for something to be done. He has worked on endurance in his form, but still. He hates just waiting.

You trail your fingertips down his jawline, a ghost of a touch, and his head tilts. The titan’s head tilts. 

As you unbutton his pants you can tell he fells something happening, his mouth turns downward into a frown, his legs shift and you would bet his eyebrows are furrowed.

You unzip his pants and push down his underwear and you can tell he can feel exactly when you grip his cock in your hand. His posture straightens and you can feel the titan shift in copy of it. 

He’s hard in seconds of you freeing him, the most predictable trick he has and you run your hand up and down his length a few times, squeezing firmly near his base. Precum leaks generously from his tip and drips down for you to use.

His thighs clench and you place your free hand running over the tense muscle.

Your hand speeds up, fist spreading the precum across him and rubbing your thumb in circles below the head of his cock, you can tell he’s having trouble staying upright, a shaky breath and legs begin to tremble.

You leave him lacking for a moment and reach your hand below, slicked fingers rubbing slow and decisive massaging and pushing firmly against each of his balls and the whole being around you shakes as much as the one directly at your mercy.

A simple squeeze at the top of his balls and he breaks, falling to his knees and there’s a short weightlessness as the titan slams down to follow suit. 

You can’t seem to find it in you to care but the movement knocks you back against the wall of flesh and your grip on his dick yanks him harshly, a moan, a whine, from Eren above you and a growl resonating from the titan. 

You wonder if the titan’s eyes have rolled back the way you know Eren’s have.

It takes a second to re-steady yourself and Eren whines from the lack of attention, your hand goes around him again, barely touching around him before deciding to run your nails along the bottom of his shaft.

A moan spills out of him that makes the whole titan seem to shake with a growl and you quickly go back to jerking you grip up and down his length, precum slick and fast and you know he’s close, finally you can hear his mindless begging between breathless pants asking for more, please, wanting anything and everything you would give him.

Tightening your grip to squeeze around him every time you pull forward and he tries to follow but it stuck in place when his hips try to jut closer. 

His beautiful moans filling your senses and the distant sounds from the titan echoing his cries spur you on to make him finish. To watch how his jaw clenches from below and how be bites his lip enough to pierce the skin as his orgasm finally hits, your nails of one hand digging harshly into his thigh and making him see stars with the other. 

Your thumb presses directly over his whole while he cums, white pouring out around it and giving just too much stimulation rubbing in short, fast circles that makes him cry out to you with his whole body quaking in pleasure even while he’s held up securely.

With Eren truly spent, you watch in delicious satisfaction how his chest heaves with each breath, thighs still shaking and panting heavily. 

You almost can’t help it. This was to “test” him after all, right? You move your hand, still covered with cum and stick two fingers in his open mouth, his entire body goes rigid and you can feel the titan around you freeze as you drag down the expanse of his tongue and pull them out.

You’re not sure if he can hear you, he can from the outside but you rest a hand on the tendon holding his arm, lean close to his ear and praise. “Good boy.”

A shiver visibly runs down his spine and you grin. Moving your attention back to his pants, tucking him back into his underwear which are still soiled with cum anyway and buttoning him shut. But pulling the waist band forward so it lightly snaps back against taught pelvis for good measure. It’s still enough to make him jolt and the titan quake.

With a quick wipe of your hand down your thigh to get clean off what Eren would usually be up for taking care of, and your job here is done. 

Taking out your blade you start cutting approximately where you had entered, knowing you wont accidentally cut Eren makes it easier. 

Crawling back out is trickier, the angry steam hindering your vision making it hard to see where to grapple even with the titan still as stone. 

But you can hear Hanji shouting with excitement before you’re out of the cut, something about how amazing that was, incredible research, you’re sure if you tried you could hear Moblit moaning about what his life has become.

Once you’re safely on the ground you look at the damage you did from the outside. 

Eren’s titan is on it’s knees, craters in the ground from how hard he dropped. Arms limp and his head hanging down, mouth open and hair shielding his face much how Eren is inside. 

You never thought you’d see a titan be “disheveled” but that’s the only word that could truly describe how wrecked he looks. 

“Oh, YOU CAN COME OUT NOW EREN!” Hanji finally pauses her joyous dance to inform him, but the titan stays still. “Eren?”

You don’t think he’ll me moving on his own for another few minutes. 

[hizashis-lil-bunbun]

No Rest for the Wicked- HardDom!Dabi X Fem! Brat Reader

Prompt: Dabi just wants to take a nap but everything goes wrong

I asked a friend in one of my discord groups for a random writing prompt when I was up late. Something about this one activated my inner ✨brat✨

Enjoy!

Word Count: 3.3k

Kinks/Warnings: brat taming, degradation, pain play, spanking, belting, mild dacryphilia, bondage, edging and denial, hints of dubcon

Banner made by the always lovely @ladyshinigami!

••••••••••••••

Exhausted.

That was the best way to sum up Dabi’s mood as he trudged through the bar fronting the League’s headquarters. Shigaraki had sent him out on a mission with orders to “stake out and take out” a small band of up-and-coming heroes. It had been easy enough to find them (newbies can never resist being flashy), but making sure they were all disposed of was another matter. A matter only made more complicated by a few rogue civilians that happened to spot him. It had taken him two full days to track everyone down, leaving him covered in blood, soot, and burns. In short, Dabi needed a break.

“Well, well, well.” Came the nasally voice of their fearless leader, “The prodigal son returns! Took you long enough, Dabi. Hope that means you didn’t fuck up the mission.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Dabi snaps back, too tired and sore to care about his tone. Not that he’d be any kinder to Shigaraki if he wasn’t. “I did what you asked and left no witnesses. Now piss off before I turn you into a smoldering pile.”

Shigaraki didn’t rise to Dabi’s bait, opting to simply flip him the bird before going back to whatever game console he was currently obsessed with. Dabi returns the gesture in kind, glowering as he disappears behind the bar and into the League’s living quarters. Their warehouse provides more than enough space for everyone to have their own room, and the boss even allowed them to decorate and furnish them as they pleased. Wasn’t that generous? Dabi plods down the hallway to his assigned room and kicks open the door only to find it was occupied. By you.

“Dabi?” You question for a moment before your eyes light up with excitement. “Dabi! You’re back!”

As a fellow Stain devotee, you’d sought out the LOV and been initiated as a member a mere six months ago. And two months later, you’d been initiated into Dabi’s bed. You wouldn’t exactly call yourselves “lovers.” Love was few and far between in a hornet’s nest of villains. But you’d certainly become something more than the occasional lay.

He grunts as he stalks into the room, shedding his coat and boots as he went. Dabi was never big on grand displays of affection. And in his current state, that small show of acknowledgment may as well have been equivalent to a bear hug.

“I missed you.” You chirp back, undeterred by his gruff response. “How was the mission?”

“Long and shitty.” Came his terse reply as he strips off the rest of his clothes and grabs a towel from a nearby wall hook. “I need a fucking shower.”

He wraps the towel around his waist before he sets about searching for body wash and a first aid kit. Greedy eyes roam the plane of his toned torso, eager to touch the scarred and stapled flesh you’d spent many a night mapping out. Before joining the League, you’d never had an opinion one way or the other on touch or physical intimacy. You didn’t dislike it by any means; it was just something people did, fuck buddies or otherwise. But now that you’d shared a bed with Dabi, your perspective had changed. His rough touch was your drug of choice, intoxicating in all the best ways. And with him being gone for almost 72 hours? It was safe to say you were jonesing for a hit.

“Oooh, sounds like fun.” You purr, sprawling out on the mattress in a catlike stretch. “Want me to join you? I think we could use a little… quality time together.”

He snorts derisively at that, straightening up once he’d found his supplies and fixing you with a deep scowl. So pretty even when he’s pissed. You bat your eyelashes in return.

“Don’t get cute, dollface. Once I get cleaned up I’m passing out for the next century.”

Before you can shoot off another coquettish remark, he turns on his heel and marches out the door in the direction of the communal showers. You huff and clamber out of bed to follow him, determined that he wouldn’t get away so easily.

“C’mon Dabi!” You whine, trotting along behind him as he stalks down the hallway. “I haven’t seen you in days! Are you really just gonna give me the cold shoulder?”

“Yup.” He snaps back, shooting you a harsh glare over said shoulder before barging through the bathroom door. From the other side you can hear his bark of “Move it, psycho!” followed by an indignant squeak from whom you can only assume to be Toga. You huff and stamp your foot like a petulant child, turning on your heel to flounce off in the direction of the League’s bar front.

“Bastard.” You seethe under your breath, “Who does he think he is, ignoring me like that? It’s his fault I’m so pent up. If I tried ignoring him when he was all hot and bothered–!”

You pause for a moment as a lightbulb goes off in your head. A single impish thought flashes through your mind and it causes your lips to curl into a Cheshire grin. He wants to play games? You’ll give him games.

You continue your trek into the dimly-lit, woodpandeled speakeasy, a renewed vigor in your stride as you make a beeline for the bar top. Kurogiri is standing behind it as per usual, wiping out a pint glass like the faithful bartender he pretends to be. You sidle up to the bar and place both hands on the oaken surface, adopting a sweet, too-innocent lilt to your voice.

“Kuro-baby.” You purr, the cutesy pet name causing the misty specter to look up from his task. “Can I have a glass of water, please? With lots of ice, if you don’t mind.”

Wordlessly, Kurogiri sets down the glass and picks up a shorter one, using it to scoop up a generous portion of ice from the freezer below before filling it nearly to the brim from the tap. If he has any suspicion of you, he’s very good at hiding it. The same can’t be said for Shigaraki, sitting a few stools down from you and still tapping away at the buttons of his console.

“Fucking with Staples again?” He questions disinterestedly, followed by a hiss of annoyance when the game lets out a series of gunshots. He must have gotten himself killed again.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shoot back airily, swiping the glass from Kurogiri’s outstretched hand and hopping off your own barstool.

“It’s your funeral!” He calls after you, waving you off with one hand. You snicker as you march back into the living quarters, one hand wrapped around the chilled glass and the other flattened over the top to ensure you won’t spill a drop along the way. Soon you find yourself back in front of the bathroom door and, suppressing the urge to giggle, you slowly push through it and into the steamy room beyond. In spite of the hideout’s outward appearance, the place is surprisingly clean and well-kempt (all thanks to den mother Kurogiri). Two sinks stand against the left-hand side of the wall, with two doors opposite them leading to the toilets. Next to the sinks are the showers: three open-faced, tile cubes barely covered by flimsy plastic curtains. Toga is standing in front of the nearest sink, wearing a skimpy pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and washing the blood and goop from her latest transformation out of her navy, pleated skirt. She looks up at you when you enter and you quickly put one finger to your lips, smirking as you point between the glass and the running shower beyond. Toga lets loose a sadistic giggle of her own before hastily shushing herself when you hear Dabi’s bark of “Pipe down out there!”

As you move past her, you can see her mouth the words, “You’re so dead, big sis.”

You can feel a jolt of adrenaline course through your veins as you sneak up to the edge of the tiled wall separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom, the glass in your hand shaking briefly. A small amount of water sloshes over the rim and spatters onto the floor, the sound barely overshadowed by the shower.

“Doll?”

His low, rumbling voice coming from the other side of the curtain sends another shiver down your spine.

“What are you up to out there?” He growls dangerously, as if he has a sixth sense when it comes to you and your shenanigans. For just a moment, the rational part of your brain takes over and makes you question your actions. Dabi’s already in a foul mood, and getting worse by the second by the sound of it. Maybe if you hold off and behave like a good girl–

Your body seems to move of its own accord. The next thing you know, the contents of the glass are sailing through the air, arching high over the plastic curtain rod and landing with a messy splat onto your unwitting victim on the other side.

“What the fu–!” Dabi’s curse is cut off by yours and Toga’s mad giggling as you sprint out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Passing by a very confused-looking Spinner, you dart inside Dabi’s room and slam the door, locking it for good measure. Seconds later, he’s pounding on it, using enough force that you’re convinced it might splinter and break off its hinges.

“Open this door right now and make this easier on yourself!” He roars, furiously jiggling the handle.

You let him pound away for a few more seconds, in part to allow yourself time to catch your breath but mostly to delay the unenviable punishment. With a deep, steadying breath, you plaster on a mildly amused expression, undo the lock, and pull open the door. Dabi is visibly seething, water dripping from his hair and cascading in rivulets down his toned chest onto the towel slung low on his hips. His brows are knitted together in rage, turquoise eyes flashing dangerously while one hand is still raised in a fist.

“Oh hey, babe. Done with the shower al–?”

His hands are around your throat before you can blink, your sassy remark devolving into a high-pitched squeak.

“You little bitch.” He spits at you, forcibly backing you further into the room as he advances. “Was that your idea of a joke?”

“N-no.” You gasp in response, voice slightly raspy from the pressure on your jugular. “I just thought–“

“Thought what exactly?” Dabi growls, kicking the door shut behind him with one foot before giving your shoulders a hard shove and pushing you onto the bed. You land with a slight bounce, the momentum giving you just enough time to prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Well?” He hisses, venom dripping from the word as he glares down at you.

“I was worried.” You start slowly, tone almost loving as you gaze up at him with big, doe eyes. “You seemed so tense when you got back. And don’t think I didn’t notice those new burns on your arms. So I thought, since the mission was so hard on you…”

Your face suddenly splits into a shit-eating grin.

“I thought you might need to cool down for a minute.”

Dabi blinks for a second, seemingly struck dumb by your remark. And then his hands are back on you in an instant, roughly flipping you over to lie chest-down with your legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Of all the stupid–“

Your shirt is ripped over your head from behind.

“Immature–“

There goes the bra, clasps and straps lost to a wildfire of blue flames as it falls away from your body in a charred heap.

“Bratty little schemes.”

Your leggings and panties are harshly yanked down, slipped off, and discarded into some unknown corner of the room. You feel cool air hit your legs and backside, moments before a harsh slap lands on your right cheek. With a yelp, you cast a wide-eyed glance over your shoulder at the menacing presence behind you; a pillar of rage and sadistic urges looming over your naked form.

“You wanted my attention that badly, dollface? Well I’m sorry to say you’ve got it now.”

Before you can react beyond a pained, needy whimper, Dabi hooks his right arm under your thighs to haul you up and onto the bed. He lays his full weight across your back and reaches around and underneath the farthest edge of the bed to produce a simple, black cuff, attached to the nylon spreader running along the underside of the mattress. Giving it a few cursory tugs, he grabs ahold of your right wrist and yanks it towards the corresponding corner, attaching the device with practiced speed and precision. You continue to writhe and pant below him, muttering a litany of curses and “no’s” as he does the same to the opposite side. You’re now bound by both wrists, unable to do more than thrash wildly on the mattress in a humiliating, spread eagle position.

“Seems like you need a reminder of who’s in charge around here.” He snarls in your ear, pushing himself off of you and marching over to his discarded pile of clothing. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric, followed by the telltale clink of metal on metal that makes your eyes go wide.

“Y-you wouldn’t dare…” You start breathlessly, just before the first blinding sting of leather greets your exposed skin, right at the juncture where the soft swell of your ass meets the tender flesh of your thighs.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Dabi says mockingly, his tone dripping with false pity and saccharine sweetness as he takes his place at the edge of the bed once more. “I don’t have any problems dealing with a mouthy… little… brat like you.”

His words are punctuated by three more vicious blows, this time striking the meatiest part of your ass and sending the pliant flesh jiggling. The metal rivets in his belt only add to the pain, biting into your rapidly heating flesh and causing tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. Shifting your hips in a futile attempt to get away from Dabi and his newfound torture device, you roll partly onto your side and look over at him with watery, pleading eyes.

“S-sir… Dabi, please!” You sputter out, voice already wavering as your resolve crumbles beneath the stinging sensation. But Dabi’s not in the mood for bargaining. Instead, he growls as he wraps an arm around your waist and shoves his left knee underneath your belly, hiking your ass further into the air.

“Hold still!” He barks at you, another crack of his belt sending a fresh wave of searing pain along your already raw skin. You scream in agony, unable to do more than wriggle and squirm against his hold.

“Start counting, brat.” He demands huskily, your only warning before the next punishing spank meets your burning flesh.

“One!” You gasp out, “I’m sorry! Please–!”

Another blow lands, somehow harder than all the others, revisiting the spot where ass and thigh meet and causing you to wail in pain.

“Too late for apologies, dollface. The only thing I wanna hear from that slutty little mouth is counting. Understand me?”

The arm looped around your waist tightens in warning, and you hiccup before sputtering out a shaky, “T-two.”

“That’s more like it.”

He continues spanking you at a steady pace, the only respite coming when he pauses to hear you choke out the next number. By ten strokes, you’re bawling. By fifteen, you’re practically brain dead, unable to quell the sobs that wrack through your body or think beyond the next count. He mercifully stops at twenty, dropping the belt and loosening his own grip on you. All you can focus on is the burning pain radiating out from your tanned backside, sobbing as you bury your face into the pillow below you for comfort. Dabi’s own breathing is heavy and ragged, and he takes a few deep, measured breaths to steady himself. After a few moments, that hand that once held his belt is carefully laid on the curve of your ass, and you gasp both at the gentle touch and the shock of prickly pain it brings. Judging by the way he strokes the heated flesh, you’re sure the silver eyelets have left a series of bruises behind.

“S-s-sir.” You blubber, “I’m... I…”

“Shhhh, quiet down.” He says softly, voice uncharacteristically tender as he runs his hand along the width of your heated cheeks. “It’s over now. You did so well.”

The unexpected praise makes you whimper beneath his affections, devolving into a quiet moan as his hand travels even lower, fingers coming to rest at the entrance to your heated core. He begins to gently massage at your folds, middle finger slipping inside to find you impossibly wet and clenching around the digit.

“You filthy little thing…” He breathes out on a chuckle, “Are you really that turned on by me beating the hell out of your cute little ass?”

His finger delves deeper, pussy eagerly sucking him in as you keen below him. His free hand begins to lightly scratch up and down your back, goosebumps rising in the wake of each careful caress. Without thinking, you shift further onto your knees, fighting through the pain to push against his hand.

“Please, Sir.” You moan wantonly, “More. Please.”

With another dark chuckle, Dabi slips a second finger inside of you and begins to languidly pump them in and out. Pain and pleasure meld together in a sinful symphony, pants and whimpers coming from you as you rock your abused body against his own scarred flesh. He adjusts the angle and crooks his fingers downwards, curling them just shy of that sensitive bundle of nerves you know would have you seeing stars. Your back arches as you hungrily push against him, dignity forgotten in the face of pure, carnal desire.

“Getting impatient, are we?” He growls teasingly, fingers suddenly slipping out from your sopping core and wrenching a high-pitched whine from the back of your throat. He moves off the bed entirely, ordering you to stay put as he walks over to the nearby dresser and opens up the top drawer. Like the cuffs would allow you to do anything otherwise.

“Ah, here we go.” He says after a few seconds of rummaging, striding back over to the bed and taking up residence behind you. You feel the mattress dip under his weight seconds before his hands find your hips, roughly hauling them upwards and forcing your face further into the pillows. You shriek as he grabs ahold of your left cheek and squeezes harshly, pain shooting up your spine like a bolt of summer lightning. Something hard and cool prods at your quivering entrance, briefly brushing against your clit before being plunged inside of you. The sudden stretch feels at once too much and deeply satiating, sending burning, pleasurable heat licking across your oversensitized nerves. Once the toy is sunk to the hilt, Dabi gives a short grunt of satisfaction before sliding off the bed and circling around to lean over your quivering form. You turn your head to face him and he smirks at the sight of your fucked out expression: eyes red and puffy, cheeks streaked with half-dried tears, lips swollen from the bluntness of your own teeth.

“Aren’t you a sight?” He hums lowly, brushing away an errant strand of hair to plant a condescending kiss to your temple. “Such a needy little slut for me.”

With another dark chuckle, Dabi pats your cheek, straightens up, and turns towards the door.

“Wait!” You squeak out, squirming against your restraints as you watch his retreating back. “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

“That’s the plan, dollface.” He shoots back, casting you a wicked grin over his left shoulder as he pulls the door open. “At least until I finish my shower.”

[yamalegacy]

prompt eleven with mirko 😳

i've already done 11 with midnight but idc, i love buff bunny too much not to do it! and well, considering how it aligns with the godly possessive!rumi hcs, it's way too tempting anyway! so here goes!

prompt: #11 from this list  “I bet you think you’re real cute letting them put their hands all over you. We’ll see how cute you look later when I get you home.”

pairing: mirko (usagiyama rumi) x gn!reader

cw: SMUT. afab reader. rumi is a possessive bunny. brat!reader. dom/sub dynamic. hair pulling, spanking, dirty talking, slight degradation & praise kink (yes, both at the same time, don’t underestimate rumi), fingering, strapon, slight anal fingering. oh boy this really is the filthiest thing i’ve written in a loooong time.

word count: about 3,7k words WOPS I GOT CARRIED AWAY

⚠️ MDNI reminder for minors to not interact with this post ⚠️

   Your phone buzzes exactly seven minutes after you started a conversation with Keigo— he insists you call him Keigo, because Hawks is too professional and Takami is too formal, his own words. Seven whole minutes (yes, you’ve been keeping an eye on the time during the whole conversation). It’s over six minutes later than you’d expected, really. It buzzes again almost immediately, and you make a point to ignore your phone for a bit as you glance at Rumi, on the other side of the bar, over the rim of your glass.

When she arcs an eyebrow at you, visibly losing her patience, you give all your attention to Keigo again and offer him a smile before pulling your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check the messages you’ve no doubt received from the Rabbit Hero.

fluffy butt 🐇🤍

i bet you think you’re real cute letting him put his hands all over you we’ll see how cute you look later when i get you home

It’s almost disappointing how predictable she is with these things. Almost. Rumi is way too hot when she gets jealous for it to actually be disappointing. You want to remind her that she is the one who invited you to that bar and who left you alone to get drinks, that she is the one who got distracted by a conversation with Ryukyu, but you decide to leave her on read and see what happens.

From where you stand, you can see Rumi’s internal struggle not to just abruptly cut Ryukyu in the middle of what she is saying so that she can get right between you and Keigo. It’s quite the amusing sight, from her flattened ears to her thumping foot, her attitude reeks of frustration. You can’t help but wonder what will tick her off so much that she will intervene — Keigo has only touched you shoulder and given your arm a light squeeze and Rumi is already seething, so it seems likely just about anything would set her off.

“I can hear her thump from here,” Keigo comments, a lazy smile adorning his lips. “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to murder me yet.”

You chuckle at his words.

“I think she’s trying to see whether or not looks can kill.”

He leans closer to you (and you know it’s much too closer to Rumi’s standards because you can smell the minty alcohol on his breath), “I sure hope looks can kill. It’d be a lot less painful than her foot up my— well, wherever she fancies shoving it, I guess.”

You don’t even have time to give him a reaction that you can hear heavy footsteps approaching, so you lean away from Keigo just enough to properly look at your girlfriend as she marches over to you. It’s only now that she is right here that you notice she’s opened her leather jacket, revealing one of her favorite crop tops — black, sinfully tight and exposing just the right amount of cleavage and abs to make your mouth water. 

God, her skin always looks so tempting, you want to reach out, to put a hand on her waist, under her jacket, but she grabs you by the wrist before you can even try to move a muscle. Her eyes are fixed on you, and, to your surprise, she doesn’t even acknowledge Keigo.

“We’re leaving,” she says, her tone stern.

“Rumi... it’d be rude to leave so early,” you tell her, smiling at her with all the innocence you can muster (enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know you well), “and you are the one who wanted us to come here in the first pl—”

“We’re leaving. I remembered I have something to do.”

You want to push, to tease, to see how far she’ll go, so even if her tone leaves no room for argument, you open your mouth again.

“But you—”

“Now.”

She tugs are your arm and you follow as she takes a first few steps away from Keigo, only to turn around and face him.

“I hope you choke on your fucking feathers, birdy.”

“Always nice to talk to you, Usagiyama,” he simply smirks and gives her a small wave of his hand, “and I hope something,” he glances at you, “will enjoy getting done.”

Rumi doesn't give you any time to say goodbye to him, or to any of her hero friends, and she drags you out of the bar, heading straight for her car. She doesn't even let you register how forceful she is being that you've already been shoved in the passenger seat.

The ride home is short (too short; Rumi drives way too fast for a Pro Hero who is supposed to set an example for those around her) and awfully quiet. She didn't even look at you, didn't glance your way at least once like she usually does. Rumi's ears are still flattened in annoyance when she opens the door of her house to push you inside.

She kicks off her sneakers and takes off her leather jacket to leave it on the back of chair, then heads to the couch, sitting down nonchalantly, arms crossed under her chest in a way that pushes up her tits. All you can do is stare, unable to form a coherent thought as you settle down next to her.

“You had fun flirting with Big Bird, baby?” she asks, and the question would be innocent enough if you didn't know your girlfriend better.

You move so that you're facing Rumi on the couch, your knee bumping into a strong thigh — and maybe, for a moment, you get briefly distracted by the thought of these rippling muscles on either side of your head.

“Come on, Rumi, you know there was no actual flirting. We were just having fun.”

She leans closer to you, invading your personal space, face so close to yours that all you can see in the harsh coldness in her eyes. You barely have time to blink that one of her hands is at the back of your head, her grip on your hair surprisingly gentle.

“Oh, because you think I don’t know what little game you were playing with him there?” she is nearly snarling at you, and this time, her grip on your hair tightens, deliciously painful, and she tugs. “Why do you think I waited so long to grab you, uh?”

So, she knew? The whole time you spent talking with Keigo, flirting with him and allowing him to flirt to get a reaction from her, she knew? And it still didn't stop her from getting jealous and acting possessive in the middle of a bar, surrounded by numerous other Pro Heroes.

Her grip on your hair tightens once more and she brings you closer to her body.

"I just wanted to see how far you'd take your little game," she explains, words nearly spat through her gritted teeth. "But I couldn't take it anymore. You're mine, understood?" she asks, but the way she pulls at your hair clearly tells you that she expects no reply.

"I thought we agreed that I was my own person?" you smirk, even as she yet again tugs at your hair. "We said we don't own each other even if we're dating, didn't we?"

It is true, it's something you've talked about pretty early in your relationship together, after Rumi admitted that she could get jealous easily, but hated that she got jealous. It led to conversation about acting possessive during sex and marking, and you know that's what Rumi is going on about right now, and not some sort of ownership that she'd have over you because she is your girlfriend. But you can't help it, can't help wanting to push all her buttons and see what kind of punishment it earns you.

"You're playing smartass with me now, uh?"

She tugs at your hair again, forcing your head back slightly, but you hold eye contact, refusing to let her get the submission that she wants from you just now. You've already earned yourself a punishment, might as well make the most of it, right?

"I would never."

You smile innocently and bat your eyelashes at her, even if the pain tickling your scalp is starting to blur your sight.

She lets go of your hair without saying anything, and for just a second, you think she might be too annoyed with your act and drop the issue entirely to move on and do whatever she feels like doing for the rest of the night. But she wraps her strong fingers around your wrist and pulls, her free hand pressing harshly between your shoulder blades to push you down onto her lap, face into the couch cushion and ass up, perched over her thighs.

Well, shit.

The first spank comes unexpectedly fast and hard, you have no time to brace yourself for the impact, and your jeans do little to absorb the shock and the pain spreading through your cheek.

“Shit!” you groan through gritted teeth, trying your best not to get too loud, which is most likely exactly what Rumi wants right now.

“Got something to say, baby?” Rumi asks, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Nope. All good,” you mumble.

A second slap comes, matching the first one in speed and strength, leaving your ass numb from the pain. If there’s one thing you can never expect from your girlfriend, it’s for her to go easy on you.

“All good, you said?”

“Yup,” you whimper pathetically, your voice having none of the bite you wish for. Two spanks, and Rumi already has you trembling over her lap, it’s ridiculous, but you should have seen it coming, really.

She spanks you again, twice, and takes the time to brush the palm of her hand over your sore cheeks, the gesture almost soothing. She repeats the movements again, and again, before stopping to give your ass a squeeze. With each spank, you pant, forcing yourself to swallow the moans that threaten to fall past your lips.

“You’re taking your punishment really well today, baby. Trying to be good for me?” she teases, her hand now comfortably lodged between your thighs, too close to your aching core and yet not nearly close enough.

“Or maybe you’re not hitting as hard as you think you are.”

You aren't sure why you said that, aren't sure what you're doing right now, all you know is that it's dangerous because you're just provoking Rumi — it's always a recipe for disaster in the end.

She doesn't spank you though, but she snakes a hand between her lap and your stomach, pressing her fingers into your skin and pushing up until you put your weight on your knees and lift yourself up enough for her to get access to the button of your pants. Rumi hooks her fingers at the hem of your jeans and tugs, dragging them down your thighs along with your underwear.

She doesn't give you time to adapt to the cool air against your exposed bottom, doesn't let you collect your thoughts or even take a breath, before she is spanking you again. She marks no pause between each strike, just spanks and spanks and spanks. Lost in the rapid fire of her assault on your sensitive ass, you can't stop yourself from moaning — and that's when she pauses.

“Did my baby just moan?”

You stubbornly refuse to respond, clenching your jaw. You know a spank is coming, but you still aren’t ready for the pain.

“It’s okay to admit that you’re just a slut, desperate for me to touch you,” she coos, her calloused fingers gently brushing the raw skin of your ass. “Even if I’m just spanking you, you want me to touch you, don’t you? Because you’re a needy little whore for me, uh?”

Her words cause a shiver to run down your spine, straight to your core, but you press your thighs together and bit your tongue. You’re well aware what she wants you to do, what she wants you to say, but you don’t want to give it to her today. You’ve decided to play, and you won’t back down just because she’s spanking your ass raw. At your stubborn silence, she all but growls in your ear, her annoyance obvious as she slaps your burning cheek once more.

“How long do you think you can resist, baby?” she asks as her fingers trace little patterns on your back, your shirt riding up as her hand slowly moves higher. “How long til you act like the good little slut you are for me?”

You muffle your whine in the cushion, which is starting to feel uncomfortably wet from your tears and drool under your cheek. You hate it, but you can’t give in now. Rumi would be too pleased.

“Just say you’re mine, baby, say you’re my perfect good little slut,” she says, her fingers trailing down your back to settle between your thighs, an inch from where you need her most, “just say it and I promise I’ll fuck your pretty cunt so good you won’t be able to walk.”

She runs a finger along your drenched fold, and you hear her hum in delight. You hate how wet she’s making you; you can’t deny that this is all for her, that it’s the effect she has one you. Met with only silence once again, Rumi harshly pinches your clit between her thumb and index finger.

“Aaah! Rumi—” you gasp, whole body quivering.

“Say it. Say you’re my slut. Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please,” you whimper weakly.

“Uh? What did you say? Didn’t hear you, baby. Stop hiding in the couch and gimme a proper sentence.”

You nearly sob as she tightens her grip on your clit before releasing it.

“I’m your slut! All yours!” you feel your whole face burning at your own word, at the desperation in your voice. “I need you to fuck me! Please... Mirko... please fuck me.”

She chuckles, all too amused to your liking.

“See? Ain’t so hard to be good, is it?”

Before you can register what’s happening, Rumi has hoisted you in her arms and thrown you over her shoulder and is making her way to your bedroom. Your pants still down the middle of your thighs and ass bared, it’s the most embarrassing ever but you can’t even find words to express it; you can feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, sticky and embarrassing.

She tosses onto the bed as soon as she is close enough to it.

“Be good and strip for me, baby. Take everything off.”

You hurry to obey, pushing your pants further down and kicking them off your feet before you start working on taking off your shirt. Rumi’s disappeared into the bathroom, so you sit patiently to wait for her, back leaning against the headboard.

When she comes back, Rumi is dressed, and you take the time to admire her beauty. The size of her strong arms obvious through the thin material of her long-sleeved crop top, the delicious expanse of tan skin of her stomach, her tight abs, the curve of her hips— you notice it only now, the thick bulge hidden under her jeans. You look up at her face, surprise written all over your features, and the smile she gives you is playful, she even wiggles her eyebrows at you.

Rumi unbuttons and unzips her pants, freeing the thickness of her strapon from them before climbing on the bed. She sits, legs spread, and beckons you closer with the simple movement of a finger.

“Suck it,” she demands, “get my cock nice and ready to fuck your cunt.”

You crawl over to her and wrap a hand around the hard silicone as soon as it’s within reach, your lips closing around its head. You circle it with your tongue, lick it, and look up at Rumi’s face, the dildo snug in your mouth. She can’t feel it, but she always enjoys when you put on a show for her.

Long gone is your little rebellious act from earlier. All you want is for Rumi to take you here and now, to have her fuck you until you pass out.

As you take more of the silicone cock into your mouth, she puts a hand on your head, and soon enough, you can feel her tight grip in your hair. You’re almost halfway when she tugs and pulls you away from her cock.

“Ass up. Face down. Now.”

You do as she orders, resisting the temptation to look up when you feel the bed dip next to you. You hear her open the drawer of the nightstand, then the sound of the lube bottle being opened. From the loud clang that follows, you know she’s thrown the bottle back in the drawer rather than bother putting it down.

Her fingers are cold when they press against your entrance, slick with thick lube that she spreads over your folds, over your clit, before pushing two fingers inside you. You grip at the sheets, low moan leaving your lips.

“Look at you, being all good for me now,” she comments, her tone teasing. “Taking my fingers so well.” This time, her voice comes from much closer, and you feel her chest pressing against your back. She kisses your neck and shoulders as she starts moving her fingers, slow and deliberate. “You want my cock, baby?”

You whimper at a particularly harsh thrust of her fingers and tighten your grip on the sheet to try and keep yourself anchored, balanced.

“Yes, please! I want your cock in me!”

She pulls out her fingers, and your cunt clenches around the emptiness. You can’t help but moan miserably. She coos above you, amused by your desperation, of course.

She pushes the thick head of the strapon against your hole, but instead of pushing further into you, she guides it up and down your folds, several time, painfully slow, spreading the slickness of your arousal mixed with the lube. You whine and push your hips back, seeking what she is refusing you. A big mistake, and you know it even before both her hands hit your ass, still raw from the spanking she gave you.

“Don’t try that again, baby,” she warns, squeezing the flesh of your in her hands as she presses the dildo against your entrance again. “You gonna be good for me now?”

“I promise I’ll be good! So, please, please fuck me!”

She pushes into you slowly, just the head, then pulls out and repeats the movement, carefully stretching you. She eases more of the strapon inside you with each move, and while you are grateful for how careful she is being, you wish she would just fuck you into the mattress already.

Finally, you feel her hips against your ass, and she pauses for a moment as her hands rest on your waist.

“You ready, baby?”

“I am.”

The pace she sets is fast, the movements of her hips quick, precise and harsh, almost unforgiving. The material of her pants feels rough against the sensitive skin of your ass, and you suspect Rumi of having kept her pants on merely to torture you that way.

Within seconds, Rumi has you panting and moaning.

“So good for me, taking my cock so well.”

She slows her quick pace to focus on deeper, more forceful thrusts. You can’t even form a coherent sentence, or even words, to respond. And when one of her hands leaves your waist, you clench your teeth and brace yourself for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead of spanking you, she is gentle as she places her hand on your ass. She doesn’t leave you time to consider asking her what she is doing that her thumb is pushing against your hole, and she keeps it set firmly in your ass as she quickens the pace again, fucking into your cunt ruthlessly, her hips slapping your ass with each thrust.

“Fuck! Mirko! Please!”

You’re babbling, unsure if the sounds that come out of your mouth are even the ones in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care when all you can feel is your girlfriend fucking you like your lives depends on it. And with each thrust bringing you closer to the edge, you moan, you mewl, you pant, you aren’t sure which, the lewd, wet noises of your pussy overwhelming your senses.

“Look at you, baby,” she croons, “being such a good slut for me, making such pretty noises just for me. So pretty and perfect. And all mine.”

“I’m so close! Please! I wanna come!”

She stills her hips, “then do,” she simply says, punctuating the short sentence with a strong thrust before resuming her quick pace.

It only takes a few more thrusts of her cock and her thumb pushing a little further into your ass for your muscles to clench desperately around her strap as waves of pleasure crash through your body, your limbs quivering from the unadulterated bliss clouding your mind. 

She is gentle as she pulls out, kisses your back as she eases you down onto the mattress and lies down next to you.

You turn your head to look at her, and she is grinning at you as you lay limply on the bed. She caresses your cheek, soft and loving, and shifts closer to kiss you on the nose.

“You did so good, babe,” she whispers, her smile only broadening, “I’m so proud of you.”

Feeling the exhaustion invade your body, you close your eye and focus on enjoying her gentle touch as she runs her fingers along your back and shoulders.

“Let’s get you in the shower in a few minutes, yeah? I’ll have to take care of your ass. I really got carried, sorry ‘bout that.”

You chuckle sleepily at her apology.

“Don’t be sorry, you know I liked it.”

“I do know. I mean, you fucking dripped on my pants, there’s still a spot on my thigh.”

You groan in embarrassment, and you would cover your face with your hands if your muscles weren’t still twitching from your orgasm.

“Just carry my lifeless body to the bathroom.”

“Gimme a break, I’m tired too. I fucking wrecked my hands spanking you so hard, ya know?”

“You really want to compare the state of your hands to my ass?” you mutter, frowning, eyes barely opening.

It’s her turn to chuckle.

“Yeah, okay, no. Just, lemme take a breathe and I’ll take care of my baby.”

[cryptiql]

boyhood

pairing: katsuki bakugou/reader (male reader in mind, but can be read as gender neutral)

words: 2.1k

warnings: tw hospital mention, but i think that's it

a/n: this is god awful and i hate it with every fiber of my being but here's to hoping y'all like it anyways </33 ig this could count as a fic ?? but not really lmao it's just some brain rot inspired by the map of tiny perfect things for which there will be some spoilers, so read with caution

"so, there's this boy—"

it starts simple enough; the utterings of a line pulled straight from a cliché teen drama spilling from your lips. you wish it wasn't so, but then, you also wish that cute blonde hadn't saved you from falling in the pool, for it might have prevented the hassle of falling for him, instead. it's foolish, you begin to think, because you've done this a thousand times—you've evaded every beach ball hurdled at your unsuspecting head; every puddle that has sent you careening backwards onto the ground; every shove from a group of inconsiderate teens. the public pool was a sanction from which you memorized the plains of this uncharted territory. you suppose nothing major could change even with the new development, but crossing paths with this boy was unlikely on an astronomical scale, and the knowing look in his eyes made it all the more complicated.

you love the way his hand presses so deliciously against the small of your back before reeling you from the edge, much like a fish from water. it isn't too far off, as you stand there indecisive between opening and closing your mouth, eyes trailing over the fit form of your savior. he's absolutely gorgeous, for one, and you almost catch yourself drooling over his sun-kissed skin and broad chest, just barely covered by his loose fitting button up. your traveling gaze comes to a halt, however, when it reaches his vermillion hues; their spiteful gleam caught aflame under the sun's harsh glow.

"—and he basically hates me—"

but he doesn't. through a begrudging fit, katsuki acknowledges the feeling in his heart as something akin to fondness, and it hurts to admit that he doesn't entirely dislike it. sure, you're a clumsy idiot with little to no sense of rationality, and you cannot handle simple tasks such as driving a car to save your life (as he has observed over many failed attempts to back into your desired parking space, only to crash into an absurd amount of cars in the process), but he finds those qualities endearing, in a sense. it's impossible not to, after an estimated five months of reliving the same day again and again with the same infuriating person.

and yet, when you look at him with that stupid grin, "infuriating" is the last word to come to mind. it's more than he can manage to say about anyone without pushing down the urge to throw up, so when you finally catch on, he hopes you'll be grateful. oh god, does he ever hope, because no one has ever put in the effort to get to know him well enough and not regret it later, and now he's stuck with you. "i'm just as stuck with you, though." you joke, the summer breeze carding through your hair in waves. all he can muster in response is a half-hearted scoff paired with an elbow to your side.

fuck, you love it. you love the contemplative look that crosses his face during those rare moments when he isn't a wrathful mess of a human being, and when he pushes past you to walk ahead with an unwavering self-assurance in each step. you love the harshness of his words and his unforgiving attitude, and you'd be lying if the malicious smirk he wears doesn't make your stomach twist in the most delightful way.

how this is all possible doesn't even occur to you when he's at your side, grumbling about the man who will inevitably round the corner on his moped and wipe out on the pothole.

you remember how he used to laugh when it happened, and how you thought it was pretty, despite its cackling resonance. its sheer volume was enough to make flocks of birds scatter to the wind, and the pout he wore would have been adorable if it weren't one of shame and disgust at his own expense. it's downright criminal to think that no one has complimented his laugh, and you're so lucky to have been the first, but you might be a little more appreciative if he had sit still and let you admire his blush.

"—but he isn't the total asshole i associated him with when we first met—"

and it's true. he's grown in leaps and bounds towards being a better person, and a perfect example is the moped man, who was promptly stopped from running into the pothole by a tamer, more polite katsuki. okay, perhaps polite isn't the correct term, seeing as he still spoke to the civilian with nothing short of aggravation in his tone, but it was the thought that counted.

you remind yourself as such every morning; the stench of burnt toast trickling in through the crack of your bedroom door to drag you from your slumber. you can't actually recall falling asleep, and although you feel fully rested, it occurs to you that only a split second has passed between the reset point and the moment of your awakening, but you like to imagine otherwise. along with katsuki's company, as well as the fleeting instants of joy found during your little scavenger hunt, it's what keeps you sane.

that's the other thing.

"what the hell is the point in all this?" he bites out, still struggling within your smothering hold. you respond with a lighthearted giggled as you place your chin in the crook of his neck and point at the group of kids running about the avenue between their house and the next. one of the girls is tackled into a hug by who you presume to be her older brother, and seconds later, they both shriek in triumph at the activity found in the treehouse above. spools of fairy lights coiled around the wooden beams suddenly come to life, flickering softly beneath the canopies of leaves above. katsuki will assure you that he despises children, but the gentle smile playing on his features as they scramble up the tree tells a different story.

you figure, "hey, since we're not going anywhere in this temporal anomaly, we might as well make the most of it together!", and thus the map of tiny perfect things is made. it's no vincent van gogh level work—it pains your artist's heart to confess—but you've nearly perfected it over many fitful hours of tracing, labeling and painting, and the results alone are satisfying. although, you won't deny any praise from katsuki when he plucks the map from between the folds of your sketchbook and observes it with awe and what you can't bear to identify as a hint of dejection. you make the mistake of not questioning it, for when he brushes off your request to stay longer, you are left with a sense of dread as you pull the covers over your shoulders, idly caressing the empty space in your bed and wishing he was there to fill it.

what were you expecting? katsuki's nails; bitten down to mere stubs; claw at your flesh as he shoves you away, lips drawn into a snarl. he's desperate now, because bakugou has never said please in his entire goddamn life, but he's screaming it in your face like it will solve his problems. nothing is that simple. of course not. katsuki is complex and overcomplicated, like the rubik's cube sitting unsolved on your bedside table, and he fucking knows it. he knows that you're trying to wear him down enough that he'll collapse in your arms and spill every little detail about his life, and he knows it's out of love, but he can't just lie there and take it. no, he'll go down kicking and punching and biting, just to make sure you what you're getting into when you tell him you care; to make sure he's not dreaming, and that you're adoration for him is nothing but an elaborate illusion meant to torment him. you were sure everything was fine. you were sure, that when the palm of his hand sunk into your own, things would be different, and he had changed.

and he did, to which you must give him credit, but he still stands in the shell of a scared little boy, unmoving with his fists clenched at his sides as he waits for the swift hand of defeat to claim all of his endeavors in a shroud of darkness. it's so unlike him. or at least, that's what you figure before wandering under the fluorescent lights of the local hospital, cradling a newly sprained arm. perhaps attempting a complex skateboard trick on the first go wasn't the smartest idea, but it had seemed like a good one at the time, especially when you were in desperate need of a distraction from the disdain of watching katsuki walk away that night.

he was the last person you expected to see, just weeks later, knees tucked up to his chest he tugs on the sleeve of his shirt. judging by the doctor's evident discomfort, you can safely assume that they were chased out of the room by his biting insults and threats. you spare them a gentle pat on the arm as you pass, soon to stand in the doorway and watch katsuki stand over the bed, which is occupied by a woman with strikingly similar features. your eyes flit over the nametag plastered on the bedframe, and it takes great strength to swallow the woeful sound building in your throat.

mitsuki bakugou.

"—and he has this way about him that never fails to make my heart flutter."

katsuki doesn't approach you for another three painstakingly slow-moving days, and when he does, it is nothing like you imagined. he fumbles for a moment, and you think you've died or you're dreaming because there's no way the boy you fell in love with gets so shaken up over nothing. self loathing is an awful shade on him, but you don't know what he should be angry at himself for if he's done nothing wrong. through gritted teeth, he claims otherwise, pacing the vast field and carding his fingers through his hair, unintentionally tempting you to stop his fretting with a kiss.

it can't end like this. the ties of your future are snapping at an alarming rate, and without his help, you aren't strong enough to hold them together. the realization hits you at full speed, pushing the air from your lungs and causing the mouth to turn dry. you remember every little perfect thing about him, found through tireless digging and excavating of his person. you remember forcing him onto the back of a bike and riding him around town, hearing his complaints gradually fade into cackling laughter and poorly hidden squawks when you made a sharp turn into traffic. you remember the diner, where he insisted that you pace yourself with your milkshake, only for his advice to fall upon deaf ears. he'd guide you home with an arm wrapped around you waist, affirming you that no, "it was not a date, so stop calling it that", despite the warmness on his cheeks when you teased him about it. you remember all the moments where you'd catch his scowl morph into a smile as he watched people, trapped in the happiest instants of their life; the feeling of pride as you saw his callous exterior fade into something gentler, even if only when you were around. "you can't keep doing this to her." katsuki's nose wrinkles, solemnity gracing his expression as he nods at nothing in particular. "you're only prolonging her pain." he nods again, firmer this time, and laces his fingers with yours. whether he's conscious of this or not, you don't care to ask—it's pleasant all the same, and you'd like the cherish this moment for a while longer, if he'll have it. the idle ticking of your watch alerts you that midnight is nigh, and in knowing this, you turn on your side and reach to cup katsuki's face. those final seconds are engraved in your mind, just as the sensation of your lips melding together shall remain for years to come, after all this has passed and everything is as it should be.

the very next morning, you awake with the phantom feeling of coffee stained parchment on the pads of your fingers, and the delicate scrawl of ink beneath them. the last pages of your journal lay open under the bands of light streaming in through your curtains, and with a giddy grin, you register the faint pounding at your front door, along with katsuki's halfhearted threats for you to get up. "—dear diary, this boyhood has been a complete and utter mess. but so is he, and damn it if i don't love him all the same."

[mochegato]

Hope on Board

Chapter 25 – Out of Time

Chapter 1     Chapter 24

Dick woke up to a far too early knocking, more like pounding, on his door.  He and Jim Gordon had been up half the night talking about the corruption in the police force and whether Dick should join, before deciding he could make a difference if he did.  He would be able to help Jim slowly weed out the corruption if he was working with him from the inside.  They’d even filled out all his applications for the Police Academy, starting in a month. He would have to be away from Marinette and the twins during the day, but he would be able to come home to them every night.  If she let him.  And she would know where he was.

But all that talk meant he had only gotten a few hours of sleep last night and he was dead tired this morning.  He really just wanted to go back to sleep, but the pounding on the door continued unabated.  He groaned and made his way to the door.  “Answer your damn phone, asshole,” Jason growled at him, pushing past him to look around the room.  “We’re fucking thrilled if you and Pixie got back together, but let us know you both aren’t dead.”

Dick shook his head and scrunched his face in confusion. “That we’re what?  I haven’t gotten to talk with Marinette yet.  I’m hoping that’s how it will go, but I think that’s probably overly optimistic.”

Jason’s expression turned in an instant from annoyed to scared.  It was not a look he was used to seeing on Jason’s face.  Jason never got scared, or if he did, he never showed it.  “Pixie is here, right?” he asked again, enunciating each word clearly.  “She’s with you.”

“No…  I just woke up.  I was talking with Commissioner Gordon all night.  Why would you think she was with me?” Dick shook his head again, trying to make sense of what he was saying.  Had Marinette planned on meeting him here?  Maybe she came back and fell asleep.  He ran to her bedroom to check, but the room was exactly as it had been for the past few weeks.  No sign of Marinette.  He returned to the living room and shook his head.

“Shit!”  Jason looked around desperately.

“Tell me what is going on right now.  Why did you think Marinette was with me?” Dick asked carefully.  His breathing became strained.  This isn’t the way this was supposed to go.  He had saved her.  He had stopped the Court of Owls.  He stopped their plot.  She was safe.

Jason pulled out his phone and called Tim, talking as he did, without bothering to acknowledge Tim when he answered and putting him on speaker as soon as he did.  “She’s missed all her appointments today.  Adrien said she said she was going to talk with you today.  She isn’t in Adrien’s apartment or Wayne Enterprises. Her phone is in her studio, but she isn’t,” Jason answered slowly, eyes darting around as if calculating something. “We figured she must be here.”

“We didn’t set the time yet.  I haven’t heard from her.  When was the last time someone saw her?” Dick asked frantically, running to his bedroom to start getting dressed.

“I’m going to start going through security footage around Adrien’s apartment and her studio,” Tim reported.

Jason’s phone started flashing with another call. “Patching Adrien into the call too,” he informed them and pushed a few buttons to enable it.  “Adrien, tell me you have something.”

Adrien’s voice hesitated for a moment.  Dick and Jason shared an apprehensive look.  “I have something, but it’s bad…  Someone told me you’d know how to get in contact with Batman?”

Jason froze and looked up at Dick with a panicked expression.  There was no way that was good.  “I think we might have a way to contact Batman, why?”

“I know where she is, but we’re going to need Batman and his team to get her back.”  There was barely a quiver to Adrien’s voice as he spoke, but years of training made it come across as clear as glass to the others on the call.

“Where is she?” Dick yelled into the phone.

“Dick?  They don’t have you?  That’s good… I guess.  It means they only wanted her… Actually, no, wait, maybe that’s worse,” Adrien prattled.

“Who is they?” Dick demanded.

“Some people with owl masks.”  There was a hedge in his voice as though he didn’t think they would believe him.

Dick stopped breathing.  The Court had taken Marinette.  No, no, no, no.  He had stopped them.  He had made sure Marinette was safe.  He had protected her from them.  That’s what the past few months of hell had all been about.

“You can get ahold of Batman, right?” Adrien asked again, in a more strained voice.  “I know someone who’d like to talk to him.”

Jason furrowed his brow and looked to Dick to see if he had any ideas.  “Who?”

“Chat Noir.”

Jason looked at Dick communicating their intentions and agreement through minute body quirks and purposeful looks.  “We can get ahold of someone.  We will make sure someone is on the top of the Wayne Enterprises building in half an hour.  Is that enough time for him?”

“He’ll be there,” Adrien confirmed confidently.

Jason cut Adrien’s connection and glared at the floor in thought.  “Why would they want Marinette?”

“The plot you stopped was all about the power grid, wasn’t it?” Tim interjected.  “Trying to run up prices for some of their members who owned supply and power companies?”

“Yeah…” Dick answered uncertainly.

“Then there was no reason for them to be at the Stone concert, right?  Those execs were from Netflix, no way associated with this,” Tim elaborated.

Dick drew in a deep breath and cursed.  “They were there watching Marinette.  They were planning this all along.  They wanted Marinette from the beginning.  Why?”

“Everyone go get suited up.  Get there as soon as possible.  I’ll text the others,” Jason stated, moving quickly toward the door so he could get to his apartment.

<><><><><> 

Batman, Red Robin, Signal, and Red Hood made it to the rooftop with time to spare, since they were already close to their costumes. Nightwing, Black Bat, Spoiler, and Robin had further to go to get to their costumes and had to trickle into the meeting, but they kept track of the conversation through the coms until they could be there in person.

“Chat Noir.” Batman stepped forward and nodded.

“Batman.  Bats and Birds.” Chat Noir nodded to Batman and the rest of the bats.  “I was thinking there would be more.”

“They’re on their way but listening in,” Batman assured him briskly.  “Let’s start with how do you know where she is?”

Chat looked over to the edge of the building at the sound of two sets of boots landing, he continued to speak as he silently acknowledged Nightwing and Robin.  “I’ve been keeping a close eye on Marinette since the pharmacy incident.  You might say I’ve had a catbug on her… with her permission of course.  She sent the scout to find me when she thought they were in her final location.  They didn’t seem interested in immediately harming her or the scout would have stayed.  We have time, I just don’t know how much.”

“Do you know how she was taken?” Batman asked.

Chat nodded, annoyance settling in his expression as he did. “A couple men dressed as cops approached her at her studio and said something happened to Dick, her boyfriend… kind of… it’s complicated.  She went with them.  By the time she figured out they were not headed to the hospital, there was a knife digging into her bump.”

“Any ideas on why they took Pi… her?” Red Hood broke in.

“They said something about a Grayson, so I have to imagine it’s to get at Dick Grayson, the babies’ father, for some reason or to get her twins perhaps for ransom.  I don’t suppose you have any ideas why they would want to get back at Dick, would you?  Is he a member?  Did he double cross them?” Chat mused.

“What?” Nightwing exclaimed.  “No!”

“Well…” Spoiler hedged as she and Black Bat landed.

“Dick Grayson didn’t do anything to them,” Nightwing gritted out.

Chat Noir studied Nightwing carefully then suddenly whipped his head over to Red Hood, running his eyes over him in a calculated manner and moving quickly to do the same to Red Robin.  “Fuck.  That’s why he said you guys would know how to get in contact with Batman.  That’s why you’ve been disappearing.” He stuck an accusatory finger in Nightwing’s direction.  “Why the fuck didn’t you just tell her that, you fucking dumbass!”

“See!  Even the catman agrees.” Red Hood exclaimed.

“She wasn’t supposed to get stressed and I didn’t want her knowing I was putting my life in danger every night, constantly,” Nightwing attempted to defend himself, but even to himself, his voice sounded unsure.

“She put up with me for years.  She is perhaps the world’s foremost expert in dealing with idiots who constantly put their lives in danger,” Chat exclaimed exasperated.  He had to have known that.  Marinette had talked to him about how frustrated she had gotten with Chat.  Hell, he was there for some of those conversations with Dick, while she glared at Chat the whole time.

“You think memories of that didn’t add stress?” Nightwing exploded, stalking slowly toward Chat as he spoke.  “She still has nightmares about it.  And pregnancy hormones make nightmares even more realistic. You weren’t there almost every night when she woke up crying because she saw you sacrificing yourself in new ways or when she dreamt it was me instead of you.  And the last one she had before our fight…  She sobbed almost nonstop for almost an hour.  I was terrified for her.”

“And you weren’t there when she was sobbing because you said you loved her then ran away like she didn’t matter,” Adrien returned just as angrily, standing his ground against Nightwing.  “Or when she broke down because she couldn’t trust you anymore. Because you spent months lying to her. Not because you had a secret. Secrets she understands, intimately. Because she trusted you and you lied and without an explanation, she had to assume you lied about everything.”

“I was protecting her from the Court of Owls,” Dick yelled.

“So that’s what the cult is called?  Bang up job, there.”  Chat growled back.  He moved away to collect his thoughts and deescalate the situation.  Fighting now wouldn’t help Marinette.  They needed to work together to rescue her.  Finally, he sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead like he was trying to ward off a migraine.  “She owes me a hundred euros for this.  So, what’s these guys’ deal?  Do they know who you are or are they asking for ransom?”

“We don’t think they know who he is, but ransom isn’t really their deal either,” Red Robin answered.

“Why would they want her otherwise?” Signal asked.

Chat opened his mouth a few times before cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brow and grimacing as if trying to figure out how to say what he was thinking.  “Could they know about… her association with the Paris heroes?”

“What exactly is her association with them?” Batman asked

Chat opened his mouth and closed it quickly.  “That sounds like a question for Marinette.”

“Well she isn’t fucking here is she?” Red Hood pointed out curtly.

“Close.  Very close,” he answered carefully.

“Clearly,” Spoiler huffed motioning to Chat.

“Closer than that.” He grimaced.  He was definitely skirting the line of flat out telling her secrets, but if it saved her babies, he was sure she would be okay with it. He just wasn’t sure yet if it actually related at all.  “But I don’t know how they could have found out.  She hasn’t been around any costumed heroes in years.”

“And they said this was about Grayson,” Robin pointed out.  “It is far more likely they know Grayson’s identity and this is punishment for stopping them.”

“If they’ve been tracking her since the concert, maybe earlier, it isn’t just about ruining their plans,” Red Robin clarified.

“They were doing what?” Chat’s head whipped around to look at him.

“I saw a talon at the Stone concert.  That’s why I disappeared.  I was investigating,” Nighwing explained distractedly.  “We can figure out the reason later.  Let’s focus on freeing her, making sure she’s okay.  You said you know where she is.  She’s probably terrified, and she doesn’t need more nightmares.”

“Yeah, she’s being held under here,” he pushed a few buttons on his baton and sent the location to the Bats.

“How did you do that?” Signal asked with amazement in his voice.

“Magic,” Chat answered, flaring out his fingers.  

“So what’s the plan?” Stephanie asked.

“Oracle do you have the building layout?” Batman asked into the coms.

“I’m having trouble getting in.  It looks like they have several layers of security and self-contained power.  It might take me a bit,” Oracle responded.

“We wait to see if we can get insight into the building then create the plan.  Our tech person is having difficulty getting in,” Batman stated so Chat could hear.

Chat nodded and teetered back and forth from his toes to his heels, anxiety ramping up in the silence.  “So, any tips or tricks I should know before fighting these guys, if that’s what’s happening?”

“The guys with glowing yellow eyes are highly trained. The rest will try to kill you, but they’re like drunken toddlers, it’s the yellow eyed bastards you have to watch out for,” Red Hood answered as he leaned against the half-wall running along the edge of the building.

“They’re not drunken toddlers.  They’re dangerous too,” Batman emphasized affronted.  He’d fought those guys in a group.  They had almost overpowered him.

“Okay fine,” Red Hood waved him off, “but not like the talons.”

“Any weaknesses for those yellow eyed talon guys?” Chat asked apprehensively.

“Not really.  They’re highly trained, highly skilled, superhuman speed, superhuman healing,’ Nightwing answered.

“Fuck,” Chat answered with a whistle.

“Appropriate response,” Red Robin nodded.

“They need a substance to keep healing,” Batman corrected.

“So if we injure enough of them they won’t have enough substance for everyone?” Chat offered.

“Not the route I want to go, but yeah,” Signal agreed.

“And cold.  They’re susceptible to cold,” Batman added.

“Cold?” Chat clarified, suddenly listening very intently.

“Yeah, it interferes with their healing,” Red Hood explained.  “Makes it so their injuries stick.”

“So if we could make it freezing cold down there…” Chat trailed off.

“Doesn’t have to be the whole place, just where the talons are,” Red Robin mused out loud.  “There likely won’t be many, if any.  They can’t be expecting us yet.  They were too careful.  If it wasn’t for Chat’s scout, we’d have no idea.  But yes, if you can make them cold, we’d have a better chance.”

Chat stopped and looked contemplative for a few moments. “Let me make a quick call.”  He turned around and walked a few steps away. After a few minutes he returned. “Snowflake will be here in 35 minutes.”

“The ice chick from New York?” Red Hood asked.

Chat nodded in response.  Damian eyed him suspiciously.  “That’s awfully quick.”

“She’s going to catch a ride with Uncanny Valley and Uncanny will be able to hack into their security as soon as she gets here.  She just has to be close.  We can get the plans from her and break into their security system.”

“How can she do that?  No offense to your friend, but if Oracle can’t do it, it’s unlikely anybody else would be able to so quickly,” Red Robin asked.

“Thank you,” Oracle cut in.

“Uhhh… magic?”  Chat offered with less enthusiasm than before.

“Let’s move to a closer position while we wait.  We’ll come up with a plan once we have more information,” Batman said already taking out his grappling hook.  “We have family to save.”

Chapter 26

Tags:

@dickinette-february @demonicbusiness @ichigorose @iloontjeboontje @ladybug-182 @toodaloo-kangaroo @dast218 @golden-promises @trippingovermyfeet @emimar7 @laurcad123 @lady-bee-fechin @thewitchwhowaited @redscarlet95 @jayjayspixiepop

[maria-scribbles]

we’re just like kevin bacon!

prompt: for @bricksatanakinswindow​ ‘s halloween writing challenge! this was initially inspired by "mortal enemies accidentally showing up in matching costumes every fucking year" but once i started writing it kind of snowballed from there and i ended up with this lmao

ship: jj maybank x fem!reader

word count: 4.6k+ (i think this is the shortest thing i’ve ever written lol)

warnings n stuff: childhood enemies to lovers, swearing, mention of underage drinking, halloween shenanigans, makin' out, smut (not too explicit but i still think it's spicy enough to need an 18+ warning), jj and the reader being cute lil nerds and quoting movies back and forth, the author blatantly using some of her personal favorite movies/shows as inspiration for costumes, the author also making her opinions on ghostbusters clear (instead of the human trash can peter venkman, stan the adorable dork known as ray stantz for clear skin)

a/n: this was hella fun to write and i already have so many more halloween fic ideas bouncing around in my head (it's spoopy season, y'all!). title of this fic comes from guardians of the galaxy 😊

Of three things in life you were certain.

One, you loved Halloween more than any other holiday of the year; after all, you and your twin brother Mason were born just after one AM on October 31st so you could say a penchant for all things spooky was in your blood.

Two, Sarah Cameron was your best friend. Being neighbors your whole lives, the two of you were thick as thieves and spent almost every day together, much to the annoyance of both your brother and hers; as much as you loved Mason, sometimes you wished Sarah was your twin instead of him and you knew without question the blonde girl would trade Rafe for you in a heartbeat (with little to no guilt, in fact.). 

And three, you absolutely hated JJ Maybank. You'd been at the top of each other's shit lists ever since you were both six years old, when he made fun of you for the stutter you'd had back then and you dumped a full milkshake over his head as payback, and even as time passed and you grew out of your stutter, your disdain for the blond pogue only grew stronger. He was infuriating, plain and simple, and the mere mention of his name made steam come out of your ears. 

The boy was just good at being annoying and seemed to love pushing everyone's buttons, yours especially, and always found ways to get under your skin without fail every single time your paths crossed (which was way too often for your liking, but running in the same friend group made it hard to avoid each other). It became an unspoken thing, the great Y/L/N-Maybank feud, with both of you trying your hardest to piss the other off until one of your mutual friends or your brother broke it up and pulled you to opposite corners of the metaphorical ring to take a breather before the next round.

You'd never admit it but deep down you kind of liked it. You liked being at the center of his attention (granted, it was antagonistic in nature but it was attention all the same), his bright blue eyes following your every move whenever you were within his sights and you liked that you were in his thoughts even when you weren't around, a fact proven to you by the tiny notebook Kiara carried around in her pocket recording how many times he mentioned your name. Knowing you lived rent free in his mind brought you an embarrassingly high level of satisfaction that you'd absolutely deny feeling if anyone ever asked, just as you'd deny the fact that he lived rent free in your mind, too.

...At least for most of the year. Everyone, including JJ, knew that to you Halloween was a damn-near sacred time. He knew never to mess with you during the weeks leading up to the holiday and definitely never on the day itself, lest he want yet another milkshake dumped over his blond head. He knew that, the whole damn island knew he did and yet...somehow, some way, he managed to get your blood boiling every. single. year. And you, like a masochistic idiot, let him. 

It all started when you were twelve.

You, Mason, and your friends were finally old enough to go to the annual youth party held on the sprawling lawn of the Island Club, an event you'd been looking forward to attending every Halloween since you were eight. Of course, you were excited for the dancing and games and food but the thing you couldn't wait the most for was the costume contest, a chance to show off your skills and prove to everyone on the island that Y/N Y/L/N was the undisputed queen of Halloween.

So what if your hopes were a little too high (considering you were only twelve and going up against kids ranging from your age to fifteen), you were still gonna give it your all; you spent weeks perfecting not only your costume but your brother's as well with your mom, helping her cut fabric and sew zippers, styling wigs and painting props until everything was perfect. 

"Oh my God, Y/N!" Sarah, dressed as Cinderella, yelled from the passenger seat of her dad's SUV when they swung by to pick you up. "You look amazing!"

"So do you!" You said, slipping into the back seat in between a miserable-looking Rafe as Sarah Sanderson ("I lost a bet," he explained with a scowl) and Mason, holding your mini R2-D2 on your lap. Was it kind of cheesy, dressing up as the most iconic twins in movie history? Probably, but you really didn't care because Leia Organa was a total boss bitch and Mason was practically over the moon that he got to be his ultimate silver screen hero and swing around his very own lightsaber as Luke Skywalker.

"The Force is strong with you two." Ward joked, earning an eye roll from both of his children as he drove to the Island Club to drop you off. Rafe immediately disappeared into the crowd to meet up with Topper and Kelce and the three of you went off to find your own friends, skirting around the edge of the party toward the snack tables, also known as the most likely place for them to be.  

You spotted Kiara first, looking like an actual princess in her Tiana costume and waved, smiling when she waved back and beckoned you over as she said something to Pope, dressed as Albert Einstein, that made him start laughing hysterically.

"What's so funny?" You asked, reaching between them to grab two handfuls of pretzels and immediately dropping one into your brother's outstretched palm, careful to keep the sleeve of your white dress away from the bright orange-iced cupcakes on the table. 

The two of them exchanged a look that instantly made you realize something was Up™ but before either of them could answer, Mason asked around a mouthful of pretzels, "Where're Tweedledee and Tweedledum?"

"J, why didn't we think of that?" John B's voice came from somewhere over your shoulder and when you turned to face him, you nearly dropped both the droid cradled in the crook of your elbow and the snacks in your hand. Not because of John B and his hilarious Chewbacca costume but because of the fact that JJ Maybank, the one person you hated the most on the whole entire island, was dressed as Han freakin' Solo. 

"Yikes." Someone muttered behind you -it sounded like Sarah but you weren't really sure- and Mason nearly choked on his pretzels as he tried and failed miserably to keep himself from laughing. 

"You've gotta be kidding me." You huffed, rolling your eyes as JJ crossed his arms and glared in your direction, blaster hanging from the holster on his hip.

"Listen, Princess, I'm not too happy about this, either."

"Oh, shut up, you nerfherder."

"Who you calling-" Mason and John B cut in and pulled you both in opposite directions before either of you could turn it into a shouting match, your brother physically grabbing you around the waist and carrying you off while the latter caught the back of JJ's vest and dragged him away. Despite their best efforts to keep you apart, you ran into each other more times than you could count and spent a minute or two squabbling like cats and dogs each time until one of them intervened once again. It was childish, it was immature, and it was fun, even though you'd never, ever admit it. Ever.

You didn't win the costume contest that year in the way you'd imagined at all. Still, first place in the group category was a win in your book and it felt good, even if one of the members of your unintentional Star Wars posse was someone who tested every bit of patience you had. The four of you split the cash prize and you went home 25 bucks richer, stashing it away for next year's costume and pushing the thought of accidentally matching with your mortal enemy from your mind. 

You had no idea this thing was only just beginning.

The next year, you let Sarah and Kiara convince you to match with them and the three of you rolled up to the party as the Pink Ladies -you as Rizzo, Sarah as Sandy, Kiara as Frenchy- only to run right into the boys, your brother included, dressed as the T-Birds. John B, perfectly in character as Danny, immediately whisked Sarah off to dance while Pope, the most adorably awkward Doody you'd ever seen, went to grab some snacks with Kiara, leaving you stuck with the bane of your existence as, of course, fucking Kenickie (Mason, as Sonny, dipped sometime before then without you noticing). The two of you spent the whole evening glaring at each other and hurling insults back and forth at breakneck speed, more in character than either of you'd ever want to acknowledge and for the second year in a row, you won first place in the group costume category.

At fourteen, you went as Princess Buttercup and JJ showed up as Westley, fake sword in hand as he followed you around all night like an annoying fly, sarcastically drawling "as you wish" every time you so much as glanced in his direction. Your brother, dressed as Inigo Montoya, nearly pissed himself laughing and you wanted to snatch both of their prop swords and shove them up their asses. You came in first again in the group costume contest and begrudgingly split the prize three ways. 

At fifteen, you worked hard on a Dr. Ellie Sattler costume from Jurassic Park, he strolled in as a disheveled Dr. Alan Grant with mud splattered boots and tattered clothes, and you really regretted not taking the offer to be the Tai to Sarah's Cher and Kiara's Dionne. Once again, Mason laughed so hard his face turned red and you were tempted to grab the sword he was holding and beat him over the head with it, not just for laughing at you but also for the completely atrocious Jack Sparrow costume he wore. To your absolute horror, you and JJ won the contest in the duo category and you wanted to melt into the ground when they called you onto the makeshift stage to collect your reward. 

When you were sixteen, you and your friends "graduated" to the party held for the older teens inside the club itself. With costume rules a little more lax than they were for the younger kids, you decided to go as (an only slightly sexy) Janine Melnitz, complete with a prop telephone you answered every so often with a loud "Ghostbusters, whaddya want?!" much to the embarrassment of Mason, who was once again dressed as Luke Skywalker, this time in the fatigues he wore while training on Dagobah in The Empire Strikes Back.

You strutted into the party in your heels and pencil skirt only to nearly fall flat on your face when you caught sight of JJ in a terrible black wig and glasses, proton pack strapped to his back and 'Spengler' printed on the front of his jumpsuit. Your brother winced when you all but screeched "Again?!" right into his ear and grabbed your elbow, dragging you over to an empty table and depositing you into an open chair.

"There's no way this is a coincidence anymore! He could've picked Venkman, with all the womanizing and lowkey being a creep and thinking he's God's gift to mankind? It would've been the perfect choice! He's not nearly adorable or dorky enough to be Stantz or sassy enough to be Winston-"

"Jesus, you have a lot of feelings about Ghostbusters," Mason muttered, rolling his eyes when you shot him a withering glare.

"Shut up! Listen to me, there's no way in hell Maybank randomly decided to be, out of alllll the 'Busters, Egon fuckin' Spengler, okay? He had to have somehow known I was coming as Janine and did it just to piss me off!"

Your brother heaved a deep, heavy sigh that made you want to smack him and fixed you with a deadpan stare. "Or, have you pulled your head out of your own ass long enough to think that maybe you're just becoming...predictable?"

You really did smack him then, hard on his exposed shoulder and he yelped, scowling as he rubbed at the red mark you left behind. "Ow! What the hell, bitch?!"

"Don't you dare call me predictable, you dickhead! I pride myself on my costumes being very unique and unexpected -you know, out of the box!"

"Hate to break it to you but they're not really out of the box if Maybank shows up in a matching one every single year." He said with an infuriating, shit-eating grin, patting your shoulder before straightening the plush Yoda strapped to his back. "I'm gonna go get some food, wanna come with?"

Still miffed at his comment, you shoved his arm away and glanced down at your lap, ignoring your brother's sassy "your loss" as he headed toward the snack tables. Not even a minute passed by before his empty seat was taken and you groaned when you looked up to see who it was, your eyes meeting a pair of bright blues behind tacky, oversized glasses. 

"Hi, Janine."

"...Egon."

The two of you sat in silence after that, watching the dancing crowd under the flashing neon lights and sparkling disco ball until you saw him turn to face you out of the corner of your eye.

"Why Janine?" 

"Huh?" You turned to face him, too, one eyebrow raised in a perfect arch as he gestured toward your costume.

"Why did you dress up as Janine, Y/L/N?"

"I've always liked her sassiness and 'I like to play racquetball.'" You offered a casual shrug of your shoulders and carefully stuck a finger under your wig to scratch an annoying itch above your ear. "Why'd you pick Egon, Maybank?"

"He's my favorite." He answered simply with his own shrug, shooting you a genuine, real smile that you, for who knows what reason, found yourself returning without a second thought. "Smart, hilarious -plus, 'I like to collect spores, mold, and fungus.'"

For the first time in your life, your eyes rolled out of amusement and not annoyance at something that JJ Maybank said and, to your complete surprise, it kind of felt...right. "Really? I'd have pegged you for a Venkman stan."

"Are you kidding? He's the worst!" 

Never in your wildest dreams did you ever think you'd sit across from your hated enemy, not only having a civil -hell, downright enjoyable- conversation but actually smiling right along with him, laughing at his jokes and doing your best to ignore the sudden flutter in your stomach each time you caught sight of his slightly crooked teeth when he grinned. You didn't even notice when your brother returned with Kiara, dressed as Moana, at his side and two heaping plates of snacks in his hands until his chair scraped gratingly across the hardwood floor. 

"Kie, are you seeing this? Pigs must be flying 'cause they're actually smiling at each other." Mason said, cackling as Kiara turned to squint out the window.

"Yeah, I think I see one or two soaring around out there." She giggled and sent a mischievous wink in your direction. With your face feeling like it was on fire, you flipped them both the bird and took off, disappearing into the crowd and leaving all your traitorous, confusing thoughts about JJ behind with the boy himself; it was Rafe's last party at the Club and he owed you a dance anyway, but even as your best friend's older brother, cute as hell in his Thor costume, playfully twirled you around the floor to the Ghostbusters theme song, you felt more than your partner's blue eyes on you.

To no one's surprise, you and JJ won the duo category for the second year in a row and when you joined him onstage to collect your prize and didn't feel like you'd rather die than be up there by his side, you suddenly realized you were only certain about two things in life instead of three. 

At seventeen, you were confident you and JJ wouldn't be matching for once (after last year, though, you were kind of thinking it wouldn't be that bad of a thing). You'd gone cult classic for your costume, pulling inspiration from your mom's favorite move, 1999's The Mummy, and put together a screen-accurate Evelyn Carnahan in her iconic black dress, including a handmade Book of the Dead and matching key. You blackmailed Mason with pictures of him, drunk as a skunk and dressed in your Janine costume from the previous year, and got him to go as Jonathan, complete with a pith helmet and prop bottle of The Glenlivet.  

But, as always, JJ managed to surprise you. You literally ran right into his chest and if it wasn't for his arms instantly wrapping tight around your waist, you would've bit it hard.

"Whoa, careful there," He said, one hand keeping you close while the other moved to help you hold the book in your arms. "'The Book of the Dead? Are you sure you wanna be messing around with this thing?'"

Of course he'd make the perfect Rick O'Connell, you thought as you playfully raised one eyebrow and curled your fingers around the strap of the gun holster draped over his shoulder. "'It's just a book. No harm ever came from reading a book.'"

Mason was a little too in character as well as he dramatically rolled his eyes and wandered off, muttering "puh-lease" under his breath and shooting Sarah a conspiratorial wink that you didn't see. The blonde girl glanced between the two of you -arms still around each other and identical smiles on your faces- and grinned. The party flew by in a blur of movie quotes, laughs, and more dances than you could count and by the time you made it home, 50 bucks in the pocket of your dress and another group costume win under your belt, you were almost positive you never actually hated JJ Maybank in the first place.

Now at eighteen, you pulled out all the stops for your last party at the Island Club. You'd spent the last few months slaving over your costume, sewing custom pieces, hand-crafting your prop, and spending way too much money on body makeup and a wig but when you saw the final product in the mirror, you knew it was all worth it. You were ready to slay the competition this year and take home first place for the final time.

Mason, indifferent as always about the contest but willing to do anything to keep those pictures from seeing the light of day, didn't protest one bit when you forced him into the matching costume you'd made for him -in typical Mason fashion, he liked that he didn't have to wear a shirt and could show off his muscles- and spent a few hours perfecting his makeup.

You felt on top of the world when you walked into the party that night as Gamora, a replica of her Godslayer sword in hand and skin painted a perfect shade of green, followed by your brother as Drax, already flexing for anyone and everyone looking his way. The rest of your friends came to win as well: John B and Sarah as Flynn Rider and Rapunzel, Kiara as Eleven, Pope as T'Challa, and, of course, JJ as Peter Quill, Baby Groot perched on his shoulder and twin blasters at his hips. 

"Lookin' good, Gamora!" He called over the music, shimmying his way over to you with some dance moves that would impress Star-Lord himself.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Quill." You replied in a sing-song voice, even as you took his outstretched hand and let him pull you into the crowd of bodies hopping up and down to some terrible EDM beat under the twirling disco ball.

"It got you out here with me, didn't it?"

You rolled your eyes and hooked the sword to your belt before stepping closer and draping your arms around his neck, twirling your painted fingers in his hair. "Just remember, 'I know who you are, Peter Quill. And I'm not some starry-eyed waif here to succumb to your pelvic sorcery.'"

You should've known you spoke too soon the second you saw the spark in JJ's eyes that all but screamed 'wanna bet?'

And that's how you found yourself in the middle of the single hottest make out session you'd ever had the pleasure of participating in an hour later: back pressed against the locked door of someone's deserted office, legs wrapped tight around his waist and his hands hooked under your ass, both your sword and his blasters abandoned on the floor at his feet, and he was either a sinfully good kisser or trying really, really hard to blow your mind.  

"I'm not gonna end up green after this, am I?" He mumbled against your mouth before trailing his lips along your jaw and you breathed a laugh, tightening your grip on his hair.

"This is professional makeup, dumbass. It's gonna take more than some kissing to smudge it."

"I'm down for some smudging if you are." 

You pulled him back for another kiss in response and gasped into his mouth when he walked across the room, one strong arm reaching out to sweep whatever was on the desk to the floor before setting you down on it.

"Confident, are we?" 

JJ smirked at your breathless question and the way you hooked your ankles around the backs of his thighs to pull him closer. "So is that a yes to the smudging?"

"Just shut up and kiss me." 

He did -very well, you might add- and you kissed him back, untangling your hands from his hair to slide them under his jacket instead; you helped him push it off his shoulders and it had barely hit the ground along with poor Baby Groot before your fingers were tugging his shirt from the waistband of his pants.  

"Someone's impatient." He teased, leaning back just far enough to let you pull it over his head and toss it somewhere behind you.

"Someone doesn't know how to stop talking." You whispered your reply low in his ear and then trailed your lips down his neck, smiling in satisfaction at the tremble in his voice when you kissed the purple mark you'd left behind earlier.

"N-never was very good at that." 

"'You should've learned.'"

"'I don't learn, it's one of my issues.'"

One of his hands gripped your wig, pulling your head back a little roughly -you'd have so been into that if it had been your real hair he pulled- and you winced at the way the bobby pins holding it it place tugged painfully at your roots. "Ow, not so hard!"

"Wait, what the fuck? I thought you were wearing a wig!" 

"I am but it's still pinned to my actual hair!"

"Sorry, but how the hell was I supposed to know that?"

The sight of JJ's face slowly turning red made the butterflies in your stomach go haywire and so you just shook your head, mumbling "don't worry about it," before pressing your lips to his once again. He was gentler this time with the pulling and you dug your nails into his bare shoulders at the thrill of his mouth against the exposed column of your throat, leaning back further and further until you laid flat on the desk.

His fingers had just unbuttoned your pants when your phone started to ring from your pocket, blaring the Star Wars theme you had set as your twin's ringtone. 

"Mason's timing is impeccable," JJ said sarcastically, chuckling as you clamped a palm over his mouth and answered the call.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Jesus, no need to be pissy!" Mason loudly replied over the applause crackling through the phone's speaker. "I just thought you'd like to know that we just won best group costume with Maybank. Again." 

The blond winked at the mention of his last name and pulled your hand away from his mouth, pinning it to the desk beside you with one of his while the other started tugging your pants down over your hips.

"Oh, that's cool, Mase-" You inhaled sharply when his lips touched the edge of your underwear, so close to where you wanted him most but at the same time so far away, and your fingers held your phone in a white-knuckled grip. "But I-I'm kind of in the middle of doing someone -something!- right now."

"Smooth," JJ said, not even trying to be quiet as he released your pinned hand to finish pulling your boots off, along with your tight leather pants that he casually tossed aside. "And I knew you weren't green under these!" 

Your laugh quickly turned into a gasp when his fingers hooked under your panties and pulled those off, too, and the touch of his tongue against the skin of your inner thigh sent white-hot lightning racing through your veins; the phone slipped from your grip, falling with a clunk onto the desk as your fingers tangled in his hair and he lifted one of your knees over his shoulder.

"Okay, I'm hanging up now! I already know you're getting laid but I don't need to hear it." Mason's loud grumble drifted up through the speaker and if you weren't so preoccupied with the boy between your thighs doing some downright wicked things to you with his mouth, you might've noticed that your brother didn't actually sound that grumpy before he ended the call and your phone's screen went dark, right as you lost control of your voice.

"Fuck me."

"Funny, I thought that's what I was doing?" You felt more than heard his response against you and a shiver ran down your spine when his bright blue eyes flicked up to met yours in the dim light of the office.

"You know what I meant, Maybank."

"Trust me, Y/L/N, I know. Question is: where do you want me?"

You tugged on his hair, grinning wolfishly at the way his eyes fluttered closed and a low moan rose from his throat. "Everywhere in this damn room, starting right here."

"I was hoping you’d say that.”

- Back at the party, Mason looked up and met Sarah's gaze, both of her eyebrows raised expectantly as she asked, "Well?"

He took his time slipping his phone back into his pocket before giving her a quick nod, grinning triumphantly when she immediately burst into gleeful giggles.  

"Yes! I just knew they had a thing for each other! Mortal enemies, my ass."

"I think that was the very first time in my sister's life that she didn't give a shit about the contest." Mason said and reached over to snag a cookie from her plate, chuckling when she pushed his hand away from the chocolate chip ones and toward the peanut butter. "We couldn't have pulled this off without you. I mean, making sure they showed up in matching costumes every year? Genius, Sarah. Absolutely genius." 

The blonde girl grabbed her own cookie with a wink. "Think they'll ever figure it out?"

Your brother just threw his head back and laughed. "I hope not! I wanna save that story for my best man speech at their wedding."

taglist: @sinkbeneathwaves @cordeliascrown @maysbanks @jjpogueprincess @jiaraendgame @alexa-playafricabytoto @sexualparkour @agirlwholovescoffee​ 

[angelicamerlinbarnes]

Albus Dumbledore being an awesome teacher and human being

Bubblegum Bitch - MARINA

(Imma be honest with y’all, it’s mostly just him being a crackhead.)

He tells stories about Grindelwald, about their marriage and their beliefs and their lives together. All of the stories have lessons - sure, a lot of those lessons are about how NOT to make pasta, but they’re still lessons!

He likes to matchmake students using seating charts and certain magical spell assignments. He’s very good at it. I mean, he’s shit at figuring out who likes each other, but he is great at meddling, so Mcgonogall tells him who to mess with and he does as he’s told. They make a great team (and are invited to a lot of weddings). Couples they’ve helped include but are not limited to: Dean and Seamus, Luna and Ginny, Hermione and Harry and Ron, Sirius and Remus, Peter and Maxwell Needles, Peter and Regulus (that was later), Lily and Severus and James, Fred and Lee plus George and Lee, Charlie and Newt (queerplatonic), Leta and Newt (queerplatonic), Harry and Luna (queerplatonic), and Sirius and James and Remus (queerplatonic). They’ve been very busy.

He and Mcgonogall have teatime almost every day. They talk about their students and work on their matchmaking plans. There’s a lot of sass and deadpanning involved. Sometimes they invite Remus, Sirius, and James. (Not Peter. He doesn’t need the same level of torturing that they do.) Bubbles of all shapes and sizes and colors float around the room the whole time. It’s fantastic.

He accepts gossip in exchange for extra credit. He’s a really good secret keeper too, so a lot of students go for it. (It hasn’t broken any friendships. There’s an understanding among the student population that Dumbledore is like Ms. Potts from that Muggle film Beauty and the Beast - well-meaning and trustworthy, but terribly, terribly bored.)

Everything in his classroom is pink. And glittery. And covered in sequins. Once a student asked him why and he just smirked for a solid minute before whispering, “Lemonade.” (As if that makes any fucking sense.)

He once taught class in a full-fledged glittery ballgown that faded from light pink to deep purple. He did not once acknowledge it or act like anything was out of the ordinary. One student raised their hand and asked timidly, “Professor? Why are you wearing a ballgown?” And his brow furrowed as he frowned, looked down at himself, and muttered, “Thought it was a bathrobe.” (Harry does not let him live this one down. His dad is not much help - Severus took many, many pictures.) (Not that it mattered. On Wednesdays Dumbledore wears pink (glittery ballgowns).)

He speaks to kids who have parents, friends, and relatives in prison, whether for being Death Eaters or otherwise. He chaperones visits to Azkaban for them so they can see their loved ones. He casts protective and invisibility charms on them so only the one they’re visiting can see or hear them, and he teaches them Patronuses (with Remus’ help, of course). He often spends these visits on the other side of Grindelwald’s bars, playing wizard’s chess against him. (Sometimes Grindelwald gives him flowers. It always makes Dumbledore smile. There may be no one left in the world who understands why they love each other, but they don’t need to understand it for it to be true.)

He stands at the front of the classroom and makes funny faces during tests and waits to see how long it takes for a student to look up. His latest record is seven minutes.

When he’s teaching Grindelwald’s history, he makes snarky comments about his husband. They range from “I mean really. Who the fuck thought wizards ruling Muggles was a good idea?” (Rest in peace that one student who thought it was a good idea to say, “You did, Professor.”) to “Honestly, that man has no concept of romance. I ask him for a nice night out and he takes me to a Muggle rally about witchcraft and tries to impress me by playing practical magical jokes on the speaker. A toddler could do that.” (He often gets mushy during those stories though, usually trailing off like “But that time he took me to my childhood home for my birthday was sweet… brought me flowers for Ariana’s grave and everything. Sure, he killed her, but… he has a sweet side…” and from there on out he’s basically a lost cause and you might as well go to your next class because he’s not going to stop humming that fucking Elvis song).

He “loses” his glasses all the time by casting an invisibility charm on them and forces his students to search the classroom for them when they’re on his face the whole time. He thinks it’s funny. Harry does not. (But Severus and Mcgonogall do, and that’s really what matters.) (Severus and Mcgonogall and Dumbledore are  a fantastic trio full of snark and sarcasm and shit, I have just decided.)

He makes little animals out of multi-colored magical dust and they fly around the classroom and perch on his favorite students’ heads. Once a dragon fell asleep on Newt’s head and wouldn’t leave even when class was over. Newt had to wait for the magic to wear off so it would disintegrate. (Of course, he had named it by that point and had a meltdown when it disappeared, so Dumbledore recreates the dragon (Robert) every class and just lets Newt coo at it, even during tests.)

He conjured and charmed two giant (I mean Egypt half-animal half-man guard statue size giant) fluffy pink teddy bears that are alive and stand on either side of him like bodyguards during class. A Slytherin student punched one in the stomach once and it vomited enough M&Ms over their head to completely bury them. The student’s partner, a Ravenclaw student, punched the other one in an ill-advised burst of illogical thought and received the same treatment, but in Skittles. (Luckily their Gryffindor aro-ace friend and nonbinary Hufflepuff friend stayed after class and ate until they could move again. Safe to say no one has dared punch the bears again.) (Though I hear they do give very good hugs. And they eat homework if you ask nicely enough!)

He has a bunch of cloaks that act as portals to realms like Merlin’s Celestiums (S.G.E., Soman Chainani). He gives one to each student for tests, and they are transported to their ideal test-taking environments, complete with whatever song they feel like listening to at any given minute playing all around them. Unsurprisingly, his students have the best grades in all of Hogwarts. (He also has a secret cloak that he uses for himself, to see Grindelwald. Grindelwald has his own matching one so he can always make it home for Thursday date night.) (They have been caught. Of course they have. But no one is going to challenge Dumbledore for his right to see his husband, even if he did marry a murderer.) (Sirius and Remus used to steal the cloak for their own dates. And later on James would steal it to take the two of them on friend-dates. Inspired by that, Dumbledore made a special cloak for Mcgonogall that he gifted her on her fiftieth birthday. The smile she gave him then is his favorite of all time.)

He bickers with Fawkes constantly. This often evolves into full-fledged screaming matches with spastic hand gestures, gratuitous spit, and angry hops on both sides. Once Dumbledore drew wand on his “useless babbling bastard of a bird”. No one has bothered to tell Dumbledore that Fawkes probably can’t understand a word of their arguments. (They do evacuate the classroom when these fights start though. The last time they stayed their hair was gone for a week, and when it grew back it was glittery and pink.) (Harry looked especially fantastic. Sirius thought he looked great. He laughed until he was in tears. Harry was not amused.) (Remus was.)

Sometimes he’s absent from class and Mcgonogall teaches them instead. When asked if he’s alright, Mcgonogall simply answers, “My partner is away on personal business for the day. Now, turn to page -” Soon enough people figured out that “personal business” meant “conjugal visit with Genocidal Maniac Husband™ in prison”. They stopped asking.

He gives all of his students the red button test (without knowing what it does, do you press the red button?). Those who pass get automatic A’s and a lollipop. Those who fail get a talking pet pygmy puff. The thing that usually trips people up is that Dumbledore considers the “correct” answer to be pressing the goddamn button. (Seamus is the only one who has ever passed (enthusiastically too!). Newt half-passed because Niffy the Niffler sat on it.) (Sirius and James would have passed too if they had not been the life partners of one Remus Lupin, whose creativity with threats and extensive curse-word vocabulary rivaled Mcgonogall’s even at the tender age of fifteen.)

He has floating war maps just lying around. He plays battleship with his students on them. What he neglects to tell them is that their moves have actual consequences in the world, as the maps are magical and reflect real battles and places. When Harry finds out (he blew up Denmark, completely unawares) he shows up at Dumbledore’s door soaking wet at five-thirty in the morning with a newspaper, his fists clenched, his face red, and his chest heaving. He wouldn’t stop glaring for weeks. (Alas, Dumbledore’s glorious beard has great resistance to fire spells.) (Following an incident involving the original four Marauders in their third year. Shhh… we do not speak of that.)

He has a habit of walking into random classrooms, gesturing for a student to come with him with his finger, and then taking them to his office for teatime. He usually asks them inane questions about a specific theme (fish, pasta strainers, socks, throw pillows, mooses, etc.) for hours until finally dismissing them. It drives Mcgonogall crazy. (She’s yelled at him plenty for “kidnapping students to ask them questions you know you could easily find on that Muggle infer-het thing! They have exams, Albus -” but he just smiles at her while calmly sipping his tea and she always ends up collapsing in the chair across from him with a sigh, taking the tea from his hands and chugging it before wiping her mouth, slamming it down on the desk, and asking, “So. Fish. What’s up with them?” and Albus just beams.)

He spends half of his class lessons babbling on about how Merlin was gay for Arthur and Arthur was gay for Merlin, but not in long tangents. Just a bunch of random comments without context, warning, or explanation. (He mentions “poetry” a lot and waggles his eyebrows for some reason, so… what’s up with that? (Merlin BBC))

He overshares A LOT about his and Grindelwald’s lives. It’s a problem because 90% of the time it’s something sweet or innocent like “Oh, he brought me a tiger lily that bloomed open to show a gold and ruby ring nestled inside on our first anniversary. That’s how he proposed to me” and “He used to hum while he did the housework, you know? He’d stand in the middle of the house and close his eyes and just hum. Almost entire symphonies too, just waving his wand in the air like a conductor” to “This one time in bed he…” and there is NO warning. The amount of things these poor children’s ears have had to endure… (*shakes head in mock disappointment*)

He often cooks during class using wandless magic. The pots and pans heat themselves and float around in the air. Sometimes Dumbledore dances and then they start dancing too. He whistles and creates a base beat for the sizzling, popping, clanging, and other kitchen noises to follow. This usually happens during tests. Oh joy.

He leaves the windows open when it rains, but somehow nothing ever gets wet. Harry and Hermione have a theory that it’s protection charms. (Really it’s a spell Severus made up when he was drunk because he was angry that umbrellas don’t have enough room under them for three, and he’s always been the most self-sacrificial person in his marriage.)

He regularly makes bets with Mcgonogall about the students’ love lives. Not money, but little things the other doesn’t want to do or buy. Dumbledore usually has to handle the Marauders’ detentions or give up one of his teddy bear guards for Mcgonogall’s experimental enjoyments. Mcgonogall has to do something embarrassing or let him borrow one of her glittery hats. They should really stop making bets at this point; the stakes and the winners are dreadfully predictable. He always wins when the bet is on a student’s sexuality or gender and she always wins when the bet is on who a student will end up with. Nonetheless, the bets continue. So too does their grumbling amusement.

He figured out how to make a broom invisible when he and Grindelwald first fell in love, so they could be showy with each other at their Greater Good rallies. They later used it for dates, prison breaks, and daring escapes complete with kisses under the moon. Once Grindelwald went to Azkaban, Dumbledore used it to find some privacy where he could grieve. Now, he uses it to travel around his classroom and Hogwarts and trick everyone into thinking he can fly by sheer will. Only Mcgonogall knows his secret. (And Severus, but Dumbledore doesn’t know that because he told him when he was black out drunk. So.)

He lets pygmy puffs sleep in his beard. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.

He once taught class while teetering on his feet because he had somehow gotten himself tangled in Christmas lights from shoulders to ankles and couldn’t move. (Sirius wandered in and saw this, cried he was laughing so hard, and then warbled his off-key way through as many Christmas carols as he could remember for the rest of class.) (Dumbledore tried to Silencio him but just fell over trying to make the wand movement. He broke his nose. Sirius almost had a panic attack because he couldn’t breathe from how hard he was laughing. By the end of this he had curled up in a fetal position on the floor, Remus was lying down next to him and muttering jokes to him, Mcgonogall was trying to fix Dumbledore’s face, and Severus had taken over the class. Not that they got much done - James was visiting that day. And him, Sirius, and Remus all laughing about the same thing rarely leads to a quiet and calm learning environment.) (They gave him a joint present of rainbow Christmas lights for his birthday - “Happy Gay Day, Professor!” - and he was not amused.) (Grindelwald was though. So was everyone else.)

He tends to mix up holidays in his head and often decorates for the wrong one. He goes all out too. He’s kind of a disaster, and so is his classroom. It became such a problem that the Marauders actually took pity on him and made him a very big calendar with all the holidays marked on it in glitter and fake jewels and flowers. It sits behind his desk and occasionally works.) (Occasionally.)

He’s queerplatonic partners with Mcgonogall. They held a friend-wedding and forced Severus to be the flowergirl. Harry officiated, Remus was Dumbledore’s best man, Sirius was Mcgonogall’s, James wasn’t given a job cause he was crying too much, Lily was in charge of taking care of James, and Peter was the ring bearer (he only lost them TWICE and they were ring pops anyway). Mcgonogall screeches at him a lot and Dumbledore can be depressive and neglectful because he misses Grindelwald but they love each other so it works. (And they’re the prime source of advice for James, Sirius, and Remus regarding their own queerplatonic relationship, for better or for worse.)

He puts his feet up on the desk even though it’s bad for his knees. Mcgonogall told him it’s bad for his knees and he has stubbornly put them up there every class since. (His knees are killing him but he will not give in to “a paranoid, batty old witch who doesn’t know shit about what’s good for me and wouldn’t if she was hit with an Imperio and I told her -” “I’M YOUR FUCKING PARTNER, YOU BLASPHEMOUS ARROGANT BRAT OF AN OLD FART!”)

Instead of walking around his classroom, he struts. (Yes, it worsens his knees.) He does strike poses, he does make obnoxious expressions, and he does look fabulous. WORK! (Yes, that was a Hamilton reference.)

He once taught class without a  face because Mcgonogall cursed him for “fucking up the alphabetical organization of my tea, you old twit. Honestly, Albus, it’s not that hard”. (How did he teach without a mouth, you ask? Easy, he used intermediate BSL (deaf students, plus Azkaban isn’t great on old men’s ears and he and Grindelwald are both gettin’ up there) and Sirius interpreted.) (Incredibly wrongly, crudely, and foul-mouth-ly, but nonetheless he interpreted.)

He has difficulty understanding the straight people in his class. He is fully accepting of everyone and wants the best for all of them, but when it comes to relationship advice, he’s shit.

Excerpt pulled from Pensieve of a conversation he had with a student who identified as female:

Dumbledore: “So your boyfriend is a dick, is what you’re saying?”

Student’s best friend: “Yes. Merlin, he’s such a dick. Would you believe he -”

Dumbledore: *looks at student and points to her best friend* “Why don’t you just date her?”

*cue red faces and sputtering*

(They did not take his advice.)

He wears bowties ALL THE TIME. If he’s not wearing a bowtie, there are bows in his hair and tying the ends of his beard together. Once he wore pigtails. It was great.

He has a habit of bursting into song randomly and performing full-blown Broadway musical numbers (yes, he can rap Guns and Ships at full speed). This usually involves all of the complex moves to be expected in a musical - dramatically climbing up the stairs while looking forlorn, leaping onto the desk and squatting as you launch into a whispered limerick, speedy costume changes - you know, the works. Sometimes Sirius and James back him up, if they’re there. Severus will take over teaching with a bored look on his face (“What are you looking at, Harry?” “Dad, there’s -” “I don’t see anything interesting happening, Harry.” *glares*) while Mcgonogall screeches at Dumbledore to “GET THE FUCK DOWN, YOU NARCISSISTIC HEATHEN!” It’s a problem.

When the Marauders challenge the dress code, Dumbledore is the first Professor to encourage it. While Sirius is perfectly confident in a skirt and Regulus isn’t far behind (neither is Severus, surprisingly), James and Remus are far more insecure. Dumbledore wears a tutu to class one day to show his support, and Remus wouldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day. (James just turned bright red and beamed when Sirius started laughing.) He also backed Lily up when she wore pants (along with Marlene, Dorcas, and Mary) by convincing Mcgonogall to wear pantsuits for a week. (Sirius, despite being a hardcore gay, was quite affected by this. Remus did not appreciate the water spit in his face and refused to kiss Sirius for a week.)

He plays Cecily Smith (Will Connolly) on the ukulele on late nights and stares out at the stars thinking of Grindelwald. Sometimes he forgets to turn off the Sonorus from earlier that day and ends up broadcasting his little song to the whole school. Sirius and Remus will dance to it in the common room while James watches his partners with a happy smile on his face (and Peter sleeps, because he’s tired and doesn’t force himself to stay up simply for the purpose of being cool or finishing that one assignment that isn’t due for another two weeks) (I’m sorry, do you feel called out?).

This man has weed brownies stashed away in his desk and he does eat them during class. He also offered one to Remus once, who is the only student that knows about the stash and tends to use marijuana for medical purposes (helping with anxiety and pain regarding the full moon, courtesy of my beautiful girlfriend who has never read nor seen Harry Potter but nonetheless insists to me that Remus Lupin is a stoner who wears red beanies). This prompted Sirius to ask for one, which Dumbledore refused, but then James joined in and they started a riot by standing on their desks and pumping their fists in the air and screaming, “BROWNIES FOR ALL!” while Remus giggled into his hand and was no help at all, so Dumbledore gave them each a brownie just to shut them up. (Sirius wouldn’t stop rambling about how pretty Remus’ eyes were, James was babbling on about unicorns, Severus was hissing at something no one else could see, Regulus was hissing at the same thing for some reason, Peter was crying because he couldn’t tell the difference between hamsters and gerbils and guinea pigs, and Lily was muttering pi under her breath until she fell asleep.) (Mcgonogall was unimpressed.) (No teatime for eight weeks. Damn.)

Dumbledore cares about all of his students, however little he shows it. He wants them to lead a better life than he did. And maybe fall in love with better people than he did.

[moon-light-jukebox]

“All you have to do is ask.” Chapter 11 - [Reid x Reader]

previous chapter // series index // epilogue

Summary: Spencer and Reader haven’t been able to spend the kind of time together that they’d like to. When they finally have the chance, they’re all to eager to take advantage of it.

Pairing: Spencer Reid / Female Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3.8k for Chapter 11 

Content Warning: Smut. Pure smut. Oral sex (female receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, femdom, pegging, bdsm themes, slapping, spitting, degradation, mild humiliation, the usual for the series. 

A/n: For those of you that don’t want a cheesy epilogue, this is it for our love birds. I just want to thank you all for sticking with me on this massive undertaking. Your messages have meant everything to me.  The epilogue will be out tomorrow. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you. 

-- Chapter 11 - I love you too -- 

The wonderful thing about working with my boyfriend is that even when we were away on cases, we got to spend time together.

It was just never the kind of time I wanted to spend with him. I had told Spencer in the beginning that I had always viewed our BDSM sex scenes as just a part of our sex life. I was fine doing things that weren't in the realm of the dominant and submissive relationship. I wouldn’t trade sleepy morning sex with my boy for anything. And even when we were away on cases, we were still able to do some things.

But, while I'm as sex-positive and progressive as the next person, I just couldn't put a strap on or a butt plug in my go-bag.

We’d only had that one weekend together at my apartment, but I was ready for more.

And I think my boy was too.

--

“Alright, once we touch down in D.C., I need everyone to submit their paperwork for the Wilcox case,” Hotch told us while our plane was fast approaching Virginia. “That case goes to trial next week and the ADA needs to make sure everything is set.”

Morgan scoffed from his place across from Rossi. “I mean, I feel like it’s a pretty open and shut case anyway, Hotch. She all but admitted to it!” Emily was nodding, not looking up from her book. “Plus, the only work they should need is the profile y/l/n came up with.”

I felt Spencer tense beside me; I placed my hand on his thigh in an attempt to calm him. “It was a pretty solid profile, Morgan,” I said easily.

Morgan’s eyes kept jumping back and forth between me and Reid, a smirk turning his lips up. “I just wanna know, in this little relationship, who is calling who ‘Daddy’?”

I could feel Spencer flush beside me, but I maintained my composure. "I don't think either of us has called the other Daddy, have we, Spence?" I looked over at him, quirking one of my brows. Come on, baby. Don’t take his bait.

My boy cleared his throat. “N-not that I remember.”

I nodded, my gaze never wavering from his. “If you want me to call you daddy, just ask.” I shot him a wink before I turned around to face the rest of the team.

Rossi and Emily looked equally amused, JJ looked horrified, Hotch looked like he had never experienced any sort of human emotion. Morgan looked like it was his birthday. "Na-uh. In Nebraska, you said men have called you daddy.” He pointed his finger at me, then gestured back and forth between Spencer and I. “So, how bout it, Pretty Boy? Have you called y/l/n Daddy?”

I should have learned to never underestimate Spencer Reid.

“She hasn’t asked me to call her daddy, but I would,” he said simply. “She prefers Ma’am, though.”

A choked laugh bubbled out of my mouth a few moments before a roar erupted from the rest of the team.

I was smiling so wide I was worried my face would split in half when I felt Spencer’s fingers lace through mine.

--

I was still laughing when I unlocked the door to my apartment later that night. “I will never forget the look on Morgan’s face for as long as I live.”

My boy chuckled behind me. “I have to admit, I’m pretty proud of that one.” He shut and locked the door after we walked inside, dropping his bag right beside mine. “At least he has stopped asking me if I’m a virgin.”

Turning, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders while his hands settled on my hips. “There isn’t a part of you that’s a virgin, Spencer Reid. I’ve seen to that.” His smile delighted me to my core. “Why did you say ‘ma’am’?”

He laughed softly. “I love Morgan like he’s my brother, but if I heard him call you Miss, I might try to fight him.” I pressed a kiss to my forehead when I laughed. “He’d kick my ass, but I’ve had my ass kicked before.”

I stood on my tiptoes, bringing my lips to his in a soft kiss. “I love you; you know?”

“I had a feeling.”

I scoffed, pulling away. “You’re still a brat.”

He just nodded in acknowledgment. "Can I ask you a question?"

I turned around from my place in front of the fridge, giving him an eye roll. “Shoot, Pretty Boy.”

Spencer fidgeted slightly. “Was that true? What you told Morgan? Has someone called you daddy before?”

"Oh, yeah, once," I confirmed with a laugh. "I mean, sometimes I break during sex scenes because sex is objectively funny. But…to this day, I have never broken out of my dom mode faster.”

Spencer walked into the kitchen, accepting a bottle of water from me. “So, it wasn’t planned?”

I snorted. “No, not at all. I was pegging him, and I said…something, I don’t even remember. But he just moaned out, in this very high-pitched voice, ‘daaaaaaddddyyyy’.” I was laughing in earnest now. “I don’t have a problem with daddy kinks, at all. I wouldn’t even mind if someone wanted to call me daddy. It was just unexpected. And I was still a baby dom. I didn’t know what to expect yet.”

Spencer regarded me thoughtfully. “I’d call you daddy.”

“You would?” I grinned at him while I moved to stand in front of him. “Well, I appreciate that, my love. But, right now, I just want you to call me Miss.”

His breath caught. “N-now?”

I nodded. “If you want. Or, we can wait til tomorrow. But I’m going to fuck you, Dr. Reid.”

I heard the whimper leave his throat. “Can it be now?”

“Needy boy,” I murmured. “Go into my bedroom. Take off all your clothes and kneel by the left side of my bed. You’re not to look at me until I tell you.”

Spencer scrambled to my bedroom, much to my amusement. I took my time putting the water bottles away, thumbing through my mail on the counter.

I wanted him squirming by the time I got in there. I started undoing the buttons of my shirt while I made my way down the hallway, but not before I stopped to get something out of my bag.

Such a good boy, I thought when I saw him. His clothes were put neatly on the chair, his eyes were downcast, his palms resting on his thighs. I made no move to acknowledge him; instead, I went to the chest at the foot of my bed. I could feel the tension radiating off of him, but his eyes stayed on the floor.  

I removed my pants, leaving me in just my bra and panties before I went to stand in front of him. “Look at me, Dr. Reid.”

His eyes moved up my body slowly, and I reveled in the groan I heard. I may have been expecting this, so I wore my favorite underwear set. They were black and lacy; the panties hugged my hips low, and the bra made my tits look fantastic. I reached out to brush my fingers through his hair. “Do you like how I look, Dr. Reid?”

"Yes, Miss."

I tugged on his hair slightly, pulling a whimper from him. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you, Dr. Reid?”

“No Miss,” he muttered, licking his lips.

“First, I’m going to make you lay on my bed while I put my pussy on your face.” My fingers continued to scratch along his scalp. “And if you eat my pussy well enough, I’m going to fuck you. And if you make me cum, then I’m going to have you on your hands and knees for me.”

His eyes were wide, his pupils blown with lust.

“Lay on the center of the bed, Dr. Reid.” He moved so quickly I’m surprised he didn’t fall over.

I got on the bed more leisurely, straddling his stomach before I started to drag my center up his body. Spencer had been hard since the moment he looked at me, but I wanted him to be a desperate, whimpering mess.

“Miss,” he murmured. “Your-your panties are…”

Slap.

“Did I tell you to speak, Dr. Reid?” My hand stung with the force of the impact. “You’re my little fuck toy, do you understand? You only do what I tell you to.” I pinched his face in my hand. “You haven’t earned my pussy. So,” I mumbled, leaning over him, bringing my face above his. “You’re going to use that pretty mouth of yours to lick me through my panties. Assuming you can do that right, and I get wet enough, I might let you really taste me.”

He nodded frantically. “Open.” I spit into his mouth, he swallowed it instantly. “You’re very dirty Dr. Reid.” With that, I brought my body all the way up. My hands gripped the headboard while I lowered my panty covered pussy to his mouth.

His first lick was hesitant, his tongue running over the lace softly. “This isn’t going to get you anywhere Dr. Reid.” I let out a sigh, moving my hips off his face. “Do you want to eat my pussy?”

“More than anything,” he moaned.

“Then fucking act like it.” I lowered over his face again and to my delight, his response was immediate. He sucked the lace into his mouth, wetting it before he released it. His tongue massaged against the fabric, rubbing directly against my clit. I let out a breathy moan. Always the quick study.

My hips were shamelessly rocking against him, I could feel his frustrated groans against my panties. “What’s wrong, Dr. Reid? Do you want something?” Come on nervous boy, beg me.

“Please,” he breathed in a broken plea. “Please let me taste you, Miss. I need it.”

I pretended to consider him for a moment before I moved off of his body. His cock was hard against his pelvis, the head weeping with precum. His fists were balled up at his sides; his entire body was tense. Slowly, I hooked my thumbs in my panties, pulling them down.

“Is this what you want, Dr. Reid?” I said, running my fingers over my drenched lips.

"Yes, Miss. Please.”

Grabbing the headboard, I swung my leg over his head again, bringing my pussy just above his mouth. “Since you asked so nicely.”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than Spencer attacked my pussy. His mouth felt like it was everywhere all at once. I felt his tongue spear into me before it circled my clit. He opened his mouth and covered my entire pussy, sucking softly, causing my hips to buck.

“Fuck,” I moaned, grinding against his mouth. Your mouth is a fucking treasure, baby.

Very reluctantly, I pulled off of him when I felt my orgasm approaching. His head lifted up off of the bed, trying to follow me. I smiled down at him. “As much as I love that pretty mouth, I want to cum all over your cock, Dr. Reid.”

I moved off the bed to the chest again. This time I grabbed 3 different things. I tossed the first two on the bed while I kept the other in my hand. “Do you know what these are, Dr. Reid?”

He nodded, biting his lip.

“Put your arms up.” He put his arms against the bars of my headboard, moaning softly when my handcuffs clicked in place. I moved down his body, pressing a kiss to his mouth, tasting myself on him. “Now, just think about how hard that pretty cock is going to get every time you see those at work.”

Spencer whimpered loudly. “Those are your w-work ones?”

I nodded, grabbing the butt plug and the lube before I settled between his thighs. “That they are, Dr. Reid. And I have to say, they look very nice on you.”

His teeth dug into his bottom lip when I pushed his legs up and apart. “We’ve talked about this, baby,” I reminded him, giving his thigh a sharp slap. “I’m going to have you face down in this bed while I fuck you. Don’t be embarrassed now.”

Once it was coated in lube, I started pressing the plug into him. It was slightly larger than the one we had used previously, and that’s because I wanted to use a bigger cock. I smirked at him when he groaned while I started fucking the plug into him. Pushing inside a bit before pulling back out.

I leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his inner thigh. My teeth bit down on that skin right when the butt plug was seated inside of him. He let out a strangled moan, his back arching up. ‘Fuck, Miss. Fuck.”

My tongue flicked over the bite mark, soothing the skin. “That’s the plan, Dr. Reid.”

I moved my body over his, lining up my drenched pussy above his cock. My eyes were on his face when I slowly began to lower myself onto him. We’d never had traditional sex while he had a butt plug in; and I was very excited to see how my boy reacted.

My pelvis met his hips when he bottomed out inside me, my hands braced on his chest. “Fuck, baby. You have such a nice cock.” I started to rock against him slowly. “Such a nice cock on my little fuck toy, isn’t that right?”

“Yes Miss,” he breathed out, his eyes shut tight. “Miss, you feel so good. I…I’m close…”

Slap.

“No.” My voice was hard as his eyes snapped open. “Fuck toys like you don’t get to cum until their miss says so, is that clear, Dr. Reid?” I rose up, sliding up and down his cock, my fingers ghosting down my stomach until they found my clit. My other hand tugged the cups of my bra down. “You may have other people out there convinced that you’re not a dirty, needy, little thing. But I know better.”

My fingers sped up against my flesh, my other fingers pinching and rolling my nipple, as I sought out my pleasure.

“You’re nothing but a needy fucking slut, isn’t that right, Dr. Reid?”

His words were strangled, his eyes fixed on my pussy taking his cock. "Yes, Miss. Fuck, Miss.”

“Good boy,” I said softly. “Such a dirty fucking boy. Now, hold still while I cum all over you. Can you do that, Dr. Reid? Can you be my good boy?”

Spencer’s head was thrashing on the pillows when my pussy finally clamped down around him. I threw my head back, my vision going white. “Fuck!” I worked my hips desperately against him, seeking every ounce of my pleasure.

Once I came back down, I collapsed against him, pressing open mouth kisses against him. His teeth caught my lip, tugging me to him while his tongue slicked over my own.

“Such a good boy,” I mumbled against his mouth. I reached out to grab the keys to my cuffs, releasing him. I inspected both of his wrists, kissing the indentations softly. “Now, I want you to turn over for me. Can you do that, Dr. Reid?”

I knew he was still uncomfortable; things were still new to him. It’s always your choice, baby.

My darling boy just nodded. “Yes Miss, I’ll do anything for you.”

And I you, Spencer Reid.

Moving off the bed, I returned to the chest, picking up my harness before I selected the 8-inch dildo attachment. I looked back up on the bed, taking in the mess I had made of Spencer Reid. His ass was in the air, the base of the plug clearly visible. His cock hung heavy between his legs. His fingers were gripping my sheets tightly.

“Normally,” I said, moving behind his hips. “I’d want you to suck my cock before I fucked this tight little ass.” I slowly started to pull the plug out. “But, since you were such a good little toy, I think you’ve earned this.”

Spencer moaned loudly. “Thank you, Miss.”

I couldn’t control my smirk. You’re a natural at this, my darling boy.

Lining my dildo up against his asshole, I slowly started to pitch my hips forward, one hand on his ass, the other at the base of my ‘cock’. “Look at how well you take cock, Dr. Reid. You’re just pulling me in. Such a filthy fucking boy.”

I started a slow rhythm, still not having entered him fully yet. “Fucking- fuck, Miss. Please!”

“Please what, baby?”

He groaned, partially in embarrassment, partially in desperation. "Please fuck my ass, Miss. I need you to fuck me, please.”

“All you have to do is ask, Dr. Reid.” My hips thrust forward, my pelvis meeting his ass. “Such a pretty fucking boy.”

I started to move in and out of him, my eyes fixed on how he was taking the dildo. “It’s a shame that you’ve never had a real cock fuck you, Dr. Reid. You look so fucking pretty like this.” My motions sped up. “But, you’re my pretty boy now.”

When he didn’t respond, I reached out and grabbed his hair, pulling harshly. “Isn’t that right Dr. Reid?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Miss. Fuck. I-I,” his voice was pleading. “Miss, please.”

I kept my grip on his hair, my hips now pounding into him. “Touch your cock for me, pretty boy. Jerk your pretty cock off while I fuck your tight little ass.”

His right hand moved down to fist around himself. His upper body was only supported by his left arm and my hand in his hair. “There’s my good boy,” I praised, keeping my pace up. “I like fucking you like this, Dr. Reid. The only problem is, I can’t be the one to make that nice, pretty cock cum. So, I think tomorrow I’ll have you bounce on my cock again.”

Spencer was moaning loudly now. “Miss, I’m going to cum.”

"Cum for me, Dr. Reid." I pressed a kiss against his back, a moment of gentleness in such a rough, beautiful act.

His face dropped down into my pillow and he screamed. Spencer Reid screamed while I pounded into his ass, his hand jerking his cock quickly, cumming all over my bedsheets.  

He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I worked myself out of him, still giving a few pumps to help prolong his pleasure. When I was sure he had come down completely, I pressed another kiss to his back. "You did so well, Spencer."

I hopped off the bed, unhooking my harness and hustling to the bathroom. I returned with a wet rag and some ointment for his wrists. Spencer had all but collapsed on the bed.

“You did so, so well, Spencer,” I praised, wiping the lube from him. “Can you turn over for me?”

With a groan, he flipped his body over slowly, his eyes glassy but focused. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

I smiled at him, pulling his wrists into my lap. “I didn’t have the cuffs on tight, but you kept pulling,” I teased.

Spencer just smiled; his expression blissful. “I love you so much.”

His soft words made emotion rise up in my throat. “Not half as much as I love you, Spencer Reid.” I pressed a kiss to his sweaty brow. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I feel…I feel fine, it’s not like last time but I-I still feel like I need to be near you.”

“Good,” I said pressing a soft kiss to his lips this time. “Because I always want to be near you.”

I hopped off the bed, reaching my arms for him. “Can you come shower with me? I got you very dirty.”

He chuckled tiredly but let me pull him into the bathroom.

I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to get warm before I got inside, tugging Spencer in after me. We stood under the spray together, arms wrapped around each other for several long moments. He needed to be with me just as much as I needed to be with him.

I almost felt guilty for how happy I was in that moment. How could one person feel this? What have I done to earn having this miraculous man in my life?

“You’re wrong, you know,” my boy mumbled against my hair.

“Beg your pardon?” I said, pulling back to squint at him.

Spencer was smiling at me. Really smiling. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, happiness radiating from him. "You said I didn't love you half as much as you love me. That's simply untrue," his voice was grave, with just a hint of teasing.

I poked his side. “This isn’t a fight you’re gonna win, Doc.” Pulling away from him, I reached for my shampoo. I squirted some into my hands before I passed it to him. “You should just start leaving stuff here,” I said, giggling when he put some of my citrus shampoo into his hand.

“I don’t mind. I like smelling like you.”

My laugh was cut short when I lifted my arms. I hadn’t realized how stiff my shoulder was until I reached up to begin washing my own hair.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked, having seen the grimace on my face.

“Yeah, Doc. I’m just a little sore.”

Spencer frowned. “Turn around,” he instructed. I obeyed his request with a roll of my eyes, surprised when I felt his fingers on my scalp.

“Are you washing my hair, Spencer Reid?”

He made a noise of affirmation before he reached for the shampoo again. “I’ve never washed anybody else hair before,” he said softly. “Let me know if I mess up.”

My heart squeezed while his fingers massaged my scalp. “Impossible, Doc.” I felt his lips press against the back of my neck a few moments later, signaling that he was done. Once I opened my eyes again after rinsing my hair, I saw my boy’s eyes clouded in sadness while he stared at me.

I didn’t have a chance to ask before he made his thoughts clear. His hand lifted to my chest, his fingers pressing against my collarbone, tracing the shiny new skin of my scar. “The moment you got this was the worst of my entire life,” he whispered, his fingers ghosting over the raised skin. He pulled me to him, engulfing me in a hug that only he could give. “I was so afraid to lose you…but I didn’t think you were ever really mine to begin with.”

I felt tears prick in the corners of my eyes, causing me to hold him to me tighter. “I think I’ve always been yours, Spencer.”

He chuckled, pulling away to look down at my face. “Then why did you make me wait so long to have you?”

“You should have asked me before Nebraska,” I teased.

Spencer’s hands came up to cradle my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheeks. “Now that I have you, I hope you know I’m never letting you go again. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Forever and ever, my darling, nervous boy. You wonderful, wonderful man.

--

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[anthonyjlockwood]

rebuke and 24 for the touching prompt!!

Thank you for the prompt anon!! here it is on ao3! 💜

rebuke + 24 ( “whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin” )

Being with Bobby and Reggie is one of the easiest things in the world.

Bobby likes to tell Luke that he and Reggie bring something unique into his life. He makes it a point to say so-- he always says they bring something so special, and so, so stupid.

Luke takes that as a compliment, really. There’s no better way to let someone know you love them-- to make sure they know that their life would be dull without you-- than to keep things unique and interesting.

Sometimes, he and Reggie like to play this game, one that they secretly like to call “Let’s See Who Can Annoy Bobby The Most”.

They have to do it carefully, subtly, or else Bobby would put a stop to it. And there’s just something about taking turns with Reggie, asking Bobby one stupid, nonsensical, distracting question after another, that just makes his insides feel all warm and fluttery.

Sometimes one of them-- usually Reggie-- just has to say something. There’s no planning involved, no game prep… no brainstorming of the dumb questions that might really get under Bobby’s skin. It’s always something unprovoked, but their goal is usually to make Bobby wish he could just go to sleep for a few days and not have to speak to them for the foreseeable future.

That’s when they bounce back, together, and rally around Bobby to show him why, exactly, he’s put up with them for so long.

(There’s usually a lot of kissing involved in that part.)

Reggie’s really good at coming up with those random topics that will push Bobby’s buttons the most. Most of the time, it’s a question that Bobby won’t know how to answer. Something like…

“Do you think if birds had teeth, they’d have reasons to smile?”

“Alright Reggie, that’s it,” Bobby snaps.

Luke and Reggie exchange a brief grin in victory before Reggie regains the composure to look properly chastised.

“What?” he asks innocently, eyelashes fluttering like a startled butterfly.

“I can’t deal with you two anymore!”

Bobby lets out a slow breath through his nostrils, like a dragon at bedtime who’s had a rough day.

“Let’s play a game. Whichever one of you can shut up the longest gets all the money I have in my wallet.”

But… they are playing a game. A game Luke is very much enjoying. And although the whole “winning money” aspect of Bobby’s game is tempting, the concept of no longer being able to verbally annoy Bobby is enough to have Luke flinching back in displeased alarm. “Bobby--”

“Here, look!” Bobby pulls his wallet out of his pocket and slaps it on the table, letting it flop open. Luke can see a few singles peeking out from inside the pocket. “I have... “ Bobby pauses, flipping through the bills and dumping the change out from a smaller, zippered pocket on the outside.

“I have four dollars and… eighty-three cents,” Bobby deduces. “Whoever can stay quiet the longest gets it. I will literally pay you.”

“But it’s a good question!” Reggie argues. “Birds seem like they’re really happy, singing all the time. I think they’d want to smile, if they could. Don’t you?”

“I don’t... really care,” Bobby says. “And I don’t know why you do!”

“Because--”

But Bobby doesn’t want to hear it. “Time starts now.”

Reggie wilts like a dehydrated hydrangea, but Bobby doesn’t keep his eyes on the bassist to see the hurt expression blossom on his face.

He looks over at Luke instead, who made it a point not to speak during the whole bird debacle-- the key to the Annoy Bobby game is to do it discreetly, one at a time, so that when Bobby thinks he can go to one of them for refuge, he discovers there’s none to be found.

Luke bites his lip, bouncing so fast he’s practically vibrating.

Bobby doesn’t even look away from him to roll his eyes. “If you really can’t not say something, write it down. I just don’t want to hear you speak! Those privileges have been revoked.”

Luke’s mildly offended; he wasn’t the one to ask the stupid question about birds-- his was going to be about armadillos, actually-- so he doesn’t see why he has to be subjected to the whole “vow of silence” thing. It’s not fair.

With a determined glare, Luke reaches over and grabs his notebook and a pen. He scribbles down something quickly and whips the page around to face Bobby.

I didn’t even do anything!!!

“I don’t care,” Bobby says again. “Reggie’s ruined it for both of you. Like I said, speaking privileges revoked.”

Luke puts on an impressive pout that, on another day, might have persuaded Bobby into being a little bit more lenient.

But today wasn’t a normal day-- Bobby has a headache, and he always gets grumpy when he gets headaches. He always says that the pounding in his head is only slightly less painful than “whatever bullshit” Luke and Reggie put him through.

Normally, Luke would be unbothered. He knows that he and Reggie give Bobby a run for his money sometimes… but that’s all part of the fun. The fun that Bobby shouldn’t get a break from just because he’s not feeling well-- pro athletes play games all the time when they’re sick.

And Luke knows that he and Reggie never really offend Bobby, anyway. He can grumble and groan all he wants; but at the end of the day, Luke knows the other boy would be miserable without him and Reggie.

He doesn’t really want to play Bobby’s game, but… now four dollars and eighty-three cents is on the line. Reggie will probably cave first, anyway; then the two of them can reform their alliance. Maybe they’d even split Luke’s winnings for burgers or something.

Luke keeps pouting at him, and eventually Bobby melts a little under his gaze. “I’m… sorry. I just need a few minutes of quiet, okay? I want to see if I can take a nap or something.”

Luke pulls the notebook back and scribbles something else.

Why am I being punished for Reggie’s dumbassery, anyway? TOTALLY UNFAIR.

“You’re being punished because I know you were about to say some stupid shit like…” Bobby clears his throat and puts on his best Luke voice. “‘Reggie’s got a point, you know.’ And I just really don’t want to deal with that right now. I think I want to try to take a nap or at least rest a bit-- so please, please, just be quiet. I don’t care what you do-- just… don’t make any noise. Okay?”

Luke slumps deeper into the couch and crosses his arms, like the petulant child he is.

Oh well.

It’s time to commence Operation Annoy Bobby: Silent Edition.

~

The thing is, Luke knows that Bobby would be nothing without him and Reggie.

They’ve been friends for as long as Luke can remember. And since they started dating eight months ago, not much has changed. They’re still best friends-- friends who can goof off around each other, tell dumb jokes, play music… except now, they also kiss. A lot.

He’s been getting comfortable being with Bobby and Reggie in a new way, sharing a deeper bond than just the best-friendship and family-like one they had before.

The best part of the kissing is that no matter what Luke does-- no matter how much he makes fun of Bobby for being the “mom friend,” no matter how much food he steals off the other boy’s plate… no matter how agitated Bobby is with him, the problem can always be solved by pressing his lips against Bobby’s.

Because as much as Bobby wants to say he’s “the only one looking out for Luke’s and Reggie’s well-beings”... he’s pretty easily distracted.

Luke scoffs to himself-- quietly, because Bobby’s still on the warpath and wants Luke to be silent. Okay.

He can make Bobby forget all about the headache and Reggie’s dumb question about birds. Bobby needs it, really; he needs the distraction. Luke would be doing him a favor.

Only… how can he distract Bobby when anything that comes out of his mouth will make Bobby angry?

He straightens himself up on the couch and risks a sideways glance at Bobby. His boyfriend is sitting on the couch to his left, leaning back against the cushions, hands covering his face.

“Psst,” Luke tries.

Bobby doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Pssssssst,” Luke reaches out and pokes Bobby’s bicep delicately.

“You’re on thin fucking ice, Luke,” Bobby grumbles, not taking his hands away from his face.

Oh, so that’s how this is going to be?

Luke looks to Reggie, appalled, and his other boyfriend looks just as disgruntled that Bobby was really serious about not dealing with them. He pulls out his phone and taps a few keys, then Luke’s own phone buzzes in his pocket.

Do you think we should just leave him alone?

Nah, Luke replies. I’ve got this. He’ll stop ignoring us in no time!

Quietly, he places his phone down on the end table. He catches Reggie’s eye again, and nods towards the door.

Carefully, so he doesn’t wake Bobby up if he is sleeping-- he’s not opposed, he just needs to have a solid plan first-- Luke untangles himself out of Bobby’s lap and steps quietly out of the room, Reggie following on his heels.

“What’re we gonna do? Bobby looks like he’s not feeling well… but I want to talk,” Reggie complains. “It’s so… scarily quiet in there. Can’t we just grab him some painkillers and a glass of water or something so he’ll feel better?”

“He’ll be fine,” Luke assures him. “We’ll be his painkillers. This is what we’re gonna do.”

Reggie perks up in interest; he’s always down to join in on one of Luke’s plans, as poorly thought out as some may be. Luke grins mischievously.

“So, Bobby doesn’t want us to talk, right?”

Reggie nods.

“So what we’ve gotta do is, make him want to talk to us.”

“How’re we gonna do that?” Reggie worries. “If we say anything, neither one of us will win the money! Unless… you wanna call a truce? Give up the bet, because the real enemy is Bobby ignoring us?”

“Nah, we’re still getting the money,” Luke promises. “We’ll even split it. $2.41 each?”

“Did you just do that math in your head?!”

“Yes,” Luke waves him off impatiently. “This is important, Reginald. We need to know exactly what’s at stake!”

“So you wanna risk Bobby’s wrath? For $2.41?”

“Bobby’s gotta learn that we’re worth much more than $2.41,” Luke says solemnly. “We’re going to make him wish he never told us to be quiet in the first place.”

“Okay…” Reggie’s face relaxes slightly, and Luke’s grin widens.

“Follow my lead.”

He leads Reggie back into the room and collapses on the sofa, shuffling himself right up against Bobby’s side. Bobby opens one eye and peers down at him, unimpressed.

“Luke. I’m trying to rest.”

Like a housecat, Luke rearranges himself precariously around Bobby’s slumped figure until he’s on his lap. He leans forward to whisper in Bobby’s ear, but Bobby pushes him away gently.

“You’re not supposed to be talking, remember?” Bobby grumbles. “Do you want Reggie to win the $4.83?”

Luke pokes him again, so that Bobby will back at him, and mouths, “I’m not talking!”

“Can’t I just take a nap in peace?” Bobby complains.

Luke curls his body around Bobby’s and leans forward, really close, until his lips are just brushing the sensitive skin of Bobby’s earlobe.

Bobby shudders at the proximity, and Luke smirks, victorious. He leans even closer and whispers, “I don’t want Reggie to win the money, but I wanted to tell you… you look really hot.” He takes a deep breath and adjusts himself more comfortably on Bobby’s lap.

“Reggie doesn’t have to know I’m cheating a little, does he?” Luke continues, feeling Bobby squirm underneath him. “You don’t need sleep anyway, Bobby.”

“You’re so fucking annoying, Luke. Come here.”

Suddenly Luke feels himself being pulled forward-- then Bobby’s lips are on his with no warning, rough and unforgiving.

A kaleidoscope of color bursts beneath Luke’s clenched eyelids. He can see movement happening around him, he can feel Bobby’s hands running through his hair, but all that is lost in the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears.

His and Bobby’s kisses are always like this-- passionate and loud and rough, so that they can get it all out of their systems before turning to Reggie.

Reggie likes things slower; Bobby and Luke were built for speed. Luke can hear Reggie’s breathing, too; shaky and uneven as he, presumably, watches Luke and Bobby go at it from across the living room.

Bobby goes to pull away-- he’s coming up for air, or going to get Reggie, or maybe he’s just finally tired of Luke’s distracting bullshit and actually wants to take a nap… How that could possibly happen now, Luke doesn’t know.

But regardless, Bobby goes to pull away, and Luke’s not having it. He pulls him back by the collar of his shirt and deepens the kiss, feeling the soft fabric of his t-shirt under his hands, his fingers getting caught up in Bobby’s chain necklace.

Bobby’s exhale is hot and humid against Luke’s face. He can taste the coffee Bobby had to drink earlier in the day-- the caffeine that was surely powering him through his headache, giving him the energy to kiss Luke back as hungrily as he is.

“You’re the fucking worst,” Bobby’s voice is muffled against Luke’s mouth, and Luke swallows up the complaint in another kiss.

Time gets lost; Luke doesn’t know how long he and Bobby spend engaged in a battle of the faces,but eventually Bobby pulls away and runs a hand down his face.

“I think you lost the bet,” he pants, brushing the hair back from his face and looking at Luke with wide eyes. “The $4.83 is Reggie’s. You talked.”

“Oh, please!” Luke scoffs. “I didn’t hear you complaining thirty seconds ago.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. Luke grabs the back of his neck and pulls his face close once again, so he can whisper in his ear one more time.

“In fact, thirty seconds ago you seemed very interested in what I had to say. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you missed hearing me talk.”

“I think you’re talking way too much right now.”

Luke leans forward; his mouth turns up in a flirtatious smirk. “Looks like you’re just gonna have to shut me up again.”

This kiss starts off slower. Bobby presses his mouth against Luke’s once again, but this time he lingers there, inhaling Luke’s scent and relishing the feeling of Luke’s soft lips against his. Luke lets out a sigh of contentment and deepens the kiss, arms snaking their way around Bobby’s neck and pulling him closer.

They’re interrupted by someone loudly clearing his throat. Luke pulls away from Bobby and looks up at Reggie, who’s standing in the doorway. He stares at them curiously, his gaze alternating between Luke and Bobby.

“Guys… what’s going-- oh, shit! The bet!”

Reggie clamps his hand over his mouth. His deer-in-the-headlights eyes flick back over to Bobby and settle there, waiting for the verdict that’s going to cost him the $4.83.

“Fuck the bet,” Bobby grunts. “Get over here.”

Once Reggie’s close enough to the couch, Bobby reels him in like a lake trout and presses their lips together. Reggie swallows him up, and Luke watches their mouths battle with each other for a moment, transfixed. He’s still trying to get his breathing back to normal; his face tingles with a burning sensation and he can feel the sticky dampness of sweat on his brow.

Bobby’s lips trace a path down Reggie’s neck; he closes his eyes in contentment and the sight of it sends the blood pumping through Luke’s veins once again. He reaches out to brush Reggie’s hair back.

Reggie startles at the sensation of Luke’s hand brushing his face. He swings his arms around Luke’s neck and Luke feels himself being pulled into the warmth of Reggie’s space. Then the bassist’s lips are on his.

The air’s knocked right out of his lungs. Reggie’s kisses are different from Bobby’s. They’re softer and more subtle, but warmer all the same, and the sensation of being loved overtakes Luke’s mind and heart and has him returning the kiss with a gentle vengeance.

Luke doesn’t know how much time passes as they sit there, exploring each other’s bodies with hands and lips, and he doesn’t know when the static in his ears starts to alleviate. But eventually, they work themselves out of the moment and just lay there, tangled up on the couch. No one speaking, just enjoying being in each other’s presence. Finally, as is his way, Reggie breaks the silence first. He looks up at Bobby with wide, innocent eyes.

“Since I’m the one that caught you and Luke making out, does that mean I technically won the bet?”

“I told you,” Bobby grunts. “Fuck the bet.” “What’s that, Bobby?” Luke smirks. “Did you not enjoy not having to listen to us talk for a while?”

Bobby opens his mouth, probably about to tell Luke once again how annoying he thinks he is-- Luke’s used to it; that doesn’t mean he thinks Bobby means it, though. He’s just proven that he wouldn’t last one day without Luke. But Reggie beats him to it.

“Hey, hey, I think Luke lost!”

“You have no proof of that!” Luke argues.

“Um, the way I walked in on you guys performing CPR on each other begs to differ!”

“Okay, okay, enough,” Bobby placates, like they’re two children arguing over the swirly slide on a playground. “I think we can come to some sort of compromise.”

“Oh yeah?” Luke shoots back. “What sort of compromise is that?”

“You guys can split the $4.83…” Bobby pauses for dramatic effect, looking between Luke and Reggie with an arrogant smirk on his face-- one Luke immediately distrusts, but one that sends a jolt of anticipation deep into the pit of his stomach regardless. “And next time I think you’re talking too much, I’ll just have to shut you up myself. Deal?”

And as much as Luke hates the quiet… he’s not opposed to Bobby being the one to shut him up.

Maybe they can work something out.

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (3/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 9K and change, but also stuff happens AN: I cannot tell you guys how much I appreciate you continuing to appreciate this story. It’s exceptionally nice, and I think you’re wonderful. Here’s a whole slew of feelings and tradition and magic. Like, lots of magic. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

This is a problem. 

Multiple problems, honestly. Like, at least seven different problems that Emma can think of off the top of her head, and obviously the most pressing is getting back to the right part of her timeline, but only marginally less distressing is the overall domesticity of her life at this point of her timeline. 

It’s more than the pillows. Of which there are just an absolutely ridiculous amount, actually. They hover in couch corners and fall to the floor with alarming regularity because, between the two of them, Hope and Lucy are something akin to forces of nature, hopped up on Christmas-type sugar and the cookies that people apparently just hand out on the street in Storybrooke. Someone’s always got some sort of baked good, freshly out of the oven — and while Emma’s discovered she’s particularly partial to Granny’s snickerdoodles, she can’t imagine any of this is very efficient. 

For Storybrooke’s economy, or whatever. 

There’s no bank. Emma looked. And asked. Several dwarfs, actually. All of whom immediately bowed and narrowed their eyes at her like she’d totally lost her mind, which seems pretty accurate at this point. Five days after waking up on that couch, with all of its pillows and questionable comfort, and only a handful of people actually know what’s going on. 

Not Hope. 

And no one actually told her to do that, but Emma figures it’s kind of like deciding to take her boots off in the house. Polite. Plus, a growing determination not to traumatize a ridiculously cute four-year-old, even when that four-year-old appears to be far more adept at stealing cookies than anything else. 

Crumbs line the counter in the morning, and there’s usually a bit of evidence directly outside Hope’s bedroom door, signs of a late-night theft that shouldn’t make Emma smile. She does anyway. Can’t seem to stop it, which might be problem number four. Three is definitely Killian’s consistent lack of jacket, which admittedly is a very surface problem, but the button-up shirts are all ridiculously patterned, and trying not to ask who initially took him shopping is like, problem, three sub-a. 

So, no one tells Hope that her mom isn’t her mom. Technically speaking, at least. They go through the motions, and Emma smiles when she’s supposed to, and she eats what is undoubtedly the world record for snickerdoodle consumption by a wayward princess, but trying to be herself, while also not being herself continues to be a rather daunting prospect. 

Particularly because whomever Regina believed would know more about Neverland vegetation and its ability to ruin everything is taking their sweet time responding or showing up in Storybrooke, and they’ve tried what feels like several thousand things to get Emma back, but magic beans were a no-go, and some very fancy wand didn’t do anything except infuriate Regina with it uselessness, and it’s still Christmas, so there are apparently a metric shit ton of traditions and expectations, and—

“Wait, what?” Emma asks, perched on the edge of her desk in the station because that’s at least something she’s used to. Less so to Killian’s presence at the only other desk, and she doesn’t remember the only other desk being quite so close to her’s, but it’s entirely possible that’s a trick of her not-quite coherent mind. 

Might be problem six. Maybe seven. Making it six gives it power, and acknowledges how much the state of his tongue continues to affect her cognitive abilities. Of which there were already very few, especially while she was exhausted in Neverland, and Emma’s not willing to risk anymore. 

“It’s something of a requirement,” Killian says, not for the first time. Princesses have a ridiculous number of requirements, Emma’s rather quickly learned. And he can’t seem to sit straight in any chair. Also ridiculous. 

“Does that not hurt your spine?”

Shrugging, he smirks at her and that’s been happening more often. Not that she’s keeping track, or anything. She’s just—aware, that’s totally the right word. Of him, and what he does with his face and his patterned shirts, and there’s been no bare arm again, but Emma’s still not really his wife, and she knows the hours he’s spent holed up in one of the copious rooms in their quasi-mansion have been dedicated to research. 

And getting his wife back. 

That’s fine. It’s fine. Definitely not a problem. Hasn’t even crossed her mind. 

Emma doesn’t want him to want her. Like, ever. 

And they’re waiting for her dad, anyway. To report back on some magical failing in Wonderland. Seriously, everything is so fine that it's almost a problem as well. It’s too fine. Everything is—

Great. 

“Are you concerned about the state of my spine, darling?”

Melting is not an option — so far as Emma is aware of, but it’s certainly very appealing in the moment. When that moment includes tilted lips and an angled neck seemingly designed to ensure Killian’s hair falls artfully across his forehead, as if the strands are there to frame his eyes and the hint of light in them. 

She takes a deep breath. 

The light brightens. Or she imagines. 

“A tree lighting, though,” Emma says, not-so-subtly changing the subject. Killian’s brows jump. Up his forehead and past those strands of hair she’s only passably obsessed with. “Isn’t that kind of...I don’t know, it’s not very fairy tale.” “Regina lights the candles with magic, if that helps.” “So why do I have to be there?” “The monarchy usually stands on a platform, waves lovingly to their subjects and—” “—God, how is there more?” Emma balks, but that only gets her a more powerful smirk and eyes that are far too blue to be fair, and they still haven’t painted the dining room. She’s not going to ask about that. 

She’s not. 

“This is something of the central hub for the rest of the United Realms,” Killian explains, “and with Regina and the Charmings here, it makes sense that people...flock.” “Like birds.” “Not the ones your mother can commune with, but I suppose the metaphor is appropriate.”

“Who decided to hold Regina’s queen election?” Eyeing her speculatively, Emma does her very best not to wither under Killian’s expression. She’s not altogether confident it works, but they’ve almost come to something like an understanding, and it’s very easy. This, them. No, not them. There’s no them and while Emma’s done her fair share of staring, there can’t be a them now because that will undoubtedly fuck with the timeline and probably everything else, just to keep inspiring problematic lists, and her increasing desire to kiss him until he also has to deal with wobbly knees is just something she’s going to have to deal with. 

“Maybe I won’t remember when I get back,” Emma reasons, but that one word comes out as wobbly as her knees have been and Killian purses his lips. “Ok, fine—tell me something totally random, then. A fun-fact, as it were.” “Random.” “Do you not know what that means?” He rolls his eyes. “I know at least three more languages than you do, so—” “—No you do not!”

Nodding, Killian smiles over the edge of his coffee mug, and neither one of them mention that his proclivity to drinking a gallon of coffee every morning could probably be this so-called fun fact. “English, obviously, and—” “—Ok, I can clearly speak English,” Emma argues. She nearly bites her tongue in half at the force of Killian’s answering look, part amusement and even more heat and that only circles her back around to the melting thing. 

“Aye, but I definitely know more curses than you do, so that’s got to count for something. Also that’s simply my base language, as it were.” She sneers. He chuckles. Into the mug, but it feels like the emotion behind it sinks under Emma’s skin and times up with her pulse, less erratic than it had been those first few nights, and she’s actually started sleeping consistently. “Then of course, I’m rather familiar with Latin.” “Dead, it doesn’t count.” “Impressive, though.” “Sounds like you’re fishing for compliments, Captain.” “Unnecessary, when I know you’ll be all wide-eyed and amazed in a moment,” Killian promises, swinging his legs to prop his feet on the edge of her desk. “There’s also Greek, and—” Waving her hands, Emma doesn’t explicitly try to swat at his legs, but he’s just so goddamn close, and still exuding heat, and she’s starting to have some assumptions about that as well. Of the possibly magic and decidedly—no she’s not doing that. They’re not that. Not like this, anyway. And Killian doesn’t immediately move, but that only lulls her into a false sense of security, the metal of his hook is cold enough that she yelps when it circles both her wrists.

“Fairy,” he finishes, and Emma refuses to believe he leans forward on purpose. 

“No.” “You keep objecting to my facts and you’ll give a man a complex, Swan.” “Why would you know Greek, you’re a—” “—Fairy tale character?” 

Emma presses her lips together. So as not to make an undignified noise. She’s already whimpered enough, and cried more than she thought possible and the hitch in his voice threatens to shatter several things. Moving her hands is impossible, which is probably for the best, but all of her would very much like to cup his cheek, if only to see if he’ll kiss the inside of her wrist, and she’s like ninety-two percent positive he would. “Pirate prince,” she corrects lightly, and does get her a smile. “Do you have an official title here?” “Captain.” “That’s it?” “Not impressive enough, huh?”

There’s no music on in the station, but they’re clearly dancing all the same — around each other, and the maelstrom of feelings Emma is doing a God awful job of ignoring, and at some point one of them is going to have to pull away from the other. In more ways than one. 

“I didn’t say that,” she shakes, “and don’t bother telling me it’s another argument, I don’t care. I’m just—curious, I guess.” “About me?”

Nodding is the least dangerous response when she’s so worried about tripping over her own feet in this metaphorical waltz, but it’s one of the more accurate things she’s said since she got here, and now she’s got an excuse. No repercussions, nothing exactly permanent about these conversations, or this information, and no one’s told her whether or not she’ll retain her memories once she gets back, but they also don’t know she’ll get back so—

Fuck it, honestly. 

“Yeah,” Emma replies, not bothering to gloat when Killian’s the one whose eyes go wide first. 

“Oh.” “Is that unexpected?” “Maybe at this point.”

Humming, she files that away, preening slightly under the not-quite-compliment. “Not an answer though. Habit of yours.” “Not really, you’re just very demanding in this incarnation.” “Product of my situation, I guess.” He laughs. It’s something that happens more often here than it did when Emma knew him — knows him, whatever tenses get confusing in time travel. Still, the sound consistently manages to catch her off guard. Free and easy, and the magic that rustles in the back of her brain might deserve its own list. 

Or another conversation with Regina. “The Royal Navy,” Killian says, an answer Emma nearly forgot she wanted. Her eyes widen. He looks triumphant. “See, told you.” “Like an Enchanted Forest GI bill, huh? See new lands, learn new languages.” “Something like that, aye.” “How’d you get to fairy?” “Did you meet the Lady Bell before—” “—I got yanked out of Neverland?” Emma quips, and it might be a defense mechanism. Making jokes, but she also hasn’t gone into detail about the plant-thing yet, and that might be because she doesn’t want to freak him out. 

Anymore than he already is. He spends at least an hour in that room every night. 

“Yeah, I did,” she adds,” after she kidnapped Regina and told us Greg and Tamara were dead, which...y’know—” “—Wasn’t the worst thing in the world?” “Does that make me a horrible person?” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” “Are you going to tell me you learned fairy language from an actual fairy?” “Not much else to do on a hellish island for several hundred years, and it’s a rather complicated tongue. Takes some practice.” “Oh, you’re doing that on purpose now.” The speed of his grin is like molasses. Emma assumes. She’s not sure she’s ever encountered molasses in real life. Even so, the whole thing is bordering on obscene and the opposite of the Christmas spirit and—“Alright,” she concedes, “learning fairy is actually pretty impressive.” “You flatter me, love.”

“What’s your favorite fairy curse word and do you think anyone would be totally scandalized if I used it during this super fancy, exceptionally royal tree lighting?” 

Absolutely, goddamn obscene. The tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth, and his eyes get noticeably darker, Emma’s pulse picking up until she’s sure they can hear it on the other side of town, and there’s already barely any space between them, but that appears to be decreasing with every passing second. She’s got no idea who’s moving. She might be moving. 

God, she hopes she’s moving.

Losing control of her limbs may send her off some ledge. 

And she’s just about to throw caution to the seemingly ever-present wind that comes off the harbor, because the front of this patterned shirt looks particularly yankable, but the station door creaks, and a muscle in Killian’s jaw jumps and David clicks his teeth exactly once when he walks in. 

“Interrupting something, am I?” “No, no,” Emma stammers at the same time Killian mumbles “absolutely not,” and neither of those things sound all that honest. 

She’s never gone into cardiac arrest, but if this is what it feels like, it’s kind of disorienting. 

“You hear about the tree lighting, Emma?” David asks, and that’s obviously where her inability to tactfully alter the course of a conversation comes from. Killian rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, slumping back into his chair. 

Exhaling feels like an admission of guilt, but Emma can’t have anything to feel guilty about here, and she hopes Killian’s getting sleep. On the couch. He keeps sleeping on the couch. 

Of course he does. 

“Do I have to wear a gown or anything?” “It’s outside,” David says, “there are trees involved.”

Killian’s hook pokes at his chair arm. “Only one tree, as far as I knew.” “Why are you like this?” “You’re charmed by it, I know,” he chuckles, eyes flashing towards Emma. Coincidence, she’s sure. Her cheeks are very warm. 

She’s very warm. Passably magical, maybe. 

David sighs. “No, there are no gowns. It is in fact only one tree, and Em—you don’t have to say anything. Regina will thank people for coming, Snow will open up the meal and that’ll be that.” “Should I know what the meal is?” Emma asks, and her gaze doesn’t automatically drift towards Killian either. It just, sort of—meanders there, naturally. His tongue is still doing that thing. 

“I was going to get to that part eventually.” “There’s kind of a reception,” David explains, “with cookies.” “Shit, how many cookies can one United Realm eat?” “An exceptional amount,” Killian mutters, and Emma might guffaw. While realizing why her other version had been baking so much before. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” David adds, “just show up and smile, and you’ll get some cookies out of it.” “Will I not get cookies if I don’t smile?” Not able to stop whatever noise rumbles out of him, the force of Killian’s grin makes Emma glad she’s sitting down again. “I’ll swipe you some if you don’t.” “Very gallant.” “Happens from time to time.” Flirting in front of her father is wrong. That’s if this counts as flirting. As far as Emma knows, most of their banter has been a product of their mutually ridiculous lives, and whatever situation they’ve found themselves in at the moment, but this moment doesn’t hold any danger and it is so goddamn easy. 

She smiles. 

Killian beams. 

David sighs again. “Anyone want to hear about Wonderland now? Or how the White Rabbit can’t draw any portals? Or—” “—This is a really extensive list,” Emma grumbles, and Killian’s smile is going to get stuck on his face. Permanently. She’s very charmed by the crinkles around his eyes. 

“Tinker Bell is here.” Slamming his feet back onto the floor, Killian practically snaps to attention, and Emma’s body goes through another reaction she does not expect. What feels suspiciously like jealousy rattles down her spine, rooting her to the spot and drying out her mouth and David’s far too observant. 

He clicks his teeth again. “When?” Killian asks, already standing and offering Emma his hand. She takes it, not thinking about what that means — or how it affects the half-green tint clouding her vision, and her heart misses a beat. As soon as his fingers lace through hers. 

“Just now. Went to Regina’s, but I had to come here, so one of Snow’s birds told me.” “You can talk to the birds too?” Emma balks, stumbling while Killian all but yanks her towards the door. 

“No, no, they carry messages now.” “Ah of course.” “Did Tink say anything yet?” Killian demands, David already shaking his head and they’re picking up speed. All but jogging down Main Street and towards Regina’s office, and the nickname probably isn’t important. It’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s all going to be good. 

Even when the fairy in question snaps towards the office door as it swings open, practically lighting up when she notices Killian and Regina’s eyes go noticeably thin. Staring at Emma like she’s trying to read her mind. 

Her fingers are still tied up with Killian’s. “Hook,” Tinker Bell exclaims, and she doesn’t have any visible wings so she can’t fly out of her chair. She tries all the same, arms that bump Emma as they hug her not-quite husband and he mutters a greeting. It takes a moment for Tinker Bell’s gaze to find Emma, trying and failing to keep her expression even, and Killian might chuckle. 

She kicks his ankle. 

“Emma,” Tink breathes, “it’s good to see you again, you have to get the hell out of this timeline.”

“So, that’s it,” Tinker Bell finishes, shrugging like Emma’s not dangerously close to fully breaking down and Killian’s thumb keeps tapping the side of her palm. Because he’s still holding her hand. Cool, it’s cool. She’s not totally preoccupied with that. 

Regina’s totally staring, anyway. 

“Will-o-wisps,” Killian says, “I thought that was a rumor.” More shrugging. There’s too much shrugging for Emma. “I’ve never heard of it in practice,” Tinker Bell reasons, “but can you think of another plant in Neverland that could do such a thing? That rumor you’re talking about always mentioned how it would draw a traveler in, bewitch them with lights and—were there lights, Emma?”

She nods. Swallows, or tries at least. But her tongue is expanding again, and her heart might be shrinking, and the whole thing feels like a very cruel trick. 

“Pan would have known about all of that,” Tinker Bell continues, “and used it to his advantage. If he could get Emma to follow the light, then she wouldn’t be a problem anymore.” “But I didn’t actually move anywhere,” Emma argues. “There was no following the light.” Regina exhales. “Probably more metaphorical, giving into what the light offered.” “Which was?” “This, obviously. What we talked about, and what you thought you couldn’t ever have while you were stuck in Neverland, convinced of a whole slew of wholly negative things. So, there was no walking, but—” “—I wouldn’t have just run away!” 

Voice cracking is a sign of impending mental breakdown, Emma’s sure. As are Killian’s tightening fingers, although she’s starting to depend on those fingers just a bit because sitting hadn’t even crossed her mind before and now that might be the only reason she’s still standing.

That keeps happening. 

“Doesn’t sound like you had a choice,” Regina says, “if Pan wanted to tempt you, will-o-wisps seem like the perfect way to do it. See the light, get pulled into this future, he gets Henry, and everything he wants.” “But Henry is here. He’s—he’s a grown man, with a kid and—” “—None of that is set in stone,” Tinker Bell interrupts, magic roaring in Emma’s ears. Killian’s going to cut off the circulation to her hand. “With you out of the way, Pan’s got a straight shot at the heart of the truest believer, he can change what you would have eventually done. Make sure he gets the magic that’ll save Neverland. That’s why everything else is falling apart.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Magic,” David clarifies. “All of it acting strangely? Turns out that is because of you, kid.” Scoffing makes her lean forward awkwardly, but Killian doesn’t mention the strain it’s undoubtedly putting on his arm, and letting go of her hand is disappointing for about two seconds. Before it turns into his arm around waist. 

Regina’s expression turns calculating. 

“Again,” she says, “it’s what we talked about. Things falling apart because you got pulled off the board. Into this exceedingly tempting place.”

Widening her eyes at the unspoken judgement doesn’t do anything to alter Regina’s face, but Emma didn’t really expect it to and her eyes hurt. From not crying. She can’t possibly cry anymore. “I’ve never been to Wonderland, though. How could I fuck up its magic?” “You’ve been other places, love,” Killian murmurs, “and all of that has ripple effects. Savior saves one place, and other realms reap the benefits.” “Is Neverland in the United Realms?” “No.” “Just like that?” “Just like that,” he echoes, smile not quite reaching his eyes. “What do we do now, Your Majesty?”

Taking a deep breath, Regina lets it out almost immediately — staring at limbs and their out-of-place placement for a moment, before glancing at Tinker Bell. Who shrugs, again. Emma’s going to scream. Before she cries. Maybe then all the emotions will balance out. “We figure out a way to get Emma back to the right place, so she can save Henry and defeat Pan, then we hope that things haven’t been altered so much in the past that this version of the future crumbles entirely.” “What was that about no pressure before?” Emma huffs, David laughing under his breath and the feel of something on her hair is absolutely not Killian’s lips. “And honesty, what options do we have left? As far as time travel goes.” “Eh, we're far from exhausted on possibilities,” Regina says. “Just need to get creative.” Tinker Bell’s gasp is very loud. “Have you tried—” “—No,” Killian cuts in, sharper than anything else he’s said. “That’s not going to work.” “But you haven’t tried.” “Because it’s not an option.” “Oh, that’s very negative.” He hums, and Emma waits for the rest of the conversation. Another verbal volley, but it doesn’t come and Tinker Bell looks very disappointed. She’s got another migraine. “How long do you think we have until this future just—disintegrates?” Emma asks. 

She counts to twenty-four before anyone replies. “Maybe a couple days,” Regina replies, “a week at most.” “So—Christmas, then?” “I bet he didn’t plan that on purpose, just one of those crazy happenstances.” “Yuh huh.” “Try and sound more convincing next time, that one sucked a bit.”

Hearing the so-called queen of these supposed United Realms utter the word sucked without a hint of irony is not what Emma expects to be the straw that breaks her back, but it is and her back hurts, and all of her aches, and saving people is her gig. She’s got to figure out a way to do that. No matter what. 

She can’t do that while standing here. With three matching looks of concern, and one of absolute and total fear boring into the side of her head, and Emma’s also very good at running.

That would suggest she’s got control over her limbs, though. Stumbling down the stairs, she makes it about three-quarters of the way down before the whole thing is too challenging and her lungs appear to be disappearing, or possibly melting, and something in her spine cracks when she falls forward. 

Hair brushes Emma’s knees, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs and the volume of her breathing and the hand that lands on hers doesn’t surprise her as much as it should. “In through your nose, out through your mouth,” Killian instructs, only for Emma to flat out fail at that too. 

Becoming a very frustrating theme. “Why are you so worried about my oxygen intake?” “It concerns me that you’re not, actually.”

Letting out a breath she definitely could have used, Emma’s head lolls. Towards his shoulder and the very solid nature of him, and he doesn’t try to roll her off. Just shifts his arm so it’s back around her waist and that does make it a bit easier to keep her lungs functioning. 

“Was it all of reality collapsing, or Regina using that particular word?”

Emma groans. “Mind reading’s kind of a violation of privacy.” “Invoking my pirate excuse.” “That’s not a thing.” “Eh,” he says, and she hears the smile. That’s...nice. “Having no regard for laws is something of a requirement for piracy.” “This is not working as well as you think it is.” “I respectfully disagree. We’re going to fix this, you know that, right?” “I can’t imagine how.” “Sheer stubbornness hardwired into your personality.” Laughing hurts her very tight and anxiety-riddled chest, but Emma can’t help herself and she’d been right about the smile. Magic flutters under her skin, a steady pulse that’s slightly different than her normal pulse because it’s also more consistent and Killian’s nose is close enough to brush her cheek. If he wanted. 

She wonders if he does. She’d like him to. 

But that’s another problem, and more danger than anything Neverland could offer, and—“Fuck Peter Pan, honestly,” Emma proclaims, Killian’s response warm on her skin because it also includes a sound drifting close to a guffaw and she supposes his mouth is as close as his nose. What with the general structure of faces, and all. 

He kisses her cheek. 

Quick — barely there, really. Over before it has a chance to register, but Emma’s certain she’s been catapulted into the stratosphere, and he blinks almost hyperactively at her. She’s right about the palm thing too. 

He turns into her hand as soon as it finds his cheek. 

“Apologies,” Killian mumbles, retreating back into formalities and behind walls Emma had been clinging to only a few days before. Now they’re just kind of annoying. “Force of habit.”

“Was it the fuck Peter Pan that got you?” “You’ve always been something of a wordsmith.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Emma smiles. “Can I—can I ask you a question?” “No need to preface it, darling.” That’s something like the eighth time that’s happened. In the last two days. Second in the last hour or so. Emma’s not counting that either. “Do you remember this?” “Currently?” “Don’t be an ass,” she snarks, but his hook is around her wrists before she can even try to lift her hands. “The will-o-wisp attack. I—well, it was my turn to watch and I was kind of wallowing because of everything that had happened, and—” Telling him she wanted to kiss him then and now and possibly for the rest of time is also very appealing. And terrifying. Emma bites her tongue. Coward. 

“No,” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t.” “Is that weird?” “Decidedly.” “So, then—wait, I’ve got another question.” He lifts his eyebrows. Smirks. Has the absolute cheek to lift his thumb and brush tears away from her skin, and Emma resolutely refuses to acknowledge the shiver that goes through her at that. “What was with your huh’s, then?” “Last night, you mean.” “I said Echo Caves and you totally froze. Is that—” “Quite a lot of things happen in Neverland,” Killian finishes, “and not all of them have happened for you yet.” “Menacing.” He hums again, takes a deep breath that clearly isn’t a sign he wants to kiss her again. When he does not actually kiss her again. Fine, fine, fine, super. “Not all of it,” he says, although the words sound suspiciously like a promise and neither one of them blink when a bird flies through the open window nearby. 

“Are those birds flying in sync?” “Stop talking, you’re going to get us in trouble.” “What was that about pirate code, or whatever?” Grinning up at him and his scowl, Emma can’t help but be a little proud that she’s managed to distract the great and passably royal Captain Killian Jones during the United Realm’s annual tree lighting. Which in retrospect, does seem kind of strange since Emma can’t imagine they actually have Christmas in the Enchanted Forest. 

That’s a conversation for a different time, though. 

For now she’s willing to keep playing distraction, and it’s very fun to flirt. With Killian, specifically. She’ll consider the repercussions of that later, too. 

“As far as I’m aware,” Killian whispers, trying to keep Hope from jumping into the nearest snowbank, “your mother has instructed them to appear at certain and integral points in the ceremony. For dramatic effect.” “Kind of gaudy, isn’t it?” “A requirement of royalty, so it would seem.”

The muscles in her cheeks are starting to ache. From overuse, and that’s—another problem. Being here a tease. That one strand of hair that always manages to fall towards Killian’s right eye is the worst. 

“How long have you been holding onto that particular opinion?” They haven't turned the tree on yet, so whatever light reflects in his eyes is more theoretical than anything. Regina must have practiced this speech at some point. No way this is all improvised, not with the dramatic pauses and introductions and— “Oh shit,” Emma mutters, the ends of Killian’s ears going red because Regina is introducing them and Hope is nothing more than four uncoordinated limbs and Henry snickers very loudly.

Ella elbows him in the side. 

Emma likes her daughter-in-law. She hasn’t allowed herself to think about that title, or the granddaughter it comes with, but she’s getting very good at putting thoughts in boxes and only partially acknowledging what they mean and Killian's hand finds her again. 

Magic rushes from the top of her head to the very bottom of her feet, standing a bit straighter in another pair of boots, and Killian’s whole body moves towards her. So as to make it easier when he openly gapes at her. 

That must happen a lot too, though. No one bats an eyelash. “If you’re all done,” Regina drawls, but Henry isn’t and Ella can’t contain her laugh either. Mary Margaret looks overjoyed. Even as her birds break formation. 

Emma nods. “All good.” “Gods, the whole lot of you are annoying. You know—” Waving one hand, candles burst into flame without a word, multi-colored lights appearing on every branch, and it takes Emma a moment to realize that everyone in the crowd is holding an ornament. 

“What are they for?” she asks Killian, not bothering to lower her face over the cheers. People are cheering for the tree. “They’re wishes, Mama,” Hope cries. “From everyone!”

He nods when the four-year-old doesn’t explain anymore — already rushing towards Mary Margaret and her ornament. “That’s why people come from all over. Aside from the festive nature, and the talented birds, it’s an old superstition. Place an ornament where the candle was, and you’ll get your wish.” “What happens to the candle?” “Supposed to bring it home, and light that space with the feeling of the solstice.”

In any other situation, exhaling as forcefully as she does would be embarrassing. As it is, Emma figures she’s got a thousand excuses and the hand in hers gives no indication of letting go any time soon. So, seems like a wash. “Gods, that’s nice.” “Aye, it is.”

Hope puts an ornament on the tree. 

So does Henry. 

And Lucy. The list goes on and on, but all Emma can do is stand at the end of Granny’s counters and eat her weight in Snickerdoodles. 

She's the worst, frankly. 

Snow starts to fall just as Emma’s wavering between that happy medium of pleasantly buzzed and legitimately drunk, and she’s got to ask someone who doles out the liquor licenses in this realm because it appears Granny’s hand has grown a bit heavy over the years. 

Lucy scampers towards the far window as soon as she notices the storm, already talking a mile a minute and detailing plans with Hope and Neal — and this happy medium makes it impossible for Emma to be too frustrated by that, but she also hasn’t actually asked what happened to Neal or why he doesn’t appear in Storybrooke, so it seems it’s more difficult to rid herself of the self-imposed asshole moniker than she’d like. 

And the bell over the door rattles like it’s the goddamn town crier, another familiar face stepping through the frame. With red highlights in her hair. “Are we doing this, then?” Ruby asks, flanked by a woman Emma doesn’t recognize and another redhead who is obviously not Ariel and it’s strange to see Mulan out of armor. 

“Cap?” Ruby presses, when no one responds quickly enough, “this is happening, right?” Glancing at a wary Henry and back towards a clearly confused Emma, Killian grits his teeth. While she does her best to come to terms with nicknames, and another tradition and Hope tries very hard to climb up Emma’s side. 

So as to yell in her ear easier. 

“It’s snowing, Mama. We’ve got to play!” Emma blinks. “In the snow.” “It’s a...thing,” Killian explains. “Gets almost—” “—Bloodthirsty,” Mary Margaret says, which is not the most shocking thing that’s happened so far, but Emma’s buzz is starting to ebb slightly and someone’s knocking on the door. Another redhead, with her hair in braids and what looks like suspiciously like a crown on her head and David lets out a joyful noise when he notices the guy behind her. 

Mary Margaret tugs at the edge of Emma’s sleeve. She might be nearly drunk too, actually. If her slight wobble is any indication. “In the past,” she starts, “there’s been some notably magical snowstorms here. It was quite an event when Elsa first arrived, but then well—you helped save her, and her sister.” The redhead waves, as if she knows she’s being talked about and Emma can’t fathom how she makes that connection, but she’s getting better at puzzles. “And now,” Mary Margaret continues, “it’s become something of a ritual.”

Ruby gags. “Oh Gods, don’t say it like that. Sounds ruthless.” “Isn’t it, though?” Henry challenges. “The gist is, that Elsa shows up after the tree lighting with her snow powers and we have a snowball fight.” She’s too drunk for this. Definitely well past buzzed at this point. “A snowball fight,” Emma repeats, half a dozen nodding heads replying with equally large smiles and the almost audible sense of anticipation hovering around them. 

Hope widens her eyes. It’s a very good trick. “She practices that,” Killian mutters, more mind reading that Emma doesn’t bother to point out because the redhead is shouting "come on, let’s go'' and that sounds like a command. And bloodthirsty is a very appropriate adjective. 

Teams are quickly formed, alliances announced and the guy Emma realizes is named Kristoff claims “honor must be defended” enough times that it appears to be a catchphrase. Laughter rings out around them, dancing on the magically-induced snowflakes and off the lights, and there aren’t as many candles on the tree anymore, but some flames continue to flicker, casting shadows across faces and snowballs. 

As they fly past Emma’s ears. 

“Your aim could use some work,” Killian says, breathing heavier as he ducks behind a snow drift they’re using as a blockade. Emma sneers. “Where’d the kid go?” “Ours?” She nods. Tries not to die. Only marginally succeeds. Killian doesn’t appear to notice. Force of habit is a very strong rationalization, it seems. “She’s allied herself with her much more impressive brother, who—” Lifting out of his crouch, Killian cups a hand to his mouth, like that will help the volume of his ensuing insult. “—Has clearly been practicing snowball creation in the Wish Realm and only knows how to win by cheating!” “I learned it from you,” Henry calls back. 

David’s laugh is loud enough to disrupt a whole flock of birds. Perched on the branches above his and Mary Margaret’s head. 

Goosebumps make a glorious return to Emma’s arm — and quite possibly her soul, which only seems like an exaggeration until she notices the spots of color on Killian’s cheeks and the bits of snow clinging to his hair. His eyes get bluer when she brushes the moisture away. Have to, if only to explain Emma’s fluttering magic and fledgling pulse and a snowball slams into her left shoulder blade. “Gotta hide better,” Anna calls, the blonde behind her, who is definitely Elsa, shaking with the force of her laughter. Everyone keeps laughing. Everyone is so happy. It’s—

A goddamn Christmas Utopia. 

“You did offer yourself up a bit,” Killian reasons, Emma gasping at the betrayal. Pulling on the front of her now-damp jacket, he tugs her back against his side and they’re very close. Too close. Possibly not close enough. 

“And what would you suggest o ye master strategist?” “Little wordy, don’t you think?”

“I retract my compliment, then.” “Ahaha,” he chuckles, “a compliment, was it? Well that’s totally different, then. Now, if you just stay here with—” The rest of the sentence gets caught up in his grunt and groan and Emma’s not particularly disappointed to see Hope’s return to this side of the snowball fight, but she’s also fairly certain there was a me looming on the tip of Killian’s very distracting tongue and she’d like to hear that. Selfishly. “Oh, switched allegiances again, have you, little love?” “Henry can’t enchant the snowballs,” Hope says, like that’s supposed to make sense and it almost does because Emma has magic, but she’s never tried to use it on snow. At least not yet.

“I don’t—” she starts, only to cut herself off. At the overall circumference of Hope’s eyes, and the color of Killian’s and there’s something to said for sheer force of will. “Gimme a snowball, baby.”

Excitement immediately colors her daughter’s face, smile wide enough that it’s probably a record and Killian doesn’t say anything. Watches without a single shift of his chest, which means Emma is staring at his chest, but he’s also obviously not breathing, and her lungs can’t stand up to much more of this. 

An admittedly lackluster snowball gets plopped in Emma’s upturned palm, and she blinks away the cold like this is old hat. Or something less lame sounding. Snow packs together like—well, magic, she supposes, a perfect sphere that isn’t quite iced over, but won’t fall apart when one of them throws it and obviously Hope’s got to throw it. 

“Ok,” she says, nodding encouragingly. “Who did you want to take down?” Killian’s lips disappear. Behind his teeth. To stop himself from grinning like a maniac, or so Emma very quickly convinces herself. 

“Uncle Kris,” Hope announces, and this family’s apparently only grown in the last decade or so. Maybe Emma should be more concerned about her heart. And its ability to burst. 

“We can do that. Just—toss it up, and…”

She’s got no idea, really. Just generic hope, and a surplus of feeling, but Emma’s always been told that magic is emotion and she’s not sure she’s ever been more emotional, which is a scathing commentary of her life, but this is also her life and— Killian scoops Hope up, an impressive act of balance and dodging incoming snowballs, and Emma will use that emotion as a reasonable excuse for what she does next. Reaching forward, her fingers curl around the brace at the end of his arm, not able to actually touch skin because he’s wearing a leather jacket, and that’s only sort of messing with her mind. But the motivation is the same, and she’s got all those suspicions and thoughts and—

The most powerful magic in the world. 

“Throw it, love,” Killian directs, Hope’s arm pulling behind her like she’s a professional baseball player, and Emma squeezes her eyes shut. Warmth curls at the base of her spine, inching up her vertebrae until it takes root at the base of her skull, spreading out through her brain and the rest of her limbs and he definitely kisses her hair again. 

She’d been counting on that, just a bit. 

Muscles loosen under her skin, no sense of tension or that ever-present anxiety Emma’s always just assumed was part of her genetic makeup. Shouts echo around her, in addition to the snow, but she can’t quite hear any of it over the explosion of magic between her ears, and Hope’s cry of success will probably be branded on Emma for the rest of her life. 

She hopes so, at least. 

Opening her eyes to find Kristoff sputtering, and Anna as impressed as she is indignant, Emma only barely has a chance to catch her breath before there’s a kid flying into her arms. It’s harder to hold her when she doesn’t let go of Killian. And Killian doesn’t pull away. 

He watches both of them. Traces over Emma’s face, the same way she had in the hallway, and something happens. Something important. Passing between them, and cementing itself in her gut and her soul and his lips twitch. At her magic, probably. “Thank you,” Killian mouths, Emma nodding against Hope’s hair. She kisses it. Out of habit, or whatever.

Strands of hair are damp against Emma's temple by the time they traipse back to the house, Hope asleep on Killian’s shoulder. Enchanted snowflakes linger on the back of her jacket, hovering on her eyelashes for maximum effect and peak cute, which didn’t need any help if Emma’s being honest and she might be willing to err on the side of that particular feeling right now. So as to keep the feeling, all year long and maybe even indefinitely. 

Or whatever they said about Ebenezer Scrooge. 

After he learned to love Christmas. And other humans. 

Emma’s still not thinking too hard about that particular word, though. So, maybe complete honesty’s something of a stretch, but the kid is undeniably adorable and it’s admittedly difficult to think straight when Killian is—

Killian. In italicized and underlined lettering, meeting Emma snark for snark, and snowball for snowball, and she really wants to know his Monopoly cheating strategy, but that’s a problem for an entirely different list because that list has impossible words and improbable feelings and he’s staring at her.

Where she’s leaning against their front door. 

Using possessive and collective pronouns isn’t helping her cause. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. For the benefit of the sleeping kid, Emma figures. Not the state of her pulse, or the magic he could feel, and the cyclical nature of time is just toying with her at this point. 

She nods. “Better than, somehow.” “Oh, that’s a little negative, Swan.” “Kind of my schtick, isn’t it.” “Not always,” Killian says, another pair of words that shouldn’t sound like a promise and clearly do not care. Emma feels her smile. Like, possibly in the very core of her being. At least between her ribs, where the growing sense of belonging has decided to linger, this feeling of home and possibility and staying here is not a possibility. Tinker Bell will figure something out. 

Emma will — that’s how Savior’ing works, after all. 

“You know,” Killian adds, Hope humming into his neck and there’s quite a lot of neck. Emma might be staring at his neck. “At some point we concoct this very impressive buttered rum recipe, that’s notoriously good at warding off chills.” Digging her teeth into her lips does not do anything to disperse the butterflies in Emma’s stomach, but she’s also not all that interested in them leaving. “Concerned about my breathing and my overall body temperature?” God, she’s an idiot. 

Flirting isn't quite second nature, though — and Emma’s even less accustomed to flirting as a two-way street, but this feels as easy as it has and will and there’s those tense-based issues all over again. Killian grins. Slow, and measured and inching almost close to lecherous, sparking a handful of other other ideas that—

Immediately disappears when the four-year-old wakes up. 

Brushed teeth take precedence, as do picking out pajamas and Hope is in possession of more pajama sets than Emma knew could exist in one set of drawers. Then there’s a bedding routine, lifting comforters and crawling under sheets and Emma doesn’t know the story requested of her. 

She’s got no idea what happens after Prince Charles spun around with his sword. 

It’s got to be impressive, though. 

“Oh, Hope I—” she exhales, fear creeping back into the forefront of her mind. Until fingers find they’re way back into hers, and they’re just as warm as they always are and it takes Killian less than three minutes to promise a different story on another night. 

No tears are shed, so that’s got to be a victory and Hope’s eyes are already fluttering closed when Killian flicks off the light. Lingering in the hallway, Emma’s not sure what she’s supposed to do or where she’s supposed to go, but there’s a hook pressed into the small of her back and buttered rum turns out to have a ridiculous amount of cinnamon in it. “Shit,” Emma mutters into her glass, and Killian looks far too satisfied. “This is really good.” “Took some trial and error, but we got there eventually. Or get there for you, I suppose.” Sipping instead of responding is another cowardly move, one Emma won’t ever admit to and it doesn’t matter because he can read her mind. At least her face. Open book, and all that. 

“I’m sorry.” Killian blinks. “For what, exactly?” “God, throw a dart. Everything I—showing up in your life and making the right Emma disappear, maybe, and that’s got to be fucking with you, and—” “—You’re not the wrong Emma,” he interrupts, with enough force to pull her up short. Buttered rum drips on her chin. So, she’s a picture of romance and flirting potential. “Just a little early, that’s all.” “Not what you said when I got here.” “Aye, well that was the bastard version of me. He’s a—” “—Bastard?” “Absolutely,” Killian nods, “and maybe a little unsure of himself when it comes to you.”

It’s her turn to blink. More than once, only a little concerned the scene in front of her will change, but it doesn’t and it won’t and there’s got to be a limit on time travel. Emma’s reached her quota by now, she hopes. “Because I’m a mess now? I mean, this version of me. Not the wife one.” “You’re worried about Henry. And I understand that, did then as well. I just—you want to know why the Echo Caves gave me pause? Because if you got tugged right after that, then all you’re sure of is that I think I could move on from Milah, but nothing else has happened for you yet. No promises or—” Swallowing, he sets his glass down and there wasn’t much room between them, but there’s even less now and Emma’s got nowhere to put her hands. Except on his thigh. Where it bumps hers. “Leaving behind that bastard who wouldn’t give you the magic bean was always something of a challenge, but you made me want to. Made it easier to do just that. Because eventually you do trust me, and you believe in me, and—”

He exhales. Licks his lips. Emma can’t move. “The thought of losing that terrified me,” Killian finishes. 

They’ve stopped dancing. Are standing stock-still in the middle of the floor, while other people twirl around and wait for them to get their rhythm back. And Killian doesn’t blink, which is equally frustrating and overwhelming and a much more positive adjective that Emma can’t be bothered with because she’s too busy saying, “I...like you?” “Was that a question?” “Maybe,” she admits, “it’s not really my forte, and I told Neal a bunch of shit in the Echo Caves too, so—is...did my parents name their kid after him?” “Yuh huh.” “Don’t sound particularly pleased.” “We’ll get to that,” Killian says, “Rehash the liking stuff, please.” Maybe laughing at inappropriate times is actually his greatest talent. Emma’s head drops, bumping Killian’s shoulder, but then there’s an arm back around her waist and there’s so much of him, and that’s always been the problem. Opposite of a problem, really. 

“You just—” Emma mutters. “Came back, for us and me and I...that kind of terrifies me too, but you always make sure if I'm ok, and that’s—not a ton of people do that.” “Becomes something of a habit.” “I’m going to ask you a question.” “Still don’t need to preface it.” “Are you Prince Charles in the story?”

Surprise is a good look on him. All of them are, but Emma’s already crossed one emotional threshold and like wasn’t really the word she was thinking about before. “Aye,” Killian says, soft enough that it’s difficult to hear. 

“Does that make me the princess?” “In almost every story I tell.”

The warmth moves to her cheeks, and the same skin Killian’s fingers graze, coming dangerously close to the edge of her mouth and barely parted lips. “So, uh,” Emma stammers, “not our first time travel adventure?” “Gets confusing when you haven’t done that other part yet.” “Time travel might be overrated, honestly. But we get back, right? That’s—I mean, you’re here.”

Nodding, his nose replaces his fingers and it’s oddly endearing. “If you remember this in the past, I refuse to be held accountable, alright?”

“Seems fair,” Emma laughs, and she thinks she hears him swallow before he responds. “You give up your magic, for me—which is something else I never entirely pay you back for, but then we get pulled into the portal, adventures ensue, including that very impressive spin move, and then your magic comes back.” “How?” “With that wand Regina used before, that’s why she thought it would work.” “You’re skipping over things,” she accuses, and flirting might not be the only two-way street. He’s getting easier to read. “Was that was it you? Helping with my magic?” Shrugging isn’t easy when they’re so tangled together, but Killian’s ears are as red as Ariel’s hair and Ruby’s highlights and—“The only reason I magic’ed that snowball was because I was holding onto you. Control’s not something I’ve got much of right now.” “You would have been able to figure it out.” “Not with a kid waiting, and all those people and—” Problems be damned. Lists be damned. Time itself, be goddamned. “Paying me back is a stupid thing to think.”

“Swan.” Shaking her head, Emma moves before she can reconsider how incredibly dumb this is and possibly even more dangerous, but he keeps staring at her and it’s so easy and normal, and if she were someone who breathed with any sort of regularity, that wold be an appropriate analogy. Killian shifts too, so that helps. 

And she definitely mumbles kiss me like some harlequin romance heroine, but he doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t object and the fingers that find her hair help ground her. To this plane of reality. Nice exists for about half a second, before it rather quickly evolves into need and desire and there are hands everywhere. Emma’s and Killian’s — tracing each other like this is the first time all over again, and her back arches once she clamors into his lap. 

Rocking down at the same time he rocks up draws out several sounds Emma’s never heard before, and would not mind hearing on loop. Fingers search out skin, pushing into the tuft of hair at the nape of his neck, and she can’t tilt her head enough. To get the right angle, or more of his tongue and his tongue’s already swiping at her lips. 

He groans again. When she opens her mouth, lets him trace as much as he’d like, and Emma would like even more, but she’s always been kind of greedy when it comes to him and really oxygen is vastly overrated. 

She can’t keep her eyes open. 

Can’t imagine how anything gets better than this, or them and there’s that pronoun again. 

Both of their shoulders heave when they finally have to pull apart, more black than blue in Killian’s eyes and— “We’re really good at that,” she mutters, working a laugh out of him. That he presses against her neck. And under her chin. Drags across her jaw, and up towards her temple, kissing whatever he can reach and everywhere he lands and it takes a power she did not know she possessed for Emma to keep herself from demanding he take his clothes off as well. 

She opts for the next best thing. “Thoughts on sleeping in your own bed?” 

The eyebrows, honestly. Flying up, and reacting quicker than he can respond and Killian kisses her. Soft and easy, and as normal as anything. “Vast,” he says, mostly into her mouth, “and it’s difficult to fall asleep without you, so it’d be nice to actually do that.” “Yeah, ok. That works.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 40

Read on AO3. Part 39 here. Part 41 here.

Summary: Out of curiosity, is it possible to have a party in Gilead that doesn't end in disaster?

Words: 5600

Warnings: emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hello! Welcome back, again, to my weekly updates. Haha. I think the last few chapters may go a couple weeks in between updates, if only because I want to get them exactly right--just as a heads up.

I am hoping this chapter seemed correct in its pacing and length--these are two things I am trying to get a better feel for as I write, hence the extended length of the chapters, but I'm wondering if it feels too draggy?

Anyway, I love y'all very very much, and I love your thoughts and kindness and generosity. I am truly so lucky. <3

The Night Buzzard was hardly the most comfortable sleep you’d had, but it had easily been the deepest in weeks. Between the exhaustion of being fucked within an inch of your existence and the knowledge that a veritable army was only feet away from you, you felt invulnerable enough to slip into what apparently was complete unconsciousness for six hours. Nothing--not the rumbling of the terrain, not the voices of the Knights, nor the wailing of the engine--had roused you. Only a firm pressure on your shoulder was enough to finally drag you from your blissful semi-coma.

Your eyes fluttered open, still hazy with a film of sleep, coming to focus on the morning-kissed face of Kylo Ren.

Light filtered through the black-tint windows, splitting him in shadow, his expression soft and stern. His hair was filthy with sweat, clumped in frizzy locks over his forehead and ears, his chin and upper lip peppered with a hint of stubble. As you met his gaze, you could see nothing but tired, guttered rage in his pupils, an umbra under his eyes. His attention flickered over you, examining you, a warm, gloveless hand cupping your cheek, thumb tracing over the still-tender skin. You winced, and his head tilted, his hand skating down your arm, sparking affection in your chest. Affection you did not want. Frowning, you shrugged him off. 

His lid twitched, his jaw tensed. He glanced to the side. “We’ve arrived home.” Toward the front of the Buzzard, the Knights were shuffling, the door whining as it opened. “Once you shower and dress, we’ll be departing again.”

You blinked, tugging the robe to your chin and propping yourself up on an elbow. “Again?” you asked. “Why?”

“City hall,” he replied. “Tying loose ends.”

“Okay.” You shrugged, rolling over, looking at the wall. “You enjoy that. I won’t be going.”

Pressure on your shoulder again, turning you toward him, and you shook him away. “You’re coming.”

“If you’re concerned about my safety, leave a Knight or two outside.” A tiny smirk on your lips. “They’ve become pretty familiar with me by now, anyway.”

Kylo grumbled, gripping your arm. “You don’t have a choice.”

Spinning on him, you seared him in his spot. “What else is new?” you spat. “Go ahead, then. Make me.” You grit your teeth. “I’d really like to see you try.”

He stared at you, studying your face, lips pinching together. The last Knight stepped off the Buzzard, and the door closed, drenching you both in silence. You held him in your gaze, unyielding, breath stalled in your lungs. Kylo swallowed, and then averted his eyes, his conviction melting in the ferocity of your fury. The hold on your arm loosened--you grabbed two of his fingers, plucked them free, and tossed his hand to the side.

“Right,” you said. “That’s what I thought.”

Huffing, you clambered out of the bunk from the end of the mattress, pulling your robe--his robe, technically--over your body and cinching it tight. You felt Kylo’s gaze linger while you gathered your shoes and underwear into your arms, flouncing barefoot down the steps and into the front yard of his home. The sun was peeking into the sky, spilling newborn light through dawn clouds, the air still woven with the wool of summer heat. Sighing, you paced to the front door, arms folded with your belongings, trained on the floor as you escaped to your room.

When you shut the door to your tiny cell, you burst, hurling your clothes into the air with a howl, throwing yourself on your bed. It didn’t matter if you wanted to cry--you would continue to refuse, content to bask in rage instead, to let yourself simmer in it. You would tolerate no more kindness from Kylo Ren, no more exceptions in his design, no more delicate baths or malted whisky eyes or hope-hollow words. If he was to never let you go, you would never let him hold you again.

It was about a half-hour before the Buzzard peeled from the driveway, and the Audi with it. You allowed yourself a moment of respite in his absence--now was your chance to bathe and catalogue the thoughts flipping through your mind. Another long, soft sigh escaped your lungs, and you rolled out of bed, grabbing a change of clothes and new uniform before heading to your door, only to be met with the sound of footsteps in the hallway. You swallowed, paused, heart flipping. It could only be a Knight--you just hadn’t expected to be met in your room. When the boots stopped outside of the threshold, but went no further, you shook off your nerves and opened it.

One of the Knights--helmeted, as usual, God only knew what they looked like--stood in front of you, silent, as if it was totally normal for him to be waiting outside of your door like a sentry. Warmth rushed your face in memory of the previous night, acknowledging that he’d not only seen you naked, he’d stroked his cock to the sight of you being fucked, and he’d shot hot jets of cum somewhere onto your body. You supposed it’d be awkward to ask which load had been his.

“Um.” You cleared your throat. If only there was a way for you to glimpse his mind, to know what he was recalling--or imagining--in this moment. “Excuse me.”

“Apologies,” he sputtered. The voice was familiar--Ushar, you guessed. “Wasn’t expecting you to be leaving.”

“Oh.” Perhaps getting his semen blown onto your face afforded you the privilege of a conversation. Or he was concerned you’d be afraid, and then mention it to your Commander. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stepped toward him, and he pivoted, back to the wall, allowing you a wide berth as you passed. Fear seemed more likely. 

It wasn’t until you’d made it approximately twenty feet down the hall that he moved to follow, trailing behind while you snuck down the steps and to your bathroom in the annex. You opened the door and slipped inside, tossing your uniform to the side and running your bath. Seconds later, Ushar arrived at the door in silence. 

As alone as you could get inside Kylo Ren’s home, you shrugged off your robe, and scanned your body, seeking evidence of your evening. There was no mirror in your bathroom, just as there was not one in your bedroom--so you improvised, pressing your palms to your cheeks, mapping the topography of your skull with your fingers. Pain tingled at your touch, the lumps and bumps that had burgeoned overnight still thumping and soft, the bruises on your face stinging with latent life. 

They were all trophies, to you, little souvenirs from your holiday at his hands--and you hoped by the time you’d lost them, the feelings packaged with them would be lost, too.

When the bath was halfway full, you sank into the water, shuddering as tension and ache was vacuumed from your limbs. You gazed at your stomach beyond the surface, imagining it as an island in the bath--your skin stretched tight, belly button protruding like a tiny hill--and coasted your hands over it, as if this would manifest your illusion. When it finally did become reality, there was no telling where you’d be, what you’d be bathing in, or who you would have come to trust. But you knew that wherever you landed, it would be by the strength of your own wings, in a nest that, no matter how humble, was crafted by only your design.

After you were clean and the water had cooled, you hoisted yourself from the bath, arms and legs heavy from relief in buoyancy. You stumbled onto the tile and steadied yourself with the sink, taking a few breaths. Balanced, you dressed into your uniform and tucked your hair away before tossing your leftover items into the hamper and exiting the bathroom. 

Ushar was still stationed outside--your cheeks burned again when you walked past him, returning to your room. You’d had plenty of encounters with men--your red dress was proof of that--but in the past three years, the only person whose release you’d handled had been your Commander’s. The sudden fact that seven men had anointed you with cum within the past 24 hours sharpened the post-engagement awkwardness to a knife. Not that you regretted it. 

You shut your door behind you and flopped onto your mattress face-first. The sky was bright, but it was still early. There was nothing else for you to do but continue to sleep.

The sun had passed mid-point when a squealing cheer from somewhere in the home startled you awake, eyes opening into a blank wall. A little hint of dread poked your brain as you recalled what Johana had mentioned the day before. A party to celebrate. You grunted, wanting to bury yourself in your pillow--but cramped, stomach seizing in hunger, informing you that you hadn’t actually eaten in over 24 hours. Between the doctor, the Buzzard trip, and getting your brains fucked out and then jizzed on, your appetite had been whittled to nil. Unfortunately, you were still human.

Sighing for the five-hundredth time that day, you trudged out of bed, adjusting your bonnet before you opened the door to Ushar, steadfast as ever. He sidled against the wall again, and you once more plodded through the hall, down the steps, with him in slow pursuit. 

Another peal of laughter ricocheted off the walls, and your neck prickled. They were in the parlour room, whoever they all were, and it was required you pass the parlour room to reach the kitchen. Turning to Ushar, you cocked your head in a silent plea, to have even a sliver of a chance to be invisible. Perhaps, again, out of fear, he nodded, backing into the hall--and you willed yourself to be a scarlet spectre, unseeable unless you wished to be seen, in the hopes you could escape their eyes.

As you crept to the archway, one of the women clapped her hands.

“Oh, Johana!” she said. “I had one of those too! Perfect for the baby room.”

“Do you think so?” That was Johana, sounding concerned. “No choking hazards?”

“No way!” said another woman. “You just hang it up above the crib and they fall right asleep!”

“Yes, it doesn’t go in the crib!”

Johana laughed. “Oh, give me a break, I’m a new mom.”

The group erupted in giggles again. Your stomach churned--but not from hunger. As their chatter escalated, you stepped forward, visible through the threshold, and every word on their lips died. 

In the center of the room was Johana, perched on the edge of the leather Chesterfield with a mobile in her lap, buried in a mountain of handmade baby clothes, toys, and room decor, a bevy of neatly wrapped boxes still unopened. Surrounding her were at least a dozen Wives, none of whom you recognized apart from Dolpheld Mitaka’s--you supposed the others had become Widows. They scrutinized you in confused disgust for a long, quiet moment.

It was almost shocking, how quickly they’d pulled this amount of material together, but you also knew most Wives stockpiled baby things in anticipation for their day. Perhaps the only truly surprising fact was their willingness to share.

“Ofkylo.” Johana’s cheeks glowed, but you couldn’t tell if it was from joy or embarrassment. “Good afternoon.”

“Um.” You folded your arms over your chest, like you could hide the knowledge that you were pregnant from everyone in the room. “Hello.”

She placed the mobile to the side. “I trust you had an uneventful evening.” There was no edge of malice in her tone--your pregnancy appeared to have at least one tangible benefit.

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you ignored the swarm of blood to your face. “Yeah,” you said, and then corrected, “yes. I, um. I did.”

One of the Wives, plump with dark hair, snorted, rolling her eyes. “You let your Handmaid out during the day?” she asked. “I can’t stand to see them crawling around like that.”

“Oh, I know!” replied a blonde-haired woman. “They’re like rats. Conniving, selfish things.”

“The one I had would always be making eyes at my husband, I swear.”

“Wasn’t she blind in one eye?”

“Well, yes, but she was still looking at him with her good eye--”

The back of your neck bloomed with sweat, your fingers burrowing into your arms. Venom gathered on the tip of your tongue, the most foolish part of you wanting to test out just how absolute your Commander’s protection was. 

“--and all I knew was, she better have been sleeping with that one eye open, or I was going to--”

The dark-haired Wife shushed the rest, leering at you as she spoke. “Be careful what you say,” she said, “you know Jo’s husband has a soft spot for Handmaids.”

The others nodded in agreement, supplying Johana with looks that ranged from pity to complete contempt. 

“That’s right!” This woman, a red-head closest to Johana, patted her knee. “Oh, I don’t know what I’d do if I were you. I don’t think I’d ever put up with everything you do.”

“It’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?” said another. “Benefits for Handmaids? Who cares? They’re literally whores!”

A gaggle of them laughed, and you licked your lips, teeth crushing your tongue into submission. Johana met your eyes, glimpsed your whitening knuckles, and her jaw stiffened.

The red-head patted her knee again, like this was comforting instead of patronizing. “You’re being quiet!” she said. “You don’t share your husband’s… preoccupation with Handmaids, do you?”

Johana blanched, scowling. “What? No.”

“That’s good.” She sighed. “Because I was just thinking the other day, you know, this never would’ve happened if Moden were alive.” A spoiled-fruit sweetness tinged her tone. “Don’t you think?”

For a sharp, clear second, Johana froze, and the last restraint on your mouth snapped.

“I think that’s pretty inappropriate,” you said. “Ms. Johana has no say in what her husband does.”

Silence swallowed the room, every muscle motionless. A low murmur of disbelief vibrated through the Wives as they glanced at each other, and then at Johana. She was looking at you like she’d looked at you at the dinner party--only this time, bathed in familiar light.

“Actually.” Back straight, she cleared her throat. “Ofkylo, why don’t you. Come... sit with us.”

The Wives flipped on her like a dozen switches, their brows drawn back or raised, before gazing at you, waiting for you to make your choice. There was some delight you’d take in staying, in deliberately making them uncomfortable, just as Johana wanted--but God, you were hungry. You shook your head, put up your palms in deference.

“Oh, no,” you said. “That’s, um, that’s fine, Ms. Johana, but I was just going to get something--”

“Nonsense.” She scooted over, patted the seat next to her on the couch. “Sit.”

You rolled your tongue over your teeth, ready to turn and leave, but something in her expression was tight, needled with pain. As if she was pleading. A current of pity rippled through your mind--in this room, surrounded by gifts, supposed friends, and social and legal superiority, she was still left depending on you. With a shrug of agreement, you waded through the crowd until you reached her, sinking onto the sofa, squeezing between her and the building hill of presents.

None of the Wives spoke. Johana clapped her hands on her thighs. “So!” she said. “Next gift?”

They surveyed each other for a moment, and a small hand crept into the air.

“Um.” It was Mitaka’s Wife, her mousey face peeking through the crowd. “You can open my gift next, Johana.” She offered a floppy paper package, eased it toward the couch. “I, um, I made it awhile ago for… someone else. It’s not much.”

Johana took it into her lap with a small grin. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just lovely.” 

You watched, like you were beyond a screen as she opened a gift meant for your child as if it was hers. She looked out at the other women, peeling the wrapping back, exposing a small, knit sweater. The room gasped, shrieking in restrained glee when she held it up, flipping it in display. 

“Adorable!” said the blonde-haired Wife, clapping her hands. “That’s perfect.”

Johana released a nervous chuckle. “But it’s so small.”

“No way!” said another woman. “That baby’s taking after you. He’s going to be tiny!”

“Yes! Precious little man!”

“Oh,” Johana said with a laugh, “we’ve decided it’s a boy, now?”

Another jubilant interruption, the lot of them breaking into smiles while your muscles locked, your focus drifting to your stomach. You hadn’t really considered its gender, or its appearance, or its actuality at all. Something twisted through your heart--a swell of repulsive affection--as you imagined it in your arms, every feature blurred, save for one clear detail: a feathery mop of thick, dark hair. 

“What are you going to name him?” 

The baby in your arms disintegrated, and you snapped to the parlour room. 

“He won’t be a Junior, will he?”

The first thought through your head--Kylo would never want a Junior--before you realized that Kylo would never meet his child, and the question hadn’t been directed toward you at all.  

Johana shrugged, her shoulder brushing yours. “You know, I’ve thought about names, but I can’t decide. My husband doesn’t really have a preference.” 

“He’ll be just as handsome as your husband, I’m sure,” said the dark-haired woman. “But let’s hope he gets your manners.”

“What do you mean?” asked the blonde Wife. “Her husband is polite! He’s so quiet.”

The room dimmed with stifled muttering as the women who had spent more than five seconds around Kylo Ren exchanged sardonic smiles. Johana tensed at your side.

The blonde woman blinked. “What?” she said. “What is it?”

“Polite isn’t the word I’d use,” said the dark-haired woman. 

“I’d use the word ass--”

“Shh! Don’t say that, Jo’s right here.”

“Well, she’s the one enabling all of his--”

“It’s fine!” Johana’s face was pale, fists bunching in her dress. “I--I mean, he’s rough around the edges,” she said. “But I’m sure he’s… I’m sure he’s going to be a great father.” She pursed her lips, looking at you, that same plea in her eyes. “Right?”

Your stomach roared in protest--the thought of remaining in a room, listening to Wives discuss your child and its father’s involvement as if you were exempt from the equation had bubbled nausea to your tongue. Clearing your throat, you stood, dusting off your skirt. Johana grabbed your wrist.

“Hold on. Where are you going?” 

Grimacing, you wagged free of her grip. “I, um, really have to eat.” Your face was on fire. “Excuse me.”

Focus fixed to the floor, you scrambled from the group of Wives, whisking through the hall, wiping your palms on your sides. A great father. Even if you thought that was true--which, given everything you’d come to know about him, you now admitted you’d be delusional to think--Kylo Ren was never going to know if his child was even born. 

When you arrived in the kitchen, you met with Emma and Rose, preparing some sort of hors d'oeuvres. You wondered how many of these they did, given all of the parties Johana seemed hell-bent on forcing on this home. At the sound of your boot on the tile, they spun from the counters, and you offered a small grin, easing past the threshold.

“Hi.” You looked around the kitchen. “I was just. Um. Coming to get something to eat.”

Rose sighed. “Can you come back later? We’re a little busy.”

“Oh.” An angry growl somewhere in your abdomen. “I mean, I was just going to maybe have a sandwich?”

“Just let us finish this up,” Emma said, “then you can make yourself whatever you want.”

On the counter were dozens of cucumber slices, handfuls of cherry tomatoes, and a tub of shiny cream cheese. It couldn’t have been that much more work to do. And you didn’t want to be rude. You chewed your lip, folded your hands behind your back.

“Would you like help?”

They paused, glanced at each other, then back at you. Rose stepped to the side, providing you space in the counter, and you joined them, looking over the spread. 

“Here.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a knife, and placed it in front of you. “Finish up the cucumbers.”

There were only a few more to cut. You nodded, scanned the counter for a cutting board. “Oh, um. Do you have a spare…”

“There should be one in the bottom of the pantry.”

You nodded and crossed to the other side of the kitchen, opening the bottom drawers and searching through them, pushing aside the aluminum sheet pans and sets of kitchen utensils. No cutting board.

“I can’t find it?”

Emma sighed. “It should be under the muffin tins.”

“Oh.” You pried up the set of muffin tins, revealing a small wooden slab. “Got it. Thank you.”

Bending down, you wedged it from underneath the plethora of unused accessories, wiggling it from the drawer. As you pulled it free, the cresting rumble of the Audi’s engine coasted into the driveway. Your grip wavered, and it crashed to the floor. 

“Shit!” you hissed. Emma and Rose looked at you, brows pinched in concern, and you swallowed, heat building in your cheeks. “Um. I mean. Sorry.”

When you picked it up, the door to the Audi closed, followed by the scrape of boots through the front path, and you paused, your grasp on the board so tight you were surprised the wood hadn’t splintered. With you in the corner of the kitchen, your Commander wouldn’t see you as he passed through the hall--but it wasn’t seeing you that had your heart in your throat. It was the impending discovery of the party around the corner, full of women--and his Wife--whom you feared were guaranteeing their casualties under his design.

The front door opened, and you heard Kylo march through, shutting it behind him and striding into the hall. Chest tight, you returned to the counter, cutting board in hand, and placed it down before drawing in a slow breath. You plucked a smaller cucumber and laid it on the slab. His footsteps stopped.

“What is this?” 

Hands quaking, you lifted the knife, the handle heavy in your palm as you recalled how to wield one. 

“Oh! Commander,” Johana said. “It’s a party! For us!”

You lined up the blade with the tip, lips pulled in between your teeth. Sliced.

“Us.”

Fresh cucumber wet your nose. Beside you, Emma and Rose were chopping away, as if they didn’t sense the impending mushroom cloud just meters beyond the walls. 

“Yes. For our baby!” A ripple of laughter through the group. Then silence smothered the air.

Slice.

“I mean, look at everything everyone’s brought for us.” 

Kylo Ren said nothing. The sound of your rocking blade was thunder in your ears as it hit the board.

Slice.

“We’ve, uh, actually been joking that it’s a boy. That he’s going to have my manners.” 

Only a few women forced a laugh.

“But don’t worry!” Rustling of something, like paper. “We said he’ll have your looks.”

Still not a word. This time, not a single mouth managed a noise.

Slice.

“Well?” Johana breathed a mock-sigh. “It’s our baby! Aren’t you excited, Sir?”

No response. 

“Commander?” 

Slice. Slice.

“Sir--”

“This is over.”

Your breath stalled and the knife slipped--you hissed, dropped it in pain. A sliver of blood leaked from your thumb.

“What?” A tentative snort of disbelief. “What’s over?”

“You. Me. All of this.” 

A choked laugh--none of the other Wives made a sound. “Ky--Commander. What?”

Rose and Emma paused, too, staring at you. Face tingling with flames, you were unwilling to meet their eyes--you glanced around the kitchen, seeking out a towel. Red drops speckled the cutting board. 

“I want everyone out of this house. I want you gone by the weekend.”

Your hands trembled, littering the counter with blood. Breath failed to find your lungs. 

“Gone? You can’t… you can’t be seri--”

“Out. Now.”

The Marthas muttered something to you, their voices muffled by the hammering of your heart. Part of you was stuttering in disbelief that your Commander was actually doing this. The other part was busy filing its nails, having predicted this the second the doctor slapped your thigh with the news. Behind you, you heard the Wives filing out, whispering to themselves as they fled through the door. Meanwhile, you flitted around the kitchen, thumb curled into your fist in an attempt to staunch the flow, still unable to find a single goddamn piece of cloth.

“Hey.” Rose grabbed your shoulder, shoved a dish towel into your chest. “I was trying to give you this.” 

Your lids widened, and you nodded in thanks, thumb throbbing as you fumbled to swathe it closed. The last Wife shut the door behind her, your breath shallowed. The parlour room was quiet. A frustrated, feminine sigh.

“I mean. What do you expect me to say? Are you serious?”

A dark crimson daub blossomed through the cloth. You needed to get a fucking bandage. Those were all the way in the washroom. Past the parlour room.

“Yes.”

Johana huffed. “And where exactly do you expect me to go?”

“I don’t care.” 

Another pause. You and the Marthas had ceased moving, ceased talking--only in awe of the crumbling foundation of your home. 

“How do you--”

“You have until the end of the weekend to collect your belongings.”

“Kylo, that’s only four--you asshole, where are you going--”

His steps disappeared into the home, turning the corner toward the staircase. You stood there, for a moment, squeezing your thumb in its makeshift tourniquet, each of you looking to the others.

Emma bared her teeth in a strained grimace. “Is he really kicking out his--”

A piercing screech ripped through the air, followed by a tearing of paper, the toppling noise of boxes, hollow wood, piles of clothes hitting the floor. Second later, a feral growl clawed out of Johana’s chest, her little feet shaking the ground as she stomped through the halls. You looked between the Marthas and your thumb.

“I’m going to, um, take this chance and grab a bandage.”

They said nothing, urging you on, and you tip-toed through the halls, wary of crossing either your Commander or his Wife, neither of whom you wanted to see or speak to in this particular moment, each for their own reasons. You passed the parlour room--Johana’s gifts were terrorized, spewed across the room in busted heaps. The little sweater was entombed by a set of boxes, the mobile fractured on the floor. 

It made sense, of course, that this would be his response--Johana’s presence threatened your own. As long as she laid claim to your child, your life was irrelevant. And while you didn’t feel bad for her shattered delusion, you knew that her only liferaft in Gilead’s storm had now been engulfed and drowned by the tidal wave of Kylo Ren. Barring her life, there was nothing more for her to lose. 

Head spinning, you continued to the washroom, ready to turn the corner, only to be paralyzed by the sound of Johana’s voice, serrated like a predator wail, shredded as you had never, ever heard it before. 

“We’re not finished yet, Kylo!”

You heard him stop, and you whirled around, pressing your back to the wall, holding your breath. She’d caught him at the bottom of the staircase.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Johana.”

“No! What the actual hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?”

“I might ask the same of you.”

“Oh, can it, smart ass. You think you can kick me out and still expect me to treat you like my husband?” A disgusted laugh. “You’re more delusional than I took you for.”

“Delusional.”

Johana deepened her voice in mockery. “Delusional--yes, delusional. This is Gilead, Kylo. The nation you helped found? There are laws. You can’t dispose of your Wife for your--God, I don’t know--little pet!”

“Careful.”

“Or what?” she asked. “What, you’ll, you’ll--humiliate me again? Order me in the middle of a party to leave the only home I’ve known for three years in front of my friends?” She laughed again. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Move--”

“Don’t! Touch me!” she screeched. “How do you see this working out? Huh? Do you see yourself telling the Council your plans to divorce your Wife, something Gilead doesn’t even allow? Do you see them letting you play house with your Handmaid?” 

“Don’t assume my plans.”

“Please! It’s so obvious how obsessed with her you are. You don’t even need eyes to see it.” She grunted. “Don’t touch me.”

“Then move.”

“Moden still has friends in the Council,” she said. “When they hear about what you’re doing, it’ll be over for you! And you know what that means? It’ll be over for her, too.” The sound of shuffling. Coming toward you. “Get back here--”

Adrenaline erupted, and you darted off, skittering like a squirrel down the hall and dipping into the parlour. Throwing yourself against the entry wall, you sucked in a breath to silence yourself in hopes they would pass the archway and miss you entirely. Your pulse throbbed in your thumb, blood pumping into the towel, soaking to your skin.

Kylo’s tromping feet barreled forward, but you heard Johana on his tail--the sound of a squeal, a grumble, the squeak of a spinning heel. 

“Johana--”

“Do you have any idea how long I defended you? How many excuses I made for you? Do you know I used to fucking feel bad for you? And you’re kicking me out?” That squawking laughter escaped her. “You’re demented!”

“I was generous to give you four days. You tempt me to make it four seconds.”

“Go ahead. You’ll be stuck here with her, and she’ll hate you too, just like I do, just like your parents did, just like everyone in the world fucking hates you!”

Something slammed the wall, and you jumped, clapping your hand over your mouth, towel flopping to the floor. 

“Punch all the holes you want!” she snarled. “You think just because you call yourself Kylo Ren that you’re not the same pathetic asshole that Ben Solo was, you’re wrong--you haven’t changed, and you never fucking will. It’s no wonder they fucking sent you away!”

“Get out.”

“Oh, go ahead and try.”

“Get--”

Johana screamed, and a sharp smack, skin on skin. 

“Serves you right, asshole! Fuck you!” She leapt into your line of sight, snatched the mobile from the floor, unaware you were behind her, and cracked the wooden frame in half, brandishing the broken rod like a sword. “I swear to God, if you try to touch me I’ll--” 

Her eyes caught you in the periphery. You froze. 

Chest cycling with rapid breath, she crystallized, gaze flashing between you and her husband beyond the archway. Tawny locks of hair curled out like smoke from her scalp, face flush with fury, her chin trembling as she drew a long breath into her lungs. For a moment, she held it there, and exhaled, shoulders sagging, fingers loosening, the mangled mobile clattering to the floor. Johana trapped you in her stare, inspecting you inch by inch, until her face fell, eyes flooding with fat, wet tears.

She nodded, focusing past the threshold. “Okay. I’ll leave. But not until the weekend.” Chewing her lip, she glanced at her feet, then back to you. “I give up,” she said softly. “You won.”

You wanted to tell her that the only thing you’d won was a fatherless child. But she tore out of the room, a whirlwind of empty apologies shrinking like shucked leaves on your tongue. 

Shaking, you looked to your thumb, pulsing with pain; creeks of blood stained your sleeve. One footstep, and another, and your Commander crossed into the parlour room, dressed in his boots, black slacks, a matching dress shirt. His hair was washed and wavy, his face free of shadow, a pink mark on his cheek. For all of Johana’s mistakes, you couldn’t justify this particular punishment she’d received--and yet, your heart clenched in his presence. You were afraid you would never stop loving him. 

He examined you, his lid twitched when he spotted your still-weeping wound. Frowning, he stepped toward you. “You’re bleeding.”

Jaw tight, you retreated, glaring at him. “I know.”

“Come.” He reached for you. “You need a bandage.” 

“No, I don’t.” You dodged, snagged the towel from the floor and circled around him, his eyes shimmering with shielded grief, following you until you met the archway. “I’ll let it bleed.”

Kylo Ren said your name--but you had escaped to the hallway with the towel around your thumb, unable to stay, unwilling to hear what came next. Your appetite had disappeared. In the dash to your room, you passed Ushar by the annex staircase, but he did not follow you up the steps. Instead, he remained a statue, stoic as you fled, a red wraith of rage, behind your door.   

[namjoonchronicles]

boxes | nj

↳ pairing namjoon, reader

↳ genre fluff, domestic, established relationship

↳ words 3.3k

↳ summary namjoon’s thriving work and your university never exactly go hand in hand, with the new adjustments made to accomodate the government’s effort to curb the pandemic, namjoon has to deal with your mood swings and all the boxes that came with it

↳ warning suggestive content, mentions of masturbation, stress mismanagement

↳ song dizzy ‘magician’ 

Doorbell. The door swung open to a sullen, barely awake Kim Namjoon. He managed to slide on a grey WTAPS hoodie as he walked to the door in his knee length shorts, rubbing his eyes and squinting at who was at the door.

“Mrs. Kim?” The delivery man asks. “That’s my wife, yes,” Namjoon said in a gritty voice.

He was slowly grasping the fact that he was entertaining a delivery addressed to his roommate and bedmate. The stranger at duty finally hands him a parcel, the size of a small go-kart cart meant for kids; and then shoves him an electronic device that Namjoon was supposed to sign on, where he acknowledges that the parcel had been received. The felt-tip pen doesn’t do justice to Namjoon’s otherwise pretty handwriting, but that’s not the first, and certainly won’t be the last.

And at the corner of Namjoon’s mind, by the time the delivery man left and disappeared to the end of the hall was, who was this from and what could it be?

Just a few hours ago, when the sun was hiding under the horizon, and the stars still decorated the skies, the chirping birds from the floor below had filled Namjoon’s ears as he crawled into bed, laying on his back and finally sighing from the amount of work he forced himself to do. A split second after, your alarm rang. And he frowned. Your arms reveal themselves from the depth of the duvet, snaking over Namjoon’s bare chest, as you brought your face over his nipples lazily to get to your phone that was on the nightstand. He exhaled through his nose and spoke under his breath,

“Your phone’s on the other side.”

Catching a few seconds of snooze before you actually replied, you mumbled,

“I know,” against his supple chest.

A few more minutes of skin contact before you had to start the day, you begged in your head. Your head was underneath Namjoon’s chin and his arm draped over your shoulders. As the mind awakes, you heard him say, “Wake up, or you’ll be late,” while absolutely nothing about his confining arms. His ridiculousness eventually made you smile, first thing in the morning. Had he been sleeping in regular hours, you wouldn’t feel like nagging him. But as you peel yourself from him, unwillingly, you saw his tired face and soft snores, you decided that sleep schedules are a discussion for another day. Rubbing your forehead, you finally fetched your phone on time before it begins to ring again and woke your husband up.

By the looks of it, he really needs the rest. The clock on the phone shows 7.02AM. Yawning, you dragged your feet into the bathroom and like that, your day begins.

It was your birthday. And your husband completely missed it. It hurts, but it was easy to shove every emotional matter aside because you were swamped with work from university. Ever since long distance education began, there were papers after papers after papers that your lecturer had advised to read and report on. Constructing frameworks with related articles, and dissecting what is needed and what wasn’t was not only time consuming, it was draining you emotionally and mentally. Sitting hours on end on the desk at home gave you back pain and earned you some appointments with Namjoon’s physiotherapist as per his insistent requests. There were papers, literally in every corner, on every surface of the house. Namjoon slipped over one. Or two. Once, or twice. Actually, a few times.

It gets mixed with his music arrangements, his lyrics, his online-purchase receipts. It gets stacked on his piano and several on his bookrack. Just, papers.

Birthday? On the most hectic week of your semesters where the final exam is held? And assignments to be submitted? No time. No time for celebration. It is article after article. Citations over citations. Paraphrasing after paraphrasing after some more paraphrasing. Namjoon watched in horror sometimes. Sometimes he just accepted his fate. That his wife, in distress, would place weird things in weird places. Such as, phone in the fridge or the microwave. Car keys in the wardrobe. House keys in shoes -- this one, you insisted that it fell but Namjoon could vouch that he actually saw you put them in the shoes and hung your socks on the key holder. Namjoon also had to text you, while in the house, to eat, and shower or sleep -- all the basic human necessities. And if he is not in the house, he sends pictures of his food to remind you.

Your stress was entirely something else. You were a whole different being. Not to say that you throw tantrums, or that you get fidgety. But you get hazy. The only way to explain it is, sometimes, when Namjoon is speaking to you, you could be looking into his face and watching him talk, and ask him to repeat because you didn’t hear a thing he said. You were just nodding. Like that one time when he was speaking about a certain meteor shower occurring at such and such time and place, you were wondrously staring only to say, “What did you say again? I wasn’t paying attention…I’m sorry.” Namjoon would shut his eyes in agony and fetch the remote to change the channel, refusing to repeat himself. And you would whine in protest because you feel that he felt neglected, and it wasn’t your intention. You were just occupied. By pressing due dates, and pressure to deliver paperwork feasible to your lecturers.

You left the house to have better home-study dynamics. Your Wifi has been on and off and despite Namjoon’s online complaints, no one has been allowed to perform technical aids in homes due to the Corona Virus spread. Aware of this, you took your work to the university where you can focus better. Namjoon wasn’t entirely against it. He was just worried that you wouldn’t eat on time, unsupervised. Namjoon has been actively working from home and you could see his productivity had been slowed down due to lack of environmental stimulation. He didn’t have to say it out loud, but if he does, you’re there to listen. So, it was your birthday. And he was half awake, pushing the parcel into the house, so it sits next to the couch.

And then. Another doorbell. And another. And another. And another.

“Mrs. Kim?” “Yes.”

Doorbell. Signed.

“Is this Mrs. Kim’s resi--” “Correct.”

Doorbell. Signed. Carry parcel.

“.” “That’s my wife?”

Doorbell. Signed. Parcel. Stack. Doorbell. Signed. Parcel. Pushed. Doorbell. Parcel. Signed. Pushed. Stacked. Pushed. Stacked.

Namjoon heaves one box in and lets out a big exhale when his phone begins to ring and he dashes to it, down the hall on the bedside table. His thumb drags the answer button, places his phone on his ear and breathes out, “Honey…”

“Hey, I’ve been calling and calling… I just got a text from several friends that they’re sending some--” “Parcels? Packages? Letters? Yeah, I think I got them…” Namjoon scans around the living room, “All of them.” “I’m so sorry, you must have been so tired, you didn’t even get much sleep. It’s just. My friends, they wanted to send me things for my birthday… is it a lot?”

Namjoon clamps his lips between his teeth, understanding the gravity of the situation. Not only had he forgotten his wife’s birthday, he was being an ass. Muttering fucks under his breath, he leans his forehead on the wall.

“It’s your birthday…shit, I forgot,” he scolds himself through the phone for you. You half-smiled while continuing to type on your computer.

“That’s right,” you hummed teasingly, “What are you going to do…Hmm?”

“I’ll do anything…” he pleaded.

“Anything? I’ll figure it out and let you know alright? I’m gonna be home soon… But I can’t say when… Take care.” “Does that mean today or like--Hello? Did she just hang up on me?” Namjoon stares at his phone screen where it reads ‘Call Ended.’

“Half of the living room is gone,” Namjoon pulled a chair out the dining table looking over the said scene.

You tutted your tongue, already imagining the gravity of the situation. Had it been you at home, Namjoon could have slept soundly. However as you had these assignments to submit and time-pinching articles to read that you have to be here. Namjoon sounded so exhausted. And honestly, you didn’t know how many more were coming since it was a surprise. You got these messages from the delivery company that there was a delivery under your phone number and address so you were notified as Namjoon was being bulleted with endless doorbells. It should end now. You’re not receiving any more messages. Half of you wanted Namjoon to give you a good night as a birthday gift, while the other wants him to suffer a couple of more nights of unattended ‘needs’. And you being you, it almost always falls on the latter.

The door unlocks and Namjoon springs on his feet, dashing to the entrance where you walked in with a couple of thick books in your arm, totally ignoring your lamp post husband holding the door open when you’re trying to close them. He thought he was helping you out so you stare at him to ask him why he is holding it open. He smiled awkwardly and let the door shut while you walked in to place the books stacked on the kitchen counter. Namjoon was hoping that you noticed that the sink is empty and that he washed all the dishes. You didn’t comment on anything but poured yourself a cold glass of water. Namjoon ran his tongue along the length of his lips to keep them from drying up. Eyes restless, body fidgeting at the sight of you gulping down the liquid. He stammers out the question, “H-how was your day?”

And he continues, while you give him your back to wash the mug, “You said you were coming home soon, and you didn’t until like seven hours later… Where did you go?”

“Ah, the lab technicians arranged a birthday celebration for me, you know Yoongi right? So they got me like a cake, I couldn’t save you some…” you smacked your lips together after hanging the glass on the racks to dry. Then you walked past the fridge to open it, poking your head inside while Namjoon chewed the insides of his cheek, looking down to his fiddling fingers. Then he softly said, “For seven hours…?”

You heard him but you spun around and told him flatly, “I’m going to go take a shower, can you heat this up for me?” Passing him a ready made meal, then tip toeing to grab his face to kiss him full on the lips. And deepening it enough to get him moaning, have his arm snaking under your dress shirt but pulling away when he tried to reciprocate the same passion. You smiled slyly as you skipped to your bedroom for him to follow you a bit later, just for him to be door slammed on the bathroom door. And locked. This is where Namjoon picks up the hint that it was a game you decided to play. It’s his punishment. And it began seven hours ago.

After your ready made meal, you were laying next to him in bed reading emails on the tab, rubbing his thigh up and down achingly slowly while he read and grew increasingly uncomfortable with his hardons. He had been reading the same sentences for the past 20 minutes and his philtrum was moist with sweat, he began blinking and shaking his head a couple of times. He said nothing because he knew you were doing this to punish him. Everytime your palm moved further up his thighs, inches away from where he really needs you, you pull away. Ever so accidentally, the back of your knuckle would brush against his clothed hard ons, and he would suppress a moan. He feels sore, itchy, dying to touch himself to the point that he was practically gripping so hard on his book.

Bored with emails, you began to watch a series on Netflix and every now and then, you would let out the gasps that he recognises to be the one you’d make in bed with him. You would also let out moans that would make him dizzy. His knee shakes as his needs go untreated and you asked him, in an angelic tone, “Is everything okay baby?”

He breathes, “No.” The book flew from his hand and he turned to you, begging with everything he has in him for you to, “Please. It hurts.”

You put your tabs away with a sigh, took your glasses off and you thumbed his cheek. Putting your face close enough for him to feel your breath on his skin, you smiled affectionately, “Goodnight baby…” Passing him a box of tissues and reminded him, “Not too loud, okay?”

Defeated, Namjoon almost felt like crying. How long must he deal with this? How long must he want and can’t have? And if you thought his desires died down after he masturbates, you were wrong. Sleeping right next to you like this, you were pushing your butt on his hip while sleeping soundly, making him shiver. All the hair behind his neck stood up as he tried to control his dick once again. He married the she-devil herself. Sweating profusely, he grabs the duvet above you, pressed himself on you, peppering wet kisses on your neck and shoulders and on every inch of skin he had access to, to hopefully persuade you into forever in a moment. He felt you stir awake and calling out his name in your sleepy voice, propelling him further into neediness.

“Please, let me make you feel good, hmm?” he pleaded. He begins grinding achingly slowly on the curve of your butt and makes you whine.You feel his every crevice and desperation that you sleepily giggle then he groggily says with a boyish tone, “I’ll make you feel so good.” He just really needs to hear you say his name in the manner only lovers know. He was going to lose his goddamn mind if you don’t do something to him. He felt so helpless and vulnerable and bare, it aches. He got on top of you, and suddenly everything feels heavier. His knees digging into the mattress next to your hip, the heat coming out from him, his dilated pupils and baritone voice, repeating how sorry he was. It had you gripping sheets and catapulted to another world. When he said he wanted you to feel good, he really meant rocketing you out the universe it seems. He was gentle and sensual about it, and it was your ultimate kryptonite.

The familiar coiling in the pit of your stomach, the rearing la petite mort as the French says, teeth sinking into flesh, rippling release. Namjoon was adamant to deliver. He then switched from being an absolute gentle angel to a beast. In the back of your mind, you knew he was getting back at you for the torture you let him through. He was determined to not let you leave the bed next morning, or the morning after that. That was the ability of a seasoned lover. He knows where to touch, where to bite, where to spend most time on. He knows just how to make you scream and have you yank his hair back like that. The way he delivers his love is like, “How dare you ignore me? How dare you deny me of your love?”

Namjoon stirred awake feeling sore. The duvet pools around his waist, his happy trails showing as he sat up on the middle of the bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palm. He saw you curled on your side next to him. Staring at you long enough to watch you switch to your back and displaying the marks he made on you last night. He bit his lips at the sight as the memories returned in delicious flashes. He lays on his stomach and turns his head towards you, smiling like an idiot. He then floats his index finger over your exposed mound, nipples and down the middle of your torso, but there was nothing sexual about it, just sensuality. Consciousness swam tastefully around your head and you blinked several times, before the visions cleared. You caught him grinning.

“G’mornin,” he groggily greeted in his morning voice. “Morning,” you replied just as affectionately.

Then you figured that the boxes outside wouldn’t unpack themselves if you stayed in bed today, so after a quick breakfast, Namjoon was at your service. His job was to collect the boxes and foam sheets that came with fragile gifts. As you gasps and gawks at the items that are sent to you, like the quirky mugs and hand-stitched runners, Namjoon smiles in awe at how creative your friends and families are. There were hand printed t-shirts from your 1 year old nephew finger drawings, old baby pictures of you from your hometown and some signed books from your friend who is an author. They all had little notes that Namjoon would read aloud for you, he even got the tones right from knowing how your friends talk. Your cheeks were hurting from smiling ear-to-ear.

Namjoon watches you from the door sill as you placed the last gift next to his KAWS collection, with a fond smile stuck on his face. Tiptoeing, chin up, hair in a bun--was his wife. Then slowly, your vibrant face faltered. And Namjoon was quick to notice.

“What is it…?” He said, in a defeated tone. You answered with a shoulder shrug. “Another trip around the sun, another year getting older…” You slumped in the hammock next to the window glass. Namjoon joined you by sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall opposing you.

“Sometimes, I just wonder, is this all there is, and even though so, it’s a lot to unpack. Without you, my life would probably be dull, and even with these friends I dearly love, I would have felt very lonely. This year my birthday felt a little special. Although you forgot,” you squeezed your eyes at him, “I was actually happy you didn’t remember. I was sad that I’m no longer what I considered young. The gap just felt a little wider, and things grew over time. I worry about not having more time with my parents, and not contributing enough. I worry about the friends I have that I might no longer have in 3 years time. I worry about you and the things you’ll do and the hurdles you’ll face… I worry about everything that isn’t me.”

Namjoon leans his head back, listening, hugging his knees, hollowing his cheeks.

“I think the question that frequently goes into my mind is, where do we go from here? What’s there to look forward to now that we’re here? And I have to find the answers to these questions. Then I get impatient, anxious of not knowing what the correct answers are…” your voice drifted.

Namjoon scooted over to sit next to your knee like a huge pup, and he turned to face the same view you were looking at. Sunkissed skin, golden rays of the evening, the rainbow cascading from the crystal ball you hung at the corner of the room when the light hits. Everything about the day was tranquil. Then, Namjoon rested his chin on your knee, moved his cheek bone on them, mashing his lips to a pout. And in the comfortable brief silence you stayed, listening to the time tick, and the faint sound of the rustling traffic that Namjoon swiftly say,

“Maybe there aren't any answers.” And if that was true, and it might be true, maybe… there is very little to worry about. Seven trips around the sun with Namjoon. To a whole lot more.

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copyright © 2020 namjoonchronicles do not repost, and thank you for reading

[patrickswayzeme]

Description: Klaus has to open up to Diego to prevent him from making a similar mistake. 

Warnings: Light swearing, implication of ptsd, angst 

Characters: Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves

Pairings: Past Klaus x Dave; past Eudora x DiegoSo I got this prompt back in AUGUST and I started on it then but then stuff kept happening and I never finished it. But now I finally did! The prompt was Klaus finally opening up to his siblings about Dave and the Vietnam War.   I want to more sibling and probably also have the rest of their conversation, but here’s the start! Thank you so much for the prompt and i’m so sorry this is so late and I’m not sure if you’ll even see it because you are on anon. 

*Since this isn’t the point of the prompt, I am not going to try and plot out what the heck is happening in season 3, but let’s assume that they are out of the house and staying somewhere together in the city, Reginald knows they’re there, and they know about the other academy, and there’s tension there but they’re trying to figure out how this timeline differs from theirs.*

--------

It was early in the morning, sunlight was only just visible over the horizon, Klaus was sitting on the roof of their new temporary family home. He mindlessly rubbed his fingers together, pulling at his shirt sleeve with his thumb. It felt strange to sit up on the roof like this without a cigarette between them, but it had been stranger to consider one and not hear Ben’s nagging. His absence was louder than his company had ever been, and Klaus didn’t want to acknowledge it. 

He had been up there for most of the night, not wanting to disturb his siblings. He leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes for a moment, starting to doze off as the incessant chattering of the dead was slowly replaced by the chirping of birds. 

He felt a loud bang and a vibration under him and jolted awake. His whole body shook and he quickly rolled over on his belly to try and miss the bomb and started sliding.

   Diego had thought he was being respectful to his siblings by sneaking out the side window. He knew they would roll their eyes at his “dramatic” exit, and maybe he did always choose the action movie route over the conventional, but that didn’t mean there was no thought put into it. When he turned the corner to the front yard it was very apparent that his plan had failed.  Two legs, clad in tight black leather, were dangling from the roof, desperately trying to find something to get a foothold of.  He looked up and saw Klaus’s fingers slipping on the edge of the roof. He instinctively grabbed Klaus by the waist, pulling him backwards so they both tumbled to the ground, Klaus’s fall mostly broken by Diego. 

“What the hell, Klaus?” Diego griped, wiggling out from under his brother and dusting himself off. 

Klaus lifted his head up off the ground, eyes big but glazed over, like he was just taking in his surroundings for the first time

“Oh, you know, just some morning yoga” Klaus joked softly, as he attempted to pull himself up off the ground, but his arms gave out and he let his face fall in the dirt and just laid there, letting out a weak laugh. 

“Klaus, come on, get up, you’re fine..” Diego insisted, rolling his eyes as he turned to his brother to lecture him more. He noticed how he his brother was shaking. Maybe the fall was worse than Diego thought and he was just getting too use to hard falls like that.

“I’m sorry I scared you…I thought you were in bed…you okay?”

He asked as he crouched down, his tone a little softer now. He tried to remember the way Eudora used to talk to victims and emulate that. Maybe Klaus was just pulling his leg, but something about him seemed…off.

"Oh nothing, just being a fuck up...” Klaus sighed, through a pained smile. “It’s fine, you should go to bed, I’m sure you’ve been up all night, you know...saving lives..” He laughed weakly as he quoted his brother back to him, expecting an angry rebuttal, as he took the hand Diego had offered and pulled himself up so they were both sitting on the ground. 

Diego didn’t react to the joke and now that Klaus got a good look at his brother, he realized he didn’t look like he had been up all night at all. No knives strapped to his body and he wasn’t even wearing all black. He was wearing a nice button down he must have gotten at a thrift store or something and his hair, still long from the 60s, has been brushed and probably had some kind of gel in it, Klaus was guessing. 

“Did you get your job at the commission back?” Klaus asked jokingly, with the air of a proud dad.

“no, I was just...going…out.” Diego said cautiously, his eyes shifting to look at the ground. 

He started getting up again, his focus turning to his own discomfort. 

Klaus recognized that desperate, uncomfortable look.

“Diego...” he started, not sure how he was going to broach this topic if his suspicions were correct. 

“Klaus, it’s late, you should go to bed, I’m just…going shopping.”

“Oh, I’ll come with then, I’ve really had a hankering for chocolate milk lately” 

Klaus scampered up, playing along that he really believed his brother’s obvious lie.

"I’ll pick you some up, but you should go back inside...if you’re okay.” Diego glanced back at him, still not able to put a finger on what was wrong with his brother. “No broken bones?” He asked raising an eyebrow, like he thought Klaus might not tell him if he did.

Klaus playfully patted himself down and then threw his hands up in the air. 

“Nope! All good here! Take me away from this place! Unless...you’re not going shopping.” He added, tilting his head inquisitively... his smiles faded, and he dropped the lightness in his voice. “New timeline, gotta explore right? I know you will never take my advice so, my advice is, go ahead, go find out, it will definitely do your heart wonders.”

Diego bulked a bit at the bitter sarcasm and scoffed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re on about, but I’m gonna go okay? Go get some rest or some coffee or something…”he called back dismissively   

Klaus’s shoulder slumped but he didn’t say anything. He just let his body slide back down to the ground, letting the tree support his back. “Yeah, what do I know about dead lovers and messed up timelines…” he sighed to him, closing his eyes, an instinctively reaching for Dave’s dog tags around his neck.

Diego sighed and willed himself to turn around. He didn’t want to but as the founder of team zero, it was his job to act like it.

He sat beside his brother again, under the tree and put a shaky hand on his shoulder. Klaus didn’t respond, but he didn’t shake him off either. 

“Hey look...you wanna tell me what’s going on? I feel like I’m missing something.” Diego said a bit clumsily.

Klaus shook his head. “It’s fine, Diego…you should go…”

“You knew that I was looking for her?” Diego asked, still slow and unsure.

Klaus nodded.  “Of course…. it’s what I would do…I mean, what I did….except…” He trailed off. He was waiting for Diego to cut him off or get upset that he was insinuating that they were alike in any way.

“Except what?” Diego encouraged.

“Well, I had a reason. You don’t…if you find her, then what? You’ll beat yourself up about it and if you don’t…you’ll be heartbroken all over again..” Klaus didn’t look at Diego as he spoke, but at the grass, still wet with dew. He kept thumbing the dog tags around his neck.

“Wait…the guy you told me about…you saw him again? When?” Diego asked, now genuinely curious and confused. He frowned, trying to remember everything Klaus had told him. He usually didn’t think twice about things his brother said. He was starting to realize that might be part of their problem.

“In Dallas…he was five years younger and had no idea who I was….”

Diego nodded as he listened, eyes out of focus, trying to process,  “fuck” was all he managed to say,  inhaling  sharply.

Klaus laughed. “yeah….fuck.”

“So…did you do what you needed to do? You said there was a reason?” Diego asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer, but he really didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah, and I just made it…so much worse, I mean, big surprise right?” He laughed bitterly, just on the edge of a sob.

Diego unsurely raised his arm to pat Klaus on the shoulder. Klaus flinched a little and Diego  immediately withdrew and looked at the ground, trying not to process the immediate guilt he was feeling.  

A few seconds later he felt a little nudge on his shoulder. Klaus had leaned against and already closed his eyes before Diego could say anything.

“You’re not anymore of a fuck up than the rest of us…” Diego said after a few minutes of silence. “I know I give you shit for it, but….” He trailed off, trying to find the right words to say what he meant.

“That’s nice Diego, but I know you don’t believe that…and that’s okay! I tried to do something right, I fucked up, and I have to deal with that…but you’re smarter than me, so you don’t have to.” Klaus replied, eyes still closed.

Diego laughed, causing Klaus to slip off his shoulder and push back in playful retaliation.

“Now I know you don’t believe that. You might be crazy, but everyone knows I’m the dumb one.” Diego was still laughing, but didn’t make eye contact.

Klaus turned to him and looked really serious, and lowered his voice to a raspy, kind of batman rip-off. “You know Diego, you’re not anymore of an idiot that’s the rest of us….I know I give you shit for it, but…” he looked away dramatically.

“shut up!” Diego protested, pushing him away, but he was laughing. “I don’t sound like that…”

“no…” Klaus said thoughtfully, settling on his back on the ground, not bothering to get back up. “But I thought you wanted to be Batman?” He said pointedly, opening one eye to look at Diego’s reaction and then scampering up, before his brother could get to him.

“You better run!” Diego called after him, but didn’t actually bother to get up.

Klaus, peaked out behind the tree they had been sitting by. “There better not be anything in your hands…” he warned, looking around to make sure Diego wasn’t going to throw anything at him before cautiously making it back to where he was sitting before.

They sat there for a few more minutes in silence. Diego wanted to ask more questions, but Klaus finally looked a little more like his normal self. So, he would ask them later.

“Do you want me to take you to the store so we can buy chocolate milk?” Diego asked, in a tone that couldn’t be described as anything besides “annoyed older brother” despite, Klaus technically being older now and never letting him forget it.

“Only if you’re buying.” Klaus joked, “but yeah!” He jumped up enthusiastically. Diego got up a little slower, but followed, in an over the top show of put-on reluctance “ okay, let’s go.” 

[beeblackburn]

Ghosts for the fandom ask as well! 👀

The first character I ever fell in love with: Thomas Thorne. “Ah, she’s gone” remains one hell of a delightful line delivery. And his following melodrama was just amazing to sit through. I love dramatic™ bitches.

A character that I used to love/like, but now do not: I... honestly don’t know? Like, I generally like every character in this series and that’s not particularly a small feat. I suppose if I had to choose... the Captain or Mike, and only because I’ve come to realize their later more self-centered/forcible moments were there from the get-go, from the Captain’s complaining about Fanny’s screaming and Mike taking out a loan without talking about it with Alison while she was in a coma, not necessarily because I dislike them.

A ship that I used to love/like, but now do not: Ummm, none! I generally agree with the ships in this series. 

My ultimate favorite character™: Thomas Thorne, he usually guarantees a laugh with any line reading, he looks good, he usually holds back before his crush on Alison gets too creepy, The Thomas Thorne Affair and Free Pass helps explain his more romantic tendencies and the former genuinely floored me with some of its twists and that last revelation broke my damn heart. Poor Isabelle and Thomas. They lost so much because the first Lord Button was a selfish arse. And I adore that Thomas was the first one who sung along In the Bleak Midwinter with Alison. I hope all the best for him.

Prettiest character: Kitty or Thomas. Kitty’s more my type, and I love her dress, but Thomas has those floofy locks to die for.

My most hated character: FUCK LORD BUTTON THE FIRST WITH A MUSKET BALL. That being said, I don’t come out of the Christmas Special respecting Mike’s sisters. And, depending on how Kitty’s backstory goes, her sister’s set to replace Lord Button the First. Honestly, I feel like I come out of this series hating cousins and sisters.

My OTP: Mike/Alison. Aside from some hiccups, Mike’s genuinely supportive and follows Alison’s lead and Alison grounds Mike’s eccentrics or flights of fear. They’re not friction-less, but they feel lived-in, have little jokes with each other, and are a couple who love each other and work through their problems.

My NOTP: Yeah, still none.

Favorite episode: Man, there’s a spoil of riches in Season 2 alone, but I keep revisiting Happy Death Day, Getting Out, About Last Night, Redding Weddy, The Thomas Thorne Affair, and Bump in the Night. If I had to narrow it down... The Thomas Thorne Affair, Bump in the Night or The Ghost of Christmas all vie for favorite.

The Thomas Thorne Affair is the best flashback episode Ghosts got, given it’s got a ton of narrative room to breathe around the death in question (I love Redding Weddy, but I wanted more scenes between the Captain and Lieutenant Havers), allowing for multiple perspectives to see the death, and I love how many holes get plugged up by POVs like Kitty’s or get misdirected off-track like Robin’s or get made into a more interesting imaginary scenario like the Captain’s (real talk, his take never fails to make me laugh, bless you, Captain). It’s all hilarious (that bird getting shot by Thomas’ gun as he falls is my second-guiltiest laugh of the series) but it also speaks to a very real idea of our memories: that we edit, we revise, we look back with nostalgia or clean up the messier bits. Add in the twists and the Mike subplot and it all adds up to a tragic tale whose theme is about how another man’s utter selfishness is capable of destroying a relationship between two lovers through violence, either directly or by proxy. It’s delightfully hilarious, but it hits so hard and Thomas’ words about the truth making it all worse twists my heart.

I feel Bump in the Night is the funniest episode Ghosts’ got. It’s not particularly serious, there are no real stakes, given one of the burglars is terrible at theft, it’s just a bunch of total morons fumbling through a breaking-and-entering and it’s amazing. Fanny complaining that the burglars are terrible at theft, the Ghosts calling for 999, only to not think through how to communicate, them trying to communicate with Mike via a creepy doll’s eyelids, Alison immediately realizing Mike’s in the wardrobe, Julian writing “2 of them” instead of 2 like a non-dumbass, MIKE IN THE SUIT OF ARMOR, it’s all amazingly funny, but at the same time, it’s all underlined by the emotional truth that Alison, Mike, and the Ghosts have come far enough that the Ghosts are willing to help them out because they like them, instead of scaring them off or causing problems like in Season 1. Alison verbalizes it, but the more touching scene is how she thanks Robin, the Ghost that first scared her because he had nothing better to do, for getting Barclay to help them and he just nods humbly back. This episode is full of idiots, but it’s got a decent amount of heart in it that gives it weight beyond the laughs.

The Ghost of Christmas probably has one of my favorite theses on why we endure the holidays with our families, despite it never being as magical as can be. There’s stuff to nitpick like how I don’t like how Mike’s sisters delight in Mike throwing a fit, going so far to film it, and some of Julian’s scenes with the baby run a bit long for my taste, but I really do like Julian’s summation of Christmas: that it’s perfect because it’s not perfect and that we should be grateful of any time we spend with family, because it will all go away someday, as the ghosts can testify. We take the good with the bad. There are some delightful humor bits like the Ghosts needling the Captain and Thomas to join in on Twister, Fanny looking up at the tall tree from the seeds they planted, Mike’s dad having a chainsaw, and Julian waving off his daughter being a MP of the Green Party (screw you, Julian, she rules because of that), but there’s also the theme of family in the emotional scene. When Mike’s dad tells him they’re overbearing because someday they won’t get to do things for him, there’s a heartwarming irony that, even past death, the Ghosts are there for Alison, their newest family member. This episode made me realize just how... barren Alison’s biological family connections are from the first episode’s mentioning that there were no other direct relatives. And In the Bleak Midwinter is a gorgeous song that cuts as a certain truth: just because others can’t see your family doesn’t make them any less real to you. 

Saddest death: Thomas dying all alone at the tree, no one living by his side, feeling the sting of being rejected one final time at the end because his cousin was a selfish arse who capitalized on a woman he didn’t love for her estate? God, this bears repeating, but fuck Lord Button the First.

Favorite season: Oh, definitely Season 2. I love Season 1, but I’m not a huge fan of second-hand embarrassment and seeing Alison get embarrassed by her reacting to ghosts that others can’t see made me wince quite a few times. I much prefer Season 2′s handling of Alison and the Ghosts and how they work.

Least favorite season: Season 1. I don’t take to the more second-hand embarrassment humor of that season, but I do love every episode except Free Pass. It’s still a great season with episodes like Happy Death Day, Moonah Ston, and Getting Out. Special mention to Happy Death Day, which was the first time I realized Ghosts could balance the comedy and the darkness with sincere emotion without them undercutting each other at the wrong time.

Character that everyone else in the fandom loves, but i hate: Now? Not really. In the first season though, I sometimes found Kitty a little too grating, possessive, and intrusive. Not that I don’t get where she’s coming from, her childhood sounds lonely and painful in ways she doesn’t fully comprehend and ghosthood hasn’t exactly made her any less lonely in some ways, most times I understand, but sometimes, like at the start of Getting Out where I feel she really should pump the brakes. 

That being said, her backstory’s gonna break me. I just know it.

My ‘you’re piece of trash, but you’re still a fave’ fave: Fanny or the Captain. They really can be abrasive or domineering in that first season, the Captain steamrolling over Pat from time to time and Lady Fanny’s nitpicking and homophobia, but I do get why they are that way and they do get better.

My ‘beautiful cinnamon roll who deserves better than this’ fave: Kitty, who deserves all the blankets for that childhood. Mary, who likely has a mental illness and got burnt because of that. Humphrey, who doesn’t deserve being ignored by the Ghosts.

My ‘this ship is wrong, nasty, and makes me want to cleanse my soul, but i still love it’ ship: Thomas/Alison. Thomas, sometimes, your behavior can get a little too much regarding Alison. That first (thankfully only) peep at her in the shower, I know you’ve been frustrated for years as a Ghost, but noooooooo. That being said, when Thomas respects her boundaries and is a supportive friend (have I mentioned how touching In the Bleak Midwinter is?), I dig them.

My ‘they’re kind of cute, and i lowkey ship them, but i’m not too invested’ ship: Pat/Cap. Not that I don’t get it, and it promises heartwarming feels and heartbreak (Pat moving on after they hook up and Captain having to watch another leave him again, but this time, Captain got to admit his feelings before the leaving) and they are rather adorable together, but I’m more waiting for the narrative to acknowledge the possibility before launching myself into the ship full-time.