#{/i mean it when i say it now: leonard will be back in full swing SOON. after i get this last ask figured out and his DS1 verse established

[blindedguilt]

🔁 |[HIT ME. ♥]|

"You're going to get us killed." - Interaction Rewrite Prompts!

For Leonard, the weight of a child's blood upon his weapon was heavier than anything else he had handled before in his lifetime.

He hadn't the honour to have even called it the first, but different from his brothers, who had found their end directly by the blades of the Empire, there was no hope for the blame of responsibility to be lifted off his shoulders now that he had wielded that same blade himself.

Leonard's breathing was panicked and uneven. A cold sweat ran down his back as the sensation of the light body being flung backwards shot once more through his arms - he felt ill. Had he died? Had he done away with his life in that forest and been sentenced to hell? Perhaps it was all a punishment, an eternity spent in war, ending the lives of children just as he had his brothers. The screams had sounded too familiar for comfort.

He couldn't, couldn't bring himself to fight. The stakes didn't come to him. The seal didn't exist to him. The usually tranquil forest had roared with the sounds of the clashing steel, the hurried footsteps, the cries and mockery of the faerie - something like the dragon's voice had called his name in harsh rebuke, and whether it truly was her or Caim, Leonard didn't understand and stumbled blindly back to the garrisons in a piteous attempt to flee.

Too cowardly to die, and too starved to survive.

All that was clear to him against the roar of noise was his own breathing, the feeling of his heart pounding in its chest, and the crushing weight of the guilt from that thought repeating itself in his head like a mantra. Leonard struggled to break out of it - do or say something that could stop this madness. Anything. A sickened cry sounded at the sound of the mercenary's own cold reproach, and the hermit struggled to respond.

"Caim, please...!"

He had tried to utter words, either protest or a plea, but his throat had grown tight and left only a quiet whimper. Was that all he could do? Beg...? Leonard's weapon trembled in his hands. He was truly weak... He could have done more than beg. Just like his brothers, there was a thought that told him that he could have saved them. But, it was all the same. His family murdered for the sake of shameful pleasure. The blood of children spilled only for his own protection - his own cowardice to even die correctly. All for himself, a pathetic existence unable to even lift a finger against the slaughter of children.

Some wretched noise, a ragged fight for strained breath against the pounding heart in his chest, could be heard against the armoured thumps of bodies against the ground. Even from a distance, Leonard's frozen body could be seen trembling uncontrollably. The polearm dangled limply from his hands.

"They are only mere children...!"

The last uttered words before the hermit collapsed to his knees were a heart-wrenching sob.

Not a voice of disgust, but a cry in horror.

[ultramagicalternate]

ULTRAMagic Chaos Chapter 17

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Master Post - Patreon

It was a glorious sight to see the Arbiters of Droom stand united. Even though a literal rogue god was manifesting before them, a good amount of the citizenry had made their way to the walls to watch the confrontation. Osbeorn got out his mace, Beorhtric readied his bardiche, Waltheof held his greatshields firmly, and Cyneberht prepared his deck of cards. Wynstan stood there, nervously shaking as he gripped his rifle. It was intimidating standing in the presence of his fellow arbiters like that.

“So… who are we up against again?” Wynstan asked as the rogue god took shape.

“It appears to be The Shadow God” Beorhtric stated.

“Well I’d dare say this confirms what our spies have told us” Osbeorn pointed out.

“...that Dunja invoked this one to create the Shadow Ord.”

Wynstan quickly realized something. “Wait, a spy? Aren’t we all 6D and above? Since when do we need spies?” The Shadow God promptly laughed at him.

Osbeorn gave a frustrated chuckle. “Well, kid, there’s one of your answers.”

“It’s a truly terrifying idea that these entities can interfere with us like that” Cyneberht said with a hint of dread in his voice.

Looking at the god again, Wynstan noticed a distinct lack of action from it. “Why isn’t he attacking?”

“Good question, son,” Wulfric said, getting his sword ready. “Alright, buddy. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

The Shadow God had finished forming, resembling a fiery, black and red shadow brought to life. “Ooh! How about the ‘middle of the road’ way!? HAHA!”

Wulfric looked confused, then turned to Eadlhelm. “Is it always like this?”

“The Thundering God came close. Shadow God, pardon my asking, but what did you mean by that?”

He laughed. “Do you have potatoes in your ears!? It goes like this!” The Shadow God summoned a great fireball over Droomopolis… only for it to fizzle out. “Now you try to attack me!”

Osbeorn and Beorhtric took a breath to steady their nerves and charged forward. They swung their weapons only to miss and fall to the ground. The Shadow God danced around laughing, as if it were all a game.

“Okay, maybe not like The Thundering God as he actually tried to attack us…” Ealdhelm observed.

“HAHA, see?” The Shadow God continued to dance around. “Middle of the road!”

Wulfric growled. “A wise guy, aye?” He ran forward, ready to swing his sword. “TAKE THIS!”

The Arbiters watched as Wulfric tried to slash at The Shadow God over and over again. Wulfric was one of the best swordsmen in the Realm of Chaos, but the god dodged every attack. No one wanted to admit it, but the scene was actually quite comical.

The Shadow God was full of taunts. “Too slow, just missed it!... Where did you learn to swing?... Sun Tzu says you missed!... Close, but no cigar!”

Back at the wall, Raisa was growing concerned. “Should we go help Uncle Wulfric?”

Delphine was deep in thought over it. “I know how you feel, dear…”

“Oi, that god’s slippier than a freshly molted snake” Hannibal remarked. “Could we even help in the first place?”

Sigmund stroked his beard, contemplating the issue. “A good question, Hannibal. Right now I say protecting the city should be our priority. We don’t know what this god has up his sleeves.”

“Stupid, braindead cult…” Tusk moaned. “It’ll take weeks to grow my bark back! And right before my wedding too…”

Razor tried to pat him on the back. “Don’t worry, Tusk. Doesn’t Donia have…” he was cut off by a low, threatening growl. “Ok, sorry, sorry…”

Quasar was picking up on something in relation to the bout. “I don’t think that god wants to fight, guys…”

Leonard nodded. “Duly noted, kiddo. I was ready for a fight to the death, but this feels like we’re dealing with a child.”

Ultimatum pondered it further until he had an idea. “I’m going to go see if I can help.” He then teleported to the arbiters. “Ealdhelm, any developments?”

“Not really…” he replied as Wulfric ran back and forth, chasing after The Shadow God.

“Get back here!” Wulfric ordered, running out of steam. “I’ll run you through!”

“Do you have something in mind, Ultimatum?” Cyneberht inquired.

“Maybe…”

“Whatever it is, it’s worth a shot,” said Beorhtric. “Especially given the stalemate we’re in.”

Wulfric finally stopped to catch his breath. “Okay, I’m done. You guys deal with it…” He then teleported to the wall.

“Aw come on!” The Shadow God complained. “I just got warmed up!”

Ultimatum stepped forward. “Shadow God? Are you aware of who you’re working for?”

“Eh, kind of? That crazy dame of a queen, Dunja, called on me to make some orb doohickey, two actually… but that last one was requested by someone else.”

Osbeorn leaned over to Beorhtric. “That’s not good. Make a note of that” he whispered.

“Noted…”

“Are you affiliated with The Crimson God, Shadow God?” Ultimatum asked.

“That creep!? Absolutely not! He cramps my style and is an utter bore to hang around with.”

“Well that’s a start. Shadow God, let me break it down for you: Milosh? He’s a bad man. Dunja? She was lost and confused. The Running God? He’s nothing but a swindling con man. I think you should hang with us and have a cold one instead.”

The Shadow God tilted his head, then danced around a little. “Can it be root beer?”

Ultimatum snapped his fingers and created a huge mug of the soft drink. “This suit your fancy?”

“Ooh, nice…” The Shadow God took a quick swig. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Biest. Deal!”

“Biest?” Wynstan questioned.

Ultimatum chuckled. “It’s part of my original name.”

The ground then shook, with a pair of mangled, stone pillars rising from the ground. Out of the twisting portal stepped The Madman, looking quite happy. He was followed by The Automaton, who looked cautiously optimistic. The Arbiters bowed in respect as they approached.

“At ease, gentlemen,” The Madman said as he stopped before Ultimatum and The Shadow God.

“Hello, Madman,” Ultimatum welcomed. “Here over him I presume?”

“Most certainly, my boy. I just so happened to be in the neighborhood when…”

“Hold on a second!” Wynstan interrupted. “You were on your way here? What took so long!? Don’t mind us, just dealing with a threat to the Cosmos!”

The Automaton cleared his throat. “Actually, Wynstan, we were dealing with The Vermillion King’s old army. It got pretty messy for The Madman, Terrus, and I, requiring us to call in Ignatius for help.”

“So that’s why my brother had to step away like that…” Ultimatum muttered to himself.

“Oh, my apologies…” Wynstan admitted.

The Madman laughed. “Don’t worry, kid. Your first rodeo is always a wild one.” He then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Now, Shadow God, you’ve been quite the troublemaker recently. Normally we’d do something like sealing you away, but God is forgiving and I am in a very good mood right now. How about you come with us and set things right, yes?”

The Shadow God nervously sipped his Root Beer… only to run out. “Angel boy, can I have a refill?” Ultimatum snapped his fingers again. “Thanks. Um, what’s in it for me, stone man?”

“Returning to the light, helping people out, and maybe even becoming a true god like you were originally supposed to be” The Madman proposed.

“Hum… can we also go to the Reverse Dream Falls in Somnium?”

The Madman laughed again. “We’ll tour the entire Dream Realm, if you wish.”

After some thought about it and one more sip, The Shadow God nodded. “You know what? Fine with me. Let’s go!” This received a round of applause from the arbiters.

The Automaton relaxed and smiled. “Very good, very good. Take notes, Wynstan, that not all rogue gods need to be beaten into submission.”

He nodded. “Right…” Wynstan was a bit frazzled to say the least.

“Let’s roll, gentlemen!” The Madman said as the three stepped towards the portal. “Arrivederci, everyone! Have a good one.”

“He has to be mad to be that cheerful all the time…” Ealdhelm remarked.

Waltheof chuckled. “Well at least he got The Shadow God out of hair and away from that bumbling cult. Now I could go for at least a month’s vacation. What about all of you?”

“Absolutely, dear friend,” Ealdhelm replied as they all began to walk back to the city. “Ultimatum, that was a stellar job you did. If you ever want to join the Arbiters of Droom, please let us know. You got the kind of ingenuity we’re looking for.”

“Thanks, Ealdhelm. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Arbiters were met with thunderous applause and cheers as they returned to the city. Annoyingly there were still some ruckus inside as some of Milosh’s cultists had managed to sneak in. There were five in total, accompanied by two, 10 foot tall shadow constructs that were distinctly bulkier than the normal ones. Tusk, Randalph, Mayhem, Razor, and Mizuki ran off to deal with it only to encounter Sir Gebhard confronting them.

“I may have failed my men, but I shall not fail this city! HURRAH!” The Knight charged forward, his blade glowing with brilliant sunlight. He cleaved one of the constructs right in half, leaving the cultists shocked.

The other construct began to retaliate, but was struck down by a beam of roaring, crystalized magic. It was the mage Tusk and the others had last seen at the Northwind Archive. He was looking quite proud of himself and seemed like he had new meaning in his life.

“Master Audawakrs, HOW COULD YOU!?” One of the cultists barked.

“YOU TRAITOR!” another yelled. “GRATIANA WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS!”

Audawakrs scoffed. “Be gone.” He snapped his fingers, causing the five to vanish. “That waste Milosh never actually saw me for who I was…”

“Well done, friend,” Gebhard held out his hand and Audawakrs shook it.

Tusk laughed as he and his friends approached. “Well you two just saved us a lot of trouble.”

“Mr. Willfort!” Gebhard walked over and gave an apologetic bow. “I am so sorry for how dismissive I was when you first arrived. I heard about your accomplishments and they make my attempt look like a joke. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Tusk smiled. “Water under the bridge” he said as they shook hands.

“Hey, Gebhard, what happened to your men?” Razor Inquired.

He sighed. “The ones that survived left me, pretty much dissolving the Vestergaard Knights. And honestly? They made the right choice. I’m not fit to be a leader…”

“The path to the brightest mountain top starts in the lowest valley,” Mizuki stated. “Perhaps it’s time for you to start over.”

Gebhard nodded. “Agreed, Miss. Humility is a foolproof whetstone, my father always told me. Truthfully I should’ve listened to him more.”

Randalph and Mayhem went over to inspect the remains of the first construct. “This isn’t good…” Randalph concluded.

“Just what are these?” Mayhem wondered. “I’ve never seen constructs like these ones before.”

“They’re Shadow Golems,” Audawakrs explained. “The outsiders Karnage and Anne brought in have been experimenting with new types of constructs, separate from the ones Dunja created.”

Tusk groaned as he lightly kicked the head of the dead golem. “That implies there’s another Shadow Orb running around…”

“Do you know anything else, Audawakrs?” Gebhard inquired.

He shook his head. “Sadly no. The info I have was overheard by chance. I don’t even think Dunja and the Blades fully know about what Anne is up to.”

Randalph finished collecting some samples and stood up. “Not good at all, Tusk. We’re going to have to tell Englehart about this as soon as possible.”

“Agreed… but first let’s go see what’s up at City Hall and then go relax.” He twitched a little. “Jeez, I can feel Gratiana’s lightning bolt…” The others chuckled sympathetically.

“Tusk, I’ve heard about The ULTRAMagic Guild and it sounds very fascinating” Audawakrs stated as they all started to walk. “Are there any openings at the moment?”

“Like I say with the others: If you have the patience to achieve ULTRAMagic, absolutely.”

“Then count me in too,” Gebhard added enthusiastically. “It’s about high time I made my family truly proud.” 

Next: Chapter 18

ULTRAMagic Alternate © 2022 William Ford II (ChaoticTempleKnight)

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 18

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“Autopsy bay, this is Trudy...yep, one second.”

Trudy shoves her rolling chair across the tiled floor, delivering the cordless phone to Scully with a flourish.

“It’s your man candy,” she says with a smirk, and Scully suppresses an eye-roll as she takes the phone.

“Hi, what’s up?” she greets. Now that he has his own office and more privacy (save for Monica, who’s a friend) he’s taken to calling her more often at work.

“Hey honey, you studied German, right?”

“Yes,” she answers, an expectant lilt to her voice.

“What does ‘unruhe’ mean? U-n-r-u-h-e.”

“Mulder...is this a work call or a personal call?” she questions in a lecturing voice.

“Work, it’s for a case we’re looking at,” he answers plainly.

She sighs, moving the phone to her other ear and turning away so Trudy can’t hear her.

“Mulder, we’ve discussed this. I don’t mind you calling me for help on cases, I don’t even mind looking over medical files for you. But if you’re calling me as a colleague, then I need you to address me as one.”

“Shit, sorry, let’s start over,” he says, and she hears the squeak of him shifting in his chair. She imagines him sitting up straighter, putting forth a professional image, and it makes her smile.

“Hi, what’s up?” she repeats.

“Hello, Dr. Scully, I was wondering if I could ask you to translate some German phrases that appear in a case Agent Reyes and I are investigating, if you have time to spare,” he says in his most distinguished, Special Agent voice.

“Of course, Agent Mulder, I’d be happy to help.”

———

The elevator dings, the doors opening to a quiet and nondescript hallway with a few lonely shelves lining one wall. She steps out, suddenly regretting her insistence that she could find her way to Mulder’s basement office without escort. She makes her way down the hall past a set of bathrooms, and finally arrives outside a closed door.

Fox Mulder

Monica Reyes

Only the names of the occupants, not their division, department nor area of expertise are included, presumably because anyone who ends up down here is already aware of what they are walking in to. She knocks three times and waits, smiling in relief when Monica appears on the other side.

“Hi, Dana, you found us!” she muses, then steps aside so Scully can enter.

It’s an odd office, in so many ways. Oddly shaped, with daylight basement windows and a glass-encased annex, the space is long and narrow which makes it feel big and crowded at the same time. The decor is odd; newspaper clippings and kitschy knick knacks on the walls and every available surface. She smiles at the sight of the house-warming gift she’d purchased for Mulder; a full sized poster of a UFO hovering over evergreen trees with “I Want To Believe” emblazoned across the bottom. Mulder had told her about one just like it he’d had in “the good old days,” and she spent the better part of a week tracking one down after they’d gotten word that the files would be reopened. Though they’ve only inhabited this space for a few weeks, it already looks very lived-in.

Mulder is sitting on the corner of his desk, remote in hand and a slide projector cart situated in front of him. On the wall across from it is a blown up image of a severed head, the eyes partially closed and the lips hanging open. Scully smiles at Mulder and then glances at the screen, frowning at the image but otherwise unaffected.

“Well look at you,” she says with pride in her voice, crossing the room to stand before him where he touches her waist and places a kiss on her cheek. “And who’s this?” she asks, turning again to the screen.

“This,” Mulder says, standing and moving closer to the image, “is Leonard Betts. Or it was, anyway.”

“What’s so special about Mr. Betts that he’s found himself in an X file?” Scully asks.

“Would you believe me if I told you that after Mr. Betts was decapitated, his headless body got up and walked right out of the morgue?” Mulder asks with a cheeky grin, and she glances at Monica, who just shrugs.

“No, I wouldn’t, I’m afraid,” she answers.

“Well, since seeing is believing, Reyes and I will be heading up to Pittsburgh for a few days to have a look for ourselves,” Mulder says as he turns off the projector and wheels the cart into a corner.

Scully’s heart sinks just a little. Mulder had set the expectation that there was quite a bit of travel involved with being assigned to the X files, but this is the first time he’s actually needed to be away overnight for work. Wanting to be supportive, she keeps her expression neutral, betraying nothing.

He approaches her, standing close so that their conversation feels private, even with Monica seated a few feet away.

“Tell Missy and Byers I’m sorry to cancel our dinner plans tomorrow,” he says with a sympathetic frown.

“Will you be home by the weekend?” she asks quietly, “I was hoping to celebrate your birthday on Sunday.”

He smiles sadly at her. The topic of his approaching birthday has been one they’ve both grappled with for slightly different reasons. He proclaims to have never cared much about his birthday, but knowing that it will mark one year since she walked down the aisle with Ethan makes her want to do something special, to reset the date, in a way. She wants it to be Mulder’s birthday, not the anniversary of the worst decision she ever made.

“Probably, but I can’t make any promises. I’ll do my best, okay?”

She nods, and he leans down to kiss her softly in the middle of her forehead.

“I’ll need to swing by the apartment to pack before we leave this evening, so I’ll see you in a bit,” he continues.

She bids Monica farewell and good luck, then rides the elevator back up to a world where headless bodies don’t roam the streets.

———

Mulder flies home Saturday afternoon, giving her just enough time to throw together a small birthday celebration at the Gunmen’s the following night. Sunday evening she’s sifting through her closet, deciding whether to dress up a little for his benefit. Mulder is lying behind her on the bed fully dressed, pretending he’s on standby to offer fashion advice but in reality he’s just staring at her as she walks from the closet to her dresser in her bra and panties. He has confirmed no fewer than six times that birthday sex is a tradition that she believes in, then suggested that it might be applicable on both the day of his birthday party as well as his actual birthday, which is tomorrow. He seems to be looking forward to that more than getting together with his friends.

“What do you want me to wear, Mulder? It’s your birthday, you pick,” she says in a defeated tone, feeling uninspired by everything she owns.

“What you’re wearing is great, just go with that,” he retorts matter-of-factly, and she looks down at her underwear before giving him a sarcastic sneer.

“I’m sure Frohike would love that,” she says, and he makes a face.

“Maybe just jeans and a T-shirt then. I honestly don’t care, honey, wear whatever you want. I’m just going to take it off later anyway.”

As he finishes speaking, there’s a knock at the door and he stands to answer it, stopping to give her a quick kiss on the crown of her head as he leaves the room.

She pulls out a pair of dark wash jeans and tugs them on, listening as Mulder opens the door and has a muted conversation with someone. It’s a little bit late in the day for solicitors, but they don’t seem to have any boundaries these days. She’s slipping her arms through the sleeves of a blue sweater when Mulder reappears in the doorway.

“Hey Scully?,” he says, his tone strange and unreadable.

“Hm?” she responds, slipping pearl studs into her ears.

“Someone’s here to see you.”

She gives him a quizzical look. “Who?” she asks, and he purses his lips in response.

With a mix of curiosity and trepidation she walks out to the front door, which is slightly ajar. She pulls it open and finds Ethan standing on the other side. Her stomach drops, a flush of adrenaline running from head to toe as ringing sounds off in her ears. She gapes at him, unable to take any kind of action.

“Hi, Dana,” he finally says, somewhat sheepishly. “Sorry to drop by like this, I just, um...I found a spare key to the apartment,” he says, holding up a single key between his thumb and forefinger. “I figured I should return it.”

“Oh,” she replies, then holds out her hand.

He places the key in the center of her palm and she closes her fist around it, then drops her arm to her side. They stand there awkwardly, an expectant feeling hanging between them. Though she’d momentarily forgotten Mulder was there, he suddenly appears by her side.

“I need to go run to the store for something, I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, locking eyes with her on the ‘okay.’ She understands it to be him asking if they need privacy, and if she’s comfortable being left alone with Ethan. She nods with a grateful smile.

After Mulder has retreated down the hallway, she stands to the side and gestures for Ethan to come in. He enters the apartment cautiously, looking around. She closes the door but stays near it.

“Looks different in here,” he remarks, standing behind one of the dining room chairs and resting his palms on it.

She nods and shrugs.

“Was that, uh...is that your boyfriend?” he asks, hitching his thumb towards the door.

Her shoulders drop, a pained expression falling over her face. “Ethan...” she begins, ready to ask him if he came here just to guilt trip her.

“Sorry, forget I asked,” he interjects, shaking his head. “I didn’t come here to give you a hard time, Dana, I promise. I just…” he looks around again, pulling in a deep breath. “You know it will be a year tomorrow, since...and I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For what happened, and also how things ended.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “What do you have to be sorry for?” she asks.

“I might have said the same thing earlier this year,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, “but I’ve done a lot of reflecting since we split and I realized that I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the signals you were sending me. In retrospect, it was pretty obvious that you were having doubts, and I just kind of crossed my fingers and soldiered on. And then after the wedding, you were so unhappy. I just chose not to see it, I guess. And that was wrong of me.”

She feels tears welling in her eyes and her throat becomes tight. She doesn’t trust herself to speak so she just nods.

“I recently started seeing someone,” Ethan continues, “and it’s pretty new, but it’s really made it clear to me that you and I just weren’t a good match. Not because anything was wrong, but...it wasn’t right either, you know?”

She nods again, crossing her arms over her chest as a tear spills over and runs down to her chin.

“So, anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time. I just think a lot about how things ended the last time we saw each other, and how angry I was, and I wanted you to know that I get it now. I understand why you did what you did. And I’m glad that you didn’t spend twenty years suffering through it just to prove a point. We both deserve better than what we had.”

Her face is now contorted into a grimace as she tries to keep from falling apart entirely, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, and this opportunity to atone. Ethan moves to the door, pulling it open. As he steps into the hall, she clears her throat and forces out the only words she can muster.

“Thank you,” she squeaks, and he turns to look back at her.

With all the anger and resentment faded away, the grief and the guilt washed clean, she sees again the man she once loved very much, who was a good partner to her, even if he wasn’t “the one.”

She moves towards him and he opens his arms, enveloping her in a tight hug. When he loosens his grip, she steps back so she’s just inside the apartment, sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand.

“Goodbye, Dana,” he says with a sad smile.

“Bye,” she says, and closes the door.

[hailbop1701]

Chapter Three: An Explosively Good Time

Chapter three guys! I'm both nervous and excited for you all to read it. It's pretty long and we delve a bit deeper into the story. Kirk wants answers and Bones needs a new shirt. 👀 Well, I don't want to give anything away. I truly hope you all like it! Thank you to my wonderful beta reader @dw-writes. You're amazing doll!

The tram slowed to a smooth stop, John lifted his weapon just as the doors opened. He swept the area with Beckworth on his left. Nodding to the security officer, John moved forward making sure Kirk and Chekov were just behind him. Taking up the rear of the group were Lawrence and Bitar, bickering all the while. Rolling his eyes, John squared his shoulders as he led the group into the residential area. The double doors hissed open to reveal a courtyard and John couldn’t help but appreciate how real it truly looked. Cobblestones, rich green plants, a running fountain, and automated birds chirping happily.

Beckworth let out a low whistle from beside him, “Fancy digs,” he murmured with an amused smirk. John stopped, listening for any possible threats that could be hiding in the area. Nothing. Just the hum of the base and the bubble of the fountain in front of them. It was way too quiet and peaceful for his comfort.

Jim moved so he was standing on his other side. “I don’t like it,” the Captain whispered to him.

John hummed in agreement, something didn’t feel right. He almost let out a snort. ‘Nothing about any of this feels right,’ he thought. The hair on his neck stood on end. John scanned the area again, only this time he eyed the plant life and the cobblestones. All of this said “TRAP”

Lawrence walked forward, his gaze on the plant life all around them instead of what was right in front of his nose.

Spotting what he was looking for, John hissed and was behind the young man within seconds, he grabbed the kid’s vest and yanked him back.

Lawrence yelped as he fell onto his ass, “What the-”

John held up a hand to silence gasps and yells of surprise. He then pointed at a thin fine wire mere inches away from where the security officer had been standing.

“Shit,” Beckworth grumbled crouching down to get a better look at the “Booby trap.”

“Holy crap, thanks Doc.” Lawrence gasped out as he scrambled to his feet again.

Bitar rolled her eyes. Reaching up, she gave Lawrence a swift smack upside the head. The action started a whole new bickering match.

John sighed, gesturing for the others to follow him and move out of the way. Pulling a knife from his boot, he gently tossed it up into the air before catching it nimbly by the blade. With a quick flick of the wrist, the knife shot from his hand. Spinning in the air a couple of times, the blade sliced through the wire before embedding itself into the cobblestone. Cocking his head to the side, he heard a mechanism click. Chekov let out a startled squeal as a haphazard metal spike trap sprung from the bushes and trees. Grunting, John strode forward, he examined the trap with a deep frown.

“Used pretty recently,” he muttered, touching one of the spikes. He showed his fingers to the group, “Fresh blood, and someone had to have reset it.” He wiped his hand on his pants.

Kirk furrowed his brow in confusion. “Do you think that means we’re not the only ones surviving here?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

John jerked his knife free from the path. He grimaced at his friend. “Honestly? It could go either way,”

Jim wasn’t the only one looking at him with a confused expression. Sighing John fiddled with the knife in his hands. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to come up with the right words. He really didn’t want to give his best friend any more bad news. Sheathing the knife back in his boot, John pulled his tricorder free. Scanning the blood he began to explain. “This stuff can really mess with your head, and I’m not just talking about C-24 fucking with your DNA. Being hunted by monsters with an extreme possibility of never making it out, and a chance that you’d turn into something that is worse than death...well, I’ve seen highly trained and skilled men crack. Go insane and beyond reason.” He paused as the scanner chimed with the results that he wanted. Turning the device around so the screen faced the group in front of him. Chekov’s mouth dropped open in shock, he looked at John with horror in his eyes. John continued, “The blood has no trace of C-24 or any sick and twisted variation. It’s completely human…” He paused glancing at the screen again, “And Andorian, and Vulcan,”

Kirk choked for a second, “So you’re telling me that the trap was made by a living person and they’re killing other living people?”

John put the tricorder away, “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Chekov took a shuddering breath, while Kirk just set his jaw. “So we’re being hunted on two fronts,” the Captain sighed, running a hand messily through his hair. Beckworth’s eyes darted around the peaceful courtyard with a healthy dose of paranoia. His younger security officers ceased their quiet bickering and pulled out their phasers, ready for a surprise attack.

Reaper clenched his jaw and tensed. The hair on the back of his neck and his arms stood straight up. They were being watched, and not just by the cameras, but by a live body. He could hear their heartbeat thudding deeply in their chest. In his periphery, John saw a shadow on the second story landing.

Jim Kirk knew Leonard McCoy. Even though he may not have known as much as he originally thought. So when Bones - Reaper- tensed, he knew something was wrong. “Bones…” Jim prompted, trying to keep as casual as possible. The man tilted his head to the left; a subtle gesture but Kirk got what his CMO was trying to say: “Someone is watching”

Out of the corner of his eye, John watched as a shadow quickly disappeared. The sound of muffled hurried footsteps echoed in his ears. “Beckworth,” his voice carried no southern drawl but reverberated with authority. Beckworth couldn’t help but stand up straighter. In fact, everyone stood up a bit straighter, even the Captain.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get everyone to the third floor, there’s a bridge up there that attaches to the rest of the shopping district.” His orders were clear and without room for argument. Jim opened his mouth to protest but Chekov beat him to it.

“But what about you?” he asked, eyes wide.

John couldn’t help but smirk at the young navigator. With a half-hearted shrug, he turned to look at the second-floor balcony. “I’m gonna go say hello to the locals,” he muttered while moving off. The rest of the away team watched slack-jawed as Reaper bounded up onto a nearby chair, and table before he lept up, catching hold of a stone carving halfway to the second floor.

“Jesus, McCoy!” Beckworth called out with a short hysterical laugh.

John easily clambered up to the second floor. Swinging himself up onto the metal banister, Reaper sat and appraised his surroundings. From this vantage point, he saw a lot more, he couldn’t decide if his new view was a good thing or not.

The courtyard was clean at first glance, but from where he was John saw the gore underneath all the beauty. There were multiple bodies hidden in the garden, blood tainted the fountain and coated the walls surrounding him. Frowning, John leaned back on the banister to look down the long hallway. He was being watched again. Glancing down, he saw that the group was making their way through to the stairs. Nodding in approval, John rolled off of the banister onto the dirty corridor floor. A long blue - or what used to be blue carpet was covered in blood and torn to shreds - lined the hall. If John could hazard a guess, he had a faint idea of what wandered through. ‘ Damn Hell Knights,’ he thought darkly.

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Reaper let his surroundings disappear for a moment. He could hear the base thrum under his feet, but it was growing faint; they were on the clock. The heartbeats of the rest of the away team thudded steadily, some rapid in fear, some in calm easy thuds. Then there was what was a lot closer. Running footsteps, and labored breathing. It was heading straight for him. John sighed sadly; this wasn’t going to end well.

Cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders, John opened his eyes just as a blur of a man jumped at him. Quickly stepping to the side, John saw what had been killing everything and anything. The man was ragged like he had been surviving in this hell hole for quite some time. His hair was long and matted, full of knots, and coated in many different substances. His clothes were ripped and repaired and ripped again. Reaper wrinkled his nose, pitty filling his gut.

‘Poor bastard,’ was all that ran through his mind as the cracked man screamed at him, pouncing again. John leaned back, holding up his arm, only noticing the makeshift knife at the last second. Letting out a string of curses, Reaper kicked away the madman and looked at the shank sticking out of his arm with an annoyed expression.

“God fucking damnit!” he hissed, yanking the blade out of his forearm.

The man he had batted away looked at John in pure terror. “Demon!” the man shrieked, pointing at John with an accusing finger. Rolling his eyes, Reaper tossed the knife away over the side of the nearby banister. He could hear it clunk against a mass of water as it landed in the fountain.

“You’re not the first to call me that, and you’re sure as hell won’t be the last,” he drawled to the man, who was scurrying backward away from John as fast as he possibly could. John held up his hand peacefully, “Easy now, I’m not gonna touch you.”

The ragged man stopped his scuttling and paused. He looked visibly confused. “You’re not- who are you?” he asked, voice raspy and raw.

Reaper chewed on the inside of his cheek; Jim called it his nervous tick. “My name is Doctor Leonard McCoy, I arrived on the USS Enterprise. My team and I are trapped here just like you,” he soothed trying to bring out the humanity in the man before him.

“Enterprise,” the man breathed eyes wide, his breathing quickened, almost panicked. “No, no, no,” The man shook his head in denial, he reared and screamed “No!” once more before he started laughing. It was hysterical and Reaper was now completely convinced that the guy was way too far gone.

John watched the man carefully, trying to figure out if he needed to be taken care of or just locked away in a closet until they could get back to the ship. But before the ex-privine could formulate a plan of action, the survivor abruptly stopped laughing, looking as serious as could be. “You’re the one she wants. Death himself.” The words were in a hissed whisper as if speaking any louder would bring forth the demons lurking in the shadows. John froze, body tense ready for an oncoming attack but none came. “You can’t run away from your past forever. If you do those around you are going to suffer and die.” With those final words, the man whirled around and sprinted at break-neck speed down the long hallway. “Face your past Grimm!” he hollered as he rounded a corner and was out of sight.

That was until John heard him let out a startled scream. To anyone else, it sounds as if a paint-filled balloon popped behind a closed door but, to Reaper, it sounded almost too familiar. During the third world war, John experienced a new form of suicide bombers. The bombs weren’t visible, you could almost never tell it was there until it was too late. “SCED” or “Subcutaneous Explosive Device.”

Reaper flinched at the memories that assaulted the forefront of his mind. During world war three John was not officially in the armed forces but had stepped in multiple times to help the wounded and civilians to safety. During that time he had seen and experienced firsthand what a “SCED” could do. Shaking his head, John moved cautiously forward and peered around the corner. John choked on his breath his eyes went wide,

“Shit,” he cursed, stepping out to take in the scene full on. The corridor was dripping and smoking. Blackened blood coated the walls and floor, parts of more than one person could be identified. What made John’s stomach churn and made his scientific mind curious was the fact that the blood was smoking. The man who had run from him was laid curled up on the floor, covered and burnt beyond recognition.

Kneeling down, John examined the man more closely: he was missing a couple of limbs and his face was stuck in a silent scream. ‘Burns aren’t consistent with an explosion,’ he thought with a furrowed brow. Cocking his head to the side, John sniffed the air and immediately sneezed. Wrinkling his nose, Reaper scowled. “Acid. It smells like fucking acid,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “What in the hell are these things mutating into?” he asked himself quietly as he slowly got back to his feet.

A low rumbling growl made John freeze and cautiously turn around. There stood a very large, incredibly fat infected not even ten feet away from him. Raising an eyebrow, John harrumphed, “Well, aren’t you all quiet-like. I’m impressed with you bein’ as big as you are.”

He had never seen an infected like this before; John fully just realized that he was in completely new territory. The demon snorted, seemingly unimpressed by Reaper. It stepped forward, its form expanding and gurgling as it went. Backing up, John reached and pulled his rifle from his back and took aim. The demon let out a blood-curdling scream as it expanded further, its skin pulled apart and cracked, revealing a glowing blackness underneath.

John fired just as the monster before him blew. The final thought that ran through his mind for quite some time was simple: “Fuck me,”

------------------oOo----------------

Sound was the first thing that came back to him. It wasn’t that spectacular if he were being honest. His head ached and the ringing in his ears was starting to piss him off. Groaning, John rolled to his side so he was sitting up on his elbow. His vision was blurry but was quickly clearing, and he grimaced as his surroundings came into focus. The area was worse off than before, the walls were practically melting and Reaper didn’t want to find out if this was going to cause a hull breach. Quickly pulling his rifle from under him - it was a miracle in itself that he managed to save it last second- and got to his feet, John stumbled down the corridor until he hit the stairwell. ‘Third floor,’ he thought numbly, he could faintly feel his burns and other fractures slowly knit back together. The healing process didn’t take long but it was damn uncomfortable. It felt as if his whole body had gone to sleep, the sensation of old TV static. It was always a painful experience.

Staggering up the stairs, John let out a sigh of relief as the numbness in his body began to fade. “ ‘bout fucking time!” he growled out as he made his way to the third floor. As soon as he was close enough for the sensor, the door hissed open.

Multiple cries of concern and joy filled his ears.

“Bones!”

“Doc!”

“Thank the Gods, we thought you were dead!”

And Chekov’s accented, “Doctor McCoy,” made him smile minutely.

Waving away whoever’s hand was trying to help him through the door, John straightened and cracked his back and neck. He looked closely at the group in front of him with a doctor’s eye before nodding satisfied.

Kirk coughed trying to cover a chuckle, “Ugh Bones, you uh need a new shirt,” he faked whispered, and pointed out the obvious.

Reaper rolled his eyes, “Oh gee Jim, I haven’t noticed,” he ground out.

The Captain scowled back half-heartedly but everyone could see his concern. “You okay?”

“I just got blown up by a fleshy acid bomb and I’m stuck in what has to be one of my worst nightmares. I’m - “ Reaper took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m fuckin’ fantastic. This place should rate five stars, too bad Yelp is no longer a thing,” he muttered walking toward one of the residential quarters. Kirk grimaced at the blatant sarcasm, McCoy’s tone and quips were answer enough.

John squinted at the nameplate next to the door controls, his lip twitching in irritation. Sure, he was glad to see the away team unharmed, but the exploding demon really wrecked what was left of his day; though that wasn’t saying much.

“Well, Daniel Garrets, I hope you have a shirt my size,” John muttered punching the door just right. Bitar let out a soft curse from the group behind him as the door bent and caved in ever so slightly. Pushing his fingers into the small gap John yanked the door open easily. The door let out a shuddering groan as it was forced to roll on its track. Light from the corridor shown faintly into the dark room. Before anyone could go in, Reaper held up a halting hand and cocked his head to the side, listening. He breathed in deeply and all he could smell was must and dust.

Nothing had been in there for quite some time.

Moving in, John pulled his rifle around so it was aimed into the darkness; he’d rather be safe than sorry. Despite his gun being slightly melted it still worked perfectly fine. Reaper didn’t want to express it but he was rather impressed by how detailed the replica truly was.

Clearing the room, John waved the rest of the team in. John eyed down both sides of the hallway before he forced the door closed with a deafening squeal. Turning around, he saw that Chekov all but collapsed in a chair, his nose buried in a PADD. Jim paced the length of the room in deep thought, muttering to himself. The three from security were quietly talking about the best way to keep their captain and Chekov safe. John wasn’t the least bit offended that he was no longer included in that list. Though it did make him a bit sad, it was a step closer to leaving the Enterprise. To leaving his first home in a long, long time.

Sighing, Reaper shucked his rifle and his tattered shirt. Bare-chested he moved through the small room to the closet, silently praying that the man who had once lived there wore the same size. Opening the closet John frowned a little, not quite but close enough. Grabbing a simple black t-shirt from the hanger he pulled it over his head and rolled his shoulders so it fit on his frame better. Turning from the closet he moved into the bathroom.

Upon finding the sink, John started the tap and let the water run for a few seconds before ducking his head under the stream. Grumbling, he ran his hands through his hair trying his best to pull the matted blood and bone from the tresses. Lifting his head he saw Jim in the mirror. He was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, an almost unreadable expression on his face. He wanted answers now.

The shock of the reveal was wearing off and now Jim Kirk wasn’t going to hold back anymore. Veera’s dramatic reveal was something he didn’t want to believe but now he didn’t have a choice. Since the atrium, Jim has been in complete and utter denial. He had seen what his best friend could do, he had seen how different he was. Jim’s eyes flashed in the light, his jaw set. No more joking, no more keeping up his causal maverick front. He was pissed and McCoy - Grimm- was going to see it. But no matter who Bones was. He will always be Jim’s friend. He had already decided to hear the man out. To listen to what he had to say, to hear what’s true and what’s fiction.

Reaper hummed and jerked his head, inviting Kirk into the small space. Moving into the room, the starship captain kept silent waiting for his friend to talk. As he carefully thought over his words, John rummaged through the cabinets around him, after he found what he was looking for (an electric razor) he finally spoke.

“I told you the gist of what happened on Mars. Olduvai. It was an honest to god shit show, Jim. Eight fully trained specialized privines - eh private military contractors - were sent in to search for some scientists. Well, we sure as hell found them.” John let out a dark humorless laugh and shook his head. He was halfway done cutting down his hair, it was no longer messy but shortened and military. John swallowed hard, he looked just as he did when this all happened the first time.

Kirk thinned his lips as he let his friend search for the words he was looking for. Reaper brushed away the dirty hair from his shirt and clicked off the razor. He turned and leaned against the sink, crossing his arms he looked down at his boots.

“We found that the research up there wasn’t exactly kosher. They uncovered humanoid remains in the archeological dig and found that some of these remains had a synthetic chromosome. It made them superhuman. Faster, stronger, incredibly intelligent, and apparently live obscenely long lives. The Oldulvians ruined themselves and we almost followed in their footsteps more than once. They created a rudimentary transporter called the Ark and fled to Earth to escape themselves. You see, C-24 didn’t affect everyone the same way. There were some that turned into monsters.

My sister - Sam- who was an unwitting accomplice in all of this, had a theory that it only turned those with genes that had markers for insanity. She was actually the one who discovered that not everyone would turn into monsters. But, by that time, my CO had lost what was left of his sanity. He began to kill everyone whether they were infected or not, and at this point, some infected had gotten through the Ark and into the Earth facility. No matter how horrible it sounds, but we were lucky that the quarantine was still active at that time. A little over two hundred people died, men, women, and children, my unit included. Only Sam and I made it out.”

Kirk was smart enough to figure out this was a shortened account of events but it was enough for now. He nodded but frowned, “How did you get C-24?” he asked curiously.

John snorted, chuckling darkly. “Projectile weapons are a bitch kid. I got a damn ricochet in the gut. I was bleeding out and on my way to hell but my sister decided to take a gamble and inject my ass. Turns out she was right, but it had its consequences.” John ran a hand through his newly cut hair, a haunted look crossing his face. He looked up, “For what it’s worth Jim, I’m sorry.”

Kirk looked away his expression guarded. John knew he wasn’t going to get away cleanly but knowing the outcome of something didn’t make it hurt any less. His eyes were locked onto the floor, he was wound tighter than piano chords. He was expecting to be shouted at, told to go to hell. And he believed he deserves it.

“What can we expect here, Bones?”

John relaxed ever so slightly, shocked at Kirk’s tone. It showed less anger and frustration and more like his friend, John wasn’t forgiven yet but it was a start. He grumbled, “Well, we can expect strong ass monsters who want to either turn you or eat you. Other than that, I’m in new territory. This is completely new and, if I had a month, maybe I could tell you how much of a difference it is. The crazy pirate bitch changed things so much that it shouldn’t even be called C-24 anymore. Who knows what else is lurking out there.”

John could see how much Jim didn’t want to hear that by the set of his jaw.

“Keptin, Doctor!” Both men turned to face Chekov as he barreled into the small room holding up his PADD.

“What is it, Chekov?” Jim asked hopefully. The young man turned the PADD around and showed them a single dot on what appeared to be a map of Genesis.

“Sir, I managed to vind this under the station's jamming signal. It appears that there is another Starfleet officer trapped here! “

John and Kirk looked at each other, both were wondering if it could be a trap. “Is it just a signal or-”

Chekov was already shaking his head before Jim could finish. “No, there is a single message attached to the ping. It just says a name and some sort of code…” he trailed off as he tapped hurriedly at the screen. Turning the PADD around Chekov let the message play.

John felt his blood freeze.

“This is Layla Grimm, I’ve been compromised. Code: Ghost, I repeat - Code: Ghost! Run Uncle J-”

Reaper felt his knees buckle as screams filled the air of the bathroom. He faintly felt Jim grip his arm trying to keep him upright. His blood pulsed in his ears and all he could see was red. The look in John’s eyes made both Kirk and Pavel back up a step giving the CMO some space. John gritted his teeth breathing hard. “Where was that sent from?” his voice was sharp, making Jim wince.

Chekov cleared his throat as he looked down at the screen in his hands. “The medical wing sir,”

John looked at Kirk who just nodded in approval.

“Looks like we’re goin’ hunting.”

Tags:

Everything: @thottiewithashotgun, @lauraaan182, @writerdee1701, @stileslover13-blog, @cowenby2, @bluesclues-1234

Hollow Castle: @chook007, @lauranthalasah

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “Walking the Tightrope” (Epilogue) (au)

Summary: Killian’s daily routines are a matter of habit. When he wakes up late one morning, his routines all change for the better. Emma doesn’t care about routines, but she does care about Killian, no matter how reluctant she is to admit it to herself.

Rating: E (the content warnings matter this time!)

Content Warnings: There’s uhhh... poetry smut.

A Special Thank You: My continued gratitude to my lovely friends, @captainstudmuffin and @phiralovesloki. And a heap of love to @captainswanbigbang for putting this together and helping me accomplish this.

A/N: Holy crap! Here we are! It’s the end of the story!! Now, for those of you who read the original story, there’s not a whole lot that’s changed. I edited everything to fit the rest of the story and writing style, since the original version was a little rough, but other than little bits, it’s what you remember. If you didn’t read this, then welcome to the end! 

My eternal gratitude to those who helped me finish this, those who helped find my errors (my two lovely ladies are listed above), to those who read this! Who reblogged it! Who left comments and sweet tags and sent messages and made this all worth it. I constantly say that I cannot express how thankful I am and it’s true. With only words, I can only say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. <3<3

This epilogue is meant to tie bows around a couple major things and send these off the best way I know how. I still have a stack of headcanons and info that wouldn’t fit in here. I would love to share these things if anyone is curious. If you are, or have questions, or want to talk about specific parts, please send me messages. I would love to chat about this world that has lived in my brain and morphed over the last FIVE YEARS. 

(Poetry included is not mine: All rights reserved to Pablo Neruda "My love, understand me" and "Night on the Island" and to Leonard Cohen "The Mists of Pornography")

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 |

Find it on Ao3 & FFN!

-x-

Epilogue: The Art of Poetry

-x- April 

The day that Killian forgets the coffee mugs on his counter is the day he locks himself out of his apartment for the first time. He and Emma huddle on the front stoop together in the early morning chill waiting for his landlord to come unlock the door. He opens his jacket and pulls her closer, jumping when her cold nose touches his collarbone and she chuckles as she repeats the action until her nose is warm and he’s even warmer. They thank Marco profusely when he arrives with the spare set of keys.

They’re also both late for work that day.

The next day, when Emma comes back from getting coffee, there’s an envelope propped in front of her computer at work. When she opens it, a weight settles in the envelope and she pulls out the folded note. Killian’s neat handwriting stretches across the paper.

“My love,

understand me,

I love all of you,

from eyes to feet, to toenails,

inside

all the brightness, which you kept.

It is I, my love,

who knocks at your door.”

So next time I lock myself out, you can unlock it for me.

She peers into the envelope to see the key resting in the bottom and thinks he may be onto something with poetry if it always sounds like that.

Emma makes sure to beat Killian to the door when they walk back to his place after work so she can try out her new key, and she only smiles wider when the lock slides open. She makes a big show of swinging open the door, gesturing him inside with a sweep of her arm. 

When she gets home that night, Snow and David have once again broken into her loft, but she doesn’t much care for two reasons. Firstly, she knew they were going to do this after they texted her twenty minutes ago and asked whether or not she was spending the night at Killian’s. Secondly, it takes her five whole seconds to read the message on Snow’s shirt that proudly states that she’s “Pregnant AF” (the shirt’s words, not hers) and there’s a whole bunch of happy crying and flailing that follows. 

-x- Late August

Emma arrives home a little late one night to Killian already making dinner. The routines they do still live with all include household chores and the way they divvy them up, and she’s perfectly fine with the structure he’s brought to her previously chaotic lifestyle. He glances over his shoulder when she walks in and smiles.

“Get stuck late again?”

“Not quite,” she says as she comes to stand behind him. “That smells amazing, by the way.”

“It’ll be done in just a bit.”

“Want me to set the table?”

“I’d like to know why you’re avoiding a simple inquiry into why you were so late in such an obvious manner.”

Emma sighs heavily. “I kind of walked all the way back to the loft before I realized I didn’t live there anymore.”

“Kind of? I don’t think that’s something you can kind of do, love,” he says, still managing to stir whatever it is he’s making even when she goes to swat his arm. 

“Okay, so I did. You said it yourself, though. Old habits, right?” She hops up on the counter to watch him cook. 

“Indeed, love. So, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you feel our adventures have measured up to the expectations?”

“Well, you didn’t turn into a frog.”

“Aye, I’m sure there’s still time for that. We’re only in the middle of this tale. We’ll just have to see where the pages take us from here.”

“You are such a fucking romance novelist,” she says, laughing brightly when Killian removes his sauce from the stove and turns it off before he moves in to attack. And even though she’s squirming to get away from his nimble fingers as they target her ticklish spots, she sends up a quick thank you to Killian’s faulty alarm clock and his old habit of routines. 

-x- September

“You could just leave those until later,” Killian says, coming up behind Emma as she washes their dishes from dinner. He has his hand and hook on her hips and his lips on her hair, his voice full of implication. 

He’s learned not to try to talk her out of cleaning up, and instead he just enjoys distracting her in the best ways possible. 

She’s wearing a skirt - something she only does when she’s out of leggings - and the soft gray jersey fabric clings to her hips before flaring and draping down. It hides much of her legs, but her backside looks fantastic in it. On top, she has a light yellow shirt that’s tickling at his memories, the lines of a poem he once memorized during his university years making their way back to mind. 

Steady movements continue as she washes and rinses each dish, stacking them in the drying rack before starting to scrub out the sink. He’s struggling to remember the lines, yellow sweater, and with a smirk he glides his hand down to palm the back of her thigh.

“These are anything but boyish haunches,” he says out loud. Emma gasps as the shift from peaceful innocence to dirty.

“What?”

He hums, nosing some of her hair aside so he can find her neck with his lips. “From a poem. Your shirt brought it back to me. ‘The Mists of Pornography’ was the title,” he responds, moving his hand to the front of her thigh and sliding it up to rest on a spot right below her hipbones.

“Why am I not surprised that you know something with ‘pornography’ in the title?”

“Ah, but Swan, it’s about much more than that. Close your eyes. Listen,” he says, and uses his hook to brush the hair off her neck and lean closer to her ear. He sways just a little bit closer as he starts to speak. 

When you rose out of the mist / of pornography - He runs a single finger along her spine until it rests between her shoulders - with your talk of marriage / and orgies / I was a mere boy / of fifty-seven / trying to make a fast buck / in the slow lane / It was ten years too late / but I finally got / the most beautiful girl / on the religious left / to go with her lips / to the sunless place - and here he makes sure to push his hips against her to emphasize as she snorts. He continues reciting, crowding her against the counter, making sure the edge is pressing right where he wants it to.

This was my life / in Los Angeles / when you slowly / removed your yellow sweater - As he speaks, he slowly draws her shirt over her head and she lifts her arms - and I slobbered over / your boyish haunches - He runs his hand over the path that started this all and pushes the skirt off her hips to rub over the back of a now-bare thigh - and I tried to be / a husband / to your dark and motherly / intentions.

I thank you / for the ponderous songs / I brought to completion / instead of fucking you / more often - He punctuates by rolling his hips against her and she gasps as she clutches the sink for stability, and he keeps going.

Your panic cannot hurry me here / and my panic and falling / shoulders / our shameless lives / are the grains / scattered for an offering / before the staggering heights / of our love - His hand glides over her stomach and up to cup a breast through her bra. He’s sure she can feel where his cock is pressing against her ass, hard and wanting. Her hips are pinned against the sink and with each line, he thrusts against her, slowly lighting the fuse of what promises to be a spectacular orgasm if he doesn’t stop.

And the other side of your anxiety / is a hammock of sweat / and moaning - It’s getting harder to pay attention to the poem, especially when he pulls down the straps and cups of her bra, palm meeting her already hardened nipples as he alternates between them. Her body shudders with pleasure and he struggles to continue - and time comes down / like the smallest pet of God / to lick our fingers - he licks her shoulder instead - as we sleep / in the tangle / of straps and bracelets. 

With a great deal of effort, he keeps going, trying to make the lines appear in his head so he can read them off with ease and still give her the attention she deserves - and Oh the sweetness of first nights / and twenty-third nights / and nights / after death and bitterness - She reaches one arm back to wrap around his neck and firmly grasps his hair - and the impeccable order / of the objects on the table - He’s rocking her into the counter at just the right speed and he can tell how close she is with each new word - the weightless irrelevance / of all our old intentions / as we undo / as we undo / every difference.

With the last word of the poem out of his mouth, she tugs hard at his hair and she climaxes, coming undone and leaning back against his chest and tries to catch her breath. 

“Oh god, Killian,” she moans. He’s still rocking them against the counter as she rides out her orgasm. “By far, this is the most interesting way you’ve ever made me orgasm.

“Have I made you a fan of poetry yet, Swan?” He moves his hand back down to her hips, his fingers sliding just under the waist of her panties. She feels loose and light as she turns in his arms and pulls him against her.

“A couple more poems like that and I can definitely be convinced,” she says. “But for now I think I’m more interested in spending time with this one. What was that about lips and sunless places?”

His mind reels because she drops to her knees between him and the cabinets. He grips the counter for stability when she drags her teeth over the zipper of his slacks.

“Think you can recite another one?” She unfastens his trousers, sliding the material down and taking his boxer briefs with it. She wraps one hand around the base of his cock, lightly gripping his hip with the other.

“Hmm?” He’s concentrating really hard on not rocking his hips forward into her skilled hands, incredibly aware of the counter just behind her head. The absolute last thing he wants to do is accidentally give his girlfriend a concussion.

“Another poem, Killian. You have another one up in that head of yours?” She leans in and licks the tip of his erection, grinning up at him.

His mind scrambles for any other poems he memorized.

“You’re making it incredibly difficult to concentrate, love, but I did always love a challenge” he admits, another moan pulling from him as she wraps her lips around the head and sucks lightly. She pulls back again and looks up at him, her smile shining in her eyes.

“You once promised to read me dirty poetry. You’ve given me one. Surely you have another up there,” she says before leaning forward to kiss a spot below his hip bone. 

“There once was a man from Nantucket,” he starts, but she cuts him off with her laughter.

“No, no. Make it a good one.”

The poem that finally makes its way to his mind is not dirty, but he knows she’ll appreciate it. He clears his throat, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on the words in his head instead of the love at his feet.

All night I have slept with you / next to the sea, on the island. He begins, and she runs her hands along his thighs. Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep, / between fire and water. She grips his cock again and begins stroking it gently, placing kisses along his hip again as he continues.

Perhaps very late / our dreams joined / at the top or at the bottom, / up above like—

“Fuck, Emma,” he moans, her mouth going from the innocence of kisses to wrapping her lips around him once more and swirling her tongue around the tip.

“Keep going,” she pants out when she breaks away, dipping her head right back in when he starts reciting once more.

Perhaps your dream / drifted from mine / and through the dark sea / was seeking me / as before, / when you did not yet exist, / when without sighting you / I sailed by your side, / and your eyes sought / what now—/ bread, wine, love, and anger—/ I heap upon you / because you are the cup / that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

The hand that isn’t gripping the base of his cock trails up his thigh once more, pausing on his hip for a moment before brushing under the shirt that he’s still wearing and she runs her nails down his chest.

I have slept with you / all night long while / the dark earth spins / with the living and the dead, / and on waking suddenly / in the midst of the shadow / my arm encircled your waist. / Neither night nor sleep / could separate us.

She begins bobbing her head while her hand strokes the rest of his length, and it’s a struggle to remember the last stanza for a moment. He drops his head, opens his eyes again to watch her move and it’s too much. His movements against her during the first poem had already aroused him, and her attentions on him now are pushing him closer to the edge.

Emma moans around his length and his knuckles go white where he’s still gripping the counter. He can feel his release coming and she feels it too, speeds up and doesn’t prolong the torture. When it hits him, he has to brace his feet a little more so he doesn’t collapse. He’s breathing hard when she gracefully stands back up into the cage of his arms. She’s grinning, the cat that got the cream, as she winds her arms around his neck.

“Is that the end?” she asks, fingers threading through his hair. He shakes his head and swallows, wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

I have slept with you / and on waking, your mouth, / come from your dream, / gave me the taste of earth, / of sea water, of seaweed, / of the depths of your life, / and I received your kiss / moistened by dawn / as if it came to me / from the sea that surrounds us.

He kisses her after saying the last verse, tasting his release still lingering on her tongue, and she hums into the kiss.

“Not bad,” she says when she breaks the kiss. “You may have just swayed my opinion. I’m now pro-poetry.” She’s smiling when she meets his eyes, and he chuckles. He places one more kiss on her forehead before bending to hastily pull his underwear back up, stepping out of his discarded trousers and leaving them on the floor.

“I’ll try a lofty and pretentious one next time,” he promises, remembering their previous discussions about poetry now that she’s brought them up.

“Only if you’re fucking me into the mattress when you do it,” she says off-handedly. He huffs out a laugh and rests his forehead against hers.

“You’ll be the death of me, love.” He hugs her tight to him as he says it and he can feel the laugh vibrate through her.

“But you love me anyways,” she responds, dancing her fingers across his shoulders.

“Aye, until the end of time.” He kisses her again, and she whispers her love for him across his lips.

And when they wind up in bed a short time later, he recites whatever he can think of—limericks, haiku, even a poem by Shel Silverstein—as he fulfills her request. 

When the Save-the-Dates go out a few months later, there is, indeed, an asterisk at the bottom that says “David was right.”

[chwesolai]

Training

Characters: Richard Madden x Reader Warning: Smut A/N: my first shot at smut and hopefully I don’t make you cringe... just enjoy and the song goes with the write ok enjoy ;)

Summary: You and Richard become co-stars for a new upcoming action film where you both agreed on doing your own stunts and with doing your own stunts, comes a ton of training time aka your time to stare at the jaw-dropping body of your lovely co-star and after all the trainers leave you two alone, some things lead to another

-- Your POV

Rigs, hoists, flips, jumps, parkour, you name it, the trainers were probably having me do. 

“I guess my years as a failed Olympic gymnast are finally paying of,” I laugh as I practice my back tucks and then pretending to high kick someone.

One of our trainers, Pat, laughed, “I guess so, we just need to make those movements more fluid. After your tuck, bounce into the kick, don’t pause then kick. Just kick.”

I nod, going again and again until Pat was satisfied with my landing. Moving on to more contact stunting, Pat pairs me up with a couple of our stuntmen and I begin to practice sparring. This movie followed a highly-trained criminal teaming up with a secret service agent and blah blah blah, don’t want to give too much away. And with my character being the secret service agent, I had to be fit and able to do the defense training an agent would do.

Grunts escape from my mouth as I kick and punch as if these two stuntmen were coming at me for my life. I practiced taking a gun out of their hands and unloading the gun, not the easiest thing to do. And Pat begins to clap, “My my my, y/n you’ve truly have become kickass at this whole stunt game.” 

I couldn’t help but smile. It was about two months in training and the long-awaited words came out of Pat’s mouth, “I think its time to put you and Madden up to the test.”

It was nerve-racking. Richard has been in way more of these type of things as this is my first big gig. Not to mention, Richard is absolutely gorgeous. Richard and I only met up for script reasons and chemistry tests, so I guess you can say this is where the real fun begins.

Pat and I continue to practice with the rigs and me being launched into the air as the doors to the gym swing open and there he was. Richard and Leonard, our other trainer, come walking in as I do one last pretend explosion run.

“Atta kid!” I hear Leonard say as I finish the stunt, “it was only last month you hated doing those y/n!”

“Hey, Leonard! And I know right, the things progress does.” I laugh as I detach myself from the rig, “Are you ready for this Richard?”

Caught completely off guard, Richard just smiles and nods. 

-- Richard’s POV

Dear God, she’s breath-taking. How is it possible for someone to look THAT attractive whilst sweating and yanked by a rig? And I’ll be acting beside her for the next two months, fuck me. 

“Are you ready for this, Richard?” I hear her say and all I could do is just nod and smile like a dummy, what the fuck is wrong with you? She’s just another co-star. 

Before I set my things down I check my phone seeing another text from Taron: Rich, you just need to suck it up and ask her dinner after your training! I believe in you!

Ok, I think I could do it. Ok. Ok. 

Fuck me. 

-- Your POV

Pat and Leonard set up the scenario where Richard’s character and mine meet for the first time and my character attacks him, as he’s an enemy in the beginning. Pat and Leonard demonstrate and Richard and I observe, “Fairly easy. Let’s do this.”

We set up the scene, my back facing Richard and Richard opposite of me. Then, Richard begins to recite his lines, “Hello? Anyone in here? I’m Trevor Card and I-” His line gets cut off by me screaming, running full force at him.

 “Wait for a second! This is a misunderstanding! I’m not-” Richard continues in character. I tackle him to the ground and point my fake gun at him, “How could I misunderstand looking at a criminal?”

“A retired criminal. Ms. Weiss, I’m your new assignment.” Richard looks up at me as I’m basically straddling him. I help him up and we are face to face.

“Oh my. I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Card, I-” My line gets but off with Richard grabbing my left arm back and pulling me harshly, nearly whispers into my ear, “All is forgiven, Ms. Weiss. Now let’s discuss our assignment shall we?”

Fuck me that accent is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

“And, cut!” Leonard and Pat clap their hands in amazement, “pure naturals, I have to say. So, we’re gonna do more action packed stuff for the next hour and then we’ll see you guys on set!”

I nod and look over at Richard in pure awe.

---------------------------

Our hour was up and I was so sweaty it was unbearable how disgusting my clothes were. Richard gave up wearing a shirt after about 30 minutes and I was in a sports bra practically clinging to me.

“So, we’ll see you guys on set tomorrow!” Leonard and Pat wave the two of us goodbye as they leave the gym.

“So, how are you feeling about all this?” Richard asks me as we clean up the bench we laid all our belonging on.

“Honestly, really good. It’s really helpful to not be going through all this training alone, ya know?”

“I feel you on that one. All this training was intense but when you have a partner to do it with, I think it becomes fun.” He smiles at me, “also, just wanted to say you’ve got some wandering eyes, ms. y/n”

Well yeah, I do you’re fucking gorgeous.

“Well, I mean I’d have to say the about you.”

“You are attractive, y/n if you didn’t know. And I did not think you’d be so flexible.” His eyes began to darken, those baby blues became night sky blue. Fuck Me. 

“Are you implying something, Madden?” I begin inching closer to him, “your eyes have done some damage throughout the day, I think you owe me something.”

His eyebrows rose intrigued, “Me? Owe you? I mean I was going to ask you to dinner but the gym is empty and I just couldn’t stop thinking about myself feeling you. All of you.” His hand trailed up my back and brought me up against his chest.

I felt his shorts come in contact with my leg and holy fuck I’m in for it right now, “Richard, what are you waiting for? Kiss me already.” 

“Naughty, I love it.” He growls and he pulls me for a kiss and it’s slow at first. Our lips slowly find a rhythm and my tongue begins to explore. Our kisses escalate and get sloppier and sloppier, the tension building up in the both of us and I jump, wrapping my legs around Richard. His hands grab my ass and massage it and I let a moan escape.

“Baby, I need to hear from you. Louder,” Richard begins kissing down my neck and my moans begin to echo in the empty gym, “That’s it.” He lays me down on the bench, “We don’t need to do this, y/n. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable and I’ll stop.”

“We’ve barely begun.” I grab his face and begin kissing him as we both begin stripping down. His mouth travels south, leaving marks down my stomach and he begins kissing down my inner thighs and his hands rubbing against me, moans getting louder. “I can’t wait to take a taste.” He looks up at me and I all I could do it nod.

He traces his tongue from my entrance to my clit and I reach down to pull him in closer but he grabs my wrist, “Patience, love. Patience.” His whispers vibrate inside me and I lose my mind. Richard hums, opening his mouth and lapping at your clit with his breath coming hard against you. His fingers find my clit as his tongue enters inside. Gripping his hair, he licks you continuously up and down and comes back up and kisses you, sharing the taste.

“Ready?”

“Never been more ready.” We both laugh and he brings me in close, “I’m not doing this just because you’re my co-star, I really do like you, y/n.”

“I like you too.” My face feeling 10x hotter than it already it, “Now show me how much you need me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He lined himself up with my entrance, leaning over and kissing down my spine. I simply nodded my head in response. He buried himself in me, a low grunt and small gasp leaving his lips. I gripped onto what of the bench I could reach and shut my eyes tight.

"Holy sh-," I mumbled, biting my lip as Richard slowly pulled his entire length out before entering me again. He began this steady rhythm of slow thrusts. He would thrust halfway out two or three times and then the fourth thrust would be his entire length. I’m sure my eyes were at the back of my head by the time he had groaned out that he was close. His thumb reached around to our conjoined bodies, making fast circles on my clit against his slow thrusts. I came with a toe-curling orgasm and he followed soon after. He removed the condom and threw it in the bin by the benches.

Richard carries me, bridal-style, “let’s shower and I’ll treat to the nicest dinner you’ve ever had.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I smile and kiss his cheek.

[kinkykinard]

Me First

Fandom: Star Trek AOS. Pairing: Leonard McCoy X Female Reader. Word Count: 2844. Genre: fluff. Rating: all ages. Summary: Modern AU.  When your daughter gets sick and her pediatrician’s office can’t see her in a timely fashion, you take her in to a local walk in clinic.  The last thing you expect is to wind up a patient, too, and to find yourself smitten with the doctor. Beta: @starshiphufflebadger. Note: inspired by a conversation I had with @kittycat-cas. 

You sigh inwardly as your daughter clings to your leg, staunchly refusing to let you lift her up to sit on the exam table beside you.  You don’t blame her for being scared of doctors’ visits, but it’s still frustrating attempting to get her to cooperate.  You have no idea when or why she developed the anxiety, but you’re sure it - like most things - is temporary and will abate on its own in time.  In the meantime you’ve just resigned yourself to helping her work through it.

Leaning past her as you wait for the doctor, you deposit your coat and your purse on a nearby chair, freeing your arms to help your daughter with her own layers.  You glance around as she shucks her jacket, taking in the posters on the walls of the unfamiliar exam room.  You’ve never been to this particular walk-in clinic before, but your daughter’s pediatrician is on vacation and your own doctor is booked solid so you have little choice but to see someone else.  The prospect of seeing an unfamiliar doctor is only fueling your daughter’s fear, but she’s had a fever for a few days and you’re concerned that it needs attention sooner rather than later.

“Do you think you can sit on the bed for me?”  You ask softly.  “I’ll be right beside you, but it’ll make it much easier for the doctor that way.”

She shakes her head.

“What if I sit beside you?”  You coax.

She doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t shake her head either.  Counting it as a victory, you gently pry her off of your leg and look down, smiling in a reassuring way.  You scoop her up easily, sitting her on the bed and keeping one hand on her shoulder to keep her calm as you clamber up beside her.  You swing your legs a little, keeping one hand on your daughter’s back and playing a game of “I spy” to pass the time.

A knock on the door distracts you both and you feel your daughter stiffen.  The door swings inward a moment later, admitting who you can only assume is the doctor, going by his white coat and the stethoscope hung around his neck.  You smile warmly in greeting as he closes the door and turns to look at you and your daughter, and your heart skips a little as you realize how handsome he is.

“Hello, I’m Dr. McCoy,” he says warmly with a smile of his own.  “And this must be Isabelle.”

“Bella,” your daughter murmurs quietly from where she’s buried her face in your sweater.

“Bella, then,” the doctor agrees.  “What seems to be the trouble?”

You gently rub your daughter’s back as she clings to you, desperately trying to focus on your words rather than on the doctor’s hazel eyes and friendly smile.

“She’s had a fever for a few days,” you explain.  “A bit of a cough, too.  I’m sure it’s just a virus and a total waste of your time, but I wanted to have her checked just in case.”

“A mother’s worry is never a waste of time,” the doctor assures you.  “Have you given her anything to relieve the symptoms?”

You nod.

“I’ve been giving her Tylenol for the fever, but it’s just not breaking,” you reply.  “The cough hasn’t been too bad, though, so I’ve just been keeping an eye on it.”

Dr. McCoy nods and sets down the chart he’s holding.  He slowly moves in closer to the exam table, crouching down so he’s nearer your daughter’s level.  He keeps his expression friendly as he engages her, trying to get her to come out of hiding.

“Bella, darlin’, do you think it would be okay if I gave you a quick check up?”  He asks her softly.  “It’ll help me figure out what’s wrong so that I can do my best to help make you feel better.”

“I’m not sick,” Bella insists, briefly peeking out from where she’s hiding.  “I wanna go home.”

“Well, then, how about you let me take a look so we can prove to your mom that she has nothing to worry about?”  He suggests, glancing up at you and flashing you a wink that makes you weak in the knees.  “And maybe we can rustle up a sucker and a sticker for you for being a brave girl once you’re all done.”

Bella turns her head a little further at the blatant bribery, finally meeting the doctor’s gaze.

“Can I have the treats first?”  She asks shyly.

The doctor chuckles.

“You know, I’ve got a little girl of my own about your age,” he says.  “She doesn’t like the doctor much either.  She finds it helps make her feel better if the doctor explains everything he’s doing so she’s not surprised by anything.  Do you think maybe that would help you?”

Bella considers his words for a few seconds, then nods slowly.  Dr. McCoy smiles, rising to his full height and stepping away for a moment, returning with a thermometer.  He holds it up for Bella’s inspection and she eyes it warily.

“I’m sure your mom’s checked your temperature lots of times before,” he says.  “So if you’re more comfortable that way, I can have her check it now, too.”

Bella shrinks back, clinging to your sweater again.

“Mommy first,” she squeaks.

You smile wryly, keeping a protective arm around her as she leans into you.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur quietly.  “Lately she’s felt more comfortable with unfamiliar experiences if I go first, so me first, I guess.”

The doctor smiles warmly, nodding in understanding.

“No problem at all,” he assures you, turning his attention back to Bella with a wink.  “That just means we get to give mommy a checkup to make sure she’s healthy, too.”

Bella smiles a little, relaxing as she watches the doctor move toward you.  You sit up straight, turning your head a little as he places the thermometer probe in your ear.  It only takes a few seconds to get a reading and he glances briefly at the readout before turning it around to show your daughter.

“No fever for mommy,” he explains.  “Now let’s see about you.”

Bella watches attentively as he moves away to replace the probe cover before coming back.  She sits still, her hand grasping at the hem of your sweater, and allows Dr. McCoy to check her temperature.  He’s done in a matter of moments, and he gives your daughter a thumbs up as he checks the reading.

“Great job,” he says.  “You do have a fever, but that just means your body is doing a really good job of fighting the germs that are making you sick.”

Bella beams proudly at the praise, her grip on your sweater easing a little.  She watches the doctor closely as he sets the thermometer aside and moves on, showing her what he’s going to do and using you as a model.  He checks both you and your daughter’s ears and throats without incident.  As he moves on to check your lymph nodes, though, you have to fight to suppress a shiver.  His hands are warm and gentle and you curse yourself inwardly as he explains to your daughter was he’s doing, blessedly taking no notice of your discomfiture.  

You’re both relieved and a little bit sad when he pulls away to examine your daughter instead, missing his touch and scolding yourself for it.  You absolutely cannot let yourself have a crush on a likely married, impossibly attractive doctor that you’ll probably never see again.  You have enough things to think about without daydreaming about his handsome face and deft hands…

“Ms. Y/L/N?”  His voice calls, shaking you out of your reverie.

“Hm?”  You intone wordlessly, trying not to look guilty at your clear lack of attention.

“I was just about to show Bella how I’m going to listen to her heart and lungs,” he explains.  “Would you mind removing your sweater?”

You nod, feeling heat fill your cheeks.  You can feel your heart pounding in your chest and you know you’re doomed: he’s going to hear it racing away and there’ll be no excusing it.  You resign yourself to your fate as you disentangle your sweater from Bella’s grasp and pull it off over your head, leaving you in a tank top.

Dr. McCoy flashes you a friendly smile as he steps closer, his lab coat brushing your knees as he leans in with his stethoscope at the ready.  You bite the inside of your cheek as he reaches behind you to press the stethoscope to your back, his free hand resting on your shoulder.  He’s close enough that you catch just a faint hint of some sort of soap or cologne; something light and fresh.  Your already-elevated heart rate ratchets up even further as the scent engulfs you and you stiffen a little.  If Dr. McCoy notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He pulls back a moment later and moves the stethoscope to your chest.  The lower cut of the tank top gives him direct access to your skin and his fingertips brush just beneath your collarbone as he pauses to listen, making you feel almost dizzy.  You haven’t been this infatuated with someone in a very long time and it’s making you feel like a schoolgirl again.  Cursing your body’s betrayal, you keep quiet and let him finish, not daring to look at him in case his expression is knowing.  You would be mortified.

You breathe a sigh of relief when he pulls away a moment later and turns his attention back to Bella.  You watch as she giggles as he offers her the stethoscope.

“Do you want to try it?”  He asks her.  “It’s pretty neat.”

Bella nods excitedly, reaching out for the instrument.  She allows Dr. McCoy to help her put it on and you can’t help but smile at how adorable she looks as he presses it to her chest.  She gasps and opens her mouth in surprise as the sound of her heartbeat reaches her ears and she laughs in delight.  She listens closely for a few moments before reaching over and tugging on your arm.

“Mommy, mommy!  Can I listen to your heartbeat?”

You chuckle softly, nodding and leaning in closer so that the stethoscope reaches.  Dr. McCoy presses it to your chest again and you hazard a glance up at him as he holds it in place, letting Bella’s excitement replace her anxiety.  His expression is impassive and you allow yourself to hope, perhaps foolishly, that he hasn’t noticed your reactions to his touch.

“Wow, mommy, your heart is so fast!”

Your blood runs cold at your daughter’s exclamation and you let out a nervous laugh before you can think to stop it.

“Mommy’s got a lot on her mind, sweetheart,” you say quickly.  “It’s called stress and you’ll learn all about it when you’re older.”

Thankfully Dr. McCoy withdraws at that moment, taking his stethoscope back and sparing you a sympathetic glance.  You do your best to arrange your features into a mask of calm as he moves on to focus on Bella again and you’re grateful for her stifled laughter as it covers up the sound of your quickened breathing.

The rest of the exam is a breeze and goes by in a flash, and you’re almost disappointed as he steps aside to call for one of his nurses and make a few notes in Bella’s chart.  The nurse arrives moments later and Dr. McCoy comes back over to the exam table, giving Bella a warm smile.

“Bella, this is Chris, my best nurse,” he explains.  “She’s going to take you down the hall to pick out some stickers.  I just need to talk to your mom for a few minutes and then you’ll be free to go.  Sound good?”

“Yeah!”  Bella cheers.

She allows him to pick her up and set her on the ground, but before she can run off with the nurse you call after her.

“What do you say to the doctor, Bella?”  You ask.

“Thank you!”  She replies.

“You’re very welcome, darlin’,” he replies with a laugh.  “Now go on before someone takes all the good stickers.”

The nurse holds her hand out and Bella takes it, hurrying the woman out of the room in search of treats.  The door to the exam room glides closed in their wake and you’re left alone with Dr. McCoy.  You smile in what you hope is a neutral fashion and reach for your sweater.

“So, what’s the prognosis?”  You ask lightly.

“Your diagnosis was right on; it’s most likely a virus,” he explains.  “She’ll be just fine in a few more days.  In the meantime you can keep treating her symptomatically.”

You nod and move to put on your sweater, but Dr. McCoy stops you with a gentle hand on your knee.

“Not so fast,” he says.  “I’m not quite through with you.”

Your heart rate picks up again at his words and you lower your arms, letting your sweater drape over your lap.

“This visit wasn’t for me,” you insist politely.  “Really, I’m just fine!”

Dr. McCoy doesn’t look convinced.  He reaches out to grasp your wrist and his fingertips settle over your pulse as he glances down at his watch.

“Bella could be a great doctor one day; she was certainly right about your heart rate being on the high side,” he says lightly.  “Is this normal for you?”

“It gets like that when I’m under duress,” you mumble.

Dr. McCoy raises an eyebrow.

“Duress?”

“When I’m stressed out, or nervous, or smitten,” you blurt, immediately wishing you could take the words back.  “You know…”

The doctor hums wordlessly in acknowledgement as he moves on to check your blood pressure.  You avert your gaze as he works, looking anywhere but back at him, itching to jump off the table and make your escape, but also wanting to stay and have his hands on you just a little bit longer.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

You force yourself to meet his gaze as he addresses you.

“Y/N is fine,” you say.

“Well then, Y/N, I was just saying that while I’m sure there’s nothing serious going on, your elevated heart rate and blood pressure might warrant a follow up in a week’s time,” he explains.  “If I’m making you nervous, I encourage you to check in with your family doctor instead, otherwise I’ll leave word with the girls at the desk and they can book you back in to see me.”

“You’re not making me nervous!”  You assure him.  “Quite the opposite, actually.”

You’re worried you’ve implied something unwelcome and overstepped your bounds, but the easy smile and playful twinkle in his eye speak volumes.  Taking the plunge, figuring you’ll never have to see him again if your instincts are horribly misleading you, you smile back.

“Do you make house calls?”  You ask.

His gaze never wavers as he leans casually against the exam table beside you, slipping his free hand into his pocket.  He’s so impossibly good looking he might as well have been cut from a magazine cover and you’re suddenly glad for the table beneath you as a dizzying wave of attraction grips you.

“I don’t make a habit of it, but I think I might be persuaded to make an exception.”

You’re grasping at straws for some sort of a clever, flirtatious comeback when Bella’s voice outside the exam room door interrupts your moment with the doctor.  He straightens up and you hurriedly pull your sweater on as the door swings open.  Bella rushes toward you, her shirt covered sleeve to sleeve and hem to neckline in stickers of all shapes and colors.  You can’t help but laugh as you slip off of the exam table and she rushes to hug you around the legs.

“Ready to go, peanut?”  You ask.

“Mommy, mommy!”  She squeals.  “Nurse Chris let me pick as many stickers as I wanted!  And she gave me some suckers to take home, too!”

“Okay, okay, you can show me in the car,” you say with a laugh.

You reach for her coat, turning to look at the doctor as you make your way toward the door.

“Thank you again, Dr. McCoy,” you say warmly.  “And my number’s in Bella’s file in case you’d like to call and schedule that follow up.”

You wink at him, feeling your cheeks heat as he nods and gives you a friendly wave.

“I’ll be sure to do that, Y/N.”

As you and your daughter make your way down the hall, Christine comes to stand beside Dr. McCoy in the doorway you’ve just left, the two of them watching you go.  Chris glances up at him with a knowing smile.

“I’ll leave Bella’s file on your desk, next to your phone,” she says softly.  “And we’ll need to replace some of our sticker stock.  I’ll have the expense report on your desk by week’s end.”

@star-trekkin-across-theuniverse @feelmyroarrrr @ababyinatrenchcoat @alluramc @medicatemedrmccoy @arrowsshootyouforwards @wonders-of-the-multiverse @devanshade @dolamrothianlady @startrekimagines @theonlyparadox @gaeilgerua @itsjaynebird @thevalesofanduin @elsa-lost-in-translation @thefanficfaerie @gryffindor9whovian @auduna-druitt @archangels-lollipop @bookcaseninja @supermoonpanda @bubblegum-star-trek  @the-space-goddess-16 @bkwrm523 @starmission @the-geeky-engineer @startled-seastar @sassmasterqueen @shewolf-2013 @this-obsession-o-mine @littlecarowrites @eyeofdionysus @nasanatmfers @galaxycharmed @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @kirkaholic123 @viioletdelights @ambie2020 @yallneedtrek @iwillwakeherinthemorning @haveyouseenmymind @sorryallonsy @reading-in-moonlight @mad-girl-without-a-box @itsrandombooklover @all-time-foes @goingknowherewastaken @kickingitwithkirk @sebastianstanslefteyebrow @annathewitch @kawaiiusagichansan @garnet-redtailedhero @djisfantastic @ever-faithful-sidekick @killerbumblebee @lurkch @resistance-is-futile81 @my-life-as-a-fangirl @chook007

[thesinglesjukebox]

HARRY STYLES - LIGHTS UP

[5.33]

If Harry puts his Lights Up, maybe he can change the world?

Kayla Beardslee: When I say, What the hell is this structure?, I mean it in both a complimentary and a confused way. On one hand, it's nice that Styles is experimenting beyond the traditional pop song structure, but on the other, "Lights Up" ends after a single chorus, barely even establishing itself as worthy of attention. Maybe it'll sound better in the context of the album (an argument I'm not particularly fond of), but releasing a slightly muddled, interlude-like creation as a lead single is a risky move. The production is fine (glad to see Jeff Bhasker get a new production credit), but my real quibble is with the lyrics, which are, frankly, a mess. Maybe they're trying to say something personal, but there are absolutely no specific images here, only meaningless abstractions. "What do you mean?," "I'm sorry by the way," "Can't you see?": we never learn what these lines are actually referencing, what conversation or larger topic they're responding to. Styles just throws them out like they're important -- he's singing these lines, so they must be, right? -- but never bothers to elaborate. And let's talk about the central light/dark conceit. The prechorus says, "All the lights couldn't put out the dark / Running through my heart," so the idea is that there's a darkness inside Styles that isn't affected by the light. But the chorus switches to him stepping into the light, shining, and saying "I'm not ever going back," so I guess the dark has been put out and that first part was an irrelevant lie and oh my god what's even the point of all this hype if the music can't communicate anything of substance. [3]

Isabel Cole: Remember how Leonard DiCaprio used to be like, I mean, yes, super pretty, but also a gifted young actor with an unteachable movie star charisma and a wonderful sincerity that brought real feeling even to schlock like Titanic, only it was not enough for him to be rich and beautiful and famous and actually, in fact, extremely good at his craft, he decided he needed to be, like,serious, he needed to earn the respect of the joyless mediocrity-lovers of the Academy, he had to prove himself as An Artist as defined by perhaps the least imaginative deliberative body in the performing arts, and now he hasn't given a good performance since 2002 because no matter how committed his choices and no matter how thoughtful his physicality, he is incapable of convincing because you can always see the thinking behind the acting, you can't ever believe he is anyone other than a man desperately committed to embodying his own self-seriousness which is leaking off him so potently you wonder if his castmates can smell it on set? Anyway, "All the lights couldn't put out the dark running through my heart" is a pretty great line, so it's too bad that this song sucks. [3]

Alfred Soto: A hashtag in search of a song, a yearning in search of an object, messianic in a godless world, strummy without sincerity, "Lights Up" incarnates 2019. But I light a candle for another "Fireproof" and "No Control." [4]

Alex Clifton: Harry certainly isn't afraid to take risks. He's got a bit of an oddball swing to his singles--making his solo debut track about childbirth was a creative move. "Lights Out" sounds like nothing on the radio currently which is pretty awesome; I love the tonal shift in the chorus that's reminiscent of Michael Jackson's "Rock With You" in particular as that is a rare move in pop music. I would love to see Harry go full on avant-garde on this album with hints of Elton and Bowie and judging by this single, he is on his way there. [7]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: For all of the think-pieces that "Lights Up" is getting for its sultry music video and Harry Styles's statements (or lack thereof) regarding his sexuality, it's easy to forget what this song even sounds like: it's a slice of gourmet vanilla cake, light and airy, rich in texture, basic but tasty. Lyrically, it's effective if unambitious, perfectly what Harry described in own words, "It's all about having sex and feeling sad." [7]

Katherine St Asaph: All the fancy production styles Styles pulls out of his voluminous costumes -- the "Rock With You" chords in the chorus, the gospel-ish backing vocals, the pummeling percussion breaks -- and all the glomming-on by Rolling Stone can't disguise the fact that this is a slightly gussied-up Shawn Mendes or OneRepublic song. Between this and the Niall song, One Direction's alumni seem to have a taste for the blandest of the band's old meat-and-potatoes rock influences. [4]

Claire Biddles: No fan of Harry Styles was surprised when, instead of trailing the imminent sort-of-surprise release of his new single on social media, he popped up in the replies of a fan on Twitter, telling her to spend her money on therapy instead of tickets to his next tour. "I'll wait for you," he promised. Like therapy, Harry Styles exists to reflect our selves back at us; a reassuring presence that can be whoever we need him to be. "Lights Up" is a good song, but that matters less than the comfort and affirmation of the open question at its heart. "Do you know who you are?" Harry asks us -- as always centring our needs, giving us space, listening rather than waiting to speak. The best pop stars, the best crushes, aid our self-actualisation. Harry Styles is the perfect pop star, the perfect crush, because he understands this dynamic better than anyone else -- an uncomplicated delivery system for our multitudinous desires and selves. [7]

Stephen Eisermann: What a breathtaking declaration this is. The chaotic production are wrapped perfectly by Harry's warm vocals, and it all builds to that wonderful climax of a bridge where we meet Harry. He introduces us on his terms, using this song's video and the release date (yes, releasing on National Coming Out Day is quite the stunt) to really drive home the message, but man if this doesn't feel like some kind of big event. There are so many arguments that coming out shouldn't be an event, but man if this isn't an argument that it should be. [8]

Elisabeth Sanders: Rock and roll is no longer the counterculture, and hasn't been for decades. Most of us know this, I think--that a genre that was scandalous catharsis more than half a century ago is now a bastion of old-school respectability cloaked in nothing but the thin aesthetics of its long-gone indecorousness. And so, in a way, it's the perfect thing to turn to if you're, say, a former boy-band pop idol trying to shrug off the casual disdain that a certain kind of modern pop evokes. If you want patriarchal legitimacy, sour cream and onion flavor, but you never want to have to admit it.This is not to take some ultracontrarian edgelord view that the only truly authentic thing is commercially-viable stadium pop, because at least it's honest, but to say merely this: everybody's trying to signify something, no matter what. Even the painfully earnest.Which brings us past the folk-rock village of Harry's 2017 self-titled debut, around-about the gorgeously flamboyant suits and the Met Ball hosting gig, through the Rolling Stone interviews and carefully-minimal social media presence, to Lights Up. And it's... fine. It's certainly not a bad song, but it is one that I forgot the tune of immediately after hearing. Frankly, I still can't remember it even now, and I listened to it for the dozenth time a few seconds ago. It's just pop enough to be pop, just ponderous enough to not really be THAT kind of pop. It's got some fun spangly bits. It's probably got a lot of noises made by real instruments in it. And, most notably, it's got a fantastic, evocative, gay as hell video, which almost successfully conceals the fact that the song itself is playing it safe as midcentury, tastefully-appointed houses. And I guess all this makes me kind of wonder: Harry, DO you know who you are? [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: The Beginning of Wisdom - Chapter 14 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: Flash, Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Leonard Snart (Len) & Leonard Snart (Leo), Len Snart/Mick Rory, Leo Snart/Mick Rory, Len Snart/Mick Rory/Leo Snart, Leo Snart/Ray Terrill, Len Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: In which Leonard Snart is twins.

(the life and times and loves of Len and Leo Snart)

—————————————————————————————————–

Len stepped out into the Accelerator, immediately seeing the blur of light that was Barry running at top speed. He took aim, a necessary step when dealing with a speedster moving at near time-travel levels.

Unfortunately, it was a step that gave Eobard Thawne a second in which he could notice Len's presence, realize why he was there, and act.

"Don't you dare, Cold," he snarled, leaping out of his time bubble in a burst of light to shove Len up against the wall, his voice barely audible above the sound of Barry running. Len didn't recall being moved back to the wall, or dropping his gun, or even seeing Eobard move, but that wasn't necessary; he was dealing with a speedster. "You will not ruin my plans – not when I'm so close –"

His hand started vibrating, not unlike a saw.

Well, that's not good.

Len lifted both of his hands above his head to grab the ridge on the wall behind him to stabilize himself. "Kill me and Barry will stop," he threatened. "You know he will."

"He won't even notice."

"You willing to bet your precious plan on it?" Len challenged.

Eobard hesitated.

Len used that moment of hesitation (see, it's not just speedsters who can do that!) as an opportunity to swing his legs forward to wrap around Eobard's waist. Then, while Eobard was blinking at him like he'd lost his mind, Len released one hand, brought it to his lips, and – with his face inches away from Eobard's – whistled at the top of his lungs.

Eobard flinched.

He didn't run away, either, thereby letting Len use his legs to keep him stabilized in one place. Presumably because he didn't understand why Len would want to do so.

He didn't understand the reasoning, and, because of Len's piercing whistle, he also didn't hear the sound of a gun going off – not until it was a moment too late, anyway.

Iris' bullet hit Eobard right in the center of his back.

Eobard screamed and threw Len at Iris, causing them both to go tumbling.

"Don't shoot me," Len immediately told her, grabbing at her hands even as they fell.

"Trying!"

She managed not to.

Eobard staggered towards them both, his eyes red points of light, his body starting to vibrate like he wanted to hide his identity again – or to turn his whole body into a living weapon.

"Uh, that's not good," Iris said.

"Not good at all," Len agreed, minorly distracted by their apparent similar reactions to things - did Barry have a type? Len can only hope - and glancing around until he spotted his cold gun. Only a few feet away, but the equivalent of miles in speedster time.

"No, I mean – I got him, right? Aren't you not supposed to move people with bullet wounds for fear of the bullet migrating?"

Len blinked. "Good point."

"That had better not be a pun about bullets."

"No, saying that your shot in the dark was remarkably accurate would've been a pun; that was me agreeing with you. Shoot him some more, will you? I still want to stop Barry."

"On it," Iris said. She climbed to her feet and started shooting.

It didn't work, of course – Eobard leapt forward at her at once, dodging the bullets with ease, but it gave Len a split second to throw himself at the cold gun and fire at where he thought Barry might be to try to get his attention.

Eobard cried out, half-rage, half-pain.

Len looked – Iris was glaring up at Eobard defiantly with an empty-looking gun, but he was clutching at his back. Iris' bullet must have migrated.

"Iris!" someone shouted from the entrance to the Accelerator.

It was – partner-cop guy?

The one who'd been holding hands with Iris earlier.

He had a gun, too, but he was holding it at his own head.

"Eddie!" Iris screamed. "No!"

“Don’t you fucking dare, asshole!” Len shouted.

Partner-cop guy (apparently called Eddie) paused, just for a split second, but that was enough.

Eobard turned, saw, paled – and then there was a burst of lightning and he was knocking the gun out of Eddie’s hand.

"You might be my ancestor," he snarled, his face twisted in pain from the bullet, "and your life must be preserved so that mine can continue, but don't think you can threaten me – I will kill you all if I –"

Barry punched him in the face.

He appeared out of nowhere in a burst of lightning, the way speedsters do, and he sent Eobard flying back into his time-ship-bubble-thing, which in turn sent it flying – in all directions as it shattered.

"No!" Eobard roared.

"I'm not letting you hurt any of my friends!" Barry shouted back.

The next minute or so was rather confused, given the speed of the fight, but from the brief glimpses Len was able to catch, it unfortunately looked as though Eobard was getting the upper hand.

Also, Eddie was going for his gun again. "I'm sorry, Iris –" he started.

Goddamn stupid cops.

"Don't shoot yourself, shoot him!" Len shouted, aiming his own gun at the speedsters.

They were moving fast, yes, but Len had always been great at math, and calculating where they were likely to go next was as easy as breathing.

He fired.

They both tripped as their legs were iced.

Eddie was still hesitating.

Actually, Eddie was no longer hesitating, because Iris had pitched the (now-empty) gun Len had given her straight at his head.

"Ow! Iris –!"

She grabbed the (not empty) gun out of his hand, snapped, "We'll discuss this later," and then added, "Snart! Keep going!"

"With pleasure," Len said, and fired again even as Iris began firing her own, more standard gun.

Eobard tried to twist towards them, clearly intent on catching the bullets or something, but cried out again, hands going to his sides – that original bullet of Iris' still lodged in his back.

No – not in his back anymore.

His spine.

Len can see the moment where Eobard loses control of his legs. For real, this time; not that mockery of a wheelchair he'd pretended to be trapped in for months.

He began to fall.

"Barry, back out of range and hit him hard!" Iris ordered, glancing at Len.

Len nodded in silent agreement, their minds perfectly in agreement as to what had to be done.

"One supersonic punch coming right up," Barry, who entirely missed that little exchange, said, and promptly disappeared, presumably to run up some momentum for his punch.

Len focused the beam of his cold gun on Eobard, icing him even as he shrieked with rage.

Eobard was almost entirely iced over when Barry's fist came down on him at full amped-up strength, shattering him into a million pieces.

And then -

Silence.

Well, for a second.

"Holy crap," Barry said. He stared at the pieces. "What the fuck. That wasn't what I – I didn't realize - what the –"

"I'm not sure what you expected to happen there, Barry," Iris says, putting her – well, Eddie's, but judging by the ring it's soon to be their gun as long as the wedding wasn't off due to Eddie's suicidal shenanigans – gun down. “He was literally more ice than human by the time you got back, and you just hit him really, really hard.”

"First time killing's hard," Len said, not without sympathy. "Don't let it stick in your head; you end up developing twitchy fingers, kleptomania, and identity issues that way."

They all look at him strangely.

"Don't worry," Len assured Barry. "You're an adult; your brain isn't as plastic as mine was – I'm sure you'll be fine."

"...not why we're staring at you, but okay, sure. Thanks for the tip," Barry said. He looked down at the body, and adds blankly, "He killed my mother."

"Totally justified, then," Len said brightly.

"So murder is okay but illegal prisons is where you draw the line?" Iris joked.

"Yes," Len said, not joking. "Besides, this guy was literally trying to destroy the entire world; a bit of homicide is clearly a reasonable response. Speaking of which, Scarlet, if you're going to ask my opinion of something, you need to tell me the risks involved up front. The full risks."

"You already told me not to do it," Barry pointed out. "It wouldn't have changed your answer."

"Yes, it would have," Len said. "From a 'don't do it' to a 'kidnap you until you see sense'. You didn't actually do the whole time-changing thing, did you?"

"No, I was getting close when I saw you guys fighting," Barry said. "I still – I don't think I was going to do it. You were right about me not wanting to lose my life now. I just wanted to see her..."

"You ever considered waiting until your powers are stronger and go back to see her at a moment when she's not being murdered?" Len suggested. “I feel like that would be happier all around, really; few people come off in their best light when they're being murdered.”

Barry looked at him strangely again, but he seemed to be considering Len's suggestion seriously.

"What about me?" Eddie asked, still looking shaken. "I don't – he's still my descendant."

"We'll adopt," Iris said, gathering him up into her arms. "Or something. Don't you dare do that to me again, you idiot."

"Uh," Barry said. "Actually –"

They looked at him.

"Wells – uh, Eobard – had a secret future room," Barry said. "To tell him if the future was on track. And, uh, in that, Iris wasn't married to you, so, uh, I guess – if you do marry Iris, instead of whoever you married in that other timeline, you've already, I guess, averted history? Possibly enough to avoid, well, him."

There were some exclamations involved after that, some cathartic shouting, and then kissing.

Lots and lots of kissing.

Len went over to Barry. "Let me guess," he said dryly. "She originally married you, huh?"

Barry winced.

"Figured," Len said. He wonders if it was Iris Allen or if she'd gone with the hyphenation. She looked like a hyphenation girl. "Well, if you're looking for a nice rebound..."

Barry stopped wincing and started smiling. "Seriously? Now? That's the worst pick-up line ever," he said.

“I felt the pun fit the moment,” Len said. “What with you bouncing off the walls, literally.”

“That’s terrible.”

"You want a pick-up line relating to altered timelines?" Len asked, arching an eyebrow. "Because I'm sure I can come up with one – or two – or an infinite number of possible alternatives universes where I came up with another line –"

Barry started laughing.

"It's a quantum universe, baby, but all I see is you," Len said.

"No. Just - no."

"Hey, baby, is it time for you and me to get together?"

"Definitely not!"

"Not good, huh? Better go back in time and try again – and again – and again –"

"If I agree to go out with you," Barry asked, now laughing hard, "is there any chance that you'll stop?"

"Realistically? No."

Barry smiled. "Good."

Len grinned.

Leo, when informed, rolled his eyes. "I've already put in the order for the bigger bed," he told Len. "Nice Alaska king. But you have to convince him to join in on it."

"Already told him; he likes the idea," Len replied smugly. "Touch-starved childhood, apparently. Also because my superhero is better than yours."

"Ray is not a superhero."

"Uh-huh. So you haven't checked the Paris tabloids yet today."

"...what did he do."

"Ray? Nothing. The Ray, on the other hand..."

"Tell him I want to do the pro-meta positive representation thing," Barry hollered from where he was making himself the world's largest lunch. In Len's kitchen, because Barry'd been looking for a place to avoid everyone else he knew. "When they come back from France, I mean."

"I'll tell him," Leo said, long-suffering, and hung up.

"Hey, am I dating him too?" Barry asked, nodding at the phone. "Leo, I mean?"

"What? No. Just me. I'm married to Mick, both of us, and each of us have one superhero apiece. It's fair that way."

"I guess that makes sense," Barry said, a little dubiously.

“We have to be balanced,” Len explained. “This way, I have a husband and a boyfriend.”

“...okay.”

"I won't be offended if you make an error," Len assured him. "Either of us. It happens."

Barry blinked. "Okay," he said. "You know, it's weird how you switch between 'I' and 'me' and 'we' and 'us' like that – you know it's not how language works, right?"

Len shrugged. "Language is in a constant state of development. When we all have android clones of ourselves, using pronouns interchangeably will become the norm."

"You don't have a clone, though; you have a twin," Barry pointed out. "The two of you are different."

"Obviously," Len said. "We have different personality facets. But theoretically so would clones once they'd had a chance to have different life experiences...Listen, if all of this is a lead up hint that you want to talk about emotions, I can call Leo back – he's the better Leonard for that."

"No, no, I'm no good at emotions either," Barry said. "Denial and passive acceptance work for me. And I suppose that that makes sense, you know, about the multiple bodies thing – did you know, one of the first metas I fought had the ability to make multiples of himself?"

"Really?" Len said, intrigued despite himself. "Tell me more. Is he still around? Or his corpse, at least?"

"I think Wells 'disappeared' him after he dropped himself off the side of a building," Barry said regretfully. "But it was a really interesting power – even the duplicates of him could duplicate –"

Leonard, when he heard the full story, declared himself satisfied with just one duplicate, much to the relief of Mick, Ray, and Barry.

Apparently anymore and it would "get confusing".

Leonard had no idea what they were talking about; it seemed perfectly straightforward to them.

"We're coming back at the end of the week," Leo announced a month later. "The show was a massive success, no one died, and Mick made sure that my 'stalker fan' stole me a little something so that we didn't break the trend."

"The metas –" Barry started, suddenly concerned.

"Don't worry," Ray assured him. "We paid them for their parts in this show and suggested a few more places in Europe for them to visit before they come back to the States. I think they'll come back eventually – it is their hometown – but with any luck, it'll be in a nice staggered, possibly even legal fashion."

"Oh. Well, that works."

"Though when they come back..." Leo started.

"In the event they commit any further crimes, Iron Heights now has a proper metahuman wing under construction," Barry said quickly. "Which I will help monitor in the event of police, correctional and/or judicial corruption. There will be trials and accommodations for human rights."

"Good," Len said, pleased.

"Putting that aside, though, this summer's been really quiet so far," Barry said. "Four weeks of zero activity! That hasn’t happened in, uh, a while."

"Guess we'll just have to live calmly for a while," Mick said.

"We could knock over the horse-racing –"

"Please don't plan your crime around me," Barry said. "Especially if you intend for me to try to stop it."

"Quiet first," Mick said firmly. "I don't care how long we've been gone; we're taking a few weeks off for quiet. Real quiet. Fashion shows? Not quiet."

"Between the metas, the tabloids, and the show, we've all been run a bit ragged on our side," Ray agreed.

"And all we did over here was save the world," Len drawled.

"No biggie," Barry said, grinning. "That's an average Tuesday."

Len snorted.

"Maybe a short break is in order?" Ray said, hiding a smile. "For everyone?"

"Oh, all right," Len said, giving in. They could knock over the horse-racing betting box another time.

It was surprisingly nice, though, being quiet for a bit: it let them settle in comfortably.

Barry hadn't had a chance to be with the full group all that much, rather than just Len, and he had any number of questions, most of which were answered by Ray and Mick, and mostly with "well that's just how Leonard Snart works, I think."

"It's just pronoun usage that's mixing him up," Leo assured Len, his head on his brother's chest, resting in the bedroom as the others spoke in the kitchen. "Don't worry. He's in."

"He'd better be," Len said, still fretting a little. "I like him. And we need two."

"We do," Leo agreed. "We'd be unbalanced, otherwise."

They were balanced in every other way: they were married to Mick, who loved them both; they both had thriving careers; they each had skills and talents; and now, they each had a boyfriend.

Perfect.

[trade-baby-blues]

Steel Camellias Pt 2

Pairing: Bones x Reader (part one here)

Word Count: 3980 

Warnings: some angst, some swearing, but mostly cute roadtrip snapshots and an overall good time. Also some NSFW mentions. 

A/N: Based on a request by the lovely @slither-in-a-half​ “ Can you do a Leonard McCoy x reader. Where everyone is on shore leave, but the reader can’t go back to her home in Alabama so she asks Leonard if she could go with him.” This is the part where they actually make it to Alabama!! :D 

The wind scraped through the trees, letting out the wails you could no longer muster within yourself. Instead, you stood stoic, planting your own roots in front of the small memorial at your feet. “I had her cremated.” Bones had the decency not to ask, but you could tell the question was on his mind. “Couldn't afford a funeral. I wanted her close. So she always knows she’s loved.”

Bones put a hand on the small of your back, pulling you closer to him. “How did you end up in San Francisco?”

“I applied to Starfleet. Figured it was the best thing I could do for Eden. She’d have health care, day care. I’d be able to afford a good school for her.” You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a choke. “The acceptance letter came the day after she died.” Bones said nothing. Some wounds couldn’t be healed with words.

“We should probably go,” you said, but your feet remained firmly planted. You thought it would get easier, but each time you said goodbye to your daughter felt like the first. You let Bones tug you away slowly, humming again, and you put your head against his chest, letting the vibrations fill your head.

Bones opened the passenger door for you, and you clambered in with the grace of a three legged dog. You curled up on yourself, feet up on the dash, head against the window, as Bones started the car. This was the only way you’d agreed to go back to Alabama, knowing full well driving would take longer.

“Where to first,” Bones said, revving the engine and turning the stereo on. A pair of aviators obscured his eyes but you could feel him watching you. You pulled yourself out of your tragic, indie movie star pose and sat up in your seat, sending a devious smile Bones’ way. You knew exactly where to start.

Leonard McCoy had never understood the appeal of Las Vegas, but seeing you standing on top of the bar singing your heart out and swinging your hips. Well, he was starting to appreciate it. You curled your finger at him, beckoning him to come up, and, despite his better judgement, he downed the rest of his drink and joined you.

At least, that’s what Leonard thinks happened. The night’s memories were a little fuzzy right up until he woke up next to you in bed with nothing but a sheet and your arm wrapped around his torso. He slipped carefully out of bed and into the shower, trying desperately to remember what happened last night. He remembered dancing and he remembered sleeping but he couldn’t remember sleeping with you. He couldn’t remember your taste or your smell, only how warm you felt lying next to him.

When Bones got out of the shower, you were already dressed, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He held the towel around his waist a little tighter as he sidled over to his bag to pull out a fresh change of clothes.

“Mm mm mm,” you said, eyeing him, “I get why they call you Bones now.”

Bones froze. “And why’s that?”

“Because I wanna jump your bones.” You winked before practically springing off the bed. “Come on, sugar. You got plenty of sleep last night after I hauled your drunk ass up here. Time to hit the road.”

Bones let out a huge sigh of relief as you entered the bathroom. As many times as he’d thought about what sleeping with you would be like, he never pictured it as a drunken escapade in a downtown Vegas hotel. He’d always hoped it would be romantic, that he could woo you, that it would

“Wait,” he shouted through the bathroom door, “you want to fuck me?”

You let your confession run freely around Bones’ mind for awhile as the two of you barreled down Highway 70. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as you watched the landscape whiz by, wind blowing your hair around you, sun making your thighs stick to the leather seats when you moved. You thought for a moment that shorts might not have been the best idea, but Bones’ eyes darted to you every time you adjusted them and you figured that in itself was worth it.

“We should go see the giant nut,” you said. Bones eyes jumped to you again, curious, and lingering long enough for the car to start drifting out of the lane. He jolted back into position and you snickered.

Bones cleared his throat to regain his composure, though you could tell by the pitchiness in his voice that his mind was still elsewhere: “The giant nut?”

“Yeah, the world’s largest pistachio nut. It’s in Alamogordo, which is on the way.”

Bones groaned. “Come on, you promised we would make it through New Mexico before we stop for the day.”

“And we can! Look, we’ll just stop for a little bit, snap a pic, and keep going.”

“If we’re only staying for a few minutes, why go at all?”

“Because it’s the world’s largest pistachio nut.” You emphasized each word as if it should have been obvious. “How many times in your life have you seen a giant nut? I mean come on Bones, it’s 30 feet tall.”

Bones remained unimpressed, even standing in the shadow of the actual nut. “It’s not even real.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course it’s not real.”

“Well you said it’s the world’s largest pistachio.”

“And it is,” you argued, waving your arms at all of its concrete glory. “It’s not about the nut. It’s about what it represents. It’s about this guy who loved both pistachios and roadside attractions, which, by the way is incredibly relatable.”

Bones snorted. “I’ll make sure to propose with a pistachio on the side of the road then.”

“Hey, I might not be a traditional kinda person, but friends to spouses is a bit of a jump, isn’t it,” you teased. You giggled as you watched the tips of Bones’ ears turn pink under the streetlight.

“Well, whaddya say we start being a little more than friends?”

You turned to face him fully, smile spreading across your face. “I’d say you need to take a few pointers from Jim on how to woo a woman.”

Bones rolled his eyes before pulling you against him. “Shut up,” he muttered, bringing his lips down against yours. You stood on your tiptoes to reach your arms around his neck, pulling your bodies as close as you could, wishing the moment could last forever only to have it broken by a fit of laughter.

“I’m sorry,” you giggled, noting Bones’ quizzical look. “I’m sorry I just. I spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you but I - I never once pictured it in the shadow of a giant fucking pistachio.” Whatever composure you were clinging to escaped and you doubled over with laughter. Bones chuckled too, putting a hand on the small of your back as you clutched your sides. Your chest ached by the time you finally caught your breath - breath that left you again as soon as you looked back into Bones’ eyes.

He smiled warmly at you - a bigger smile than you’d seen on him before. He slipped a hand beneath your chin and pulled you into another chaste kiss before his lips brushed against your cheek. Your breath caught in your throat as his teeth grazed your earlobe. His breath was hot against the side of your face, the anticipation grueling until he finally spoke: “The metal dinosaur was still cooler.”

You punched him playfully in the chest. “We were having a moment. Jerk.”

Bones laughed freely now. “Come on, sugar. We can’t have a moment in front of the giant nut. You wanna have a moment, we should find a hotel.” He rested his hands on your hips, pulling you close to him again.

“Thought you wanted to get to Texas.”

“Changed my mind. Figure we’ve seen enough roadside attractions. Maybe it’s time for a few bedside ones.”

You stretched languidly in the morning sunlight, rolling over to throw an arm around Bones’ torso. To your disappointment, he was already up and out of bed. You cracked an eyelid open and spotted him in the kitchenette, cooking and humming away. Groaning, you forced yourself out of bed and padded into the kitchen to wrap your arms around him, burying your face between his shoulder blades.

Bones turned in your arms, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Breakfast’ll be ready in a sec if you wanna go get dressed.”

You grunted. “Sure I can’t just have you?” You were sure your ruffled hair and wrinkled shirt were as far as you could get from attractive but damn if you didn’t try.

Bones only laughed. “You had me all night, and you can have me again tonight, but for now we’ve got some driving to get done.” He gave you a brief kiss before turning you around and pushing you gently towards your suitcase. You grumbled under your breath, determined to find the perfect sundress to tease Bones with all day in hopes that he’d rip it off of you again when you got to the next hotel. It did not escape Bones notice, and by the way he kissed you as you left the hotel, you guessed he had the same plans.

“Where to now, sweetheart,” he asked, one arm still thrown around your shoulders as he reached down to open the passenger seat for you.

You were careful to let your hem ride up as you took a seat. The way Bones tensed before he shut the door did not go unnoticed, and you smiled. “I was thinking we’d stop by and see Old Rip.”

“Old Rip?” Bones forced himself to keep his eyes on the road.

“Yeah, Old Rip. The miracle of science. Well, not a miracle to you, I guess, on account of how you brought Jim back to life, but a miracle to the simple-minded folks of good ol’ Eastland, Texas in 1926.”

“So what? Some guy died and came back to life?”

“Oh no,” you said, flashing Bones a devious smile, “not a man. He’s a horned lizard. Sorry, was a horned lizard. He’s dead now.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a miracle to me,” Bones grumbled.

“Oh come on, Len. Don’t be such a grump. This lizard was a rockstar! He met the president when he was alive. Have you ever met the president,” you teased, jabbing Bones playfully in the side.

He swatted at you. “Shut up.”

“Aw, jealous much?” You poked him again.

“I am not jealous of a lizard,” he said, swatting at you again. You laughed, catching his hand in yours and resting both on your leg.

The two of you left Old Rip’s memorial hand in hand, laughing almost until you were crying. You pulled your brand new Old Rip hat down over your eyes to avoid the judging stares of the people around you.

“We shouldn’t,” you gasped between breaths. “We shouldn’t laugh. It’s a miracle of science.”

“The real miracle is that people believe all this.”

“Where did they lose you? The lizard alive after being trapped in a box for 31 years? The theorists who claimed it was fake and then denied that they claimed it was fake? The conspiracy that the real Old Rip was stolen and replaced with a different lizard?” You looked at Bones for all of a minute before breaking down into laughter again.

The rest of the trip was not as eventful. Bones was still eager to see Jo again, and you didn’t want to be the one to keep them apart, so you agreed no more roadside attractions. In the end, you drove straight through Louisiana and Mississippi, only stopping in Montgomery because neither of you could keep your eyes open.

You woke up first, this time, struggling to catch your breath. The nightmare was already fading, but your hands still shook and your throat felt tight. Bones stirred beside you, rolling over to pull you closer to him. His arm, meaning to wrap around your waist, hit your knees instead, and he opened his eyes to find you knees against your chest, breathing heavily.

“Hey,” he said, pushing himself up so he could sit against the headboard next to you. “What is it? What happened?” You shook your head softly, and Bones pulled you against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You wrapped your arms around his bare shoulders, pressing your face into the crook of his neck and breathing him in.

In a breath just above a whisper you asked, “What if my mom still hates me?”

“Family isn’t just blood,” Bones started. “Some family you get to choose. Even if your mom can't accept you, you've got an entire ship of people to come back to on the Enterprise.”

You let his words sink in, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of his stare. It was too gentle, too loving - all the toos you weren’t used to in life, so you did what you always did in these situations. You cracked a joke: “If we’re all family, does that make you my daddy,” you purred in Leonard’s ear.

Bones trailed a finger down your side, barely touching your skin. He pushed you onto your back, trapping your head between his forearms. “Does that make you my baby girl,” he asked, breath hot against your face. He was careful to keep his weight off of you but you could still feel his hips grind against yours.

“God yes,” you breathed before pushing yourself up to claim his mouth with yours. Bones slipped a hand behind your head, keeping you close to him as your hand ran down his chest to the hem of his boxers. You slipped a finger past the hem and Bones sucked a deep breath in, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against yours.

Bones reached down and pulled your hand back up to his mouth, kissing your fingers one by one. “Not right now, sugar,” he said, though the look in his eyes begged otherwise. “We’ve gotta go see your mama first.”

You dropped back against the bed, groaning. “You sure you don’t want to help me get dressed?”

Bones laughed, placing a kiss against the side of your neck. “I’ve got to shower if I’m supposed to meet your parents today, so you’re on your own.”

“I could always join you in the shower.” Bones rolled his eyes but beckoned you to come, smile still plastered on his face.

You felt like you needed another shower by the time you made it to your parents house. Between the summer heat and the anxiety, you were sweating like a whore in church, an idiom whose irony was not lost on you. Bones’ hand on your back wasn’t helping, and his hum was deafening in your ears. The same song the whole trip and you still couldn’t quite place it.

“Would you quit,” you hissed, pushing Bones’ hand off you and leaving enough space between the two of you so your mother wouldn’t have a fit.

“Quit what?”

“The humming.” You crossed your arms over your chest. You rolled your shoulders back, trying to ease some of the tension in your body as you waited on your parents’ porch.

“Sorry. Figured you’d like it. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ and all. I’ll stop.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, immediately feeling like an ass. All you needed were a few signs and you could be your own roadside attraction. Hey everyone, come to Blue Springs and see the world’s biggest asshole! Before you could even think of how to remedy the situation, the front door opened and you met your father’s eyes for the first time since you were sixteen.

He brought you upstairs, offering you both some sweet tea but no conversation, and lead you to the master bedroom. The house was exactly as you remembered it, as if it had been frozen in time once you left. Your father hesitated when he reached the door.

“I know the house ain’t changed much since you been gone,” he said, as if you’d left of your own volition, “but your ma ain’t doin’ too well. She’s been real sick, lost most of her hair. Might be a shock to ya.”

Despite the warning, seeing your mother did still shock you. She was hooked up to an IV and monitor, looking impossibly small settled into the king size bed. Her hair was gray and patchy, her skin wrinkled, but her eyes were the same when she looked at you. You wished you could say you saw love in them, but all you saw was guilt.

Bones had to pull you into the room. You watched your mother’s mouth move but the words were lost on you, your ears filled to bursting with the sound of the heart monitor. Her voice was a distant whisper like a breeze through the wheat fields. Bones checked her fluids, her temperature, her pulse, but she ignored him, reaching a hand out to you.

“Sissy’s out at work, but she’ll be coming back for dinner. Will you stay?” You took her hand. It felt like leather wrapped around glass. So much more fragile than the hand that held yours when you were a child. More fragile than the hand that hit you when your mother found out you were pregnant. It was like a cicada shell - so breakable you were afraid to move your fingers lest it crumble.

“I can’t.” You cleared your throat, struggling to keep yourself together. “We can’t. Leonard promised his family he’d visit, and we’ve only got a few days left of shore leave.” It was only half a lie. You had six days left, long enough for you to stay and for Bones to spend time with Jo.

“Oh, Leonard. Are you her husband?”

You felt heat rising in your cheeks, but Bones saved you. “Not yet, ma’am, but hopefully one day, yes. If she’ll have me.”

Of all the responses you expected, you didn’t expect your mother to laugh. “My dear, I’m sure she’d have anyone given half the chance.”

You snatched your hand back, balling both into fists. You didn't want to fight. Your nails dug into the palms of your hands and you focused on the sting on your skin rather than the sting of your mother’s words. Bones noticed the shift in your behavior easily and forced your hand open, lacing your fingers together. His voice was considerably less kind than before.

“Any man’d be lucky for half the chance. Your daughter is an amazing woman and an incredible doctor. She’s saved dozens of our crewmembers. Works harder than anyone I know.”

You wondered how long Bones would have continued, but your mother broke into a coughing fit and he stopped, jumping into action. You wished you would have had the same reaction, but you felt nothing as you watched the woman in front of you shaking as cough after cough wracked her body. She wasn’t your mother. She was a stranger by her own choice.

“A doctor,” she questioned when she finally caught her breath. “Didn't know you became a doct-”

“I invited you to my graduation,” you said before she could finish. You didn’t look her in the eye. “Sissy said you told her she couldn’t come.”

Your mother sighed. She looked tired. “What do you want me to say?”

“What do I…What do I want you to say?” You tore your hand away from Leonard’s, crossing your arms again, rebuilding your last defensive wall. “I don’t know. How about we start with sorry? Sorry I was completely absent from your life. Sorry I didn’t want anything to do with you. Sorry I ruined your childhood.” “You did that all on your own.”

“I was sixteen and scared,” you yelled. “Wasn’t that punishment enough? You were my mom. You were supposed to tell me what to do.”

“And I did-”

“Telling me to go to church and confess my sins doesn’t fucking count and you know it.”

“I didn’t raise you to talk like this.”

“You didn’t raise me at all.” Your voice echoed off the walls, hitting your mother as if you’d struck her. She remained silent.

“Everything happens for a reason, sugar bear. As long as you learned your lesson.”

Your last thread of composure snapped. “Well, I didn’t. In fact, Len and I had sex in the shower this morning,” you said, leaning closer. “And we had sex in a hotel two nights ago and sex at a rest stop the day before that and as soon as we get out of here I’m gonna lay him out on the first flat surface I find and-”

Crack. Your mother brought her palm down hard across your face. Harder than you’d expected from her frail frame. It was enough to knock you into her IV stand. She tried to say something back to you, but it only came out as coughs. You froze this moment in your mind as any hope you had of reconciling faded away. As each good memory you had in this house was slowly poisoned, replaced by the hand-shaped welt now forming on your cheek.

Leonard pushed past you to your mother, helping her sit up and breathe. You took his distraction as an opportunity to slink out of the room and out of the house, not bothering to say a word to your father, who was planted firmly in front of the television, like he was in every memory you had of him. You walked, instead, to the backyard, which was overgrown with weeds now. The vegetable garden was long since rotted, but you didn’t care about the tomato plants or the old gardenia bushes. You only cared about the camellia tree.

That’s where Leonard found you, sitting on the stump with your head in your hands, shoulders shaking as you wept. All the time spent swinging on this tree - what felt like the only good memories you had as a kid - cut down to nothing. Leonard sat on the ground at your feet, laying his forehead on one of your knees, his hand on the other, and you slid to the ground next to him, wrapping your arms around him as he pulled you onto his lap.

He kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Than any piece of skin he could get his hand on, trying to express without words how sorry he was for making you come here. When that didn’t slow your tears, he rubbed your back instead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry, but I meant what I said about family. You’ve got me and Jim and Christine and everyone on the Enterprise lookin’ after you. It might feel like you’re alone, but I promise you you’re not. You’re never gonna be, because I’m right here and I’m never letting go.”

Bones rocked you slowly. Not humming, not speaking. Just breathing. You focused on that, trying to match your breaths to his. To the sway of his body against yours. You focused on him until everything else fell away and your breath finally caught up to you.

“Whaddya say we get out of here? Find a little diner near the Alabama Georgia border and load up on junk food. I promise I won’t tell your doctor,” he said with a wink.

You smiled weakly. “Yeah, what’s he gonna do if he finds out? Punish me?”

“No,” Bones said, stroking your cheek gently. It was still a deep red. “But he might just have to kiss it all better.”

Tags!:  @outside-the-government @martinawalker @thevalesofanduin @goingknowherewastaken @thefanficfaerie @mysteriously-lost-forever @feelmyroarrrr @yukki-art  @pabegay1 @brooke-taylor0323 @anotherotter @slither-in-a-half @cuddlememerrick @daybreak96 @8bit-arc-reactor @jimtkirkisabitch @sjlovestory @kristaparadowski 

[annathewitch]

Things that go bump in the night

100 follower challenge ficlet for @starmission. Prompt “why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?” for Leonard McCoy

Summary: Bones x reader. Reader is having trouble sleeping and is surprised at how much McCoy tries to help with the unusual problem.

Words: 3000

Warnings: teen rating for mentions of sex and swearing

A/N: sorry it’s taken so long to start getting these celebration ficlets done. I should point out that I actually wrote the first part for the celebration, and then really wanted to see what would happen next, so wrote part 2. You lucky folks get both parts! This is just silliness and fluff, but is based on a real-life problem my co-worker was having…

“Is there something particularly interesting about the door of my supply closet Lieutenant Y/L/N?”

 “Huh?” Startled out of your trance, you look at Doctor McCoy and then back at the perfectly ordinary white door, which is exactly like all the other thousands of white doors on the Enterprise.

 He inclines his head towards the closet. “You’re staring at it like it holds the answers to the meaning of the universe. If it does, you should tell the Captain, because then we can all get the hell out of here and go home.” 

You squint at him. It’s supposed to be Doctor M’Benga on duty for Gamma shift but instead you’ve got McCoy and he’s asking you about doors. “Do you have any chloroform in there?” you blurt out, and even as it leaves your mouth you know it sounds like the request of a deranged individual.

To his credit, and probably as a result of years of training to deal with idiotic questions, the doctor only raises one eyebrow and scrutinises you for a second, before asking curiously, “why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?”

You start tapping your foot and you throw your hands up in exasperation, you might as well be honest with the man, since he probably already thinks you’re mad. “I wanted to knock myself out, okay?”

McCoy’s composure is pretty impressive. His reputation for flying off the handle at the least sign of idiocy seems undeserved, but then maybe he’s just waiting to see the full extent of your stupidity so he can determine how high to crank the dial. “Well I guess I should be relieved you’re not planning to reenact a kidnapping from some kind of pulp crime novel. Is there a reason you want to knock yourself out, or is it just for fun?”

Seriously, you reply, “Oh believe me there is nothing fun about it. I haven’t slept in, like, two weeks, and I think I’m going a little bit crazy,” whispering the last bit like it’s a secret. So you’re a bit surprised when the doctor’s mouth twitches in a smile.

“Can’t sleep huh? Come on, let’s get you checked out.” He motions towards a biobed and you hop up compliantly. “I’ve got to say there are better ways of knocking yourself out than chloroform Y/L/N, which might be why it’s been illegal for medical purposes for about a hundred years.”

“Really? Don’t get much call for anaesthetics beyond tranquilliser darts in xeno-zoology. I didn’t fancy using one of those, they sting.” You shuffle about a bit on the bed, trying to get comfortable. McCoy presses a warm hand to your shoulder.

“Keep still will you, just while I scan you.” You settle and he nods his thanks. “So is there anything you think might be stopping you sleeping properly?” He’s scrutinising the biobed readout as he asks the question.

You heave a big sigh. “Noisy sex.”

McCoy freezes and stares down at you mouth slightly open. He shakes his head slightly. “I’m sorry did you just say… uh…”

“Noisy sex. Yeah. After two weeks of it I’m just exhausted.” You close your eyes and rub the heel of your hand into the sockets. When you open them again the doctor is still staring at you, although he seems to have gone kind of red around the ears.

“Well Y/L/N,” he eventually says stiffly, “I suggest you maybe lay off the… uh… nocturnal activities and prioritise getting some actual sleep.” He turns away and busies himself with something, and it takes your foggy brain a second or two to catch up.

You sit up bolt upright and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “Oh shit, no! Not me! I mean I practically can’t remember the last time I had sex, and it definitely wasn’t noisy. Not for me anyway. Shit. No. It’s my neighbour, they hooked up with someone a couple of weeks ago and, well, the walls are remarkably thin and they’re… vocal. It’s like having a pair of mating Sehlats next door, you know, all grunts and shrieks. So yeah. No sleep and a crazy urge to knock myself out…”

McCoy has turned around, about halfway through your unstoppable outburst, and he’s definitely reached the limits of his composure now, because his eyebrows are in his hairline and he’s red all over. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Too much information?” you ask quietly, mortified to have blurted all that out to the doctor.

“Yeah. Little bit.” His voice is kind of gruff and his gaze is focussed absolutely on the monitor above the bed and not on you.

“Sorry. I just really need some shut-eye. I’m getting behind at work and I really don’t want to have to explain to Commander Spock why that is.”

“No I don’t imagine you do. Mind you, he had a Sehlat as a pet, so it’s possible he’d have some idea of what you’re dealing with.” He’s looking at you now with mirth in his eyes. You can’t decide what colour they are, but they’re pretty. “Well Y/L/N, your cortisol levels are raised and your blood pressure is a bit elevated. I can give you something that will put you out for tonight, but it’s not a long-term solution. Have you tried just asking them to keep it down?”

You sigh, “Yeah, I asked and they were apologetic, but it was all like ‘oh you know how it is when you get carried away in the heat of the moment.’” Fiddling with the slightly frayed cuffs on your academy sweater, you add, “you know what? I really don’t know.”

McCoy gives a noncommittal grunt, and you realise you’re on the verge of oversharing again. You’re not quite sure why your mouth keeps running away with you around McCoy, but you’re pretty certain that this wouldn’t happen with M’Benga.

“I guess we can deal with it tomorrow. I’ll go get you those meds.” He disappears in the direction of the supply closet, and you yawn and stretch thinking that ‘we’ sounds kind of nice. The bleeps and chirps of medbay machinery are kind of hypnotic after a while and you close your eyes just for a second.

The doctor comes back a couple of minutes later, brandishing a couple of hypos. But he stops short when he sees you keeled over on your side, legs still hanging off the side of the biobed, snoring gently. For a second he just looks at you, shaking his head, then he gently picks your legs up and puts them on the bed before covering you with a blanket.

Settling down in his office, he makes sure he can see across to your bed from behind his desk, just in case you might wake up disoriented or something. He quickly types out a message to Spock to excuse you from your shift tomorrow.

It’s the following evening and you find yourself raising procrastination to a fine art. You’ve kicked Sulu’s ass at dom-jot at least ten times, and lingered in the mess hall over your dinner for over an hour, before doing an extended workout in the gym. But eventually you can’t avoid going back to your quarters to find out what incredible vocal gymnastics your neighbour and their partner will manage tonight.

You decide to use some of your water credits and have a proper shower. Maybe if you can relax enough you can get to sleep before they start. Anything to avoid having to go back to Medbay. You could honestly have hugged Doctor McCoy for signing you off for the day, but you’re also mortified at the thought of what you told him, and you’re really not sure how you’ll ever look him in the eyes again.

You’re in comfy sweats, drying off your hair and it’s still mercifully quiet on the western front, when the door chime goes. To your surprise, McCoy is there leaning with one hand on the doorframe and holding a box under the other arm. He smiles a little hesitantly, looking at the towel in your hand. “Hey, did I come at a bad time?”

It turns out looking McCoy in the eyes is easy, they’re very pretty eyes after all. It’s stringing together a coherent sentence that’s hard. “Doctor! I was just… I wasn’t expecting… what are you…” You take a breath. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He straightens up and gestures into your quarters. “Is it okay if I come in? I have something for you.”

“Sure.” You step back, trying to ignore the fact that as he brushes past you, your palms have started to get all tingly. As he’s putting the box down on your tiny counter, you excuse yourself for a minute to blast your hair dry and attempt to make yourself a bit more presentable. It occurs to you that it didn’t really matter last night when you were wandering around Medbay, half crazy with sleep deprivation.

When you emerge, the doctor has perched on one of your stools, swinging gently from side to side, and is looking around your poky living space with interest. “So, Doctor McCoy I didn’t know you did house calls?”

Spinning around to face you, he grins. “Only for special cases. Anyway I’m off duty so this isn’t a house call, and you can stop with the ‘doctor’ business. It’s Leonard, or Len. Whichever.”

You plonk yourself down on the stool opposite Leonard. “Special cases huh?”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, you’ve got a pretty unique problem. And I did say I would try and help.” You stare at McCoy in disbelief. He’d said it, but you didn’t expect him to actually do anything.

He carries on, not noticing your surprise as he picks a couple of items out of the box. “So I talked to Scotty and gave me a pair of these to try. They’re industrial grade earplugs. But, since they block out so much noise, and you’ll be sleeping, hopefully, you’ll also need this.” He unpacks a thin plastic mat. “It’s an alert system, slips right under your pillow and connects to the ships computer to vibrate and wake you if there’s a red alert.” He swings from side to side again looking pleased with himself.

“You got these for me? You really didn’t have to Doc… Leonard,” you correct yourself, and he shrugs.

“It’s nothing darlin’. I mean if it stops you having to pilfer drugs from my supply closet in the middle of the night,” he says, teasing gently. “And also I might have done some research into those… uh… Sehlats.” A faint flush spreads across the doctor’s cheeks and a smile pulls at the corner of your lips.

“You did?”

“Yeah. You said they were loud, but goddammit that was something else! Chapel thought I was dying or something and practically battered down my office door. I… had some explaining to do.” You cover your mouth with your hand to stifle a laugh. McCoy looks up at you grinning again. “It might be funny to you, but I was the one who had to convince my head nurse that looking up mating Sehlats was legitimate medical research.” He shakes his head ruefully. “I’m not sure she believes me. But anyway, if that’s what you’re up against, some earplugs is the least I can do.”

The tingling feeling in your palms has spread to your stomach. You’re a little dumbfounded that he’s done all this for you, and your earlier urge to hug him has morphed into something else altogether. Together with the lingering sense of mortification, it makes you tongue-tied, and it’s all you can do to whisper some thanks.

A frown creases McCoy’s brow. “Are you okay Y/F/N? You’re awful quiet, at least compared to last night.” He studies you seriously, before clearing his throat. “I should be going anyway, don’t want to keep you up,” he offers gruffly, but you realise that’s the last thing you want.

“Leonard, don’t go.” He stills and you can feel his gaze on you even though you’re looking down at the counter. “Can you just forget ninety percent of what I said last night? I’m so embarrassed for oversharing like that.” You fiddle with the packet of the earplugs until a large hand places itself over yours and squeezes.

“Don’t feel awkward darlin’, I’ve heard so much worse.” He pauses for a second and you glance up to see him looking down at your joined hands thoughtfully before continuing, “I’ve got to be honest with you though, it kind of makes things a bit complicated. I’d really like to stay and I brought the fixings for hot chocolate McCoy family-style, in case you needed to unwind, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you because of your, uh… dry spell.”

He releases your hand and rubs the back of his neck. That pink tinge is back in his cheeks and for some reason it gives you the courage to blurt out, “If you stay, I was going to watch a holo. And hot chocolate sounds… really good.”

With his smile it’s like the tingling sensation in your stomach metamorphoses into full-grown butterflies the size of the Andorian giants in the lab. You agree on a movie, and McCoy makes the drinks. It turns out a generous slug of bourbon is the secret ingredient in his family recipe, and you can’t argue with how amazing it tastes.

You settle down on the couch, which is too small for you not to be pressed right up against each other given the size of the doctor’s frame. He sprawls his legs out in front of him, and stretches his arm out along the back of the cushion behind you. As you relax a bit with the idea of him, you lean in and he drops his hand to your shoulder.

You’re about half an hour through the film when you hear the sound of voices next door. You can feel yourself tense and so can McCoy as he glances down at you before pulling you a tiny bit closer and rubbing soft circles across your back with his thumb. “Thanks,” you mumble, breathing in deeply and finding some comfort in his warm clean smell.

But it’s not long before things start to escalate into a gradual crescendo from moans and panting into thumps, and groans and bitten off curses. “Did they make these damned walled out of paper,” McCoy mutters.

“I don’t know, but it gets worse.” You wince as the thumping becomes the rhythmic bang of furniture against the wall and the doctor’s eyebrow shoots up. This continues for what seems like an age, until it reaches a peak of full blown shouts and shrieks and one long drawn out scream.

“You weren’t kidding darlin’,” McCoy says, looking incredulously at the wall between your quarters and next door. “ I thought they were knocking through at one point.”

“Yeah, well that was round one. They might end up crashing through the wall before they’re done tonight. Though I doubt that would stop them.”

“So it’s like this all night?” He gets up to pour you both a glass of the neat bourbon.

You nod. “Every time I doze off, they’re ready to go again.” You attempt a grin at McCoy as he hands you the drink, “I mean you have to admire their stamina.”

“And I thought living with Jim in the academy was bad.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You should try the earplugs next time, see if they help.”

You turn your attention back to the holo, and curl in beside him. You have one hand pressed on his chest feeling the steady rise and fall, and his arm is wrapped around you with his hand absently trailing gentle strokes up and down your side. You feel his cheek resting on the top of your head and the gentle tickle of his breath in your hair.

It’s quiet for now, just the sound of the holo and McCoy’s breathing, until he inhales deeply and mumbles, “Y/F/N, your hair smells incredible darlin’.” You twist to look up at him and he’s got this soft kind of disbelieving expression on his face. Biting your lip, you look into his mossy eyes before tracing down the angles of his nose, to gaze at his full, slightly chapped lips. Hazily, you wonder how they would feel on yours. He swallows and you glance up, to see him equally fascinated by your mouth. Huffing a whiskey-scented breath he leans closer…

“Oh baby, YES! Just like that!”

You jump apart, startled by the shout from next door, which is followed by the sound of someone kicking the wall and the now familiar moans and groans quickly begin to build. “Goddammit!” McCoy hisses, running his hands through his hair. You look at each other and the moment has passed.

Quelling your disappointment, you get up and grab the packet of earplugs. “Guess it’s time to try these then.” The doctor is sat there looking thunderously at the wall. “Leonard?” you ask tentatively.

He hits pause on the holo and leaps to his feet, pacing towards you and back to the couch again a couple of times. All the while the volume of shrieks intensifies. Eventually he seems to have come to some kind of decision because he turns to you and grasps you by your shoulders. “Fuck the earplugs Y/F/N, this is goddamned ridiculous.” He plants a kiss on the top of your head before storming out the door.

Stunned, it’s a second before you gather your wits to follow him, and by then he’s outside your neighbour’s door, hand slamming on the door chime. There’s no appreciable reduction in the activity from inside and so McCoy mutters something incomprehensible before hammering a fist on the door.

Suddenly there’s silence.

He hammers again, this time following it by bellowing, “this is Doctor McCoy. It sounds like you’re in considerable pain in there. I need you to open the door for me so I can confirm your status.” He looks along the corridor at you and winks. He’s actually enjoying this, and judging by the heads poking out of doors further up the corridor, he’s not the only one.

When there’s still no sign of the door being opened, he hammers one more time. “I need you to open the door for me in ten seconds, or I’ll assume you’re incapacitated and I will use my medical override to gain access. Ten, nine, eight, seven…” he doesn’t even get to six before the door swishes open and your red faced neighbour is there wrapped in a sheet.

“Uh… Is there a problem Doctor?”

“Lieutenant Y/L/N and I were trying to enjoy a quiet evening with a movie and a drink, but it sounded like someone was having their limbs ripped off by a damned Gorn next door! Frankly I was expecting to find you splattered in bits around your quarters.” McCoy’s eyebrows are at full mast and your neighbour is looking a bit queasy.

“We’ll… try to keep it down in future, sir.”

The doctor scowls murderously. “You see that you do, or I’ll slap a curfew on your sorry asses so fast it’ll make your head spin. And I won’t give you the courtesy of a warning before using my override to do it. Dismissed.” You stifle a giggle at the sight of your neighbour attempting to stand to attention in their sheet, before McCoy spins on his heels and strides back to your door.

He grabs your hand and pulls you over to the couch to sit back down beside him. He knocks back the last of his bourbon and turns the holo back on. “So where exactly were we?” he asks gruffly as he slides his arms back around you and pulls you against the solid warmth of his chest.

“I believe I was gazing adoringly at you and hoping you’d kiss me.” You tilt your head up and grin as you feel a hand slide up your back to cradle the side of your face.

“Oh yeah, you were biting those pretty lips and I just wanted to taste them” he murmurs as he leans in. Heat pools in your stomach only to burst into fire in your veins as your lips meet. It’s slow at first, then you’re moving your mouths more desperately and you’re nipping at his pouty bottom lip with your teeth. He growls and presses harder, and you open your lips to his tongue. Somewhere in the back of your mind, as he shifts you both so that he’s half lying and you’re sitting across his lap, feeling sparks where his hand has slid up under your sweater to swirl lazy circles on the skin at the small of your back, you think this might be the best damn kiss you’ve ever had.

When you eventually come up for air, you press your fingers to your tingling lips and smile. McCoy grins back at you lazily and catches your hand, kissing the tips of each finger before placing it on his chest under his. “That’s better.”

“I can’t believe you actually did that. I mean are you allowed to use your override like that?”

The doctor looks wide-eyed with mock innocence. “I only threatened to use it. Though even the mountain of paperwork if I did use it would have been worth it darlin’.”

“You know I kind of feel a bit sorry for them,” you muse, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean they’re pretty lucky to find someone who makes them feel that good.”

“You really never had that before huh?” McCoy’s voice rumbles through his chest, and you shake your head. “Well that’s a damned shame. Someone really ought to do something about that.”

It’s comfortable and warm in your Leonard cocoon, with his arms wrapped around you and your face buried in his neck, breathing in that soothing smell. You close your eyes just for a minute as you murmur your agreement.

“If you like, my legendary hands are at your disposal,” he adds with a chuckle, expecting you to laugh in return. “Y/F/N?” He peers down at you, but all he can see is the top of your head. “Y/L/N?” He feels a sigh of breath as you exhale, and the sound of a gentle snore. “Maybe next time,” he says smiling at the sound.

He shuffles carefully, trying to move you both into a more comfortable position without disturbing you until eventually he’s lying on the tiny couch with you on top of him. Then, with a rush of tenderness, he wraps his arms around you more securely and closes his eyes.

Taglist (100 follower requesters plus others): @starmission @musikat18 @taylorjacksonandtheolympians @space-helen @dirajunara @kawaiiusagichansan @spookyscaryscully @wickedsingularity @burtmacklin34 @the-Mormon-girl-in-the-books @kingarthurscat

[firesoulstuff]

15 for the found family trope, for Black Siren and Lisa Snart? Since Lisa is Leonard's sister, and Siren is (sortof) Sara's brother, just them becoming family as well?

And I now have a new BROTP

(Mis)Adventures in Babysitting

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952931

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Laurel calls through her apartment as she makes her way to the door, in nowhere near as much of a hurry as whoever is banging their fist against the other side. “Hold your horses.”

Frankly she’s not even sure why she’s answering the door. It should be a crime to knock this harshly on a random person’s door this early in the morning, and it has to be a random person because any person whom Laurel actually knows would just knock once before letting themselves in, if they bother knocking at all.

She never had this problem on Earth 2, not since she was a kid anyway. Once she got her powers she made it clear who she was and what happened to people her bothered her. But, she’s changed a lot since then, and she’s doing her best to turn over a better leaf here on Earth 1.

Even if that does mean dealing with some sad middle-aged man selling calendars before noon.

She swings the door open with the full intent of sending away whoever she’s greeted with but, as she’s come to learn is the case with most plans, it doesn’t happen and instead Lisa Snart marches past her and into the apartment.

“I lost Rory!” The other woman exclaims before Laurel can even ask what she’s doing here, and at the confession her mind begins reeling.

“You what?” She demands, trying her best to stay calm as she shuts her door and turns to take in the sight of Lisa, wanting to confirm that this is all a joke.

Lisa’s a decent actress, and has enough of a wild child streak left in her to still pull off some pretty high level pranks, but she isn’t cruel. Much as Laurel wants to reopen her door and find Sara and Leonard’s six-year-old peering around the corner and giggling with mischief she knows she won’t find that sight, it’s written all over Lisa’s frazzled demeanor.

“How?” She demands, “And why did you come all the way here instead of calling?”

“I don’t know!” Lisa panics, still pacing circles around the living room. She pauses briefly at the side of the couch so that she can grab a pillow and clutch it to her chest. “We ate breakfast and then I turned on the TV for her so I could take a shower, then I got out of the shower and I got dressed, but when I went back into the living room she wasn’t there. I called her name a few times, checked out in the hall, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. When I got back from the hall I realized my window was open and so I ran outside, I ran around the block, I checked the dumpster in the ally, I-”

She’s rambling at this point, no longer breathing between her words, and so Laurel marches over and puts her hands firmly on her friend’s shoulders.

“Lisa, Lisa.” She says, waiting for the other woman to stop. When she does she begins to finally take in the breath that she needs. “Calm down and think, where would she go?”

“I thought, I thought she might come here.”

“Well she didn’t,” Laurel assures her friend, reclaiming her hands and finally beginning to process the gravity of this situation. “Why didn’t you just call?”

“I was already halfway around the block,” Lisa says through her continuous pants for breath. “My phone’s still on my bathroom sink.”

Laurel huffs, her hands on her waist as she begins to pace herself, trying to remain rational.

“Ok, let’s just call the police and-”

“No!” Lisa quickly, loudly, objects. Laurel just stares at her for a few second, disbelieving gaze fixed on the feral desperation in the other woman’s eyes.

“No cops,” she says in a voice that is almost begging. “Lenny’s record’s expunged but people don’t forget, plus my record is still out there. If the cops found out he left his kid with me and I lost her-”

“Bad news; got it.” Laurel finishes so that Lisa won’t have to. “Ok, well the park isn’t far, maybe she went to the playground.”

Lisa nods frantically, like she can’t think to do anything else.

“Ok,” Laurel says, “Let’s go.” With that she grabs her keys off the coffee and table and quickly runs to her room for her phone, just in case, and then they’re racing down the building hallways.

The playground, as Laurel partially expected, is a bust. They run all around the park, at first checking every square inch of the playground before moving on to every tree, bush, and large rock that Rory might fit either in or under.

“Did you find her?” Lisa asks as the two of them reconvene at the monkey bars.

“Does it look like I found her?” Laurel exclaims, “Yeah, yeah I totally found her. I’m giving her a piggyback right now.”

“Ok geeze,” Lisa winces with offence, “You don’t have to yell at me.”

“Oh really?” She demands, her voice heightening much like Lisa’s did back in her apartment. “Because you’re the one who lost your niece. All you had to do was keep track of her for a couple of days while Sara and Leonard are with the Legends, and she crawled out your window!”

“What was I supposed to do?” Lisa shouts in retaliation. “Make her sit on the toilet lid while I took a shower?”

“You could’ve locked the window!”They continue yelling at each other, making a much bigger scene than they probably should in the middle of the park, until Laurel feels her phone vibrating in her back pocket and pulls it out to see he’s calling her, and then her panic promptly doubles.

“Oh my god, it’s Sara.” She says, turning the phone so Lisa can see Sara’s ID picture.

“What?” She exclaims, “How? Aren’t they still on the Waverider?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well answer it!”

“I-uh…” Laurel splutters for an answer before she ends up pressing her thumb against the accept button and brings the phone immediately to her ear. “Hey Sara…”

“Hey Laurel,” Sara says on the other end, not sounding like she can hear her teeth gritting together in panic as Lisa crowds her, mouthing questions about what the time traveler is saying. “I tried calling Lisa but she hasn’t been answering.”

“Uh yeah, her, her phone died.” She lies, shaking her head cluelessly as Lisa questions her decision with hushed words.

“It died?” Sara asks, “That’s weird, it’s been giving me her voicemail.”

“I don’t, I don’t know. She said it was dead.” Lisa rolls her eyes and Laurel waves her off, she can only handle one stressful conversation at a time. “So, how exactly are you calling me? I thought you were still on the Waverider?”

“Ray’s been working on adapters for our phones,” Sara explains, “Anyway, we’re probably going to be here for another day or two, things got a little out of hand with the first running of the bulls.”

“Oh boy,”

“Yeah…” Sara drawls, “Anyway, I was just calling to check in on Rory, are she and Lisa with you?”

“No!” She answers a little too quickly, which sends Lisa back to her silent protesting. “Err, I mean yes, yes they’re with me but Rory… Rory’s asleep!”

“What?!”Lisa silently demands, looking like she is only one bad lie away from ripping the phone away, though Laurel doubts she could come up with anything better.

“Asleep?” Sara questions, sounding every bit as skeptical as Lisa is probably expecting she would. “Isn’t it the middle of the day for you guys?”

“We uh… we brought her to the park. Yeah, we’ve been here all morning and she just wore herself out running around.” She claims, making a little whirly motion with her finger as she fully commits herself to the lie. Lisa’s given up on getting any answers and is now standing by impatiently, which helps. “Yeah, she made a bunch of little friends and she was practically asleep on her feet when we left the playground. Lisa picked her up to carry her and she was out in a minute. We’re almost at the car.”

“Oh, ok.” Sara says, sounding like she does find the prospect of her daughter wearing herself into exhaustion unlikely, but not totally unbelievable. “I guess I’ll try and call again tonight, bye Laurel.”

“Ok bye, have fun running with the bulls.”

She breathes a sigh of relief as she hangs up, though it doesn’t last long.

“Well?” Lisa asks, practically bouncing on her toes.

“They’re still on the Waverider,” Now it’s Lisa’s turn to sigh in relief. “But she’s going to try and call again tonight.

“Ok, ok good. We’ll find her by tonight. If not, we call the cops.”

She doesn’t sound like she’s exactly thrilled about that plan, and Laurel isn’t either to be honest, but it’s they’re best bet.

“Why don’t we go back to your apartment?” She suggests, hoping to maybe lift Lisa’s hopes. “See if maybe she went back.”

“Yeah, ok.”

With that decided they continue towards the car, not saying anything, at first.

“Thank you,” Lisa eventually says, and so Laurel looks at her curiously. “For not telling Sara I lost her daughter, and for helping me look for her.”

“Of course,” she says, “She’s more or less my niece too, I mean not really but-”

“No really,” Lisa interrupts. “She calls you her aunt, even if Sara and Lenny never told her to. Which is why I’m thanking you, because I know you think you have a lot more at risk here than I do-”

Laurel stops dead in her tracks, holding up a hand to halt Lisa as well.

“Lisa,” she says, cutting off the other woman’s words.

“What?”

She points ahead, as though saying anything will make what’s caught her attention vanish. Just at the edge of the parking lot and getting out of a very familiar car they can see Dinah Lance, accompanied by Rory.

With only a quick glance to each other to confirm they’re seeing the same thing the two women break out into a run, and Laurel notes that Dinah is laughing but she doesn’t care. All she can think about is that Rory is safe.

“Oh thank God!” Lisa exclaims just as they reach the pair and she lifts her, their, niece up into her arms in a crushing hug. “You had us worried sick!”

Laurel smiles as she looks at the little girl from over Lisa’s shoulder to make sure that she isn’t hurt, and then she looks to Dinah who is watching this whole scene in amusement.

Well at least she doesn’t look mad.

“Where did you find her?” She asks through her relieved smile ad Dinah actually snorts, and then inclines her head towards Lisa and Rory.

“Would you like to explain that Aurora?”

Uh oh, the full name only comes out when there’s trouble.

Lisa notices Dinah’s tone and the name as well, so with a confused expression she places Rory on her feet and kneels in front of her, allowing the two of them who have been running around worried all morning to see that the source of their anxieties looks rather ashamed of herself.

“I thought you heard me.” She squeaks, her voice so quiet that Laurel needs to strain to hear it, and it doesn’t help that she’s keeping her chin tucked down.

“Heard you what?” Lisa asks, worry still the most prominent thing in her voice.

“When, when you were in the shower.” Rory explains, “I asked if we could play hide-and-seek when you got, got out, and I thought you heard, heard me. I was hiding under your bed.”

Lisa looks like she can’t decide between being angry, relieved, or embarrassed at that, and Laurel makes a note to later remind her friend that the next time she loses something, especially a child, she should check every inch of her apartment before running two blocks to her place.

“I thought you were playing, but then you left and didn’t come back, so I called grandma.”

“Oh my god,” Lisa exclaims again, “Rory, don’t just assume I heard you if I’m in the shower.”

“But when you yell, yell upstairs at my house and daddy doesn’t, doesn’t answer you, you say to take, take that as a, as a yes.”

Laurel actually laughs out loud at that. She’s seen that happen a few times, where Lisa will be sitting on the couch in her brother’s living room while he’s upstairs and so she’ll just shout any question she has for him. He only answer half the time, if that, and when he does answer it’s hard to tell what he’s saying, but she pretty much always takes it to mean yes.

“That’s… that’s not something I should be doing in front of you, I’m sorry.” She says and before Rory can start full on crying Lisa pulls her back to her chest for another hug, and then stands up fully so that she’s holding her.

“How did you find us?” Laurel asks Dinah, who simply smiles.

“We were waiting in Lisa’s apartment for her to come back, I called Joe West to tell him to pass along the message about what happened if she went to the police. We were playing checkers when Sara called me to ask if I had spoken to you girls, she said something about Lisa’s phone being dead but the voicemail working and that you were at the park. I told her I was actually on my way out to meet you.”

Laurel smiles at that, of all people Dinah Lance was probably the most against her when she decided to remain on this Earth permanently, not that she blames the older woman. To hear that she covered for them, it’s a testament to how far they’ve come.

“Wait,” Lisa suddenly says, directing a very confused look towards the little girl in her arms. “Why was my window open?”

“Oh, there was a fly so I opened it so he could go back to his friends.”

That does it. That’s the one that finally gets Lisa laughing. Of course that’s the reason the window was open.

Since they’re at the park Rory starts begging to go on the playground, and so they let her, but not before warning her that her parents WILL be hearing about this little stunt she’s pulled. She starts to beg them not to tell, of course, but Lisa stands firm that they’re telling and if she wants to play she had better go. So it’s with slightly broken spirits that the little girl heads off to what she must be convinced is her last afternoon of fun for a while.

“You know,” Dinah drawls as soon as her granddaughter is safely out of earshot. “It isn’t like she’s old enough to be grounded or anything, if you send her to bed early tonight there really isn’t a point in Sara and Leonard knowing.”

“You know I was thinking no desert,” Lisa says, raising an admiring eyebrow at Dinah. “But I kind of like that better.”

Laurel just smirks at the agreement, “We’re still gonna let her think we’re telling them, right?”

“Absolutely,” Dinah quickly agrees.

“We can’t let her think she’s getting off that easy.” Lisa puts in, and Laurel just smirks in agreement.

[3lc3lc3lc]

IT HAPPENED

well folks, a couple weeks back, I got to talk to the one and only Lana Del Rey for Billboard’s 2017 #1s issue. the version that appears in print is quite abbreviated, so I thought I would publish the full transcript for your viewing pleasure. (I left out the part at the end when I asked her for advice about getting over a toxic break-up; you’ll just have to use your imagination with that one.)

MG: How has this year been for you? You’ve had all these great career highs, but at the same time, at least personally, it’s hard not to feel a bit beaten down by the world...

LDR: Yea. Yea, I can see that. I try and take different approaches to how I see things every day. Because I guess if you just watched the news only, and didn’t have your own perspective, it would be hard to get through the day. But I really like the Leonard Coen quote: “There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” I feel like this is the year where we’re seeing a lot of cracks—all the cracks that have been there forever. But the blessing in all of these things that have been coming out is that we get to shine a lot of light on the problems that have been in society for a long time, and hopefully fix them. So that’s something I like to hold on to, and it makes me feel excited, actually. Because it feels like it’s happening fast.

It’s funny because, leading up to Lust for Life, a lot of people were like: “Oh my god, Lana is smiling! This is going to be her happy album!” And definitely there’s a shift that seems significant, but I don’t know if “happy” is the word I would use. How do you feel about that?

I think maybe a good word to use would be more present—less from the outside looking in, and sort of a more integrated perspective lyrically. Like, it’s not just about love, or feeling disappointed, it’s also about being in LA, cause that’s where I live, and thinking about... You know, like a song “When the World Was At War We Kept Dancing,” and the lyric is, “Is it the end of an era? Is it the end of America?”, kind of like we were saying earlier. I was thinking about things that are broader than just my relationships, which was nice for me. Probably nice for the fans, too—a little bit of a reprieve.

Starting off with a blank slate, did you have some idea that these were things you wanted to express, that this was going to be a more integrated perspective, or was that just kind of where the songs took you?

Well, I think I started writing the record in the reverse order that the tracklisting is in now. So I started with the more... I don’t know how to describe them. I don’t wanna use the word “negative.” But we’ll say, I started writing the darker songs first. “Heroine,” “Get Free,” and then I kept “13 Beaches” at the front of the tracklisting. I had a lot of songs where I was trying to state my intentions of what I wanted; in “Get Free,” I wanted to move forward, I wanted to feel differently. “Heroine” I was thinking about some stuff that had happened in the past. And then “13 Beaches,” I was lamenting over the fact that it took me that many beaches to find a quiet one to just chill out at. So I had to get through all of my complaining [laughs]. And then once I got to be cathartic in that way, I thought: Alright, now I want to invite my friends in. I want The Weeknd to come in and be on a track, and [A$AP] Rocky’s so cool, I want him to be on a track. Obviously, the election was happening halfway through my writing process, and I was thinking about the election, and I wrote four songs that didn’t end up going on the record that were a little more politically oriented. I didn’t end up using those, but “When the World Was At War We Kept Dancing” and “God Bless America (And All The Beautiful Women In It),” we kept on the record. So i was sort of just letting the process happen to me as I was moving through the election—and also just working through my personal life, which has been... very balanced. That’s all the little things that culminated into the body of work.

It’s interesting because we seem to have reached this point of cultural urgency that extends even to pop music—not to say that your music is necessarily pop music, but some people would put you there. And sometimes that works quite well, and other times it’s like, ugh, swing and a miss! [Lana starts laughing] And when “Coachella / Woodstock In My Mind” came out, I think it caught people off-guard—like, wait, Lana Del Rey is getting woke? It could’ve gone so wrong, but you pulled it off completely!

[Laughs] I know what you mean. But everybody has a different level of emotional depth that they draw from, and you know, I didn’t always choose to draw from—you know, that’s not true, actually. I was always drawing from my deeper writing well the best that I could. But I was just in a different place. I know what you mean, though, it can go so badly. It can go so wrong. But I actually was never worried. I’m never really worried about whether I can pull off a sentiment, because I know if I’m even trying to write it, I’ll eventually finesse the language and the mood of it in a way that feels comfortable to me. Because I know if it sounds comfortable to me, it’s gonna be comfortable for the fans. It would never be something that like, reads in a weird way. I mean, I really trust my writing voice so much—even more than my decision-making voice.

You’re really good at knowing, like: Sometimes things need to be subtle, and sometimes symbolic, and then sometimes need to be really on-the-nose because that’s just what the situation calls for.

Yea, I think that’s true.

It’s also interesting that Lust for Life felt so suited to the madness of 2017, but it also was very soothing. It sort of absorbed the madness and metabolized it into something that was transportive, even as it reached out into the world. And that was nice, because it wasn’t just like, “Oh, we’re fucked man!”

I love the way you just described that—“metabolizing” something. My version of that word is “integrating” it, and processing it. Like, I take so much time for myself to think, and to meditate, and to talk to people I really trust about what they think, so I’ve got a lot of perspective that’s wound up into my own. And that really helps me to have a balanced view on everything. I mean, even though overall, it’s pretty dramatic. Even in L.A. right now, with the fires, and in Sonoma up north. And the earthquakes and everything—it’s a lot! But, I don’t know, I just have this really strong instinct that it’s all leading in a much-needed, different direction, that hopefully we’re all leaning into. It’s like a really hard turn to make, because we’ve got all these weird societal norms we’ve gotta break out of, and we’ve been stuck in them.

Yea, I guess it requires chaos to shake out of that.

Apparently! It’s pretty weird, but I feel like it’s not a coincidence. It feels a little bit like a movie.

I wondered about the process of getting inspired for you. Because some artists get inspired by going out in the world and feeding off energy, and then others are able to create by removing themselves from that noise and creating their own space where they feel comfortable. So I wondered where you sat on this spectrum.

Mm, that’s a good question. I think my most important thing has been just trusting what I want to do every day, even if it’s different. If I wake up and I have plans to do one thing, but I really feel like I’d rather drive six hours north to San Francisco to visit a friend for no reason, I just kind of don’t second-guess it and I go. Spontaneity, that’s a big thing for me. But that being said, still having a place I like to call home, even though I travel a lot. And for me, I don’t really like to write when I’m upset. I don’t really like sharing those thoughts until I’m all the way through them. So I don’t really feel inspired by heartbreak, and I don’t even necessarily feel inspired by something super exciting. I think I’m just inspired when I’m doing whatever feels right in the moment—when I’m really in the flow.

I’ve always been a little jealous of people who can make art out of depression or grief. Because for me, that’s when I’m non-functional.

I’m non-functional, too. That’s when I don’t really wanna do anything. I definitely don’t want to make an amazing song.

Yea, that’s when art as a priority kind of just falls away for me.

I don’t know how people do that. Those must be people who function really well in high crisis situations. Which I don’t.

Going back to “Get Free” for a second: I think it’s interesting you felt like you were getting out negative feelings on that song, because... well, that song always makes me cry, but not quite in a sad way. It’s more overwhelming, because when you sing “Finally, I’m crossing the threshold,” it feels like that moment of change where you don’t know yet what’s going to be on the other side of it, because it’s happening to you, and you’re in it. The album itself almost feels like a document of change—it’s not like at the end of the album, it’s like, “Well, this is the lesson learned...”

Which is how I thought it was gonna be! I thought it was gonna be that way.

Do you have any perspective now on, when you say you’re crossing this threshold, what was on the other side?

Okay, so “crossing the threshold” was actually a reference to this little concept, or diagram, that’s called “The Hero’s Journey.” This writer, Joseph Campbell, came up with this little model. And it’s all about this character who has a lot of trouble at the beginning of the story, and then somewhere in the middle of the story, crosses the threshold to sort of face the monster, or the challenger, and in the end hopefully emerges triumphant once he’s beaten the bad guy or whatever. And I had been talking about that with my engineer, and I thought: I don’t usually use metaphors, but I loved the line “crossing the threshold,” and I wanted to bring it into that song I’d already started writing. So I changed those first few lines, so that woven in would be the idea of the hero’s journey. Because I really liked the idea of changing your own past. I think that’s what I wanted to do. I didn’t really know if I had control over doing that for a long time, and yea, I didn’t know what would be on the other side of me making a couple of really strong personal decisions and statement. Even just using my own voice to talk about stuff, that was different from “Love.” And I didn’t really know how the whole thing would go. But I liked so much that it would be my authentic voice at the time, so I just decided that to write what I was feeling was important enough to cross that threshold in the music. It’s kind of hard for me to explain, because there’s so many different levels to it: like, I’m making literary allusions, but I’m also really trying to make changes in my own life. It’s hard to articulate it eloquently!

“Love” was what I wanted to ask you about next. First, just the title, because you know, you’ve got this reputation for mystery and melancholy and then suddenly it’s like, boom, LOVE! The most direct, unmysterious title. Was there some significance to you in the directness of that?

Yea. It didn’t start off as “Love.” It started as “Young & In Love,” but I didn’t really like that title, because that wasn’t even the point of the song. I could have gone back and edited the song as well, but I liked how the whole thing sounded, so I didn’t. Then I worked with Sean Lennon, and you know, that Lennon legacy is so tied into that one word. So I just thought, you know what? I just wanna go for it. The whole record is pointing its own little nose in that direction, between like, Stevie Nicks, and Sean Lennon, and “Lust For Life,” and “Love”... It felt like once I got through the chaos of making all these little personal statements that I had to almost delete from the music and then put back in, I was ready to say that what I’m getting at is, like so many singers in the past: it’s all about love! And obviously it’s about more than that. It is about more than that. But what you said about being on the nose sometimes—I liked that it was pretty literal, and it felt nice and comfortable to not necessarily have layers to all of the singles. That one and “Lust for Life” were similar in that they were kind of just about having fun. Even if you don’t have anywhere to go, well, so what, just get dressed up and go anyways.

Sometimes that line [“You get ready, you get all dressed up / To go nowhere in particular”] kinda made me sad, too, though!

I’ve heard that!

I sometimes heard it as, you know, you get dressed up and you don’t have anywhere to go, and you maybe made these plans that didn’t turn out.

All dressed up and nowhere to go. Which is funny, because when I was 20 and writing little folk songs, I had a lot of that line, “All dressed up with nowhere to go.” But sometimes my lines end up slipping on themselves, and I feel differently about them once I’ve got some perspective on them. But I think I was thinking... you know, you don’t need hundreds of friends to have something fun to do, you know? You can have fun by yourself. It was more about just feeling a lot of love whether you’re alone, or you’re with someone. You don’t have to have a party to go to. But I know everyone interpets it in their own way. I read one review that was like, “Well, this is depressing.” And I was like, “Fuck, really? Another depressing song?” [Laughs] You can’t get it there all the way sometimes, you can’t get the message exactly the way you want it. But I think because of the production and the melody, I can also feel the melancholia. And maybe, on some level, I was feeling like, “Fuck, I’ve got nowhere to go.” I don’t remember thinking that when I was writing it, but probably there’s a little of that in there. Who knows!

I wondered if you cared about... You know, this album has singles, and that’s more than could be said of Honeymoon to begin with... [Lana starts laughing] No, I totally don’t mean that in a negative way, I adore Honeymoon!

No, it’s just funny! It’s funny.

Do you think, like, okay, this song’s gonna be the single, and we’re gonna push it like so? Or is that just the shit that happens later?

That’s like, what John Janick says. He’ll say, “Oh I love this song, I want this to be the single.” And if I like it, well, then I’ll say okay. But not with a record like Honeymoon. With a record like Honeymoon, he’s like... Have fun! Because that’s just, you know, kind of like a vanity project. I mean, in a good way. Like, a project just for you. With this one— first of all, I love everybody at my label. But John and the guys I work with loved “Love,” and they loved “Lust For Life.” So those were really the only two singles that we thought about, and I’m kind of doing air quotes with “singles” alone in my room right now. What that means for us, at this point, is just that the song’s gonna get a video. So it’s kind of different for us than it is for other people. It usually means, like, there’s a feature on it or there’s gonna be a video, or maybe I’ll sing it on the radio if I do, like, a thing with KROQ. My label’s pretty good about not having too many expectations. I guess I felt like, if one song was going to go further than the other ones, I thought it was “Love,” and I think I was right about that. That’s the one people will remember if they’re just a casual listener—which is good, because I really like that song! Even if just one of the songs goes far, that’s kind of like an accomplishment, because there’s so much music out there. Even if one makes it to the radio, even if it’s indie or college radio or whatever.

Do you have expectations for your own records? When you finished writing the record, did you have any idea as to... what you thought it would do? Or if people would like it? Ugh, I don’t know how to phrase this question, do you know kind of what I’m saying?

Yea, I do. I did have expectations for the record. I wanted to see if it was going to be heard for what it was really saying, and overall, from what I read, it was interpreted correctly. Which is a good sign for me, because it means I’m not seeing things one way, and the culture is seeing things the other way. Which is bad—that means there’s some incongruence there. That means you need to check yourself, and I don’t wanna check myself. I wanna stay in the flow, keep writing. From what I read, I didn’t feel like anyone thought I was trying to make some mega-turn in the end, away from what I had done originally. It was just a slow advancement with a couple sparkly details in it. So that was good enough for me. And what’s cool is that I’m only just starting to tour next month. My records are very slow-burning for a long time, and sometimes... I remember with “Summertime Sadness,” that song didn’t even go on the radio until two years after the record came out. My songs always surprise me. Sometimes they find themselves in movies, or getting nominated for things, way after they’ve been out. So it’s pretty cool.

Yea, not to like, blow smoke up your ass, but with you in particular, it seems to take the culture as a whole a minute to catch up with you. And that’s true with each of your records, but with Lust for Life in particular, it feels like the moment that the culture has met you on your grounds.

Well, that’s a really cool way of looking at it. And when I think about it, maybe that’s because I’m ready, too. Maybe I needed a lot of time to just be me, all to myself, and just be weird. It’s easier when you’re in a mood to be more out there. And I don’t really know what makes that happen; maybe it’s just enough time making music. Who knows why timing works out the way it does? But I like that you said that, I think that’s cool. I really like this record; I think if this was the first record some people heard from me, I’d be really proud of that.

[corkcitylibraries]

Book Review: Mona Awad’s 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl

by Dr. Sorcha Fogarty

Mona Awad's debut novel, 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl, won the 2016 Amazon Best First Novel Award, the Colorado Book Award and was also shortlisted for the Scotia Bank Giller Prize. In 1990, Naomi Wolf published The Beauty Myth, which was deemed the most important feminist publication since Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuch, published twenty years previously.  With the "natural inferiority of women" argument debunked by second-wave feminism, Wolf’s book viewed our modern obsession with dieting as its replacement, a socially engineered phenomenon that “is the most potent political sedative in women’s history”. Constantly beleaguered by endeavours to live up to an often impossible ideal of beauty, an ideal that is unremittingly perpetuated through the media and advertising, Wolf posited that women’s bodies are not their own but society’s. As she writes in her Introduction to The Beauty Myth,

"The more legal and material hindrances women have broken through, the more strictly and heavily and cruelly images of female beauty have come to weigh upon us... [D]uring the past decade, women breached the power structure; meanwhile, eating disorders rose exponentially and cosmetic surgery became the fastest-growing specialty... [P]ornography became the main media category, ahead of legitimate films and records combined, and thirty-three thousand American women told researchers that they would rather lose ten to fifteen pounds than achieve any other goal...More women have more money and power and scope and legal recognition than we have ever had before; but in terms of how we feel about ourselves physically, we may actually be worse off than our unliberated grandmothers."

Enter Mona Awad's 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl, almost thirty years after Wolf, publicly acknowledging a truth which is both abhorrent and incredulous in this new millennium: not much has changed, even if we, as women, are loathe to admit it.

Comparisons to Margaret Atwood's 1969 novel The Edible Woman are inevitable. Atwood's novel depicts a young woman whose sane, structured, consumer-oriented world starts to slip out of focus. Following her engagement, the protagonist, Marian, feels her body and her self are becoming separated. As Marian begins endowing food with human qualities that cause her to identify with it, she finds herself unable to eat, repelled by metaphorical cannibalism. Awad takes on this topic with the title of her novel referencing a poem of Wallace Stevens, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird", from his first book of poetry, Harmonium. The poem consists of thirteen short, separate sections, each of which mentions blackbirds in some way. Similarly, Awad’s 13 interlinked stories each take the topic of self-induced starvation and the pathological belief that happiness is only attainable through the achievement of The Thin Ideal: a perpetually hungry but most importantly, slim, body, "I’ll be hungry and angry all my life but I’ll also have a hell of a time.”  It is also important that we contend with the word "fat" itself. It should be a simple descriptor, but fat is often used as an insult — whispered by gossips, or hurled by bullies. Many people use euphemisms — heavy, plump, overweight — to avoid it all together. But Awad has decided that it's time to take "fat" head on, as she states, "I knew it was a charged term but that is why I put it on the cover of the book, because I wanted to unpack it, and I wanted to challenge it, and I wanted to complicate it. "

 Awad manages to temper the novel with empathy and humour; not an easy feat when writing what is essentially a grim and harrowing description of an existence consumed by a dark and tragic obsession. Phrases such as, “She says it's like you have Leonard Cohen's touch with lyrics coupled with Daniel Johnston's sincerity coupled with a Rimbaudian aura of tragedy but with Nick Cave teeth” show Awad's remarkable ability to leave the reader stunned with her skilled use of language, a skill which is unrelenting throughout the novel,

 "My father has always felt that being fat was a choice. When I was in college I would sometimes meet him for lunch or coffee, and he would stare at my extra flesh like it             was some weird piece of clothing I was wearing just to annoy him. Like my fat was an elaborate turban or Mel’s zombie tiara or some anarchy flag that, in my impetuous youth, I was choosing to hold up and wave in his face. Not really part of me, just something I was doing to rebel, prove him wrong".

  After decades of struggling with a body image-obsessed culture that tells women they have no value outside their physical appearance, Awad does not shy away from the appalling fact that things have not changed much, and are, more likely, even worse now with our social media obsessed culture and the desire and pressure to project at all times the perfect outward appearance. Where behind one single Facebook picture often lies a multitude of discarded, not-good-enough selfies. Identity is at the core of the book, with Lizzie’s name changing multiple times as we follow her from overweight teenager to a divorced neurotic thirtysomething, and to refer again to Wallace Stevens' poem, it seems that the agonizing longing for The Thin Ideal throughout each of the 13 vignettes in the book is, much like Stevens' blackbird, the "indecipherable cause", reminding us that there will always be things in nature to which we cannot assign an easy symbolic meaning, and which we cannot rationalize in a human scheme of organization. Completely irrational beliefs such as to be thin is to be beautiful, or to be rich is to be happy, only reveal themselves as empty illusions when the things that are truly important - such as love, friendship, and family - are in jeopardy.

VI

Icicles filled the long window  

With barbaric glass.  

The shadow of the blackbird  

Crossed it, to and fro.  

The mood  

Traced in the shadow  

An indecipherable cause.  

 In 1978, Susie Orbach wrote Fat is a Feminist Issue, and as recently as January 17th 2021, The Irish Times featured an interview with Orbach, under the heading “40 Years on, Fat is Still a Feminist Issue”. Orbach states,

“It’s much worse now than when I wrote Fat is a Feminist Issue. It is as if everyone feels they have the right to comment. You’re surveyed and you’re found wanting. The preoccupation with the body and the fact that there are industries that make so much money out of women’s discontent, and now men’s. The diet industry, fitness industry, the cosmetic industry, these are all huge businesses. They sell an aspirational position where we have to appear in a certain way.”

One critic has described 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl as “honest, searing, and necessary”, and indeed, while we may wish it wasn’t, the dialogue around body-image is still absolutely necessary now, and likely, always will be. With her creation of Lizzie, Awad gives us a story full of experiences that many, if not most, women have had. The book is full of “Wow. That’s me.” moments, with Awad giving voice to an array of body-image issues that feel at times like our own secrets are being exposed. We may bemoan the fact that we need to lose a pound or two, we may laugh and say we’ll start that diet next Monday, or refuse desert as we are “watching our weight”, but to go to the real core of the issue is something almost distasteful – we are supposed to be above it, we are supposed to be strong, capable, successful, multi-tasking, intelligent women with no time for vanity. So we pretend not to care, or we laugh about it, or we punish and deprive ourselves privately, or we torture ourselves by repeating the lie that thin equals happy. There is no denying that healthy equals happy, but thinness is certainly no barometer for health, as Lizzie clearly shows us with her journey. Awad’s success in making Lizzie a relatable, likeable character in spite of her devastating relationship to food and her own body is largely due to her ability to write Lizzie’s scathingly funny inner dialogues. In “The Girl I Hate”, a brilliant story which centers on a slender co-worker, Lizzie watches the woman dramatically devour a pastry,

“Gobs of clotted cream catch in either corner of her lips. She tilts her head back, closes her eyes, starts to make what must be the groaning noises […] She’s too high on scone to really carry on a conversation. She’s so high, she’s swinging her little stick legs back and forth underneath her seat like a child and doing this side-to-side dance with her head.”

There are so many moments like this throughout Lizzie’s story, where Awad displays her tremendous ability to bring humour to painful truths, and for that alone, the novel is stunning.

Fundamentally, Lizzie is trapped by her body, whatever size she is, and the shame of her own physical existence is isolating, having countless negative repercussions on her relationships, and, above all, her relationship with herself. Awad writes powerfully about the all-consuming nature of weight loss and body image, illustrating Lizzie's intense obsession with her weight – measuring out two-ounce glasses of white wine, eating only four ounces of fish along with boiled grains and sprouts, allowing “her evening ritual, a square of dark chocolate from a bar she keeps at the back of the cupboard like an alcoholic’s hidden stash of gin.” Her efforts to be and stay thin are her entire identity. If self-hatred was Lizzie’s motivation to lose weight in the first place, then as Lizzie loses weight, we see how self-hatred consumes her, destroys her, and damages her relationships with others. Her calorie-counting takes up all of her energy, leaving her too depleted to do anything else. She is too tired, too hungry, and too angry. Her obsession has drained her of her ability to live - she merely exists and endures. It is only when we reach the last lines of the novel, and Lizzie encounters a defining moment outside of her weight-obsessed existence, that we witness an epiphany, "I feel dangerously close to a knowledge that is probably already ours for the taking, a knowledge that I know could change everything.” This final sentence is the core sentiment of the novel: that so many of us can become so enmeshed in keeping up our physical or outward appearances that we waste our lives and miss out on the things that are truly important, choosing to sacrifice the many precious moments and encounters in our lives in order to maintain a societally imposed illusion of beauty or success.

Critics have praised Awad’s “devastatingly thorough” portrait of the body image issues and disordered behaviors around diet and exercise that affect an inordinately large proportion of women in modern society. However, 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl is just as much about weight and body image, as it is about the harsh judgment that we all cast on each other and on ourselves. For if we continue to allow ourselves to be influenced by the media and false advertising and how it plays on our own insecurities with promises of outward  beauty and an ideal physique as keystones to success and happiness, we would be well advised to listen to the words of Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross,

"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen."

 Available on BorrowBox

Sources:

Wolf, Naomi. The Beauty Myth. UK: Chatto & Windus, 1990.

https://www.irishtimes.com/life-and-style/people/susie-orbach-40-years-on-fat-is-still-a-feminist-issue-1.2291162

[cartoonfangirl1218]

Necklace

Another Lisa Snart Appreciation one, this one was childhood. So tw for child abuse. 

"Lisa, c'mon get moving!" Daddy yelled, impatiently Lisa's small hands shook as she struggled to open the lock with her barrette.

Daddy had taught her to pickpocket last year and today hesaid he needed her for another one of his jobs. He needed to get a bunch of small diamonds that were kept in the safe of the bank.

Lisa felt tears creeping up in her eyes, and the image in front of her started to get blurry. She swiped at her eyes quickly and hoped that daddy didn't see. He hated it when she cried. She was being a big baby and needed to focus.

But it was hard. She was scared.

The room was very dark with only a small upper light on the ceiling. Lisa hated the dark, it reminded her of home with the stinky smell of mold and beer. And there was so much noise. The screaming of the alarm, the shouts and yells of police officers.

"Worthless piece of shit" Daddy snarled, pushing her to the corner as he tried face open the locket himself with the barrette.

Lisa huddled herself into the corner, hoping that this all would be over soon. That daddy could get his shiny diamonds and they couldgo home. She wanted to go to her pink room and hide under the bed.

"Shit shit shit!” Daddy cursed. He banged the door hard in frustration.

"Lisa!" He barked "Do it right this time!"

Lisa scrambled back to the safe and jiggled the barrette again, her fingers cramping.

"Dammit!" Daddy yelled when the police knocked down the door.

He took out his gun from the belt he wore and ran as he shot. Lisa ran behind him. He shoved and knocked any of the remaining police officers out of the way and ran to the door. He slammed the car doors of their get away car and drove home through back alleyways and off beaten paths.

Once the two entered the living room, Lisa tensed. She knew what was coming. She failed again.

"What the hell did you do back there!" Daddy yelled with a backhand slap to the face. "I taught you better than that. If it weren't for you I would have the damn diamonds and have enough money for beer to last a year!"

"I'm sorry, Daddy." Lisa mumbled, tears silently streaking down her face. She hated disappointing her dad, he would get all scary and angry and hit her.

"Sorry? Sorry! Lisa you shouldn't be sorry. Dammit you shouldn't have been born. You were suppose to be my plan B, and so far you're just a worthless piece of crap you know that. Just like your brother. Worse really. He didn't start crying."

"I'm sorry" Lisa wailed miserably. She hated herself, she didn't mean to mess up. She didn't want to mess up Daddy's life he always was telling her she did.

"Stop crying bitch!" Daddy screamed "Stop crying! Stop yelling! You already destroyed my night enough as it is. You're giving me a headache. Just go.” 

"But Daddy I'm hungry.." Lisa whimpered. She had been hoping for a slice of pizza. Usually Daddy didn't give her any when she was bad but he had't started kicking her like he did last time so maybe he would.

"Hungry? After what you did, you think you deserve food? Here have a drink.” 

She felt the shatter of glass bottle on her leg.

"Daddy stop! You're hurting me" Lisa screeched. She knew it was useless but she still begged anyway.  "Sometimes you gotta to live with the hurt." Daddy shoved his fist into her stomach. "Why won't you listen to me! Just do what I ask for once!" Lisa scrambled from the floor and ran to her room.

"Yeah run bastard. Get back in my face and I'l give you a lesson you'll never forget!" Daddy yelled, throwing another bottle that hit the door. She slammed the door to her room and started crying.

A long time ago she learned to cry silently, even though Daddy hated crying in general, he really didn't like loud crying.

She hid under her blankets for awhile, just sobbing and waiting to move without pain. She slowly looked at herself. She wasn't bleeding a lot like the other times when she got hit with the bottle. 

Quietly sniffling, Lisa peeked out from behind her door. The living room lights were on, and she could hear Daddy yelling in the phone at someone. She tiptoed as quietly as she could to her older brother, Lenny's room. She ducked into his closet and opened a small wooden box stuffed behind a pile of clothes.

The box had a crystal, see through chain with a shiny, gold star. Leonard gave it to her last year for her sixth birthday, he said to put it in his room and keep it safe and not tell Daddy. He said it had been Mommy's before she died.

It was really pretty, it was gold and shiny and she could see herself in it. She liked gold, she thought gold meant it was good and pure like a princess.

Lenny told her that Mommy went to a nice place called heaven where you could have anything you wanted like puppies and ice cream, and that's why she wasn't coming back.

She liked Lenny's story better than what Daddy told her. Daddy said that Mommy left because she was so worthless and didn't want to raise such a stupid child. It made her feel bad, not only was she more worthless than the other kids, she didn't have a mommy because of it.

She didn't really know which one was true though. She wanted to believe Lenny but all the kids at school said that their parents knew everything and the teacher said to always listen to adults because they know more.

Lisa chose to believe Leonard because he was old and smart and said that sometimes adults are stupid, like Daddy and not to believe what he says at all. And something about not trying to win his approval.

She didn't know why though. If she didn't win his approval she just got hurt.

She really wanted Lenny now.

Leonard had gone to a place called jail, Daddy said it was where people go when they were failures. He told her the only reason she wasn't there too was because police had caught him being bad, and since she was his daughter he wasn't going to tell the police on her.

She didn't want to go to jail, she saw it when she visited Lenny and it was full of scary ugly men. Lisa thought Lenny was the only pretty guy in the whole place.

She had wanted to go to heaven too but Lenny said only adults went, and they were chosen to go one day and then they went. She wanted Daddy to go to heaven, then he could have the diamonds he wanted and leave her alone.

She looked at the necklace again and sighed. She wanted a Mommy. She wanted to be like all the other kids that hugged their parents and got to go to places like the playground and have someone push them on the swings.

"I love you Mommy. I hope you're having a good time in heaven. I miss you.”  She felt her finger scratch on something she hadn't felt before.

She crawled out of the closet to stand by the window in the room. The moonlight casts some light in the necklace and she could read, "Love is a beauty within."

Maybe Mommy was listening! And Daddy was wrong, Mommy had loved her.

She smiled and crawled into Lenny's bed, clutching the necklace. "Love you too Mommy" she whispered and went to sleep

[samingtonwilson]

Rock, Paper, Scissors - Jim Kirk

Summary: Leonard has a date, you have a date, one of you needs to work. The most fair game Jim could think of ensues.

Warnings: language

A/N: a silly little fic about friends.

You were hoping Leonard had changed his mind by now. But, just in case he hadn’t, you took a deep breath— deep enough to allow every corner of your lungs to sting with the most sterile of scents— and smiled in the brightest way you knew how as you stepped into his favorite exam room.

He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow before he looked back down at his PADD. Wordlessly.

You cleared your throat, flashing him that attempt at a brilliant smile once more. Wordlessly.

Finally, he snorted. He set his hands against the edge of the counter he stood at and narrowed tired hazel eyes at you. “There a reason I can see all thirty-two of your teeth, sugar?”

Your cheeks grew more sore with each passing second, but you kept that smile intact like your life depended on it. “How are you doing today, Len? Did those beautiful hazels cure all my patients with just a glance in their direction?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and turned so he could face you entirely, he leant his side against the counter and raised his dark eyebrows. “What do you want?”

“Why is it that whenever I’m nice to you, you think it means I want something?” you asked, crossing your own arms over your chest and raising your own eyebrows. You nodded upwards. “You really that insecure, Len? Are you really that sus—”

“What do you want?” he pressed, his Southern accented voice louder than before while a smile contradictorily played at his lips. “Make it quick.”

“You know how we were both meant to take over gamma shift tonight?”

“Right, sweetheart, I was meanin’ to—”

“I can’t,” you continued having not heard Leonard’s interjection. “Jim’s been so busy lately. Spock’s got him filing mission reports that have been piling up and Chekov’s got him looking over all the potential route plans for next week’s border planet rescue mission,” you almost ran out of air as you spoke. “And he just finished everything this morning— so he’s free tonight and we’re supposed to have dinner together and fuck for the first time in what feels like ages. I mean, I think I have cobwebs down there—”

“That’s much more than I or anyone else needs to know,” he interrupted with one of the widest scowls you’d ever seen. “Unfortunately, I can’t work tonight either. I was depending on you to take over.”

“What? Why? Absolutely not,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I asked first. I have dibs—”

He snorted again. “Are you tryin’ to present every argument in one go?”

You narrowed your eyes. “This night is important to me. You know how much I miss talking to Jim! We’re literally engaged and I’ve seen him twice this week. Play with your tribble another night— it’ll be just as annoying and unnecessary tomorrow!”

“I’m not usin’ the night to care for my tribble. He takes care of himself— fuckin’ genius of a furball.”

“Then what are you doing? Going on a wild goose hunt for those missing socks you were complaining about yesterday? Because I can assure you, those socks will be missing tomorrow, too.”

He looked at you sarcastically, all raised eyebrows, flared nostrils, and pursed lips. “I’m not lookin’ for missing socks.”

You nodded once and looked away. You thought for a moment— Leonard never took a night he should have been working off unless necessary, unless there was a possibility of drinking or—

Your eyes widened. “You’re getting laid!”

His eyes widened as well, lunging so his hand could clamp down over your grinning mouth. He hushed you loudly. “Someone could hear you bein’ so fuckin’ crass. It’s just a date, no one’s gettin’ laid.”

You pushed his hand away and continued grinning. “You’re going on a date! That’s amazing! I was beginning to think you’d taken up a vow of celibacy.”

“The celibacy wasn’t by choice.”

“Oh, come on!” you nearly sang, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re hot, everyone knows that! Plenty of people walk around this ship all day fantasizing about you, Leonard McCoy. Hell, I’d probably be into you if Jim didn’t exist.”

Leonard frowned in consideration and turned back to his PADD, tapping against the screen almost immediately.

You crossed the room and hopped onto the biobed, swinging your legs. “So, this person that you’re dating— you like them? A lot?”

“I wouldn’t say a lot. S’only been two dates,” he shrugged.

“Yeah? Well,” you trailed off, smiling to yourself. “I’m in love with Jim. Have been for, like, two years now. Love kind of trumps like, don’t you think?”

He shook his head. “Nice try, but you’re stayin’ here tonight.”

“Len! If you’re not having sex, you should be done with your date by the time gamma shift begins.”

“I ain’t takin’ the risk.”

You opened your mouth to protest once more and he shook his head. “No, you’re stayin’. You owe me as it is, time to pay-up.”

The groan that left your lips was long and whiny, throwing your head back so your hair brushed against the wall behind you. “That game of quarters was, like, six months ago. The statute of limitations has run out.”

“It hasn’t and you’re payin’ up now.” He sighed and took steps towards you, stopping only a few inches away. “You need to stay here— I’d ask M’Benga, but he’s out with the flu. Everyone else has worked gamma enough this month, except us.”

You pouted, sitting back with a curve in your spine and a lowering of your shoulders. You stopped swinging your legs, the residual momentum allowing them to come to a stop completely after a few seconds.

Using the index finger and thumb of your right hand, you fussed with your engagement ring, swirling it around your skin and feeling the rise of the central stone against your fingertip. “What do I tell Jim?”

“What do you tell me about what, angel?” you heard from the door.

An instant snapping of your eyes in his direction had you straightening your posture a little, your lips pulling into a smile as a reaction to his. He still looked a little tired, what with the looming darkness under otherwise bright eyes— you thought for a second maybe it was a good idea to skip a date, just so he could rest. He clearly needed it.

He sighed to himself as he walked through the door and started towards you. “Sometimes I think my timing might be too perfect.”

“Sometimes I think your ego may be too big,” Leonard mumbled, nodding to Jim in greeting. “Your date’s canceled.”

“What?” his smile shrunk a bit and his head tilted, watching you as you leaped from the biobed to your feet. “Why?”

“Len was depending on me to take gamma tonight,” you answered, smiling sadly and shrugging a shoulder. “He’s the CMO, he’s got last word. Plus, he’s got a date.”

“Hey, you’ve got a date,” Jim said in a singsong voice, wagging his eyebrows at Leonard and smiling brightly. “Look at you, finally putting that McCoy charm to good use.”

“The point, Jim,” you prompted, shaking your head.

He glanced at you questioningly before you nearly saw a light bulb flicker on above his head. “Oh, right! You can’t reschedule? Spock’s got me—”

“Yeah, the mission reports, I know,” Leonard gruffly mumbled, rolling his eyes. “You two ain’t sick of each other yet? Y’all’ve been together for so long, it’s amazin’ you still wanna look at one  another.”

Jim scoffed. “Well, when you look like we do—”  

“It’s new for me,” Leonard continued, leaning back against the counter. His eyes seemed to have widened as you watched. “I haven’t dated in a while, I barely know what I’m doin’. S’all new and I don’t wanna screw things up by askin’ to reschedule.”

You found your head tilting and your head nodding before you could snap out of it. “Don’t get all cute on me! I’ll arm wrestle you for the night off.”

Leonard snorted and Jim shook his head with a loud, “No, no, no. Do something you’re skilled at. Play rock, paper, scissors.”

“No one’s skilled at rock, paper, scissors, Jim,” you sighed. “It’s a game of chance.”

“Even better. It’s fair this way,” he replied, smiling reassuringly. “Bones, one round of rock, paper, scissors. Winner gets the night off, loser reschedules their date. Do you agree to these terms?”

Leonard looked between the two of you. “That was maybe two terms, tops.”

“Yes or no?”

He sighed. “Fine.”

Jim then clapped and rubbed his hands together, placing them on either of your upper arms as he looked at you with furrowed eyebrows when you faced him. “Okay, we need a game plan.”

“A what?”

His voice, though low in volume, was nothing short of determined and utterly serious. He took his hands from your arms and crossed his own over his chest, ducking his head as he spoke. “A game plan, we need one. You think he’s going scissors?”

You glanced over your shoulder at Leonard who shook his head and rolled his eyes, mumbling out a, “Are y’all fuckin’ kidding me?”  

You brought your gaze back to Jim’s, blue eyes stoic and focused. “I think he’s going rocks— he’s too much of a hard-ass to go for anything else. I should go paper.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants us to think— it’s a strategy.” He narrowed his eyes as he peered at Leonard. “The man does surgeries— he cuts, scissors cut. Go rock.”

“Sound logic, Jim,” you muttered sarcastically.

“Will y’all cut this shit out? Fuckin’ children.”

“See?” Jim whispered, his eyebrows raised. “Cut this shit out? Go rock, he’s going scissors.”

You nodded and turned around, facing your opponent with a glare and a scowl. You bounced back and forth on nimble feet, holding your hands up before you as if beginning a boxing match. You almost went the full nine yards and spit on the ground.

Almost.

Jim chuckled behind you. “God, I love you.”

When you came to a stop, you interlocked your fingers and stretched your arms above your head, cracking your knuckles once your hands were by your side. You then rotated your neck in a circular motion, more amused than anything when a crack rang through the exam room.

Though Jim continued to laugh, Leonard sighed heavily. “This isn’t a fuckin’ MMA fight, darlin’, let’s get a move on.”

You sighed, shaking your limbs out one by one and holding in a squeal when Jim’s hand smacked against your ass and he said, in an encouraging voice, “Get out there.”

“All right,” you said, wetting your lips and raising your eyebrows as you assumed the position. One hand palm facing up at your chest with the other on top, balled into a fist. “Let’s do this.”

“Rock, paper, scissors!” you chanted as you hit your fist against your palm with each word,  forming a rock the instant you finished speaking.

Leonard’s hand was flat. He formed paper and the most satisfied smile over his lips as you yelled out a “No!” and Jim shouted a “Fuck!”

He adjusted the collar of his blue uniform and nodded once as he retrieved his PADD and started out the door. “Have fun sittin’ around here all night while I’m gettin’ laid, sugar.”

“Jim!” you shouted as you spun around. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone rock.”

“Paper would’ve given you a tie!”

“At least I wouldn’t have lost!”