#(rip ao3 this just made my job a lot harder)

[thalassic-p4rk]

WAIT OMFG THAT WAS YOU????? THATS ONE OF MY FAVORITE FICS EVER WTF

update on hybrid au/"Octonauts; truly together"

i'll be moving it over here onto tumblr because ao3/the people behind it are anti-Palestine/supporting zionists/ect. Might take a little bit of figuring things out, but i figured i should mention it.

[bumpkinspice0]

No One Knows the Trouble, Honey, That We've Been Through 1/3

Logan Howlett/ Wolverine x Mutant!FemReader

Chapter Rating: Mature

Word Count: 6.2k

Summary: You're an X-Man... well, you used to be. You left years ago, and in the aftermath of an attack on X-Mansion, Charles has asked you back to help repair the damage to the estate. An easy job for an earthmover like yourself. Still, after years away from your old home, you feel like a stranger again. So much has changed and you're not sure where you fit in anymore. The newest X-Men member isn't helping your mood either. You're not sure where they found Logan, and you're still trying to figure out what to think of him. The mans barely said anything to you. He's not the typical stray Charles would take in, but then again, neither were you when he brought you here.

AN: Like everyone else, my Wolverine obsession has also re-awoken. So I made a quick little 3 part fic to cope with it. Let's see if I can rest now This leans into the movie-verse of the x-men (He's tall because Hugh Jackman is tall lol) but I think I wrote it in such a way that you can imagine it in whatever version of the x-men you like best. Warnings: Emotional baggage, fluff, angst, self-doubt, anger issues?, alcohol, getting drunk, flirting, Logan is drunk babysitter, this is a little corny but I don't care, eventual smut

Series Masterlist

Part 2. Part 3

AO3 if you prefer to read there

_______

Stepping on the soil of the Xavier estate felt odd in a way you hadn’t anticipated, like standing on hallowed ground you’re unworthy of being on. Funny, years ago you only knew it as home. Now you’re just a stranger to the rocks beneath your feet. Still, Charles asked you back. He asked for your help.

The grounds around X-Mansion were unrecognizable.

They were decimated in this latest attack. Storm assured you all the children got out safely, thank god. The estate took all the damage. The house had been rebuilt but the surrounding lands were… rough. Ripped-up roots and protruding rocks where gardens and trees once stood. The walls of the mansion were now bare of its usual sprawling ivy, freshly reconstructed for probably the dozenth time in its life— another failed attack from another ignorant enemy. 

You look at the destroyed earth around you, the real reason you were here. This is why he called you.

Soil, dirt, and rocks were where your powers lie. You could move the earth itself, sense the minerals beneath your feet, see the world around you through the touch of stone. Dozer your friends called you when you first came here— short for Bulldozer . You always hated it but it’s unfortunately the name that stuck. Now it’s just… part of you.

You weren’t the best student. You were angry when you came here at the ripe age of 13 after a rather unconventional childhood. Things were done to you you could never forgive. In a lot of ways, you were still angry. Used by the people you should have trusted most. Seen as less than human. A tool. A mutant. 

And that’s when Charles found you.

The Professor took you in when he had no obligation to— and you fought every step of the way. You realize now it was your fear acting out rather than anger. Still, you were an X-Man… for a while. You thought you found your place. It was a good few years but you wanted more. You wanted to prove the world wrong. Be more than just a mutant. People always say a life well lived is always the best revenge. That’s what you wanted, a good life you forged for yourself despite the world's hatred towards you— and you left the X-Men behind to do it.

Once an x-man, always an x-man, Charles told you the day you left. Maybe some part of that was true, but you didn’t feel like an X-man anymore. It was your own fault, really.

Months and years rolled on and picking up the phone just got harder and harder. Dropping by to say hello started feeling intrusive. And eventually, it just became easier to do nothing at all. 

You stopped trying, but so did they. 

No, that’s not true. Jean tried. Storm tried. A letter or two every year. Missed calls that never got returned. You don’t know why you did it… or didn’t do it. Maybe you thought it would hurt less if you just tried to close the book on that chapter of your life. Be a new person. Something without the X-Men. They didn’t need you anyway. 

Really, it was probably that same fear from your teen years rearing its ugly head. Still that afraid, angry little girl. 

But Charles called, and you answered, and now you’re here. You’re here to help them get back up. 

You became a landscaper when you went off to make a name for yourself. Dirt was all you understood, as sad as that sounds. Still, it was work that made you happy. Funny how you left because you didn’t want your mutation to define you.

Charles treated it professionally like any other client would. The man didn’t expect charity and agreed to your usual fee plus an extra 50% to redo the escape tunnels under the mansion. 

I can’t pick my home up and move it, but I do my best to keep people guessing about its secrets, was Charles's reasoning. 

It was a big job. It would take you 2 weeks at least. Hopefully finishing up just in time for the returning students. You’d already been here 3 days and the emotional exhaustion was getting to you more than anything.

There was no ‘bad blood’ here. You were welcomed back with a chorus of cheers and endless hugs. It was… nice. Really nice. You did miss it here, you missed your old friends. Still, you couldn’t shake this feeling of disassociation stirring in your stomach. Yes, this was your home— your friends— but you’d alienated yourself. They’ve been nothing but kind to you and you still feel like a stranger because you left. You left and stopped trying and you’re refusing to try even now.

 Why was this all so scary?

You're reshaping the east garden beds when you feel eyes on you for the dozenth time today. You turn to see him standing there on the 4th-floor balcony, overlooking the decimated gardens. 

Logan . 

You only met him a few days ago. The newest member of the X-Men. The Wolverine. You’d heard rumors about him before. Tales of the rage, someone more animal than man. You’re amazed Charles took in someone like him, but then again he took you in too. 

You’d said less than 3 words to each other since you returned. When Scott introduced you he only gave a curt nod and lurked back into whatever corner he was occupying. 

You noticed he liked to stay on the sidelines. Silently occupy space without participating. He was always there when you turned around— like a shadow. He liked watching you work, you think. You could sense him lingering outside of the tunnel entrance you started in the basement the other day. This is the 4th time you’ve caught him lingering today.

You give him a casual flip of the bird. He retreats back inside as soon as your eyes connect with his. 

Fucking creep. 

“Dozer!” Storm’s voice pulls you from your unplanned staring contest. 

She and Jean step down into the rocky pit that was slowly starting to resemble a 3 tiered garden. You’d been working on the tunnels below the house since you got here, this was your first day outside. Even an Earthmover needed sunlight every once in a while. You couldn’t punch out your slew of confusing feelings in a dark hole in the ground forever. 

Of course they’d ambush you as soon as you stepped outside. 

“We have a surprise for you,” Jean announces proudly. 

“What— Why?” is all you manage to say. 

Idiot. 

“What do you mean why?” Storm doesn’t hesitate to grab your wrist and march you out of your pit. “Come on, it’s up at the garage.”

You let them drag you there, reminding yourself that these are your friends. The ones that kept trying to let you in and you’ve been an elusive bitch to since you got here. 

Try. Just try a little. They want you here. They do. 

You’re guided, presumably to the garage, by Storm while Jean diligently holds her hands in front of your eyes. 

“Please tell me it’s a new car,” You joke trying to lighten the mood. “My truck’s getting old.”

“Pfft, we don’t have that much money,” Jean nudges you slightly before you all come to a halt. She removes her hands. 

It’s not a car. It’s flowers. 

They’re absolutely beautiful. Hundreds of them in nursery trays laid out in front of the garage doors. Young blossoms but still vibrant with rainbows of color. 

Despite your connection with the Earth you never had power over plants, but felt a kinship with them in a way. Both beings that thrived in the dirt was your best guess as to why. You could sense them, feel them in your own way. Your dorm was a practical jungle when you lived here. Hell, your apartment today still was. 

A closer glance at the small garden reveals something more.

“It’s all your favorites,” Storm confirms, reaching down between the rows, “The ones we could remember at least. You had so many.”

She pulls out a bouquet, a small collection of the surrounding flowers. They must have made it themselves. Ororo hands it to you, her smile warm but her eyes sad in a way.

“Guys, I…” you choke out, pushing back the stinging tears. 

“Your thoughts are very loud,” Jean strokes your shoulder, “The gardens are yours. A reflection of you… for the rest of us. This is your home, you get to leave your mark on it.”

“We’re happy you’re back,” Storm joins Jean in front of you, “We’re happy you're home.”

Wordlessly, you collapse into the two of them. You’d make an ass out of yourself if you tried to talk right now anyway. 

Of course Jean knew how you were feeling. Of course Storm probably had the idea for this corny grand gesture. Of course, they missed you. They’re your oldest friends. Your sisters. 

You’re home. This is okay. It’s all going to be okay. 

__________

The sun has nearly set when you hear the garage door open from a distance, a fight echoing from inside. 

“Logan, be reasonable!” You recognize Scott’s aggravated voice.

“You’re a goddamn coward,” the wolverine growls back. Jean informed you this is a regular occurrence between the two of them. You’re not surprised. Logan seemed difficult, to say the least. 

You’re halfway up to the garage before you realize what you’re doing. What are you doing? Are you really going to try to break up a flight or just get a better spot for eavesdropping? There’s the roar of a motorcycle engine before you have time to decide. 

“ Logan! ” Scott shouts one last time before Logan peels out of the garage— right through the rows of your flowers that rested there. 

“HEY!” you shout after him. It’s no use, of course. He doesn’t bother to stop, already past the front gate by the time you reach the driveway. 

Scotts stands there alone at the edge of the garage, his hand on his visor… contemplating. 

“You’d have one witness if you're thinking about murder,” you make your presence known as you crouch down amongst the now mangled corpses of your garden. 

Asshole.

“Shit,” Scott's posture drops, almost embarrassed. His demeanor had changed so much from that young man you knew. The leader of the X-Men, he took himself so seriously now. It was cute in a way only Scott Summers could pull off. 

“What an asshole,” you rescue a box of untouched daisies. At least some of it was salvageable. 

“You have no idea,” Scott joins you, finding what flowers could be saved, “I’m sorry. He’s… difficult.”

“What were you fighting about?” you dare to ask, more to distract yourself than anything. 

Scott hesitates before he answers. 

“We were attacked by an offshoot of the Trask Institute. Extremists we didn’t even know existed. They came out of nowhere, and they’re still out there,” You see him scowl, silently scolding himself for not knowing more as a leader. He’d do the same thing in training.

The person who always put the most pressure on Scott was never The Professor. It was just Scott.

“Anyway,” he continues, “We don’t have an exact location, but Logan wants to hunt them down. Take ‘em out at the source, ya know?”

“And you don’t wanna do that?”

“We’ve taken enough hits right now.” He adds a bushel of ivy to your pile, “Best to wait until we have our feet back under us… or if they provoke us again.”

“Wouldn’t be good to be caught with your pants down again, though.” It’s not your place to question him anymore, but you do it anyway. 

“We’re monitoring them. They’re not a treat right now,” he lets out a deep sigh, shoulders dropping, “But that’s not good enough for Logan. He doesn’t plan. Just wants to go in guns blazing.”

“Ah, wild-west style.”

 “Like I said… he’s difficult .”

“That seems like a nice way of saying an absolute dick .” you attempt to lighten the mood and simultaneously quell the anger stirring in your stomach. He’d ruined your gift, your welcome home present— and he probably didn’t even notice. 

“He is a dick. A big one,” Scott scoffs, gaze lingering over the vegetative carnage, “I’m sorry he did this because of me…”

“Acts of random dickishness are not your fault, Summers.” 

Scott actually smiles at that one. 

“Did you like it at least? The flowers? The girls were so excited about it. We all wanted you to… never mind. You– you get it.”

You look at the mismatched rescues you’ve already gathered in your hands. Thank god you still had the bouquet in your room at least. 

“Yeah, Scott. I loved them.”

He gives a reassuring nod. Scott wasn’t much for words. That’s okay, you didn’t expect him to be. Yes, he’s the leader but there’s still so much of that quiet boy you see in him. 

“Logan will probably be gone for the night. I’ll talk to him when he gets back. I’ll fix this, Doze.” Scott assures you, that leadership role dropping so easily into place. Charles made the right choice with him. 

“That’s okay, Scott. I’ll take care of it myself.”

__________

Scott was right, Logan doesn’t come back until the following afternoon. You’re on the mansion's north side with Charles, showing him your layout plans, when you hear the roar of that stupid bike again. 

“Sorry, Charles,” you quickly step away from your old mentor, “I have to handle something.” 

“I hope you won’t be ruining my grounds even further while you handle this,” Charles tuts disapprovingly, completely aware of Logan’s transgressions from the previous night. Being psychic, he was no doubt also completely aware of just how angry you were. Jean did say your thoughts are loud after all. Still, he lets you go without another word.

This guy had been nothing but a creep to you since you got here, stacking more anxiety on top of your already overflowing insecurities. Strutting around like he owned the place. Looking at you like a piece of meat. You’d seen too many men like him in your life. He needs to be knocked down a peg.

“Hey!” You have his attention as soon as he kills the engine. He rolls his eyes as he lazily tilts his head in your direction. 

“What, sweetheart?” his face is painted over with an arrogance that was just begging to be slapped off. 

You’ll happily oblige.

Kicking your heel into the dirt you send a wave through the ground. A small pillar of rock shoots up under the bike. It falls under the sudden jolt, and so does Logan along with it. The shock on his face was already worth it. 

“What the hell?!” He sneers as he crawls out from under the bike. 

“Why don’t you watch where you're driving next time, asshole,” You dare to take a step forward. He scrambles to his feet, a metallic ring following the movements. 

Ah, there they are— the infamous metal claws. Now these you’ve heard stories about.

“That is quite enough,” Charles rolls up behind you, “I will not have this boorish display of dominance on my property.” 

To his credit, Logan is the first one to drop his defenses. He sheaths his claws with an irritated shrug. 

“Don’t know what the hell I did for any of this crap,” He practically mumbles. You resist the urge to throw a pebble at his head. 

“You wrecked my garden!” You can practically feel the ground vibrating in your anger. 

Logan looks down at his feet, remnants of the flora he’d unknowingly destroyed still scattered across the dirt. 

“Hell of a place for a garden, toots,” he scoffs, kicking at the now withered flowers, “What you want an apology, then?”

You kick another small wave towards him. He catches himself on the shaking ground this time, only giving a scowl your way. 

“Enough!” Charles comes between you. “If you insist on behaving like children, then you will be treated like children.”

“He started it!” against your better judgment you mockingly point a finger at Logan. Charles only offers a disappointed shake of the head. 

Once a student, always a student. 

Charles addresses you first, “You have my permission to use school funds to purchase more garden supplies, and I apologize on behalf of my newest pupil since he seems to be incapable of doing it himself. They were a gift after all,” he turns to Logan, “And you will take her to get them.”

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

Both you and Logan protest at the same time. 

“If you insist on protesting then I’d like to remind you I can always make you do it in different ways,” It’s an empty threat, of course. One of his favorite tactics to use. You remember him making the same kind to you when you were a student. He sighs before making his way back inside the mansion, “I will not have more petty rivalries in this house at a time like this. See it done… Today.”

You’re left alone together, both staring down at your feet like scolded children. Well into your adulthood you’re still finding ways to disappoint Charles Xavier. You’re ashamed you let your anger get the better of you again. You thought you were past this. Better than this.

Logan may have been an ass, but he was an X-man too. A friend of your friends. You didn’t even give him a chance to fix this before you came barreling in fists first. Still, you don’t really regret it either…

Fine.

With a deep sigh, you’re the first to concede.

“I have a truck.”

Logan hesitates for a moment before finally looking you in the eye. 

“I’ll drive.”

“Absolutely not.”

__________

The drive to the Westchester Greenhouse was tense and completely silent. Now he’s following three paces behind you like a giant angry shadow. The sweet grandmas perusing the hydrangeas take one look at him looming behind you and change rows. It’s hilarious if you're being honest. You’d cooled down over the drive, you’re not entirely sure he has. Every step he takes is tense, you can feel it through the damp concrete floor.

You wonder if he’s aware of how intimidating he is. He has to be. That or he truly didn’t care. From what little you knew about this man it’s probably a bit of both.

“I don’t get why we’re here,” his gruff voice surprises you, “Can’t you just… grow more?”

“I can’t grow things,” you respond, placing a tray of tiger lilies in your cart, “Just move dirt.”

He hums and looks away in response. This was getting painful. If Charles insisted on sending you both out on this stupid little team-building exercise then you might as well try a little… for Charles.

“I can’t grow plants but I can… feel them.” You continue. 

To your surprise, he actually responds. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Maybe ‘ I can kinda talk to pants’ isn’t the best icebreaker topic but it’s a start. You look around rows of greenery, your attention landing on a crudely drawn sign that reads ‘ Man-Eating Plants. ’ Perfect. Most basic nurseries never knew how to take care of carnivorous plants properly. 

“Here I’ll show you,” you walk over to the small section of venus fly traps. Your suspicions were correct. Brown-tipped leaves and shriveled black heads could be spotted on nearly every plant. They’d repotted them in all-purpose soil without a second thought.

“Don’t tell me you can talk to them.” Logan comes to stand next to you. 

“No, nothing like that. But look,” you point at the crisping leaves of one plant. “They’re over-fertilized. They get their nutrients from bugs, not the soil. They’re roots don’t like what’s in the dirt and I can… feel that. So then I talk to the dirt.” 

Logan raises an amused brow. You’re not entirely sure if it’s mocking or genuinely curious. 

“So whaddya do ‘bout that?” he probes. 

Curious it is. You take a quick glance around, making sure no one is close enough to see. Thankfully the massive scary man at your side and some towering majesty palms are enough cover for you. 

“We take out what they don’t like in the soil. And what’s soil and fertilizer but some specific minerals.”

You’d first gotten the idea when you’d heard Magneto could rip iron directly out of people's blood. If his powers could be so precise, why not yours? It took years to master. You practiced by dumping table salt on the yard and trying to only summon the granules to your hands.

Same concept here.

You hold your hand over the small carnivorous beasts, feeling the small pellets of fertilizer mixed into their soil. You can feel the specific minerals and separate them out. Steadily, tiny pellets hovered out of each pot in neat rows and gathered above your hand. Once gathered you clench your open palm into a fist, the pellets gathering into one solid rock the size of a golf ball. 

“There,” the mineral-dense rock drops into your hand, “Come back in a month and I guarantee these guys will be doing better.”

“Oh, I’m never coming back here,” despite the bitterness of his words, Logan says them with a smile. He’s teasing you. 

“Well then,” you turn to him and place the rock in his jacket’s breast pocket, “There, a little souvenir to remember your forced trip to the greenhouse for being a jerk.” 

You’re walking back to the cart before he has a chance to respond. The air feels lighter between the two of you now. You don’t like that you had to be the bigger person when he’s clearly been the one in the wrong but… it’s something, you guess. 

Your little demonstration reminds you that you need better-treated soil if you’re going to make these gardens work. The ground around the mansion was fine but they needed something ritcher to give the plants a good head start. You could mix the soil yourself from around the area but it was infinitely easier to get already prepared bags of it here. Just a few for the topsoil should be fine. Charles said this was all on him, after all. 

You stop in front of the stacked bags of various soil mixes. You reach for the general outdoor plant mix. Logan’s hand beats yours to the fuschia pink labeled bag, pulling it off the stack and tossing it over his shoulder. 

“How many?” he asks, emotionless. 

“Uh… let’s start with five?”

He grabs two more and effortlessly stacks them on his shoulder. He holds the other two in his free hand. He stands there holding over a hundred pounds of dirt like it’s nothing. 

“Okay, what next?”

The sun is starting to set when you make your way back to the manor. The air between the two of you is decidedly less tense but it’s still painfully silent. There was… progress made. You didn’t hate him anymore and hopefully he would treat your property with more care from now on. He tried, in the only way stoic men like him can. Not with words, but with small actions. Carrying bags of dirt for hours, shooing you away from loading the truck and doing it all himself, opening the car door for you. For some reason actually saying ‘sorry’ was always so much harder than just showing you he was sorry. 

You got it. Your father and brothers were the same. You wonder if he was a military man too. 

That doesn’t change the fact that you hadn’t apologized either. Yes, he’d wrong you first, but you provoked him without warning. Actions instead of just talking like an adult. Yeah, actions were always easy for people like you. 

And in your own fucked up little way, you’d made him the subject of your anxieties. He was new here, you’d made yourself an outcast. They all clearly adored him despite his rugged nature. Charles so clearly wanted to help this man who was too skittish to be helped. It reminded you of someone else…

You could extend the metaphorical olive branch. Offer something that resembled friendship. That’s why Charles sent you out here, but you’re going to do it your own way. 

Somewhere that holds a lot of memories is coming up on the right, and you could use a drink. The sudden turn off the road jolts Logan from his empty gazing out the window. 

“Jesus Christ, woman!” He reaches for the center console, shooting you a glare. You hold back a smile, “This isn’t the way back to the school.”

“We’re not going back to the school,” You pull into an all too familiar parking lot, a red neon sign already lit up reading ‘Stevie’s Bar ‘n’ Grill’ illuminates the windshield. You’d snuck over here at least a dozen times when you were in school.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“What?” He smirks with a raise of the eyebrow. He does that a lot, you've noticed.

“Look, I—” You take a breath and shift the car into park. You can do this, it’s just words, “I wasn’t fair. You did a shitty thing, yeah, but you didn’t know. And I came at you with no explanation.”

“I’m used to it.” He shrugs jokingly, trying to lighten the mood you’ve suddenly soured. It works. You smile. 

“It’s… weird. Being back,” you’re grip on the wheel tightens ever so slightly in an attempt to ground yourself, “I don’t expect you to understand this, but it’s weird coming back to a place you called home and feeling like a stranger. Despite everything your friends are saying, you just feel wrong there. I tried to take my insecurities out on you Logan. I’m sorry.”

The bloated silence that settles between the two of you doesn’t help, but you can’t blame him. What was he supposed to say after you just bared part of your soul? You’re not expecting an apology but it hurts a little when he hops out of the truck. You’re about to yell after him when he rounds the front and comes to your door. He opens it and leans in closer than you’d like. 

“How about I buy you a drink then?” There’s that stupid smirk of his again, “You said it yourself, I did a shitty thing. You drug me out here to clean up my mess, wrecked your little welcome home present Jean wouldn’t shut up about. I owe you a drink, toots.”

He leans in a little closer. You can smell the cigar smoke on him, probably embedded into his clothes at this point. It’s not an apology. Not really.

It’s an olive branch. 

__________

It’s exactly the same. Old country on the jukebox, dirty floors, old tattooed lady bartenders that wouldn’t hesitate to knock someone out if they tried something. Funny how little hole-in-the-wall places like this never change. You’re grateful for it. 

You and Logan huddled into the farthest booth in the corner away from the commotion. His beer’s already half gone by the time you’re on your second sip. Somehow you’re not surprised. 

“How the hell did Charles get stuck with you?” You laugh as he wipes away the suds from his stubble. 

“Funny, I could ask you the same.”

You playfully kick him under the table and he thankfully laughs it off. He had a nice smile… you suppose. 

“He drug me in kicking and screaming,” You take another sip, glancing at the kitchen door in hopes the fries you ordered were coming. Logan leans forward, waiting for you to continue. “I… ran away from my birth family. Was on the streets for probably six months before he found me. I was thirteen.”

“That’s the most boring way to tell a probably good story I’ve ever heard,” He says before taking another gulp. 

“Oh, please tell me your life story then, Mr. Wolverine.” You cross your arms.

“Oh, we’d be here a while, Darlin’.”

Well… if he was asking about you. 

“I was born in Guam… I think. We moved almost every year. Mom died before I even had memories. Was brought up by a Colonel in the army and two brothers.”

“Military brat. Should have guessed.” You kick him under the table again, “Explains the temper too I guess.”

“Well, a military upbringing with a bunch of boys’ll do that.” 

When was the last time you told someone about your life? And why was it so easy to tell him? He holds your gaze for a moment and you feel your cheeks heat. 

“Why’d you run away then?” He asks. 

“Oh, you’re gonna need a lot more alcohol in me for that, fella.” you skillfully evade the question. Maybe it wasn’t so easy to tell him everything . 

“That can be arranged,” waves at the waitress, signaling for another round. You look at his practically empty mug and you're still practically full one— and still no fries. God help you. 

“Your turn,” you prompt him, “Tell me something about you.”

His posture tenses. 

“Not much to tell, sweetheart.”

“Where were you born?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Okay, where’d you grow up?”

“Same answer.”

“Did you—”

“Look,” he cuts you off, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening, “Like I said, it’s a long story… but I’m missing a lot of details. It’s not worth listening to, I promise.”

You suddenly feel bad for snooping so much. He had a boundary, and that was fine. Just because you were so keen on sharing doesn’t mean he has to be. 

The waitress delivers your next round along with a greasy basket of fries. Logan is the first to reach for one. 

“You said Chuck drug you in kicking and screaming?” His eyes soften again, “I guess he did with me too.”

He’s trying to be friendly. Trying to be a little gentler.

“Oh?” you gently prod him to continue. 

“I’m not…” he runs his hand through his pointed hair, “I wasn’t a good man… the parts I can remember. And Chuck gave me a chance. I don’t like it all the time… bein’ somewhere I don’t belong. I run. It’s what I do. But they keep havin’ me back. So… I get it.”

You suspect he hasn’t told anyone this, but he’s saying it to you. He chose you to trust for some reason. Your heart clenches. 

You thumb at the handle of your still mostly full beer next to another waiting one, unsure of how to continue. You both started with the heavy shit, so there was only one way to go now. You came here to clear the air… but you also came here to drink. You take the mug and raise it to Logan. 

“To the class fuck ups then.”

__________

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best idea to buy you six drinks on a practically empty stomach. To be fair, you didn’t admit that you’d skipped lunch until drink four and by then the fries were gone and the kitchen was closed. Half a basket of fries wasn't a good substitute dinner, it turns out. Not so much a lightweight as just an idiot, but everyone’s a lightweight compared to Logan. Perk of a healing factor is he can sober up pretty damn quick when he needs to. Practically had to wrestle the keys out of your hands while you were stumbling your way back to the truck. 

Cute how you thought you could put up a fight. He carried you the rest of the way to the truck, you giggling the whole way. Funny how he didn’t really mind either. 

So used to drinking alone, he’d forgotten what it was like to do it with someone else. All the comradery that came with it and a few sloppy games of pool too. Kurt wasn’t much for booze, unfortunately. Hank, Jean, and Storm were always too damn busy to relax, and Scott… like hell he’d have a drink with Scott. 

But this was all your idea. You brought him to a shitty bar, shared a little bit yourself with him and now he was driving you home while you poorly slurred along with whatever was playing on the radio.

And he didn’t mind one bit. 

He didn’t know what to make of you when you first came. They all talked about you with such admiration whenever your name came up… which was all the damn time. You were quiet, skittish almost. Kept your nose down and got to work immediately. 

He recognized what you were doing right away. 

Logan understood what it was like to be part of something and feel like a stranger. Hell, that’s all he’d ever been. Just someone passing through until the X-Men. He’s still learning how to do it. Be part of something. He meant it when he said he wasn’t a good man, but he’s a better man than he was. He wouldn’t have that without Charles. 

And here you come, someone who had it all and left it behind just to try to be normal out in the world. The one thing people like you could never be. Yeah, he really got it.

You admitted you were an angry kid in your drunken ramblings. He has a hard time picturing you that way— a little rebel. You shied away from talking more about personal things. Your family and whatever the hell else that past life entailed. He didn’t pry, didn’t want to make you more uncomfortable than he already had. Instead, the conversation drifted into one of those that’s about everything and nothing at all. Just sharing drinks with a friend kind of conversation. 

He liked it… having someone to talk to. 

You’re finishing up belting Bohemian Raposesty when he finally pulls into the driveway of the mansion. 

“Shows over, rockstar,” he announces as he kills the engine. 

“Boooo!” You weakly protest as soon as the radio dies, “Killjoy!”

“That’s me,” he grumbles, getting out and walking over to your door. You slump out of the seat as soon as he opens it, “Come on, princess.” 

You’re slumped over, curled up into the flannel he offered as a blanket. He pulls you into his arms, deciding it’d be easier to just carry you straight to bed rather than herd you up the steps. God he hopes everyone’s gone to bed by now, otherwise he’s probably going to get an earful for getting their precious darling drunk. 

“You’re like the firemen… in those calendars…” you slur as he pushes through the front door, “Or a lumberjack. With those chops, you have to be a lumberjack.”

He holds back a laugh at your girlish ramblings. To his relief, no one is in the foyer. He quickly hikes up the stairs, squirming drunk girl in hand. You were already dozing off by the time he reached the top of the stairs. 

Thank god. 

“Whoa, deja vu,” you rub your hands down your face, “I feel like 'm 16 again. We did this all the time back ‘n the day.” 

“Yeah? Who carried you to bed then?” your door is in sight. 

“The Professor.” you jokingly wheeze out without hesitation. “Guy loves his brandy.”

“Mmm, I’m sure,” Logan scoots past your door, careful of your head. He lays you down on the bed gently, you don’t protest. He carefully unlaces your shoes while you squirm into the covers. 

“Y’know, yer nicer than I thought you’d be.” You can’t even keep your eyes open now. 

“That right?” Logan smiles to himself as he pulls one sneaker off. 

“Mmhmm,” you nod, nuzzling your head into the pillow, “Funny, I thought the Wolverine would be so scary.”

He cringes a little at your words. He won’t hold them against you, not in this state. 

“I’m very scary.”

You blow a raspberry before continuing, “No yer not! You're just a guy. A hunky, lumberjack guy who hates flowers.”

“I don’t hate flowers.”

“Right… just my flowers.”

“Yeah, just your flowers,” he pulls off the other shoe. Your feet immediately shoot up into the covers. He smooths a comforting hand over your hip. It makes him happier than it should when you don’t flinch away. 

“You need anything else, darlin’?”

“Stop doin’ that,” You groan into the pillow.

“Stop what?”

“Makin’ me blush with your dumb pet names.” You admit, “Stop it.”

He smiles to himself, a familiar warm feeling rising in his stomach. He’ll leave you be for tonight. Best to wait until you're sober to ask what you mean by that anyway, if only to watch you blush a little more. 

“I’ll leave you be then,” he almost feels regret when he stands off of the bed. Almost. You were drunk. Tired. There was nothing more to be said tonight. 

He drags your empty trash can over to the side of the bed, just in case, and fills a glass of water for you too. 

“I had fun tonight,” He says before walking towards the door. Your voice makes him pause.

“Logan?” you call out like a scolded child.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t actually hate my flowers, do you?”

“No, darlin’. I don’t hate your flowers.” 

He makes sure to turn off the light and close the door behind him. 

__________

[inmyicyworld]

Sandcastles

CEO Husband Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky is always working overtime, but when his best girls really need him, he leaves everything behind just to make you happy.

Words count: 1.6k

Warnings: fluff, dad and husband Bucky, like one curse word.

Author’s note: just a cute little drabble. obviously, Sebastian’s pictures from Paris inspired me, so enjoy <3

masterlist my ao3 ko-fi

Bucky Barnes was a busy man. Running a multi-million-dollar company wasn’t the easiest thing, but something that he cared more about than this job was his family. His beautiful wife and daughter.

You always loved and appreciated the attention, support, and endless love that your husband gave, even when you just started dating eight years ago. As soon as you met, it took some time for both of you to finally admit your feelings, but when you got together, it was perfect. You’ve never felt that way in your life before. When you were younger, everyone told you that you wouldn’t be able to find a person because of your high standards, but when you started dating James Buchanan Barnes, you knew that it was forever.

A beautiful, respectful, and caring man who would do anything for you.

For the past two months, he has been more distant. His company was getting bigger; he had too many meetings, and too many new things required his whole attention. You understood it; of course you did. But you would be lying if you said that you didn’t miss him. Your daughter felt it too. She was totally daddy’s girl, so being away from him for too long upset her, even though she was trying to be tough and careless, just like her dad when he was working.

You talked to her about her dad’s work, and she was a smart girl for a 3-year-old. She understood that he has a lot to do right now and that he still loves her more than anything in this world.

Today he returned home only after 2 am., you heard that he went to take a shower in a different room, probably not to wake you up. But you were too eager to spend as much time with him as possible, even if it was when he was falling asleep.

Bucky came into the room quietly. As soon as he got under the blanket, his warm and strong arms wrapped around you. He pulled you closer to him, burying his nose into your neck.

"I’m sorry, doll. Again." He took a deep breath, enjoying your scent, which he missed so much. "I love you."

"That’s okay, baby." You moved even closer to him, burying your fingers into his wet hair, and left a kiss on his temple. "I love you too. Now take some rest."

You hadn't even started to fall asleep when you heard a weird noise outside your bedroom, and then the door slightly opened.

"Daddy? Mommy?" A little voice came through the silence of the room. "Are you asleep?" Your daughter suddenly sobbed, and you and Bucky immediately sat on the bed, reaching for the nightstand lamps.

"Hey, angel, what happened? Come here." Bucky’s voice was very soft and gentle, as always when he talked to your daughter. She came closer to the bed, and Bucky picked her up, putting her on his lap. She was tightly holding her favorite white wolf, which you gifted Bucky as a joke because of his nickname at work. Your daughter's eyes were a little bit red, her hair messy, and her cheeks wet with tears. You moved closer to them, gently rubbing her face.

"What’s going on? You saw a bad dream?" You quietly asked, but she just shook her head.

"I— I—" She was obviously too upset to put her words together, so Bucky started to rub her back, whispering a quiet "sh-h".

"I— miss you, daddy." As soon as these words left her mouth, you and Bucky froze, and she started crying even harder. "I don’t s-see you, and me and mom—mommy are always alone."

Bucky looked you in the eyes, and you saw that his own were full of tears. The last thing he wanted to do was upset either of you. He felt that his heart was ripping apart. You made your daughter cry, you idiot. Your wife deserves better.

You just put your hand on his shoulder and squeezed, already knowing where his mind went. He always wanted to give his family everything, and the fact that he put work above his two favorite people in the world made him sick.

"Angel, hey, baby, look at me." Bucky turned back to your daughter, grabbing her little face with his hands and gently wiping away her tears. "I promise that the day after tomorrow we will go somewhere. Only mommy, you, and me, okay?"

"But—but you’re working."

"I know, angel. But I didn't want to make you feel lonely or to stay away for too long from your mom." He grabbed your hand and brought it to his mouth to leave a kiss. "We will go wherever you want to. Maybe stay there for the week. You would like that?" He smiled at your daughter, and she happily giggled, wrapping herself around Bucky’s neck. "I love you. Both of you. You two are my whole life, and I'll do anything to make you happy."

You softly smiled at him, leaning in to leave a quick kiss on his lips.

Your daughter put away her white wolf and opened her other arm, wanting you to join her and Bucky in a hug.

That night she stayed in your bed because she almost passed out in Bucky’s arms but still held onto you both too tightly. The three of you happily curled under the blanket, with your daughter in between. Bucky knew that it was time for him to finally make the right decision. To choose his family.

As Bucky promised, one day later your little family was on a vacation where no one could disturb you. He left Steve, Sam, and Natasha, his closest and oldest friends, in charge of everything, canceled all the meetings, and took you and your daughter on the private jet that brought you here. One of the most beautiful places you’ve ever been

It was quiet. No strangers, no annoying noise, no worries. Just the three of you on the beach with a perfect little house and warm, crystal-clear water

You were wearing a light flowy dress, and Bucky, finally free from those annoying suits, chose trousers with a white tank top and shirt on top of it. 

You two were sitting under the sunset on a blanket with food and a bottle of wine, while your daughter was playing near the water with sand. It was such an amazing evening; just everything was perfect, and as you were watching your smiling husband, you felt that you had fallen in love once again.

"You keep staring at me, doll, You ‘kay?" He finally turned his face to you, and you couldn't hold your wide smile, which he immediately returned.

"I’m okay. It’s just… everything is perfect here—the beach, the house, you two here." You covered your eyes with your hand because of the setting sun. "You know, you’ve been here for a couple of hours, but you look much better. Your skin is glowing, you’re happy, and, god, that hair bun looks really hot." Bucky’s smile grew wilder because of your words.

He grabbed you in bridal style and set you across his lap, wrapping his hands around your waist. You slightly screamed, not being ready for such movements, but then happily melted into your husband's touch.

"So you think that I look hot?" A cheesy grin crossed his face, and you playfully rolled your eyes.

"Do you think I would’ve married you if I thought otherwise, James?" You arched an eyebrow at him. Your hands found the perfect place under Bucky’s blue shirt by themselves. God, it's been too long since you spent good time together alone.

"What do you think about the idea that when we get home, we send our daughter to visit her amazing grandparents, so we could be completely alone for a couple of days?" He said it as if he was reading your mind, so you just silently nodded. "Doll, you’re too beautiful for this damn world; I can’t even understand how I was able to be far away from you for that long. I missed you so much, baby." Bucky’s hands slipped lower on your hips, while his lips were leaving sweet kisses on the side of your neck.

"Not here, Buck; we’re not alone, remember?" You nodded back at your daughter, who was honestly more interested in building sandcastles.

"Of course. Just wanted to say that I’m so sorry for my absence. I got so involved in work that I didn’t even notice that you too were hurt. I’ve never wanted to do that. I’m sorry. And I love you. So fucking much." Bucky connected your foreheads and put his right hand on your cheek.

"Don’t be sorry. I know that you want better for us and that you want to do everything right. It’s okay to make mistakes sometimes. You know, you are such a great dad because your daughter’s tears made you leave everything and spend time with us. And I’m forever thankful for this." You smiled, holding his stubbled face in your hands. "I love you, James."

You two connected with a kiss. It wasn’t too rough or desperate. It was just pure love and adoration for one another. Bucky was slowly moving his lips, feeling the need for your taste, your smell, and your touch. Your little bubble didn’t last too long, though, not after your daughter finally wanted your attention.

"Mommy! Daddy!" You pulled away from the kiss, looking back at your daughter, who was now all in the sand. "Do you want to help me build a castle?"

You looked at Bucky, who had the same smile on his face.

"Of course, angel. What do you need from us?"

[pastelpaperplanes]

Big Ol’ Ask Post

Crusade goes by them/them!

And let’s see—I don’t think that Optimus would ever let a medic touch his baby with intent to reformat them, I think he’d sooner rather dive into a smelter than even let Crusade know that the Council planned to do that to them.

But for What If’s sake, sure here’s what their reformat would look like:

Crusade would have been the equiv. of 16 to receive these changes. looks a little too much like a wind-up toy soldier. it’s creepy.

Same as Op, Megs would absolutely recognize or at least suspect something is up with Crusade—but in this timeline, their meeting would not be on the battlefield—rather they’d meet when their Carrier threw them through a space bridge into Megatron’s arms before blowing the whole bridge to hell.

Crusade as you can imagine in this timeline is even more blindsided than our OG Crusade, you can imagine the fear, denial, and betrayal they’d feel in the rushed time between when a frantic Optimus told them they had to run and never come back. oh and the notorious Warlord you were told to never ask about—he’s your Sire. you have to trust him now

QUEUE THE DRAMA

HA no. I don’t have an ao3 for writing, just one I use to keep tabs and give kudos and cry over other’s fics.

I don’t have enough confidence in writing to consider a fic! I like playing off of scenarios, writing dialogue/backstories rather than considering piecing a whole ass fic lmfao. One day I may try! But art is my trade for now ;D

the best I can offer you is to read all I have on Crusade would be to check out the crusade and cybertron’s legacy au on my tumblr! There I have all the asks/art and lore for them, have fun!

HAHOUUHOHUNGHG NooOOOOOPE.

‘who needs another sparkling when they have me? I’m perfect ✨’

that they are for sure. but they know they’d get stuck w babysitting duties for the rest of their life, plus (after I figure out the whole fiasco that is the true reunions) theres tentaive trust just beginning to form between their Creators, another sparkling to worry about my blow up in their faces,,or not. we just don’t know.

but man this ask came soon. at the rate we’re going Crusade may not get a CHOICE

hhh I don’t know! so the way I have the CLau laid out—it takes place roughly 20 years after The Trial of Megatron. A little soon for other member of say Team Prime to settle down, hell their careers have just begun, that and if there were other Sparklings in the AU born from our favs, they’d be itty bitties.

I’m thinking it may be so much more fun to have Wormholes Gone Horribly Wrong and Rips In the Timelines—queue the clashing of AUs so Crusade can meet the lot! lol I can’t wait for Crusade to meet the SAR team I’m practically shaking

yeah

sweet

among

other things,,,

their child*

and yes it was not fair at all, Megatron on will realize this eventually—but the level of fear this reveal invoked trumped over rationale—which is what exactly what happened when Megatron realized just how vulnerable this sparkling would be should the Autobots even remotely know of it’s existence.

The Autobots would have every motivation to simply take the information from Optimus by force should he have told him of the sparkling. Megatron’s interests lied in protecting all parties. He made a tough choice as a Carrier, but an even harder one as a former lover.

HAHAHA

YES THEY WOULD FOR THAT EXACT REASON. The rhymes, the quips during battle—or Crusade is a little bit too like their Sire when they’re in the zone. ‘an angry opponent makes for a stupid one’ like Sire like Sparkling

But after A Little Too Familiar, Megatron didn’t let them near any active field so long as he could help it. Too risky, the Magnus would suspect more than anyone, Crusade was compromised and most of all nearly taken down, or worse taken. But Crusade was stubborn—they found a way—more on that eventually aksjsksjd

They didn’t get to meet Team Prime on any field, now on a base or in a brig,,,,hmm we will see ;3

No one. There hasn’t been a carried sparkling in the ranks in Primus knows how long, their existence alone was an anomaly—and one that put Megs through the ringer emotionally ofc but physically as well

there was no How To book (easily accessible to the Cons at least) so everything Megs performed was out of instinct alone,,with some assistance from Shockwave of course—theyre the most versed in watching over ‘little things’ and most of all what could possibly be ‘Autobotish behavior’ and how to care for one (that doesn’t exist you dumb FUCK it’s just a Cybertronian BABY)

Carrier protocols are extremely powerful on a bot, some go soft, some go on the attack, some have a mix of both—either way the base line coding just screams protect, which is exactly what Megatron did for whatever reason Crusade should need him for.

Whether it was by being a warm perch to nap on, giving reassurance, providing a firm hand on their shoulder when supporting them through announcing their new chosen titles, showing them the proper way to fight, or simply just letting them know that they can do no wrong because they are his and they are perfect, Megs was there to protect them—and he did his job well.

[morganaspendragonss]

if every breath is sacred

When Carlos wakes up, flames and smoke are filling the room, but TK is nowhere to be seen. He knows the protocols for being in a fire: sit tight, stay low to the ground, wait for help to arrive. But, it’s TK. Protocols have always gone straight out of the window when it comes to TK. So, Carlos—

Well, Carlos does probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his  life.

He grabs two t-shirts from a drawer, holds one over his mouth and nose, and plunges into the inferno.

ao3 | 2.1k | 2.12 spec

The air in their bedroom is sour with a rage Carlos knows isn’t directed at him, yet he can’t help but feel guilty for it anyway. TK is curled up on his side of the bed, back to Carlos, his arms wrapped tightly around himself and his breaths far too carefully even for him to be asleep.

Carlos wants to call him out on it, but he doesn’t want to make things worse than they already are.

He knows he’s not the one TK’s mad at - they’ve had that conversation already - and Carlos is angry too. Mainly at Owen for being so stupid, but also a little bit at his dad even though he knows he was just doing his job. It’s more that they put him in the impossible situation of having to explain to his boyfriend that his father was arrested than anything else; seeing TK’s face fall at the news felt like one of the worst moments of Carlos’s life.

They’ll have to talk about this eventually - tomorrow, hopefully - but, right now, it’s better to just let TK’s anger run its course. 

Which is why Carlos bites his tongue when TK suddenly throws the sheets back and climbs out of bed, leaving the room with only a muttered comment about getting a drink. He sighs, listening to TK’s heavier-than-usual footsteps, relieved when he hears the quiet click of the kettle as opposed to the coffee machine. At least now there’s a chance of TK coming back to bed and getting some sleep, albeit a small one.

Carlos throws his arm over his eyes as the sounds quiet. He’s exhausted and, much as he wants to stay up for TK, he can’t resist the pull of sleep. So he lets himself drift off, praying that things will be easier in the morning.

*

He wakes to the scent of smoke invading his nostrils, harsh coughs already ripping from his throat even as he blinks the remains of sleep away. Carlos frowns, his brain taking a second to register the dim orange glow under the bedroom door for what it is.

Fire.

His eyes widen and he turns to warn TK -

But, TK’s not there. 

The bathroom light isn’t on, either, which means… Which means, he never made it back to bed.

Which means he’s still downstairs.

Carlos jumps out of bed and races to the door, yanking it open, only to come to a sudden halt as flames jump up at him from the stairs. The smoke is thick, but he can see enough to tell that the ground floor has already been overwhelmed by the fire, and that it probably won’t be long until it makes its way up here. His heart is threatening to pound out of his chest with fear and worry, but he forces himself to concentrate, to slip into first responder mode; panicking won’t help TK, nor will it get them out of this mess.

Returning into the bedroom, he snatches his phone from the bedside table and dials, sliding to the floor as more and more smoke invades the room.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“My house, it’s on fire. My boyfriend and I are trapped inside, but I don’t know where he is. He went downstairs to get a drink and I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, there was fire everywhere and he still wasn’t back.”

“Could you give me your address, sir?”

Carlos rattles off his details, suppressing the tickle in his throat for as long as he can before he’s overwhelmed by coughing again. He can hear the dispatcher on the other end saying something, but he can’t make out what.

When the coughs die out, he takes heaving breaths of air, already in short supply. The dispatcher is still talking, so Carlos focuses.

“-ir? Sir, are you there?”

“I’m here,” he gasps eventually, closing his eyes.

“Good, help is on the way. For the time being, is there anywhere you can go to escape from the smoke?”

Carlos shakes his head, before remembering that the action is redundant. “No. There’s nowhere.”

“Alright, just hang tight. Fire and medical should be with you in around six minutes.”

Six minutes.

Too long.

Carlos glances back to the door, his mind going to TK and how long he must have been in the flames and smoke for. A chill goes through him as he realises he doesn’t even know, and he just... He needs to make sure he’s okay.

He may be a cop, and not a firefighter, but Carlos knows the protocols for being in a fire. Sit tight, stay low to the ground, wait for help to arrive. But, it’s TK. Protocols have always gone straight out of the window when it comes to TK. So, Carlos—

Well, Carlos does probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his entire life.

He grabs two t-shirts from a drawer, holds one over his mouth and nose, and plunges into the inferno.

*

Flames lick at his exposed skin and thick, black smoke clogs his lungs, the thin cloth of the t-shirt doing next to nothing to halt its path. His eyes are burning, vision obscured with how much they’re watering, but Carlos pushes on, squinting through the haze to search for any sign of his boyfriend.

Navigating his house is difficult, everything seeming alien in this strange half-light, but he manages, and eventually he stumbles - almost literally - over a crumpled figure against the far wall.

“TK!” he cries, or tries to. It comes out hoarse, and quieter than he intended, so Carlos clears his throat and tries again and again and again until he drops down on his knees next to TK. 

“TK,” he says again, shaking his shoulder. TK’s eyes are closed, but they flutter when Carlos shakes him harder. “Come on, baby, open your eyes.”

TK must listen to him, because, slowly, his eyes blink open, widening as he takes in the scene around them. Carlos presses the second t-shirt into his hands and he nods in understanding, raising it to his mouth.

“Help is coming,” Carlos says, mouth close to TK’s ear. “Just a couple more minutes.”

TK nods again and lowers the shirt. He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t get a sound out before a round of coughing comes over him, causing him to fold in on himself. It’s loud enough that TK misses the cracking sound coming from right above his head, the thin trickle of dust raining down on them.

TK misses it, but Carlos doesn’t.

His boyfriend’s name tears out of him, and he just has time to shove TK as hard as he can before the ceiling comes crashing down.

Carlos chokes, suddenly finding it even harder to breathe, as if it wasn’t near impossible before. He’s pinned, the only movement he has left in his right hand. If he strains, he can just about see TK, who’s staring at him with a horrified expression. Carlos attempts a smile, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work.

His lungs spasm as he tries and fails to take a breath, his entire body burning with the weight crushing him. His vision is dimming, and he knows it’s likely only seconds before he loses consciousness—and, judging by TK’s slow blinks, the same is true for him.

Carlos prays that whichever station was dispatched gets to them soon, but if this is the end - and he really, really wants it not to be - then he can only think to be grateful that they’re in it together. Carefully, he inches his hand forward, stretching his fingers out until they meet TK’s, and he grips on with all the strength he has left in his body.

“I love you,” he chokes out. He doesn’t know if TK hears him, but he knows that he understands by the way his fingers close around Carlos’s.

TK’s lips move, the roaring flames and the pounding of his own heart making it impossible for Carlos to hear him; still, he knows. It’s a comfort, and he gives TK’s hand one last squeeze before all the energy leaves him and his eyes drift shut.

A flash of blue lights up the room behind Carlos’s closed eyelids, but he doesn’t get a chance to figure out what it means before the darkness swallows him whole.

*

TK doesn’t know how he got here. 

He comes back to awareness slowly, a sudden panic constricting his already tight chest as he stares up at the night sky, his mind trying desperately to work out what’s going on. The last thing he remembers, he was in their front room, surrounded by fire, and Carlos—

Carlos.

TK gasps, his lungs on fire, his back arching and his fingers clawing at what he now realises is a gurney - whether he’s fighting for air or to get to Carlos, he doesn’t know.

Either way, he’s quickly pushed back down and an oxygen mask is pressed against his face.

“TK, I need you to calm down,” a familiar voice - Tommy’s - says. 

“Carlos -”

“He’s in good hands, I promise you,” she cuts in, an evasion tactic if TK’s ever heard one. “You’re my priority right now; just focus on breathing for me, alright?”

TK wants to fight, but he still doesn’t have any strength in him, and he’s powerless to do anything as he’s lifted into the ambulance and taken away.

*

He hates hospitals. After the kidnapping, after Grace and Judd, TK had hopes not to have to enter one again for a while. 

He should have known that was just wishful thinking.

This is the worst one, he thinks. He’s not allowed to leave his bed for another day at least, the burns he’d suffered are superficial, but he’d inhaled a lot of smoke and the doctors want to make sure his O2 levels are stable before letting him go.

That would be unbearable enough, but it’s made worse by the fact that he can’t see Carlos. All he’s been told is that Carlos’s injuries were far worse than his own and that he’s been put on a ventilator because his body is too damaged. A horrible guilt wells in TK’s gut at that knowledge - it’s his fault Carlos isn’t awake right now. He knows Carlos saved him when the ceiling came down, and he wishes he hadn’t; he really didn’t need to know what being on the other side of a coma is like.

A quiet knock on the doorframe reaches his ears and he looks up, expecting it to be his dad or one of the team. Instead, he’s surprised to see Carlos’s mom standing there, her eyes red, and a terrifying coldness floods his body.

“Mrs Reyes,” he says, voice trembling. “Is everything okay? Carlos, is he -”

“He’s okay,” she replies, giving him a wobbly smile as she walks towards him. “Or, there’s been no change, which the doctors tell us is a good thing. Gabriel is with him, but I wanted to come and check up on you.”

TK swallows guiltily, wincing slightly at the lingering soreness in his throat. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Ah. I see Carlitos didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“I raised four children, TK,” she says, a hint of a real smile on her lips. “I know when someone is lying to me.”

TK flushes and looks down at the bedsheets, picking at them idly. “You’re right. I’m not okay, but I don’t think I will be until he wakes up.”

“You care for him a lot.”

“With all my heart.”

She nods and pats his hand, the simple, yet comforting, touch breaking something in TK. His eyes fill with tears and he lets his head fall back on the pillow as his chest heaves with sobbing. It irritates his throat, but he doesn’t care, not when there’s a greater pain that reaches right down to his very soul. 

Mrs Reyes holds him against her without hesitation, not complaining even though his cries must be making a mess of her shirt.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, stroking his hair in a way that makes TK yearn for a mother he never really had. “Everything will be okay. My Carlitos is a fighter, and I know that he is doing everything he can right now to get back to us. To you.”

TK sniffles, and hangs onto her words with everything he has.

Four days later, Carlos’s eyes open and, for the first time since the fire, TK think he can finally breathe again.

[grittyreadsfic]

hello my friends, one singular person asked for this weeks ago so i’m here with my most unhinged rec list yet: tk and nolan.

now, this one was hard to reign in, so i really didn’t. this pairing had maybe 230 fics in the tag when i first started reading hockey fic, and it’s now over 900, and i’ve read far too many of them, and that makes it so hard to parse it down. so i just...didn't!

so with that said, please enjoy so you want to get into tknp: a beginners guide to a classic case of idiots to lovers

i told myself that i couldn’t rec an author’s entire body of work but then i remembered this is my blog and i do what i want, so i did some consolidating. here’s a list of the quintessential authors for this pairing, you can start at any of their profiles and pick any of their fics at random, and it’ll be one of the best ones for the pairing, hands down.

therainbowsedge: i’d start with the summer camp fic, or the sex toys one, as both beautifully capture the true idiots to lovers nature of this pairing, but just top tier writing all around

manybumblebees: the wedding fic is so tender and port stanley is a classic, but literally pick any single fic and you’ll have a perfect tknp fic. i’m not kidding

jamesvanriemsdick: their tknp fics in their series are some of the hidden gems of this pairing (the tk heartbeat fic makes me LOSE it) but the delaware fic or the seattle fic…..there’s really something for every mood

catchascatchcan: start with era of gods because i could write literal essays on how it’s some of the best fantasy worldbuilding i’ve ever read, but then just read everything else on their account, including non tknp fics. you won’t regret it

hackysack: ao3 user hackysack has written one of two timeloop fics that i absolutely adore, and i thought about just calling that one out in particular, but all of their work deserves the attention

canary: nothing to prove was the first tknp fic i ever read and i was immediately hooked. all of their fics are a good starting place for the pairing, and just really give you a feeling for the pairing

and now, for the fic recs!

to be, despite it all by smudgedfreckles

summary: or, nolan patrick’s gender thesis, by travis konecny.

why i love it: there’s not a lot ofo nonbinary characters in media, even in fic, but this fic’s treatment of nolan and their path to figuring out their gender just feels so real and made me feel so seen. tk’s characterization is also just top notch, and it’s just a super sweet story about two people who love each other

last ones standing by makeit_takeit

summary: If you’re committed to finding your future spouse, reads the last line of the ad, and are ready to look at yourself and your love life in a whole new way, apply now.

At the bottom of the ad there’s a link, and Travis finds his finger hovering over the screen, lip still caught between his teeth.

“I mean,” he says very reasonably, speaking out loud to his empty apartment like some sort of possibly-crazy person, “just applying doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I just fill it out, and see what happens. It’s not like I’m really gonna get picked to be on TV, come on.”

He snorts out loud, just to show his apartment he hasn’t lost his grip on reality or anything; he fully understands how ludicrous that would be.

Then he clicks the link anyway, because yolo or whatever.

why i love it: what part of a married at first sight fic doesn’t make you want to immediately dive right in? the concept is fun, the execution is absolutely flawless, and it captures their dynamic so well while letting it develop naturally

motivation by connectknee

summary: Kevin knows when to back off, the article said. He knows just when to shut up and leave Patty alone, something Travis has never known how to do.

why i love it: the thing i love about this pairing is that tk is loud and in your face, and nolan’s more reserved, a little quieter, a little harder to read. this fic does a really great job of exploring how tk could feel like maybe he’s just a bit too much and is one of my favorites in terms of miscommunication

a tenderness grows by rusesdeguerre

summary: Nolan wouldn’t say that landing a job as the Philadelphia Flyers’ psychotic and probably clinically insane mascot was a childhood dream of his. Maybe tangentially: playing pond hockey in –30°C weather and pretending to be Sidney Crosby is practically a rite of passage when you grow up in Manitoba. That, and experiencing the distinct displeasure that is thousands of mosquitoes sucking your blood out when your father drags you on a father-son camping trip into the backwoods of the northern Canadian Prairies.

why i love it: this was the first fic i recced on this blog, and i stand by that decision. a fic where nolan is not only not a hockey player, but is in fact the person in the gritty suit? absolutely perfect, and so charming from start to finish

meet me at my window by springsteen

summary: Travis has lived in Philadelphia for a few years now, long enough to know there isn’t a major city in America where superheroes don’t destroy an entire city block trying to save humanity or whatever. He can deal with all the super-shit, but Travis did not sign up for getting woken up from a deep sleep because some fucker’s trying to break in through his window.

(5 times the super-villain known as "The Cat" breaks into Travis's apartment, plus 1 time Travis invites him in.)

why i love it: there’s a lot of things to love here, but the concept is just absolutely one of my all time favorite aus ever. it’s fun and charming and the perfect glimpse into a world where heroes and villains exist, and what it’s like just to be a run of the mill kind of guy existing in it. tk and nolan’s back and forth in this make it so engaging, and it’s such a top tier fic

body’s in trouble by cloudsandpassingevents

summary: “Oh, sorry,” someone says. “Didn’t know anyone else was here.”

Nolan freezes, then turns around very slowly. When he looks up, Nicklas fucking Backstrom is standing behind him in a hoodie and baggy sweats, holding the biggest bag of Swedish Fish Nolan’s ever seen in his life in one hand.

“Uh,” Nolan says around the pop tart between his teeth. “Yeah.”

What the fuck, his brain helpfully supplies.

why i love it: from nolan’s inner voice, to the way the author explores all the dynamics within the team, to the way they write the unexpected but actually, it kind of makes sense friendship between nolan and backstrom, is just absolutely fantastic. there’s a lot of moments that circle back and build on each other in a way that really just makes it super compelling

rhizomatic foundations by lighthousetowers

summary: Twenty days after he moves in with Kevin Hayes, twenty days – three months, five months, depending on how you look at it – after not talking to TK, TK shows up at the front door with a plant the size of a basketball in his hands.

TK grins. "Patty, meet Reginald." He lifts up the plant. "Reggie, meet Patty. He's going to be your new - caretaker."

"What the fuck," says Nolan, not moving a single muscle.

Or: That Nolan can hear the plant talk might as well just happen.

why i love it: this is probably my favorite magical realism fic just about ever. it’s fun and charming and a little weird, but in the best possible way. there’s such a wonderful narrative in it, and lighthousetowers always has such beautiful writing, and it really shines in this one. the dialogue and nolan’s characterization are also part of what set it apart for me as one of the best tknp fics

in the dark of any town by mengetpegged

summary: If the voice has an accent at all, it’s a flat prairie Canadian, with none of G’s French-Canadian softness at the edges. But mostly, the accent is just ‘pissed off,’ which TK believes is a default setting for ghosts.

“Who are you?” TK asks, and he doesn’t like how strained his voice sounds, doesn’t like the tinge of anxiety tinting the rise of his question. He tries to regulate his breaths—in through his nose, hold, out through his mouth—but it feels like he’s not getting enough oxygen, which makes him panic even more.

“Someone with a fucking migraine, dickhead,” the voice says. “So keep the lights off and shut the hell up.”

(or: Nolan Patrick, Hotel X Ghost)

why i love it: i’m usually not super into ghost fics, both the spooky kind and the nonspooky kind, but this one is a rare exception. it’s charming and fun and tender and it’s got some of, in my opinion, the best characterization of tk and nolan in any fic. the way the author writes their dynamic and their dialogue is just unmatched

lets_make_this_moment_a_crime.mp3 by honeydripping

summary: Travis meets Nolan at a Midtown show in 2002 when he punches Nolan in the face. He can’t help it, “Like A Movie” just goes off.

But he does feel guilty about it.

or

TK and Patty work at a bakery together. They go to punk shows to pass the time.

why i love it: idk if anyone asked for an early 2000s emo/punk/alt au but wow! i sure am glad it exists! really the vibes of this fic, as silly as that sounds, are absolutely unmatched. i love the structure with the music, the development of their relationship, and just everything about how the author wrote the setting (there’s this whole thing with tattoos in it that makes me feel absolutely insane)

you’re ripped at every edge by you’re a masterpiece by conformityissuicide

summary: “Ugh, look, this yoga teacher has it out for me, man. And I can’t go back there without at least having some of the basics down. I’ve got to win this battle.”

“Yoga isn’t really something you win at,” Hartsy starts.

Travis cuts him off, “You can win at anything if you try hard enough.”

+++

OR that time Nolan's a grumpy yoga teacher and Travis realizes he wants to bone him and prove him wrong about Travis' non-existent yoga abilities.

why i love it: listen, if you want tknp, at least one of them has to be an idiot, and this tk absolutely captures the obliviousness i love to see in him in fic. it’s such a great characterization of them both and such a great concept (and even better execution)

you form a terror pack (and i’m aware of that) by dalmatienne

summary: “Can I help you?” TK snarks, both eyebrows hiked up in a way that has earned her many elbow checks to the ribs.

The chick looks down her nose, long thick eyelashes fluttering. Red-bitten lips part to blow a florid pink bubble and TK can smell the chemical sweetness when it pops.

“Yeah,” she says in this monotonous voice that seems almost at odds with her bubble gum and neon skates. She jams her stopper into TK’s thigh again, literally inches away from where it’d really hurt. “Tie ‘em.”

why i love it: to be honest, i generally don’t read rule 63 within hrpf, but this one is just absolutely knocks it out of the park. the concept (i fuckin’ love roller derby), the characterization of nolan, the pacing, the rituals, the tone of the entire fic, it’s just all around a perfect read from start to finish

thrills and grills by bitter_leaf

summary: Travis can’t even begin to wonder what he did in a previous life to incur the wrath of this fucking cook. Travis thinks he’s a nice person, doesn’t conduct himself in any way that could be considered particularly dickish, and unless this guy has some sort of issue with hockey bros or people from the boonies, he’s not sure how he started shit without even knowing.

__

Patty has a vendetta. Travis just wants to eat his eggs in peace.

why i love it: honestly this is the enemies to lovers fic i’ve been waiting for. i remember seeing the reddit post when it first went viral and thinking it would make such a great fic premise, so stumbling across this one was just so wonderful. super engaging and fun and so hilarious to read!

nothing but room for you by fightingfuries

summary: When his agent tells him he’s going to be traded to the Devils, Nolan isn't sure how he feels about it. Might be easier if he was going somewhere farther away, like California or fucking Florida. Somewhere sun-soaked and foreign. Someplace so different from Philadelphia that he can forget he ever played for the Flyers, forget everything that happened there.

Or Nolan fucks up, gets traded, gets his shit together and falls in love. Not necessarily in that order.

why i love it: i cannot stress to you how much i love trade fics, and this one is one of my absolute favorites. the trade to the devils-so close to philly, still, but there’s more to distance than physical miles-was such an excellent choice and the split timeline adds so much to the narrative, and the emotions are real and messy and complicated in the best way

a couple of runaways (i’m glad you stayed) by overturnedgoal

summary: The person in the video he’s watching is super annoying. Some obnoxious holier than thou granola type who keeps talking about their environmental impact as if they aren’t driving a gas guzzler around, but the basic idea of living in a van, driving around wherever, camping all the time, just going hiking and swimming and seeing the whole country? It sounds pretty dope, honestly.

why i love it: i like to watch tours and conversions of vans/buses into tiny homes as a self soothing method, and this fic has the same impact that watching those do. it’s such a fun concept, and it’s so fuckin’ soft, and the dialouge between tk and nolan is just *chef’s kiss*

all candor and style in the crook of your smile by p3trichor

summary: It’s a photo of Nolan on his knees with someones’ fingers in his mouth, lips slick with spit. Travis flicks by it almost too fast and he’s only got seconds to decide if he wants to screenshot it, if he wants to just give up the ghost right then and there. Except Travis’s phone freezes momentarily and then the group refreshes, sidcros87, Bert59 and 14 others took a screenshot!

It’s gone before Travis even has time to process it and he already wasted his replay of the day on a stupid video of a stupid fish that Hayes caught.

Can you send me that screenshot Travis texts Bertuzzi before he can overthink it, his dick already stirring in his sweats. Tuzzi sends back the cry-laughing emoji and then the screenshot before Travis can be too annoyed at him.

Or, Nolan is being weird about Travis's break-up and TK is maybe not straight.

why i love it: i genuinely don’t think i have words for the amount i love this fic. it took me forever to actually read, but it’s absolutely one of my favorite fics, and it’s an absolutely riot to read. carter’s meddling and the presence of tyler bertuzzi both make it extra fun, in my humble opinion

[peterrparrkerr]

Revoked consent - read on ao3

TW for rape/noncon

*-*

Peter's hands shake a little as he takes the offered glass from Tony. He gives a smile, hoping he doesn't look as nervous as he really is.

Its his first time being paid for sex, and he doesn't know why it's so daunting this time. Hes had sex before, he's fucked himself on a dildo on camera for money.

But this is the first time he's actually sold himself for it.

Tony had offered him an amount he couldn't refuse. Not only would he be able to pay three months of rent, but he'll be able to actually get groceries and still have enough money to live comfortably for a couple months after.

Tony had already deposited half of it into his account. Peter's throat had closed up when he'd seen it.

Tony sits down beside him on the couch with his own glass. Peter glances over at him, then down at the glass.

He had to act like he was old enough to drink. Tony didn't know he was only sixteen. He'd said he was twenty-three online. It was the only way he could get on the website.

"Drink," Tony commanded softly. Peter glances up at him before giving a small nod and brought the glass to his lips.

He could feel Tony watching him as he tipped the glass up. He held his breath -the scent of the alcohol making his nose burn- and swallowed quickly.

The burn and taste isn't something Peter's ever felt before. It feels like he's swallowed acid and the burning won't leave his tongue.

He chokes on a cough, trying desperately to act like its not as fowl as it really is. But the one cough opens up the gateway, and he's hacking out a lung, his eyes burning with tears.

"Not into the hard stuff, hmm?" Tony asked, sounding amused as he plucked the glass from Peter's hand.

He shakes his head, forcing himself to calm down. How fucking embarrassing.

"No, I'm sorry," he manages, wiping under his eyes.

"Dont be," Tony hummed, standing up and moving back to the bar. "Its an acquired taste."

Peter doesn't say anything. He watches as Tony reaches down behind the bar. Theres a distinct sound of a can being opened, the sizzle of something carbonated being poured into the glass, and then Tony was returning.

Peter's glass was fuller than before, darker and fizzy. "Try this."

Peter takes the glass, bringing it to his nose and sniffing it quietly. Its pepsi. He takes a tentative sip, all while Tony watches silently beside him, leaning back against the couch.

Peter takes a drink. The alcohol is hidden in the soda, the burn lost in the fizz, and he smiles gratefully at Tony.

"Thank you," he manages, nerves still closing around his throat in a vice-like grip.

He drinks more, feeling Tony's fingers brushing softly against the hairs at the back of his neck. It makes Peter shiver, his stomach rolling and threatening to bring up his lunch.

He's halfway through his drink when Tony sets his empty glass down on the coffee table.

He then takes Peter's glass and sets it down too.

"Come sit on my lap," he orders.

Peter's hands grow sweaty, and he awkwardly does as he's told, feeling like he's all limbs and no grace.

Tony's hands feel huge on his hips, fingers pressing into the softness of his ass while his thumbs hook over the front of his hip bones.

"You're tense," Tony hummed, squeezing Peter's hips. "Relax."

Peter gives a small nod, forcing himself to put his whole weight onto Tony's thighs. It makes the older man smile, and Peter fights back the urge to get up and run out of the penthouse.

"What- what would you like to do?" Peter asked, hiding his shaky hands by holding the back of the couch on either side of Tony's head.

"Hmm," Tony grins, his hands moving up and under Peter's shirt. They're warm against the bare skin of Peter's sides, and it makes him slightly nauseous.

"Why don't you let me be in control," he suggested. The idea made Peter's heart rate quicken, but he forced himself not to outwardly react.

Tony had paid him handsomely for this, and he was going to pay him more once this was over. This was just a job. Peter's had sex before. Hes had a job before. This was just- combining the two.

"All you have to do is follow my lead, okay, sweetheart?"

Peter swallows thickly before nodding. "Okay," he agrees. He can do that.

Tony smirks before lifting his hands higher, forcing Peter's shirt up and exposing his tummy to the cool air.

Peter lifts his arms, allowing Tony to pull the shirt completely off before returning them to the back of the couch.

"Kiss me."

Peter leans forward, kissing Tony hesitantly, softly. His goatee is scratchy, the shirt pricks of hair biting into Peter's soft skin.

He hates it. Hates how kissing Tony makes him feel. But he kisses him with everything he's got.

The man under him groans against his mouth and begins working Peter's fly open.

Peter pulls away, glancing down, opening his mouth to tell Tony he's changed his mind, when the man grabs him by the chin and forces their mouths together.

Peter forces himself to allow Tony to tug at his jeans and boxers. He even gets up to allow them to fall to his ankles.

He's mostly soft, and he wants nothing more than to hide himself away from Tony's eyes as he crawls back onto his lap.

Tears burn in his eyes, but Peter forces them away, leaning in and kissing Tony as the man's hands roam over his naked body.

His nakedness to Tony's suit is unnerving -the juxtaposition making Peter feel lesser than.

He tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the hands kneading his bare ass, pulling him apart to expose more of him to the cold air of the penthouse.

Tony's tongue tastes like whiskey, and Peter pinches his eyes shut on the wave of nausea that curls in his gut.

"Up," Tony orders, shoving at Peter. He climbs up as quickly as he can, and struggles to breathe as Tony manhandles him onto the floor.

He's on his knees, bent over the cushions, his ass presented to Tony.

Peter struggles to level out his breathing. He pinches his eyes shut and lowers himself so his chest is pressed to the couch cushions, mostly to hide his face in his arms.

"Hmm," Tony hums approvingly, hands rubbing at Peter's ass. "You sure are a pretty little thing."

Thing.

Peter feels humiliated, on the verse of a panic attack. His knees hurt against the hard floor -he thinks it might be granite or even marble. Its cold.  He doesn't think he can go through with this.

But Tony's already lubing his fingers and pressing two inside. Peter bites back a sob, reminding himself this is only for the money.

This is a job. He can do this. Its one time, and after this, he'll leave and never see Tony again.

He'll delete his cam page, he'll cut off any ties to Tony. Its just one time.

Tony continues to finger him open, but Peter can tell he's becoming impatient. He winces as three fingers are shoved in, the back and forth much too rough for prep work. Thankfully, Peter had done a lot of it himself.

Tony's fingers leave his hole and Peter can't help the momentary relief that floods his system.

Its chased away with cold water though, when he hears the zip of Tony's pants and the snick of the lid popping on the bottle of lube.

Peter's heart lodges itself deep in his throat, and its suddenly all too much.

He pushes himself up off the couch, half turning. "Wait, Tony, I can't do this-"

Tony's hand shoves against his back, right between his shoulder blades and pinning him to the couch. "Don't be nervous," he orders.

Peter feels the head of Tony's cock nudge at his entrance and he lets out a whine, frightened and desperate all at once.

"Wait, Tony, stop," Peter gasped, fighting to push himself up. Tony only leans more of his weight onto his back, and shoves his cock inside in one quick thrust.

Peter yelps at the stretch and burn, thighs shaking as his muscles work to keep Tony out.

"There you go, relax, sweetheart, you're doing so well," Tony grunts, feeding more of his cock in until its flush, hips to Peter's ass.

Tears burn at Peter's eyes as he struggles against the weight on his back.

Tony's fucking huge -bigger than he thought he'd be. He feels split open, ripped at the seams. Its so painful, and Peter has to bury his mouth into the cushions to muffle his whines and mewls of pain.

"Ton-Tony I can't-"

"Sure you can," Tony huffed, beginning to thrust in and out. Peter wails at the sharp snap of his hips.

He cries openly against the pillow, chest heaving, body shaking.

Each thrust punches out a breathy "ah, ah, ah," from Peter, his gut twisting with a mix of pleasure and disgust.

"Listen to you," Tony hummed, sounding almost desperate, hands holding Peter down. "Those noises. God, you're so tight, sweetheart. Taking my cock so well."

Peter chokes on a sob at those words, a string of babbled begging leaving his mouth, muffled by the leather couch cushions.

Tony must interpret the unintelligible babbling for something else, because he goes harder, thrusting faster, and Peter's back arcs, his head lifting off the couch on a shout.

"Please, please, please," Peter sobs, chest heaving. Tony pistons his hips, shoving Peter into the couch over and over in a disorienting pace.

Tony drives into him hard, burying himself as depe as he can go, and then pushing in further. Peter sobs against the pressure, being filled to the maximum.

And then Peter feels it. The unmistakable warm wetness that spreads inside him, coating his inner walls.

Peter whimpers as Tony punches his cock deep inside, pushing the cum deeper than Peter knew possible before pulling out.

Peter doesn't move, just tries to level his breathing. To collect himself before Tony seems his face.

"You going to cum for me, sweetheart?" Tony asks only seconds later. His hands are still pinning him down, but one now slids around Peter's front.

He doesn't get a chance to deny the man before a callused hand grips his cock and tugs painfully.

He yelps as his orgasm is yanked from him. Its not pleasurable in the slightest. It hurts so bad, Peter's eyes water again.

And Tony keeps milking him through it, wben when the last of it has dribbled to the floor. Peter reaches a hand down, whimpering and whining at the assault.

"Stop, stop!" He begs, stilling Tony's hand. "Please it hurts."

Tony stops, smoothing his hands over his belly and pressing a soft kiss to Peter's shoulder blades.

"Such a sensitive thing," he remarks. Peter buries his face in his arm. Tony gets to his feet then and steps away.

Peter reaches for his shirt on the couch and quickly pulls it over his head, hands still trembling.

He glances over to see Tony's back at the bar, filling a glass for himself.

Peter stands on shaky legs, stepping into his boxers and jeans and pulling them up before any of Tony's cum drips down his legs.

He tucks himself in and zips up before stepping into his shoes. His phone and wallet are still in his back pockets.

He glances up at Tony again, who's watching him over the rim of his glass. Peter doesn't know what to say, so he makes his way halting towards the door.

"The rest of your money will be deposited tonight," Tony said when Peter reached the door. Peter's gut twists, but he nods in thanks.

"I'd be more than happy to continue this partnership in the future," Tony hummed, just as Peter gripped the doorhandle that lead to the hallway. "Should you have need of extra money."

Peter doesn't acknowledge that. He slips out of the penthouse and into the hallway, making sure the door shuts behind him before rushing for the elevator, fresh tears blurring his vision.

[shemarmooresfedora]

Menagerie

Summary Quote: “Don’t you get it? It’s all been a lie, Spence. Since the moment we met, our entire relationship has been founded on a carefully crafted lie and since then, we have been tricked into thinking this was love...but maybe that was a lie too.”

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Genre: Angst with happy ending, Fluff

A/N: this fic has already been completed! it’s 25 chapters and just over 40,000 words. i don’t plan on posting all the chapters on to here but i have included the first two and the ao3 link to the rest is at the bottom if you are interested!

Chapter 1

You woke up from your peaceful slumber to hear a loud crash followed closely by someone yelling “FBI”. You screamed, alerting the agents of your presence thinking you were in danger but once the agents had reached your bedroom, you were being put in handcuffs and read your rights.

“W-What is happening? Is this some sort of sick joke?” you stuttered.

“Do you think killing three men is a sick joke?” the muscular intimidating agent spat back.

You were in utter shock. You barely even left the house let alone go out on a murderous rampage.

“I-I don’t know what you think I did b-but I can assure you I-I didn’t kill anyone or do anything illegal,” you tried to stay as calm as possible but you were shaking profusely.

The other agent that was the back-up in your apprehension seemed to notice this and took some sympathy on you by lightening his grip on your cuffs as he led you out of your front door that had been kicked down.

-

You sat in the chilly interrogation room wishing you had something else on rather than a thrifted oversized t-shirt with stains on it that said “Best Dad Ever” and sweatpants. They removed your handcuffs, I guess you weren't considered that much of a threat in a locked room in FBI Headquarters. Although you could not see past the one-sided glass, it was obvious the agents from before and possibly others from their team were standing on the other side, observing you.

-

“Well she is definitely not what I was expecting,” Prentiss was the first to break the silence as the whole BAU team watched you through the glass.

“She was sleeping when we apprehended her. Her facial expressions and body language showed clear signs of distress but I can not be certain if it was because we have the wrong person or she is scared she finally got caught. In her apartment, we found nothing in the slightest bit incriminating, mostly just lots of books,” Spencer spoke, while he was trying to remain impartial, he had admired your taste in literature as he was looking for evidence.

“I’m not convinced. I think this is whole ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ thing is an act,” Morgan stated as he strolled to the door leading to the room you were being held in.

-

The door opened and your eyes flickered up. Much to my dismay, it was the muscular agent rather than the tall, lanky agent who seemed a lot friendlier to you, given the circumstances.

He took the seat across from you and spoke firmly, “I am ready to take your confession whenever you are.”

At this point, you were just getting frustrated. You were ripped from your bed in the middle of the night given no explanation other than you had supposedly killed three men and he had the audacity to ask for your confession to something no one would even tell you the details of. So against your better judgment, you opened your mouth which has been known to get you in trouble from time to time.

“Well, considering no one has even told me what I am formally being accused of or the details, I can’t do that. Do you even have any evidence to keep me here? Oh wait...you don’t...that’s why you need a confession because all your evidence so far has been circumstantial. Only too bad for you...I know my rights. So, you have forty-eight hours to find some real evidence against me, that doesn’t exist if I may add, before you have to let me go.”

The agent looked back at the glass with his jaw dropped.

“I watch a lot of crime TV shows,” you huffed and crossed your arms.

-

“Okay this may be harder than we originally planned, folks. We are going to need everyone on call for the next forty-eight hours until we find some incriminating evidence,” Hotch spoke.

The agents began to depart from the room to review old case files and dig deeper into your personal history. Spencer stayed back for a few minutes and saw tears start to roll down your face when you thought no one was still watching you. You quickly wiped them away and wringed your fingers together. Spencer didn’t know if he should or not yet but he felt bad for you.

Chapter 2

The door opened again but this time, you just kept your eyes down at the table so the person could not see your watery eyes.

You have been trying to put up a brave face but every time, a different agent comes in to question you about your routine, friends, family, and personal life, you just feel exposed.

Traces of your DNA had been found on the bodies and they had all visited your bookstore but that wasn’t enough to convict you I guess. You didn’t know the victims personally but you still felt bad for them.

A cup of coffee was placed gently into your line of sight. You wrapped your hands around the warm paper cup and mumbled your thanks.

“I didn’t know how you liked it. I can add more creamer or sugar if you like,” the voice spoke.

You glanced up tentatively and it was the tall, lanky agent. Your lips turned up ever so slightly into a small smile but it was the most you could manage at the moment. You took a sip.

“No it’s fine, thank you. It really helps. I appreciate it,” you said.

“I’m Spencer, by the way”

“Y/N, but you probably already know that by now.”

He chuckled at your joke. Silence filled the room once again.

“I didn’t do it, Spencer...and I know I can’t really prove that but I wish I could. Most of my friends live in another state and so does my family so I don’t go out too often. I don’t have a boyfriend. I own a bookstore so I spend most of my time there. I don’t really know why this is happening to me,” you started to get choked up again so you stopped talking.

-

Spencer involuntarily blushed when you stated you didn’t have a boyfriend.

He really needed to get it together as much as he wanted to believe you.

You could be a murderer for all he knows...but a really pretty murderer with a great taste in literature and probably even a bigger collection of books than him.

Stop it, Spencer, get your head in the game. He smiled softly once more at you cradling your drink and exited the room.

-

The forty-eight hours were up. They had nothing solid against you. If anything, the team had less of a case against you.

The bodies were all dumped on the opposite side of town from where you lived but it was clear they had been transported there. Garcia’s digging showed you had no car and you weren’t lying when you said most of your friends and family live out of state so the chances of you borrowing someone else's car were unlikely.

Credit card receipts showed you hardly ever went to that side of town and they had profiled the unsub would know the area well.

The victims did come into your store a few times but they also visited all the shops on that street occasionally as well. It didn’t make sense for you to kill your customers. That would just be bad for business and easily linked back to you.

The team agreed that they believed Y/N was no longer a suspect.

-

An officer drove you back to your apartment where luckily, your door had been fixed.

You ordered takeout and took a shower to hopefully rid yourself of the stress of the past two days. Shortly after your dinner, you fell asleep hoping your door would not be busted down again by the FBI.

-

A few days had past and you were opening up the store for the morning. You were in the back organizing the nonfiction section when you heard the soft bell chime of the door opening.

You walked to the front expecting to greet one of your regulars. Once you saw who was standing shyly at the front desk, you stopped in your tracks.

“Spencer?”

“Uh h-hi-hello Y/N. How are you?”

“Good...unless you are here to bring me back in for more questioning”, you said half-joking half-seriously.

“Oh! Um no, you’re all set. I am truly sorry about that. But I do have a question for you”, he was nervously wringing his hands just like you do, looking anywhere but your eyes.

“It’s okay kind of sounds like the wrong thing to say because I would preferably not be dragged out of my bed in the middle of the night and then held for forty-hours but I understand, you were simply doing your job. Anyways, ask away,” you replied.

His eyes finally made contact with yours and he opened his mouth like he was about to say something but completely lost his confidence.

“Do you...um do you...do you have a nonfiction section?” Spencer blurted out.

You didn’t understand how the nonfiction section could make someone so nervous. He looked as if he was going to say something else but thought better of it.

“Of course! I was just organizing it! Right this way!” you chirped with a smile that seemed to untense his shoulders just a little bit.

Spencer perused the section a bit before deciding on a hefty book about the different plants and flowers native to the East Coast. When he made his way up to the front desk to check out, you praised his choice.

“Aw! I love reading about plants. I have some many succulents in my apartment. It's honestly more of a jungle. Have you ever seen forget-me-nots? So lovely!”

Spencer smiled and nodded, knowing if he tried to speak it would be gibberish because he could not focus on anything when he was looking at your radiant smile.

-

“Did you do it?”, Morgan asked as Spencer entered the bullpen with a brown bag.

“No but now I have a book on plants and flowers. I actually am excited to read it. Did you know that some plants like orchids do not require soil to grow they get their nutrients from-”

“You chickened out”, Derek sighed.

“She is so pretty! She was just standing there in all her radiance smiling at me and I couldn’t take the rejection. We dragged her out of her bed and put her in handcuffs only to find out two days later, she is innocent. I can hardly believe she is still being nice to me despite it.”

“Well believe it or not, the first night I met a girl, she was in handcuffs in her bed with me so it’s not always a bad thing,” Morgan smirked.

“Not appropriate, Morgan,” Spencer scolded.

“What are we talking about? I don’t like to not be included in the gossip!” Garcia ran over in her pink heels with Prentiss right behind her.

“Pretty Ricky here went to visit Y/N at her bookstore but then chickened out about asking her on a date,” Morgan informed them.

“Awwwww! I like her! She’s so pretty! Plus, I have already done a background search on her and she is squeaky clean now that we have proven she isn’t a murderer,” Garcia excitedly rambled.

Prentiss was nodding her head in agreement, grinning at Spencer.

Spencer had already chugged his morning cup of coffee during this conversation just to have an excuse to go get another cup and leave this conversation.

“You can’t run away from your feelings, Boy Wonder!” Garcia shouted.

Chapters 3-25

[zaharadessert]

A Dream of Home (6/12)

Summary: Life with the Gold Pack has never been smooth sailing for Emma Swan, and things are getting worse now the pack leader's son has decided he wants her for his mate. Nothing she says or does seems to deter him, or deter his parents from encouraging the match. Emma's only hope is a promise someone made her seventeen years ago; a promise she's forgotten about in all but the deepest recesses of her dreams.

Rating: Explicit (non-con, graphic violence, minor-ish character death but nothing really specific in this chapter)

Notes: WOOOOOAH We’re halfway there! Thank you all so much for the reblogs and likes and comments, I am blown away by the response to this fic, so thank you, so so so much!

Thank you again to Tori ( @resident-of-storybrooke ) for the amazing job you’ve done betaing this monster, and also to the beautiful Masha ( @mariakov81 ), for the absolutely gorgeous art for this chapter, it’s amazing and I love it!

Taglist: @jrob64 @xhookswenchx @kmomof4 @wefoundloveunderthelight @superchocovian @lfh1226-linda @teamhook @jonesfandomfanatic @tiganasummertree @onceratheart18 @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @itsfabianadocarmo @ouatpost @primary2blog @cssns 

As always, let me know if you’d like me to add you to my taglist for future fics, or if this one isn’t your thing! :)

Read on AO3

- - - - -

“Emma, you’re not safe here…” Snow said slowly. All the eyes in the room which had been on Emma as she’d explained her worries about Neal, glossing over a hell of a lot of the gory details mind you, now switched to her mother. Snow looked sickened by what she’d heard, and David looked like he was about to rip the back off the chair his mate was sitting in. Everyone could see how white his knuckles were, but Killian wasn’t sure if that was entirely to do with Neal or partly because it was him that Emma told first or because he hadn’t looked harder for his daughter and prevented this ever happening in the first place.

“Agreed,” said Liam quickly, Killian glanced across at him with a raised eyebrow. “She needs to go to one of the safe houses.”

Killian felt Emma tense in the chair next to him and he had to clench his fist in his lap to stop himself reaching for her hand. Her gaze flicked across to him and he knew she’d noticed.

“Leave, already? But I just got here!” she protested.

“Emma, where we live isn’t a secret, he knows where you are, the reason he’s not here already is because he needs to establish his control over the pack and get the major players to agree to coming after you,” Liam explained. “We don’t know how long that will take.”

“You did manage to cut up Regina on the way out, Love, I doubt she’ll take much convincing,” Killian said with a proud smirk on his lips, trying to add some levity to the situation. Emma rolled her eyes at him and he grinned back.

“Cora would be his main competition, though she did always seem to enjoy anything that stuck it to any of us,” David’s jaw was tight as he said it, and Killian knew that was because it was Cora that had killed Ruth the night they took Emma and Graham.

“Either way, Neal is not going to let this… you go without a fight,” Snow said, her pale skin paler than Killian had ever seen it before. “I know you’ve only just got here, and the last thing we want is to send you away again,” she swallowed. “But we need to know it’ll take more than just coming here for him to get anywhere near you.”

“What do you mean send her?” David asked, his voice harsh, almost a growl.

“Well, we can’t take her, what about Leo?” Snow asked him as she looked up at him over her shoulder. “Besides, are you really going to be able to sit by in a safe house while other people stop Neal getting to your daughter?” she raised a knowing eyebrow as she spoke, and a low growl rose in David’s throat. Snow patted his hand and smiled. “Killian should take her.”

Several different people said “What?” at the same time, with a variety of differing tones and volumes. Emma’s voice beside him was choked with surprise, but Killian suspected it was more to do with the fact that she hadn’t expected her mother to suggest it. Killian’s own response was in a similar vein, but louder. David’s was almost a shout of disagreement and even Liam didn’t seem convinced.

“I can’t take her for the same reasons David can’t,” Snow started with a shrug. “Liam is the figurehead of this and he killed Gold. If he’s not here, they won’t take the bait we need to lay to get them to attack when and where we want them to. Robin can’t take Roland, Mulan is our best fighter and we need her here…” she sighed and rolled her eyes. Killian almost laughed at the similarities between mother and daughter. “Killian is the best person we have for covert, that’s why he went to meet Graham before we agreed to go into that compound in the first place,” she continued with her reasoning, sighing when David still didn’t look convinced. “Emma trusts him, and I know that trusting anyone right now must be so hard,” she swallowed and blinked a couple of times.

Beside him, Emma swallowed too and looked down at the hands clenched in her lap.

“He brought her back to us once, and I trust him to do it again,” Snow’s eyes were glistening with tears at this point, and Killian swallowed as he looked up at David, who was watching him with an intensity he wasn’t used to.

“Snow’s right,” Mulan said from the end of the table.

“It’s not like we can send her alone, David,” Liam reasoned.

“Alright,” Killian finally said, shifting almost uncomfortably. “But it’s not my choice…” he said, dragging his gaze from David to Emma, she looked almost surprised.

“Me?” she asked him, her forehead creasing as she looked up at him.

“I’m not going to drag you into the unknown without your consent, Emma, I didn’t the other night and I’m not going to now,” he said seriously.

No damn way.

Hell, this was more her choice than it was his, and he’d agree with whatever she decided.

“And if I refuse to go?” she asked, searching his face as she waited for his answer.

“I won’t like it… but I won’t force you to,” he said heavily, worried that he was going to regret that promise in a moment or two.

There was a long moment of silence as Emma weighed up the options. She was clearly terrified of what Neal was going to do if he found her, and there was the looming deadline of her next heat in a few weeks. But she’d just found her family, and they were about to risk their lives setting up a trap for the Gold pack.

“I… I don’t want anyone else to die for me…” she whispered.

“Emma, this feud, this war, has been going on longer than we’ve been alive,” Killian replied quietly. “We will all do whatever it takes to finish this,” he reached for her hand now, finally giving in to the impulse he��d been fighting with since they sat down over half an hour ago.

She continued to struggle with herself for a few long moments, but she entwined her fingers with his. When she finally drew in a breath to speak, Killian held his, and he couldn’t help but wonder who was about to win this battle of wills. She looked at Liam, at Mulan, at David, at Snow and then finally back at him, cataloguing their expressions and reactions.

“When do we leave?”

If David hadn’t been watching, and almost snarling at him across the table, Killian might have kissed her.

- - - - -

The air in the cabin was a little stale, but Emma supposed that considering their senses any time without decent air flow would make itself known.

The drive had been quiet, but not uncomfortably so. It was nice, after the noise and bustle she’d experienced over the last few days to have some peace. Just the noise of Killian’s truck as they made the drive across the country to the cabin of an old friend of Killian’s who let him use the cabin whenever he wanted. He’d talked affectionately about Smee for the first half an hour of the drive before his stories had faded into silence and he’d turned on the radio. The last car they’d seen was before starting into the forest, and the last other dwelling had been not long after that.

It was a smallish cabin, only one bedroom, but there was a decent enough kitchen and the sofa looked comfortable. She was fairly sure it wasn’t long enough for Killian to be comfortable sleeping on it, but they’d already had that argument once. It had finished with Killian glaring and Emma rolling her eyes as she dragged her duffel bag into the bedroom. She didn’t have a lot of clothes, but they’d found some that fit to bring with her. She unpacked it into half the small chest of drawers at the side of the room, artfully rustic to match the rest of the cabin.

The whole cabin was manly rustic chic with a hint of nautical influence. She liked it.

She could hear Killian in the other room, they’d brought enough food with them to last over a month, and Emma had tried not to let that upset her. She didn’t want to be gone that long. They knew that she was due to go into heat soon, that’s why they’d got her out when they did.

She trusted Killian; her parents trusted him. The problem was she wasn’t sure that she trusted herself.

Killian was attractive, there was no way she could deny that, and her trust in him was the problem. She trusted him to protect her, to keep her safe, but she knew that the only way to keep her truly safe from Neal was…

She jumped at a knock on the bedroom door and turned to see Killian leaning on the doorframe.

“Sorry, Love, just wanted to see if you were hungry,” he said, and even without trying she could feel herself reacting to his voice.

“Sure, what were you thinking?” she asked.

“Well, as much as I know you love grilled cheese, I was thinking we might deviate from tradition a little?” he suggested with a twitch of his eyebrow. Emma turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chest with a raised eyebrow of her own. “Lasagne? Granny shared her secret recipe with me a while back, I’ve been lacking a guinea pig to try it on…”

Emma laughed and Killian smiled back.

“Alright, anything I can do to help?”

- - - - -

“So, when you offered me help, Swan, you were being generous,” Killian said with a laugh, coming up behind her while she was making a mess of the fresh tomatoes. Since she’d told him her story, he’d adopted the moniker of Swan for her, like it was a way to keep Graham alive for her. She didn’t mind, in fact she quite liked it.

“If what I’m doing is so wrong, you’d better show me how to do it…” she huffed, looking over her shoulder at him.

She’d expected him to playfully nudge her aside and take over, but instead he stepped up behind her, his chin nestled on her shoulder as his hand covered hers on the knife and the tomato. She tensed a little, but she didn’t push him away, his presence behind her was warm and soothing, and she could feel his heart beating at her back.

“The knife is plenty sharp, let it glide through the flesh,” he said as he demonstrated. “And I’m less fussed about consistency in size than I am you just pounding it into oblivion. Do you want there to be any substance to this at all?” he teased.

“Will you be this fussy when all the ingredients are out of tins?” she quipped, glancing across at him.

“I’ve decided not to think about that, I’m hoping this is going to be over before then…”

- - - - -

It wasn’t.

After nearly a week of sleeping on the sofa, Killian was fairly certain his back was never going to recover. That said, things with Emma were going well. It wasn’t awkward, and none of their conversations were forced because neither of them felt the need to constantly fill silences.

But every night, she looked guilty as she watched him setting up the sofa to sleep on for a moment before she bid him goodnight and shut the bedroom door. She’d told him on more than one occasion that she didn’t mind taking the sofa in his place, but there was no way he wasn’t sleeping between her and the door to the cabin. No way in hell.

Things had been quiet, they’d settled into a routine, cooking, cleaning, going for walks, there was even a lake a five-minute walk from the cabin that they’d come to enjoy swimming in. But he could still sense the tension rolling off her almost every moment they were here.

“How about another walk, Swan?” he asked with a smile over breakfast on their sixth morning.

“Walk and a swim?” she suggested with a smile. He certainly wasn’t going to object to seeing her in the shorts and bra she favoured to swim in.

It was late morning when they reached the lake and Killian dropped the rucksack with drinks and food in it in the shade of a tree. For a long moment, Emma simply stood on the shore in the sunshine, eyes closed and breathing in the atmosphere.

She was always calmer out here, in the open, with miles and miles of forest between her and anything that could hurt her. And even if something did come up there were multiple options for escape as well as Killian, who’d promised her parents he’d keep her safe. With their heightened senses, and the open space around them it would be hard for anyone to sneak up on them.

The sound of the forest around them, birds and small animals was soothing, as well as the lapping of the gentle waves on the rocks beneath her feet. She took a deep breath in, and she could taste the freshness in the air. She let it out again, feeling some of the tension drain out of her body. She knew it was bugging Killian, but she couldn’t help how she felt about this whole thing. She hated being stuck here, not knowing what was happening.

Quiet moment to herself over, Emma stripped down to her shorts and bra, discarded her shoes and made her way carefully over the large, water smoothed rocks to the crystal-clear water. A couple of metres in, the rocks dropped off into a deeper pool and Emma put down a hand to settle herself on the edge of it.

Killian preferred a more… energetic entry, and once he’d stripped down to his trunks, he jumped from rock to rock, breaking into a run across the ledge and throwing himself into the deeper section with a splash. Emma squealed as the cool water splashed over her torso, even as she cringed back from the inevitable.

“Sometimes I hate you, Jones,” she called as his head emerged from the water, and he shook out his hair, reminding her very much of the wolves they would become at the next full moon. She was less worried about that than she’d expected, she was still expecting it to hurt, but she’d gotten used to that over the last few months.

“Jump in, love, I know you want to, and you may as well, you’re wet already,” he reasoned.

“Yes, and it’s all your fault,” she shouted back with a mock glare.

Killian raised an eyebrow and smirked at that, and Emma found herself blushing profusely. He ran his tongue over the inside of his bottom lip salaciously, and Emma’s breath caught in her throat. She looked down at her knees, praying for the heat on her cheeks to fade.

She heard a soft splash, followed by more, and the water rippling against her legs lapped a little harder. She looked up to see him employing a vigorous front crawl into the middle of the lake. She watched him, unable to help herself, even as he got further away, she could see the way his muscles rippled under his skin. The raw power contained within his body was intoxicating.

She’d lied, there wasn’t miles of forest between her and anything that could hurt her. Even if he didn’t mean to, Killian Jones already could hurt her quite easily. After everything that had happened recently, she wasn’t sure she was ready to give anyone that kind of power. No matter how much she trusted them.

To avoid the confusion building in her heart, she took a deep breath and duck dived under the water. The water was so clear, that with her eyes open she could see a fair way, the way the rocks lay under the water, tiny fish darting away from her as she approached. She smiled and pulled with her arms, feeling the water moving past her skin. Slowly she let out the breath she’d taken as she kicked, pulling her head up and heading back towards the surface.

She loved the feeling of her head breaking out of the water. The way the cool liquid almost resisted before breaking apart to let her out, rolling off her skin to let the warmth of the sun through. She took a breath and pushed back into the water in a strong, if not very refined, breaststroke.

They swam for about an hour, before heading back to the shore, where Killian threw towels down on the grass. They lay down, and Emma grabbed herself a bottle of water lying down on her front with her arms pillowed under her head. The sun felt nice on her wet skin, the warmth in her muscles fading slowly as she relaxed after the exercise.

The sounds around them were soon disturbed by Killian’s stomach rumbling and with a soft giggle, Emma took that as her cue to reach into the rucksack and throw a banana at him. It hit him in the stomach and had him glaring at her. She stuck her tongue out at him and grinned.

It was nice to be able to relax and be herself, playful and stubborn, around someone without worrying that they’d take offense or rag on her about it. It had been a long time since she’d felt comfortable enough to laugh properly, let alone starting mischief of her own.

She sat up, cross legged on her towel and pulled out the box of sandwiches, handing one to Killian before taking one for herself. She’d never say it, because she was pretty sure his ego was already too big for the cabin as it was, but she was fairly sure she was in hiding with some kind of domestic God. If there was a perfect ratio of filling to bread, Killian had found it. It didn’t spill out over their fingers, and nor was she bemoaning the lack of flavour when she reached the crust.

Food eaten she lay back against the towel with a sigh. Neither of them was dry yet, and the sun was still beating down on them pleasantly. Not too much, but in a few weeks the weather would start to cool off even more. She hoped she was home by then.

It was strange to think of it as home, to really and truly think of anywhere as home, to know that there was somewhere full of people who loved her and would share everything they had with her if given half the chance. Who, even after thinking she was dead for seventeen years, had welcomed her back without question. They had wrapped her in their arms and showered her with so much love she hadn’t known what to do with it. Hadn’t even – not really anyway, her parents were struggling she knew – expected her to return it.

Emma wasn’t sure she knew where to start.

Not for the first time she’d wondered what she might be like if she’d not been taken as a child. Would she be open and loving and willing to accept new people in her life the way Leo did? Would she and Killian have grown up side by side, learning to cook and experiment with it together… would they be more?

Being around Killian was easy, and she’d told him far more than she’d expected about what had happened to her. It had spilled out, in the truck, and at the apartment, and here in dribs and drabs over the last few days.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Killian protested from a few feet away.

Emma sighed and let her arm flop over her eyes.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed.

“You could always say it out loud instead, that wouldn’t be half so frustrating,” he said, and she heard him shifting, could feel his gaze on her. She opened her eyes and looked at him to find a teasing smile on his face.

“I…” she tried and his eyes widened a little in surprise. But her resolve failed her, speaking out had never done her any favours in the past and she knew that things were different now, but that didn’t make it easier. She looked back up at the blue sky above them, and found no respite in it, reminding her too much of the colour of the eyes she could still feel looking at her.

“Don’t force it, Swan,” he said, his tone casual, and she closed her eyes, letting out a relieved breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

He was still looking at her, but for a long while neither of them moved, until him checking his watch and hopping onto the balls of his feet caused her to turn to look at him. He held his hand out with a mischievous smile on his face.

“Let me show you something,” he said.

Emma looked at him for a moment before sitting up, taking his hand, and letting him pull her to her feet. Once again, their fingers entwined like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Emma felt her cheeks heat as he looked down at her for a moment before turning to lead her round the side of the lake. They turned off the path after a couple of hundred metres and ducked through the trees, Killian holding branches out of the way for her as he glanced back with a boyish grin.

His excitement was infectious and soon Emma had momentarily forgotten her spiralling thoughts and was grinning back at him.

He stopped suddenly, and Emma collided with his back.

“If I didn’t know I hadn’t brought you round here before, I’d suspect you were trying to push me in,” he said, gently tugging her to stand by his side on the clifftop.

“Oh my God, Killian!” Emma exclaimed, taking a step back from the edge, going to pull her hand out of his.

“Don’t you trust me, Swan?” he asked, his face the picture of innocence apart from the sparkle in his eyes.

“There could be rocks down there!”

“Of course there are, the lake bed is mostly rocks,” he said in a matter of fact tone and a raise of his eyebrow.

“But what if…”

“I checked the depth before lunch, and I’ve done this hundreds of times before,” he assured her with a smile.

Emma kept her feet where they were but leaned towards the edge to look over. It wasn’t that high, she’d climbed trees higher than the cliff. So it wasn’t really the height that was the issue, it was hitting the water that she was worried about. She looked up at Killian, who was still grinning at her with his eyebrow dancing on his forehead like it was going out of style.

“How about I go first, and then when I’ve climbed back up… we can try it together?”

Emma let go of his hand and took a couple of steps away as Killian retreated towards the tree line. He winked, and then ran for the cliff edge, his last step on the rocks used to propel him out into the open air before he started to fall. Emma leaned out to see him hit the water, causing a huge splash, and waiting with bated breath for him to surface.

It didn’t take long, but the whole time he was out of sight her heart hammered in her chest, hoping he was okay.

He was grinning as he shook out his hair and looked up at her. Even at this distance she could see the way the adrenaline was affecting him, his chest heaving, eyes wide. He treaded water for only a moment before heading for the cliff with strong strokes, Emma had to pull back from the edge, and was wondering if she could manage to take that step over the edge at all.

It took a couple of minutes for him to reach the top, but once he’d pulled himself over the edge, and straightened up in front of her he was already holding out his hand for her to take.

“Come along, Swan,” he said as she hesitated. “I promise, the thrill is worth the terrifying anticipation.”

For a long moment, she stared at his hand, chewing on her lip, and then she looked up at his face. She reached out and put her hand in his, her heart rate already soaring.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

“I recommend a run up, gives you less chance to chicken out at the last second,” he said, heading for the tree line and dragging her with him.

Emma took a couple of deep breaths and squeezed Killian’s hand tightly in her own. She could feel the change coming over her body as adrenaline started to pump through it, the way it seemed to warm her from the inside as her stomach started to twist into knots as her heart started to pound in her chest.

Without really giving him any kind of prompt, they both started to run at the cliff edge. Killian was obviously more used to it, and paced his steps perfectly, but Emma was a little off, her foot hitting further back from the edge than his had. But still, her momentum propelled her into the air, and for a few quick beats of her heart she hung in the air, weightless, free.

Then gravity took hold and they started to fall, she sucked in a breath, as a swooping sensation built in her gut. At the last moment she shut her eyes, and felt the water give beneath her, almost pulling her under, the cold refreshing against her flushed skin.

Under water, they had to let go of each other, and Emma kicked her way to the surface, sweeping her hair out of her eyes with a laugh that broke through panting breaths. She twisted in the water, looking for Killian, to share the joy with him.

But he wasn’t there.

She turned again, the blood draining from her face and she looked for him.

“Killian?” she called, wondering where he’d gotten to. A few moments later, she opened her mouth again. “Killi…” and then she felt hands close around her ankle and pull.

Emma’s mouth filled with water as she was dragged under, his name transforming into a panicked squeal just before the water stifled it completely.

Flailing under the water, she opened her eyes to look, and saw Killian pushing himself away, grinning all over his dumb gorgeous face.

Emma emerged from the water, coughing and spluttering, and glaring at the man who was a couple of metres away, roaring with laughter.

“Asshole!” she shouted, cupping her hand and dragging it across the surface of the water to splash him in his stupid face. He soon joined her in the spluttering department, but then quickly joined in with the splashing too. Emma ducked under the surface to avoid the spray and stuck her tongue out at him when she emerged again, before returning the gesture, this time by kicking it at him.

While he was distracted, she duck dived under the surface and swam round behind him, kicking herself back up, to plant her hands on his shoulders and push him under the water.

Unlike Killian, however, Emma was not quick enough to move away from Killian, so when he reached out to grab hold of her arm, he managed to pull her into his chest as they broke the surface together.

They were both panting, both grinning as they looked into each other’s eyes. The clothing between them did little to separate their wet bodies. Emma could feel his chest hair under her hands, his legs brushing past her own, his arm around her bare back, holding them together.

“Worth it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased with a grin.

“Aye, I would,” he said, taking in her expression, marvelling at the unbridled excitement in her eyes as he slowly shifted, pulling them back towards the cliff where they could climb out. “Was the thrill worth the anticipation?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her mind blissfully clear, free from worry and doubt for the first time in years. Her hand moved without her realising, up his chest to the back of his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Killian could feel everywhere they touched, feel the heat sparking against the chill of the water, and as her hand moved, he couldn’t help his tongue sweeping out across his lips.

As he did it, her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth, and for a moment the whole world seemed to still. That same stomach twisting, heart pounding feeling came over her again. She pulled with the hand on the back of his neck, her gaze flicking back up to his eyes as she moved, before they fell closed, and she pressed her lips to his.

Fire exploded in her veins, and her legs wrapped around his waist. A moan built in the back of her throat, and her fingers twisted into his hair as the swooping in her stomach turned into a whirlwind of toe-curling desire.

Killian had to grab for the rock face as she added her weight to his own by winding her legs around his waist. His fingers splayed on her back, pulling her in, his fingers just digging into her supple skin. He groaned as his tongue pressed forward, parting her lips for him and delving into the warm heat of her mouth.

She whined into his mouth, pulling herself closer, their breath mingling in the air between them as they pulled back for a beat, and then Killian took the lead and dived right back in for more.

He needed more, had to taste more of her.

Fuck, he was never going to get enough of this. Not in a million years.

“Emma,” he growled against her lips, knowing they had to slow down, stop even, because it was the adrenaline causing her boldness, nothing more.

She whimpered into his mouth at the way her name had rumbled in his chest before rolling off his tongue, breathing heat and life into her. Carefree, unabashed want had her hips rolling against his, every point of contact a burning ember ready to spark into more

But then her mind caught up and started to really think about what she was doing, she froze, fear lancing through her like a knife. She wanted this but… was she ready? After everything that had happened with Neal, all the revelations and realisations…

Could she do this?

Could she ever give him what he wanted or would she forever be running scared of the emotions she tried so hard to keep from overwhelming her at every turn.

Slowly, she unhooked her legs from round his waist, and pushed herself away from him.

“Emma?”

“I… I’m sorry Killian,” she said, unable to meet his confused gaze. “I’m going to go and change, I… I want to go back to the cabin, just… give me a minute…”

“As you wish,” he said, and she could hear the dejected resignation in his voice, as quiet as it was.

Before she could second guess herself, she twisted in the water and started to swim back to where they’d left their towels.

Killian watched her go, his jaw clenched tightly, forcing himself to do the right thing and let her go, even though he felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He turned into the rock face, resting his head on the hard surface and breathing deeply.

He should have known it was a mistake, that she’d pull away, but he’d been powerless to resist what she’d wanted in that moment. He’d been resisting his baser instincts for over a week now, refusing to acknowledge the way her scent, and just being around her had affected him.

And now he’d given in to them for a few moments, and he’d ruined everything.

Shit.

[youngerdrgrey]

better me than him (you know, sisters) // a Black Widow fic

About: SPOILERS FOR BLACK WIDOW (2021) // Yelena says, “Even as a Widow, all the girls looked up to what you could do. I would tell them, ‘Natasha is my sister. Natasha is coming back for me. Natasha—’” Yelena spits at the ground. Her despair and her rage overtake her face, and her nose could scrape the clouds, she turns it up so high.

or, an alternate scene for Black Widow, where Natasha talks to Yelena after the kitchen table breakdown instead of Alexei. + read on ao3

Yelena shirks out of Milena’s touch. She snatches up the vodka from the table and turns for the bedroom. Natasha struggles to find the words to respond to her. Some kind of explanation for disappearing, or some way to take back what she said about the reality of their mission together. But it was a mission. It had to be.

“Yelena.”

Yelena doesn’t break her stride. “No.” The door clicks shut behind her. Tense air makes breathing harder. Natasha parts her lips for a bit of extra oxygen. Zones out and misses the moments where Alexei and Milena exchange words. When Alexei goes to move though, Natasha lifts a hand to stop him.

“I’ll go.” At least then Yelena can’t say Natasha never did anything for her. Yelena probably doesn’t remember that Natasha had held a gun to the soldiers who tried to take Yelena away. What does that matter when Natasha failed, right? Without another word, Natasha goes after Yelena into the guest bedroom.

Yelena’s already on the floor with the bottle of vodka in her hands. Her knees bent up to her chest, her elbows just barely on top of them — she looks so small. Defiant. Natasha closes the door behind her.

Yelena looks too tired to glare. “I came in here because I didn’t want to talk.”

Natasha calls, “Bullshit. All you’ve done since we met up is talk. Talk about feelings and futures and our pasts.” She can’t quite tell if her voice sounds disparaging or wistful. Lonely or yearning for whatever part of Yelena still thinks they could be a family.

“We have a lot of time to make up for,” Yelena snaps back. “Or we would, if any of it were real.”

Natasha takes a sharp breath in. “Come on. I do not want to sit here, holding your hand when there are other Widows out there who need us. Drekhov is still alive and ruining their world.”

Yelena gestures to the door with her vodka bottle. “Go then. It’s what you do best.” She won’t look right at Natasha’s eyes. She glares at her forehead, or her chin. At the walls that Milena has looked at for who knows how long instead of looking for either of them. “You left me. You left the Widows. You even left the Avengers to hide out in the middle of nowhere in a camper with a barely functioning generator. You called Mom Milena a coward. But all you do is run and kill and hide from anybody who tries to care about you.”

“And you care about me?” Natasha doubts that. Why would Yelena still care? Yelena was six the last time they really saw each other. Sure, they crossed paths a few times on missions, but the Red Room took great care to make sure they wouldn’t fall back into old patterns. “Because of some assignment?”

Yelena screams, “Because you were my sister! You-you were someone to look up to! Even as a Widow, all the girls looked up to what you could do. I would tell them, ‘Natasha is my sister. Natasha is coming back for me. Natasha—’” Yelena spits at the ground. Her despair and her rage overtake her face, and her nose could scrape the clouds, she turns it up so high. “They told me again and again that Widows are not a family. But I beat your records, and I thought, ‘One day, she will call me on beating her. She will want a rematch. She will want….’”

“You.” Natasha finishes in a whisper. Yelena grinds her teeth and sends her gaze back down to the vodka bottle. “Even if I did want to know you, that’s not how things are done.”

Yelena takes a swig. “You broke your Accords like a week after signing them. Rules are nothing to you. If you want to lie to yourself to make yourself feel better, then go ahead. But do not lie to me like I am a child. I stopped being one the moment you let them take me.”

“I was a child too, Yelena. Dad—” Natasha cringes at the slip. “Alexei knocked us both out. You can’t keep holding onto this.”

“Tell me what I should hold onto then. Hmm?” Her lips curl into a sad snarl. “I have a vest and some memories of-of handstands in the dirt and chasing after your bike because I was too little to have my own.”

“You crashed your own,” Natasha corrects. “We found it before we were supposed to. I tried to teach you how to ride, and you slammed into the garage door. Woke them both up.”

“Great, another wrong memory.” Yelena shakes her head. “It could have been you.” Yelena snorts like the pigs. A sad, strangled sob follows.

Natasha gives Yelena her privacy and averts her eyes. Maybe that’s the cowardly choice here too. Shield herself from Yelena’s emotions. Pretend that… pretend that none of this hurts her too.

Natasha’s not the one who gives the big speeches. That’s Steve’s department. He stands there with his broad shoulders and his bright eyes, and he talks like he’s still that scrawny kid who couldn’t back down from a fight. But he understands what it feels like to be out of place. He made her feel less alone. He made her feel like she was actually helping people. She was an Avenger. Or, like Yelena said, ‘the trained killer little girls call their hero.’

“Do you remember when I first dyed my hair? Probably not. You were, like, four.” Natasha chuckles, and she wonders for the first time if Milena and Alexei are listening in. She walks over to sit beside Yelena. “Milena did it as a science experiment. We used kool-aid to temporarily dye my hair blue, and you got so scared that the blue on your tongue from drinking it would never go away. So I drank a bunch to turn my tongue, and so did Milena. By the time Alexei got home, my whole head was bright blue, and so were our lips and a little bit of your nose.”

The memory makes Natasha laugh, and when she chances a glance across her shoulder at Yelena, she can see the deep knit of the younger spy’s eyebrows. Yelena doesn’t remember, does she? Doesn’t know about some of the little days that made all the other ones that much more bearable.

Natasha clears her throat. “After Budapest, I had my own life again. And I wish I could say that I felt free. But I felt exactly like I did in Ohio. Like someone was waiting to rip me back out of what little peace I could find. So, I did the only thing that I could think to do. I went to the store and bought a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a shit ton of blue kool-aid. And I dyed my hair in the S.H.I.E.L.D safe house into the grossest shade of purple that I have ever seen in my life. Clint has pictures somewhere, I’m sure. They’re….” Embarrassing is a word, but they’re the first look at her trying to take her life back.

She’d thought about getting a tattoo back then. She’d gone to a parlor and had flipped through the books of available designs for an hour. Clint had waited with her, making smart ass comments about placement and goading her into making a decision. His personal favorite had been an arrow that he swore would look amazing on the side of her neck. But those permanent changes didn’t feel like her. Not like recreating the memory did.

“I have no idea what they made you do, or what they took from you. We’re going to get the others out, and then you can do whatever you want, Yelena. You never have to talk to me, or Milena, or Alexei again. You can make your own family. Make some new memories. Those days in Ohio, they don’t have to be your best ones.”

Yelena’s lip trembles. She pouts around the emotion. “What if….” She exhales slow, and even that shakes. “What if I wanted that? The… ‘Don’t slouch,’ and the embarrassing parents.”

Natasha lets her voice drop into its raspiest. “They are pretty embarrassing.”

“She raises pigs. Who does that?” Yelena laughs.

Natasha blinks her red-rimmed eyes and nudges her shoulder into Yelena’s. “You and your vest, you fit right in.”

“Don’t be jealous. I could show you where I got it. Make a day of it maybe.” Yelena’s watery eyes find Natasha’s, and they’re so damn hopeful. They ask what Yelena won’t. What if Yelena wants Natasha too? What if they could be sisters again?

Natasha reaches for the vodka bottle, and Yelena hands it to her without question. “Maybe. Once we stop Drekhov.”

“And you get the others,” Yelena adds. “The witch needs new clothes. She looks like a tourist.”

Natasha snorts. “I’ll be sure to give Wanda your fashion advice once she’s off the raft.” They might get along actually. Both younger women, lost a lot as kids, used as violent weapons, but now they’ve got a second chance. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if Yelena tagged along. She’d make a few bad jokes. Get Steve to laugh whenever he comes out of hiding. God, if they ever make up with Tony, he would have a field day at finding out Natasha has a sister. “Do a good job on this mission, and maybe I’ll let you meet them. No autographs though.”

Yelena shoves Natasha’s leg. “I don’t want autographs from your friends.” She pauses to reconsider. “Hm, maybe Captain America. Alexei would shit himself.”

“Did you hear him in the bathroom earlier? He probably already did.”

Yelena groans, and the only thing sweeter than the laughter to follow is the small smile she gives to Natasha. Like maybe there’s still something in Natasha worth looking up to.

“Hey,” Natasha’s voice comes out more serious than she intends it to. Yelena lifts an eyebrow as she waits. “You were always the best of us, you know that?”

The words make Yelena’s lip tremble again. Her nose pitches up, and she sniffles before putting on her best Widow smirk. “That’s why I beat all your records.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Сука.”

Yelena pushes herself up from the floor. “I’m not a bitch.” She reaches her hand out to pull Natasha up. Natasha accepts the assist.

“You’re a brat; that’s what you are.” Natasha leads the way back out of the bedroom.

“What are little sisters for?”

Hope. Not that Natasha would admit that part. Way too sentimental, way too honest. She sticks her tongue out instead. Yelena understands though. It’s what they do. Or at least, what they could do, if they keep showing up instead of running away.

"Tell me when you figure it out, okay?"

.

.

notes: Natasha is her (foster, mission) mother's daughter, in more ways than one, and Yelena should say it.

I also want to thank you all for the very warm reception to my other Black Widow fic. I have at least one more in the chamber. You are welcome to send in requests, and if any speak to me, I will do my best to write them. Mostly, I just care about this family a lot. Go figure. Let's talk about them. Or anything else in replies/reblogs/asks.

[nightlock-1989]

Side-Parts and Skinny Jeans

A short story about what happens when Millennials find out Gen Z is ripping on their precious side-parts and skinny jeans.

Context: I am a 31 year old proud Millennial. I graduated in 2007. One day, scrolling through Tik Tok, I kept seeing things about old people and their side-parts and skinny jeans. I googled it and what do you know? Forget the Boomers because the Zoomers are targeting us now. Thought it might make a good Everlark story. You can also find it on AO3 here.

Takes place in September so that school could be in person again. Enjoy!

September 2021              

The first week back when school begins is always taxing on both the students and staff. Add in 18 months of virtual learning at home and it’s a surprise that everyone isn’t already passed out in Haymitch Abernathy’s yard a victory.

It’s always been a tradition. The principal hosts the school staff the first Friday after the school year begins for a barbeque and alcohol. Normally alcohol is always aplenty since it’s Haymitch but this year everyone is a little even more stressed.

Effie Trinket, the school secretary is walking around with a tray of Jell-O shots.

“Thanks, Trinkie,” Haymitch gruffs before slurping down a green one and handing one to the English teacher Peeta Mellark. He hesitates briefly before Delly Cartwright, pulls it out of his hands and slurps it down.

“Very nice,” Haymitch remarks.

“Thank you, Mr. Abernathy,” she responds.

“You know you can call him, Haymitch; right?” Finnick O’Dair, history teacher, reminds.

“HA,” Peeta responds.

“He’ll always be Mr. Abernathy,” Delly tells.

“You’re 28,” Finnick says

“Doesn’t matter,” Katniss Everdeen, biology teacher and Peeta Mellark’s lifelong crush strides forward.

“Sweetheart,” Haymitch gestures.

“Mr. Abernathy,” Katniss greets.

Peeta and Delly both point fingers at Finnick.

“Grill’s ready,” Effie hollers.

Katniss takes a Jell-O shot and sighs before tipping it back.

“Is this the first time we’ve all drank together?” Delly asks gesturing between Peeta and Katniss.

Katniss, Peeta, and Delly were in the same grade at District 12 high; however, only Delly and Peeta hung out. Katniss kept to herself for the most part, having a difficult life. Katniss was the newest hire at District 12, having transferred over from 8 last year. She didn’t attend last year’s barbeque to Peeta’s sadness.

When Peeta saw Katniss in the auditorium for in-staff training, he nearly fainted and when he realized she lived in the same apartment village, he thought he would have a heart attack. Although she still sports her signature braid every now and then, she’s taken to wearing her hair down and walks with a new-found confidence that has only made her sexier. Everyone knows how much he likes her, except Katniss.

“Probably,” Katniss answers heading over to the kiddie pool filled with beer. She bends down to pick one up, giving Peeta the perfect view of her ass. Her jeans fit like a second glove and Delly smacks Peeta in the chest to get him to stop gawking.

The food is ready, and everyone dishes up. The alcohol and conversation flow generously.

Haymitch begins telling a story about how for seniors, they have alternatives for the seniors who have a lot of detentions left to serve. Instead of serving one detention at a time, they can pick up trash or volunteer for a student event.

“So, we needed someone to remove the gum from under all the auditorium seats.”

Katniss groans.

“All 896. I offer to free up 4 detentions. Sweetheart had 12. No one is taking it, but I can tell that I’ve got some interest peaked. I get up to 7 and Katniss sees Johanna about to pounce. She screams, “I volunteer, I volunteer.””

“Well, I wasn’t the only one who volunteered,” Katniss reminds before looking at Peeta.

“Sweetheart, you aren’t even the butt of this story. Then, the boy over here,” he says while gesturing to Peeta who puts his face into his hands, “also volunteers. I was only looking for one.”

“You let us both though,” Katniss says.

“The deal was for seven detentions total,” Haymitch emphasizes.

“But seven of mine did get wiped out,” Katniss says.

“Exactly,” Haymitch points out. “The boy didn’t even have any detentions.”

Everyone but Peeta and Katniss roar with laughter.

“Wait, what? I’m so confused,” Katniss says more to herself because she’s at that point of intoxication.

“You really always have been Brainless,” Johanna Mason, physical education teacher teases. “Let’s get another beer,” she says, pulling Katniss with her.

Delly’s phone chimes so she takes a look. Peeta, still mortified is keeping his eyes on the two girls but he stops staring when he hears, “Miss Cartwright, Miss Everdeen, Miss Mason.”

“What’s that,” he asks looking towards her phone. Delly has open the Tik Tok app and the short video shows video of the respective teachers at the same time as their name.

“Side parts and skinny jeans…….so old,” the voice in the video adds.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” Delly shrieks as she chucks her beer bottle into the yard.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Johanna asks.

Delly is in such a mini-rage that she picks up her fold up chair and also chucks that off of the deck. She reaches for the outdoor end table before Finnick grabs her wrist and pulls her into him.

“Are you okay, Delly?” Katniss attempts to rush forward but trips in the process. Peeta rushes to help her up.

“We,” Delly emphasizes by pointing to all the young teachers, “have all had to deal with fucking everything. School shootings, terrorist attacks on live TV, two fucking wars, the housing market crashing, a great fucking recession, $4.00 gallons of gas, a global pandemic, ANOTHER FUCKING RECESSION….and now THIS. I’M NOT EVEN 30,” she finishes before letting out a guttural moan. Katniss leans in closer to Peeta, obviously scared before Johanna marches up to Delly who is holding up her phone.

They all crowd around and watch the offending video. It is showing the various female teachers and on the bottom is a tally marking all the women who have a side part and skinny jeans.

Johanna is first to break the silence by grabbing her folding chair and hurling it off the deck.

“Those little Tide-Pod eating Zoomers can go rot in hell.”

“Yeah, why can’t they just nearly succumb to alcohol poisoning in the cornfield like we did?” Delly cries.

“I like my side part,” Katniss says to herself.

“I have full-bodied hair. A middle part is boring,” Delly whines.

“Do they want us to wear the stupid mom jeans that they’re donning?” Johanna volleys back.

“Would they like it if we just went back to fucking ultra-low-rise jeans and had our thongs on display again because I’m not going back to that, Finnick,” Delly sobs into his chest.

“I didn’t say anything,” Finnick interjects staring cluelessly at Peeta.  “Wait, wasn’t this like a thing in the spring?”

“They didn’t make a fricken Tik Tok that specifically targeted us then” Johanna states.

“Does this mean I have to give up my skinny jeans?” Katniss asks to the empty space next to her.

“Don’t even think that, your ass looks fantastic in them,” Peeta answers.

Everyone goes quiet and stares at Peeta. He is perplexed before he realizes he actually said that out loud.

“No—I didn’t mean that,” Peeta begins before backtracking, “You know what, I didn’t mean that either…. I’m just going to go over there.” He heads down the deck stairs and grabs one of the chairs and plops down on it.

There is an awkward silence before Finnick says, “you should just side part your hair even harder.”

All three girls light up before agreeing. Katniss looks out and sees Peeta sitting alone. Delly tilts her head in a “go talk to him” motion, Finnick smiles and nods, and Johanna mimics a blow job.

Katniss orders an Uber before she heads over to Peeta.

“Peeta,” Katniss begins. He looks up with such sadness that Katniss interrupts him before he can even start, “Why’d you volunteer?”

“Um,” he stalls. “You know what, fuck it,” he resigns. “I had a huge crush on you growing up and I just wanted a reason to hang out with you.”

“So, you volunteered to remove chewing gum off hundreds of seats during our spring break?”

“Yep,” he answers with a pop.

“You know you only said like four words that whole time we were cleaning up?”

“That’s because when I’m around you, I feel like a mumbling idiot. Even now, 10 years after high school, you make me feel like- “He is interrupted by Katniss’s lips. She pulls back and smiles.

“Um, how drunk are you?”

“Definitely Ubering……. but I’ll definitely remember this in the morning.” She leans in again. He breaks apart long enough for him to stand and continue the kiss. Cheering can be heard from the deck causing both of them to laugh.

“Did you mean what you said about how good I look in these skinny jeans?”

“They look amazing on you.”

She leans up and whispers in his ear, “I think they’d look a lot better on your bedroom floor.” An alert sounds on Katniss’s phone. “Uber is here.”

Peeta wastes no time in grabbing her hand and practically dragging her to the car.

Effie comes out with another round of Jell-O-Shots while Haymitch grabs one.

“To young love,” he says.

“To side parts,” Delly adds.

“To skinny jeans,” Johanna finishes.

“We’re going to tease them mercilessly on Monday; right?” Finnick asks.

“Duh,” Delly states while everyone laughs.

Monday morning comes around and true to what Finnick suggested, their side parts are more pronounced, and they are all donning skinny jeans, their own form of mini rebellion.

And once again, Katniss’s pair ends up on Peeta’s floor that night.

[chicgeekgirl89]

Don’t Quit Your Day Job

Written for @badthingshappenbingo​

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand

Prompt: Hurts to Breathe

Summary: When Carlos goes on a welfare check he finds himself in a situation a little outside of his norm. And he is definitely not interested in a career change. Written for the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt "Hurts to Breathe."

AO3 Link

                                      XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It started out as a welfare check. Simple. Easy. Something Carlos enjoyed. If he could bring some light into the day of someone who was typically shut in at home it made the nastier parts of his job worth it.

The low income housing complex buzzed with the sounds of family. Kids running up and down the stairs, women calling to each other from apartment to apartment, and the smells of familiar food drifting through the halls made the place feel homey despite the peeling paint and walls stained with years of cigarette smoke and dirty hands. 

It took a while for Mr. Lopez to respond to their knocks, probably because he was pushing eighty-five and nearly blind. Still, he smiled cheerily as he welcomed Carlos and his partner inside. “We just wanted to check on you Mr. Lopez,” Mitchell said. “Your daughter called and said you hadn’t answered your phone in a few days.”

“Oh I can’t find it,” he responded. “Lost the thing and don’t know where I put it.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d made a visit to Mr. Lopez’s residence. He misplaced his phone on a regular basis and Carlos always worried that they would find him in something other than perfect health, but so far the man had proved to be pretty resilient. 

“Here it is Mr. Lopez,” Carlos said, pulling it from under a couch cushion and turning up the volume. “I’m going to put it on the table for you okay?”

“Oh, thank you so much,” he said.

“Mr. Lopez are you doing okay in here? Is there anything that you need?” Mitchell asked as Carlos made a quiet and careful inspection of the cupboards and refrigerator. 

The contents were somewhat meager, a loaf of bread, a couple cans of beans. But the refrigerator revealed a tray of tamales, probably made by someone in the building if Carlos had to guess. It was good to know the neighbors were watching out for one another.

“No no, I am doing fine,” Mr. Lopez said. “My Angela, she just worries.”

They chatted for about fifteen minutes, the elderly man sharing stories about his grandchildren and generally basking in having the attention of his guests.

Unfortunately they couldn’t stay all day. “Mr. Lopez—“ Carlos began to say goodbye but cut himself off as an unpleasant smell wafted past his nose. 

He sniffed the air, forehead wrinkling. “Reyes?” Mitchell asked.

“Do you smell that?”

She sniffed too. “Mr. Lopez do you have your stove on?” Carlos asked, already turning to check.

“No. I haven’t used it all day.”

Carlos moved to the door, sticking his head into the hallway, stomach sinking as the smell grew stronger. “It’s gas,” he said to Mitchell.

“Are you sure?”

“I live with a firefighter, I know what gas smells like.”

“I’ll call it in,” Mitchell said, reaching for her radio.

“We need to get everyone out of the building,” Carlos said, already moving to knock at the next apartment.

The smell grew stronger as they went door to door sending men, women, and children charging down the stairs and into the street. Fortunately the building was small; it didn’t take long to sound the alarm. Within minutes it was nearly empty, which was good because the smell was only growing sharper with each passing second. “I’ll get Mr. Lopez,” Carlos said as they sent the last group of people down the stairs. “Get outside and tell the first truck that it’s a potential leak and they need to get in here fast.”

He jogged back up to Mr. Lopez’s apartment to find him leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Come on Mr. Lopez,” he said, taking him by the arm. “We need to get out of here.”

They only made it to the second floor landing before the world exploded. One minute he was on his feet and the next Carlos was opening his eyes on the floor, head dizzy, lungs thick with smoke and ash. He tried to push himself to his feet but his muscles felt as if they’d liquified. Had he passed out? How long had they been lying on the ground breathing in smoke?

“Mr. Lopez?” He managed to get onto his knees, crawling blindly, trying to find the elderly man’s form.

There was a groan to his left and he turned, hands searching in the darkness, fumbling until his fingers found clothing and then a body. “Mr. Lopez!” he gasped. 

The man was unconscious and Carlos scrambled to try and find his pulse. It was there, but weak. “Mr. Lopez,” he choked out again, shaking the man a bit to try and rouse him. “Mr. Lopez come on!”

He sucked in a breath and choked, coughing so hard that tears began to stream down his face.

“Officer Reyes!”

At first he thought he was imagining someone yelling his name, but then the call came again. “Officer Reyes! Fire department! Call out!”

He tried to yell back, only managing a desperate wheeze the first time before finally the word, “Here!” croaked past his lips.

Within seconds a group of firefighters appeared through the smoke. “Take Mr. Lopez,” Carlos choked out as the first one pulled him to his feet. 

“How about we take you both sir?” the man said.

“I’m fine,” he started to say, but his knees buckled and he would have fallen if the man hadn’t held him up. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said and Carlos nodded.

He’d thought as soon as they got outside, away from the toxic fumes of gas and smoke that his breathing would ease, but if anything the fresh air only made him cough harder. His throat was burning and his chest was so tight he would have ripped his uniform open if he’d had the strength, just to get some relief from the pressure. 

The man sat him on the back of a firetruck and a paramedic he vaguely recognized in the way he vaguely recognized much of the city’s emergency personnel descended on him, oxygen and penlight at the ready. “I’m fine,” Carlos ground out, shocked out how gravelly his voice sounded.

“Sir you were in that building for almost ten minutes breathing in gas and smoke. I need to give you a once-over. No arguments,” she said when he opened his mouth to protest. “That’s part of my job, just like helping people is your job.”

Carlos could only nod, letting his head fall back against the truck as he struggled for breath.

“What’s your name Officer?”

“Reyes,” Carlos said, the word barely escaping his raw throat.

“Okay Officer Reyes, I’m Lila. I’m going to ask you a few questions. You can take your time answering. Did you hit your head?” 

Carlos swallowed hard and tried to remember. “I—I don’t know. There was an explosion and then I was on the ground.”

“That’s all right. Anything in particular hurting? Your head? Your legs?”

“Just my chest is tight.” God if that wasn’t an understatement. He felt like he was suffocating.

She slipped an oxygen mask over his face. “This should help. Try and take some nice, slow breaths,” she said as she reached for his wrist to take his pulse.

With the oxygen finally easing his breathing a little bit he began to notice the stinging in his eyes, the dizziness in his head, the lethargy he felt in his limbs. 

He closed his eyes for a moment trying to get his bearings. Everything seemed fuzzy around the edges. The next thing he knew a familiar voice was saying his name.

“Oh my god, Carlos?” T.K. dropped to one knee in front of him, eyes wide with horror. 

“Hey,” Carlos said, managing a slightly lopsided smile. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I—? Carlos what happened?” T.K. asked urgently. 

“Gas,” Carlos said, the word muffled by the oxygen mask and the hoarseness in his throat. “There was an explosion.”

“He yours T.K.?” Lila asked.

“Yes, he is,” T.K. said. “What’s the situation?”

“Pulse is a little fast, but strong. No fractures or concussion that I can tell. He took in a lot of smoke though, his lungs don’t sound great.”

Carlos pulled the oxygen away from his mouth. “Is Mr. Lopez all right?”

“My partner is working on him,” Lila said. “He’s in good hands.”

“Let’s just worry about you right now,” T.K. said, clearly vacillating between concerned paramedic and concerned boyfriend.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, just as he choked again and hacked a cough so hard it felt like his lungs were trying to leave his body.

“That’s definitely not all right,” T.K. said, jaw tight as he gently replaced the oxygen on Carlos’ face. “You’re going to the hospital.”

Carlos looked at him through watery eyes and T.K. seemed to sense every, single one of his feelings, the exhaustion, the fear, the annoyance, the pain, because he wrapped one of Carlos’ hands solidly in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay,” T.K. said softly. “Just do what the doctors tell you and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Carlos nodded, allowing T.K. and Lila to help him to his feet and over to the ambulance where Mr. Lopez was already tucked in and waiting. “I have to go,” T.K. said, when Carlos was seated. He cupped Carlos’ cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Carlos said. A thought finally crossed his mind, severely delayed apparently by trauma, and he grabbed T.K.’s hand as he turned to go. “My partner—“

“I’ll find her and tell her you’re okay,” T.K. assured him. “Just keep breathing deep and I’ll see you soon.”

They arrived at the hospital and Mr. Lopez was whisked away while Carlos was ushered to a bed in the ER where they hooked him up to a heart monitor and increased his oxygen with promises that a doctor would be with him shortly.

There were blood draws and x-rays and a lot of questions about whether or not he’d passed out, if he had any pre-existing conditions, if he had a headache, and a number of other things that Carlos did his best to answer, all while feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. 

They were nearly finished when T.K. appeared, making a beeline for Carlos’ curtain. “Hey,” he said, hands coming to rest on the bed rails, anxiety causing him to grip them tightly and turn his knuckles white. “Doc? How’s he doing?”

“I think he’ll make a full recovery,” the doctor said with a smile. “I’m going to send him home with an inhaler. And of course come back if you experience severe shortness of breath or any other alarming symptoms.”

���How are you feeling?” T.K. asked as the doctor left to go ready the discharge paperwork.

“Better,” Carlos said. The steady stream of oxygen had helped significantly, although being able to breathe properly meant he could now feel every other ache and pain in his body. He was going to be in a world of hurt tomorrow.

T.K. gave him a concerned smile as if he wasn’t sure Carlos was telling him the whole truth but didn’t want to push him. He brushed a stray curl from Carlos’ forehead. “Let’s get you home.”

“Aren’t you on shift?” Carlos asked.

“Babe it’s almost 5:30. My shift ended half an hour ago.”

Carlos shook his head. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“That’s okay.” T.K. rubbed his arm. “You’ve had a rough day.”

Carlos fell asleep almost immediately in the car and didn’t wake up until T.K. nudged him gently as they pulled into the driveway. 

He would have been fine with the couch but T.K. insisted he go all the way upstairs to bed. And Carlos insisted on a shower first because there was no way he was getting between clean sheets with ash and dirt and smoke in his hair.

“I can feel you worrying,” he said over the sound of the water.

Through the curtain he could see T.K.’s silhouette, arms crossed, leaning against the wall with a frown on his face. “You don’t have to stand there. I’m not going to collapse in the shower.”

“I’m good,” T.K. said stubbornly.

He silently held out a towel when Carlos finished, hovering as he dried off. “T.K. I swear to you that I can make from the ensuite to the bed without help,” Carlos said. 

“I’m just…here if you need me,” T.K. told him, attempting and failing at a nonchalant demeanor.

He did disappear while Carlos pulled on some boxers and a pair of sweatpants only to return moments later, a stack of pillows in his arms. Carlos raised his eyebrows from where he’d finally seated himself in bed. 

“Here.” T.K. shoved one behind him then reached for another.

“What are you doing?”

“We need to keep your airway open,” T.K. said as he grabbed a third.

“Babe, babe stop!” Carlos said, trying for a laugh, but only managing to send himself into another coughing fit. 

T.K. sank down onto the bed and rested a hand on Carlos’ knee until he caught his breath. “It’s okay,” Carlos said, managing a teary eyed smile, “it only hurts when I breathe.”

T.K. shook his head. “I am trying really hard not to freak out here.”

“Oh this is you not freaking out?” Carlos teased.

T.K. fixed him with a look. “I said trying.” His face softened and he gently poked a finger into Carlos’ shoulder for emphasis. “You are not a firefighter. You’re not supposed to be inside burning buildings. I think I have a right to be a little concerned.”

“If I’d had any choice in the matter I wouldn’t have been in there, trust me,” Carlos said. “Won’t happen again if I can help it. I’m definitely not interested in a career change.” 

T.K. still looked unsettled so Carlos took his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be all right T.K. I promise. I just need a good night’s sleep.” 

“Do you want anything before you go to bed? Something to eat? Ibuprofen? Oh tea! I should make you some tea for your throat!” 

He started to get up but Carlos caught his hand and pulled him gently back down onto the bed. “Just…stay here with me?”

“Yeah, yes, of course,” T.K. said immediately, kicking off his shoes and sliding up against the headboard. 

He wrapped an arm around Carlos’ waist and Carlos released a long sigh, nestling back into his embrace. “I’m sorry that I scared you.”

“Shh,” T.K. said, pressing a kiss to his hair. “You don’t need to apologize. You were doing your job and I’m proud of you. That it’s going to take me a minute to deal with the emotional fallout is my own problem. You just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“Thanks,” Carlos mumbled as T.K. began to run his fingers through his curls. 

For the first time all day he felt safe and relaxed and it wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep.

[atsukashii]

❝jealous, love❞ // e. kirishima

SYNOPSIS: ➛ contrary to unpopular belief, Eijiro Kirishima does get jealous, especially when sleazy guys are trying to hit on his girlfriend

» CHARACTER PAIRING: eijiro kirishima x fem!reader

» WORD COUNT: 2.1k

» GENRE: aged up characters, post u.a

» WARNINGS: fluffiest of fluff, protective kirishima, y/h/n - your hero name

« masterlist || ao3 »

Being a pro hero and trying to juggle your personal life is harder than you anticipated. There are things that you see people take for granted that pro heroes physically can’t. Like being able to plan dates with your boyfriend of three years. 

You and Kirishima had learned the hard way that it was almost impossible to plan dates. This is purely due to the fact that you would and can be called into work at any moment of time. After multiple dates that ended up with either you or Kirishima having to run out because of it, you both decided the next time you really wanted to go out and do something, you were requesting the day off, so there would be no interruptions of any sort unless the world was ending. 

As you glance down at your phone out of pure habit, you have a feeling that the world would not in fact end tonight. Instead, you and your boyfriend are going out to a fancy dinner that you had prepared for, two weeks in advance - just to be safe.

Threading your golden earrings through your lobes, you stand up straight and tilt your head slightly at your reflection in the mirror. You’d decided that you were going all out for your date with Kirishima tonight. Dressing yourself up with full glam makeup, and brand new red dress you know Kiri will love, that now brushes your thighs. The look completed with your nude strappy heels fastened to your feet, you were finally ready. 

You check the time once more before grabbing your clutch from the dresser and leaving your bedroom, stepping down your hallway towards the kitchen. Kirishima leans against the island bench of your small kitchen, texting on his phone as you enter. As soon as he hears your heels click against the wooden floors though, his attention snaps to you and the phone almost falls from his hands. For a second, you both stand in complete silence, until Kirishima breaks by moving towards you. Gently, he takes your hand and presses a soft kiss to your lips.

“If you weren’t already my girlfriend, I’d date the hell out of you.” he breathes, making a giggle escape your lips.

“Well it's a good thing I’m already your girlfriend isn't it then.” You smile, looking up at him. God, he looks so attractive. He’s outdone himself for your date tonight as well. A black button-up shirt stretches tightly across his chest and matching slacks makes it all too much for your brain to comprehend.

“That’s what I tell myself every day.” He says grinning. Even after all this time, compliments from Kirishima make you blush - and really, you should be used to it with the amount of verbal loving he puts on you on the daily. The man is seriously smooth, and the ultimate confidence booster. You love him dearly for it. 

“You good to go?” he asks, offering you his arm. You don’t bother to bring a coat with you as you wrap your arm around his. It’s summer and with a jacket, the heat would be way too much, which is the only reason you can afford to wear a dress right now. 

Together, you leave your shared apartment and walk to the restaurant that's located just a few blocks from where you live. You’d seen it one day on your way back from work and decided that you and Kiri just had to visit. With classic white tablecloth covered tables, flowers, and dim lighting, it was the perfect romantic setting for a date with your long time boyfriend. When you’d stepped inside, you were seated at your table and quickly ordered before holding up your now delivered wine glass to your boyfriend with a small smile.

“To the first date and relaxing evening in far too long.” Gently, he touches the tip of your glass to his own and beams at you.

“And to many more.” 

❀ ❀ ❀

It’s late when you leave the restaurant, but you both decide that the night itself is still young. On your way home, you decide to stop in at the store to get some wine to have at home. Walking into the store, you both give the man behind the till a kind smile before you slink down the aisle currently displaying too many types of wine for you to choose from. You are about to turn to your boyfriend for help when his phone goes off. His eyebrows furrow as he pulls his phone from his back pocket. You go to check your own, in case the world seriously has it out against you and is, in fact, about to end, but Kirishima places a hand on your arm. His phone already pressed against his ear.

“It’s not urgent, pick whichever one you want babe. I’ll be right back.” He explains and places a tender kiss to your brow before walking away for privacy. Obviously, he didn’t want to ruin your good mood with work talk, and it's that kind of forethought that is one of the reasons you love Kirishima. Your happiness and health are always at the forefront of his mind, whether it be taking care of you when you're sick or comforting you after a heavy day at work, he’s an actual godsend. 

Your eyes scan over the numerous bottles of wine, still unsure of which one to get. Now that Kirishima’s gone elsewhere and not here to help, you’re tempted to close your eyes and point to one in hopes to find an option. Suddenly, the artwork on one catches your eye and you reach towards it, only to stop when a voice fills your ears. One that's definitely not your boyfriend.

“Need a hand with anything darling?” Your eyes move to the stranger, standing a few feet from you with a smile on his face. Your hand hangs uselessly in the air as you watch his eyes track slowly from your face, down your front, and back up again. Even though his smile seems somewhat kind, the look in his eyes screams creeper and is grossing you out. Your eyes track from the man, looking over the top of the aisles in hopes of finding your red-headed boyfriend, but you can’t seem to find Kirishima anywhere. Placing your attention back to the stranger, you resist the urge to wipe your now sweaty hands on your dress and instead give him a kind smile in return.

“I’m good, thanks for the offer though.” You say, hoping that this means the conversation is over. But apparently the guy doesn’t get the hint and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Say aren’t you that pro hero, y/h/n?” He asks. You honestly didn’t think you would be noticed tonight, your boyfriend yes, but you? Not so much. Though, much like Kirishima, you were climbing the hero ranks at a speed that seemed to be catching attention. I shouldn’t be surprised, you think; as yesterday you helped your close friend and fellow pro hero Chargebolt bring down a villain that was very publicly known. The media had been spreading the story like crazy, and it wouldn’t blow over for a while. Or until you were outshined by another top hero or something major happened. You don’t mean to make it sound like it's nothing, because you’re proud of your skill and your job, you’re just not a fan of reporters and media is all. 

“Yeah, that's me. But I’m off duty right now.” You explain, suddenly reaching forward and grabbing whatever bottle of wine off the shelf you can get your hand on, to get out of the conversation. As you turn to leave, the creeper’s eyes trail down your torso again, his lips lifting in a satisfied smile. He just graduated from creeper to pervert. You’ve been trained on how to best communicate with people, but pervs still and always will creep you the fuck out. 

“What's a pro hero like you doing here all alone on a Friday night?” Gross.

“I’m here with-”

“Sorry about that babe, Bakugou was just having a go at me about some paperwork.” Kirishima’s voice interrupts and you’ve never been more glad for your boyfriend's presence then you are right now. Once he reaches you, Kirishima looks at the perv and instinctively wraps his arms around your waist. 

“Picked one yet?” He asks you, nodding to the bottle of whatever in your hands. 

“I think so.” You say, feeling a lot more relaxed with Kirishima’s arms around you. 

“You’re Red Riot.” The guy says making you both rotate your attention to him. Kirishima gives him a tight smile, that to anyone but you would look completely genuine. But you know Kirishima, and he’s pissed at the way the stranger is looking at you.

“Nice to meet you.” Kirishima nods, before letting his hand slide down from its perch on your waist until it rests on the small of your back, right above your ass. It’s a possessive move and one that makes you relax slightly against him. Kirishima isn’t normally a possessive person, except for when it comes to you. You know that he hates that people tend to pay attention but he has never made it out to be your fault. It’s a similar thing when he’s in hero costume and guys and girls alike drool over your boyfriend's ripped physique - you amongst them. 

Kirishima suddenly turns his back on the stranger and you instantly become weak at the heat in his eyes. It’s not just attraction swirling in his ruby gaze, but jealousy. Something that he doesn’t usually express often. 

“Ready to go beautiful?” He asks, laying it on thick. You nod your head in response and begin walking to the counter with the bottle of what you now see to be red wine, with Kirishima right behind you. You know there’s logic to the reason he’s sticking to you like glue so that the perv can’t see your frame from behind Kirishima’s bulking one. At the register, you’re practically sandwiched between the front counter and your boyfriend, who somehow has the coordination to simultaneously hold you and try to tap his card to pay for the wine before you can, but he fails. He had demanded to pay for the dinner tonight, so you’d requested to pay for the wine, which he agreed to. Sighing in defeat, he slips his wallet into his back pocket as the guy behind the till wrap’s it all up. You lean back into Kirishima’s chest as you feel yourself finally relax again, Kirishima follows by resting his head on your shoulder. 

“Thank you. I love you, Eijiro.” You whisper to the air, and you know he’s heard you when his arms squeeze around your middle in response, a silent code that he returns the sentiment. 

Saying a kind thank you to the worker, you and Kirishima walk out of the store. Once you’re outside, he can’t help but glance over his shoulder and outright glare as if the shop has physically harmed him. 

“Babe,” you say, trying to smother a giggle. Kirishima looks back at you with raised eyebrows and an innocent look on his face.

“What?” shaking your head at his antics, you both stop at the traffic lights and wait to cross the road. 

“Are you jealous, Kiri?” Your tone is teasing, and the bulking man lets out a dejected sigh, pulling you once again tightly into his side as if he can’t bear the act of not touching you right now. His arm wraps around your waist as the lights change, allowing you to keep walking. 

“I hate it when people stare at you like that. Can they not see that it makes you uncomfortable? And to do it so blatantly, that guy was gross as hell. Are you alright?” He asks and you nod in agreement, whilst falling for him a little bit more.

“I’m okay, and I'm glad you were there to save the day, Mr. Hero.” You smirk and the beaming grin that covers his face makes the awkward encounter completely worth it.

“Whenever you need me, babe, I'm there.” You both know it's corny as hell, but you don’t care. Kirishima practically drags you across the road before stopping you, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your lips. Your heart flips inside your chest at his actions, something that hasn’t changed since your first kiss.

“I love you so much y/n.” Grinning against your boyfriend's lips, pure euphoria floods your system. 

“I love you too big guy.” You pull back, entwining your fingers with his and begin to walk backward, pulling him alone. “Let’s go home and drink this hopefully not crappy wine and watch tv.” 

“Babe, you know just what to say.” He fake groans whilst walking next to you, the bottle of wine in a paper bag tucked under his arm like a ball. God, he’s perfect. 

©️ 2021 all rights reserved to atsukashii, do not change, edit, translate, or repost any works on any platform.

[artificialqueens]

Volcanic Love (Taywhora) - Holtzmanns

read on ao3 | word count: 6045

“Oh I was aware, alright,” A’whora purses her lips and for a second, Tayce wonders what it would be like to kiss her. “And you know what I saw?”

Oh Christ, she’ll humour her. “What’d you see, then?”

It’s the response A’whora wants, from the way her eyes gleam. “I saw you peeking at me some type of way. A little pout on your face. You jealous, Tayce? Is that it? You want some attention?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

A/N: Thank you guys so much for the love on my other Taywhora oneshot, it made me so happy. Enjoy this one, too - fully a product of Taywhora beginning to occupy my thoughts with no signs of leaving. Title from Volcanic Love by The Aces. Also thank you Writ for betaing and bouncing ideas with me, and Pop for catching any North American slang that may have sneaked in, I appreciate you both ❤️

Tayce isn’t a chicken.

It doesn’t matter what Tia’s said in the past. She’s never had the balls to flirt with Veronica, anyway, she’s the real chicken.

Tayce is just respectful, that’s it. She’s not about to go hit on her best mate in the club, not when they’re going back to the same flat, not when A’whora’s eyes right now are on everyone but her.

Doesn’t matter, anyway. Tayce is here for drinks and to forget about her shitty work week.

Even if A’whora’s talking to a leggy brunette by the barstools. And giggling. And tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Christ.

A tap on Tayce’s arm makes her jump, and Lawrence is looking at her a tad impatiently, gesturing towards the waiting bartender on the other side of the table.

“What d’you want, then? Can’t wait all night while you stare at your woman.”

“She’s not my woman,” Tayce mutters under her breath, trying to ignore the warmth in her cheeks. “Two tequila shots, please and thank you.”

Lawrence raises her eyebrows. “Two already? You that ready to end up with your head in the toilet tonight, are you?”

“Oh, shut it.”

Tayce peeks over again while the bartender prepares their drinks and A’whora’s whispering something into the brunette’s ear, leaning in close to her. Tayce grabs the table just a little bit harder.

She knows that Bimini’s organized this night out for them so that Tayce can finally get her shit together. They’re out far too often as it is, despite graduating uni and beginning adult jobs and working normal hours, but regardless, this evening has a purpose. Not that Tayce wants it to. Her liking for A’whora is clear as day to everyone except for A’whora herself, and part of Tayce wants it to stay that way.

Why ruin it, anyway? They’re friends, best friends at that, and A’whora cares for her and knows all her secrets and is the most important person in the world. Or rather, she knows all of Tayce’s secrets except how much she fancies her.

Tayce clinks her shot glass with Lawrence’s whiskey before she tosses it back, the salt and lime on her tongue straight after enough to start a fresh fire through her veins. Maybe it’s not going to happen, tonight, or ever. Tayce is fine with that, especially when she’s on a night out with her mates and Little Mix is blaring in the DJ’s mix overhead.

That’s all she needs for a good night out.

Ellie pushes through the crowd to reach them, a head taller than everyone else. “Did you get my vodka cran?”

“Course,” Lawrence grins, handing the glass to her. “Even though we both know it tastes like horseshit. You gotta branch out your options, El.”

“Just like you ordering a whiskey every night out like the wee old man you are?” Ellie sticks out her tongue without missing a beat, and Tayce snorts when Lawrence lifts a mock offended hand to her chest.

“Excuse me for having some pride for the homeland. Not about to let the English win around here.” Lawrence tosses her drink back, and the slight wince on her face is just about noticeable.

“Looks divine,” Tayce deadpans, craning her neck towards where A’whora had been standing.

Except she’s not there anymore, and she’s not in the crowd of people either, and-

“She’s coming up behind you, dafty,” Lawrence snickers, and Tayce hardly has a second to retort before a set of arms wraps around her waist.

“Did you miss me?” A’whora’s voice takes on the sing song quality that it always does when she’s a few drinks in, and Tayce has to ignore the way her stomach feels like it’s filling with butterflies.

Because it’s not.

“Kept yourself busy over there, did you?” Tayce gets out, trying her best not to let the bitterness peek through in her voice.

A’whora’s allowed to flirt with whoever she wants. It’s fine, really.

“I love meeting new people, that’s all,” A’whora grins, reaching across Tayce to flag the bartender, “unlike you, you antisocial creature.”

“Lies. I have enough friends already,” Tayce mumbles as A’whora pulls back, the scent of her perfume making Tayce’s breath hitch in her throat.

She needs her second shot.

Tayce tosses it back as A’whora takes a sip of her rum and coke, and the burn of the liquor at the back of her throat isn’t enough to distract her from the way that A’whora wraps her lips around the straw, all round and delicate as not to smudge her lip gloss.

“You’d be a lot less grumpy if you moved away from the bar, y’know,” A’whora says in between sips. “Maybe danced around a bit or something. No more sulking on nights out like you normally do.”

“She really does sulk, doesn’t she?” Lawrence pipes up, another whiskey in hand, and Tayce can’t help but roll her eyes at the pointed tone in her voice.

Lawrence wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit her in the head.

“Come on. We’re all gonna go dance. No more sulking.”

A’whora grabs her hand, and Tayce starts to panic for a second because she’s sure she’s a little bit clammy, but Ellie and Lawrence are following them and maybe Tayce’s brain is running just a little bit too fast for her own good. They end up in the thick of the crowd and it’s sweaty, gross, but it also makes Tayce feel a little nostalgic for uni, when they’d do this too often and end up hungover for class the next afternoon.

The Rihanna that the mix fades into is enough to make Tayce forget about the fact that she’s attracted to her best friend, especially when she’s giggling at Ellie’s attempt to embody the song with her lip-syncing. She joins in at the chorus, and fuck it, there’s nothing on par with screaming out the words to Bitch Better Have My Money with her mates, especially with Lawrence’s rather unmelodic tones.

She does love them.

“Let me squeeze in!”

Bimini’s voice is loud enough to be heard over the music as they pushes themselves in between Lawrence and Ellie, their fur coat miraculously still around their shoulders while balancing a drink in each hand.

“Well there you are!” Lawrence exclaims, and the delight on her face is exactly how Tayce feels, all of her friends together and-

Well, almost all of them. There’s Ellie, and Lawrence, and now Bimini, but where has A’whora gone off to again?

Tayce goes up on her tiptoes, craning her neck because she can’t have gotten that far with the crowds, she has to be near…

Oh.

She’s found a girl to dance up on. Blonde, this time. A lovely sight to see.

The tentative excitement that had been rising in Tayce’s chest bursts like a balloon, the sinking feeling spreading along her insides and pulling her back down to the ground because of course A’whora’s found someone to grind up against and shoot sultry eyes at because she’s good at that, at getting what she wants. It’s fine, it is, because Tayce is having fun watching Lawrence try to rap Taki Taki.

She doesn’t care what A’whora’s doing.

Except that when she peeks over again, A’whora’s crouching down while she dances and she’s got her hands on the girl’s thighs and she’s looking up at her with an expression that can only be described as hungry. And it doesn’t matter that there’s an elbow poking at Tayce’s back, or that the mix overhead weaves in a Beyonce song that she’d normally scream the words to, because right now she’s got tunnel vision, unable to pull her eyes away from A’whora despite the fact that she feels like she’s burning up the longer she does. Despite the ripping in Tayce’s chest and the rushing in her ears, it’s fine, because A’whora’s allowed to do whatever she wants. Tayce is her friend and nothing more, and she’s used to it, she is.

But then A’whora slowly rises up from her crouched position and wraps her arms around the girl’s neck, leaning in to kiss her and Tayce needs to get out of the crowd and off the dance floor.

The club bathroom has suspicious stains on the walls but it’s blissfully empty, a fact that Tayce is thankful for because at least she can lose her mind in private. She doesn’t need anyone else witnessing an absolutely pathetic meltdown over her best friend.

Tayce’s lip colour is smudged when she looks at herself in the dust covered mirror, and she halfheartedly pulls out her lipstick from her clutch to fix it. Not that it matters, when she’ll probably grab a taxi home in a few minutes anyway, because her bed and some sleep will at least help her forget the sight of A’whora practically on her knees.

Once she’s fixed her lipstick, Tayce runs a hand through her hair and lets out a sigh. She’s changed her mind. Going out isn’t so nostalgic anymore. It’s shit.

“You done admiring yourself in the mirror yet?”

“Jesus, fucking-”

Tayce whirls around at the voice and of fucking course A’whora is standing there, her own lipstick a bit smudged and looking too smug for her own good and Tayce hates the way her heart starts to beat just a bit faster.

“Thought you were busy macking on some slag and giving everyone a little front row performance,” Tayce mutters, turning back towards the mirror.

“Oh, so you were watching, then?” A’whora’s voice is positively delighted, and Tayce wants to roll her eyes at the audacity.

“I think people in the nosebleeds could see that even if they didn’t want to. A little careless, no? Nearly shagging on the dance floor?”

Tayce isn’t bitter. She’s not. Not over something this stupid.

“What, are you a nun suddenly preaching chastity and pureness and everything that’s holy? Is that it?” A’whora snickers, not looking fazed in the least as she sidles up to Tayce at the counter.

Tayce scoffs, trying to keep herself from glancing at A’whora in the mirror. “It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more aware of your surroundings, that’s all.”

“Oh I was aware, alright,” A’whora purses her lips and for a second, Tayce wonders what it would be like to kiss her. “And you know what I saw?”

Oh Christ, she’ll humour her. “What’d you see, then?”

It’s the response A’whora wants, from the way her eyes gleam. “I saw you peeking at me some type of way. A little pout on your face. You jealous, Tayce? Is that it? You want some attention?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

It’s a lie, a flat out lie but A’whora doesn’t need to know that, not when it highlights how absolutely pathetic Tayce feels for having A’whora fucking notice. A new low for her. She might as well trod home with her tail between her legs at this point, not that it would save her from any embarrassment.

So, she’s going to have to pretend it never even happened.

“I wasn’t, but you did that enough for me,” A’whora murmurs, and Jesus, she’s coming up behind Tayce and looking at her in the mirror with the sultry eyes that are usually reserved for other girls. “I like seeing you all worked up in a tizzy.”

“I’m not worked up,” Tayce breathes out, trying her best to hold on to the semblance of control she has before it smashes into pieces.

“So you wouldn’t mind then, if I went back on the dance floor and found another girl to kiss? You wouldn’t care if I brought someone home and let her have her way with me? You’ll be just fine with that, huh?”

It’s hard to think straight when A’whora’s hands are raking up her sides, when she’s looking at her all smug through the mirror because she knows she’s going to get what she wants, the way she always does.

Maybe Tayce will be weak willed if she gives in. Maybe A’whora’s going to be smug for weeks after, or maybe she’s going to tease her mercilessly because she’s just joking around with her hands at her waist. Except A’whora’s hand is trailing to her ass, and she’s biting her own lip in the mirror and fuck-

She gives in.

Tayce turns around, face to face with A’whora whose eyes widen for just a second before Tayce captures her lips in a biting kiss. The hitch in A’whora’s breath and the way she surges forward is enough evidence that she isn’t joking around.

Good.

Tayce grabs A’whora’s waist and flips their positions, so that she has her up against the counter. It’s funny - she’s thought about kissing A’whora before, too many times for her own good, but a dingy club bathroom with her heart beating out of her chest is not how she’d envisioned it happening.

A’whora’s needy, pawing at Tayce’s waist to try and bring her closer than she already is. Tayce nudges A’whora’s legs apart with her own thigh, trailing a hand up her chest and past her collarbone and neck until she’s cupping her jaw. She pulls back from the kiss and A’whora’s lips are slightly parted as she catches her breath, her eyes alight but a little bit hazy.

“Is this what you’ve wanted all night, then?”

Tayce has to applaud herself for the semblance of calmness in her voice, not betraying the fact that her insides feel like they’re catching on fire, her heart beating faster and faster the longer she’s touching A’whora.

A’whora looks as dazed as Tayce herself feels, her lipstick smudged and her lips parted while she catches her breath. Tayce watches as her eyes flick down to look at her lips then back up again, and she takes a step back because she knows that A’whora’s about to lean in and kiss her again. The whine A’whora lets out is more than gratifying.

“You could have just asked, y’know. Dunno why you’ve got to go and make it so complicated for the both of us,” Tayce murmurs, licking her own lips as she steps in closer again.

It’s as if there’s a string between them that’s been pulled taut all night and on the verge of snapping, except now, Tayce is the one controlling it. And after how she’s been on edge all evening, it’s a welcome reprieve, a familiar feeling that she’s been craving for so long.

“I…” A’whora’s words trail off when Tayce leans forward, pressing a kiss to her neck, and then another that slightly nips at her skin, and it’s all Tayce can do to keep herself from smirking against the corner of her jaw.

Because, of all people, she’s the one having this effect on A’whora. A’whora, who could absolutely be classified as a certified babe magnet. A’whora, who can land any girl that she bloody wants. A’whora, who has been on Tayce’s mind for far too long whenever she slips her hand between her legs in the shower. A’whora, who up until now Tayce has had to push down any semblance of feelings for.

But now Tayce has her in her grasp and it’s verging on the edge of being too much, sending her brain into overdrive if she focuses on it for too long.

So instead, Tayce brings her attention back to A’whora, who gasps when her lips focus on the juncture between her neck and collarbone. There’s no way A’whora’s neck isn’t going to be looking ridiculous after this, between Tayce’s lipstick and the fact that she’s being rather liberal with how much she’s tugging at A’whora’s skin, but A’whora’s hands are fisting in her hair and it’s becoming clear that she’s the type to like it like this.

She brings a hand up to grab one of A’whora’s tits, her thumb tracing over her nipple that’s already beginning to harden through the dress fabric because of course A’whora’s not wearing a bra, cheeky slag she is. The whine that A’whora lets out when Tayce pulls her face back is enough to make her want to squeeze her own legs together but she steels herself, putting on the most confident face she can muster without falling apart.

“More,” A’whora gets out in between sharp breaths for air, and part of Tayce wishes that she could frame this sight, keep it in her mind forever.

Instead, she presses her lips together. “I’m not about to fuck you in the loo, Rory. What sort of slag do you take me for?”

A’whora’s brows press together adorably, and Tayce has to resist the urge to smooth them out for her. “But-”

“Let’s go home.”

They end up in A’whora’s room solely because of the shorter distance from the front door, as compared to Tayce’s at the end of the hallway. Tayce kicks the door closed behind them, watching as A’whora flops herself down on the bed, resting her weight on her elbows.

It’s strange - Tayce has been in A’whora’s room thousands of times before, like when they do their makeup together or watch Netflix while passing a spliff back and forth. But right now, the air in the room feels different, a breeze that makes her hair want to stand on end. Or maybe that’s the effect from the look that A’whora’s shooting her from the bed.

She takes her time as she walks over to the mattress, kicking off her heels once she reaches her. There’s a hair elastic on A’whora’s bedside table and Tayce grabs it, tying her hair into a bun and out of her face before she climbs up on the bed herself, straddling A’whora’s lap in a swift movement.

A’whora’s so pretty like this. Not that she isn’t always, when she’s laughing and her eyes scrunch or when she’s tearing up because of a cute kitten video on Instagram. But there’s something about this sight, when A’whora has her hair spread out on the sheets, her chest rising and falling almost erratically, that Tayce wants to absolutely drink up.

She channels her bravado from the club bathroom as she tucks a lock of A’whora’s hair behind her ear, watching as her eyes flutter. “You getting sleepy on me?”

“Better stop boring me, then,” A’whora squeaks out, and Tayce knows, knows that it’s a bluff, but a small part voice in her brain yells at her to accept it as a challenge.

A’whora wants more? She’ll get more.

Tayce grabs at A’whora’s hipbone and flips her over so that she’s on her stomach, revelling in the gasp that A’whora lets out when her face buries itself in her arms on the mattress. She runs a hand up A’whora’s thigh, over the curve of her ass and can feel a satisfaction blooming in her chest when A’whora pushes back into her touch.

“So impatient, for someone who was a little brat and teasing me all night.”

A’whora lifts her face out of her arms, the pout on her lips so quintessentially her. “Tayce, c’mon.”

“Yeah? You think you deserve it?”

Tayce pushes the edge of A’whora’s dress up, exposing more and more of her thighs and tracing along the soft skin. By the time the skirt is bunched up at her hips and the lace of her thong is exposed, Tayce feels like her mind is going into overdrive. She wants nothing more than to speed up the process and just pull the lace down and make A’whora come as fast as possible, but she forces herself to slow down, enjoy the process. Relish in it.

She tugs upwards on A’whora’s hips until A’whora understands the hint and gets up so that she’s resting on her elbows and knees, ass up in the air. Tayce taps the outside of A’whora’s thigh and she parts her legs, and part of Tayce wonders how she’s still upright and breathing herself.

“Good girl,” Tayce murmurs, because there’s really no wrong time to test out the waters and see what makes A’whora tick.

From the little noise A’whora lets out from the back of her throat, it seems like Tayce is on the right track.

Tayce can’t help herself from cupping A’whora’s ass with her hands, kneading the flesh. “You really do have a nice behind, y’know that?”

“Behind? What are you, my eighty year old nan?” A’whora snickers, and despite herself, Tayce lets out a huff.

“Why am I even about to fuck you?”

“Because you’re drawn in by my ass-ets,” A’whora says, a grin on her face as she wiggles her bum slightly, and Tayce has to roll her eyes.

Despite the idiocy, it’s still hot. Tayce is definitely in too deep. She may as well dial for help now.

Her nails are short but she drags them lightly on A’whora’s skin, watching the goosebumps that rise on the surface. She follows the lace of A’whora’s thong with one hand, reaching between her legs, and shit, A’whora’s already damp through the fabric.

Not that Tayce isn’t herself, but that’s another story.

She anchors her other hand on A’whora’s hip as she traces her fingers along the lace, and she can feel a smile spreading on her face when A’whora lets out a little whine. Part of Tayce’s brain feels like it’s still in disbelief, waiting for her to wake up from a particularly saucy dream in which she ends up in her flatmate’s bed with said flatmate a mess beneath her with the sheets bunched up between her fingers. All the pining and the ‘sexual tension,’ in Lawrence’s words, coming to a head feels surreal, almost on par with seeing a dragon in their backyard or with Ellie actually being shorter than someone for once.  

But she’s here, and A’whora’s here and fidgeting in the sheets and Tayce needs to stop getting bizarrely tender about hooking up with her flatmate.

It’s easier to push A’whora’s knickers to the side rather than to pull them off entirely, especially when she’s already shaky on her knees. Tayce traces along A’whora’s folds, the wetness that coats the pads of her fingers making her feel dizzy, and A’whora pushes back against her touch, a moan in the back of her throat.

“What, are you waiting for someone to make a speech or something? C’mon.”

Tayce has to grin at the gumption. A’whora’s never been one to hold back what she’s thinking. “See, I would, but you didn’t say please.”

“Fucking bitch,” A’whora groans, dropping her face back into her hands, and Tayce takes the opportunity to still two of her fingers near A’whora’s entrance, not quite pushing in the way she wants.

“Still didn’t hear a please, though.”

“Ugh. Please. You absolute hound,” A’whora grumbles, but her words cut off in a gasp when Tayce decides to give in, pushing in a finger, then another when A’whora spreads her legs apart just a little more.

A’whora’s one of the more responsive girls she’s ever had sex with, already trying to rock back against her when Tayce curls her fingers. It makes Tayce want to give her more, so as much as her wrist is complaining when she maneuvers her position so that she can circle around her clit with her thumb, she keeps at it. Speeds up when A’whora starts to drip down onto her palm.

“God, I…” A’whora gasps, and Tayce can feel the way she’s squeezing around her fingers and it’s hot, A’whora’s fucking hot and so close to the edge and there’s no way Tayce is going to stop now for anything.

Tayce leans down and presses a kiss to A’whora’s shoulder blade, the motions of her hand unforgiving as she keeps up her pace without slowing, and the contrast between the two is almost striking.

“You close, baby?”

She can see the way A’whora’s back muscles are tensing, the way her face drops into her hands as her legs get more unsteady and she drinks it all in, committing it to memory because fuck, she’s had a lot to drink tonight but there’s no way she’s gonna forget a second of this. Not when A’whora is the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen.

A’whora can’t kill Tayce for leaving marks on her back if she can’t see them - it’s flawless logic, really. But it’s enough reason for Tayce to pay attention to the ripple of A’whora’s muscles, the heat emanating from her skin when she kisses and nips because she can’t help herself, A’whora’s back a canvas that isn’t going to stay empty for too long.

Tayce doesn’t dare change her pace, not when A’whora’s squeezing around her and her muscles are tensing and her breaths are coming in little gasps that are somehow endearing. She ignores the burning in her forearm, the way she’s worked up a sweat of her own because A’whora’s eyes are squeezed shut, and the noise in the back of her throat cuts off on a raggedy gasp for breath.

“Fuck, ah, shit-”

A’whora’s whimpering, her face buried in her arms and her legs squeezing Tayce’s hand in a death grip as her knees finally give out in a heap on the mattress. Tayce wipes her fingers on the back of A’whora’s still shaking thighs as she pulls her hand back, pressing a kiss to her hipbone before she turns her onto her back as carefully as she can.  

There’s something to be said for a post-orgasm A’whora, from how her chest is rising and falling to the way she has an almost dopey smile on her face that she covers with the back of her hand.

“C’mere,” A’whora mumbles, holding out a hand with grabby motions and Tayce snorts, crossing her arms.

“Postcoital A’whora is a cuddler. Who knew?”

“M’not cuddling,” A’whora pouts, reaching for Tayce’s arm. “I wanna get on top now.”

Tayce yelps when A’whora tugs on her elbow, bracing her hands against the mattress and catching herself on top of her just in time. “You, a top? That’s a thought.”

“Hey!” A’whora whines, wiggling underneath her. “It’s my turn.”

Tayce has to hold back a laugh. “You sound like a child waiting for their go on the swings.”

But then A’whora pushes on Tayce’s hipbone and nudges her leg against her inner thigh and Tayce isn’t sure, really, how A’whora ends up on top of her, though the grin on her face is adorably triumphant.

“Ha! See, I’m strong,” A’whora preens, tossing her hair over her shoulder as her thighs bracket Tayce’s hips and as much as Tayce wants to roll her eyes, she has to admit the sight is kind of hot.

Especially when A’whora licks her lips as her gaze drags down Tayce’s body, a lioness who’s finally gotten her prey. A lioness with highlighter on her cheekbones and a slinky dress that’s still bunched up at her hips.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, y’know that?” A’whora whispers the words centimeters away from Tayce’s ear, raking a hand through her hair and she can feel the way it makes goosebumps rise on her skin.

Not that Tayce is one to let her facade drop so easily. “Oh, yeah? Why’re you always out there kissing other girls, then?”

She still hasn’t forgotten the sight of A’whora grinding up on some girl on the dance floor. Or how badly she wanted it to be her.

A’whora blinks at her. “How else was I supposed to go and get your attention? It worked, didn’t it?”

“You’re a cheeky little hound, aren’t you?” Tayce snorts, shaking her head against the sheets.

Christ.

Really, A’whora’s not wrong. It had certainly gotten her attention, alright, made her stomach turn and need to leave the dance floor before she had a full on crisis while the beat dropped.

A’whora tsks, a smug smile alighting her features. “And yet, you still have those puppy dog eyes for me.”

“I do not-”

Tayce’s half hearted protest is cut off when A’whora presses her lips to hers, licking into her mouth. It’s bullshit and she knows it, A’whora does too, but it doesn’t matter, not when A’whora’s grinding her hips down onto her and moving her kisses to her jaw and her neck.

A’whora’s not one to waste any time, dragging her nails past Tayce’s collarbone and chest and soothing her path with kisses before she pushes Tayce’s dress straps off of her shoulders, beckoning her forward to pull on her zipper. Tayce follows without question, lifting her hips so that A’whora can tug the dress from underneath and off her legs.

Being flatmates means that they’ve seen each other in various states of undress before - when they’re trying on clothes they’ve just bought, when they’re lounging around the flat in their bras when it’s too bloody hot that one month during that one month a year London becomes a fucking sauna. But the purposeful nature with which A’whora traces a hand up Tayce’s inner thigh, her eyes lingering on the lace on her hips and the straps along her ribs, feels worlds away from those times. Tayce has to resist the urge to cross her arms, pull the sheets up on herself, because the way A’whora’s eyes are widened and her mouth is slightly parted makes no real sense when her brain tries to compute it.

A’whora pushes down on Tayce’s shoulder until she’s laying back against the cushions and winks before she resumes her path downwards, pressing biting kisses along her ribs and above her hip bone that make Tayce draw a breath in between her teeth. A’whora’s touch is delicate when she tugs on the lace sitting in the crease of Tayce’s thigh, pulling the thong down her legs and throwing it on the ground to follow the dress.

“My turn,” A’whora grins as she pushes Tayce’s legs apart, and Tayce feels like she’s going to pass out before A’whora’s even gone and done anything.

A’whora takes her time, trailing a path with her lips past Tayce’s calves, her knees, up her inner thighs, in the crease by her hip bone. Tayce tugs on her hair, a cue to speed up her pace but A’whora falters for only a second, a flutter of her eyes before looking up at Tayce, shaking her head.

“No rushing.”

“Mmh-”

Tayce’s protest cuts off when A’whora drags her tongue up her slit ever so slowly, the contact not enough in the least but also the first she’s gotten so far, which makes it feel almost like a welcome reprieve. A’whora pushes her thighs further apart, looking up with her with eyes that draw her in as her tongue traces a path around her clit, not quite giving her the relief she needs.

“Don’t tease,” Tayce gasps, her hands involuntarily tightening their grip in A’whora’s hair, and A’whora lets out a moan into her cunt in response which Tayce has to file away as the hottest fucking thing she’s ever heard.

A’whora trades her earlier motions for circling Tayce’s clit, and Tayce doesn’t even care at this point if the rest of their flatmates are home and can hear them, because A’whora’s good. Better than good. She’s going to get Tayce there embarrassingly fast and Tayce is sure that she’ll brag about it later, but it doesn’t even matter at this point, not when Tayce’s brain is this hazy and she can feel her own breaths becoming more and more shallow.

There are half moon indents where A’whora’s nails are digging into Tayce’s thighs as her movements speed up, and Tayce can feel the familiar sensation building in her core and god, she’s so fucking weak for A’whora. She looks so hot like this, her face between Tayce’s thighs and Tayce feels like she could come from the sight in front of her alone.

But Tayce instead pulls oxygen from around the room into her lungs, forcing herself to breathe as her hips begin to lift themselves from the mattress and she’s so damn close to tipping over the edge. “Fucking hell, just like that.”

A’whora’s pace is steady as she looks up at her, a glint in her eyes that doesn’t waver when Tayce’s hands wind into her hair, pulling her impossibly closer. Something about the confidence in A’whora’s gaze, the way she’s unwavering with her movements is enough to finally push Tayce over the edge and fuck, the sensations are all too much but also what she’s been craving, waiting for the entire evening, and it’s perfect.

A’whora’s committed, her tongue still making circles around her clit, albeit slower but it’s enough to make Tayce’s ribcage rise and fall all jaggedly, sucking in air that can’t fill her lungs soon enough. She pushes A’whora’s face away from between her legs when it becomes too much, hiding a mewl behind her palm but it doesn’t even matter, not when A’whora’s wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and looking like she’s a cat who’s just gotten the cream.

“Shut up,” Tayce mutters, but there’s no malice behind it, not when A’whora’s smile reaches her eyes and Tayce can’t help but reach out, stroke her cheek with her thumb.

A’whora leans into her touch and Tayce’s heart glows in her chest, lighting up hopes that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t have to be a one off. Tayce isn’t that smashed anymore and A’whora doesn’t look like it either, but it doesn’t feel awkward for Tayce to scoot down on the bed, avoiding the wet patch to lay down beside A’whora when she pats the sheets with her palm.

A’whora’s grinning that cheeky smile that she does when she’s doing a bit and laughing at her own jokes, an expression that Tayce has seen far too often. “Why don’t you just stay the night, yeah? The commute back to yours would take too long. It’s not safe at this hour, really.”

“As if my room isn’t just down the hall.”

A’whora shrugs as she drapes an arm across Tayce’s midsection, shuffling to get closer to her. “See? Much too far. May as well stay here at this point.”

“Very compelling argument, I have to say,” Tayce can’t help but smile, and putting her arms around A’whora’s waist when she snuggles into her feels so normal, so them.

Yeah, A’whora’s half on her lap for movie nights anyway because they’re the only two who enjoy strawberry laces as a snack and they have to share the packet but now they’re snuggling, actually snuggling and Tayce doesn’t feel like running for the hills. Maybe because it’s A’whora, her best friend who knows when she’s annoyed and trying to hide it, the one who knows her coffee order down to the almond milk.

Tayce presses a kiss to the top of A’whora’s head because she can, and the contented sigh that A’whora lets out is enough to bloom the seeds of longing in her chest into strings of ivy that don’t ever want to let her go. She can’t, not anymore, not when she’s seen A’whora come apart but also sees A’whora now, nearly falling asleep on her chest with eyes that she can barely keep open.

She’s so beautiful.

And Tayce is so, absolutely fucked.

Maybe she’ll work out how to properly win A’whora over in the morning, and keep this from being something as stupid as a one night stand because Tayce doesn’t want that, or feel like she can handle the two of them only having something so fleeting. She needs A’whora around as more than just a best friend or a flatmate that always brings home fresh flowers for the kitchen table. The reminder is almost calming, in a way, running through her veins and a part of her after years of attempting to push the thoughts out of view.

Tayce can’t continue to bury the feelings in the farthest corners of her mind anymore, not with A’whora in her arms like this and having it actually mean something. No more pining. She’s going to promise herself.

Maybe she can ask A’whora out properly when they wake up, if she has the guts for it. That is, after asking for a round two first.

[mimiplaysgames]

Drink Me

Pairing: Terra/Aqua Rating: T Word Count: 6,601

Summary: Aqua drinks a truth potion... Now they're going to have to talk about things.

Read on AO3

A/N: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!! This is part of an art/fic trade that I'm doing with Moe (@terraswill on Twitter)!! I was so excited to work on this but it was also just... so hard?? We agreed on the trade back in June I think, and it took me this long. xD The timing was perfect though, and when they post their art, I'll edit this to include a link! Moe asked for was something domestic and fluffy (and I'm totally the wrong person to ask but I never back from a challenge dkfjkfjgf), and maybe give Aqua a reason to play a prank. We support a Let Aqua Have Fun 2021 agenda in this house. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. To my angst readers, I hope you find something here you like anyway lmao

~*~*~*~*~

She says she’s annoyed with me because I won’t let her dust the tapestry. Or rather, I won’t let her have her

way

and take on this ugly monstrosity (which I think is supposed to depict an ancient Keyblade Master who died four-hundred years ago; at this point, the threads are too faded to give him a defined face). 

The truth has more layers than that, something I don’t like to talk about. But it’s a clear day, the sun beaming through our windows and igniting the castle in golden hues. I won’t find the time to mope when Aqua is beckoning me to give her the feather duster. 

Aqua is a lot shorter than me. I pretend to give it to her, only to swerve it around her face and hang it up high above her head. I’ve got a smirk to last me hours, and there’s a sly one pulling on her lips. 

“Maybe if you jump,” I say, wiggling it. 

She doesn’t move. “Terra.”

I pull it up higher. “Come get it.”

“Or you could stop trying to overcompensate and let me help you.”

“Who says that’s what I’m doing?” That’s exactly what I’m doing. Any chance I get, I’ll do it all to make up for lost years. If she says she’ll tidy the garden tomorrow, I’ll rip the weeds by dawn. If she wants to prepare a feast, I’ll organize the ingredients, the recipes, the appliances. I call it helping out. She calls it ridiculous. 

“You’re ridiculous,” she says. Yep.

“It’s not like you could reach the top anyway,” I say, knowing this is precisely what would set her off.

Aqua likes to present herself as proper: head tall, ankles together. But when I push her buttons, that’s the first mask to melt off. She lunges at me, chest to chest, aiming for the duster that’s balancing on the tips of my fingers, my elbow locked and shoulder riding as high as it can, as if I’m trying to clean the ceiling. We’re giggling, we’re tight, we’re children all over again.

“Give it,” she says, her eyebrows and lips twisted in feverish concentration. She’d never let anyone else see her behave this way. 

“What are you doing?” She steps onto my shoes to gain height and I have to wrap my free arm around her waist to keep our balance (not that I’d complain if she ends up landing on top of me). My heart is pounding stupid rhythms at the smell of her shampoo. I don’t like sweet, but I like it on her. 

“Master’s orders. Give it to me.” 

“Try harder.”

She inhales sharply, giving me that Aqua look. Fine. She turns her head towards the tapestry and puckers her lips together, blowing air as if blowing out a candle. The layer of dust that sits at the very top bursts, sprinkling the console table beneath it. 

In my shock, she snatches the feather duster, the quietest Hmm of satisfaction coming out loud enough to demand my audience. She taps the tapestry with a flat laundry bat, all while waving her hand over the surface of the table, the dust collecting itself as if swirled by a magnetic tornado. 

No use for the duster at all.

“You think you’re clever,” I say, getting close behind her. 

“I think you agree.”

I think she’s pretending. Her smile looks the same but it’s manufactured, tied to a puppeteer’s strings. There’s a flicker in her eyes that tells me she doesn’t agree at all. I’m prepared to tell her that she’s assured and confident, but she already knows. This happens: I’ll catch a sudden recognition dawning on her face, like she’s reminding herself of something, and I’m left to guess what it could be.

We’re interrupted by a loud sneeze that drifts from the other side of the hall, followed by a hack and a cough, finishing with a sniffle. 

She’s panicked. It sounds like a case of the common cold, and nothing to be worried about, but that’s Aqua. I follow her lead, which takes us to no one else but Ven, who is wiping his face. A faint trace of dust rides on the strands of his hair. Actually, there’s dust everywhere except on the tapestry he’s responsible for. 

“Ven!” Aqua gapes. “What happened here?”

He takes a look around the chaos and gives a mere shrug, rubbing the back of his hand on his pants. “I was dusting.”

“You were using magic,” she says like she’s scolding him, despite doing the same minutes ago.

“What did you expect me to do?” He gestures towards the tapestry—the Master’s favorite, of a round cat lounging on a throne and announcing a toast with his goblet—like it’s a mountain to climb. “Get a ladder?”

“What a mess,” Aqua mutters with a flitter of her fingers, shepherding the dust together so it’s easier to collect. 

“I’m not finished.”

“Master’s orders,” I say and Aqua doesn’t spare me a glare. Yes, I find that funny.

Ven ushers her aside. “Come on, let me help.”

“I got it,” she says, fixated on the job. Always the one to do and still can’t learn to accept a helping hand.

“Aqua.”

“Ven?”

I know better than to get in the middle of this.

Ven generates gusts of air with a wave of both of his arms—a terrible idea when Aqua’s conducting from the other side—and the dust grows darker into a thick cloud of smoke. He stares at his handiwork with a dropped jaw. I’m shocked too. Where did all of that come from?

Aqua grunts as she tries to calm the storm, Ven mimicking her movements.

“Let it go,” I say, placing my hand on her shoulder.

“It will all fall to the floor.”

“There’s too much pressure building up from the bottom.”

“It’s under control.”

“It’s going to explode.”

She pouts (stars, it’s cute) but of course, only half-listens to me. Moving her palms parallel to the floor, she makes a gesture as if to compress. With Ven slacking, it billows low to the floor and then sweeps up.

The tapestry flaps upward, revealing a door.

Ven’s the first to cough. “What’s that?”

Aqua and I stare at each other. We’ve hidden behind every single one of these tapestries when we played as kids. There shouldn’t be a door.

“Do you think it’s magic leftover from—” I start to ask.

She shakes her head. “It can’t be. I returned everything to its rightful place.”

“Then what is this supposed to mean?” 

Discouraged by our hushed tones, Ven stops himself from turning the knob, waiting for our approval.

“It could have been hidden by a spell,” Aqua suggests.

“Oh.” 

We’re quiet. Spells last for as long as the spellcaster is alive.

“The Master would have called it an inheritance,” I say. “Don’t you think?”

One by one, we peek into the secret room. Ven is eager to open the door but only pushes it a sliver. It creaks with determination to wake everyone inside. Aqua is second, looking over him. I’m last, searching the corners for signs of movement. 

It’s empty except for a rack of white robes, stacks of books on a desk, a chess board, and a forest-colored couch. On the opposite wall sits a huge wardrobe next to a reading stand, displaying an open tome on what may have been the last page the Master read. An old-fashioned wall clock with visible parts and spinning characters counts the time, looking peculiarly like the Land of Departure. The sun shines through a window—though this would be an extra. All the windows on both sides of the castle are accounted for. You wouldn’t be able to see this room from the outside. 

“Terra,” Aqua gasps, “look at these books.”

Most of them are titled in an ancient language. “They’re from Scala.”

“We could probably find Sora with these,” she says, flipping through one.

Some of the robes are sewn with patches of snake skin, others stained with faded off-yellow, each a varying size for a growing teenager. I take the largest—it smells like dust—and slip it on. Almost a perfect fit, though I would’ve preferred it longer.

“It looks good on you,” Aqua says, coming to my side.

I smile at the floor, imagining what the Master would have said, how large his smile would have been under that bushy mustache, like the day he gave me his belt buckle and told me it would be a nice touch. Aqua inspects a fraying seam on the shoulder.

“I can fix that,” she whispers. I let her pull it off me, and she dotingly folds it over the book she decides to take with her. 

“Whoa.”

We drop our thoughts and turn to Ven, who’s helped himself to the wardrobe, stupefied at shelves of potions in glass flasks. Ugly colors, weirdly shaped, totally bizarre. 

“These aren’t any potions I recognize,” Aqua says, placing her stack on the couch and investigating the shelf with her arms crossed. 

None of them are labeled. “Maybe they’re lost knowledge,” I say, still thinking about her compliment. How often does she think I look good? “Can you imagine what kind of magic they’re packed with?”

Ven glances at the open book on the reading stand. “Let’s see.”

I join him, watching him flip through crudely drawn illustrations of odd shapes. We both snigger.

“Look through walls,” he reads before turning to the next page. “Neverending sweat. Turn a face blue. Glue lips together… This one says you can unglue them by washing your mouth with soap.”

“Lost knowledge.” Aqua scoffs.

“But who made them?” I ask. “The Master?”

Aqua rolls her eyes. “Please.”

“This is his secret room.”

“It looks like his handwriting,” Ven says, trying to keep his smile tiny. Trying. “Kind of.”

The O’s and the T’s certainly have their curls, just the way Eraqus would have done them. The Y’s are similar too, if a bit exaggerated and large. As Ven turns more pages, all of which are yellowed and chipped at the edges, I realize the drawings match the shapes of different vials, equipped with descriptions of colors. 

“I think Ven’s right.”

Aqua throws a look (Forget it) and rolls her eyes again. It’s her favorite thing to do. “We’re talking about the Master here. He wouldn’t waste his time on something like this.”

“I got an idea!” Ven beams, nudging me on the elbow. “Why don’t we try some? Guess what they are before we look in the book?”

The only person who stiffens is Aqua. 

“Look at her face.” Ven points. “She thinks we’re savages.”

Aqua doesn’t say anything, but it’s possible. 

I cock my head. “If the Master were here, he would have gotten a kick out of this.”

“Terra—”

“Regardless of who made them.” 

She drums her fingers on her forearm. “If it makes you happy,” she mumbles. It was subtle, but it was there.

“I’ll go first!” Ven leaps over the reading stand. There’s a rainbow of the most unsavory colors. The neon, the dull, the too realistic. “This one looks perfect.” He grabs a thin vial of liquid that I could mistake for vomit: a faded, rotten lime green, and drinks it all in one swish.

Following the last gulp, he withers to the floor, flailing and begging for it to stop.

I’m searching through the book for an answer.

Aqua throws herself to her knees. “What’s wrong?”

Ven giggles, cradling his stomach then scratching his back. “Don’t touch me.” He gasps in between painful howls of laughter. “It makes it worse.”

She carries his head to her lap anyway. She wouldn’t be Aqua if she isn’t indulging in some deep-seated instinct to assume we’re not healthy before assuring herself that we are. 

I tap my finger onto a page. “Tickling potion. ‘Give this to your favorite person,’ it says.”

“I’m going”—Ven inhales—“to bring the Master”—inhales again—“back to life just to… kill him again.” He deteriorates into another round of wheezing, hugging himself tight and turning over into a fetal position.

“It’s too juvenile for the Master,” Aqua reminds me.

This page is written with the same suspicious calligraphy but I hold my tongue. To ease the look of worry on Aqua’s face, I step forward. “My turn.”

“You can’t be serious,” Aqua says.

“Relax. There’s no such thing as death by tickling.”

Aqua jerks to say something but stops herself. I’m guessing, Let me have at it and you’d think otherwise. Nothing that she’d say with Ven in the room.

Ven rubs his eyes and sighs—it’s shaky and long, but it’s an improvement. “Can I try another one?”

The first potion to catch my attention is this wide, stubby one filled with what looks like dark mud. 

“Terra.” 

Her warning makes me think of the slight possibility of developing diarrhea from this. I stare into her eyes as I swallow a gulp of it anyway, much to her horror and much to my enjoyment. Her expressions are a never-ending list of entertainment. 

The potion is too smooth to be mud. It tastes spicy, a kick without any flavor. At first, I don’t feel anything, until a zap of electricity rides up my spine. Gooseflesh covers the backs of my calves up to my neck.

By the time I realize that I’m shivering, Aqua has my face in her hands. Her fingertips are warm when she brushes my hair.

“I’m fine.” A white cloud puffs out of my lips. 

Ven is cackling. Not from the tickling, that may have stopped as soon as he got distracted, but he’s pointing his finger at me.

“As fine as a monkey walking naked into the snow,” she quips, wrapping the robe around my shoulders and rubbing my biceps. 

“You can’t say, I told you so,” I say, my voice reverberating. “You didn’t know this was going to happen.”

“I know you don’t regret it.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

She scoffs, smirking. Her eyes drop to some faraway conversation with herself.

“What are you thinking?” My teeth clatter. 

She raises her eyebrows, playing coy. 

“Whoever made this freezing potion,” Ven interrupts, having dragged himself to the book and is now leaning on it with both hands to stay stable, “wanted to test it. See if it could preserve vital organs.” He slowly nods (as if anything in this book makes sense). 

“I guess we’ll find out if it worked when I die.” The tremors hurt, rupturing in blows down my torso. Aqua mutters a spell and a fiery glow halos her hands, hovering near my skin. My own personal hearth. I can’t help but imagine doing the same for her one day. 

“Anyone else want to take a crack at it or should I drink another one?” Ven says.

Aqua glances over her shoulder and is actually considering it . 

“No way,” I say.

She ignores me, reading each bottle as though they’d spill their secrets.

I lean towards her ear, though she’s already swatting me away. “Do you need help choosing one?”

She grabs a curvy vial that looks like it has hips and is filled to the brim with pure white. Defiantly turning to stick her nose up at me, she proudly drinks (a sip), grimacing through the taste. But she keeps tall. As long as the nose stays up.

“Oh shit,” Ven mutters.

“Language,” I say.

We wait for the effect. Nothing happens. 

“What do you feel?” I ask.

“Nothing. I feel normal.”

“You’re a liar,” Ven says, throwing pages and scanning pictures, then rustling back to see if he skipped any.

“I am not. Maybe it’s expired.” As soon as she says it, her eyes go wide.

“That doesn’t make any sense. We had immediate effects. Maybe you should drink some more?”

“Don’t be silly.” Aqua shuts the bottle with its topper and gently places it back in its spot. “This was a foolish game, anyway.” 

I have to scoff—that’s harsh, even coming from Aqua. “Then why go for it?”

“Because I admire you so much, Terra, when you’re brave enough to go after something I wouldn’t come near. Because I have to match you, maybe outmatch you sometimes, if you get on my nerves. Because sometimes I get scared that I’ve missed out on so much, and I can’t help but wonder if our childhood may be missing something. After everything we’ve lost, I don’t want to be scared of being silly anymore. But… What if I’m a boring slog? I don’t want to be a bore. I want to be daring and fun like you and Ven,” she says in rapid tossed word salad, her hands getting animated the more she talks, pressed to answer questions we didn’t ask.

Ven and I have nothing to say.

“I…” Aqua fusses with her sleeves. “I don’t know why I unloaded all of that.”

“Dramatic, much?” Ven says.

She fists her hips. “Dramatic is when you whine about your dreams so you can avoid chores thinking I wouldn’t call your bluff.”

Ven gapes. “Aqua, you’re mean.”

“I don’t know what’s happening.” She hides her face behind her hands, taking them to her heart and bowing. “Ven, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Something weird is going on.” I take the helm at searching the book, shuffling pages in chunks until I find one with stark white paint, in the shape of curves and waves. “Ven,” I whisper when I read the description. When he looks at me, his impish smile stretches with lists of ideas. I’m right there with him.

A stuffy silence fills the room when we recite it: Truth potion. The person who drinks it cannot help but to answer questions honestly. 

Aqua steps back. 

She bolts out of the room, knocking some of the books over. 

“Get her!” Ven yells.

My muscles protest when I take off, stiff and sluggish as though I’ve experienced a whole winter outside. Aqua dashes through an open doorway and thrusts her arm out. The doors slam together, refusing to let me through. Ven’s going to have to find another way around. This won’t stop me and she knows it. I slip through a growing portal of darkness—the swirls that lick me would have been cold, but I’m numb—and I come out the other side. There’s certain tricks that come from being the poster boy for Darkness; it’s helpful in fights.

This part of the castle leads to the common areas. I know where she’ll be.

Aqua is splitting her attention between mixing batter in a large wooden bowl and running a soapy dishwash in the kitchen sink. When I approach her, she makes a point to put her finger on her lips.

Stars, it’s so hard not to laugh. “You’re not going to—”

She grunts, shaking her head furiously at me. No questions. 

With my elbows propped on the countertop, I watch her scrub a dish. More than she normally does, actually, a little therapy session to take her mind off the fact that I’m relishing this moment. It’s satisfying how she suddenly remembers that she’s heating the oven, throwing herself across the kitchen to check the temperature.

She points to the spice cupboard next to me, and gets more enthusiastic when I open it. Apparently, she wants the cinnamon. 

“I think vinegar would help better with what you’re doing.” I nod my head to the sink. 

With the flick of her hand, water pouring out of the faucet changes direction and splashes me in the face.

“Am I annoying?” I snigger. I had to.

A tick in her shoulders—her body has no choice but to react. “That’s a stupid question.” Every word is pulled out of her teeth. Normally, she’d say, No, how could you even imagine that!

I dip my finger into the suds and plant one large print on her forehead in between the eyes, where she’s glaring so hard, they are crossed.

“How about now?”

“The worst,” she groans, slamming her hands into the bath. She takes a washcloth to dry them and wipes her forehead. Afterwards, she hands it to me. 

“Think of it as an opportunity to get to know the real you.” I dry my face. 

“You know me already.”

“Do I know everything, though?”

“No.” This potion doesn’t miss a beat.

Ven is panting by the time he enters, climbing a stool behind the counter and peering over the edge like a small child. He’s doing that on purpose, goading her into playing along. He asks me, “Can we?”

She groans.

I’m back on my elbows so I can look up at her and give her the same puppy dog eyes. Between glancing at the two of us, she can’t stand it. She wants to make us happy, she’s always been like that. Then again, she probably also wants to bash our heads together and leave us with headaches. One of the two would amuse her better. 

“How about we ask her three questions only? We shouldn’t drive her crazy.”

She chuckles, that little smile of hers growing and reassuring and there. That’s my girl. Turning off the sink, she folds the washcloth and brings her hands together as though we’re in class. “Three questions each. Is that okay?”

Wow. “More than I asked for.” 

“I already have one,” Ven says, sitting on his knees. “Do you hate Lea?”

“A little. But I’m working on it.”

Ven snorts and drops his face onto the counter. How many times have we asked her that and got the, Don’t be ridiculous. Like I said, he’s formidable. “I knew it.”

“He does his missions with the least amount of effort possible. Takes the easiest route to build his technique. Efficiency, he calls it,” she says, letting out the hot pressure she’s been keeping to herself with relief. “He also calls me, Teach. Who does that?”

Of all the times I’ve expected Aqua to snap at someone, she holds herself back when it comes to Lea, giving him tight smiles to zip it all up. “Ouch,” I say. “He’s been working so hard on a gift to thank you for working with Isa.”

She grimaces. “At least he has good taste in men? Isa does have a respectable work ethic.” 

I pat her hand. Aqua’s usually the one to blow the kettle first, but there’s ways to connect people who may not see eye to eye the first time. Maybe I can be a buffer. “Next time you meet, I could go with you.”

“I’d appreciate that,” she whispers. 

“Lea would find it hilarious, honestly.” Ven waves his hand as if it’s no big deal. “I bet he’d give you a note with your gift. It would say, Thanks for everything. I hate you, too, Teach .”

“Okay, my turn,” I say, resting my chin on my palm. She studies me, too, though I’d like to believe I could keep a poker face. “Do you sometimes steal my cologne?”

“Yes.”

Her bluntness throws me back. “To wear ?”

“Yes,” she says as though it’s obvious and crosses her arms. Duh.

“Hey, that’s two questions,” Ven says. 

“Sorry.” I take one more glance to see if I could gleam any more clues from her facial expressions, but she keeps her nose high. As long as the nose stays up.

“I have to think of a really good one.” Ven holds his chin, looking more serious than he’s been since the Keyblade War. “Ever farted then blamed Terra for it?”

“Ugh.” Aqua quivers, her knuckles bleaching. She throws her face over her shoulder and stares scars into the wall. “Yes of course, didn’t we all?” 

“Come on, I could’ve answered that,” I say (though after all these years, it’s validating to know it’s not a blame game anymore). I nudge her with my shoulder. “Justice does feel pretty good.”

“Ask me something better,” she says after smacking my bicep. Her face is as ripe as sunburn. 

Questions that give her more control. I could do that. “Is there anything you’ve been needing to say but haven’t had the chance to yet?”

The tension in her face drops. It leaves something pale and disappointed in its place, a faraway look. I shouldn’t have asked; whatever this fear is, it’s meant for me. “Yes,” she whispers.

I stand pin-straight, the air in the room thinning, as though the Darkness has opened a hole and is sucking all the sun away. Ven does the same. The other Keybearers will stare at their cuticles, or fumble and cut themselves out of the group when they’re upset or hurt or sorry. Eraqus forged a protocol out of us. When we witness or cause harm, we recite what we’ve done and its effects. We bow when we apologize. 

So far, we’ve been home for one hundred and seventy five days. Never expected it to take this long. I open my mouth to speak.

“Don’t,” she says softly. “I know what you’re going to ask.”

I would have pleaded with her to let me apologize, and I would have met her dismissal anyway: No, Terra, it’s not necessary. We’ve been through it all. We should enjoy what we have. She means well; the relaxation and the mundane tasks are good for all of us. Even when we were younger, Aqua was generous at her expense, sparing nuts from her brownie to bake them into a tarte, knowing I hate brownies. She’d look at the brighter side of things (More fudge for me!), and stick her tongue out. She’s been my smile, but she gives too much, and we still need this conversation.

“So what is the answer?”

She lowers her eyes to the counter, then wills them back up at me. “I blame myself.”

Aqua.

Ven sighs. “I should give you guys some space.” He treads away, keeping his footsteps minimal, meticulously turning the handle so it’d make the least noise possible. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I see him press his ear against the door before it shuts. If he’s going to listen in, that’s fine with me. Whatever she and I have to say to each other would affect all three of us.

“You blame—”

“I would be… lying.” She simpers, shaking her head. “If I said I never blamed you. There were moments I did. How and why. But I had enough endless nights where those reasons circled back to me. What I could have done to make it better. To save you,” she croaks, wiping her eyes. “To be a best friend. You needed that. Ven needed one, too. And I wasn’t.”

Aqua scrubs the already-clean counter with that dry washcloth, creating a rhythm that fills the silence. The oven is now heated, and I take the cinnamon and pour two spoonfuls of it into a beaker, our backs to each other. Add cups of sugar for her, some cocoa, a pinch of vanilla while she drills the grouts in between the tiles.

“I wasn’t much of a best friend myself, either.”

“You were hurt and defeated.”

“I was stupid.”

“You are not.”

I scoff, reaching over and pausing her. My smile is meant to be gentle, but it feels so plastic. “Aqua, do you think I’m stupid?”

“I don’t.”

I’ve expected her to half-smirk, where she tells me, Sometimes. “Really?”

“You overthink,” she simply puts. “But you assume the best. You know, that makes you a better person than me.”

Ha. No. “No. I’m not better than you. Not by a long shot.”

She hums. “I’m just correct more often.”

“But I left you.”

“And I kicked your trust in me in the shins. Are we going to keep count of all the unfriendly things we’ve done? How different would it have been if I didn’t accuse you of things that weren’t true?”

“How different would it be if I had just stayed with you?” I realize I shouldn’t have asked the moment I finish.

In a trance, Aqua inspects the beaker with the spices and sugars I’ve concocted, deciding what I’d done is good enough and dumping them into her unmixed dough, stirring, giving her hands something to do, while I wait for the onslaught. “Probably avoided the last twelve years.” I wince. “Or it could have made no difference. We could have ended up the same, or worse, or better.”

I say, “You don’t believe that,” before stopping myself.

“I was taught to respect Xehanort, too.” 

“We were taught to recognize the Darkness.”

“Which I also failed at.”

“Clearly.”

“I did. I looked for it inside you where I should have placed my faith instead. I regret every moment I did.” She puts the bowl down, a slap of wood against marble. “We don’t help ourselves by obsessing about it a million times.”

“But you’d help me if you let me apologize. To you especially.”

She whips around with nothing to retort, fresh tears short of falling. “To me especially?”

“Ven deserves something of his own. Please.”

She drops her hands together. Swallows. Nods. 

I bow, watching droplets land near my shoes. “I should have been there for you. I should have been stronger. I should have realized what was happening sooner, and I thought I did. I thought I did what I could, and I was there with you in the Graveyard, but it wasn’t enough, and for all the years I didn’t know, I should have found a way to learn and pay you back for what you’ve sacrificed for me. I should have eased your pain, I should have brought you back to the Light. I was focused on myself when I should have lifted you up, and I disappeared when you needed me most. I should have done more, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Silence passes the time and I look up to see what she thinks. She’s wetting the washcloth, dabbing my eyes. “Do you feel better?” she asks.

“Kind of.” I’m beat up after taking all those shots, but I’m lighter, free to breathe without the nagging suspicion that I don’t deserve to. 

“One of the things I wished for when I was in the Realm of Darkness was to smell sugar again. I wanted to hear you give me a list of reasons why it’s bad for my body, and I wanted to tell you why it’s good for the heart.” I let her dab my cheeks, the dampness frigid against my skin. “Now that I’m back home, I don’t need any other wish granted.” She sniffs, about to pour the batter into its mold, but then flicks the oven off exasperatedly. “I forgot. I have to wait for the dough to rise.” For some reason that finally breaks her. It tears me apart as well, and I have to hold her shoulder so we don’t rip down the middle. 

“Please don’t cry,” I say, offering the washcloth. “I care too much about you to sit here and watch you cry.”

She stops. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing.” I let go and stare at her blended mix, smooth as cream. 

“That’s not fair,” she says, throwing the washcloth onto the counter. “I have no choice with what I say. You could at least answer me honestly.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you cry anymore.” Nor do I want to tell her the truth. Instead I hide it on the back of my neck, where I rub into it so it doesn’t spill over. And yet, that makes me feel more guilty now than I have in weeks. 

“I should make you swallow a truth potion.”

“I wanted us to be equals.” She saves her usual response and waits for me to continue. I close my eyes. “Go through all the same experiences with you. We were supposed to stick together, do everything together. Failing the Mark of Mastery took all of that away from me. Or at least it felt that way at the time. And I wanted more. I wanted…” My hand finds nothing as it waves in the air searching for the words to spell it out. “I don’t know what to say. Everything I’ve done and didn’t do pale in comparison to you.”

“We’re not doing this. We’re not comparing ourselves.”

“No, I mean…” What the stars am I supposed to say? “You’re more important to me than you understand.”

“And you’re just as important to me.”

“No… it’s different with me.” And I’ve said too much, Aqua holding her elbows and expecting me to continue. There’s no other trail to go down than the one I’ve started. “I meant what I said at the preliminary feast.”

“Excuse me?”

The feast where the Master celebrated our achievements, announcing that we’re at last ready for the final test. Where Ven and I squeezed ourselves into suits and he complained the entire night about being itchy. Where I spent it staring at her dress. When I said she looked pretty and then avoided her for the rest of the party.

I don’t say anything about that night and she hears something anyway.

“That’s why…” She glosses over me with wide eyes as the realization makes me look like a stranger. “You should have said something to me.”

“You can’t be serious.” I wave her away.

“But all these years, I didn’t know.”

Good, if we’re talking about the same thing. “I couldn’t have told you anything.”

“Then how was I supposed to figure that out?”

What are we talking about now? “What exactly did you expect me to do?” 

“You should have kissed me.” She covers her mouth, wincing at what slipped out. She keeps her chin high anyway, casually crossing her arms and pretending that her face hasn’t reddened the deep shade staining her cheeks. As long as it stays up.

We pass an unspoken conversation between each other, frozen and unwilling to move.

Did you just—?

I did.

I manage to exhale. “You’re right.”

There’s a moment of shock on her face before I hold her and lean forward. It happens so quick that I don’t register what she tastes like before I realize that I’m clamping my hands on her biceps, two bent rods leaning on each other.

“That was awful,” I say.

“No, it’s—” she laughs.

“Bad.”

“Yeah.”

“I always thought it’d go different.”

“Always?”

Well, I’ve run out of words. “I guess.” When I let her go, she reaches for my chest and lifts onto her toes, kissing me back but with care and intention this time, filling my lips with hers. They taste like Aqua, smell like her shampoo. They’re softer than her hands and face, sweet enough for me to want more. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my hands until I settle them in the sway of her back. I let her take the lead, take another kiss, tug at my neck. She trembles from the frozen touch of my skin and from the hold of my hands on her body. My muscles are getting warm, too warm but I like it and I think she knows. Earlier this morning, I held her this close, but this is closer. It’s easy and difficult at the same time. 

Then I remember and pull away. “Ven is listening to us.”

There’s a bump on the door as it’s pushed when he kicks himself off, heavy footsteps running down the hall. 

Aqua looks like she’s touched feces. “Ven!”

I follow her, wondering if she’s going to summon her Keyblade but that’s because of how fast she’s walking, like she has a mission, no Heartless left standing. We turn a corner, down a hall of antique vases and ancient cupboards carved from our first masters. Wood creaks nearby. 

She holds her palm up like she’s holding a chalice, and flames lick the cupboard closest to us until it rattles and spits Ven out. He scrambles onto his feet and brandishes his finger, testing our distance as if he’d poke us in a duel. 

“I still have my last question and it’s in your best interest not to threaten me.”

“Oh really? Tell me again how you’re going to protect yourself when you sleep,” she says.

He grounds himself before giving his performance of, “Do you want to see Terra naked?”

Aqua trembles from her head to her knees, her cheeks blotting a strong shot of red. She throttles forward and cups both of her hands onto her mouth like she’s going to sneeze. What sounds like a loud goose honk blows out as the answer. 

“That was awesome.” Ven slaps his thigh, turning on his heel and leaving a trail of giggles. 

I’m scared to say anything, in case she honks at me. So I wait. There’s just no way to make myself seem small, or leave without disturbing her. Maybe if I hold my breath, she’d feel like she has privacy. She’s panting, giving me side glances but never looking directly at me, that nose of hers wilting towards the floor. 

I open my mouth to say something—

She growls and I clutch my lips together. Aqua pulls her Gummiphone out of her pocket, jabbing a message.

Mine rings. 

 Aqua

Let’s find a potion that dyes his hair pink

 She clears her throat, before flipping it over and typing again.

 Aqua

Don’t tell him it was my idea

 “Okay,” I say, testing the word. Even though I soften it, it still bangs like a gong. I don’t know what else to do except smile at her. She grimaces back, no doubt the last several words spoken still ringing in her ears, just as they do in mine. I even hesitate when I hold her elbow—would it ever be the same, or will every touch mean something different? I don’t voice those questions. 

She moves by reflex: first to flinch, then to hold me by my elbow, mirroring me, which isn’t the most comfortable position. She follows my forearm to my hand, knitting our fingers together, and we stand there, adjusting how they fit. Mine are long and thick, dwarfing and burying hers, an oversized pouch for a gem. They fit perfectly, I think. 

“We can find something better,” I say, looking for anything to distract her. “There’s also those books to read, and the robe to fix. The brownies you’re making—”

“It’s supposed to be cinnamon bread,” she mumbles.

Yech. “Nothing I’d eat anyway.”

Her chuckle is partial, contorted and pressed. 

“I can make some beef jerky for everyone. Spice it up,” I say. She hides an amused whimper behind her hand and massages her cheek. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.” 

She nods, offering me a relieved but crooked smile. 

I don’t know if we should walk the castle hand in hand, so I splay it between her shoulder blades and lead the way. We walk in silence, and I’m okay with that if it helps her. No questions, her head up high like everything is back to normal. We steal glances and do a terrible job at hiding our giggles behind small talk, which is botched and jittery anyway, but there’s not much to say without asking, So… how old were you when you realized?

One of these nights, I’ll tell her I’d like to see her naked, too, when the time is right and the truth comes easier.

[sushiandstarlight]

For a prompt, what about the first time Crowley found out Azraphaile could sense love?

You Will Still Love Me Tomorrow

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Aziraphale had dropped his hand as soon as the bus stopped.  Crowley was pointedly not thinking about it.  He didn’t think about it as they took the short walk up to his flat, the not holding hands anymore.  He didn’t think about it as he unlocked his door with a flick of his wrist and invited the angel into his home.  He didn’t think about it as he sauntered past what remained of Ligur, hoping that Aziraphale would ignore the foul puddle, too.

Crowley did such a good job ignoring the fact that they weren’t holding hands anymore that it didn’t even register that Aziraphale hadn’t followed him into the kitchen until he turned around and took visual notice.  He pressed his lips together at the absence, but continued to his goal anyway: unstoppering a bottle of dark red wine and pouring two glasses.  He took a deep breath and carried the glasses as he retraced his steps.

He told himself that having the angel out of his sight was fine.  They hadn’t always been together before.  Long periods of time passed without catching sight of one another.  It shouldn’t be any different now.  But, his heart refused to listen to his brain, instead thrumming away against his ribs.  They’d scarcely made it this far and tonight might be the last night to drink and talk into the wee hours.  He told himself that it didn’t matter, but he knew that every moment of it mattered.

He found Aziraphale amongst his plants in the atrium, though the angel’s eyes were somewhere else.  Crowley understood; he’d had a home once, too, and it had been ripped away from him without his permission.  His heart beat harder in his chest as he contemplated what he had lost in his Fall.  But, also, what he had gained.  It was worth it, every bit of the pain was worth it.  The torment from hell’s other inhabitants was worth it.  All to be here, even up to this moment, side-by-side with his best friend.

“Wine?”  He held one of the glasses out between them and watched as the one quiet word startled Aziraphale out of his thoughts.

“Oh, yes, thank you.”  They both took a deep gulp of wine and didn’t look at one another, examining the plants instead.

“You know...” Aziraphale started, that far away look returning to his eyes even as he looked like he was studying the perfection of the ficus in front of him, “I always thought that maybe they were better at hiding their feelings than I was.”

“They?”

“My fellow angels.”

“Hmm.”  Crowley took another hearty sip, eyes darting from the wine in his glass to Aziraphale and back.

“Before your fall... Oh, is it alright to ask?”

“Sure, angel.  It’s old news.”

“I know it’s not.  But, I’m afraid I’m too curious not to ask.”

“Never one to dissuade curiosity.” Yet, inside he trembled a bit.  Possibly their last night and Aziraphale wanted to know about his fall?  Or before.  He’d said before.  Crowley steeled himself.  If this was going to be their last night, their last chat over wine...  Then he would be as open and honest as he could.  Whatever the angel wanted.  Not that that... was much different than usual, even he could acknowledge that.

“Could you feel love when you were an angel?”

“Nah,” Crowley rubbed at his chin, “can’t say that was ever really one of my talents.  Creation, that was my bag.  Pulling things from the ether.  Real magic.”  There was something pinging around in the back of his brain: a softly sounding siren of warning.  A thought forming, but from far away.

“I always thought that perhaps all the angels I consorted with were better at concealing the love they felt.  I never really understood why, you know?  There’s no need to hide your heart in heaven.  It should be safe there.”

Crowley made an inarticulate noise, unsure how to answer that.

“The truth is, though, that they didn’t love me.  I’m not sure they loved each other, either.  Dare I say, they might not even have loved Her.”

“Likely,” Crowley sighed, drawing closer almost unconsciously, “likely, they only really knew love for themselves and their positions.”  The siren was getting louder, the thought forming but still just out of reach.

“If that.”  Aziraphale swirled the wine in his glass, “But you, you’ve never hidden it.”

“Hidden what?” The siren in his head was nearly deafening now, the other shoe poised to drop.

“Your love.  You’ve never hidden it from me.”

“Ngk?”  Crowley’s fingers went numb as the thought finally coalesced: all this time he thought his feelings had been trapped in his own chest, his own heart, but was it possible... that they had all been laid out at the angel’s feet all this time?  He nearly dropped the wineglass, only thinking to clench it at the last possible moment.  Even so, some wine splashed over the rim.

“On the wall, overlooking Eden, I told you that I had given away my God-given flaming sword.  And you loved me for it.  You hardly knew me.”

“Well, I-” Crowley choked on his own tongue.

“I tried to put it aside, you know.  Demons can’t love, they say.  But, I would run into you again and again and again and it would be there every time.”

Crowley set his wineglass down by the plants.  He wasn’t sure if he was going to cry or pass out, but neither supported his desire to keep a cool demeanor. 

“Your love was always there, bright like any star in the cosmos and warmer than the hearth of home.”

He was definitely getting light-headed.  He sat down on the ledge by the ficus before he lost all dignity and collapsed.  Aziraphale still wasn’t looking at him, despite his continued venture into transparency.

“I daresay, you’ve been more of a loving home to me than heaven ever was.”  And now Aziraphale was looking at him, earnest eyes shining.

Crowley removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the collar of his shirt, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes purposefully because words had utterly failed him.

“I am sorry, dear, that I’ve needed to push you away so many times.  I know,” Aziraphale swallowed hard, “I know I have a lot to make up for as far as that’s concerned.  But, more than that, I’m sorry that you can’t feel how very much I want to be your home, too.”

“You are,” Crowley croaked, unable to hold himself back any longer he reached out his hand and Aziraphale took it in both of his.  Those soft, warm angel hands.  His world stopped spinning sideways, righting itself as the touch grounded him, “you are my home.  Six thousand years, you’ve been my home.  Maybe... maybe before that.  I just didn’t know what was missing.”

“All the same, I wish you could feel it like I do from you.  You don’t know, darling.  It’s like basking in the gentlest sunshine.  Early morning, with all it’s colors and all it’s quiet.  I don’t sleep, but I imagine it feels like waking to a new day.”

Crowley tugged at his hands, pulling him close enough to hug him around the middle.  He peered up at the angel, making sure this was okay.  It was a sight more than holding hands.  Aziraphale moved even closer.  Crowley rested his head against the soft belly in front of him.

“I suppose I could just tell you.”

Crowley squeezed him, again finding himself out of words.

“I love you, Crowley.”  Aziraphale’s fingers had found their way into the soft hair at the back of his head.  Crowley couldn’t breathe and he was, once again, unsure if he was going to start crying, “I love you and I believe in our side- yours and mine.  This will not be our last night together.”

Crowley sucked in a deep breath, holding the angel closer.  He’d said all of that in a way that rumbled and glistened somehow with Truth.  The Truth of an Angel, sent by God Herself.  He wanted to believe in it.  He would believe it.  He didn’t believe in God, outside her existence.  He didn’t believe in Heaven’s angels with their thirst for power and control.  He didn’t believe in Hell, that place could continue to rot.  But, Aziraphale.  He believed in Aziraphale.  Regardless of whether or not he could feel the love he claimed.  He just knew.  His belief in this didn’t need tangible proof, it was written between the lines of six thousand years.

“I expect,” Aziraphale’s hand traveled down his jaw and tilted it so they could meet eyes again, “to feel all of this from you tomorrow.  And all the days after.  Can you promise me that?”

“I promise you, Angel.  We’ll come up with something.”